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cheekygreenty · 3 years

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Little Witch- Part 11

The Darkling x Reader

I’m backkkkkkkkk besties 🥰🥰

The rest of the day was spent doused in the work the Darkling had given you earlier, so the time you would have spent otherwise mulling over his plans for the stag had to be pushed out of the way.

You had plenty of time left until the evening's dinner, where you would be formally announced as Deputy General to the Grisha of the Little Palace. You had already signed off on official letters to the camp commanders and First-Army leaders stating your position, but you doubted there would be any fuss from them.

Your own Grisha is who you had to be worried about. They didn't do well with change. Especially not when it came to a mysterious all-powerful Grisha coming and taking control of an army they'd never seen them be a part of before.

Nonetheless, this was happening whether they wanted it or not. Ravka needed to present a united front and adding another person to strengthen said front was essential. All you hoped for was a peaceful transition, no blood-baths. To hell if they whispered or rumored, you could handle that, you've been handling it.

You had a list of ever-changing priorities in your head, and on top of it was always Alina. You cared for your Grisha, no matter how much they hated you or how much you disliked them, and Alina wasn't any exception. You felt a pang of guilt flow through you at the thought of Aleksander using her against her better conscience but you shoved it away quickly. There was nothing you could do but talk to him and question him about the plan.

The plan. The stupid plan. You called it stupid because you didn't know anything about it and against your better judgment, it made you doubt his trust. Was it so bad, so cruel, that he couldn't tell me? Before you came to the Little Palace, you told yourself you wouldn't blindly trust anybody anymore. Aleksander had to be held to that standard too.

Your door was left slightly ajar, you were sick of the knocking at this point so when you heard a feminine voice call out your name you looked up instantly, ready to be hit with more reports.

'Ms.Y/L/N? I have been sent by the General to see if you wish to use any of my help' The red-haired Grisha looked at you with her bright blue eyes. Her white kefta pressed to perfection.

'You must be Genya' You stood up and welcomed her in.

'Sorry about the room, as you can see I don't have a proper desk yet' you laughed and watched her closely as she studied you. 'What do you do exactly? It's been years since I heard of a tailor and I've never had the pleasure to meet one.'

You noticed a look of surprise at your black kefta. If she had any questions, she most certainly didn't feel comfortable asking, he probably told her not to ask.

'I do all sorts of things, change the color of your hair, get rid of pesky scars, anything you don't like about yourself really..... well except your character, there's nothing anyone can do about that' She waved off and sat you down at your vanity, carefully pushing papers to one side.

'So? How about it?' She looked at you through the mirror and you pondered.

'Maybe the eye bags need to go?'

She nodded deeply, 'Definitely' you couldn't help but feel a little offended, but mostly amused.

'What do you propose then, Genya?'

'Hmmm, the eyebags for sure, put some color on your cheeks,-' She combed her hands through your hair and bit the inside of her cheek '-the hair needs something too, perhaps some shine?'

'Perhaps' You mused.

'I shall get to work then' she smiled.

****

After your pampering session with Genya and prying her open (more like soothing her) to talking about life at the Palaces and her life, you came to the conclusion that you would die for her. She was so kind and strong, no wonder she and Alina were always seen together, they were two peas in a pod. Her humor and wittiness, like yours, was refreshing, a breath of fresh air in the stiff and formal palace.

You didn't bother changing. The truth was you were tired already and a full day hadn't even passed of your new job. How did I do this for so many years? But still, you managed to put on your bravest smile and walk in the domed hall with your head held high and your black kefta on a show like a trophy.

Unlike the other time you and Aleksander dined together here, he was already sitting in his chair. Ivan was standing, ready to announce any war news and casualties. You could see Alina looking at you with a confused look on her face, but she still gave you a welcoming smile.

You sat down and cleared your throat in the deafening silence. Ivan began to speak but you heard none of it. Your head too full with thoughts on how this situation could go. You felt Aleksander move his hand to your thigh in a calming manner. You looked over to him and shot him a tight smile, before looking back to Ivan who was sitting down. Here goes nothing.

You stood up with Aleksander. The Grisha in the room couldn't understand what was going on, who was that person, wearing black nonetheless, sitting at the right side of the Darkling, on her own custom chair. The list of anomalies was never-ending.

He spoke first 'Today is a monumental day for the Second-Army, for all Grisha, for Ravka. Y/N Y/L/N has returned to the Little Palace and will be reprising her role of Deputy General, Second in Command of the Second Army.'

Nobody spoke but if looks could kill, I would be halfway into my grave by now.

'Ms. Y/L/N will play an essential part in our fight for freedom and justice. She is an outstanding leader, sometimes even better than I am, for she leads with compassion and understanding for all. She deserves nothing but the utmost respect and loyalty. If you for one second doubt her abilities, you might as well put cuffs around your own wrists, for disrespecting her is disrespect for me. I put my full faith in her.'

He turns to you and sits down, giving you all the attention.

'None of you will remember my reign as Deputy General, but I assure you I know what I am doing. The Little Palace and your lives are of most importance to me. I am here to protect and care for you, yes I will be giving commands, but rest be assured they are in your best interest.'

'I don't represent one order of Grisha, I represent and unite all of you-' You look towards the Etherialki '-I can summon the strongest of gales and light the Palace's fires-'

You turn your head toward the Materialki '-I can bend any metal, bleed fabric of its color-'

Your eyes meet Fedyor's '-I can soothe a heart and crush every bone in a body-'

You stand straighter '- and I can summon the shadows, call the darkness. With me at your side, I will make the Grisha kind loved once again, we will not be hunted or enslaved. Ravka's borders will be peaceful. I am putting my trust into each and every single one of you to help me achieve our utopia'

You sit back down and only then do you notice your shaking hands. You don't dare look up out of fear but a calming hand on your back almost forces you to. And you're glad because almost every Grisha in the room is looking, no, worshipping you. Their eyes glazed over and their mouths open in shock. Even Zoya looked astounded.

He leans in to whisper in your ear 'I'm so proud of you'

*****

You ate amongst the other Grisha that night, feeling a sense of belonging and confidence pulsing through you. It went down way better than you'd expected. Nobody threw a fit or tried your life. And you were happy. The sleep you had that night was the best you'd had in years.

The next morning, and the morning after that, was taken up entirely by work. Aleksander went away and so you were left with the runt of the jobs. But you had made yourself extremely comfortable in his quarters. At first, you only came to make use of the war room, then you sat at his desk to drink your tea and concentrate on work, and ultimately fell asleep in his bed, enclosed by his scent and those forgiving black sheets.

There was so much work to do and only so many hours in the day, and Aleksander decided to make life that much harder by renewing the search for Morozova's stag. You couldn't keep up.

You were waiting on a certain somebody. You had instructed the oprichniki to bring her here right after she was done with Baghra, no later. And so you stood there, inspecting the war table when a gentle knock echoed throughout the room.

'Come in'

'Deputy General' She addressed you with a curt nod.

'Please Alina, call me Y/N' you looked at her from your place at the table, hands resting on the map. She looked slightly uncomfortable but way less scrawny than when you'd first seen her. Her hair was filler and her skin glowed. She looked healthy now. Aleksander must see this too.

'I can see using your powers has affected you in more ways than one.'

'Oh-yes umm.. my appetite's grown so much since I got here it's rather funny' She was growing more comfortable.

'That's completely normal if you're using your powers more often' You smiled and walked around to her. 'I thought we could have a cup of tea or two, and you could tell me all about yourself Alina, and the things that are troubling you. I don't want you to feel like you're all alone in this place.'

'Dep- Y/N I assure you I am most certainly fine. There’s no need t-’

'I was once like you… and I can sense a troubled soul with my eyes closed.'

She stared at you with her defensive walls up, not letting any emotion slip though the cracks behind her eyes.

‘Alina… I mean you no harm. I’m just worried. Isn’t it nice to have someone worry for Alina and not the sun-summoner for a change?’ You cracked a sad smile and walked over to the tea the servants had brought.

‘Sugar?’

Part 12

Taglist (tell me if u want to be added!!)

@theonelittleone @searching-for-gallifrey @0-artemis @lostysworld @xceafh @fire-in-her-veinz @patdsinner33 @cleverzonkwombatsludge @wizardwheezes @aleksanderwh0r3 @tomhollandisabae @hotleaf-juice @justmesadgirl @exo-1204 @houseofdupree @oberonpascal @eireduchess

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think-thonkin · 3 years

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Different kind of grief

Have you ever experienced a friendship or relationship breaking apart so terribly and irreparably that you grieve it like you'd grieve for a recently deceased loved one?

Like you don't even grieve the person, but the companionship, the late night talks that exposed questions about existence and deeply hidden feelings coming into star-brightened darkness, the occasional laughing fits, the warm smiles, the content silences...

She was the last one I had. In person I mean. I cherish and appreciate my online friends with a soul-crushing passion, but the in-person companionship I crave is a kind of void that they just cannot fulfill, not anytime soon at least.

We were unhappy even before our relationship changed labels, I think. We didn't have much in common anymore, after (then) 15 years of having been friends, our interests and expectations in life and romance had drifted apart instead of closer together and it should have been the first sign that turning our relationship into a romantic one was a terrible idea.

I was unhappy, I ended up being the initiator of practically everything, be it touch or conversation or addressing problems. It was always me that stepped forward, and the lines between platonic and romantic felt like a blurry and dangerous path to tread on without her telling me what is too far and what isn't, so sticking to small displays of affection like occasionally holding hands and a few gentle kisses to the cheek or forehead were the most bravery I could muster and the most I received in turn. I was touchstarved and desperately craving physical proximity, in part to battle my internalized self hatred that told me I was undesirable and only her last resort choice after 3 failed relationships of her own.

One time she exploded on me, her years worth of bottled up frustration and anger at the world bubbling up over a relatively small situation via text, intentionally twisting my words to be angry with me and vent more of her tension. She apologized later, but the panic attack I had that day would stick with me for far longer still.

I would start noticing when she lied about her feelings.

The way I recognized her typing style shift, her voice grow meek, the sudden increase of time required to form responses. Seeing the signs was easy, but discerning the cause was always about as clear to me as milk.

I was taught that honesty and communication were key in maintaining healthy relationships, so I would ask her if I did something wrong or if we needed to talk something out in any way, because I had noticed her tone change mid-conversation.

She would always insist that everything was fine, maintaining her facade of the perfectly composed adult.

I believed her and reinforced the chains that bound me to her.

We would start writing less, seeing each other less, despite only living two blocks apart. It was more and more difficult to get any mutually beneficial conversation going and we'd get frustrated being around each other in person after as little as 3 hours too. She at some point insulted my interests and got angry at me for struggling to share hers. I've tried to bring our lack of intimacy and unclear boundaries to attention too one day, only to have her shake her head and tell me that she's fine with whatever, that she doesn't need much to be happy. What we had didn't cut it for me and it had hurt, having my feelings ignored like this, so I refrained from trying again.

I thought it better to not poke the sleeping bear anyways.

Then, someone new tumbled into my life, someone with a passion as sparkling and intense as my own, a lonely soul masked in a charmingly awkward, ironic bravado and bluntly thrown quips. It didn't take long for us to click and converse on the daily. The more we learned of each other, the more similarities we found.

He lives several hundred kilometers away, but it still took only two months of daily texting and several hours of voice and videochat for me to fall head over heels.

I felt so unbelievably guilty.

I couldn't sever the chains that tied me to her out of fear of playing into her insecurities, but by the time I met him I had already been feeling like a bird stuck in a cage - solely there for her comfort, putting her feelings before my own, always. I was unhappy, we weren't working. But I cared more about her than myself, so I told myself I wouldn't break up with her.

And yet she’d deserved to know the truth, so as soon as I realized my feelings I confessed about it to her.

Things got messy from there, too much back and forth with me desperately clawing for any bit of selfish compromise I could get my hands on.

She eventually had enough of it and broke up with me, but we promised we'd stay friends.

She put on her porcelain mask of careful indifference and things went smoothly for a while.

It didn't take long for the mask to crack though. It was too frail to withstand her jealousy, her heartache, and eventually it fell apart.

She came to me with misinterpreted situations and long ago wrongdoings I've comitted, in her mind to intentionally cross her, talking over me when I attempted to correct her or defend myself, accusing me of being a lying, backstabbing bitch who was not an ounce better than the grovelling, attention-starved crybabies that play the victim card at and every opportinity. Then she insulted me and my loved ones up and down.

Then she left.

And I wailed as my shaking fingers blocked her on every site I could think of, terrified of her wrath and scared of more to come.

And then I hated her, for her hypocrisy and the hurt she's inflicted on me, as the realization of her small manipulative tactics to keep me bound to her slowly sunk in (for the sake of maintaining her anonymity I will not go into detail about how specifically she manipulated me, but know that there was what I now understand to have been some gaslighting involved).

Now, over a year after she confronted me, all I have left are the glowing embers of grief replacing my rage, and the understanding that I too have made more mistakes than I can count and had originally realized.

Now it doesn't matter who had ultimately been at fault, or whether or not her behavior was hypocritical or just.

All I know is that now I am lonely and tired.

Tired of being angry and hurt.

Tired of remembering her in all those little, painful ways that have shaped my life over the 16 years I've known her.

I still have him and my online friends and feel more balanced and supported than I've ever been, but in losing her I have also lost my only remaining real life friend and along with it, the kind of companionship my online friends cannot give.

She's written me a letter together with some old art of mine since that last fateful conflict, actually.

It made all of my emotions flare up again.

On the first read it had felt sincere, she was apologizing for not letting me defend myself in our last conversation all those months ago, that she's doing better now, especially in handling her emotions more openly and hasn't had any outbursts since. She also said she'd send me the art pieces and gifts I've given her over the years back if she found more of them.

On the second read it felt like salt in an open wound, an attempt to rub in that she is over me, better off without me while I was still stuck in my grief and hurt. I've written countless drafts of response letters, ranging from long and infuriated, to brief and sorrowful, to sarcastically apologetic until eventually I gave up trying altogether. Too stricken with negative emotions to think clearly.

I'm still unsure which outcome would be pettier of me, trying to get the last word in, or deciding she doesn't deserve an answer? Would sending her a response incite an attempt to mend our lost friendship and rekindle it, or would not answering imply my agreement to have her send back more items in the future?

It made me realize that I don't actually want her back in my life.

That it's not her that I miss, but rather the easy in-person companionship I've had with her, the happiness and comfort that comes with it.

By writing this post I was kind of hoping to find a different kind of closure, by getting my thoughts and feelings out about it all without actually writing her back.

I'm still hurting and lonely, but it's gotten better, continues to get better.

If you've read this far - and really, I don't think there's much of a reason you would, you don't know me after all, so why should you care - thank you for lending a patient ear to a grieving stranger.

If you think that you are who this whole post is centered around:

I genuinely do hope you are doing well. That you will find happiness, comfort, genuine companionship and a warm meal and bed to return to every day.

I just wish for it to be far away from my own.

#vent #bisexuality #relationship #failed relationship #story time #thoughts #heartbreak #prose

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voltagesmutter · 4 years

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Kids?

Request: can i ask the boys with a s/o who does NOT absolutly not, want kids? like she rather have 1000 pets than 1 kid

Kiro:

Kiro wanted a baby, there was no doubt about that. The hints started out subtle but grew and grew until he fully asked you one day.

“Wouldn’t it be nice to have a baby chips?”. You almost choked on your drink.

“Kiro, I love you but we’ve not been dating that long,”.

“I know, I feel like we’re just meant for each other, wouldn’t a baby be the perfect way to express our love,”.

“Kiro… a baby isn’t something you just decide on off a whim, it's a lifetime commitment of bringing a physical being into the world,”.

“I just love you so much,”.

“I love you too but I don’t want kids yet Kiro, your career is in such high peak what would happen if you went on tour again?”.

“Well you could both come with me,”.

“Kiro, you can’t bring a baby on tour… It’s wouldn’t be fair on us or our baby without you here,”.

“Well I-”.

“And I… I’m not ready yet to be a mom Kiro, I know you love it when Savin brings his baby to the set but having a baby to look after for a few hours is completely different to being a parent,”.

He pouted but he knew you were right over the situation. You had a long chat into the night about your thoughts and feelings both of you agreeing you was still to young for kids.

“Kiro! You home?” You yelled, opening your front door waiting for him to come running from somewhere within the house.

“Here Miss.Chips!” He strolled in through the living room before stopping, seeing you with a small bundle in your arms, “W-what is that?”.

“So this is a test run, to see how we would actually cope as parents,” You giggle as you unravel the blanket for a baby corgi fast asleep cradled against you, “This is our baby chips,”.

The two of you loved the puppy beyond words, you called him Sonny and was often found in co-matching outfits with Kiro. Sonny brought the pair of you closer in a way, the new responsibility making you see Kiro in a different light, a more mature responsible light. You would come home from work and find the pair of them passed out on the sofa cuddled up or Kiro showing him off on social media, determined to teach him every trick under the sun. Whilst you were set on not having kids yet, you knew when the time came, Kiro would be the best dad that existed.

Victor:

Neither of you had spoken about having kids, they seemed like a extremely far, far, far away in the distance.

That was until Goldman came into work one morning, late and extremely exhausted. Victor was ready to launch hell onto him, preparing to deduct a few zero’s of that eye-watering pay-cheque but it wasn’t until Goldman apologised telling him ‘Clare’ had been keeping him up did he change his mind.

“Don’t let your sex life effect your working ways Goldman,” Victor sighed with slight disgust but Goldman chuckled softly.

“Clare is my daughter, she came a few earlier than expected so it’s been a bit manic,”. Victor, having a heart, was intrigued by the photos and stories, demanding he brought the precious, tiny bundle into work for him to meet. And when he first laid eyes on the tiny newborn?

That was it, Victor had one thing on his mind, to get you pregnant with his child.

“We’ll have to get married first of course,” He hummed, taking your hand in his. You was currently sat opposite him taking in the information: A. Goldman had a wife, B. Goldman had a child, C. Victor wanted to have a child with you. It was all overwhelming.

“Victor, as lovely as that is, I’m not ready to have kids yet,” You sigh, watching his face drop slightly before pulling it back to his casual poker face.

“But, you’d be my wife, you would have everything you wanted,”.

“Victor! I want you to marry me because you love me, not just because you want to get me pregnant…” Your voice trailed off.

“I do love you, I do and I do want to marry you but I grew up with nothing, *You cocked an eyebrow* Okay fine, I grew up with very little compared to what I have now and I want to pass down the Li legacy and who better than to our child?” His words flooding your body as endless amounts of oxytocin pumped through your veins.

“I love that Victor, and I understand it all, but we can’t just have a baby so you can have an heir to your business, I’m not ready for that responsibility just yet Vic and that’s me being honest with you,” You squeeze his hand and he reassuringly squeezes it back, “Besides, you talking about marriage as if you’ve already proposed,”. You teased and wiggled your bare ring finger in front of his face as he chuckled softly.

Oh if only you knew about the diamond studded ring he had in his pocket, which he would present to you later that night during your private dining experience at Souvenir.

Gavin:

Gavin wanted the whole family shablam. The big white wedding, the house, the two kids. He envisioned it to be part of his life. So the day you told him you wasn’t overly keen on the idea of kids it crushed him and his dreams.

“It’s not that I don’t ever want kids, but I just like having you to myself is all,” You shrugged, turning your back to him to him so you could begin preparing dinner.

“But wouldn’t it be nice, little us’s running around, you’d be an amazing mommy,” He wraps him arounds you from behind, nuzzling his face into the crook of his neck. With a sigh, you place the vegetables in your hands down and rest against him.

“I do want that Gave, but just… just not right now okay, how would we cope? We both have full times jobs and your away on missions, you couldn’t keep coming home with all these new scars and wounds,”.

“Well, I mean… I could take an office job at the department, I know it’s less dangerous and more money and you could, well I mean, we don’t need two incomes with an office wage,”. He chose his words carefully, he knew how much your job meant to you.

“So what? You expect me to give up my career and be a perfect stay at home mom? Waiting hand and foot, clean the house, care for the baby, do the cooking for when you come home?” You snapped, wrestling your way out his arms.

“No that’s not what I-” He started, the redness growing on his cheeks.

“What next? Ask you for my money allowance so I can go to the shop and buy things,” You huff, he had touched a nerve deeply with this subject.

You refused to speak to him the rest of the night, kicking your husband out of your bedroom for him to sleep on the sofa.

You did make up rather quickly the next day after a hearty long discussion, this had been your first fight as a married couple. Both of you agreeing now wasn’t the time to consider a baby and for you both to just enjoy each other.

The biggest shock the pair of you faced…

When Shaw turned up to your home one day, a baby carried and wee little dot fast asleep inside it.

“So uh… this is Astrapí, meet your nephew,” He mumbled, scratching the back of his neck. A drunken one night stand and nine months later a baby boy had been left on his doorstep with a note, Shaw having the *Deeply hidden* gentle soul he had, raised his son with the help of Gavin and you.

Whilst it wasn’t your own child Gavin was tending too, he knew this practise would be perfect for your baby when the time was finally right. For now, he gladly settled on being the world's best uncle.

Lucien:

He was fascinated by human emotions, each of them so similar yet so different, all triggered by environmental factors and hormonal impulses released from the brain.

His favourite one currently was pregnancy and the female anatomy around pregnancy, the radial glow, the increased sexual appetite, the instinct to protect the life inside them at all costs. He was beyond intrigued and he wanted to find out more.

“Right, so let me get this right,” You sighed heavily shaking your head, “You want to get me pregnant so you can observe me and the whole pregnancy?”.

“It would do wonders for my research,”.

“Jesus Lucien, we’re talking about a baby here! Not some frickin lab experiment,”.

“I understand, but then the child would be an immense breakthrough with my work,”.

You literally felt your jaw drop. Was he serious? Was this lunatic, too handsome for his own good, serious?

“Lucien, a baby is something conceived out of love…”.

“I’ve already thought of this, we could extract an egg from you, fertilize it with my sperm and once developed enough we can insert it back into you,”. You literally felt dumbstruck at your boyfriends proposal. Even if, if, you considered this, there was no way that would be happening, you was at least going to get some mind-blowing sex out of it.

“No, no- that’s not what I meant, couples have children Lucien because they want to grow and start a family, not because it will ‘help with research’”.

“So I take this as a no?”.

“Look, I don’t want kids right now Lucien and certainly not by boyfriend who purely wants one for science,”.

“What about in the future?”.

“Well that depends…”.

“What if we stay deeply in love, we produce our own child?”.

“For science?” You ask, cocking an eyebrow.

“For love,” His soft words, enveloping over your heart as you smile.

“Now that I can agree to,” Wrapping your arms around his neck as he pulls you close to his chest, savouring sweet kisses between you.

Shaw:

Both on the same wavelength, kids could be a possibility in the extremely deep and distant future.

However after a couple of months of dating Shaw suggests the idea of potentially moving in together.

“We could get a snake, call it Jerry or something,” His eyes glowing as he knelt down in the pet shop, taking the vivid breeds of specimens.

“Ooh what about this one!” You squeal, as a western hognose slithered against the tank to when your finger was pointing, its tongue flickering in a slightly hiss.

“I think it likes you,” He chuckles, moving close to you.

“Well duh? Who doesn’t,” You tease, the pair of you fixated on the small reptile, slithering across the bedded rocks.

“Here we are, nice and home,” Shaw beams, placing her into the freshly set up tank, as she slithers around exploring her new surroundings. The pair of you spend the whole afternoon adoring her every movements, making little comments about what she was doing, still deciding on her name.

“Hmm, she’s speedy, very speedy! What about ‘Blitz’?” You ask, Shaw turning to face you.

“Blitz?”.

“It means lightning with German,” You smile as a quick bolts flash over Shaw’s eyes as he nods in agreement.

“Right, well I best be off, some of us have work in the morning,” You huff, standing up and giving your new shared pet a quick goodbye as you gathered you bag.

“I’ll mis- She’ll miss you, not having another pair of eyes ogling over her and dropping a stupid amount of treats into her bowl,” He mumbles, wrapping his arms around you as you headed to the door.

“I’ll miss her too, when I next come over she better not be the size of a house!” You tease, playfully poking his chest.

“Maybe you should stay and keep an eye on her,”.

“But she has you?”.

“Yes- but- I.. ugh forget it,” He mumbles once more.

“Shaw?” You ask, admiring the slightly flustered man in front of you.

“I don’t want you to go,” He admits.

“Well, I can stay but I’ll need to head out early to get changed for work,” You smile, running a hand over his cheeks.

“No I don’t ever want you to go back home, I want- I want this to be your home, our home,” His words almost stop your heart. Shaw, your Shaw, Shaw who refused to let you know how he truly felt almost 90% of the time was asking you to move in with him.

“Forget it, it’s stupid,” He mumbles off after you don’t say anything.

“I’d like that,” You giggle, his face turning to yours as he pulls you close.

“Wait, go outside a minute,” He quickly pushes you off him as he takes his keys out of his pocket and shoves you to the door. Rolling your eyes with a laugh, you follow and wait side, hearing the door lock. “Okay now open it,” he calls out from the other side. You insert the key but it doesn’t unlock.

“You have to jiggle it,” You hear him yell as you follow his words, finally opening the door. The minute you step inside, Shaw pulls you close and wraps him around you.

“Welcome home baby,” He smirks, pressing an electrifying kiss to your lips.

Astrapí -Greek for lightening

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punkandsnacks · 4 years

Text

Between Wolves & Doves; Chapter Seven, Savagery.

Author: @punk-in-docs & @adamsnackdriver

Also on AO3-

Trigger Warnings: !!! Violent thoughts in this chap !!! Kylo’s getting somewhat, territorial. Shall we say-

Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

He’s been stalking this earth long since civilizations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.

He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.

In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.

He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.

He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.

~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~

When he came to her that night, her tears of grief were still drying on her cheeks. Catching in the fires light, like ribbons of sparkling amber.

If he had a soul, it would be crumbling in despair for glimpsing the sight of her like this.

“Oh, My little dove.” He sighs, weary and heart sore for her. She didn’t even have anyone to cry to or to embrace in her sadness. She always had to cry alone.

Tears staining onto the clasping embroidery of her laced pillow. Her supple form curled up into a fitful tense shape on the bed. Her toed off brown boots are strewn on the floor by the end of the bed.

Concern weights down the heavy lentil of his stern brow as he rounds the end of her bed to come closer. His big hand cupping the polished twists of the wood pillar of the mahogany frame. He steps over her boots. Coming to tower over where she rests on the mattress.

She’s still wearing her gown. The ash grey wool she wore earlier today. Her hair is still bound. Though it’s strictness is softened by wisps that have worked their way loose. Spilling over her cheeks and straying across the pillow. Like dark twisted roots.

She won’t wake. She never does. He sets himself carefully on the bed. Feels it give and creak beneath his weight. He watches her rest. Brings his hand up to stroke a thumb across the soft cushion of her damp cheek. Wet and salt clings to his skin.

He whispers to her. “I felt it. I felt your sadness. I felt it reach out to me. Calling to me.”

He leans down and kisses the tear away. When he does, when he tastes that sadness on his lips - a shatter of emotion and memory cracks through him. Like thunder splintering and charring an old oak. He is struck by it. Well and truly.

He can hear her mothers snarls, feel the crush of guilt and righteous anger drowning his sweet little dove. Being told she must obey to her family expectations. Start making them proud. Start thinking of marriage.

He sighs deeply as he pulls away. He didn’t even register the pretty floral of her skin he so loves. Not tonight.

Tonight, he is not a baying monster seeking for blood. He is a suitor who has deeply concerned, rushed to her side as he felt the worst woes of his lover.

He felt her despair. Her dying hope. He felt the waning happiness of their day wither. Like a dried flower hardening up in the frost or the heat. Seizing up it’s bright petals. Or shedding them. He’s felt how her family’s expectations strip her bare and leave her shredded and bruised.

Here, he just feels his jaw grit at the rage of it all. He grows wilder with anger. Can feel the black of it, thick like rotten honey, bleeding flushing into his veins.

“I wonder, do you feel me too? Are you so struck by all the things I perceive?” He asks to her. Not intending at all for his questions to be answered.

Their bond is strong - this cannot be denied. It’s tug engulfed them both from the second their eyes met. That blazing dazzling storm that took his breath away. The tempest of her influence quakes inside his chest.

Yet this...fondness, for her. A mere mortal. A simple, human girl. It is not so perishable. To look upon the last love and bond he has felt in his life, it seems so dangerously frail in comparison. Adoring her is like cherishing a birds eggshell. Like a faint ember glowing, about to extinguish. Yearning and waiting to be made bright.

Humans. All of them are so fleeting. So quick to bud and even quicker to fade. Like a dying little spark. Extinguished before it barely even thrives.

He can feel this spirit. This entwining of their souls. This dense entanglement of emotion. Can sense how it hungers to grow. Like him; it’s a bloodthirsty beast. Demands heart and cartilage and inky black ichor of blood to sustain it.

His yearning is more than he ever thought. And he knows how she wants it desperately also. Wants him. Their feelings have found symmetry in each other. This is the first time a woman has been more to him than a collection of veins to drink off.

“I confess; I care not if you can sense me yet. Because I sensed you the minute I saw you, Iris Ashton. And now I feel how trapped you are.” He explains softly.

“Little Dove. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to see you freed.” He promises.

He’s stroking her hair back off her face. Trying to soothe away the crinkling frown in her brow. The one that spoke highly of her turmoil.

“I would rip those pathetic beings you call relatives to pieces for making you suffer like this. I wouldn’t even drink them. Dove. I’d kill purely for the pleasure and the sport of it.” He pledges.

Somewhere in his mind, faintly, upon a distant echo of an echo, he can hear his makers voice. He can hear Draegan calling him a savage, chiding him for those words. He always was the one between the two, blessed with more leniency.

“Your mother is desperately trying to keep us apart. It will not be so. I will not stand for it.” He confesses.

“I will not.” He makes plain. Shakes his head. His words are quiet venom with the resolute strength of iron, but he’s softly caressing her cheek. Taking away all the tears and salty sadness with his fingertips.

“I have a foul temper and when people deny me the things I want. They will inevitably lose.” He growls.

He will kill. Maim. Slaughter and hunt without any whiff of so called or feared consequences. He’s a vampire. He’s above emotion. He does not subscribe to petty human clemency. There is no point in mercy being instilled in such savage beasts, after all. It would wither and die in the face of all the foul things he’s committed. The gore. The pain. The massacres. The bloodlust.

“I came tonight because you cried out for me. You cloud up every moment in my head. You live behind my closed eyelids when I rest at night...” He expresses.

He reaches his hand to cover her collarbone. Very close to the space over her heart. Warm skin soothes his icy palm. It’s been so long since he felt the flurry and flush of warmth. He can feel the quivering muscle tremble and tick under her skin. Gushes and guides her blood. The rattle of it pulses and echos through her vulnerable bones.

The fragility of her tiny timpani heart, beating away her time.

“And now your body beats for me. Each pump of your heart I can hear; and it sounds like it’s calling out my name. And I will always answer to it.” He promises. “I cannot ignore it, even should I wish too.”

He cannot fathom the enormity of this strangle hold she has across him. He can only nurture it’s budding into being. He will help blossom and thrive, whatever this may be.

He quirks a slight tip of a smile. It breaks the stoic nature of his scowl hardened face. Like strong waves being dashed on the rocks. It yielded.

“When I think back upon you sitting astride Kana today, it makes me smile. I had not thought you to be such a wild creature so ready to dash the rules.” He says in mirth.

He’d only looked at her and seen the etiquette she adheres too. He was pleasantly surprised to find she was no shrinking violet. He’s enamoured with uncovering more such stubborn wilderness within her.

“How glad I am for it. That little spit of fiery spirit that not even your foul mother can hope to tame. I’ve always been so enamoured with wild things.” He smiles.

He rubs his thumb across her forehead. His own brow creases when he feels the tremble and agony of her aching head. The raw sting of her red eyes. He rubs until that grey nimbus of her pain passes away. Like smoke on the gentle breeze. He soothes it away.

He is sure to put vastly happier thoughts into her head. Plants them there like seeds ready to sprout. He helps her recall every smile they’ve shared. Every ghost of a touch. Every look of their eyes clashing that sent rattles of desire wracking down her spine. His too, though she had no clue as to the potency of her charms.

No clue whatsoever- it’s one of his favourite things about her. Here is a power she doesn’t even know she wields. He will gladly instruct her to see it used.

He lets her see them this afternoon. Riding side by side in the frosty sunshine. Stroking the horses in their stalls. The way he caught her and reeled her in when she slipped off Kana’s back. He lets that warm happiness flow through her like golden ambrosia. The sweet honey nectar of happiness they share together.

He will have more. He will make it so.

He feels how her body is growing colder. He twists around and sees the fire in her hearth is crumbling low. Barely sustained. He crosses and sees to it. Stokes it with the iron poker and piles on more logs to see her kept warm.

Silently he walks back to the bed, to her side. Pulls up the fluffy eiderdown over her where it lay crumpled at her feet. The feathery down of it rumples and crushes and he tucks it around her prone body. Her human well-being, hangs loosely by a fine thread compared to his stronger senses.

He exhaled an amused sound to himself. “And they say I am the creature who bears no soul.” He speaks in detriment to his caring touches.

But so long as he is near, he will not see her suffer. From cold. From sadness. From anything that may ail her.

He has seen worse things than his own kind being blights upon humans. He’s witnessed plagues, wars, outbreaks of diseases too foul to name. The awful crippling frailty of suffering a human existence.

He places his hand on her elbow, atop the covers he shrouded her in. Her dreams eased by his influence. Her strains and stresses plucked away by his hands. He could do more than merely enchant her senses. He could alter them. Make her witness things if he wished to.

“How is it a creature like me can find such solace in even being near you.” He asks gently. Big fingertips of his grooming through her hair. Feeling the spun-bronze soft of it combing through his fingers.

He may never have an answer to that musing. An eternal query for him to ponder over through his ages. All he knows, is that he won’t be kept apart from her. Not for anyone’s wishes.

He stays until a cresting red-gold dawn. Blood and gold copper coins, spill slanted across the sky. The birds outside in Westwell’s meagre garden begin their song to herald to the new day.

He leaves her. Parts with a kiss to her cheek and before he slips from her sight and off into that blaze of a dawn, he leaves his initialled kerchief crumpled up in her hand.

The thought as to her confusion of how it got there, will make him smile. Now she has a token of him. That happy thought keeps him smug in temper, and buoyant for the whole day. He hopes it will jab at her acerbic mother.

Should teach her that no one stands in Lord Ren’s path. And even fewer live to tell the tale of having done so.

~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~

Iris really did applaud her mothers cruel sense of efficiency. Not but the next day, and Sergeant Armitage Hux and Mrs Hux call at Westwell to take tea.

As they alight from their carriage, Iris is sat at the window armchair. Watching their newcomers. A flash of brilliant red catches her eye, stark in the icy landscape of the frosted green and creamy cotswold stone gravel drive.

He wore his full ceremonial uniform under his black cape. Wool coat the shade of split veins. On his head, covering the copper of his short hair, sits a cocked half moon army hat. Fluffy red and white plumage darts up, sprouting from one side. Blood spattered on snowy doves feathers. The ultimate homage to war.

He looks terribly neat and well groomed. Meticulously so. Coat brushed. His cape is spotless. His white breeches are about as pristine as the snow that fell around the estate last night. His black boots gleam. Freshly polished and waxed. Iris bites her tongue when she sees he’s fully dressed for battle. Even his gold rapier sword hangs at his side. Bumping against his hip.

Hux turns and helps his mother down from the carriage. She is a stout woman of late age, with greying hair and a face that always looks pinched. Her pale face hidden in her frilly bonnet. A ruffled frill secured around her neck. A chemisette collar of rippled muslin, peaking in cresting white waves. Tied in a bow around her neck. Brushing under her chin. Collar starched and stiff. Holding her chin precariously high. Incredibly precocious.

Then again, the woman did always adore and admire looking down upon people. Haughtily peering down on her lessers.

Much of her dress is covered by her deep plum pelisse. She has lilac gloves on and is pinching her skirts up. Afraid of the mud. Sniffing in disdain at muddying her rose pink and mauve half boots with it. Iris shuts her book with a harsh snap. A sigh leaves her lips.

She sets her book aside. Mother appears in the parlour. Lifts up the arched curtain to better glimpse at their guests. She turns a casting eye over Iris’s dress.

“Your skirts are wrinkled and your hair is loose at the back. Fix it.” She instructs snappily with quick hurrying. Before turning back to seat herself elegantly on the settee opposite.

Their parlour was not quite the finest room in Britain. But it was cosy. Heavy blue velvet drapes line the windows with gold tassels trimmed on their edges. There is upholstered walnut settees and arm chairs with white and pink rosebud pattern on the seats.

The fire is lit and roaring amber in the austere grey of the stone hearth surround. Mother arranged an ostentatious vase of tall spilling blooms on the French end table across the room, by the door. Perfuming the air with violets and bluebells. Sugared fruit of exotic variety lay in the only silver bowl they have in the house. Polished especially. Desperate to show off their finery.

Mother is fussing with the crocheted lace doily on the table. Tugging it straight. Setting her grey satin skirts to fold nicely and neat around her knees. Tugging on her finest shawl around her shoulders. Hissing at Iris to set her legs straight. For she always sat most uncommonly. With one knee folded under the other.

Iris is in the upholstered linen armchair opposite to the settee. In the chair has seen better years. A twin set. They creak and crack under her weight. But it’s always done that ever since she was a child. It’s her favourite spot. The light is adequate for reading. Until Posy or Flora come marching in and clamour and demand the chair for they have to fix up their bonnets for church on Sunday. Heaven forfend they are seen out in the same bonnet twice.

Luckily today they preen and fuss in the parlour mirror before the housekeeper shows their guests into the front parlour. Posy is in a duck egg blue with a green ribbon at her waist. Flora is almost matching in a cotton white with a peony pink ribbon. They preen a moment longer until the door handle cracks and twists across the room. The two littlest Ashton’s dart quickly to take their places. Squeaking with giddy excitement. Plonking artlessly onto the furniture.

Iris’s mother frowns at her eldest daughters dour smile. She’d tugged her out of bed nearly at dawn this morning. Ordered her up. To bathe and wash and then dress her hair for Hux’s call.

Laced her tight into stays and her whisper-blue silk dress. Barely blue. Like a sky just turning at twilight. It had three quarter sleeves and handsome train. It it showed off the prettiness of her neck and shoulders. Especially when she wore her pearl sapphire earrings. They sparkle all across her neck.

She puts down her book on the end table. And looks up into the parlour doorway as Mrs Hux enters, preceding her son. Their stout almost-elderly matron of a housekeeper, Simpson, opens the door to them and curtseys. Announcing them. “Maratella Hux and Sergeant Hux. If you please, Ma’am.”

Maratella glides in first. Still with her parasol hooked upon the crook of her arm. She snaps her fingers at Simpson to take it and her bonnet.

“I would have disrobed more in the hall. But your entryway is most drafty and I do so fear getting dust on my bonnet. For it will never be gotten out easy in all this fine lace.” Simpson takes her bonnet and her parasol off her. She curtseys to Caroline.

“Mrs Ashton. You do keep such a snug parlour.” And then she turns and offhandedly stresses Posy, Flora and Iris. The whole bouquet. As if suddenly surprised they’re all here. “Oh. And I dare say such a pretty flock of gels.” She compliments.

“You remember my youngest’s. Posy and Flora. And of course, Iris. My eldest.”

Hux nods and lays particular care in Iris’s intended direction. He turns back to Mrs Ashton.

“I feel I must ride into town to immediately fetch the constable. Ma’am. You have been charged with a criminally beautiful set of daughters. Mrs Ashton.” Hux flatters. With an easy charm of a smile.

Two thirds of the Ashton bouquet giggle wildly, enamoured with the praise. The remaining third bites her tongue to guard it. To keep from rolling her eyes.

“You are very good, Sir. Please. Do come, be seated. I have rung for tea.” Mrs Ashton floats delicately to retake her seat. Mrs Hux daintily comports herself next to her friend.

Armitage remains stood. Arms tugged behind. Sword clanging his belt where he stands with a jaunt to one hip one leg kicked out.

“How are you? My dear Mrs Ashton...” Maratella greets. Taking Caroline’s hands into her own. She wore spotless calfskin gloves. Before she unbuttons the pearl fastenings and makes a show of peeling the expensive things off her tubby hands. Delicately pinching each fingertip and caressing the thing off her hand like she was doing it for exaggerated show. She wasn’t. She was merely acting elegantly as she thought she must.

“I am in good health. I thank you Mrs Hux.” She answers. “Your Armitage looks extremely well. London air must agree with you, Sir?” Mother simpers.

“It did serve me most splendidly. Ma’am. But I am more than pleased to be home. And most thankful for your invitation.” He bows politely and his sea foam green eyes flicker over to find Iris. She smiles meagrely at him, averts her gaze.

He cuts the figure of a tall man standing there, behind his short mother with his hands crossed precisely behind his back. Trying to make his lean chest look impressive with all his gleaming medals and polished gold buttons resting stitched to their black braiding wool patches. Soot. Gold. And blood. All in one uniform.

Armitage Hux had missed the main war of late. The Napoleonic wars which happened of 1815, just this last year gone. Iris wondered if Hux really ever equated the finery of such a uniform, with real true war.

Here he is. Trussed up like a clockwork toy-soldier. With his boots shining and his composure spotless. He’s a young man who has not seen the full horror of war. Iris can’t exactly boast of knowing any more than he. But his uniform spoke of such hope. Time will tell if he can seize the bravery needed to march onto a battlefield.

“Iris looks exceedingly well. Do you not think so Armitage?” His mother urges.

“Indeed she does. Most handsome.” Hux says to the matronly mama’s. But he’s smiling right at her. He crosses the few short steps to the unoccupied twin chair where she’s sat by the window. Gracefully deposits himself into the chair.

Iris takes a subtle breath before she turns towards him. Sat demurely with her hands clasped on her knees and her back straight. When all she really wants to do is lounge. And slouch. And do anything to put him off the idea of marriage.

She was doomed to its sentence. She’d have rather sat here today and stuck pins in her eyes. Rather than conform to conversations about the weather, the local gossip, the tea or the snow outside. When all their mothers were really trying to arrange, was, when it boiled down to it? A forced mating ritual between the country gentry.

The way Mama and Mrs Hux are peering at them from their settee, is like they can already envisage the wedding clothes. And the names for the Hux babe they want to see, soiling in its cloth, and squalling loudly it’s bassinet.

Iris is sick to death of all this match making- but. She is the eldest Miss Ashton. She persists. When all she wants is to flee the room screaming.

“How did you find London this time of year? Must be miserably cold and busy.” Iris seeks.

“Yes. It was rather. Lucky my visit didn’t extend for too long. I am not so enamoured of city living. The society may be fine and resplendent. I did not suffer for a dinner invite the whole time I was in town. But the lifestyle suits me very ill. I much prefer my time spent back here at Walford.” He tells.

“And how is your regiment?” She enquires. He answers. They talk about his militia training. His fellow officers. His sword. His commission. They just lapse to the weather. When the door handle creaks again and in comes their procession of maids with the tea and cake.

Assam tea with a side of Cooks buttery baked ginger biscuits. Seed cake, and finger sandwiches. Made of fluffy pillow soft white bread. Filled with sliced tongue, or ham, with cornichon or yellow piccalilli.

Cook has even made her violet macarons. Gorgeous silky little round cakes of smooth, bright purple. Wedged either side of cloying sweet ganache. Almonds and sugar and all things made sweet with violet essence.

Iris knew mother must’ve gone through a fair amount of their family budget for such an indulgent French fancy. Sugar and eggs and coconut didn’t come cheap. Of course she would pour every hope and penny farthing they had spare into this venture. Anything to catch a suitor.

Caroline pours, and Julia hands around the cups. Leaves a macaron perched on Iris’s saucer. Waggles her brows at Iris, poking with good natured chiding fun for Hux, who was sat opposite her. Looking most keen.

Iris sips her tea from her blue and white spode cup and pays their silly maid no mind. Just because they both flutter eyes at anything of Male born, with nice thighs framed by their breeches.

He’s a soldier too? The maids will state that every romantic girl must get her heart broke by a soldier, just the once.

Hux sets his tea on the end table between them. Leaning a tad closer to initiate more intimate conversation.

“Do forgive my speaking bluntly, Miss Ashton. But I believe it is brightening up. Would you care to take a turn on the lawn with me?” He seeks. They had finished their tea. After all. And she must be polite.

“I’d be delighted to. Sergeant Hux.” She accepts. She stands and deposits her empty teacup down. He tells their Mothers of their plan. He sees Iris into the cold foyer and they pull on their coats. She wished she could find something repulsive in him. But really, he is a gentleman. He holds the door. Helps her into her pelisse. He’s not a horrible suitor. Maybe if he was she could hate him more keenly.

She wished she could be repulsed by his every action and snobbery. But he is, genial. He smiles warmly at her.

He takes her arm when they get outside. They walk along the drive in companionable, yet slightly awkward silence. Iris just knows their mothers will be fussing like clucking hens at the parlour window watching them. Planning a wedding for the spring after a suitably long engagement. Posy and Flora will be marvelling at every barest touch they share.

‘Did you see how he took your arm?’ Or ‘How he doted upon you... I should so like for a man to hold a door like that for me.’

Hux breaks the silence. They walk arm-in-arm around the curvature of the frozen pond.

“I know men aren’t supposed to be appraised of such matters. Miss Ashton. And if you’ll forgive me, I shall speak plainly-“ He declares to her.

He brings them to a stop. Ten to rly reaches out. His gloved fingers take her hand. She admires it. The plumage on his hat is battered in the wild wind. The only sounds she can hear is her bonnet ribbons fluttering and snapping on the wind. The birdsong chipping sweetly at her ears. The terrified drum of her heart.

“I came here today with the express purpose and intention of paying court to you, Iris.” He tells her. A hopeful smile on his lips.

His eyes crinkle at the corners with hope. His stark inky cape flaps on the breeze. She smells wool and boot polish. Stuck on the frosty landscape that glittered in his eyes.

Her chest breaks. Crushing in on itself.

She looks up into his face. The sun kissed gold upon her icy-white cheeks. Red tinted from the cold breeze. She swallows. Tipping her head slightly back so she can see his face past the woven peak of her bonnet.

Her mouth gapes and she looks down where he’s holding her hand- and it doesn’t feel right.

She feels like she wants to burst. Needles of hot and ice cold stab at her ribs like ferocious ten thousand little knives. She wants to be sick or run away. This isn’t the pair of hands that should be holding hers.

Sergeant Hux is terribly nice. Courteous and well bred. And more wealthy than her. But- but he’s not...

Lord Ren’s face strikes at her mind with so much power. She almost loses her breath. And her footing. She regains her composure. Even though it feels like something just yanked up inside her chest and tore away her lungs from where they are joined to her throat.

She plasters on a false meek smile.

“I see...” She remarks. Anything more witty or feeling was beyond her. She felt like soon, she’d fade into the air, like smoke. Just drift away.

“I know it is the especial wish of your mother, aswell as mine, that we are to consider each other as potential spouses. And I would very much- I should very much like to spend more time with you, if you’ve no objection?” He asks. Still clasping her hand.

“You are kind sir...” She stutters breath around the words. “Your attentions would be most welcome.” She lies.

She feels rotten.

“I know we know a little of each other. I believe there is some fondness between us. That could grow into respect, and, and possibly- one day, maybe more than that.” He approaches cautiously.

She nods. “You speak very bluntly of such matters. Sergeant Hux.” She says. He speaks as if they are already truths, come into fruition.

“I merely speak what is present. Miss Ashton. My- words are not finely crafted or driven by passion. They do not fall prettily. I am no astounding orator. Nor poet. But I do so believe that we might have a chance of making each other passably happy.” He declares once again.

“You shall never want for anything should we marry. You’d be a Sergeants wife and all that is offered it it’s income. I would treat you dearly, and- admire you as any husband should whilst you see to raising our offspring. These are, after all, matters that fall rightly to women.” He adds.

“Yes, indeed.” She guards her tongue before it becomes uncivil.

“We are invited to the Elton’s musicale, two nights forth. Thursday next. Would you do me the honour of your hand in the invite?” He seeks.

“Well. I-“ she swallows the sticky grey lump in her throat. How she’d love to be selfish and refuse. Her eyes still rimmed and raw from crying over all this last night. Heart sore. A great crack splintering through the middle of it like ancient rusted clay pottery. Her heart so badly wants anything- something more. Someone else.

She can’t do it. Mother would have her crucified. She wants her sisters to have a better comfort in life than what she’s had to suffer with being the family puppet. She wants her father to have new clothes and not have to worry. She wants to see Westwell safe from the bailiffs.

“I should be thrilled to attend.” She smiles. Her shattered heart crumbles that little bit more. Morphs into a wet mush of clay. Drowned by disappointment.

This wasn’t for her benefit- it’s for everyone else’s. And that was no reason to marry. She believes first and foremost in living for herself. Iris so badly wants to live for herself. To be her own person. She does not have that luxury and it’s suffocating.

She agreed because it was polite. Because he was a genial man and she didn’t wish him upset when he’s done nothing wrong, but let himself be manoeuvred into matrimony by his mother.

She agreed. For her sisters. For her father. Definitely not for her mother though. She doesn’t deserve even an ounce of her thoughts or considerations.

She agrees, even though all of Hampshire society knew that the musical performed by the Elton’s made all the local dogs howl. Even though several ‘accomplished’ young ladies of the ton, played their instruments so ill, everyone swore they could hear the thud of the long deceased composer banging their skull in lamentation and sheer agony on the lid of their coffin.

Even though she’ll be sat next to a man who has promised only to love her dearly. He is a nice man. That is simply it. She feels unworthy and ignorant. She doesn’t want the things she’s supposed too.

She’s overwhelmed. Her head is spinning, and her mouth as sticky dry as a chasm of sand. They’re not even courting properly, or engaged and she wants to pick up her skirts and flee across the horizon. She wants to run. To breathe. To be free from this nice courtesy that she doesn’t want.

She wants more out of her life than that of being a broodmare of a sergeants wife. The expectations don’t stop the day she says ‘I do.’ The fetid things will live on and on. Until she becomes the perfect bride. Then the most perfect housekeeper slash wife. Then a doting mother to a child she’s sure she doesn’t want. Fathered by a man who loves her with lukewarm and polite affection.

Can a soul really be satisfied by such a light caress of passion?

Hers is begging and screaming for more. She’s read in books about exotic cities and lands. Blue blue, so very blue seas and oceans, vaster than her comprehension. Wide wide skies filled with sunsets she could only dream of glimpsing at.

She’s read of snowy mountains and thick pine woodland. Air full of sap and snow. Of sunny cities entirely made out of blue bricks in Morocco. Or ones in Asia painted the entire street rosebud pink just for one visiting dignitary.

She’s heard teasing dribbles of exotic accents and tastes and cultures. She wants to see the bursting heated streets lined with saccharine Mango trees in India. Perfume of it in the air, of spices and sweetness. Wants to see the terracotta catholic loud renaissance of Florence. She wanted to see Castles and chateaus and forts and grand ballrooms. And American railways across the plains of the wild west and-

She’ll never have any of those things. Not a one. Her future was written and decided. And it is appearing bleak.

She thirsts and wants things she’ll never see. Such opulence in the world out there. And instead? She’ll be manacled to a husband and the children and the stove in this tiny savage spit of a village. Until old age and death comes to take her away. Return her to the heat and rot of earth and maggots to help fade her to nothing. Until all that remains of her, is dirty bones and her loved one’s scraps of memories.

Hux smiles. Brings her hand up to lay a gentle kiss upon her glove. “I anticipate it eagerly.” He says. She offers a wobbly smile that she tries to make stand strong.

She can feel eyes stabbing into her back - most likely from the direction of the parlour window. Mama and Mrs Hux stood at the parlour’s front facing windows. Appraising their fine match.

But there’s something else- something that raises the hairs on the back of her neck. Something altogether much more unwholesome. She feels a cold chill burst and slither up her spine. Horribly slow.

Hux has taken her palm to place it in his elbow once again. And they wander now around the rest of the pond. He remarks how beautiful the great spreading horse chestnut tree must be in spring. Iris smiles her agreement.

Peering around. Everywhere in her garden she looked, all was empty. She can’t see their gardener, Higgins, trimming verges or shrubbery. She looks between the copses of the vast spread of trees that shield her view, past the shrubs and the neat hedges. There was nothing. They were the only two people outside the house, out here.

So why does Iris feel as if they aren’t?

Her eyes catch on the bare mulberry tree, the sprawling trunk is bare and black. Like dead curled up spiders legs. Swaying in the breeze.

A black shape sits in that tree. A raven or a jackdaw bird possibly. Onyx black. Curling feet and a sharp inky beak. Fixated its beady glittering honey-black eyes on the both of them. Not moving an inch. Hunched and peering down over them.

Iris looks at it for a long moment. Watches the wind ruffling it’s feathers. It stays fixing its look on her. And it doesn’t move. Not scared. Not at all intimidated by her presence.

Hux jolts her out of her gawping at an unsuspecting bird. It gives a scratchy caw of a call, and spreads its flapping great wings. Soars up into the icy soft of the pearl sky and soars away over the house.

“Miss Ashton?” Hux asks again. A tad louder to capture her attention.

“Forgive me. Lost in my thoughts...” She laughs explains in mirth, turns back and smiles to him. He smiles awkwardly and ducks his head. Discusses the weather with her once again.

They head back into the house for more tea. Caroline gives Iris such a sickly smile when they come back into the room.

Hux announces to Mrs Ashton that he should like to pay call to Iris and escort her to the Musicale next week. Mrs Ashton accepts delightedly.

Mrs Hux adds onto that enjoyment. “Why, we should get a party together. Such a merry gathering! The Ashton’s and the Hux’s shall all attend. You know we have two carriages, Mrs Ashton. Hux may escort all your lovely daughters. And you and Mr Ashton May ride with me and Brendol.” She organised with a giddy grin. Tapping her companions knee.

Iris stands there next to Hux. Feeling very much as if her life is being lived for her. She has no choice in the matter. She is chattel.

Thankfully, after arranging the outing. Maratella and Hux take their leave. They are going on into Pembleton for a general perusal. And Hux needs more boot polish. And she is in desperate need of new ribbons for her hat. Iris shrewdly eyes the hefty bonnet on the woman’s head, groaning under the weight of lace and ribbons and muslin.

Hux kisses her hand again. Bows to her before he leaves. Iris swallows nervously. But doesn’t let her expression betray it. Flora and Posy giggle and whisper to each other. Flourishing into gossip as he leaves the room.

Iris stands looking at the door for a second after it’s shut. Mother sees them off to the front door.

Iris waits to hear the latch on the front door go. When she does she strides quickly for the parlour door, she yanks it open and tears across the foyer and upstairs. Her feet loudly slap each step as she holds her skirts bunched in her fingers.

When she gets to her room she throws the door open with such ferocity the door handle smacks loudly to the wall. She starts getting at the fastenings of her dress. Unloops them and manages to get down to her chemise and her stays. She throws the fine dress away to crumple to her bed. It balloons on the air and floats gently down. Mourning the loss of being worn.

She is at her wardrobe, ruffling through angrily. She’s so breathless. Her lungs are not getting air. Why can’t she breathe? Her mind is racing a million miles a minute. She’s sweaty and clammy and her temples are pounding straining pulsing. Every heartbeat hurts her head. Throat clawing shut.

She won’t cry. She wilfully clamps her teeth shut-she won’t.

She skips herself into her simple beige muslin dress. And shoved her arms through the old wool blue pelisse. Stabs her feet into her boots. Heads back downstairs with her scarf to hand. Every nerve balances on the precise of a knifes edge.

She gets to the front door when her mother appears, peering into the hallway from the parlour doorway. “Precisely where do you think you’re going?” She seeks. Frowning. Face pulled into a scowl.

“I’ve done my duty for today surely. Have I not? What more do you want from me. I’m done parading myself like a witless idiot. I need a walk and some air.” She offers curtly. Slipping out the front door.

Slamming it shut behind her before her mothers next shrill words pierce her ears. No doubt cursing her daughter for daring to have such an insulting commodity as a functioning brain.

She walks quick. Off up the front drive. Let’s the sting of cold rip at her eyes and her cheeks. Taking deep dragging breaths. It feels like she’d swallowed an entire ream of dressmakers pins. Stabbing and squeezing more pain into her.

She puffs and pants and finally feels like she’s gained some breathing space. Coming into the woods near Westwell and shuts her eyes and lets the sounds soothe her frayed self.

The wood pigeons. A cuckoo’s call. The hiss of leaves scratching against their branches in the wind. High above. The crunch of her boots on twigs and frosted leaves mushed underfoot.

The tactile scratch of her gloves hands scraping across the rough bark of trees around her. She leans back against one of them. Looks up at it’s dead brown leaves. Elm tree.

It’s nice to let something sturdy take her weight for once. She doesn’t often have that luxury.

She regains control of her senses. Of her ragged breath and thumping heart. The cold wind wraps around her snugly. Letting her envelope herself in this silence. Breath escapes silver and wispy from her lips.

A twig snaps far off in the tree’s-

Her eyes shoot open. Scanning all around. Sickly bile rising to the back of her throat. She steps away from the elm tree and lets her eyes flicker all around the woodland. Over the ash brown of the trees and the brush of golden leaves mingled with crystals of frost on the ground.

She turns her head around and then loses her breath. Except this time, it is not of her own making.

There is a dark shape looming out of the trees. A big shape. A monstrous shape. A big meaty tangle of black-grey smudged fur. Pointed ears, a long snout. Eyes standing stark. Eyes that are more golden than a tuscan sun.

A wolf.

She watches as this beast assesses her from afar. Gently picking its paws over the foliage and mess of brittle twigs and mud on the wood floor. It’s paws were as big as dinner plates. It’s not baring it’s teeth at her. She imagines those teeth are bigger and sharper than most silver daggers or pocket knives.

It’s ears are swivelled in her direction. Eyes fixed on her too.

She stays still. Frozen to the spot she’s rooted too. Trying not to tremble in fear as tears, hot and molten silver, fill stinging at her eyes. She shivers with the ache of staying so still. Not daring to move one muscle.

This is the beast that’s been attacking the soused farmhands. The one that’s been hunting for blood. She doesn’t quite appreciate how much of a true statement that is.

When it’s about a foot away from her- it suddenly stops. Raises its lowered head. She sees the long line of its shaggy neck. Fur shining the shade of matte coal. It regards her with casual concern. It’s not growling. Or stalking her every move.

She stops holding such tension in her body. She’s used to the wolf hounds they have on the farm. Shaggy slobbering lumbering dogs who go insane for the dried liver, and fresh bones cook saves for them when she had a haunch of pork.

She remembers how their dogs go apoplectic for them. Gnawing at the fresh gummy blood and meat on those bones. She swallows at the not so appropriate visual of bloodied bones, right at this second. When she could have her throat ripped open by this savage wolf.

She watches as it comes closer by two steps from those big lethal paws. Then it sits.

She swallows. The way she knows canines. Sitting is not a sign of a rabid beast baying for blood.

“You know, you shouldn’t be afraid.” Lord Ren’s voice ricochets through her head. Like a distant echo. Smoke on the air. Did she imagine it, or recall it?

What else was it he had said? She can vaguely recall. “Wolves are not just blood thirsty beasts. They are intelligent and sociable animals. They are more likely to be spooked by a human than want to kill them.”

So she does the only thing she can think of. Maybe it’s foolish. Maybe she’s putting herself in greater danger? But the wolf’s tranquility makes her brave.

She makes herself look less like a threat. Slowly sinks to a crouch, joining it. Her knees stab into the frosty ground as she sinks down. Coming eye to eye with the creature.

So close now she can see the various flecks of honey in its eyes. Can see every strand of fur where they stand rigid from its sleekly shaggy coat.

She rests fully on her bent knees. Damning her dress. Dancing the wet frost and mud bleeding into her dress. She tilts her slightly head at the wolf.

“Where did you come from then?” She asks it. Seeing the huge ears turn to her.

Where she’s crouched, it’s almost taller than her, sat down. On all fours it would have come up well past her hip she’d imagine. It was no stretch to perceive how this could be the creature that’s been attacking men around these parts of late. It is a brutely sized beast.

Meaty shoulders, a slim body, long strong legs and a powerful tail. Immense and strong.

“I know I should most likely be scared of a creature like you.... But you don’t seem very dangerous, to me... I’m sure if you were hungry enough to kill me you would’ve done so by now.” She counters to it.

It tilts his head and licks its chops. Flashes her the ivory sabres that it had for teeth. She looks down to it’s intimidating big paws. The claws almost bigger than her fingers. Another flurry of fear shivers through her.

“Are you the only one of your kind? You must be lonely. Are there any more of you hereabouts?...” She seeks. Wobbly voice straightening out when she unknots her tongue.

The wolf just sits. And watches her. Doesn’t move. Just looks.

Those gold eyes harrowing in their ferocity. She feels like they burn her. Yet. Why does she feel like she’s seen those buttery-honey eyes once or twice before-

She must be mad. They should call the doctor to come take her away to the nearest mental institution and pin her into a straight jacket. Here she is sat talking to a wolf.

“I know better than any what being lonely is like I suppose...” She adds softly.

Maybe she is insane. She has the oddest inclination- she reaches up. But not before stopping to take her gloves off. She leaves them crumpled in her lap. And extends her hand towards the beast.

She somehow already knows it won’t harm her.

It still sits there. Even as she gets her fingers to stroke the side of its neck. Fur so soft and thick under her palm. Silky smooth. She’d never felt a pelt this smooth.

It makes a deep appreciative growl in the back of its throat at being petted. A deep husking rumbling noise. A chuff of breath.

A sudden noise makes her shrink back. The wolf sharply turns its head. She looks too. A horse and rider galloping through the far lane, off in the woods

By the time she twists back, the wolf is gone. Sprinting off through the trees. Far to the horizon.

A black blur in the woods. And she is alone once more.

~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~

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theforceflows · 4 years

Text

The Moon and The Sun

Chapter One: I truly, deeply, love you.

A/N: I’ve never written anything resembling smut before, so hopefully the lime at the end isn’t too shitty, sorry haha

Padmé was ethereal, white silk swirling around her feet, making her appear as if she were floating, white lace framing her chocolate locks and deepening her eyes impossibly. His nine year old self had been right, an angel indeed. He knew he should be listening, should be thinking about the ceremony, but all he could focus on was the perfection that was the woman standing next to him. Her physical beauty was only matched by the beauty of her soul, a heart so pure and morals so strong. Her eyes shining with a passion, for him and for the people she served, that made his chest clench. She was otherworldly, something so rare and so perfect, lighting up the world around her. The moon in a starless sky, a wildflower meadow in the dead of winter, an angel in the cold heart of space.

He was nearly exploding with tension when the time came, heart at peace but body vibrating with need. Her lips were the soft pink of the flowers in their field on Naboo, parted alluringly as her eyes peered straight into his soul, the force swirling around and through them, tethering her to him, and him to her, in a way that was undeniably eternal. When his lips finally pressed against her’s, the fire that seemed to always be burning him from the inside out eased, a sigh escaping and brushing against his wife’s mouth, prompting one of her own.

For as long as Anakin could remember, he’d been angry. Angry at the world for ripping away his childhood and his mother, angry at The Order for not trusting him and forbidding something he so desperately needed, angry at the Force for not warning him in time to save his mother-just angry. But Padmé soothed that ache, that burn. She didn’t even have to say or do anything, her simply being put him at ease. Her smile could fix all the wrong in the galaxy, her touch mending his soul, and now she was his other half in law as well as heart.

Only proving his point, her fingers wrapped tenderly around the cold metal of his replacement hand, making him forget the pain of limbs lost disappear, a homely warmth, rather than a raging fire, spread through his chest and to his extremities, a pleasant tingling making him smile.

“Padmé.”

“Oh, Ani.” Her other hand came up, resting against his cheek, a smile gracing her lips as he nuzzled against it, kissing her palm gently. “Now we’ll never be apart, no matter the distance between us.” As someone who’d always felt alone, no matter how many surrounded him, the truth to those words were a wave, crashing through him and bringing him to his knees, a sob catching in his chest.

He’d wanted this for so long, dreamed of it since he was a child freshly taken from Tatooine. Her eyes had peered at him every night in his sleep, reawakening the ache of losing her to age, and duty, war and politics. Those issues had nearly ripped her away from him again these last few weeks, her life nearly being taken right in front of him again and again until he thought the fear of losing her would consume him and drive him to unspeakable acts. And yet they prevailed, her skill in combat nearly rivalling that of her skill in the Senate chamber. Watching her battle had nearly driven him insane with lust, power radiating from her as she fought those who threatened all she believed in, soft skin exposed to him by torn fabric and witty remarks bringing a smile to his face even in the deadliest of moments. And now, rather than fear consuming him, it was love.

She had knelt with him, arms wrapped protectively around him in this vulnerable moment, well aware of the type of thoughts running through his head, her lips pressed to his hair. She was the only one he allowed to see him this way, the only one allowed to hold him. She always gripped him to her tightly, covering his body with as much of her own as possible as if in a desperate attempt to shield him from the hurt that always seemed to find him, fingers knotted in his hair as he shook. “Shhhh, my love.” He slowly looked up at her, blue eyes wide and watery as his hands clutched her to his chest as desperately as she did him. A trembling hand came up, this one flesh and blood rather than steel and wires, brushing a curl that had fallen from her veil away from her face as his eyes took her in. A part of him was sure she’d be torn from him at a moments notice and was frantically trying to memorise as much of her presence as possible before she was lost from him, and that part was bigger than he’d like to admit.

“I’ve dreamt of this for so long. You, my wife. And now it’s here and all I can think is that I’ll be waking any moment to Obi-Wan and the Council’s mistrust, and you seeing me as a slave boy from Tatooine.”

“This is real, Ani. It’s not a dream, I swear. And the Council will make you a Knight any day now, I know it; you’ve saved a lot of lives, they’ll have no choice.” Her fingers were stroking his cheek softly, smiling reassuringly at him with gentle eyes. “And you should know, my love, you were never just a slave boy to me. you always have been and always will be, my Ani.” His response was to simply crush his lips the hers, gathering her into his toned arms as he stood, and cradling her gently to his chest as he strode through the halls to her- their- room, their kiss never breaking.

He laid her softly on the bed, stepping back to take her in. Her small fingers nimbly removed the veil hiding her curls from his sight of her loose, unbound hair, throwing it on the floor carelessly. He quirked an eyebrow at the movement, a teasing going spreading across his face. “Now, Senator. Where’s your propriety?” She grinned at the twinkle in his sapphire eyes and teasing words, lying back on the plush bed and making sure her hair spread enticingly across the pillow.

“Have I offended your delicate sensibilities, Jedi?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t concern yourself, Senator.” He slowly knelt on the bed, crawling up her supple body with a grin that caused her to melt. “I’m quite difficult to offend.” She couldn’t help the laughter that escaped at that, biting her lip in a move that made Anakin’s stomach clench as his eyes were drawn to the incredibly sensual action.

“I think I know many who’d disagree.” He hummed, pressing kisses down her neck, grinning as she faltered at the end of her sentence, focusing his attentions on her pulse point, as it’d been the cause.

“Name one.” As her mouth opened to name Obi-Wan, the first syllable manage to escape, he bit down, pulling the sensitive flesh into his warm mouth and forcing a moan from her throat. “That’s what I thought.” Somehow, she managed to stutter out a few words, such as cheater and unfair, but Anakin paid them no mind, focusing his attention on marking her graceful throat. He grinned pridefully at the sight of the purple mark contrasting sharply with her soft, light caramel skin, causing her to roll her eyes playfully and flip them over, placing her over him.

“You’re quite proud of yourself, husband.”

“My wife is the most beautiful creature anyone has ever had the pleasure of laying their eyes on, how could I not be?” She flushed prettily and now it was his turn to bite his lip at such an enticing sight, warmth pooling in Padmé’s lower abdomen in response.

“You flatter me.”

“It’s the truth, I swear it.” He sat up abruptly, causing them to be nose to nose before using her long curls to gently, but firmly, pull her head back, exposing her throat to him once more. He pressed heated a kiss to the underneath of her jaw, trailing to her collarbones, pausing only for a moment to bite gently, before continuing to the top of her exposed breasts.

When his lips met the impossibly soft skin, he let out a groan, fingers flexing on her hips, hooded eyes peering up at her. Her hands flew up to his hair, gripping the short strands desperately. The sight of him beneath her, eyes hooded and such a dark shade of blue they were almost black, along with the combined feeling of his lips on her sensitive skin, his large, strong hands on her hips, and him hardened between her thighs, was driving her wild. She would never be able to understand how this man managed to be the impossible combination of, everything light and carefree as he laughed in a field of flowers and long grass, and anger as he cut down his enemies in a complex dance of Jedi and lightsaber, as well as childlike with wide blue eyes and a penchant for mischief and trouble, and impossibly sinful, a long toned form with hard muscles felt beneath his Jedi robes and teasing smirks as he kissed her heatedly. Not to mention the sadness that always lurked behind those crystal eyes, the incredible amount of systematic emotional pain that had been inflicted on someone so incredibly young, scars and weight that grown warriors would crumble under.

He was a complex mosaic of love and passion, anger and pain, joy and mischief. Broken apart by the universe over and over again before being piecing himself back together slowly and painfully, simply because he had not other choice. His choices seemed selfish and reckless to those on the outside, but she knew, she saw the selfless love and fierce protective instinct behind each of those choices, each one making her love him more. And now, he was hers, firmly cradling her to him as if she was the most precious thing to exist, and she knew that to him- she was. This perfectly impossible man was devoted to her mind, body, and soul and was all worshipping hands and sinful kisses as he explored all she ha bared to him.

“Oh, Anakin.” Her sigh of his name nearly brought him to tears, emotions overwhelming him at this dream come to life, only to be brought back to reality at the feeling of her tiny hands slipping under his tunic and over his stomach, his hands fumbling to help her remove the offensive article of clothing.

“Padmé.” He groaned, throwing his tunic across the room, hands settling on her waist briefly before sliding up and over the beaded lace and silk of her dress, swiftly undoing the back of it, groaning as it slid off her shoulders only to catch on her breasts. His fingers greedily explored the newly exposed flesh, grinning smugly against her shoulder at the goosebumps that erupted in response. “I think I’m at a disadvantage here, Angel.” He tugged gently on the loosened fabric, quirking a brow at her.

His wife swallowed visibly, trembling hands coming to rest on her dress. Anakin frowned at the sight of his brave Padmé acting so nervous, not used to the sight of her acting so unsure, rather than fierce and determined. His hands swallowed hers as he pulled them away, squeezing them comfortingly. He knew she used her outfits as her battle armor, the elaborate dresses and hairstyles allowing her to feel near invincible. He was, quite literally, asking her to strip herself of her defenses, expose herself down to the nerve, to be vulnerable for him. To be Padmé Naberrie- Skywalker now- rather than warrior Queen Amidala who saved Naboo, or the freedom fighter he fought alongside not too long ago, or Senator Amidala who used words to battle corrupt politicians and defend those she served. To just be Padmé, exposed and vulnerable. His Padmé.

“If you’re not ready for this than we’ll wait. I’ve waited years for you, Padmé. I’ll wait any amount of time for you.”

She shook her head, velvet curls flying. “You already have me.” She stood, looking him straight in the eye as she held her gown to her chest, letting his eyes roam over her standing there, swollen lips and ruffled hair, before letting it drop.

Anakin inhaled sharply. His eyes started at the very top of her head before trailing down, taking in every detail. Her curls were wild, draping over her shoulders and falling down her back, her skin glowed in the moonlight that shone through the the open balcony doors, love bites standing out and making him want to make more. Her breasts were perfect, just the right size for his hands to hold with rose nipples perched enticingly, begging for him to play with. Her stomach was toned, ending in flared hips. Her toned legs were long, for someone of her height, and were crossed nervously to hide her most intimate area.

“Ani?” She began shifting nervously, causing him to realize he’d been staring silently for just a bit to long. He stepped off the bed, striding over to her quickly, maintaining his heated stare the entire time. When they were almost touching he stopped, eyes burning into her’s intensely as his hands dropped to his trousers, unlacing them with ease and allowing them to drop. He stepped out of them, kicking them off somewhere into the large room, as they both stood, nude, in the moonlight and took each other in. After a few intense moments, they both reached for each other, lips crashing together in the middle. He bent over her, hands grasping her by the thighs just underneath her bottom, and lifted her up, her legs wrapping tightly around his waist. They both shuddered when her sex pressed against his toned stomach, his hands sliding up to grip her rear tightly as he moved them to the bed.

He pulled away slightly, both of them panting and sharing air, whispering softly against her lips, “I truly, deeply, love you.”

“And I, you, Anakin.” His lips dropped to her left breast, lightly biting and tugging at her nipple as he laid them both on the bed, covering her body with his, a muscled thigh slipping between her’s and pressing against her sex, grinding slowly. She groaned hoarsely, a sound the shot straight to his cock, and he switched to the other breast. Her nails dug harshly into his back, her eyes closed tightly at all of these new, overwhelming sensations coursing through her. “Ani-“ He bit harder down on her nipple before sucking her breast into his mouth, hands gliding over her her hips and firm stomach, tweaking her other nipple gently.

“Tell me what you want, Padmé.” He mumbled around the soft flesh in his mouth.

“Wha- what?” He released her with a pop and looked up at her with dark eyes that were just a thin ring of blue around huge pupils.

She looked perfectly disheveled, hair haloed around her thrown back head, chest heaving and flushed with a red that spread up to her cheeks. Fuck, she was gorgeous.

“Tell me what you want.”

Her eyes opened, meeting his, teeth tugging at her bottom lip. “You, always you.” He groaned at that, head dropping to rest on her chest.

“Fuck.” Her eyes blew wide at his language, scolding him lightly without thinking about it.

“Ani...” His grin was shark like, moonlight reflecting off his teeth brightly.

“What was that, Padmé?” When she opened her mouth to respond, his hand flew to her sex, pressing down sharply. Her head flew back a cry escaping from her open mouth, nails dragging down his back. His mouth down to her stomach, sucking and biting harshly, determined to leave a mark to prove to them both that this actually happened, that it wasn’t a dream.

“Stop teasing me, Anakin.”

“Your wish is my command, Senator.” He pulled back, pulling her thighs apart slowly. He sucked in a sharp breath, hands shaking as she was revealed to him. She was perfect in every way, and she was his. He took a steadying breath as he grasped himself in his hand, shifting to position himself at her entrance. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” He looked into her eyes, and when he saw the firm resolve there, he nodded, gently pushing into her.

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

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outroshooky · 5 years

Text

Swim In Your Divine

⇢ genre: drabble (hogwarts!au, slytherinjimin!au, gryffindorreader!au) (fluff)

⇢ pairing: park jimin x reader

⇢ word count: 1.7k

⇢ warnings: this is tooth-rottingly fluffy with a touch of angst; there’s brief swearing

⇢ a/n: i’ve wanted to write slytherin jimin for months now, but inspiration is a fickle bitch. i stared at my laptop for maybe an hour tonight, and all of a sudden words came pouring out. to anyone right now who is on the verge of something unknown, who is doubting themselves and their abilities and feeling as though the world may very well come crashing down at any moment- this is for you. i hope, from my heart to yours, that it brings you comfort, even if only just for a moment.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Breath soft on your temple, steady in its beat, paced.

It’s dark in the round room, a single window allowing a block of moonlight to cut across stone tile, fractured in its age. It’s a cloudless night and the sister planet sings her silvery praises across the mountains that arch over the foundations of the castle, keeping her snug and warm in their embrace. Lately, however, it is as if they do not cradle but cage, for better or worse, from the outside world.

For war, war is coming.

It beats in the very thrum of your blood, in the keenness of your senses.

Something is about to happen.

Something that has the potential to be catastrophic, to tip the hourglass that has so carefully held the sands of destiny, slipping by grain by grain into place, exactly where they’re meant to be. The glass walls were shattered on the night that the wizarding world was changed forever, tilted on its axis by the boy with fate incarnate cut in a bolt scar across the breadth of his forehead. They were put back together with the passage of time, tension draining out of the world’s own shoulders as she too adjusted to change.

Change. A force that, on its own, has the power to shift tides. She waxes and wanes, pushes and pulls with her own mind, and it can feel as though we are completely alone, forced to rock back and forth at the mercy of an unseen higher power. We grab at the walls of our measly little dinghy and we are reminded of our place in the universe. How, in the grand scheme of time and the flow of the cosmos, the predicament that occupies our waking hours and haunts the landscape of our dreams is merely a ripple in the flood. A stone may skip across the water, even fall face-first and sink to the bottom, but with a second or two, the undulations slow, taking pause until the next rock finds itself skimmed along the great river. It is like this that we are borne along the current of life, sometimes in control of the pace, sometimes clutching for the sides of the boat with every ounce of power in us.

Your head rises and falls with the rhythm of his breathing, your ear resting comfortably above the constant, never failing drumbeat that is the pattern of life. One of his hands is loosely interlocked with yours, the other occupied with gentle caresses of your hip, your side- touches he needs not open his eyes for, because he knows your curves and your edges as well as he knows the flecked wood of his own wand.

Sometimes, our boat is spun in circles on the great tides. The water rushes and roars in our ears and below our pathetic little craft, threatening to spit and choke and overwhelm the sides. Like leaves we are caught in the eddies, but like leaves, we slip over the top of one current, spill into another, and then we are borne along our way just as if nothing had ever happened in the first place. It’s okay to go in circles, even if you need to rest for a while. It will not consume you forever.

Your frame is warm against his, the only blanket he needs. He’s in casual wear, the low cut of his shirt exposing honey-gold skin, and it’s here that you bury your face, nose the column of his neck. You could connect constellations with the freckles that dot his chest, run your knuckle along his throat to marvel at the radiance of him in simplistic, unadulterated adoration. He is beautiful, so beautiful that it hurts to think, to move, to breathe, to do anything other than savor this moment with him, the moonlight kissing the toes of your socked feet. You nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder, breathe deep the delicate notes of his body wash, but even with a faintly musky distraction, your mind still wanders. It lingers near the entrance to a shadowed labyrinth, trees of shade spearing a sickening inky-black twilight, and it is as if he can feel your internal trepidation through the way you shift against him. He hums, gritty and thick with sleep. “What time is it?”

“Late,” you murmur, fingers sliding up his wrist to trace his forearm. “If we’re caught up here, Snape will string me up on his dungeon wall, right next to the newts we’re supposed to be skinning on Tuesday.”

Jimin chuckles softly, brushing your forehead with lips as delicate as falling petals. “Well, you’re lucky that you’re up here with me. He likes me too much to actually bother with giving me detention.”

“Speak for yourself, mister Slytherin prefect.” You curl into Jimin, legs slung across his thigh. “He’s just itching to give any other prefect, much less a Gryffindor, an ass-whooping.”

His arms tighten around you. “Ah, but you have McGonagall on your side. I still don’t think she’s forgiven me for failing her final last year.”

“She’s forgiven you, love. I don’t think you’ve forgiven yourself,” you tease, tapping his nose with one digit.

Jimin whines lowly and buries his face in the top of your head; the butterfly’s wings in your heart unfold to beat with a renewed passion. However, with a glance out the intricately carved windowsill at the hills and valleys, lingering with promises of threats to come, the beautiful creations crumple.

“Jimin…”

The glow of night frames your face, a visage more stunning to him than any charm or hex. His entire life he’s been enchanted by the mystery of magic, the secret beauty it holds in the palm of his hand. Yet, for all of his passion towards the craft he aims to perfect, it pales in comparison to the candle wick that burns bright with his affections towards you. You, a star set so deeply into the wonderful framework of the universe that he fears a world in which he ever has to live without the unfailing steadiness of you. Jimin knows exactly what thoughts coil around themselves in your brain like a pile of seething snakes, his emotional intuition that nearly had him sorted into Hufflepuff reading you like an open book.

He cradles the back of your neck with one hand; the butterfly curls into its protector. “I know.”

“You can feel it too?”

He nods slowly, then all at once. “Something is different with the world out there. The mountains don’t smile like they used to. They hunch, like they’re hunkering down.”

“But for what?” Your question rings into the open air, an owl winging its way into the night-time. “What if we have war again, Jimin?”

“War?” He raises an eyebrow.

“That’s what happened the last time the world shifted like this. I don’t know-” You cradle yourself in his arms, rubbing furiously. “I don’t know, but god, I’m fucking terrified.”

He pauses one beat, two. “It’s okay to be terrified.” His hands rub over yours, doing a better job to warm you up than you ever could. “I’m terrified too.” Jimin’s confession, as quiet as it is in the dead of the Astronomy Tower, rings as loud as the clapper of a tower bell in the small room. “But if it is war again, then we’ll be prepared for it. We have to be, and we will be.”

“But how?” You beg, turning to face him. “How, when nothing is certain and everything is thrumming with this hint of danger and fuck, I just-” You ramble on.

Jimin presses a single finger to your lips, hand sliding to cup your jaw. His eyes meet yours, onyx embers glowing bright with feeling. “You beautiful, silly girl.”

You draw back. “What?”

“My dear, you are the most capable person that I have ever met. You are courageous and determined and god forbid anything stand in your way, because you will crush those who speak out against you to dust. You have a soul that sings a song of fire, but that doesn’t mean you are consumed by it.” His thumb traces the apple of your cheek. “You are wonderful in your own way; you’re so genuinely good and I truly have no idea how I ended up in your boat as first-years on the way to the castle for the first time, but I am so glad that I did. It was the best choice I have ever made.” He emphasizes these things with a tenderness known to you, you alone, and with that the winged thing in your chest breaks free, the shackles on her wings shed in a flurry of movement.

“In a thousand universes, I will find you,” Jimin promises, the rawness of his words building brick after brick of reassurance. “In ten thousand stories, I will trip and fall into your timeline and stay by your side before I’m undoubtedly killed off in some majestic, knightly way. Change, war, whatever you want to call it- it will not tear you apart even if it tears us apart. The world does not deserve a soul like yours, breadcrumb, and she will be reluctant to let you slip the bonds of earth. She knows you’re a fighter; she sees that in you-” he wipes a tear from your cheek, spilling wet and hot. “-and she will not give up on you, even if you give up on yourself.”

“Jimin,” you choke, hands cupping his face. You say his name once, twice, over and over till it fades to a whisper on your lips. He’s crying too, you think, with the sheer honesty of it all; the threads of change are woven indeterminably, unchangingly, and there is nothing you can do to unravel the ethereal blanket.

Change, war, whatever you want to call it, is coming.

But things will be okay.

You pull him closer, arms linked around the back of his neck, and he pulls you onto his lap, a girl with a soul that sings of fire and a heart that burns with the warmth of coals.

Inhale.

Exhale.

A barn owl, perched atop the roof of the tower, hoots a low cry, and it echoes through the dark, ringing atop hill and treetop to settle on Hogwarts’ Great Lake, where a single leaf swirls atop a slow-moving current, the stem rippling the surface of the water.

#bts #jimin #bts fluff #bts angst #kpop fluff #kpop angst #jimin fluff #jimin angst #jimin x reader #jimin x you #bts hogwarts au #drabble #outroshooky

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elisaenglish · 4 years

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How We Grieve: Meghan O’Rourke on the Messiness of Mourning and Learning to Live with Loss

“The people we most love do become a physical part of us, ingrained in our synapses, in the pathways where memories are created.”

John Updike wrote in his memoir, “Each day, we wake slightly altered, and the person we were yesterday is dead. So why, one could say, be afraid of death, when death comes all the time?” And yet even if we were to somehow make peace with our own mortality, a primal and soul-shattering fear rips through whenever we think about losing those we love most dearly — a fear that metastasises into all-consuming grief when loss does come. In The Long Goodbye (public library), her magnificent memoir of grieving her mother’s death, Meghan O’Rourke crafts a masterwork of remembrance and reflection woven of extraordinary emotional intelligence. A poet, essayist, literary critic, and one of the youngest editors the New Yorker has ever had, she tells a story that is deeply personal in its details yet richly resonant in its larger humanity, making tangible the messy and often ineffable complexities that anyone who has ever lost a loved one knows all too intimately, all too anguishingly. What makes her writing — her mind, really — particularly enchanting is that she brings to this paralysingly difficult subject a poet’s emotional precision, an essayist’s intellectual expansiveness, and a voracious reader’s gift for apt, exquisitely placed allusions to such luminaries of language and life as Whitman, Longfellow, Tennyson, Swift, and Dickinson (“the supreme poet of grief”).

O’Rourke writes:

“When we are learning the world, we know things we cannot say how we know. When we are relearning the world in the aftermath of a loss, we feel things we had almost forgotten, old things, beneath the seat of reason.

[…]

Nothing prepared me for the loss of my mother. Even knowing that she would die did not prepare me. A mother, after all, is your entry into the world. She is the shell in which you divide and become a life. Waking up in a world without her is like waking up in a world without sky: unimaginable.

[…]

When we talk about love, we go back to the start, to pinpoint the moment of free fall. But this story is the story of an ending, of death, and it has no beginning. A mother is beyond any notion of a beginning. That’s what makes her a mother: you cannot start the story.”

In the days following her mother’s death, as O’Rourke faces the loneliness she anticipated and the sense of being lost that engulfed her unawares, she contemplates the paradoxes of loss: Ours is a culture that treats grief — a process of profound emotional upheaval — with a grotesquely mismatched rational prescription. On the one hand, society seems to operate by a set of unspoken shoulds for how we ought to feel and behave in the face of sorrow; on the other, she observes, “we have so few rituals for observing and externalising loss.” Without a coping strategy, she finds herself shutting down emotionally and going “dead inside” — a feeling psychologists call “numbing out” — and describes the disconnect between her intellectual awareness of sadness and its inaccessible emotional manifestation:

“It was like when you stay in cold water too long. You know something is off but don’t start shivering for ten minutes.”

But at least as harrowing as the aftermath of loss is the anticipatory bereavement in the months and weeks and days leading up to the inevitable — a particularly cruel reality of terminal cancer. O’Rourke writes:

“So much of dealing with a disease is waiting. Waiting for appointments, for tests, for “procedures.” And waiting, more broadly, for it—for the thing itself, for the other shoe to drop.”

The hallmark of this anticipatory loss seems to be a tapestry of inner contradictions. O’Rourke notes with exquisite self-awareness her resentment for the mundanity of it all — there is her mother, sipping soda in front of the TV on one of those final days — coupled with weighty, crushing compassion for the sacred humanity of death:

“Time doesn’t obey our commands. You cannot make it holy just because it is disappearing.”

Then there was the question of the body — the object of so much social and personal anxiety in real life, suddenly stripped of control in the surreal experience of impending death. Reflecting on the initially disorienting experience of helping her mother on and off the toilet and how quickly it became normalised, O’Rourke writes:

“It was what she had done for us, back before we became private and civilised about our bodies. In some ways I liked it. A level of anxiety about the body had been stripped away, and we were left with the simple reality: Here it was.

I heard a lot about the idea of dying “with dignity” while my mother was sick. It was only near her very end that I gave much thought to what this idea meant. I didn’t actually feel it was undignified for my mother’s body to fail — that was the human condition. Having to help my mother on and off the toilet was difficult, but it was natural. The real indignity, it seemed, was dying where no one cared for you the way your family did, dying where it was hard for your whole family to be with you and where excessive measures might be taken to keep you alive past a moment that called for letting go. I didn’t want that for my mother. I wanted her to be able to go home. I didn’t want to pretend she wasn’t going to die.”

Among the most painful realities of witnessing death — one particularly exasperating for type-A personalities — is how swiftly it severs the direct correlation between effort and outcome around which we build our lives. Though the notion might seem rational on the surface — especially in a culture that fetishises work ethic and “grit” as the key to success — an underbelly of magical thinking lurks beneath, which comes to light as we behold the helplessness and injustice of premature death. Noting that “the mourner’s mind is superstitious, looking for signs and wonders,” O’Rourke captures this paradox:

“One of the ideas I’ve clung to most of my life is that if I just try hard enough it will work out. If I work hard, I will be spared, and I will get what I desire, finding the cave opening over and over again, thieving life from the abyss. This sturdy belief system has a sidecar in which superstition rides. Until recently, I half believed that if a certain song came on the radio just as I thought of it, it meant that all would be well. What did I mean? I preferred not to answer that question. To look too closely was to prick the balloon of possibility.”

But our very capacity for the irrational — for the magic of magical thinking — also turns out to be essential for our spiritual survival. Without the capacity to discern from life’s senseless sound a meaningful melody, we would be consumed by the noise. In fact, one of O’Rourke’s most poetic passages recounts her struggle to find a transcendent meaning on an average day, amid the average hospital noises:

“I could hear the coughing man whose family talked about sports and sitcoms every time they visited, sitting politely around his bed as if you couldn’t see the death knobs that were his knees poking through the blanket, but as they left they would hug him and say, We love you, and We’ll be back soon, and in their voices and in mine and in the nurse who was so gentle with my mother, tucking cool white sheets over her with a twist of her wrist, I could hear love, love that sounded like a rope, and I began to see a flickering electric current everywhere I looked as I went up and down the halls, flagging nurses, little flecks of light dotting the air in sinewy lines, and I leaned on these lines like guy ropes when I was so tired I couldn’t walk anymore and a voice in my head said: Do you see this love? And do you still not believe?

I couldn’t deny the voice.

Now I think: That was exhaustion.

But at the time the love, the love, it was like ropes around me, cables that could carry us up into the higher floors away from our predicament and out onto the roof and across the empty spaces above the hospital to the sky where we could gaze down upon all the people driving, eating, having sex, watching TV, angry people, tired people, happy people, all doing, all being—”

In the weeks following her mother’s death, melancholy — “the black sorrow, bilious, angry, a slick in my chest” — comes coupled with another intense emotion, a parallel longing for a different branch of that-which-no-longer-is:

“I experienced an acute nostalgia. This longing for a lost time was so intense I thought it might split me in two, like a tree hit by lightning. I was — as the expression goes — flooded by memories. It was a submersion in the past that threatened to overwhelm any “rational” experience of the present, water coming up around my branches, rising higher. I did not care much about work I had to do. I was consumed by memories of seemingly trivial things.”

But the embodied presence of the loss is far from trivial. O’Rourke, citing a psychiatrist whose words had stayed with her, captures it with harrowing precision:

“The people we most love do become a physical part of us, ingrained in our synapses, in the pathways where memories are created.”

In another breathtaking passage, O’Rourke conveys the largeness of grief as it emanates out of our pores and into the world that surrounds us:

“In February, there was a two-day snowstorm in New York. For hours I lay on my couch, reading, watching the snow drift down through the large elm outside… the sky going gray, then eerie violet, the night breaking around us, snow like flakes of ash. A white mantle covered trees, cars, lintels, and windows. It was like one of grief’s moods: melancholic; estranged from the normal; in touch with the longing that reminds us that we are being-toward-death, as Heidegger puts it. Loss is our atmosphere; we, like the snow, are always falling toward the ground, and most of the time we forget it.”

Because grief seeps into the external world as the inner experience bleeds into the outer, it’s understandable — it’s hopelessly human — that we’d also project the very object of our grief onto the external world. One of the most common experiences, O’Rourke notes, is for the grieving to try to bring back the dead — not literally, but by seeing, seeking, signs of them in the landscape of life, symbolism in the everyday. The mind, after all, is a pattern-recognition machine and when the mind’s eye is as heavily clouded with a particular object as it is when we grieve a loved one, we begin to manufacture patterns. Recounting a day when she found inside a library book handwriting that seemed to be her mother’s, O’Rourke writes:

“The idea that the dead might not be utterly gone has an irresistible magnetism. I’d read something that described what I had been experiencing. Many people go through what psychologists call a period of “animism,” in which you see the dead person in objects and animals around you, and you construct your false reality, the reality where she is just hiding, or absent. This was the mourner’s secret position, it seemed to me: I have to say this person is dead, but I don’t have to believe it.

[…]

Acceptance isn’t necessarily something you can choose off a menu, like eggs instead of French toast. Instead, researchers now think that some people are inherently primed to accept their own death with “integrity” (their word, not mine), while others are primed for “despair.” Most of us, though, are somewhere in the middle, and one question researchers are now focusing on is: How might more of those in the middle learn to accept their deaths? The answer has real consequences for both the dying and the bereaved.”

O’Rourke considers the psychology and physiology of grief:

“When you lose someone you were close to, you have to reassess your picture of the world and your place in it. The more your identity is wrapped up with the deceased, the more difficult the mental work.

The first systematic survey of grief, I read, was conducted by Erich Lindemann. Having studied 101 people, many of them related to the victims of the Cocoanut Grove fire of 1942, he defined grief as “sensations of somatic distress occurring in waves lasting from twenty minutes to an hour at a time, a feeling of tightness in the throat, choking with shortness of breath, need for sighing, and an empty feeling in the abdomen, lack of muscular power, and an intensive subjective distress described as tension or mental pain.”

Tracing the history of studying grief, including Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’s famous and often criticised 1969 “stage theory” outlining a simple sequence of Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance, O’Rourke notes that most people experience grief not as sequential stages but as ebbing and flowing states that recur at various points throughout the process. She writes:

“Researchers now believe there are two kinds of grief: “normal grief” and “complicated grief” (also called “prolonged grief”). “Normal grief” is a term for what most bereaved people experience. It peaks within the first six months and then begins to dissipate. “Complicated grief” does not, and often requires medication or therapy. But even “normal grief”… is hardly gentle. Its symptoms include insomnia or other sleep disorders, difficulty breathing, auditory or visual hallucinations, appetite problems, and dryness of mouth.”

One of the most persistent psychiatric ideas about grief, O’Rourke notes, is the notion that one ought to “let go” in order to “move on” — a proposition plentiful even in the casual advice of her friends in the weeks following her mother’s death. And yet it isn’t necessarily the right coping strategy for everyone, let alone the only one, as our culture seems to suggest. Unwilling to “let go,” O’Rourke finds solace in anthropological alternatives:

“Studies have shown that some mourners hold on to a relationship with the deceased with no notable ill effects. In China, for instance, mourners regularly speak to dead ancestors, and one study demonstrated that the bereaved there “recovered more quickly from loss” than bereaved Americans do.

I wasn’t living in China, though, and in those weeks after my mother’s death, I felt that the world expected me to absorb the loss and move forward, like some kind of emotional warrior. One night I heard a character on 24—the president of the United States—announce that grief was a “luxury” she couldn’t “afford right now.” This model represents an old American ethic of muscling through pain by throwing yourself into work; embedded in it is a desire to avoid looking at death. We’ve adopted a sort of “Ask, don’t tell” policy. The question “How are you?” is an expression of concern, but as my dad had said, the mourner quickly figures out that it shouldn’t always be taken for an actual inquiry… A mourner’s experience of time isn’t like everyone else’s. Grief that lasts longer than a few weeks may look like self-indulgence to those around you. But if you’re in mourning, three months seems like nothing — [according to some] research, three months might well find you approaching the height of sorrow.”

Another Western hegemony in the culture of grief, O’Rourke notes, is its privatisation — the unspoken rule that mourning is something we do in the privacy of our inner lives, alone, away from the public eye. Though for centuries private grief was externalised as public mourning, modernity has left us bereft of rituals to help us deal with our grief:

“The disappearance of mourning rituals affects everyone, not just the mourner. One of the reasons many people are unsure about how to act around a loss is that they lack rules or meaningful conventions, and they fear making a mistake. Rituals used to help the community by giving everyone a sense of what to do or say. Now, we’re at sea.

[…]

Such rituals… aren’t just about the individual; they are about the community.”

Craving “a formalisation of grief, one that might externalise it,” O’Rourke plunges into the existing literature:

“The British anthropologist Geoffrey Gorer, the author of Death, Grief, and Mourning, argues that, at least in Britain, the First World War played a huge role in changing the way people mourned. Communities were so overwhelmed by the sheer number of dead that the practice of ritualised mourning for the individual eroded. Other changes were less obvious but no less important. More people, including women, began working outside the home; in the absence of caretakers, death increasingly took place in the quarantining swaddle of the hospital. The rise of psychoanalysis shifted attention from the communal to the individual experience. In 1917, only two years after Émile Durkheim wrote about mourning as an essential social process, Freud’s “Mourning and Melancholia” defined it as something essentially private and individual, internalising the work of mourning. Within a few generations, I read, the experience of grief had fundamentally changed. Death and mourning had been largely removed from the public realm. By the 1960s, Gorer could write that many people believed that “sensible, rational men and women can keep their mourning under complete control by strength of will and character, so that it need be given no public expression, and indulged, if at all, in private, as furtively as... masturbation.” Today, our only public mourning takes the form of watching the funerals of celebrities and statesmen. It’s common to mock such grief as false or voyeuristic (“crocodile tears,” one commentator called mourners’ distress at Princess Diana’s funeral), and yet it serves an important social function. It’s a more mediated version, Leader suggests, of a practice that goes all the way back to soldiers in The Iliad mourning with Achilles for the fallen Patroclus.

I found myself nodding in recognition at Gorer’s conclusions. “If mourning is denied outlet, the result will be suffering,” Gorer wrote. “At the moment our society is signally failing to give this support and assistance... The cost of this failure in misery, loneliness, despair and maladaptive behaviour is very high.” Maybe it’s not a coincidence that in Western countries with fewer mourning rituals, the bereaved report more physical ailments in the year following a death.”

Finding solace in Marilynne Robinson’s beautiful meditation on our humanity, O’Rourke returns to her own journey:

“The otherworldliness of loss was so intense that at times I had to believe it was a singular passage, a privilege of some kind, even if all it left me with was a clearer grasp of our human predicament. It was why I kept finding myself drawn to the remote desert: I wanted to be reminded of how the numinous impinges on ordinary life.”

Reflecting on her struggle to accept her mother’s loss — her absence, “an absence that becomes a presence” — O’Rourke writes:

“If children learn through exposure to new experiences, mourners unlearn through exposure to absence in new contexts. Grief requires acquainting yourself with the world again and again; each “first” causes a break that must be reset… And so you always feel suspense, a queer dread—you never know what occasion will break the loss freshly open.”

She later adds:

“After a loss, you have to learn to believe the dead one is dead. It doesn’t come naturally.”

Among the most chilling effects of grief is how it reorients us toward ourselves as it surfaces our mortality paradox and the dawning awareness of our own impermanence. O’Rourke’s words ring with the profound discomfort of our shared existential bind:

“The dread of death is so primal, it overtakes me on a molecular level. In the lowest moments, it produces nihilism. If I am going to die, why not get it over with? Why live in this agony of anticipation?

[…]

I was unable to push these questions aside: What are we to do with the knowledge that we die? What bargain do you make in your mind so as not to go crazy with fear of the predicament, a predicament none of us knowingly chose to enter? You can believe in God and heaven, if you have the capacity for faith. Or, if you don’t, you can do what a stoic like Seneca did, and push away the awfulness by noting that if death is indeed extinction, it won’t hurt, for we won’t experience it. “It would be dreadful could it remain with you; but of necessity either it does not arrive or else it departs,” he wrote.

If this logic fails to comfort, you can decide, as Plato and Jonathan Swift did, that since death is natural, and the gods must exist, it cannot be a bad thing. As Swift said, “It is impossible that anything so natural, so necessary, and so universal as death, should ever have been designed by Providence as an evil to mankind.” And Socrates: “I am quite ready to admit… that I ought to be grieved at death, if I were not persuaded in the first place that I am going to other gods who are wise and good.” But this is poor comfort to those of us who have no gods to turn to. If you love this world, how can you look forward to departing it? Rousseau wrote, “He who pretends to look on death without fear lies. All men are afraid of dying, this is the great law of sentient beings, without which the entire human species would soon be destroyed.”

And yet, O’Rourke arrives at the same conclusion that Alan Lightman did in his sublime meditation on our longing for permanence as she writes:

“Without death our lives would lose their shape: “Death is the mother of beauty,” Wallace Stevens wrote. Or as a character in Don DeLillo’s White Noise says, “I think it’s a mistake to lose one’s sense of death, even one’s fear of death. Isn’t death the boundary we need?” It’s not clear that DeLillo means us to agree, but I think I do. I love the world more because it is transient.

[…]

One would think that living so proximately to the provisional would ruin life, and at times it did make it hard. But at other times I experienced the world with less fear and more clarity. It didn’t matter if I was in line for an extra two minutes. I could take in the sensations of colour, sound, life. How strange that we should live on this planet and make cereal boxes, and shopping carts, and gum! That we should renovate stately old banks and replace them with Trader Joe’s! We were ants in a sugar bowl, and one day the bowl would empty.”

This awareness of our transience, our minuteness, and the paradoxical enlargement of our aliveness that it produces seems to be the sole solace from grief’s grip, though we all arrive at it differently. O’Rourke’s father approached it from another angle. Recounting a conversation with him one autumn night — one can’t help but notice the beautiful, if inadvertent, echo of Carl Sagan’s memorable words — O’Rourke writes:

“The Perseid meteor showers are here,” he told me. “And I’ve been eating dinner outside and then lying in the lounge chairs watching the stars like your mother and I used to” — at some point he stopped calling her Mom — “and that helps. It might sound strange, but I was sitting there, looking up at the sky, and I thought, ‘You are but a mote of dust. And your troubles and travails are just a mote of a mote of dust.’ And it helped me. I have allowed myself to think about things I had been scared to think about and feel. And it allowed me to be there — to be present. Whatever my life is, whatever my loss is, it’s small in the face of all that existence… The meteor shower changed something. I was looking the other way through a telescope before: I was just looking at what was not there. Now I look at what is there.”

O’Rourke goes on to reflect on this ground-shifting quality of loss:

“It’s not a question of getting over it or healing. No; it’s a question of learning to live with this transformation. For the loss is transformative, in good ways and bad, a tangle of change that cannot be threaded into the usual narrative spools. It is too central for that. It’s not an emergence from the cocoon, but a tree growing around an obstruction.”

In one of the most beautiful passages in the book, O’Rourke captures the spiritual sensemaking of death in an anecdote that calls to mind Alan Lightman’s account of a “transcendent experience” and Alan Watt’s consolation in the oneness of the universe. She writes:

“Before we scattered the ashes, I had an eerie experience. I went for a short run. I hate running in the cold, but after so much time indoors in the dead of winter I was filled with exuberance. I ran lightly through the stripped, bare woods, past my favourite house, poised on a high hill, and turned back, flying up the road, turning left. In the last stretch I picked up the pace, the air crisp, and I felt myself float up off the ground. The world became greenish. The brightness of the snow and the trees intensified. I was almost giddy. Behind the bright flat horizon of the treescape, I understood, were worlds beyond our everyday perceptions. My mother was out there, inaccessible to me, but indelible. The blood moved along my veins and the snow and trees shimmered in greenish light. Suffused with joy, I stopped stock-still in the road, feeling like a player in a drama I didn’t understand and didn’t need to. Then I sprinted up the driveway and opened the door and as the heat rushed out the clarity dropped away.

I’d had an intuition like this once before, as a child in Vermont. I was walking from the house to open the gate to the driveway. It was fall. As I put my hand on the gate, the world went ablaze, as bright as the autumn leaves, and I lifted out of myself and understood that I was part of a magnificent book. What I knew as “life” was a thin version of something larger, the pages of which had all been written. What I would do, how I would live — it was already known. I stood there with a kind of peace humming in my blood.”

A non-believer who had prayed for the first time in her life when her mother died, O’Rourke quotes Virginia Woolf’s luminous meditation on the spirit and writes:

“This is the closest description I have ever come across to what I feel to be my experience. I suspect a pattern behind the wool, even the wool of grief; the pattern may not lead to heaven or the survival of my consciousness — frankly I don’t think it does — but that it is there somehow in our neurons and synapses is evident to me. We are not transparent to ourselves. Our longings are like thick curtains stirring in the wind. We give them names. What I do not know is this: Does that otherness — that sense of an impossibly real universe larger than our ability to understand it — mean that there is meaning around us?

[…]

I have learned a lot about how humans think about death. But it hasn’t necessarily taught me more about my dead, where she is, what she is. When I held her body in my hands and it was just black ash, I felt no connection to it, but I tell myself perhaps it is enough to still be matter, to go into the ground and be “remixed” into some new part of the living culture, a new organic matter. Perhaps there is some solace in this continued existence.

[…]

I think about my mother every day, but not as concertedly as I used to. She crosses my mind like a spring cardinal that flies past the edge of your eye: startling, luminous, lovely, gone.”

The Long Goodbye is a remarkable read in its entirety — the kind that speaks with gentle crispness to the parts of us we protect most fiercely yet long to awaken most desperately. Complement it with Alan Lightman in finding solace in our impermanence and Tolstoy on finding meaning in a meaningless world.

Source: Maria Popova, brainpickings.org (9th June 2014)

#quote #women writers #love #life #loss #grief #existential musings #all eternal things #love in a time of...#the places you have come to fear the most #the same deep water as you #laid bare #intelligence quotients #depth perception #melancholy skies #this is how it feels #stands on its own #elisa english #elisaenglish

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stephenkohlbear · 5 years

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The Assistant And The Comedian

Genre: fluff, slight angst if you squint

Word Count: 1,812

Summary: you're Stephen's assistant and it's the first day of the Late Show. Before the show, the two of you share a tender moment, but Stephen has trouble coming to terms with his feelings.

Being Stephen Colbert's assistant was both tiring and sort of fun. For most parts, you can get anything from other people in the blink of an eye just by mentioning his name. Paperwork can get done and filed with ease, But just because your work-life was easy, didn’t mean that your personal life was any different.

Your boyfriend, Robert, viewed your job as an inconvenience. He couldn't comprehend how you were able to "tolerate an idiot like Colbert." He brought it up every chance he could, making you feel guilty about your job. The last argument you'd had resulted in him admitting his jealousy.

He scoffed, "I mean seriously, Y/N, he's so full of himself, for goodness sake, he has a building with his own name on it!"

"You have absolutely no idea what he's like, Robert!" You hastily continued to shove your clothes into a bag.

"Of course I do! I go with you to every one of those damn parties he throws! The man is such an asshole," he threw his hands up, "everything he does, he does to spite me. All the dinners, parties, and late nights. Who the hell needs to work late to discuss guest appearances!"

You abruptly stopped your shoving. "Are you suggesting I'm sleeping with my boss?"

"Yes," he snapped, "I am."

You sighed heavily, "Can anyone tell me where Stephen is?"

Today was the beginning of a new chapter in Stephen's life, and everyone who worked for him. After 5 months of being off the air, he was returning to TV as the host of The Late Show.

Of course, you were thrilled for what lie ahead, yet you worried about how the public would view Stephen. For the first time in ten years he wouldn't be behind the mask he'd always worn. He'd be himself, the real Stephen Colbert, the one you've always known.

Paul walked by, a mic and props in his hands, "Check his office."

You listened to him and made your way to Stephen's office, only to find him sitting at his desk.

"Stephen,"

He raised his hands in defense, "I know, I know," he sighed, "I'll be out in a minute," he stood up to walk over to the window, admiring the cars below, "just first day jitters."

You set the papers in your hands down on to his desk before walking over to where he stood. You stood so closely that both your shoes touched, like they always did. You and Stephen had been like this for years.

Neither of you minded your bodies accidentally brushing against each other; you barely dodged him anymore when it happened.

You didn’t mind the occasional touch on the shoulder, on the arm, on a thigh even. You would lean over and dab a runaway drop of sauce off each other one’s face and think nothing of it.

You hugged to celebrate. You hugged to console. Sometimes you just hugged for the hell of it. The concept of personal space was almost entirely lost to the two of you.

Everything felt heavy, weighed down by the tension in the small office. Stephen glanced down at you. Never before did you feel this feeling that was currently rising in your chest.

There was just something different about Stephen that you couldn’t quite place. Perhaps it was his sharp and elegant appearance that had you at a loss of words. Possibly his grin, or even those dark brown and beautiful eyes of his.

The glass windows showcased both your figures, standing inches apart from each other. Stephen loved moments like these. He loved admiring you, even if you weren't interested in him, he cherished you, he always had.

He was in love with you.

He was in love with you and planned to be in love with you for the rest of his life, if you would let him. Stephen had always said there was no greater testament than love itself.

To him, love was in every sense of the word to offer his entire heart and place it on someone's bare hands, in this case your hands, despite knowing that you might crush it before his very eyes.

Your eyes sparkled in the night as the street lights from below hit them. He noticed all the things you didn’t, all the things you couldn’t.

He hesitantly opened his mouth to speak, "Oh thank God! Stephen where have you been?" The moment was interrupted by Paul, "we need you in hair and makeup for touch ups, we have an hour until show time."

Stephen brought his right hand to his temples, rubbing them dubiously, "Paul, please I'll be right there, just give me a second," he stared at his best friend, a hint of annoyance in his eyes.

He seemed to have gotten the message and quickly exited the room, "alright, alright." The door shut softly.

Stephen turned to you again, smiling weakly, "I was going to say something," his smile faded," but it looks like I don't have much time." He glanced at his watch

Your eyes fell to the floor, "it's okay."

Stephen brought a finger to your chin, slowly lifting it, "Could my lovely assistant help me with my tie before I leave?" He's almost shy, speaking with an air of delicacy.

“Anything for my favorite comedian,” you jest, moving to fiddle with the black silk, “Windsor knot?”

"Y/N you know me all too well."

The moment is quiet, and you take your time to make the knot even and clean, your fingertips grazing the hot skin of his neck as you flip up his collar. His aftershave is heavy, dark and very Stephen. You find yourself feeling a little small under his gaze, as it burns into you.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Stephen says, his voice lilting with something sweet, “just admiring the view.”

You laugh, your current choice of clothing was nothing to swoon over. You'd chosen a plain pearl dress shirt, black dress pants, all to be topped off with a pair of Vans. Needless to say you were a mess.

Stephen’s eyes widen, and his lips part, confusion flashing through his eyes as he glances at you, “Hey!” He pouts, brows furrowing. "You're breathtaking.”

You avoided eye contact as you laid his tie down, flattening it. "Thank you, Y/N." You nod.

You can't see it, but he smiles tenderly, wishing he had the courage to admit his feelings, to say what he'd been dying to say since he'd hired you.

You smile, looking up at Stephen’s pretty visage. His office light casts a dim shadow on his face that insinuates his long, model-like eyelashes, showing the faint redness in his cheeks.

He holds back smiling like the fool he is. Admittedly, he is a hopeless romantic at heart, although the pursuit of pure heartbreak looms over him, almost taunting him.

You brought him back down to earth, when everything feels as if falling apart or moving too far away. One look at you, and his breathing was steady. His heart rate picks up a bit, and his hands are clammy. Not because he’s scared, but because you make him nervous.

You touch his soul so deeply, to the point where he is completely, and utterly vulnerable to your grasp.

He loved the conversations you two had late at night, as you both forced your eyes to stay open a little bit longer. They were energy-filled with debates about love, adoration, knowledge, truths, and so much more. He wanted more of it, more of you.

As he stands there, in the moment, admiring you as stand before him, he wishes he wasn't so terrified of loving you. Given his past relationships, forming a fresh new ache and vulnerability, for yet another person frightens the fuck out of him.

"Y/N," he breathes heavily, "thank you, for everything," he leans down to place a gentle kiss on your cheek, "I'll see you after the show." He exits the room, leaving you alone in his office.

"That's a wrap everyone! Thank you all so much for a great first show," Stephen raises his glass, "and here's to many more!"

The entire staff is smiling and cheering, yourself included, at Stephen, who currently stood on the roof of the theater. The after party was in full swing.

After his toast, everyone went back to partying, which left Stephen to himself. Stephen bobs his head and chews at his lip. His smile is anxious, despite the elated, conspiratorial expressions on everyone else. They’re all too distracted by their own excitement to notice that the man who gave it to them isn’t all there.

He's too distracted by the thought of you.

Hastily he jumped off the roof, and on to the floor, not acknowledging your presence. You cleared your throat, hoping he'd hear you over the noise currently being emitted from the partygoers.

"Hey," he beamed, "I missed you." You blush at his comment, still flustered by the kiss from earlier.

Slowly he makes his way to you, “Can I have this dance, Y/N?” He holds his hand out to you, kneeling in front of you as if you are royalty. You play along and give your best royal accent.

“Of course.” You place your left hand softly in his right, his eyes glisten under the light, making you smile. He pulls you closer to him, one arm securely around your waist, while your arm rests on his shoulder, playing the curls at the nape of his neck.

You both swayed to the rhythm of the music, completely ignoring the fact that some of the staff was watching. In this second, in this minute, it didn’t matter.

As you dance, time felt slow. Together, you danced to the music, feet in perfect sync to the beating of your heart. As the song progressed, you felt relaxed as you let the words of the song tell each other how you feel. You allowed a small smile to form on your lips, and he reciprocates.

His eyes are deep and irresistible, but never leaving yours. He leans in and places a soft kiss on your lips, causing your heartbeat to accelerate.

The warmth between the both of you grows more powerful by the second, as you get more emotional with the song. Your heartbeat was growing steadily along with it.

Stephen decided to let go. Let his worries, his pain, and sorrow go. Right here, right now, he was living. Nothing else seemed to matter anymore, except for you.

You continue to dance until the song ended causing you to fall into his arms for a hug. You feel him kiss the top of your head, with a smile still lingering on his lips.

“Guess what?” He mumbles into your ear, causing you to look up at him.

“What?”

"I love you."

#late show with stephen colbert #stephen colbert #the late show with stephen colbert #lssc #stephen Colbert x reader #late night

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memecucker · 5 years

Text

So I was reading the memoirs of Fumiko Kaneka and its pretty interesting but also the part where she gets into her romance with Pak Yol is like... really cute? Like she already had a crush on him from reading his poetry and kinda cool seeing awkward flirting in the context of East Asian anarcho-nihilists lol

We ate the food as the boy brought it. I was not making much headway with the meal, but Pak ate as if he were ravenous. I wanted to get onto the topic I had come to talk about, but the atmosphere was stiff and it was hard to speak. Finally, however, I made an awkward beginning. “Well, I think you probably heard from Jeong that I wanted to be friends with you.”

“Yes. He did say something about that.” Pak lifted his gaze from his plate and looked at me. Our eyes met. I felt acutely embarrassed, but having reached this point, there was nothing to do but come out with what was on my mind. I went on.

“Well, uhh… I’ll get right to the point. Do you have a wife? Or… well, if not exactly a wife, someone like, say, a lover? Because if you do, I want our relationship to be just one between comrades. Well… do you?”

What a clumsy proposal! What a comical scene! When I think back on it now it makes me blush and want to burst out laughing. But I was dead serious at the time.

“I’m single.”

“I see. Then, what I want to ask you… I hope we can talk absolutely frankly with each other.”

“Of course.”

“Well, then… you see, I’m Japanese. But I think I can say that I’m not prejudiced against Koreans. I wonder though if you have any feelings against me.”

Knowing how Koreans felt about Japanese, I thought that it was necessary to ask this straight off. I was afraid of the emotions that Pak might harbor as a “Korean.

“No. It’s not ordinary people that I hate; it’s the Japanese ruling class. And I even feel a bond with people like you who aren’t prejudiced.”

“Really? Thank you.” I smiled with relief. “But there’s something else I want to ask. Are you working in the nationalist movement? You see, I lived for quite a while in Korea, and I think I understand how the nationalists feel. But I myself am not Korean. I haven’t suffered the kind of oppression by Japan that Koreans have, and I don’t feel I can work in the independence movement with those people. So if you are in the independence movement, I’m sorry, but I can’t work with you.”

‘‘There are points where I sympathize with the independence movement people,” Pak said. “I myself tried to participate in the nationalist movement at one time. But not now.”

“Are you completely opposed to the nationalist movement, then?”

“Not at all. But I have my own way of thinking and my own work to do. I can’t participate in the nationalist front.”

I felt tremendously relieved; there was nothing in the way now. Yet I still did not feel that the moment had come to bring up the main point. We made small talk once again. I sensed more than ever a strength in him, and I felt myself being more and more deeply attracted. At last I broached the subject. “I’ve found what I have been looking for in you. I want to work with you.”

“It’s no good,” Pak said in a chilling tone. “I go on living only because I don’t seem to be able to die.”

It must have been close to eight o’clock by then. We agreed to meet again and asked the boy for the check. It came to three yen.

“I’ll pay. I have some money today,” Pak said as he emptied the outer pockets of his overcoat. They contained three or four Golden Bat cigarettes, a couple of rumpled bills, and seven or eight copper and silver coins. I stopped him.

“No. I’ll pay. I think I’m richer than you are.

” We left the restaurant together.

We saw each other often after that and could speak without any awkwardness. We were at ease because our hearts were one. At last we reached a final understanding. The matter was settled in the upstairs of a small restaurant in Misaki-chō; we finished at around seven o’clock. It was too late for me to go to school and too early to go home, so we strolled beside the dark moat in the direction of Hibiya. The nights were still cold, and we clasped hands in the pocket of Pak’s overcoat, letting our feet take us where they would. There was not a soul in the park. The stillness of the night was broken only by the feeble echo of a distant train; the only light was the silent glistening of the stars in the sky above and the arc lamps on the earth below.

Pak spoke with an uncommon animation. He said that he had been born in a rural area in Gyeong Sang Bug Do. He came from a commoner family that had been peasants for generations, although there had been a number of scholars and persons in high social positions among his forebears. Pak’s father died when he was four years old. His mother was an extremely gentle woman, and the young Pak clung to her to the extent that he could not sleep at night if their legs were not first tied together. Pak went to the village temple school when he was seven and then to the regular school that was built in the village when he was nine. An unusually bright student, he wanted to go on with his studies, but the family’s fortunes declined at that time, and Pak’s older brother decided that Pak would work on the farm. This he did until he was fifteen when, unable to suppress his desire to study, he ran away to Taegu and took the exam for regular high school. He passed with such a high score that his brother gave in and, although it was hard for the family, sent him his school expenses. Pak took correspondence courses from Waseda University from about that time and read works by Japanese writers. His thinking began to move steadily to the left.

It was about that time that he decided to join the independence movement. He quickly realized its falseness, however. As Pak saw it, even if the rulers changed, this would mean little as far as the people were concerned. Then, in the spring of his seventeenth year, he came to Tokyo.

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imagine-loki · 5 years

Text

discovery

TITLE: discovery CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: 5/? AUTHOR: hiddlemediddles ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine being very, very lost in the woods and searching for any sign of life to help you get back to your village..Loki nurses you back to health. From there, a relationship blossoms.. RATING: M NOTES/WARNINGS: Well, the bubble must be popped at some point. I suppose it had to be this chapter! x - The conversation continued to flow between you and Loki. It was only a matter of time before things began to.. deepen. “Do you have any religious beliefs?” You asked him. Loki was taken aback. “Well, I consider myself quite.. open to new possibilities. At present, I’m more of a… theist. What about you?”

“I once considered myself a strong atheist. Now, I’m definitely an agnostic.” “What steered you towards agnosticism?” “When I heard about the alien invasion in New York all those years ago, really. I realised that.. if we didn’t know about all of that, how can we be so sure about anything? There’s an entire universe out there that we know little to nothing about. Well, or so they say. I think that government knows more than they want to admit.” Loki’s mind briefly cut back to New York and its devastation. He forced the memories at bay and looked back into your eyes. “You are right. You are always right.” You were again taken aback by his words. You felt the burning come back to your body. You watched as Loki’s cheeks began to redden. You smiled as he tried to brush off his embarrassment. It was the furthest from embarrassment that you had ever felt. “Can I get you both the pudding menu?” The waitress asked, breaking the contented silence between you. “Yes, please.” Loki said, before you were able to reply. You smirked at him as you thanked the waitress for handing them over. “I don’t believe I have ever tried.. sticky toffee pudding before?” Loki said to himself. “If you are a fan of sweet, sugary and gooey substances, I would highly recommend it.” “Perhaps I will stick to the chocolate fudge cake, then.” “I don’t think I can manage a pudding after that steak.” You said, patting your food baby. Loki huffed out a laugh at your gesture. “Would you.. possibly.. like to share? It would take the weight off an entire pudding.” Loki asked. You gazed at his tentative expression for a few moments longer before nodding your head. “Yes, alright.” After sharing one of the best chocolate fudge cakes you had ever tasted, Loki ended up paying the bill. Yet, unknown to him, you had slipped the money into his blazer pocket when he had not been looking. Loki, being the God of Mischief, realised what you had done just after you had done it. He did not say a thing, rather he would find a way to return the money to you without you even noticing. As you drove along the windy roads of Canada, you and Loki laughed and spoke about everything and nothing. You felt so contented.. so happy. You could only admit to yourself that you wanted him. Wanted him so badly. You wondered if he wanted you. From the way he looked at you, you could only just guess that he may feel a tinge of the same. Was it care for you? Or did the feelings run deeper? All you knew was that once you were both back in the shack, you couldn’t shy away from anything. You could no longer shy away from him. You wanted him to kiss you, to touch you. You wanted to touch him. As you drove along with him, you felt your body primed. It took a great amount of restraint for you to not stop the car then and there to jump into his arms. “Do you think that there is such a thing as fate?” You asked him as you drove along. You wanted to look over and see his reaction to your question, yet your concentration on the road prevented you. “No. Fate is something that people use to explain the bad things that happen to them. It does not mean that everything doesn’t happen for a reason, because I believe it does. I just don’t believe that there is a force which is pulling us towards one path over another.” His words were like honey in your ears. In the distance, you saw a car speeding down the narrow road which you had driven down. There was clearly not enough room for the both of you to drive past one and other. You slowed down, but the car in the distance kept speeding up. You narrowed your eyes. It must have seen you from the lights on your car, surely. As the car neared, Loki turned to you desperately. The only way was for you to drive directly into a bush to avoid it the car crashing into you. You shrieked as you swerved to the side, driving the car straight into the bush. But, before you could blink, a hand had grasped onto your arm and you were gone. Green mist floated around you, the hand still gripping your arm. You were standing upright, no longer sitting in the car. Your eyes widened in disbelief. Were you dead? The only tangible thing was the hand on your arm. As the green mist cleared, you turned to see Loki. He was staring at you in terror, pulling you towards him into an embrace. You escaped his embrace instantly. “Where are we? What did you just do?” You choked out. Loki’s features hardened. “Y/N.. don’t panic, please.” Loki begged. You realised that there was a bush right beside you. You saw two lights glaring from it. The lights of the car. You rushed over to see that the car was crushed in the fence of the bush. The other car was nowhere to be seen. You stared at it for a few moments, unable to fully comprehend any of it. “How.. how did you do that?” You asked, not looking at him. “I will tell you everything. But not here, please.” Loki said, the fear etched clearly in his voice. “You saved us. We would have died.” “Y/N.. you must not fear me. I.. I will not harm you” “You are Loki. The Loki from the legends. How.. how could I not have seen it? So many strange.. occurrences. Things that I couldn’t explain. Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you lie to me?” Loki saw the desolation on your face and he felt the deepest regret that he had not felt since the death of Frigga. “I feared that you would leave me if you knew the truth. The truth of who I am. I.. I did not want to lose you.” You could not deny the genuine fear he had in his voice, yet you couldn’t understand why he could so openly lie to you. “Would you ever have told me?” Loki was silent for a few moments. He was not sure if he would have. “No, of course not. You would have.. you would have kept lying to me. You would have led me on and tricked me.” “No, Y/N. Listen to me, I would have told you everything - ” “Don’t lie to me again.” You said, before turning to walk away from him. You didn’t have a clue where you would go. “Wait, Y/N! Wait!” Loki yelled, before grasping onto your arms and pulling you towards him. “Stay here, wait for me. It’s too dark, too dark for you to go off now. Listen.. listen to what I say for now and then I will allow you to leave me. I will do whatever you want, just trust me for these moments.” His words cut deep in your soul. You felt your heart heaving in your chest. Yet, you listened to him. Loki extended out his hands and the car was levitated from the road onto the field to remove the possibility of another accident occurring. You watched in disbelief as the green mist carried the entire weight of the car into the air and onto the grass. Immediately, Loki was over to you again. He gently held onto your shoulders and stared deeply into your eyes. The green mist returned. This time, however, the field around you both began to disappear and you broke your eye contact to see that you were both in the living room of the shack that you had spent over a week and a half in together. You felt completely numb. Completely numb to the entire situation. You went to sit down to steady yourself, resorting to staring blankly into the dead embers of the fireplace. “I trusted you. I thought I knew you. Everything you have told me about yourself is a lie.” Loki went over to you rapidly, sitting beside you. You shifted away from him, wrapping your arms around your waist tightly. You wanted to scrunch up into a ball and vanish then and there. “You know me more than anyone else in this universe.” “You aren’t even from Norway. You aren’t even human, are you? Not really. You’re.. you’re a god.” “Demi-god, really, but none of that matters, Y/N. I care about you deeply. More deeply than I had ever thought possible.” Loki said earnestly. “You could have told me who you were from the beginning. Why didn’t you?” The words were so.. familiar. Words which dredged themselves up from the inner recesses of his mind. From a time that felt like thousands of years ago. “I feared that if you knew who I was.. what I had done.. you would leave me. I could not risk losing you. Not after we have.. discovered.. each other.” “And what have you done? What have you done that is so.. unspeakable? That you could not bear to tell me?” You said, raising your eyes to meet his. You felt sadness envelop your form as you saw into those eyes, once so vibrant and laughing. Now, they were completely desolate. Barren of any jubilant emotion. “I will show you everything. From the beginning until the end.” Loki said to you. You narrowed your eyes at him in confusion. You felt Loki lift up your hand. So gentle.. so caring. It had to be now that you were both properly holding hands. Even now, after this revelation, his touch sent a fire in its wake. He raised your hand and placed the palm on the front of his forehead. “Close your eyes.” Loki said gently. You did not even know if you could trust him, but you complied to him nevertheless. Suddenly, your mind was thrown into the past.

#Loki #Lover #Submitted fic #submission #chapter 5 #hiddlemediddles #discovery

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silentkept · 5 years

Text

i've loved, i've laughed and cried i've had my fill, my share of losing and now, as tears subside, i find it all so amusing to think i did all that and may i say, not in a shy way oh no, oh no, not me, I DID IT MY WAY.

» ▌║██ / * ◜ ACT I.

no matter how much she tried to convince herself of it, there was something about the peace treaty that didn’t sit well with grace sheridan. something inexplicable was so deeply ingrained into the gravity of her being that it prohibited her from basking in the peace she so desperately sought out for. perhaps it was the smothered face of cynicism hidden beneath the outweighing notion of hope that finally bared it’s ugly teeth, poisoning her frame with mistrust and paranoia towards their newly discovered friends with each sinking bite of her heart. unable to answer her own question as to why she couldn’t accept the treaty with open arms, grace decided she was the root of the problem. something had to be wrong with her, so terribly terribly wrong for wanting to pick apart the peace that brought enemies together like century old friends.

savages and cobras were forging kins out of love and friendship, they were as close as they ever had been in the history of ever. the new year’s party should have been proof that everything was sound between the two gangs, proof that there were no underlying plans of desecration or imminent deaths in the near future. goodness.. they were all on the same page now, and as long as the treaty stood, everything would continue to shine on like a dazzling star in the night sky. grace left the new year’s party early that night, the facade of smiles and camaraderies only serving to spike her anxiety up. it took many days for her to come around the treaty, but the idea slowly became prettier the more she entertained it. dreamt of it even. the rivalry between cobras and savages was no more, the reigns of death and destruction gone.

» ▌║██ / * ◜ ACT II.

a week had quickly passed her by since the treaty, it was resting somewhere between mistrust and bliss. the night everyone in town was raging on about, grace sheridan smiled again. truly wholly smiled in nothing but acceptance for the peace that proved itself to be true. the eerie feeling that gnawed at her ankles faded away like a whisper lost in the wind, and now all she felt was unadulterated joy inside of her bones. it took her a moment too long, but grace finally felt safe in her own home, in the streets of her beloved town, around the people inhabiting it.. she wore her cobra insignia with even more of a luster of pride because now it didn’t matter, there was nothing to be afraid of anymore. no judgement, no hatred, no worries. the songstress went to the casino that night, all on her own, because she wanted to be with everyone as a collective group. one big happy family. she wanted to make amends with the savages she swore to hate, wanted to be a regular person with not a single worry in the world.

the happiness that veiled over the heart of valdez, however, was never truly promised. it never really was. when the clock peering over the casino welcomed everyone into a brand new hour, it was like something else flipped in the eyes of the savages. the castle of peace everyone so happily dwelled in came crashing down like a frail house of cards, it crushed all of those who were foolish enough to believe, it exterminated anyone who dared get in the way. it wrung the cobras by the neck until there was no light anymore. like the flame naturally burns, the night transcended into absolute madness. the booming sound of gunshots piercing through flesh and bone quickly replaced the happy screams of triumph over a win, the convivial chittering was replaced with the clatters of destruction. evil was too kind a word to describe the carnage plaguing the building, too soft for something as conniving as what the savages had executed.

» ▌║██ / * ◜ ACT III.

she watched with helpless fear as the world burned down around her. each turn of her head caught sight of someone dying, one life escaping after the next. all she felt was this impossible sense of numbness at her feet, her breathing spiraling out of control. then finally, those instincts to survive kicked in. even though the peace treaty fell through like she felt it would deep down, grace refused to be dragged down as well. with extra care to the noise and sights going on around her, she kept herself hidden in the mess that was unfolding at every crevice before making a run for the exit. she ran past the corpses and decay, didn’t dare linger for too long, until a familiar sight caught her attention. it was her beloved pianist laying in a puddle of his own blood, a knife lodged so deeply into his throat it came out the back of his neck. his empty stare, normally filled with such pride and adoration, burned holes into the ceiling above them, it burned holes into the windows of her soul until she broke into a million little pieces. everything was a nightmare until she saw him.

everything became a reality when a burning sensation spread across the curve of her shoulder, a single bullet fired with intent to kill just barely missed. a body soon crashed straight into her own, making her lose all the air in her lungs under their overwhelming weight. “—n-no, —NO!” grace cried, the raw emotion in her pitiful screams neglected in the mayhem that was unwinding before them. the lion’s head tattoo peered down at her with pure wickedness as she quickly began to thrash about, the scorching pain in her arm long forgotten and replaced with a lightning strike of adrenaline. all the man did was laugh at her poor attempts of escape, of harming him, as a sadistic smile carved into his bloodstained features. a swift punch was delivered to her nose, another to her mouth, another to her cheek. “go to sleep, baby.” he whispered lovingly, the gentle caresses he swept across her features worshipping the blood on her face before he finally went in for the kill.

his fingers coiled around her throat like a viper would around it’s prey, his black venomous eyes were filled with nothing but adoration for the shattered little songbird under his control. he coiled tighter and tighter until she went pale, her shoulders were forced upwards, chin pressed down. grace kicked her feet, her nails dug into the flesh of his face until everything slowly began to grow foggy.. when she was younger, before the savages and the cobras came into the picture, grace always envisioned her death would be peaceful. she thought she would die in the arms of a loved one, happy and accomplished. that, however, was just a childish dream. grace wouldn’t die quietly, she would die at the hands of a savage, strangled and mangled until there was nothing left to remember her by. the grip in her hands slowly grew weak, the kicks of her feet against the ground diminished until all she could see was that godforsaken lion looking at her. she dropped her hands in defeat, accepting of her fate with tears in her eyes until she felt her friend beside her. an idea, one last attempt, bloomed.

» ▌║██ / * ◜ ACT IV.

grace sheridan didn’t get to say goodbye. she didn’t get to say goodbye to her friends, to her family.. not even to the one person she loved the most. she didn’t get to sing her last song, didn’t get to adopt a puppy, didn’t get to visit her father or settle down.. her life flashed before her eyes before she could even have a say in it, memories flickering like a restored film in technicolor. death wasn’t all that scary; goodness, no. it was a warm embrace, it was a gentle kiss, it was a hearty laugh. it was the peace she so desperately wanted, the peace she thought valdez finally achieved. there was a beautiful light at the end of the tunnel, like a mischievous will-o-the wisp pulling her in, looming closer and closer and closer and closer — until it was gone. she didn’t get to touch that light, didn’t get to feel it course throughout her body or see it any clearer. she was pulled away, dragged by the ankles through all the pain and suffering that made her alive in the world. death was kind, but death was not for her. at least not yet.

when the paramedics found her in the middle of all of the carnage, she was barely hanging on by a thread, bleeding out, her breathing but a pathetic whir of air in the deathly silence. blood and bruises marred her pristine body, it stained the beautiful sunrise of her splayed out hair. she held hands with the dead pianist by her side, a last ditch effort at comfort in what she thought would be her final moments. half perched over her frame was the savage who nearly strangled her to death, the same knife that killed a father-figure wedged into the soft side of his neck and into his jugular vein. it was a kill or be killed world.. being in a gang, living in valdez. grace didn’t know the reality of it then, didn’t want to accept it, but she certainly did now. she had no choice in the matter, and truth was, she never really did.

#» ▌║██ / * ◜ HEADCANON : GRACE .#i wrote a lot sksks bt it was fun #outlaw.ooc #tw blood #tw strangulation #tw death #tw violence #tw guns #tw knife

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nanaswhispers · 6 years

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Wandering Souls, part 3.

Heya everybody! This is the last sequel to my KAUWEEK drabble! I hope you liked this small fanfic!

Enjoy!

PART 1 - PART 2

She stumbled upon them after quite the perilous hike through the lush greenery of the hills surrounding Fort William. And her weakened state certainly did not help whatsoever.

At first, she thought them to be a mirage. A wishful thought caused by the blood loss and the various recent traumas. An illusion her mind had created in an effort to bring her some warmth and familiarity amidst the damp and cold forest. A way to cope with loneliness.

The sight of Klaus tending to Cailean, one of the youngest Mackenzies that had gone to fight for his heritage and cause, barely fourteen years old, treating his pouring wound in his lower stomach, trying as he could to bandage it and hold it as closed as he could… A conjured image of what she imagined their final instants to have been. Even through the anguish and deep grief, it brought a warmth she had thought would be forever gone from her life to imagine them united and caring for each other even in those kind of settings. A feeling she had resolved herself to never experience again, especially not while she was being held by that sick bastard Lockwood in Fort William.

Then a butterfly whizzed by her head and landed as a whisper on Cailean's shuddering shoulder. Shock, relief, horror, sadness erupted all at once, like a volcano waking up from its slumber. She really took hold of the situation, realized they actually really were there, and the lad really was bleeding out, and even the slightest bit of comfort she had felt at the sight of the survivors crushed down around her.

No! No! No! Please, no!

This couldn't be happening! She just found them alive after thinking that everybody lied still on what would be their massive grave. Caroline couldn't bear the thought of having to say goodbye. Again. And with proof of death right before her eyes.

“KLAUS!”

At her shout, he glanced her way with surprise in his eyes. She saw the deep but brief relief and joy at seeing her. She also saw the worry in his eyes creep back almost instantaneously, his gaze going back to Cailean's open flesh with organs and innards peeking out and a red fountain pouring out of him. Saw the despair and unwanted fatality stiffen his posture. But still, he held him, murmured reassuring words she couldn't quite decipher yet.

Caroline had began rushing to them as soon as she realized they weren't a figment of her imagination. Finally, while cursing the physical state she was in for not permitting her to get there faster, she reached their position under a big oak with a bed of radiant moss at its feet.

“Cailean…”

A choked sob tried to get out of her at the image he made.

His young, fit body trying to draw breaths and fighting to live. The beautiful emerald moss that cushioned him clashed violently with the rich blood oozing out of his torn stomach.

She gulped, swallowed back the emotions and tears that wouldn't help whatsoever right now.

“Mis- Mistress F-F-Forbes… P-plea-sure to se-see you.”

His every breath was pure agony and yet she still saw the truth of his words in the pleased glint of his half closed eyes and the slight smile splitting his face.

“Oh Cailean… I'm happy to see you as well.”

He tried to speak again.

“Shhhh… Don't speak, you need to keep your air in your lungs in order to heal, alright?”

She could see the doubt each one of them had in her words, or rather the intrinsic knowledge that they were actually lies. They knew he had no chances of living through this. They were resigned to that fatality. But, she also saw the reassurance her soft tone and words gave him, as if this last sympathetic gesture helped him pass on to better things.

Klaus had remained quiet since she arrived, but she could see the struggle he held in him by the clenching of his jaw and the stiffness of his shoulders. And yet, his hands on Cailean's stomach remained gently firm.

As she sat up further and placed softly the young man's head on her lap she threw a look to him, and then to the wound. He understood the message, understood it's necessity, but clearly didn't like it judging by the deep furrowing of his brows and the contriteness of his eyes. Still, he headed her counsel, and slowly lessened the pressure his hands put on Cailean, until he released completely any hold he had on him.

He took Cailean's blanket itched in his clan's colors, previously covering only his legs, and slowly inched it further. Delicately, he draped it over the struggling chest, covering the wound, preserving his last shred of living dignity.

The sounds of his ragged breath, and wheezing mouth broke the stillness of the forest. But, Cailean deserved more. Deserved to have his short life where he tried to bring joy for all those around him him celebrated. He deserved more than a grim parting. So, Caroline softly hummed the air of a lullaby forgotten long ago, from times both past and not yet realized. Until he made no sound anymore and her tears broke the shadow of her song.

They buried him as well as they could, right where he died. Klaus and her collected stones to put over his body (she wasn't that useful what with her own wound, but she owed it to Cailean to do her best), moss too, to soften the resting place of a gentle soul.

When they finished covering him, Klaus knelt with sword in hand and point in the earth, and recited what she guessed was a funeral prayer. It was too soft for her to understand, but the words sounded foreign in her ears.

Then, they stood at his feet, silent, in contemplation or maybe prayer.

Caroline wasn't much of a believer, in anything, she was too cynical for that. But, if anybody deserved to be taken in some type of heaven or whatever else that would bring eternal comfort and joy to a deceased, it was him.

She hoped her silent message of hope passed on to any possibly existing entity relevant.

The blonde time traveler couldn't say exactly how much time passed as they stood as silent protective statues. What she knew however, was that when they did walk further in the forest, the grave behind their backs, night had already fallen and with it, the cold.

They traipsed through the darkness of the woods for a long perilous while, Caroline following Klaus silently. It seemed he knew where he was going, at least she hoped he did.

Finally, they reached a small cave, that if one didn't know was there almost couldn't be seen. It was rather perfect considering they were both fugitives. She threw him a questioning gaze with a side of raised eyebrow. But no answer from him.

Silence still prevailed while Klaus started a fire and they mechanically took the outer layers off them. Every motion they made was by reflex or habit. Caroline spreading their garments so they could dry quicker, Klaus going out for more wood. Her taking out the food she snatched from Lockwood, holding out a part for him and him taking it with a nod. Both sitting down next to the fire, backs towards the cave's walls and eyes glancing every few seconds towards the entry. His hand reaching out for hers, and hers gripping it tightly. Never letting it go away. Needed the support and ability to ground herself it gave her.

The lust and affection they always had boiling between them, no matter how reluctant she had been to admit it or face it before, was more like a simmer. One they almost didn't feel, still too wrapped up in everything that happened these last few days, and in the prospect of living in a hollow world deprived of Cailean Mackenzie's brightness and youth.

After a long while, hours surely, without any movements from any of them, Caroline slowly started thinking, dealing with all the events that took place: the men's departure to battle, the loss of it, the deaths, Klaus' presumed one, the altercation in the Castle Leoch, her injuries, the prison cell, the rape, and the attempted one, her kill, her escape, finding them, only to then have Cailean taken away.

Klaus switched the hand that was holding hers, and with the one he just freed, he embraced her with a quiet strength. She hadn't even realized she was crying, but when she felt his arm draped around her shoulders (the pain in her back was there, but she almost could forget it if it meant being right there for however long she could), sobs and cries left her mouth like a cacophony of pain and suffering.

She didn't know how much time Klaus held her while caressing her dirty matted hair while silently crying with her too.

Usually, Caroline Forbes wasn't one to show any weakness, especially not tears in front of another person. However, she refused to feel any ounce of shame for this. Grief and pain left no place for shame anyway.

She needed this to heal, needed its cathartic nature. Needed Klaus' strength and affection.

And, she knew he wouldn't judge her for it, knew that he would understand her, not only because of everything he went through himself and their shared pain, but also because he always did, even when she didn't want him to.

Her sobs quietened, and her breath progressively returned to almost normal (she was still injured and in his arms!).

“Thank you Klaus.”

“Don't thank me love. It is not needed.”

She only hummed in response.

Her thoughts turned to Klaus again, his understanding of her, his trust in her. And she needed that trust. But, for trust to be, truth needed to be too. She knew that too well, had been burned too many times. Therefore, she made a hard, and much awaited, decision.

“Klaus.” her tone was resolute and guarded.

His eyes turned away from the fire to anchor themselves in her pupils while his hand was still deeply ensconced into hers. Caroline took hold of her resolve and braced herself for the conversation to come.

“I am going to tell you something. Something that may sound crazy, and I know that right now after everything that happened you will probably attribute it to shock or something, but it is the truth. As deeply inconceivable as it may seem. So, actually, I'm, uh…, not from here.”

“I know, sweetheart.”

“No, Klaus, I'm not talking about Scotland. Obviously! You already know that, everybody does! What I'm trying to say is that…”

“I know, sweetheart.”

“Klaus, please let me talk! It's difficult enough without you butting in every few seconds!”

She was frustrated and anxious, and she couldn't interpret the small smile he sent her. He released her from his embrace momentarily and with both of his hands grabbed hers, and turned the rest of his body fully towards her.

“No, sweetheart, it is you that does not understand. I know, love.”

She could see him look at her no doubt puzzled face and sighed a little, fondly and with amusement almost.

“Caroline, love, I know you are from a different time.”

“Oh...” he has said it so matter-of-factly that during a short instant she was about to just nod and.

And then, she truly realized what he said, the implication of his words, and for a good moment there, she just wasn't present, she was sitting, numb, unresponsive and with what she guessed was a dumb look on her face.

Did she just hear him right? He said he knew she was from the future? What the fucking flying fuck was even happening right now?!

“How the fuck do you know that?! Was I that obvious?! Did I say it while sleeping?! I thought I had gotten myself rid of that unfortunate habit! Fuck! Do you really, I mean, really, think I'm from the future or was it some sort of test?!”

His chuckle made her realize how quirky the situation actually was. And, involuntary, a small grin took hold of her still befuddled face.

“Stop laughing! I'm serious! How long have you known?”

“Sweetheart, I knew it since the moment we found you.” his tone was as soft as she had ever heard him, the kind of tone one would use not to spook a cornered animal. She didn't appreciate it, but, well, she could understand where he was coming from so she just ignored it, save for her raised brow, of course.

“But, how?”

“I know those stones. I have felt them. I know the stories. And, most importantly, I went through them myself.”

His words had the effect of a bomb being dropped. If she had been dumbfounded before when he told her he knew what she was trying to say, she didn't even have the words to describe the extent of her shock right at that time.

She didn't know how long she sat there unresponsive but she guessed it was quite the long wait by the trepidation she could see creep into his previously soft, amused and reassuring expression.

“Wh… What time are you from?”

“I passed through the stones in 1132, four years ago.”

And suddenly, small details that didn't ring right, and things she filed away as him just being foreign to these parts made so much sense. Like the foreign words, and proverbs, the lack of religiousness really uncharacteristic of the time, the different style of fighting, or even the displeased expression he sported while wearing a kilt while they infiltrated Clan Macdougal.

She sat there, looking at him, her face the picture of a blown up mind for an embarrassingly long time. And catatonic state was only broken by his voice distracting her from the fact that: fuck! He was most probably a fucking Viking judging by the year he went through the stones! So it's not unilateral, it's not just from the future to the past? HE'S FROM THE 12TH CENTURY! Fuck.

“Caroline? Are you alright?”

She took a few moments to ask herself that same question: was she alright? The obvious answer would have been no. After all, hadn't she just had a breakdown (at least it wasn't a panic attack, that would have been awkward) for very good reasons. She was injured, hungry and tired. Plus Klaus just dropped a bomb the size or Uranus on her. But, surprisingly, she felt fine-ish. About his revelation at least. Everything else… it will take weeks if not months to feel fine about any of it.

Caroline was curious of course. Everybody would be when someone says they come from the 12th century! Plus, it was in her nature to snoop, research and discover things, hell, she made it her vocation!

But, she had also been drained of any energy by her entire ordeal, her injuries were killing her and she could feel herself slipping away by the second.

Also, she trusted Klaus. Sure, it was mind blowing, but hadn't she went through approximately the same thing? Couldn't she be just more accepting considering that?

“Yes. I'm alright.”

“Don't you have any questions? I struggle to believe that the Caroline Forbes I came to know these last months doesn't have anything to badger me with…” he smirked at her teasingly.

“Oh, don't worry, I have more questions that you can count. And you'll have to answer each one of them. But, right now, I'm exhausted and need to rest. Also, we'll have all the time we want to talk on the road, I can't in good conscience take the only fun thing away from walking miles, and miles, and miles, right?” she winked (since when does she wink?) at him playfully.

Klaus only laughed a little bit, and she was thankful for being able to cause that. He had been tense and strained since they found each other, which was certainly understandable considering he went through a battlefield with thousands of deaths around him, escaped somehow with a young man he used to protect and teach, only to feel him die in his arms. Also, this all happened centuries away from the time he was born. So he had all the reasons in the world to not be happy or relaxed. And, also, it wasn't Klaus' usual personality either, he was an intense guy from the beginning, part of the allure, she guessed.

A pleased small smile etched itself onto her lips, the quiet kind one wasn't even aware of spouting.

She basked in the brief moment of joy they shared, aware that the road awaiting them from then on wouldn't give much occasions to be joyous at all.

After a while, she could feel the fatigue settle itself in her spine, in her eyes and in her mind.

However, before she could just fall into Morpheus' arms, she needed to check her wound and see if it was healing any, hoping that there wouldn't be any sign of infection. And by that, she meant Klaus needed to check it for her, since, you know, she didn't have eyes on the back of her head.

“Klaus, could you please look at my wound, see if it's healing or if there are any problems?”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

She turned her back on him and slowly brought down the red stained, previously white fabric of her under dress, revealing the extent of her injury. She heard him gasp a little and saw in the periphery the clenching of his fists.

“Caroline! Why didn't you tell me?! You must have been in agony!”

“Klaus, calm down, we had other things to worry about.”

“That may be true but your health, your life should be your priority, love! Who did this? Tell me! I'll kill them, tear out their throats and stomp on their remains! CAROLINE! Do not laugh, it is no frivolous matter!”

“I was not laughing at you nor because I don't think it's important, I was just laughing because you do not have to worry about it, I already killed both the soldier and Lockwood.” she turned to face him and grinned at him ruthlessly.

For a minute Klaus only stared at her, and she couldn't quite decipher the look he was sending her, some kind of mixture of pride and something else?

However, her thoughts were stopped completely when she felt his calloused fingers take her cheek suddenly and bring her face to his. His lips took hold of hers and she was lost.

Lost in the feeling. Lost in the comfort. Lost in him. Lost in them. Lost in the them they could become in the future.

Never in all her years has she experienced such a thing. Such a kiss. The kind that everybody thinks is a made up dream when they see it in movies. The kind that shifts your view of the world, your beliefs, yourself. The kind that gives the other person your heart even if it shouldn't have been free to give.

Klaus and his lips were an ambrosia she would have never believed to be real.

She felt in her entire body tingles and flashes, lights under her closed eyelids. Her breath was short and irregular. Her hands were pressed of their own volition on his neck and chest. Her throat let out moans and grunts that her head would never have been able to hold back. Her brain was short-circuited with only one thought going round and round in it: Klaus. Klaus. Klaus.

Nothing else mattered at that moment, not the place, not the time, not the circumstances. Only him. And her. Together.

And when that kiss ended she was still under its mercy with her knees weak and trembling heart.

“You're such a magnificent creature, my Caroline. A warrior of her own.”

Had she been able to think clearly, Caroline would have opposed him, especially the “my” part, but the kiss rendered her almost dumb, so only a smile came out. Still, she couldn't resist teasing him even as she reminded him of the task they begun before the kissing part.

“Come on, warrior, take the flask that's sticking out of my dress and clean up my wound. You need me alive if you ever want me to kiss you like that again.”

They walked for days. Collected herbs and honey so that she could heal. Hunted and caught fish in the fresh rivers of the Highlands.

And during it all they talked without stopping about everything and anything, their pasts, their respective times, their hopes and dreams, things that they wanted in life, what they planned for them. Unless, of course, their mouths were otherwise preoccupied.

Together, night and day. Mostly they elaborated a plan. Using both their knowledge from different eras. His, of warfare and politics. Hers, of the future and the events to come. They knew they couldn't change major things, or stop them from happening, but who forbade them to turn it into their advantage?

Their. Hers and his. Together. From now on to forevermore.

#Klaroline #klaroline fanfiction #klaroline drabbles #klarolineauweek #well kinda #outlander au #otp

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argxntxus · 6 years

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True Ending revised

Soft rays illuminated Xalroc’s visage as he lovingly peered down at Daixen, his beloved wife as they relaxed at the patio of their newly built home inside the Academy grounds. The shrill song of birds filled the air, announcing the rise of the morning sun, and a new chapter to both of their lives. The lovely songs of the flying creatures were only punctuated by a mewling cry of a newborn swaddled and cradled by his mother. Kaziel was awake.

His upper lip curled up into a grin as he swept his left fringe out of the way before giving Kaziel a gentle kiss. To think he and Daixen had gone through so much before finally being able to be together peacefully again.

“He’s so precious, my love.” Xalroc whispered behind his beloved’s ear, much to Daixen’s delight. She couldn’t agree more. It was thanks to this little angel that she had survived her terrifying ordeal in the abyss, and for that, she could not be any more grateful to the Source for blessing her with her own precious, beloved child.

“Indeed, he is.”

Moved with so much joy and passion, she raised her heels and lovingly pecked Xalroc’s right cheek with a gaze of adoration at her husband. However, the man’s thoughts soared over the day when he finally caught up to his wife, after eluding him for three years.

Salty liquid stung the roof of his sinuses as a wistful tear ran down through it, thanks to what was left of his eye after that fateful day.

The woman before him did not speak, though her name was constantly being called. His plea was only met with the bleak howling of the cold wind, and the longest strands of her hair fluttering about. She had his back turned on him, an indescribable expression on her face. She was shaking, but whether it was out of grief or anger, even she did not know. Daixen just could not bear being with her husband right now, after what was said, even if he was being honest. All that joy of being reunited with him gone with the wind after such a shocking revelation.

“Why stay?” she said, in a vehement, yet austere voice, “I’ve already made up my mind. Leave.”

Each syllable of her words struck like a blunt, steel blade – sharp enough to pierce his heart, yet dull enough to crush his chest. Immense guilt welled inside him, a venom potent enough to fell him completely. She had not even lifted a finger, but she already had him on his knees. He knew full well what that exact tone meant, but he still had to try. He cannot lose her again, and even if he tried to walk away in his festering self-reproach and shame, the thought that Daixen was alive yet wanted nothing to do with him gnawed furiously at his heart. This was the woman he loved deeply so, locking his heart away for twenty-five years in that little bleak hope that she might be alive, but eventually came to accept she was gone.

And that was the worst part of it. That untimely acceptance.

If only he held on for a little bit longer, bitterly regretting his decision to follow his heart and pursue love once more. That love was short lived, eventually taken away from him yet again, leaving him in the depths of despair, losing all hope that he could be happy with someone he had affection for, yet just when he thought he would close his heart completely, here he finds his first beloved, miraculously surviving a fate that any lesser man would have not. And to naively think he could reunite with her peacefully after telling her all that happened with him… was he fated not to be happy with love? Was this his punishment for everything he had done in his quest for vengeance?

Xalroc grit his teeth. Hot tears welled in his eyes as guilt and regret threatened to overtake him. Never in his whole life had it been so hard to hold back a strong, passionate desire to scream.

It seemed to take forever before he swallowed thickly, enduring the pain of the huge lump that now resided in his throat, barely composing himself. He looked as if he was on the verge of tears, a look that has not fallen upon his face since he realized everything he had was taken away from him.

“Y-You…” he began, stifling his sob, “Please understand… It’s been… twenty-five years… Daixen…”

The woman’s shaking became more apparent, as a strong gust of wind blew over the both of them. Twenty-five years? Had it been that long? That was impossible. The lowlife that stood before her was probably lying again, but as a flash of light went off from behind her, she knew he was telling the truth. And she knows full well that the man knew what that flash of light meant.

Still, she found it hard to believe. For one, there was no way she would’ve been pregnant for twenty-five years. All that wandering in that abhorrent place increased her awareness. It would have been a month at most, by her estimation.

And then it hit her.

Perhaps, time moved differently in Gaia than that place, which felt like a different dimension entirely. That didn’t excuse him, however. Suppose that amount of time did pass. Why couldn’t he wait a little longer, then?

“I don’t care!” she barked, “A month, a year, a decade, who cares! And did you not think I waited, too? How dare you!”

Daixen’s voice began to crack as she herself fought to remain composed. She balled her hands into fists, scarcely holding herself back.

There was silence, afterwards.

Tension between husband and wife thickened in the even air, nary a thing but a soft breeze – a calm in the eye of a storm. To the man in despair, it was dreadful, agonizing stillness. Yet his heart could not, hammering away in anticipation of what was supposed to happen next. Will there ever be an end to this silence?

And then, unexpectedly, she spoke.

“You broke our oath.”

Xalroc opened his mouth to speak, but could not find the words to say. It was truth. Now that he learned she was alive after all, there was no refuting it. He could only hang his head as he gave her no excuse.

The same could not be said for his wife, who felt more indignant than ever.

“Our solemn vow to the Source. You broke it, and now you insult us by having the gall to talk to me. Leave now, or so help me, I will make you.”

Her message struck at his soul with immense power, as he knew full well what she of all people, was capable of. But he could not stop now. It may be selfish of him to even try, but he had come too far, spending the last three years of life to find her. He had to make her understand one way or another. It was almost ironic, that for someone whose last resort had always been to engage in combat, found himself with no other option but to keep convincing her to stay with him.

“I love you… Daixen, please-“

“LIAR!”

In a blindingly fast motion, she swiveled from where she stood, a balled, trembling hand from earlier now holding the hilt of one of her paired weapons, which was a brilliant, platinum hued energy blade that almost sliced his face clean off. Were it not for his trained reflexes, she would have cut his head off had he not fallen back at the last minute.

It was then that he realized that Daixen, his beloved wife, was irreparably furious at him.

As he came to, the radiance of her weapon illuminated her visage. Her countenance revealed sharp, glowing eyes of the most intense gold. His heart sank even further as he beheld tears flowing down from them in her acidic gaze.

Before long, the other of the pair had been ignited, bathing the forest in luminous, white light. She was still shaking, but only now was Xalroc able to discern it was more severity at his betrayal of their oath than her own hurt feelings. He stared blankly at his armed spouse, hanging his head as he made sense of it all. She had always valued commitment and logic than her own feelings on the matter, despite how full of emotion she might appear to be.

The ground beneath him shimmered and his eyes started glowing as he instinctively poured out his essence unto the soil he stood on. Both blades ignited meant one particularly dangerous thing – it meant she will not stop until she eliminated what was before her.

“I’m giving you one last chance, traitor. Leave.”

A single tear ran down the side of Xalroc’s face as he solemnly stared at his wife’s eyes as if he’s staring his maker straight in the face, but oddly enough, in this short break, he had found the composure he sought since the beginning. With a sharp sniff, and a heavy sigh, he spoke as calmly as he could.

“You know I can’t. I’m not leaving without you.”

She pursed her lips at his response, trembling in sheer rage. Was he expecting her to back down? How could he even possibly have the audacity to insult her even further?

Then, everything happened in the blink of an eye. A moment ago, he was standing in front of Daixen, the next moment he barely managed to keep himself alive. She moved faster than the eye could see – quite literally a flash of light as she went straight for him. A quicksilver pillar had materialized between him and his wife just in time to keep her from slicing him in twain. Daixen had both her crossed energy blades caught in the viscous liquid metal with a loud, resounding clang.

But she didn’t stop there.

As soon as she realized her assault was blocked, she swiveled yet again, weapon arm outstretched and attempting to sear him with the length of her blades. Yet once again, Xalroc managed to protect himself with another quicksilver pillar. She paused, her face sharpening more than ever as her fury was stoked. Daixen was determined to drive her point home, his safety the last thing she would consider.

Taking advantage of this situation, Xalroc managed to pull out the Eviscerator from one of the pillars he fashioned, just in time for him to block another blow from his wife with his weapon’s shaft. This particular one however, was too tremendous – again the man was brought to his knees after an overhead swing from both her blades. Seizing the opportunity, the grieved woman followed through with lightning fast strikes at his sides and a quick thrust aimed straight through his heart. All of them were barely swatted away with the length of his weapon, narrowly escaping the stab aimed at his chest.

Despite managing to keep up with his wife’s frenetic, furious bladework, he knew he could only hold on for so long. Xalroc could only hope that her fury would abate before he completely loses his energy fighting his wife, which from experience, would prove next to impossible. However, that was the only option he had left.

He would not lift a finger to hurt her, despite her tremendous desire to end him. The man would see her wife come to her senses and try to win her back. He had always believed they were meant to be together as they lived their life before Arciva got destroyed, and even now, he held steadfast to her love. Even if he planned to subdue her, he would be hard-pressed to even land anything on with her clearly superior speed. He was fast, but she was faster. He was strong, but she was stronger still.

Realizing her husband would eventually cave, she kept the offensive up, striking in multiple angles in quick succession – a feat befitting of her epithet as The Searing Light. Blow for blow, Xalroc could scarcely defend himself. The ferocity of her strikes seemed only to grow stronger while his concentration and therefore, his defense, was close to breaking. Glowing, smoldering white streaks began to appear from odd places on his body and clothing as he struggled to block, causing some of them to merely be deflected elsewhere. The searing pain from the smoldering patches of singed flesh and clothing steadily sapped his strength.

Xalroc’s hands felt numb as he felt his body move on its own, too tired to think of anything but keeping himself alive. The tremendous force from her Source augmented blows were just too great.

Finally, his concentration fell apart, after so many minutes of keeping up with her. His body too heavy to move, he watched in horror as he could do nothing against one of Daixen’s oncoming blades that swept in a wide arc aimed at the right side of his face. On instinct, he jerked his head back to avoid his right eye getting tagged, but the same could not be said for his left.

An otherworldly, ear-piercing scream pierced the tension laden night air as blade tip swept over the upper left side of his face, slicing off and searing part of his nose bridge and his left eye clean. Almost immediately, Xalroc reeled back and clutched the left side of his face in extreme agony, eventually falling backwards on his back. Sweat poured from every pore in his body as he fought to remain conscious, his brain overloaded with nothing but pain from his grievous injury.

Nothing would stop Daixen now from ending his life after this intense struggle to stay alive.

And then, an inexplicable calm washed over him. He heard the faint footsteps of his wife, drawing closer towards his limp body, yet he was unfazed, as if everything was going to happen exactly as it was meant to be. He was no stranger to this feeling – it was the Source watching over him. Though he could barely understand, perhaps it was the will of the Source to die by his spouse’s hand, as punishment for what he had done.

The footsteps stopped, but Xalroc barely braced himself for the inevitable as his consciousness was steadily slipping away even after feeling that calm. His hand slipped off from his face, revealing the extent of his injury. Light was robbed from his sight as his vision gave in, only the sinister glow of Daixen’s blade about to end him was all he could see. Terribly weakened, he could even barely brace himself for that same searing pain that was sure to pierce his chest.

She was fuming, absolutely livid at her husband’s sheer defiance. How dare he desecrate their vows before the Source and have gumption to stare her straight in the eye and declare he wants her back? If he really wanted to destroy himself that badly, then she’d have no choice but to oblige. She felt no ounce of pity for him, not after what she had been through. To be alone in limbo, nowhere to run, nor hide, countless demons always coming for her to snuff out the light she maintained just so she could even see where she was going, even if it led nowhere, he knew nothing!

He managed to keep up with her – quite the mean feat, but it was to be expected. Knowing him, she knew he would break any moment as he visually struggled against her offensive.

Soon enough, the opening came, and with a well-placed sweep of her blades, her triumph was secured as she saw Xalroc fall back and clutch the wounded part of his face.

She strode over to finish what she intended to do, but inexplicably, a dull, heavy-feeling overcame her body. Suddenly, her footsteps exhausted her with each step she took. A gnawing pain ate at her heart as she made her way towards her downed husband, but try as she might block the sensation away, it only consumed her all the more.

And as soon as she finally managed to see his face, her heart stopped cold – a quarter of his face was seared black. She clasped her mouth with her hands.

Deactivating her blades, she hurried over towards him and cradled his head upon her lap. He wasn’t moving at all, which almost sent her into a panic, but quickly noticed the rising and falling of his chest. Thank the Source he’s still alive!

Daixen wiped the sweat off her brow in relief as she set to work for Xalroc’s recovery. Mustering all she had, she willed to call upon her healing abilities and put a palm over his face. Rays much gentler than her light blades shone from below her palm, kindled against the darkness around and shining directly over his blackened wound. The maiden had put her all as the energy knit muscles, skin, and bone together. But what had been lost cannot be restored.

Xalroc… I’m so sorry…

Distraught with grief, the maiden could not help but draw nearer to her husband’s face, her own inches away from his. She hoped this would at least comfort him through every pain he was going through.

Xalroc closed his one good eye as the light from his wife’s palm radiated over it. Amidst the soft glare, he could’ve sworn he felt the familiar sensation of Daixen’s warm breath and her soft lips, pressing upon his own. They were wet with tears.

Then, images that came from nowhere flooded his brain alongside the agony he felt. A silhouette of a woman traversed a dark, seemingly endless corridor with only her light guiding her and protecting her from being swallowed up by the darkness. She had to battle the darkness’ denizens, risking her life to protect the life that was in her at that very moment.

He began to feel her despair – a crushing depression that would have plunged a lesser man into destruction, but the hope of carrying life within her gave her the strength to keep on going, until finally, he witnessed her barely defeating a huge, fiendish figure with what little ounce of strength she had left. A bright, white light had formed over the corpse of the creature, and by pure instinct, she touched it, revealing itself to be a portal from which she climbed onto, and out from the wet, loamy soil of a forest floor.

Suddenly, everything made sense.

As he came from his reminiscence, his wife’s soft, warm hand was placed upon his fringe covered left cheek, her gaze having stayed upon him for the whole time he was spaced out. She knew what he thought and how he felt, after all, their connection to the Primordial Source made sure they hid nothing from one another.

With a serene smile, Daixen gently coaxed her husband to gaze back at her, unable to hold back the joy that filled her heart.

“Thank you, for believing in me, my love.”

@doooomhammer

#ask meme #truest ending #-:ᵈᵉˢᵗᶤᶰʸ'ˢ ʰᵃᶰᵈ ᶜᵃᶰᶰᵒᵗ ᵇᵉ ˢᵗᵃʸᵉᵈ:-#ˑ:ᶜʰʳᵒᶰᶤᶜˡᵉˢ ᵒᶠ ᵗʰᵉ ˢᵃᶤᶰᵗ:#(( edited the true ending ))#(( i think this one turned out better ^^ ))#(( hope you could still give it a read ))#(( God bless you bro! ))

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thran-duils · 7 years

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You’re Now Mine (P11)

TITLE: YOU’RE NOW MINE (PART 11) SUMMARY: I’VE DECIDED TO CONTINUE THE DRABBLE REQUEST INTO A THREE PART SERIES CONSIDERING THE REQUESTS TO WRITE MORE OF IT!

“FULFILLING A REQUEST FOR @lets-personofinterestontumbir! – “COULD YOU DO A DRABBLE FOR THE PERSEPHONE AU I DON’T KNOW IF YOU’VE SEEN ONCE UPON A TIME BUT THE EPISODE 1X07 REMINDED ME A LOT OF THIS STORY WHEN THE EVIL QUEEN RIPPED OUT THE HUNTSMEN’S HEART IF YOU COULD DO SOMETHING LIKE THAT IT WOULD BE AWESOME. THANK YOU.” “ WORDS: 2,028 WARNINGS: DARK AF, EMOTIONAL/MENTAL ABUSE, LANGUAGE Author’s Note: I think there are going to only be one to two more parts to this story!

MASTERPOST || PERSEPHONE || PART 10 || Part 12 || Fanfic masterpost

Dean clicked the phone on speaker, wanting Sam and Crowley to hear it as well. You doubted he wanted you to hear the conversation but there wasn’t a choice.

“Piss off, Lucifer. She doesn’t belong to you,” Dean retorted back through the phone and you winced, only imagining how furious Dean’s tone as well as his statement was going to make Lucifer. Why couldn’t Dean at least try to be diplomatic? For your sake? For Castiel’s sake? He was the one inside the vessel having to endure Lucifer’s unbridled emotions.

Lucifer exhaled deeply on the other end of the line and stated, “I think you know that that’s false. I know you aren’t that dense. You think she likes screaming for fun?”

Your chest tightened quickly and you cried out. Immediately Sam was at your side but the pain was gone as fast as it had come. He was merely flexing his muscles, trying to rattle Dean. It was working.

“Alright, you son of a bitch, knock it off!” Dean growled into the phone, his eyes on you worriedly.

“Speaking of my bitch dad, has he shown himself to you yet?” Lucifer asked, his voice light. Dean gritted his teeth and said nothing. “Hmm, sounds like a no. Your silence speaks volumes.”

Sam rubbed your arms affectionately, his eyes trained on Dean. He mouthed something to Dean and Dean looked irritated. You hadn’t caught onto what Sam was doing quick enough to try to read his lips, so you were at a loss.

Clearing his throat, Dean started, “Look, you can’t get in here, which bodes well for us. But, it doesn’t quite work out for Y/N.”

“You’re telling me. I can feel ramifications. You’re making me angrier and angrier each time I have to hurt her. And I’m sure she’s not happy with the stalling. Right, princess? Even though you betrayed me.”

He must know that the phone was on speaker phone or that you could at least hear him. Your eyes met Dean’s and he shook his head, his jaw tight. He didn’t want you to answer Lucifer and as much as you wanted to, you cast your eyes down again, snuggling in closer to Sam.

Dean ignored Lucifer’s quip and continued, “She didn’t do jack shit, Lucifer. That was Sam and I. And considering it is mine and Sam’s responsibility, we can work something out.”

“Really?”

“I don’t think so, Dean-o,” Lucifer chirped and Dean looked less than amused. “I can wait out here. You have to leave sometime.”

Pushing on, Dean said, his voice tight, “If we give her back willingly AND promise to find you a hand of god for you to use against Amara, you gotta let Sammy and I go.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone for a few moments and Dean waited, looking hesitantly hopeful that Lucifer would accept the offer. Crowley was watching the phone with intensity, his expression unreadable. You couldn’t imagine that he was too pleased with Dean offering to hand over something so powerful to Lucifer, not knowing exactly what Lucifer would do with it.

Dean’s hope was crushed when Lucifer intoned, “Yeah, I still don’t think so.”

If Dean’s eyes could have rolled out of his head, they would have. He rubbed his face angrily as Lucifer said, “See, what’s going to happen is that precious Y/N is going to come outside, then I’m going to crush this dump, and chop the two of you up real nice. And then scatter your remains to the wind. So much so that there is no chance of ever putting you back together. And then I’ll live happily ever after. What do you say? Just get it over with?”

“Dean, I –” you started to say but instantly shut your mouth when Sam’s hand clamped down over your mouth, Dean’s eyes wide.

“Ooh, sweetling,” Lucifer purred, the complete opposite of his irritated tone with Dean a moment ago, and your eyes landed on the phone. You felt a hum in your chest, different than what he had inflicted on you before. It felt gentle, as if he wasn’t really touching your soul. But, stroking around it affectionately, sending waves. “You’ve been quiet. I’m beginning to think that you –”

Crowley had come over quickly to the phone and hung it up, shutting Lucifer up. The boys stared at him angrily and Crowley explained, “I was getting tired of the back and forth. You were going nowhere and we need to be going somewhere. And that somewhere is far from here.”

You agreed with him, pushing Sam’s hand away from your mouth. “You need to leave!” you begged Dean and Sam.

Shaking his head, Dean ordered, “You’re coming with us.”

“No. She’s not,” Crowley interjected. Dean looked as if his blood was boiling, fed up with both Lucifer and Crowley at this point. “I needed you two to see what you were dealing with so you could let the idea rest, like I expressed before. Lucifer isn’t going to let her go and until you have either a hand of god to trap Amara or god forbid, God shows up, you have nothing to play a hand with. He’s won. Just accept defeat for now.”

“Shut your mouth!” Dean snapped at Crowley cutting him off and Crowley’s jaw set. Dean turned back to you but Crowley wasn’t finished with him.

“My benevolence for you, squirrel, is running out quickly. In fact, I would say that it’s gone. The only reason I would help you at this point is to save my own ass. Which I need to do considering we need to not only cap Amara but also only the second strongest freaking archangel standing right outside our door.”

“Our door?” Dean spat back and added, “And since when have you ever done anything that wasn’t for saving your own ass?”

Crowley snarled, “She’s a shining little beacon he’s going to keep following. And she’s also his favorite toy that he’s going to keep playing with – and by playing, I mean pinching that oh so very sensitive soul of hers. You saw the effects of that.”

“I can handle myself,” you told them.

“I don’t think you can,” Dean growled at you. “You’re not okay. You’re not yourself and I am not putting you back in that situation.”

“Yes, you are!” you told him, your voice firmer than it had been before. “I want you to live and I need to leave if that is going to happen. There’s no other way right now. I can handle myself. I have been doing it so far. He obviously won’t kill me. He could and he hasn’t. He still isn’t even though I’m in here and he’s out there. It’s not that I don’t love and appreciate what you’re trying to do for me, but I want you guys safe. Please, figure out one difficult problem before you get yourselves in another one. I’m staying here and you guys are leaving.”

You met Crowley’s eyes and he straightened up, catching what you were conveying to him.

The three of them were gone in a blink of an eye. Crowley was going to have to deal with Sam and Dean’s wrath the second they realize what he had done and left you behind. You were sure that Crowley could handle them though. Dean was going to be in a rage but he would have to get over it and focus.

<> <> <>

Walking out of the front door of the bunker, you blinked against the sun. When your eyes adjusted, you saw the Impala was scratched up on the hood, no doubt something Lucifer had done. If Dean wasn’t already furious with what had just happened, when he found his baby again, this was going to for sure set him off.

But Lucifer was nowhere in sight. You ventured a few more steps out as the door to the bunker closed behind you. Your eyes scanned the yard, searching for your archangel.

His voice startled you and you jumped away, a gasp leaving your mouth. “Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?” Lucifer inquired, peering down his nose at you.

You hated the look of rage on his face. Your throat was dry, not knowing where to begin with trying to explain yourself. Dean had already told him that you had had nothing to do with what had happened but you doubted Lucifer was convinced. By his tone, your fear was confirmed.

“I didn’t ask them to,” you said quietly, your voice warbling.

He ignored you, asking, “Did you think I wouldn’t notice you were gone?”

“I wanted to come back. I promise,” you told him, looking at him desperately. “Dean and Sam came for me. I told them I was okay. But they didn’t listen.”

His eyes moved back towards the bunker door and his eyes narrowed. You tried to begin to explain yourself further meekly again but he cut you off, “I’m going to solve this little problem once and for all.” He grasped your chin roughly and demanded, “Go open one of those angel sigils.”

You shook your head and his grip tightened, “Y/N. Now.” A knife appeared in his other hand and your eyes moved down to it, a worried expression on your face. “Take the knife.”

Swallowing, you slowly began to turn and he let go of your chin. Shakily, you grabbed the knife from him. You moved to the door, unlocking it and opening the door. You moved around the back side of the door, searching for the sigil you were looking for. When you located it, you used the knife to etch a break in the sigil.

Instantly, Lucifer was inside the bunker downstairs, having skipped the stairs or moving by you physically. He took off into the bunker and you watched him, knowing damn well Sam and Dean were gone. You decided to go back outside into the sun, something you hadn’t experienced in a few days. Having a couple moments of peace in the warm sun would relax you slightly.

Lucifer was engulfed in fury when he came back out of the bunker and you took a couple steps back from him. “Where did they go?” he snarled down at you.

“I-I-I don’t know,” you stammered. “They just left me and I came outside. To you.”

A disgruntled noise left Lucifer’s mouth and he turned, looking ready to storm back into the bunker. But a second later, decided against it, whipping back to face you again, even closer this time, his chest almost touching you. He seethed, “You can’t leave me. You couldn’t live without me!”

There was a sliver of desperation in his tone and you whispered, “I didn’t try to. Dean told you that. I asked them to come back to you.”

It was as if he didn’t hear you, “And you don’t need them, you have me!”

“I know!” you whimpered, trying to move into his arms.

Seeing this, Lucifer’s demeanor slowly changed. You buried your face in his chest and listened to him breathing heavily, praying he would calm down and just take you home. You closed your eyes, holding tightly onto him as the seconds began to drag out.

To your relief, you felt his hands on your hair, running over it in a slow alternating rhythm. Cupping your voice, Lucifer pulled you away enough to look up at him. “You’re mine, princess, right?”

You nodded in answer and his thumbs caressed your cheeks. “Good girl. I love you so much,” he purred, laying a kiss on your forehead. His breathing had slowed, his body relaxing as your own heart skipped a beat at this revealing praise from him. They had rattled him and he slipped up, showing his need for you. This loss of control on his end didn’t bode well for the boys. You knew what Sam and Dean had done had forever put them on Lucifer’s shit list and it didn’t make you feel any better when Lucifer stated, “You know I’m going to have to kill them, right?”

~~~

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#casifer x reader #lucifer!cas x reader #casifer #lucifer!cas #supernatural fanfic #spn fanfic #my shit

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