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sunspearesque · 2 months

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‘Tis You, My Great Love

Summary: I've been betrothed to fear since the mists of memory, “the bride of despair,” they named me. And there, by the shore, you found me… sorrow veiling my face, and wounds blooming like tulips in my hands. But lo, you, my great love, now stand, lifting the veil and bidding my fears depart with each tender kiss. “Stay,” I say, “stay for all eternity.”

A/N: hello hello beautiful friends!!! i wrote this piece while feeling extremely sentimental and sappy after a conversation about motherhood with my best friend.. i was contemplating motherhood, marriage, and intimacy in general, but then tried to imagine how that would translate to Nala's and Oberyn's relationship.. so, this fic is mainly fluff with a sprinkle of smut :3 and lots of poetic dreams… hope you enjoy it! <3

Pairing: Oberyn Martell × OFC from WoV

Rating: E (18+ only)

Content: established relationship (marriage); talks of motherhood; fear of loss and abandonment; fear of motherhood; talks of dreams; pregnancy; childbirth; fluff on steroids with a sprinkle of smut; dad!oberyn (my favorite oberyn to write); brief p in v sex; oral (m!receiving); breeding kink

WC: 2.6K

Read on AO3 • moodboard

“Love me so strongly that the echoes come to me here, at night, in the hours of insomnia, where I am waiting for you. I kiss you, I kiss you madly.” — Albert Camus to Maria Casares, Correspondence, January 9, 1950

His breath, slow and warm, caressed her neck as he nestled closer. His arms, like bands of fire, encircled her soft belly. With a grip as tight as the grasp of a man fearing the loss of paradise slipping through his fingers, he held her close, as if she might vanish like the elusive dream of Eden he chased in his sleep. Just when he thought he could taste its waters, they turned to fire, scorching his throat and consuming him in flames, jolting him awake from his slumber. Yet now, she mused, he sleeps peacefully.

She traced her finger over the scar adorning his shoulder, much like the marks she bore on her own body from bearing their son—for when love leaves its mark upon us, not even the shadow of fear can erase it.

Her fingers deftly threaded through his raven locks, prompting a soft hum from him as she pressed a tender kiss upon his brow. Never before had she known such serenity, as sleep gently stole her away in his arms.

—

The sun, basking in its warm and inviting glow, reached its luminous tendrils into the chambers of their castle. The soft sounds of nature at dawn whispered promises of new beginnings. These beginnings ushered in healing and prosperity to souls who had yearned for the clasp of death for so long, forgetting how to revel in life's joys and surrender to its tender embrace.

Life in Dorne, akin to a nurturing mother, a goddess, a woman… the dunes of sand beneath their calloused feet, and the blazing sun in the sky, stood as an impregnable fortress of strength akin to Nymeria, their burning star. She was the mother of both land and people, her warmth forging indomitable resolve within her children. She is the sun—their sun blazing fiercely, instilling in them an unyielding grit against any rival, yet within their hearts lay a gentle warmth that embraced love as steadfastly as a sacred oath.

And like the sun and the earth and Nymeria, Nala harbored the urges of motherhood within her, which was a concept that she held in reverence, yet it also stirred a deep sense of dread within her. She longed for the life burgeoning deep inside of her, for a part of herself to wander this realm and embrace life under her vigilant care and unwavering devotion. However, she couldn't shake the haunting memory of how motherhood had claimed her own mother's life, how she harbored guilt for the tragic fate her mother endured.

If only I hadn't been, she might have fled the castle and escaped her dire end...

This lingering wound within her soul was the sole reason she had shunned the idea of bearing children until she met him.

He, adorned in all his splendor, tended to her wounded soul the very instant he professed his love to her, at a time when he himself was most in need of solace. This bastion of a man, generous, gracious, and gallant, freely bestowed his love, protection, and tenderness, even amidst the shadows of his wrath and vengeance.

For you, my great love, I ache with an unbearable keenness, feeling the wounds within me slowly mend, sewn shut with the thread of your love—a needle of devotion stitching together my injured being. Though painful, it is an insatiable need, a piercing sting I have yearned for throughout the passing years. It closes the chasm within me, that gaping void where the winds of despair and sorrow once freely roamed, leaving me as naught but a specter, undeserving of love, joy, or autonomy.

Your love, my great love, is what ignited within me a hunger for life after an endless fast of fear—fear of loss and abandonment. Your love bestowed upon me the strength to embrace love once more, despite the inevitable sacrifices. Did you know that you visited me in my dreams? You kissed me with such tenderness and held me close. “I was adrift,” I told you, my voice laden with fear, “take me..” I whispered, “Take me with you.”

When she pledged herself to him in marriage, she knew she needed to fear no one beneath the gaze of Gods and men. With him by her side, no rivals could breach her defenses; even in death, his spirit would haunt any who dared to harm her through all Seven Hells and beyond.

You told me once, do you recall? As we strolled the shores, my steps were heavy with dread or joy, or perhaps it was the dread of the joy that awaited me. I struggle to remember the last time genuine happiness graced my soul before that day. When the sweet taste of happiness touched my sorrow-laden lips, I froze in place, wary that this cruel existence might snatch it away, as it so often does.

You whispered to me, my great love, your love with such fervor, you told me how it frightened you, unable to resist the pull of our inevitable fate. “How could I?” you pondered, “You are inescapable.” You told me that sorrow is the price of love; to shun one is to forsake the other. Yet, you vowed not to evade me, you kissed me and swore to me that you would not allow my love to elude your grasp.

You told me how I melt into your dreams, whisking you away in my embrace mere seconds before the phantom hands could encircle your throat. Those same hands, which once tormented you each night, wrenching you from slumber, now find themselves impotent against your newfound peace. You impute to me your salvation, though I doubted my own. You rekindled a dormant tenderness within me, long thought doused by the harshness of life. ‘tis you, my great love, who rescued me… It was not I who saved you, but you who saved me.

She recalled a day they spent amidst the Water Gardens, a few moons past:

Reclining upon the grass, the soothing melody of a nearby water fountain lulled her into a serene state of repose. The laughter of Dorea and Loreza filled her ears, joyfully engaged in play with their father. Nala shut her eyes, savoring this heartening moment with those she holds most dear.

“W–Wait, papa, wait,” Dorea uttered between pants, attempting to conceal her sweet giggles. “I heard Arianne say that you engage in battles,” she inquired, her small hand resting on her waist as she sought to extract the truth from him.

“Yes, I do,” Oberyn replied, seated on the grass, attempting to catch his breath after chasing them all morning. “Why would Arianne tell you that?” He narrowed his eyes at his daughter, intrigued by the smirk that widened before Loreza jumped on his back, encircling his neck and hanging from it, ambushing him. “Papa, fight!”

Nala opened her eyes to witness the victorious father, besieged by little hands and tiny feet, playfully striking his stomach and chest, surrounded by laughter that compelled him to yield, lying flat on his back.

Dorea brandished a stick of wood, pointing it at his face, and murmured, “Surrender!” with a broad, toothy grin. Loreza, seizing the opportunity, delivered a playful punch to his soft middle. “I surrender, my lady, I surrender!” he exclaimed with feigned fear and defeat, eliciting more giggles from Loreza. “Have mercy on this old man, my lady, please!” he continued, jesting while maintaining his scared demeanor.

“Loreza,” Dorea commanded with a stern expression, feigning seriousness, “this soldier will join our army,” attempting a deep, authoritative voice. At that moment, Oberyn stealthily swept them both from their feet and hoisted them onto his shoulders, prompting a chorus of screams and laughter. “You shall never trust your enemy, girls,” he declared, his voice playfully admonishing.

Her faith in his paternal prowess never wavered, evidenced by his eight resilient daughters. He showered them with love and fierceness to such an extent that Nala's own heart ached with longing to bear his child—a primal yearning that twisted within her.

Each time he lay with her, she offered fervent prayers to the Gods, beseeching them, “Grant this union fruitfulness, let it take, let life flourish abundantly within me.”

When the soft stirrings of life within her ignited a radiant glow from deep within, his love grew even more tender, gentle, and expansive; even greater than the swell of her stomach. She marveled at the dichotomy of this fierce and dreaded man seeping such tenderness. How could hands, once stained with the blood of his foes and weathered by battle, now caress her with such delicate care, as if she were the most delicate of petals?

“Tell me,” he panted as he thrust into her, “Tell me how much you love me, Nala.”

“I do,” she said, her words strained with pleasure, melding into a moan, “I do, my viper, I adore you.”

As she entered the throes of labor, he sat steadfastly behind her, his legs parted to rest on her sides supporting her back against his chest, his words of praise gently murmured into her ear. Amidst his curses at the Gods, he avidly wished to shoulder her pain, to bear it in her stead.

When they were greeted by the piercing cries of the fruit of their love—a child, glorious and perfect in every way, red and squealing, a reflection of his father in demeanor, soul, and visage—she cradled him in her arms, while Oberyn enveloped them both in his protective embrace.

Their eyes locked upon the tiny, fragile form before them, and as a rare tear escaped his forbearing facade, she reached out to brush it from his cheek. With a tender whisper, she said, “Look, my love, he bears your likeness.”

She reclined upon her side, nursing their son at her breast, nestled between herself and Oberyn. His gaze lingered upon the tender scene, his eyes laden with unspoken emotions that he dared not voice, lest tears betray him.

Do you remember, my great love? Do you remember how the fear wilted, its head bowed in shame? The fear that once gripped me, releasing my hand as it gazed upon you with eyes filled with dread.

“Fret not,” you whispered to me while I sat in sorrow by your side. Though you lay in a deep slumber for days, your voice broke through the darkness just when I feared I might never hear it again. When all semblance of peace metamorphosed into a looming specter, jeering at me, taunting my joy and desperation. “Oh, you naive child,” it sneered with a voice steeped in bitterness. “I am no child,” I retorted, yet I felt the weight of my old fears returning. “You never learn,” it spat, before your voice shielded me from impending despair. You whispered, “Fret not,” and I believed you, my great love, as I always do.

And now look... Look at him... How can one lay bare their heart to the world, a heart with little hands and tiny feet, and not fret?

—

Gently opening her eyes, she sensed the chill of the empty space beside her—a void she cursed and despised. Rising slowly from her slumber, she beheld him: bare-chested, glorious, as beautiful as a man can be, cradling their son in his arms.

Their embrace enveloped them in warmth, their skins melding as one, while the soft cooing of their child resonated faintly in the chamber's silence. Amidst the peaceful atmosphere, punctuated only by the hushed footsteps of her husband and the tender sounds of their boy, her heart pounded within her chest like a Sand Steed galloping across the Dornish plains, threatening to burst forth. The love she felt surged within her, surpassing all expectations, growing fiercer, more profound—unbearable. It was a love that dissolved her fears like the northern snows beneath the scorching sun.

In the treasured instants shared with his children, Oberyn found solace in moments where the chaos of the world faded into oblivion. Each time they gathered around him, their youthful spirits ignited a spark of joy within him, particularly in those tender early years when they sought refuge in their father's arms. Yet, amidst this warmth, a pang of sorrow lingered as he gazed upon his son, his thoughts drifting to memories of his nephew Aegon, the son of his sweet sister Elia.

He couldn't help but imagine how Aegon might have flourished had fate been kinder to him or his sister or their mother. A gentle touch from Nala drew him back from his sorrowful reverie, and as he turned to meet her tender smile, he leaned in to press a soft kiss upon her lips, mindful not to disturb the slumbering child cradled in his embrace.

“Why did you not awaken me, my love?” Nala murmured, her gaze tenderly fixed upon their son.

“I wished for you to rest,” he replied softly, his eyes warm as they met hers, before he moved to lay their child gently in his crib, nestling him into the plush bedding.

Returning to their bed, he settled himself against the sturdy wooden frame, patting the mattress beside him, inviting her to join him. She approached, crawling between his legs, prompting a raised brow and a smirk from him. “And what might you be doing?” he inquired.

“I long to savor you,” she declared simply, positioned between his spread legs and deftly undoing his breeches.

“And your wounds, my love?” he gently reminded her. “You are not fully healed yet.”

“This will be my remedy,” she replied, her voice hoarse and tinged with sleep and yearning, almost on the edge of a whine.

She felt his cock swell and throb in her grasp, searing and already slick with desire. With gentle strokes of her hand, she evoked muffled groans from him, meeting his gaze as she whispered, “I love you beyond reckoning…”

Lowering her head to his glistening tip, she teased the slit with tiny licks, relishing every drop of his precum. His head fell back, a deep moan escaping his lips before she buried him in her mouth.

She swallowed him deeper and deeper until he was fully sheathed within her throat, his leg jerked beside her as she moved him in and out of her wet and wanting mouth. A low hum accompanied her fervent ministrations, her hand tenderly caressing his soft belly, a part of him she had adored over the years.

Pulling him from her drooling mouth to catch her breath, she panted between words, “If not for my wounds, I would not have wasted your seed anywhere but deep within my cunt,” she licked his sensitive tip, and he whimpered quietly, “taking me day and night… today and tomorrow and the day after, and spilling your seed within me over and over ‘til it takes,” she confessed before taking him again, squeezing him within her tight throat, his primal groans filling the air and filling her with an immense sense of pride at her actions.

She swallowed around him once, then twice, until she felt his warm, salty cum spurt into her eager throat, eliciting a guttural growl from him as he filled her up and came down from his climax. She withdrew his softened cock from her mouth, gathering the seeping cum from the corners of her lips before eagerly sucking her digit clean. Crawling up to lie atop him, she rested her head upon his heaving chest, pressing kisses to his golden skin. He enveloped her in his arms, holding her tightly, yearning to merge with her until they became one.

You, my great love, ‘tis you who will always reign until the end of times, in every lifetime, in every plane of existence.

#asoiaf #pedrostories #oberyn martell #oberyn martell fanfiction #a song of ice and fire #game of thrones #oberyn nymeros martell #oberyn martell x ofc #oberyn martell smut #house martell #dorne #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #fan fic #fan fiction

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crystallizedkingdoms · 1 month

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The Twins pt. 1

Can a twin be forged, not birthed? Johann and Kravitz meet in a practice room. A spark lights a flame.

wc: 4,822

The Birds for this fic are: Johann & Kravitz (Twins), Sloane (Lover), Hurley (Protector), Maureen (Lonely Journal Keeper), Keats (Peacemaker), Boyland (Wordless One)

day 1 of @johann-appreciation-week! this can also be read on ao3. art by @avijohann

“Thank you for your attention, guy-at-the-door.”

The man peeking into the practice room tries to shrink back from Johann’s gaze, but upon a brief pause, simply sighs instead. He pushes past the heavy door, and it’s now that Johann can see the man in full. He’s tall, with long, black locs pulled into a loose bun. His dark eyes scan the scenery: Johann, sitting alone in the practice room, still holding his violin in position.

Johann doesn’t move from his position as the man awkwardly stands in front of the entrance now. “You know, it’s rude to stare and not even applaud after a performance,” he jokes, tone flat and sarcastic as it usually is.

“Oh, um. Sorry?” the man says. He starts to clap, but it’s really quiet and just a touch too slow, so it’s kind of worse than the silence.

Johann scrunches up his nose and shakes his head. “No, no. I was kidding,” he says as he lets his violin and its bow rest in his hands. “Who are you?”

The man drops his hands by his sides, and Johann recognizes a distinct fidget his fingers do. “The name’s Kravitz. I heard you playing on my way out of here and I couldn’t help but listen in. Apologies if I disrupted you, really, I can be on my way,” he says. His attention darts towards the door, but eventually it settles back down on Johann.

“Oh, come on, man. I’m not going to kick out a fan. Ha ha. That was a joke, too,” Johann reassures. He puts his violin into its case, which rests on a nearby chair. “Kravitz. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too… uh…”

Right. Duh. “Oh. Johann. The name’s Johann.”

“Great to put a name to the musician,” Kravitz muses. “Really, what marvellous stuff. Easily the best out of what I was hearing down the hall. I suppose you are studying music, then?” He walks closer to Johann as he speaks, and that fidgeting stops when he stands almost right in front of Johann.

“Yup. Got that one down pretty quick.” Johann looks Kravitz up and down without even trying to disguise that fact. “You seem to have a good ear for music yourself. Are you also majoring in music? I don’t think I have ever seen you around here before,” he says.

“Ah. Well, no, I am not. My friend Keats has siblings who perform here occasionally, so I just came from attending a session with them,” Kravitz quickly clears up. He sits down on the chair next to Johann that doesn’t have his violin. He’s smiling now, with that awfully tense expression finally seeming to ebb away. “I’m planning to go into astrophysics, you see. Hopefully even break in on some of that budding planar research field.”

Johann blinks. Like, he blinks really slow. “Astrophysics? You?”

“What is that supposed to mean?!” Kravitz asked with a defensive voice that has certainly been used far too often. “We just met. You don’t know me at all.”

Johann looks over Kravitz again. They wear somewhat similar clothing, with too many layers and a lot of accessories. Whereas Johann’s clothing is much more colourful, almost comically so, Kravitz’s layers are all an incredible black. His accessories, focused on skulls and space alike, are the only thing on him that betray any colour. “You look like you could fit right in my friend group. That’s all.”

“And you’re not friends with any astrophysics enthusiasts.”

Johann shrugs. “Not currently. It’s only my second year here.”

Kravitz shakes his head and laughs under his breath. “It’s not like astrophysics enthusiasts have a look,” he insists. “I look like an astrophysicist because I am one. Got that, Johann?”

“You aren’t one. Yet. Unless you’re somehow my senior?”

“…Caught me there, I’m afraid. This is just my first year.”

“Oh, a new guy. How cute. How’s it been so far?”

Kravitz starts to bite his cheek. “It’s been… Well, I’m sure you must know it’s not the easiest thing in the world,” he says. He crosses his legs and scratches his neck. “But I have been enjoying it so far. Really. Wow. What a nice place. And I certainly haven’t been struggling, hah, I’ve been doing pretty well since I’ve got here.”

“You’re just a bit lonely,” Johann frowns.

“Yes, exactly, you get it— Wait. No. Absolutely not. How did you know?”

Johann looks at Kravitz and their gaze makes contact. They hold it for a bit, looking into their eyes for some kind of… understanding? Johann feels the search going on between them and he breaks it far too soon. “I just know. It’s not a unique feeling or anything. Many students go through that,” he mutters under his breath. “You’re not the first person on this planet to be lonely, Kravitz.”

Though Johann is not staring back at Kravitz’s face, he gets the feeling that glance-away is not reciprocated on Kravitz’s part. “Right. Of course. Forgive my wallowing,” he apologies.

“No, that’s not what I meant. That’s supposed to be a comfort, not a judgment.”

“You’re awfully adept at comforting people.”

“Comforting strangers.”

Kravitz clicks his tongue loud enough to echo across the room, which is weird, since it’s not a huge or empty room. “We don’t have to be strangers,” he says.

Johann can’t help but let out a huff out of his nose. A simple laugh. “Do you make all your friends like that?” he asks. “Or are you just particularly good with me?”

“Mix of both, I think. I’m not terrible at meeting people, but this feels… I don’t know. Easy?”

That comment makes Johann’s eyes widen. Me? Easy? he thinks to himself in awe. “That’s… wow. I usually hear the opposite,” he confesses. His hands fidget with the cuffs of his sleeves, though part of him wonders if this sudden fidgeting is going to make Kravitz rethink those words. The other part of him, the one he wears in front of Kravitz right now, says no, come on, just give it a chance.

“I’m not sure how to put it into words. You just seem familiar to me.” Kravitz’s gaze leaves Johann’s face (finally, Johann breathes a sigh of relief) and moves down to the violin on the other chair. “We have similar interests, even if we’re not in the same program. And you’re a breath of fresh air compared to my pal Keats’s group, if I must be totally honest.”

Johann looks back at Kravitz, and he sees that he’s still looking at the violin, a soft grin on his face. One look at that face, how he studies the violin with such silent admiration, and Johann gets it. “Hm. Fine, you win,” he throws up his hands in the air as if he’s been defeated. “Only because you seem cool. You can come see me around this room at this same time. It’s practically my dorm at this point.”

Kravitz shifts in his seat and straightens out his back when Johann says that. “Oh, uh, okay. Sounds great. How about a number, too? Just, you know, to keep in touch,” he offers.

“I don’t like giving my phone number out to people I just met,” Johann says. “What’s my violin made out of?”

“What an insane question. Why do you ask?”

“You’ve been staring at it. That means it caught your attention. You look like you’re big on musical instruments and what makes them look good. So, tell me, what’s my violin made of?”

“Well, that’s obvious. It’s rosewood. Real rosewood, not mahogany marketed as rosewood. Couldn’t stick with just ebony, huh?” Kravitz says. That last part sounds almost like a tease. Someone’s getting comfortable, Johann notes to himself. Good.

“Okay, you win. Again. I’ll give you my number.”

“That was a test? Seriously?” Kravitz asks. He has a baffled expression, eyebrows knitted together paired with a terribly awkward smile. Johann’s never been too great at reading people’s individual emotions— crowds are far easier to understand when you’re a musician— but he picks out something he can’t help but get excited over: amusement.

Johann almost forgets to answer Kravitz, but he eventually comes to his senses. “Oh. Uh, yeah. It was a test. Just wanted to know my number was in good hands with good taste,” he admits.

Kravitz rolls his eyes. “Johann, you…” he starts, then starts digging into one of his pockets to pull out his phone, “you are very intriguing, I have to give you that.”

“Yeah, I’ve been told. Now, my number is…”

The two exchange their phone numbers with smiles on their faces. For the first time in a long while, Johann leaves the social interaction thinking hey, that actually went pretty well.

—

“So you’re, like, actually chill with death?”

Johann is draped on Kravitz’s dorm bed, his drink nearly empty as it balances between his fingers. The question shocks Kravitz; they’ve known each other for over a year now. Did drinking somehow make Johann an even sadder man than he already is?

“Why the sudden question?” Kravitz asks. His own drink is nearing its end as well, though he holds onto his glass in a safer way than Johann.

“All the skulls. And bones,” Johann sighs. “On your clothes, around your room. It always struck out to me, duh, but right now they just seem… I don’t know. More noticeable. And it’s—” Johann hiccups hard and loud, and Kravitz snorts, “it’s got me thinking. You are really chill with having all this stuff. Why?”

Kravitz thinks over Johann’s words. He tries not to fill the moment with silence, instead opting to tap his fingers along his glass. “Why not?” he eventually lands on. “Death is a fact of life. We’re all heading towards it. I don’t see what’s so special about that.”

Johann does not extend the same courtesy. He lays in silence, his eyes fixated on the dorm room ceiling. Kravitz can practically feel the rustle of his sleeve, that little nervous tic Johann has when he’s thinking about something hard. Kravitz taps his glass faster to make up for it. You really ought to voice your thoughts as they are happening, you know, Kravitz thinks, but he doesn’t actually tell Johann that. He just keeps tapping.

“You just seem to… I don’t know. Like it?” Johann mutters. There’s a strange tone in his voice that Kravitz cannot recall ever hearing from him. Is it… bitterness? “You cover yourself with it. Death cloaks you. How can you enjoy it? How do you let it define you like this?”

Kravitz narrows his eyes at Johann up on his bed. The floor suddenly feels a lot colder than before. “Is that such a bad thing? You love music. You love to let it define you. Why can’t I have something similar?” he asks.

Johann groans and dexterously takes a sip of his drink while laying down, miraculously not spilling anything. “See, that’s the thing. I study music. I’ve lived my whole life around it and I am now studying it. It’s who I am. You like music, but that’s not what you study. You study astrophysics bullshit, but you don’t seem to really… care? At least not in the way you like music. Absolutely not in the way you enthuse about all… this,” Johann makes a big grand gesture at Kravitz’s dorm. Bleached skulls and bones blend to Kravitz, but oh, how they stare at Johann.

Kravitz opens his mouth to speak some answer, but Johann interrupts. He sighs, “I guess I don’t really get it because we’re so similar. We have a lot of things in common. I still think about how we met. You seemed just like me— you got me. You liked my music, you talked like me, you knew the same things I knew. And over this past year you’ve visited me in the practice room every day. You made me talk to Keats and the twins, you helped me make friends of my own, but they don’t act like you do. Like we do.

“But then you have this. You’re so happy with death. You’ve talked about how it’s fascinated you and how this taxidermy stuff has been a hobby and it makes your eyes light up in ways that only music seems to rival. It’s a big part of you and your life and what makes you you and not me and it makes me look fucking stupid because I— I’m scared of death, I-I hate—”

Kravitz stands up from his floor and stumbles over to Johann in a hurry. “Hey, Johann, you’re freaking out. Come on, you really don’t have to talk about this if it makes you feel this way,” he tries to comfort his friend. He looks down at Johann and his heart twists when he sees tears swelling in the corner of his wide, fearful eyes. It happens so quickly that Kravitz does not know what to do when he sees Johann like this.

“No, stop, don’t. I’m fine, this happens,” Johann reassures. He wipes the coming tears off of his eyes and sits up on the bed. He doesn’t forget to place the now-empty glass on the nightstand beside the bed. “This topic puts me in… a mood. And the drinks don’t help. Forget it.”

Kravitz looks down at Johann and lets out a quiet hum. “No, I don’t think I’ll forget it. If we want to be close, sad, drunk conversations are the way to do it, no?” he asks. He doesn’t wait for Johann’s response before he sits right beside Johann on his bed. “You want to know what I think about what you said?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you’re going to hear it. Tough luck,” Kravitz says. Johann rolls his eyes. “Look. We are similar. We’re friends. You were there for me in my first year when I only had Keats and his siblings. We share a lot of stuff, that is true. And I cherish that, truly. But that doesn’t mean we are the same. You are right, we have differences that keep me being me and you being you. That includes my… fascination, let’s call it that. That also includes how I decide to spend my life, what I focus on in my studies, and what I want to pursue in the future.

“Music is my hobby. My fascination is just that. Neither of those things, though they bring such joy to my life, and even if I had considered going into one of them as a career, just… can’t be what I do. I can’t put my life into music. And that’s what I find utterly fascinating about you, Johann. How you can go into a career so incredibly vast and expanding, yet with so little success in general. That is commendable, it truly is. But that is not something I can do, unfortunately. I could never be a bard.”

Johann eyes Kravitz up and down, and Kravitz instinctively does the same. It’s hard to look at Johann when he’s like this, when he’s sadder than usual and looking so defeated. When he doesn’t say, Kravitz sighs and scratches the back of his neck. “I enjoy what we have. I cherish the fact that we’re friends. We don’t have to be the same person to be friends. I think that’s how it usually goes, actually. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Johann answers faster than he has been answering in his drunken stupor, saying, “Yeah. Yeah, man, it is. Thanks, Krav.” His eyes move down to look at his own lap instead, a sheepish expression on his face. The tears don’t seem to be swelling as much, but a few drops fall down his cheek. Johann wipes it away as soon as he feels them get closer to his jaw. “Can I ask something, though?”

“Of course.”

“What do you think happens after we die?”

“Like… the astral plane or—”

“I mean… not really. I mean this world. Us. Who we were. Is it all just… gone?”

The question leaves Kravitz shifting in his bed. The question itself is not uncomfortable— he’s grappled with it many times, of course he has his answer remembered like the back of his hand— but what unnerves him is the pain in Johann’s voice. It is quiet in a way that Kravitz hates hearing from Johann, a soft tone that feels far too cynical even for him.

But Kravitz is not one to lie, even now. “I think that depends on what we did in life,” he says. “The greats have a legacy. History is shaped by them. The rest of us are certainly not unimportant, our families may know us for many generations. But, you know. It’s kind of undeniable that most of us will slip through the cracks of time.”

“I really cannot bear the thought of that happening to me,” Johann says. “I know how that sounds. But I don’t care. The thought of it, it…”

“Then don’t bear it,” Kravitz insists. Johann looks up at him, a look of shock etched into his face, with an underlying exhaustion just underneath the surface. “You don’t have to bear it, Johann.”

The intriguing musician who had a fascinating way of introducing himself is no longer in front of Kravitz. What Kravitz sees instead is a small, terrified half-elf with tired brown eyes and a fidgeting hand. His question, blunt as always, staked its claim on Kravitz’s heart. It would seem that his answer has done the same to Johann. “…Thanks,” Johann whispers. It is meek, but Kravitz knows how genuine it is.

For the first time in a long while, Kravitz looks down at someone and thinks, I’m glad he’s with me.

—

“I’m not a fucking scientist. Why do you want me to join the Institute?” Johann asks. He’s surprised by the offense in his own words, but he does not do anything to pretend it isn’t there.

“The Institute of Planar Research and Exploration isn’t just scientists, you know?” Kravitz explains. His voice is delicate in trying to help Johann understand his proposal, awkwardly glancing side-to-side in the café they sit in. “They’ve accepted wizards since forever. And they recently started creating opportunities for sorcerers and bards to join their retinue. You were the best bard in your graduating class, one of the best in our school’s history. I’m sure they would love to have you on.”

Johann laughs openly, a sound that only Kravitz has had the privilege to hear. Even after their respective graduations, the two of them have remained inseparable over the years. In fact, even closer than ever: they live together in one apartment, they eat together, they play games, and they support one another. And, apparently, they help each other find jobs that are wildly out of their league.

“Wow, how inclusive,” Johann says, sarcasm dripping off his tongue. “I get to be the bard diversity hire. That doesn’t know shit about space-fuck. Awesome.”

“Come on, Johann, don’t be a loser.”

“I’m not being a loser! I just didn’t study planar physics. I didn’t even study astrophysics. I don’t even think I can do math anymore.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I had to count on my fingers while I paid for this stupid fucking coffee.”

“Okay, well,” Kravitz fails to hold in his laugh, and it shoots out of him so quickly that Johann can’t whine about it before he continues, “That doesn’t matter. You can cast a mean spell, Johann. You can command an audience that no one in that building could probably even come close to. I really think you can do well in that place, even if it’s not any scientific research.”

Johann shrugs his shoulders and looks off to the window of the café they sit in. “I don’t not believe you. I’m sure you nerds need a bard in your life,” he says. Indifference may be the word that most people would identify in Johann’s tone, but Kravitz feels something a little deeper than that. “I am just… not very sure why you are coming to me about it.”

Kravitz swallows his drink thickly. He hesitates too long to say anything, and Johann notices that hesitance immediately. “It’s a good opportunity for you,” Kravitz starts. “It’s a very prestigious organization as you know. They are making hounds in the realm of science and magic, they create wonders that better our world. I am forever grateful that I have just been accepted into such an institute and I was just thinking that someone of your talent would want to be in such a—”

“Oh,” Johann interrupts. “You want me to go with you. So you’re not alone.”

Heat floods Kravitz’s face in an instant, until he feels it trickling down his neck and down to his shoulders. He does not dignify Johann’s observation with a response, but that’s about all Johann needs from Kravitz nowadays. For as difficult as it may be for Johann to tell what most people think and feel around him, he’s gotten Kravitz pinned like no other. “Krav. Why?”

“Johann, you know why.”

Of course Johann knows why. He knows it like the fidget in his hand, the scratch of his neck, the death in Kravitz’s former dorm room, the rosewood violin. Oh, how he knows.

“…Yeah. I know.”

The two of them do not look at each other for a while. They sit in silence, sipping on their drinks, eating their snacks. Johann’s heart pounds in his chest; Kravitz’s throat feels incredibly dry. Though neither of them speak, their bodies sing songs of their thoughts, anxieties that they can pick up.

Eventually, it gets too much for Kravitz. “We work well together,” he says. “Even though we studied very different things, when we studied together it was wonderful. And I love living with you, you’re a good roommate. You’re a wonderful friend.”

Johann bites his lip. He’s trying to stop himself from seething and it only barely works. “That doesn’t change just because we go into different jobs.”

“But doesn’t it?” Kravitz asks. It’s a desperate plea more than a genuine or even rhetorical question. “This will take up a lot of my time. Any job you get, an orchestra you join, a school you teach at, or— gods, if you ever make it big and start doing solo gigs…” A breath gets caught in Kravitz’s throat and Johann wonders if he’s actually going to cry in public. “Johann, you’ll be gone. You’ll go travelling. And when you’re here, I’ll be at the institute. We won’t have nearly as much time as we currently do now.”

“I always thought you would be with me if I did that,” Johann says. It’s his turn to get emotional, with his stiff movements and his cracking voice. Gods, oh gods, why did we have to bring this up now? he thinks to himself.

“I still want to. That isn’t impossible. I…” Kravitz rubs his face in exhaustion, and an attempt to buy himself time to form his sentence. “We can do something like that in the Institute, I am sure. That organization is about the biggest stage you can get in the world right now. All of the public eye has been on it ever since we’ve started finding other planets within our plane. I am sure, I am so sure, that by working there you can have access to the world’s greatest orchestras and stages.”

Kravitz reaches a hand over to Johann’s, who lets him. “And I will be there for you the whole way,” he says. It is soft, but it is earnest.

Johann sucks in a shaky breath. “Tell me it won’t all go wrong,” he pleads.

“What?”

“That this won’t lead me down towards nothing. That I will actually, truly, still have a chance at doing what I want to do. That I am not doing this just for you.”

“I promise,” Kravitz grins, “it won’t all go wrong. You’re not doing this just for me.”

I would still do this just for you, rings in the back of Johann’s mind.

—

“I never expected to be on a giant planar ship, you know.”

Johann’s words ring between him and Kravitz as they ready themselves into their bright red robes. He, Kravitz and Keats were all preparing for the expedition of a lifetime: two months beyond their own plane of existence. The other hand picked crewmates, Dr. Maureen Miller, Sloane, Hurley, and Captain Boyland were all preparing as well for their grand exit on the other side of the room.

“Isn’t that great?” Kravitz beams. “First bard on an IPRE mission. That journalist for The Rolling Gemstones was very interested in hearing any music that would be inspired by your travels. Now, aren’t you lucky you were picked?”

“It was less that he was picked and more that you insisted you wouldn’t go at all if he didn’t come,” Keats clarifies. Kravitz shoots a glare of daggers at Keats’ comment, and he promptly shies away and shuts up the moment he sees those eyes of death on him.

Johann notices and kicks Kravitz in the ankle, resulting in a silently ‘ow!’ “He’s not wrong, so, be nice,” Johann says. The robe drapes along his shoulders perfectly, and when he flips the hood over his feathered cap, he realizes it is the perfect width and length to allow it to encapsulate his headwear without crumpling it. He looks at Kravitz and Keats and flips the cape of the robe dramatically. “Whaddya think?” he asks in his monotonous tone.

Keats starts, “You look—”

“Stupid,” Kravitz ends.

“Kravitz!”

“He knows what I mean.”

Johann nods and flips his hood back off. “Yeah, I know. He means I look cool in the bard way, which is stupid in the nerd way,” he explains to Keats. “So, I look nice. Got it. You know, red really isn’t my colour, man, but I am kind of rocking it.”

Sloane butts in on the conversation. “You can say that again,” she muses as she tugs on the IPRE patch on her left breast. Her red jacket contrasts against her otherwise black outfit. “All ready, you three? We gotta strap in in a few minutes. This ain’t a fashion show.”

“We’re ready,” the three men chime. At their response, Sloane’s eyes sweep across them and does not comment on their half-dressedness. Then, she walks away with the fully dressed Hurley and Boyland. Maureen, the most accomplished and experienced person on the team behind the Captain, watches Kravitz and Keats hurry getting into their uniforms before she finally leaves.

Kravitz pulls on Johann’s sleeve before he can leave. “Johann?” he asks.

“Yes, Kravitz?”

“I’ve always wanted to be a conductor.”

The confession catches Johann off guard. “What?”

“I never told you what I wanted to pursue in music, back when you asked, when we first met,” Kravitz says. His eyes are locked onto Johann’s and he can’t afford to look away. “There’s something about… bringing people together. Keeping people in time. Being a messenger? Something about it feels right. It feels orderly.”

“…Okay?”

“This is the expedition of a lifetime. I have been waiting for something like this for… a long time. And my job on this ship is not unlike being a conductor,” Kravitz says. Johann notices how frantic his voice sounds, but before he can open his mouth to comfort Kravitz, he gets shut down, “I guess I just wanted you to know that before we leave. Because really, I couldn’t have done this without you. I hope you understand that.”

Johann holds onto the hand on his sleeve. His touch is gentle, caressing Kravitz’s hand with a fiery love and affection. “I do,” he whispers. “Of course I do. I couldn’t have been here without you, too. We have that in common, don’t we?” Johann chokes up after that last sentence, but it’s with a proud smile that’s so infectious it makes its way onto Kravitz’s lips as well. “You’re my best friend, Krav.”

“Sometimes I see you as a brother, weirdly enough.”

Johann rolls his eyes. How many times have the two of them done that to each other? “We’re nothing like siblings,” he lies through his teeth. As if he hasn’t had that thought before. “You only say that because you were an only child, idiot.”

“So were you, stupid.”

They laugh. Johann and Kravitz, two people that most would swear were insufferably hard to connect with, difficult to understand emotionally, laugh with each other until they inevitably are pulled away and ushered into the Starblaster. Their home for the next few months. A violinist and a conductor, a bard of lore and a researcher of space, the two stare outside the window of the Starblaster, hand in hand. Waving at the people below— strangers, friends, even family as Keats waves down his two older siblings— and they feel excitement.

The violinist and the conductor think of music as they leave their world.

#taz #taz balance #taz johann #taz kravitz #johann appreciation week #the adventure zone #my writing

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missmaywemeetagain · 9 months

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A Million Little Heartaches: Pandora's Box 💔💫❤️‍🔥

A/N: Hi, my darlin's! I was feeling a little hesitant about posting my first non-EP fic, but I got over myself lol. This one is a bit of an experiment as it's not told in chronological order, and we'll see if I continue it based on inspiration and interest. Please let me know your thoughts! As always, they are so appreciated and what helps keep me motivated a lot of the time, especially as I'm trying new things. I really hope you enjoy it and can't wait to hear what you think. 💗

ALSO, I'm not sure if tumblr has changed its algorithm or what, but I know I'm not seeing people's posts in my feed like I used to. Turn on notifications for me to not miss anything and if you like this, it would be super helpful if you reblog this post! Thank you babies! 💗

Key Tropes: Angst, right person(s)-wrong time, star-crossed lovers, slow burn kinda? friends to enemies to friends to lovers?(LOL), forbidden love, second chance love

💥 Head's up! My first Scarf Universe exclusive (Red Scarf) is set to come out THIS WEEK for my Patreons! It's utterly filthy and indulgent, so if you are interested, you can join my Patreon community HERE to get access! 💥

A Million Little Heartaches

Part 1: Pandora’s Box

March 2026

I’ve curled my legs up under me in an oversized armchair, staring aimlessly at the fire. My empty wine glass is precariously balanced in my hand as I am hypnotized by the flames. Liam’s angry outburst shocked everyone, and his words still ring like poison in my ears:

You abandoned me.

I run through all the things I could’ve said in response instead of just standing there speechless as he ripped me into pieces in front of everybody.

Namely, you made your choice, Liam. And it wasn’t me.

It was never me.

Good ole Lily, forever the consolation prize, I muse, shaking my head.

There’s a hollow feeling in my heart that hasn’t been there for a long, long time.

“Mind if I join you?” Jake’s rumbling voice startles me out of my staring contest with the fire.

Oh god, now? Seriously? is what I’m thinking, but I manage a cordial nod instead, setting my empty glass on the side table next to me.

He sits in the chair facing mine. A glance over reminds me he’s a man now, not a boy, the firelight hitting the weathered but not unattractive lines on what used to be a baby face. The peach fuzz which had tickled my cheek so long ago is now a short, dark beard on a sharper, less rounded jaw. His once sandy hair has darkened some and is peppered with grey. He has aged well.

I can’t imagine how he must be looking at me after all these years, at the changes he must see. I know I’m not the girl I was. I look back at the fire.

“Are you okay?” he asks after a moment of silence.

I roll my eyes over to him and huff a bitter laugh. “Does it matter?”

I shouldn’t have said it like that—Liam’s freak out wasn’t Jake’s fault—but everything feels so fucking raw that I don’t have the wherewithal for a filter.

“It always has,” he says quietly.

The words hang there between us, heavy. There’s a poignancy and deeper meaning to them that slaps me out of my pity party.

“Excuse me?” I breathe out, blinking. My heart starts racing, like a hummingbird trapped in my ribcage.

He doesn’t get to say my feelings have always mattered. Not him. Not the guy who dragged me to hell and back because he was too much of a coward to let me down easy. Not the one who I spent nearly six years trying desperately to know and wishing for him to know me, too. Who I tried, only somewhat successfully, to forge a friendship with after it seemed all between us was well and truly done.

Jake shifts uncomfortably in his seat, looking at the fire before he finds what he needs there to bring himself to look back at me.

He only knows a fraction of what he put me through, or at least I think he does. He was ever the master at shutting me out, so it’s always been hard to know what he’s thinking or feeling without having to pry it out of him with a crowbar.

His voice echoes in my head, a long-forgotten memory: I guess I’m just the kind of person who hides my feelings.

An understatement.

This makes it a surprise when he looks straight at me with those warm brown eyes that used to melt me into the floor and says, “Your feelings have always mattered.”

Maybe it’s the wine, or the blowup with Liam, but my filter disappears completely. There’s a latent, hot anger that boils to the surface.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. You, of all people, think my feelings have always mattered?” I throw back at him, scoffing.

He looks as though I’ve slapped him, and if I wasn’t so upset, I might try to backtrack. But I spent six years of my adolescence trying to shield him from my feelings, and as an adult, I don’t have time for that shit anymore.

“I suppose I deserve that,” he recovers, looking back at the fire.

I’m surprised, to say the least. It’s not as though we hadn’t talked about it back in the day, at least somewhat, but I never let him know just how deeply he hurt me. I never told him about the panic attacks, the intense depressions, or the manic feelings I’d get from just a morsel of attention from him. No, I’d buried all that for the sake of our “friendship” or whatever it was.

Part of me knows it’s stupid to try and rehash things that we put to rest so long ago. I shouldn’t hold it against him—we were just teenagers—but it wasn’t until my twenties that I finally grasped just how much Jake fucked me up. He made me think that if you love someone enough, they can treat you however they want and it doesn’t matter, and if it’s “meant to be” then someone can string you along indefinitely without consequence. I’d been so convinced we were these star-crossed lovers that had such a deep thread of connection that we’d someday figure it out. But someday never came.

Liam had. Liam pulled me from the ashes of my heartbreak and showed me real love. Or so I’d hoped. I’d hoped so much that I’d ignored and excused all the similarities between the way he and Jake treated me. But he had loved me and risked it all for me at one time. I mattered to him, to a fault.

But with Jake, I’m never sure I mattered. I always felt on thin ice, or at least that’s how I remember it. But memory warps over time. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’ve been wrong about all of it.

God, he still has me running circles around myself.

“Yeah, you do deserve it, a little,” is what I finally settle on, but it comes out gentler than I want it to.

He gives me a familiar sardonic half-smile.

Ah, there he is, the little shit. It was a look that twenty years ago would set my heart a-flutter on a good day and made me want to throttle him on a bad one. Some things never change.

Another thing that hasn’t changed is my need to shove him past his comfort zone with all my thoughts and feelings.

“Sometimes, I’m still not sure I mattered to you at all.” The words catch in my throat, giving away more than I want to.

His eyes snap back to mine. “How can you say that?” he asks with a surprising level of hurt in his voice.

I’m taken aback. “Jake, I don’t think you entirely understand the way you…” I stop myself and shake my head.

“The way I what? Say it,” he challenges, uncharacteristically.

I take a deep breath. “The way you broke my heart completely. How I spent months—no, years—trying to figure out what I had done that was so bad that you didn’t have or couldn’t really admit you had feelings for me, or why I was so repulsive you couldn’t bear to be with me. You had me so tied in knots I could hardly breathe.”

“Lily, you were never—” he starts, shaking his head, but I don’t listen, plowing right through whatever he thinks he needs to say.

“And then Liam came into the picture and helped me heal, and still I was so desperate for your approval, for us to be friends. But you always, always kept me at arm’s length. I could never figure any of it out. I still wonder if it was all one-sided and I was just a crazy little girl who manufactured this epic love story in her head,” I ramble out, shaking my head.

I’m saying too much, I know I am, but what the fuck does it matter now, after all this time? I have no need to impress him anymore.

He shutters down, and it’s so entirely familiar that I have to laugh. “That. Right there,” I point, “is the same thing you did to me 27 years ago. You could never let me in, could you? As much as I hoped you would, as close as I swear I got sometimes, this brick wall is what made me question everything about us. It always has.”

His eyes widen as he’s called out so viciously, his hands tensing then releasing the arms on the chair. I let him sit in it for a moment before I drop the last bombshell, the one I’m sure will ruin the precarious balance between us:

“You were my first love, Jake, and I was so in love with you it hurt. God, I was so convinced we were connected in some timeless, deep, soulmates kind of way. And sometimes you did things that seemed to confirm that, but then you’d turn around and…well, I tried so hard to understand why you didn’t feel it, too. But I was young and stupid and obsessed, I guess,” I laugh, looking into the fire. “I finally just had to accept I was never gonna figure you out or understand why you didn’t love me back.”

He’s quiet for a long moment and I’m almost afraid he’s going to get up and walk away.

“Sorry, I guess old habits die hard. Here I am, still blasting you with all my feelings, 25-plus-years later,” I chuckle. “No wonder you never wanted to be with m—”

“You’ve got it all wrong,” he interrupts.

My head snaps back to him. “What?”

“I never meant to hurt you like that. I never meant to drive you to…Liam,” he says, with a frustrated bitterness in his tone that surprises me.

“Okay…?” I’m not sure where this is going, but my heart kicks up again.

“I told you back then I liked you,” he says blatantly, as if it were ever that simple between us.

I can’t help but laugh. “Did you, really? You told me in different ways how you were ‘gonna ask me out, but…’. And there was always a ‘but.’ And it was never in the present tense. I heard from other people that you liked me, sure, but you never really told me. Not in a way that felt like I wasn’t forcing something out of you that you were ashamed of or just telling me to save face. And it was always me who came to you. Always. You had a thousand chances and never followed through. We never even kissed, Jake! You kissed everyone but me. What was I supposed to think?”

“I-I-I…damn it, Lily,” he growls. “I couldn’t.”

“Excuse me? You very much ‘could,’ you just didn’t want to. And that’s fine, you never owed it to me to reciprocate my feelings. Just don’t pretend—”

“Of course, I had feelings for you!” he yells.

I’m stunned into silence.

“I had feelings for you since we were 12! You were the first girl I ever really thought of in that way and I had no idea how to deal with it. And the moment you showed any interest in me I panicked and pushed you away. And I regretted it after and thought I’d ruined everything, but you came back, and I-I-I did it again. And again. Because my feelings for you scared the shit out of me.”

My heart is jackhammering now. I can barely breathe. “Why?”

“You were special. I couldn’t—I couldn’t ruin that…or you.”

“That doesn’t make any sense! You didn’t want to ‘ruin me’ so you broke my heart, over and over?”

“I didn’t deserve you. You were way too good for me and way out of my league.”

Flabbergasted, I blink at him. The pure insanity of this conversation has me whirling.

“But you kept flirting with me anyway, leading me on? You’d hug me, hold my hand…Lord, you even snuggled me and popped a fucking boner against me at that party freshman year…” I babble.

A blush floods his cheeks. “I was only 15, I-I-I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“You knew enough to fuck Talia.”

He looks like I’ve struck him again, but I can see in his eyes he knows I’m right. Talia would forever be a sore spot between us.

“I was young. And dumb.”

“No shit. And it doesn’t track. You did the same with Tina, Heather, and pretty much any other girl who showed the slightest bit of interest in you. Everyone except me.”

“I know. I was wrong. I was in a…bad place.”

“I practically handed myself to you on a platter and you humiliated me. How do you think it felt that I was the only one you never…you just kept me dangling on a string,” I say, shaking with anger.

“I know,” he whispers, “I’m sorry, I just couldn’t…”

“Sure,” I shake my head and look away. I don’t know why I care so much. I shouldn’t. This is all ancient history, and maybe it is Liam’s doing for sucking me back into the past tonight, but for some reason it all feels like it happened yesterday.

“I knew it was wrong, that I was treating you badly, a-a-and that’s why I found God. I wanted to be better…for you.”

Something cracks inside of me at the gesture. It doesn’t make any sense—why would he do that for me? My breath starts to falter a bit.

I remember he had changed dramatically mid-sophomore year, turning into a nicer, happier, and kinder version of himself. He’d stopped going after every girl in sight and wasn’t blatantly ignoring me anymore. We’d become friends again. I’d thought he was swept up in wanting to hang with the cooler, older Christian kids in the group, bowing to a weird form of peer pressure, just as I had done.

Of course, my “conversion” had not stuck after everything that happened later, but that’s beside the point.

Slowly, pieces start falling into place. Things I’d never considered.

“You didn’t. You did it for…me?” I say breathlessly. “That’s a pretty drastic thing for a 16-year-old to do…”

He nods.

A shiver runs down my spine.

“Why…why would you do something like that for me?” I hold my breath and quell the trembling of my hands by clasping them together.

In the heavy pause, it feels like all the air gets sucked out of the room, and everything else around us warps and stops.

“Because I was completely in love with you.”

My heart stops. “What?” I whisper.

This can’t be real.

But his eyes are as open and pleading as I’ve ever seen them, begging me to finally understand what he couldn’t impart all those years ago.

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” I manage to choke out.

A pained look crosses his face. “I was too late.”

It’s like I’m 16 again, the way my heart is ready to explode while simultaneously being yanked from my chest. The air whooshes out of my lungs and I can’t bring myself to speak. All I can do is look over at him with questioning eyes.

“Me being such an asshole pushed you straight into his arms and by the time I came to my senses, it was too late. You’d fallen for him, even though he was with someone else,” he says bitterly.

He is not wrong. The whole reason Liam and I became friends in the first place was he listened to my heartbreak over Jake.

“So, I tried to be your friend instead. That was what you wanted, right? I thought maybe I could get closer to you and change your mind, talk some sense into you.”

I find my voice. “What are you even talking about? Liam and I were very much not together that spring and summer because of Melissa. You had the perfect chance, but you started dating Tiffany right when school got out.”

His jaw sets, clenches. “Oh, come on. It was beyond obvious you weren’t over him. So, yeah, when Tiffany showed interest, I gave it a chance. But I couldn’t stop thinking about you. You probably don’t remember how I messaged you all the time. How our conversations got longer a-a-and deeper. How I begged you to call me.”

Vague memories flash back to me. “I did call you. And I definitely would’ve remembered you telling me this!” I shake my head.

He has no idea how this revelation would have changed everything. God, I can’t breathe.

“I tried to feel you out that fall, but you were pretty focused on Liam.”

Mind racing, I try to remember how it all went down. My attraction to Liam had been all-consuming, made worse by the way we desperately tried to keep our hands off each other when Melissa left for college. We weren’t officially together, but it was obvious to anyone with eyes that we were mad about each other. Between that, the play, and keeping my grades up, things were intense that fall, to say the least. But there had been some weird moments with Jake that I’d tried to brush off as friendly at the time, but maybe they weren’t.

“Friendsgiving.” It pops into my head suddenly, and I look at him with wide eyes. “I couldn’t figure it out—you went out of your way to take me home that night, then you were so teasing and flirty. We sat in my driveway for like half an hour. You couldn’t keep your hands off me—tickling me and putting your arm around me. I thought it was strange…but you were with Tiffany. I convinced myself I was imagining it.”

It starts to dawn on me that perhaps my instincts had been right this whole damn time.

I ramble as I recall more, “You were so obsessed about Mick having to kiss me for the play. We talked about how weird it would be if you had to understudy and it was us who had to kiss instead.”

Jake looks at me sheepishly. “I wanted to kiss you so badly.”

“God, why didn’t you?!”

“You were in love with Liam!”

“You are still such an idiot. Did you not hear anything I’ve said to you? If you’d kissed me, it wouldn’t have mattered. You were always there in the back of my mind. It was always you.” My hands are trembling at the admission, at how easily I would’ve folded if he had come for me.

His eyes narrow, almost incredulously, as if he can’t believe it.

“That’s all I ever wanted, Jake—for you to care enough to show me, or tell me, or anything at all! To fight for me…for us. But you never had the balls to do it, and that’s why we never happened. Not because of Liam. Not because I didn’t feel the same way. Because of you,” I say, voice shaking as hard as my hands.

I’m coming apart at the seams, unravelling for the second time tonight because of men who never truly understood me or put me first. Refusing to cry in front of Jake and let him know just how much he’d changed with his inaction, I stand too quickly, wobbling on my feet.

Jake jumps up to steady me, one hand at my forearm and the other at my waist, touching me for the first time in over 20 years. My stupid body responds with a jolt of electricity now just as it did then, like a phantom limb come to life. Logic tells me to pull away.

I don’t.

He steps closer. “I’m sorry,” he whispers into my hair, “I feel like all I’ve ever done is hurt you, and I hate myself for it.”

Oh, god. His proximity is dizzying, a reminder of moments long gone. A whiff of cologne. The way his thumb gently rubs the dip of my waist through my dress. The not-so-subtle way he lures me in closer.

I don’t understand. How is it after the decades of life that have occurred, after having my heart swell and break and swell again with different types of love, that this man still can send me reeling?

And he’s right—all he’s ever done is hurt me and tie me in knots. Being near him is like being edged in the most painful of ways because there is never any payoff. He had seen to that.

There is something inherently cruel in the fate of it all. How the moment I had moved on all those years ago, the moment I released my hope of being with him and found another, that was when he figured his shit out. The worst part used to be feeling like he’d never felt the same about me, but knowing now that he loved me somehow makes everything ache even worse than it did before.

Tears sting the corners of my eyes, even though I promised myself long ago I’d never shed another tear over Jake. I hate he will forever be the one that got away. The one who I’d never felt closure with, like a scab that crusts over but won’t heal underneath. As stupid as it sounds, there has been a part of me since the moment he so sweetly helped me solve a math problem in the 7th grade that has unwillingly left a piece of my heart in his hands ever since, no matter how many others there have been to take his place in between.

And I hate him for that. I hate him even more now that I know I was always right about us from the start, about the thread of connection that bound us to each other almost 30 years ago.

“Does it even bother you? The ‘what could have been?’ Did it cross your mind that maybe everything would be different if you’d just said something? Or did you just forget about me, about all of it?” I whisper angrily.

God knows, I haven’t.

Furious and frazzled, I press my hands into his chest to push away. It’s a terrible move because his large hand covers mine, pinning it to him. He’s warm through his dress shirt and his heart beats wildly under my palm. My eyes fly up to meet his.

“I think about it all the time. More than I should. But God works in mysterious ways,” he says, as if that explains it all.

I roll my eyes. Another wonderful excuse. “I guess he does,” I add sarcastically. Extricating myself from him, I immediately feel clearer, but part of me wants nothing more to feel his touch on me again. I shake the feeling off.

I had abandoned religion and the guilt and bigotry that came along with it the moment I got to college, when I realized just how much it had fucked my young brain up. Not shockingly, the religious friends who’d taken such offense when I’d gotten together with Liam were the same ones who quickly fell out of my life once they realized I wasn’t going to tow the line. Jake had only dug his heels in deeper into his religion after that, with Tiffany and his cookie-cutter perfect family and church going ways, and now it crosses my mind that it’s all because of me.

Don’t be stupid.

He’s waiting on me to say something. It takes me a moment to absorb the fact that he admitted thinking about me more than he should. This good and pious Christian man was thinking about me when he should have been thinking about his wife.

But I am in no place to judge. Not about this.

I want to know what salacious thoughts have run through his mind about me, but I can’t bring myself to ask. Part of me wants to utterly ruin him in all the ways I couldn’t when we were teenagers. A heat gathers low in my belly at the thought, at his nearness.

Romantic and physical chemistry is no joke, I realize. It’s like my pheromones were preprogrammed by the universe to be attracted to his, and by the cautiously heated look he’s giving me now, I’m wondering if it’s always been the same for him.

One of my biggest regrets about us, since the beginning, was the question that if we had even just kissed once and got it over with, would it have broken the tension between us like a summer rainstorm breaks the heat? Would we have gotten it out of our system and figured out if whatever chemistry we had was real or just something we’d worked up in our imaginations?

But it’s too late for that. The past can’t be changed. Now the ‘what if’s’ that plagued me for all these years hurt worse than before, knowing that with one stupid admission or one kiss all those years ago, we could have had it all. Maybe we would have been the high school sweethearts who got married and annoy our 2.5 kids with stories about what an idiot their dad was until he’d finally told me how he felt.

There would’ve been no me-and-Liam, or him leaving me because the world had gone to shit. I wouldn’t have met my husband. All of it, an entire life I’ll never know, flashes before my eyes and nearly brings me to my knees.

And while I don’t subscribe to his God, I do think the universe puts things in our path. But what was the point of all this, then—of us never being the “us” we both know we wanted it to be? I just don’t see why this thing can’t seem to die and fade into the ether. He’s like a bad penny I can’t shake.

At least with Liam, there was closure. We had loved and dated and all of the milestones that go with that. Knowing Jake loved me doesn’t make me truly feel any better, other than the fact I know I wasn’t a delusional, lovesick teenager.

But he loved a version of me that’s grown up into someone different, just as I begrudgingly loved a version of him that I’d made up in my head to be better than he was.

I’ve been quiet too long. “Why?” It pops out of my mouth unwillingly. “Why do you still think of me?”

“Do you still think of me?” I expect him to shirk away from the question, but he flips it on me so fast I have whiplash.

I close my mouth, my eyes darting away, answering his question.

He nods. “Then you know.”

Does that mean he replays fuzzy memories of interlocking his fingers with mine or pulling me too close in a dance? He sees the stolen, meaningful glances in his mind’s eye? He thinks about the multitude of chances he had to press his lips to mine but didn’t and what may have happened if it had gone farther than that? He thinks of how if he and I became a “we” it would’ve completely altered the course of our lives?

I have trouble thinking he ponders any of that.

But if he loved me like he says he did…

The hollow ache in my heart is back with a vengeance, erasing all hope I had at getting out of here relatively unscathed.

“Maybe we were just destined to hurt each other. Maybe we’ve always been bad for each other,” I say indignantly instead of voicing all the other thoughts buzzing in my head. But it feels true, nonetheless.

I watch him shake his head rather vehemently. He opens his mouth to speak, but I beat him to the punch.

“But too bad we never had the chance to find out for sure,” I add with venom. After this, I don’t think I’ll ever stop feeling like he stole that chance from me.

We were babies. Give the guy a break, a tiny voice in the back of my head chimes in.

Unfortunately, I’m a little too emotionally wrecked to let a silly thing like logic get me back on track and remind me I’m a goddamned adult.

Star-crossed lovers aren’t real. “Meant to be” isn’t real. Threads of fate tying us together in inexplicable ways aren’t real. What’s real is hormones and youth and cowardice and terrible timing. What’s real are jobs and spouses and children.

Then why can’t I shake the feeling that this isn’t even close to being the end for us? It makes no sense.

It never has.

I grab my purse. Furious and regretful, I can’t be around him anymore, which is made evident by the fact that I want to stay so badly, even if it means my heart is bleeding out in front of him. But I have more self-respect now than I had when I was 16, and I certainly am not going to cry in front of him.

“Goodbye Jake. I hope your life is everything you want it to be. Give Tiffany my best.” It’s a dig, to be sure. We both know Tiffany wants nothing to do with me, and now I finally know why. I turn and walk away, quickly, escaping my past down the darkened hallway towards the bathrooms.

“Lily, wait,” he commands from behind me, catching up and grabbing my hand. Shocked at his tone of voice and forwardness, I have no choice to spin back to him. His eyes are blazing.

“What? What is there left to say?” I say, my voice cracking with emotion. “That one of my biggest regrets is that we never made this work, this—this silly pseudo-romance from our teens? That I hate how much this matters to me, even now, even though I haven’t seen you in years?”

He advances, his eyes never leaving mine, and a small huff escapes my lips as my back hits the wall. It’s hard not to notice he’s broader and taller than he used to be as his body comes so close to pressing against mine. Every one of my nerves sparks to attention at his sudden proximity, a buzzing static electricity.

His hand clasps my neck, the rough pad of his thumb trailing along my jaw. I have no choice but to keep looking up at him, into those darkened brown eyes.

“What are you doing?” I whisper.

Shock precedes a pool of fire low in my belly when he boldly brings his thumb to the center of my lips and slowly drags it down. My lips part and a small moan escapes them. I’m vaguely aware of my purse hitting the floor with a thunk.

“What I should’ve done a long time ago,” he says definitively. His warm breath tickles my cheek where his mouth hovers too close to mine.

As my body fully kicks into overdrive, I’m reminded of what I’ve always known: I’m incapable of resisting Jake Lawson. One last rational thought pushes through the fire that is rapidly consuming me.

“This is a bad idea,” I pant, my eyes scanning his face.

“A terrible one,” he agrees, and when he nods, his nose brushes against mine.

I expect a crash of lips and teeth, but instead his soft lips brush mine tantalizingly, dragging in a way that sends an explosion of heat through my chest. The warmth of our breath mingles, and I can’t stop the way my hands instinctively reach for the lapels of his jacket. His hand on my neck pulls me closer and when our lips finally press together in earnest, oh, god, it’s everything I’d ever hoped it would be.

Instead of breaking away, we are pulled into each other by some unknown force that makes my entire body tingle from head to toe. Jake deepens the kiss, and I turn as pliable as putty in his arms, wondering how it is possible that we went this damn long without doing this. His fingers tighten in my hair, eliciting a groan as his mouth opens and his tongue persuasively brushes against my lips. Granting permission, I open to him further and our tongues roll gingerly against each other.

Something ignites in me that hasn’t in a long, long time. It’s a blast of desire and truth so strong it threatens to undo me. It’s different than pure passion—there’s a yearning, a need, a rightness lacing every touch between us. And based on the way he clings to me now, I have no doubt he feels it, too, this sense of fate that we were always destined to end up here.

Every instinct I have wants to feed the fire that is swirling in my belly, but the last thread of rationality left in me reminds me that I shouldn’t let this go too far. It has gone too far already. I force myself to pull away, which is like prying two strong magnets off each other. I can’t move more than an inch, just enough to separate our lips. I’m too dizzy with the smell of him and what must be a lack of oxygen. Or maybe it’s because my entire world feels upended.

His forehead rests on mine, his thumb caressing the hollow of my throat. “Shit,” he sighs out with a shudder, his breath tickling my face as he struggles to control himself.

For once in my life, I have no doubt of what he’s feeling. The way he says that one word tells me he is every bit as blindsided, connected, and aroused as I am. But it’s more than just that. A tether of knowing has tightened between us. It’s so overwhelming I feel like I might cry.

As we stand pressed close together in this dark hallway, I don’t think either of us truly expected it to feel like this. Like everything that’s been wrong between us was because we resisted this bond, a power that feels beyond anything I could have imagined. In mere moments, we’ve confirmed what both of us have inherently known but tried to ignore for almost three decades.

That’s when I realize we’ve opened Pandora’s box. We can never go back.

“Jake…” I choke, trying to get the words out, but they won’t come.

“I know,” he responds solemnly, and I have no doubt he has come to the same conclusion as I have:

We are in deep trouble.

taglist

@sassanoe @re3kin @thella @suspiciousmidge @hiddlepiddlediddlewiddle @carolinesbookworld @juggernort @aesthetic-lyss @stitchattacks @donnamarie23

@lacyluver @littlebitofgreen @paigevis @bugg06 @xhannahbananax03 @artlover8992

@18lkpeters @frozenhuntress67 @girlblogger2002 @kendralavon7 @misspresley @elv1s-is-pretty

@be-my-ally @whositmcwhatsit @vintageshanny @ellie-24 @thatbanditqueen @powerofelvis @from-memphis-with-love

@precious-little-scoundrel @stylespresleyhearted @prompted-wordsmith @crash-and-cure @elvisgf @ohjustpeachy1 @lookingforrainbows @fic-over-cannon @godlypresley @ab4eva @whatstruthgottodowithit @elvisabutler @ amydarcimarie @idontwanttoputanything @callieselvisobsessed @captainamerica1235-blog @xenaspace3-blog

#i really hope people see this!#ngl i'm nervous #y'all mean the world and i hope you enjoy!#a million little heartaches #part 1 #pandora's box #lily x jake #lily x liam #romance #angst #star crossed lovers #second chance at love #madisyn may #missmaywemeetagain #elvis #elvis x reader

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corruptedforce · 3 months

Text

FIVE SONGS for your muse.

i. EVERYBODY WANTS TO RULE THE WORLD / TEARS FOR FEARS : ❛ it's my own design / It's my own remorse / Help me to decide / Help me make the most / Of freedom and of pleasure / Nothing ever lasts forever / Everybody wants to rule to world ❜

ii. LOOK AT WHAT YOU MADE ME DO / TAYLOR SWIFT : ❛ I don't like your little games / don't like your tilted stage / the role you made me play / of the fool / no, I don't like you.....Anakin Skywalker can't come to phone right now. Why? Because he is dead and I am what remains. '

iii. BROTHER / KODALINE : ❛ We've taken different paths' and traveled different roads / I know we'll always end up on the same one when we're old / and when you're in the trenches / And you're under fire / I will cover you / If I was dying on my knees / You would be the one to rescue me / And if you were drowned as sea / I'd give you mu lungs so you could breathe ( very Anakin and Obi-Wan coded, probably through the War, but really, they never did want the other dead. ) ❜

iv. AM I SAVAGE / METALLICA : ❛ Am I savage? Scratching at the door. Am I savage? I don't recognized you anymore.

v. IMPERIAL MARCH / JOHN WILLIAMS : This doesn't need any explanation??? Also, it was hard not to include Anakin's theme, Anakin's betrayal, Duel of the Fates, Across the Stars because they are all amazing but the Imperial March is irreplaceable.

FIVE QUOTES for your muse.

i. ❛ This is Anakin Skywalker: The most powerful Jedi of his generation. Perhaps of any generation. The fastest. The strongest. An unbeatable pilot. An unstoppable warrior. On the ground, in the air or sea or space, there is no one even close. He has not just power, not just skill, but dash: that rare, invaluable combination of boldness and grace.” - Matthew Stover / Revenge of the Sith

ii. “They are closer than friends. Closer than brothers. Though Obi-Wan is sixteen standard years Anakin's elder, they have become men together. Neither can imagine life without the other. The war has forged their two lives into one.” - Matthew Stover / Revenge of the Sith (About Anakin and Obi-Wan)

iii. “This is how it feels to be Anakin Skywalker, forever: The first dawn of light in your universe brings pain. The light burns you. It will always burn you. Part of you will always lie upon black glass sand beside a lake of fire while flames chew upon your flesh.” / Matthew Stover / Revenge of the Sith

iv. ❛ All I am surrounded by is fear and dead men.' / Vader Down #1

v. ❛ You loved her. You will always love her. You could never will her death. Never. But you remember... You remember all of it. You remember the dragon that you brought Vader forth from your heart to slay. You remember the cold venom in Vader's blood. You remember the furnace of Vader's fury, and the black hatred of seizing her throat to silence her lying mouth—And there is one blazing moment in which you finally understand that there was no dragon. That there was no Vader. That there was only you. Only Anakin Skywalker. That it was all you. Is you. Only you. You did it. You killed her. You killed her because, finally, when you could have saved her, when you could have gone away with her, when you could have been thinking about her, you were thinking about yourself... It is in this blazing moment that you finally understand the trap of the dark side, the final cruelty of the Sith—Because now your self is all you will ever have. You rage and scream and reach through the Force to crush the shadow who has destroyed you, but you are so far less now than what you were, you are more than half machine, you are like a painter gone blind, a composer gone deaf, you can remember where the power was but the power you can touch is only a memory, and so with all your world-destroying fury it is only droids around you that implode, and equipment, and the table on which you were strapped shatters, and in the end, you cannot touch the shadow. In the end, you do not even want to. In the end, the shadow is all you have left. Because the shadow understands you, the shadow forgives you, the shadow gathers you unto itself — And within your furnace heart, you burn in your own flame. This is how it feels to be Anakin Skywalker.. Forever." — Matthew Stover /Revenge of the Sith

TAGGED BY: @prodijedi

TAGGING @mayxthexforce (sabe), @taliaromanova, @petitsdieu, @xx--ofmanythoughts--xx (tara maybe?), @subduedrebel, @cagedpotential (haley - I miss her btw), @alootus, @spokewar, @galaccias ( if you are feeling like doing a thing, have this for Rex) and anyone else. I am sick but apparently can write this.

In case you can't tell, I am very pro ROTS novelization.

This was fun, if not long. I totally would do this for Jax and Nathan on my multi too, if prompted.

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sunnyrosewritesstuff · 6 months

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May I please request a spicy, smutty Bagginshield treat 💜

Hope you're having a good halloween

Of course you can! Had to get some inspiration for this so thank you @shantismurf for the idea, and @tetchy-frog I was told this was something you might be interested in as well. 😁

Driving Me Crazy

Pairing: Bagginshield

Type of Treat: Spicy

Warnings: Rutting, Dry Humping

Word Count: 595

Some days it was almost like a dream. That he was actually sleeping with the gorgeous blacksmith that came to Hobbiton. Bilbo felt like the luckiest hobbit in the Shire. It was as he was lost in his musings, staring at those thick arms and tight ass, that something happened to drive Bilbo wild. Standing in the far too small and almost unbearably hot space of the forge with Thorin, the dwarf trying to get to something behind him merely picked Bilbo up and continued on as if nothing happened.

Something seized in Bilbo’s chest. Something decidedly Tookish that he absolutely had to act on. He put himself in Thorin’s way again, waiting for the dwarf to move him once more. Bilbo was not disappointed as he was absent-mindedly picked up again. The casual show of strength made Bilbo’s stomach flip and his trousers tight. He didn’t even know he had such a kink, but he did know he wanted to entertain it.

Once more, Bilbo stepped into Thorin’s way. This time the dwarf noticed.

“Bilbo?” He questioned.

As he lifted Bilbo up, the hobbit didn’t give him a chance to set him back down as he wrapped his arms and legs around him tightly. Bilbo pulled Thorin down by his neck, kissing and licking his way into the dwarf’s mouth as he pressed his erection against his tight abs. Thorin made a noise of surprise as he wrapped his arms tightly around Bilbo to hold him in place.

“What’s brought this on all of a sudden?” Thorin breathed by his ear.

Bilbo relished in the feeling of being squeezed tightly holding on one-handedly as he used his other to rub up and down Thorin’s chest.

“You…” Bilbo sighed in delight. “Being you. My big, strong dwarf.”

Thorin groaned as he pressed Bilbo back against the wall.

“We don’t really have the room to do…much.”

“This is enough.” Bilbo prompted, letting himself slide down enough so that way their erections pressed against each other through their pants.

There wasn’t much need for words after that. Licking and mouthing and running their hands over each other. Bilbo’s head hit the wall with quite some force and a breathy moan left him when Thorin reached underneath and squeezed his ass while untying his ascot with his teeth. As the cloth fell to the ground, Thorin began biting and sucking at his exposed throat, and Bilbo pressed closer, heat building with the friction of their moments. He knew he wouldn’t last long, and all it took was Thorin nibbling on the tip of his pointy ear to have Bilbo cumming in his pants like a tween.

They both were panting as Thorin slowly lowered Bilbo to the ground, his legs shaking with the effort it took to hold himself up. Thorin leaned his forehead against Bilbo’s own, and despite how sweaty and hot he felt, he let him.

“I still don’t know what that was about. But I do know I wouldn’t mind taking off the afternoon to do that again.”

Bilbo smirked, thinking of all the things he would like to do with his dwarf.

“Then I would suggest you douse your flames and carry me back to our smial. I might be willing to reward my strong dwarf for the effort.”

Bilbo had never seen anyone move so fast, and despite the sticky cooling feeling in his pants, Bilbo was already starting to get hard again the moment he was swung up into Thorin’s arms. Yes, he could certainly make ample use of this new development.

#trick or treat my inbox #the hobbit #bagginshield #spicy content #bilbo enjoys being picked up a little too much

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lordofthestrix · 5 months

Text

Continued from (x) "You are not afraid to make a fair share of contrasting assumptions regarding my history." Tristan listened to her tale with crystalline interest. "Good. Deduction is best suited for souls gifted in instinct. And in a way you are perfectly right. My human life was informed of its meaning to the point of suffocation at times. Nevertheless, by the moment I found myself in a similar place to where you stand, the uncertainty of eternity unfolding before my eyes in the awakening of what you could call my own brand of resurrection, there was nothing left. No trace of birthright or sanctuary. My own spirit often betrayed me." His gaze navigated back to Gia's hand and its refusal to let her play. "In maddening hours I experienced the frenetic need to see my own blood spilled. Not in the hunt for self-punishment but the desperate, blind desire to recover myself. My identity had been tainted by the one who guided me there and each of my days I felt both poisoned and shattered." He spoke in candid aloofness. As if retelling someone else's memories. There was no sign of the smallest weakness in the admission. If anything, he appeared distantly amused or even proud by their result. "If your judgement is correct, if I'm indeed important, it isn't because it was delivered to me with joyous ease. The universe remained predictably and profoundly indifferent to my ordeal. One single person I cared about. And for reasons far too elaborated to summarize, most dawns she couldn't even look in my direction without confusing me with the one who caused her own suffering. In the torturing struggle of more than one endless evening I was cursed with the possibility that she might heal quicker in my absence." At this there was a much more gelid and darker visiting cadence to his voice. But it was no longer there by the next sentence. "Following your line of reasoning, there was no intended´place in the world for me. Perchance there wasn't. It didn't matter to me then. It shouldn't matter to you now. We forge ourselves." The shadow of his smirk, as if subtly sharing a muted secret with her, returned one final time. "Try to remember that not all things that taste the flames are fated to turn to ash, Gia. You are hurt, yes. And some suffering is unavoidable. A greeting card of new beginnings. It doesn't make you less than you were. Nor does it prevent you from reaching new heights. Whatever you become...That is entirely yours to claim."

He didn't comment on her final acceptance. Taking it instead as his pleased mark of departure. "It was an interesting pleasure to meet you. I'll be in touch soon." He mused with a lingering last look once at her side. Effortless joining in the shadows that introduced him and leaving her as the only vampire in the auditorium.

@touchedbydestiny

#Touchedbydestiny #Answering in a new post because I no longer have the other editor at my disposition #I hope you don't mind the sudden invitation for a change of scenery #Tristan has something in mind for that lesson to revive her violin and it includes a different location.

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welcomingdisaster · 1 year

Text

ultramarine

celebrimbor & curufin || t || 1k || ao3

Tyelpë dips his brush into paint, carefully dotting blue over the glass in front of him. The pigment had taken him the whole previous week to put together, and he is proud of the brightness of the hue.

His father had pulled the bright blue stone from the cliffs some three or four years ago. It crushes with little effort, and they have found it dyes fabric quite prettily, but they save it for this. The rest is all him. The week before, when riders had come from the hills with orders, the neat, tabulated list of necessities from the forge in his uncle’s sharp slanted hand, he had gone out to harvest pine sap. He had scratched his nailbeds scraping it from trees and picking out stray pieces of bark. He had mixed that with the stone-dust, judging the saturation with both eye and hand, and kneaded the whole mass in lye, pulling the color out. He had worked in batches, carefully saving each; the first bright, rich, royal blue, the last an ashy, thick grey.

He will use both, here.

Tyelpë has an eye for hue, his father tells him; he mixes color with the sensibilities of a painter as much as a craftsman, thinks of use and beauty as not as two separate mistresses whom he must please but as two hands of the same muse. He can close his eyes and picture the facets of a gem under eight different angles of light.

His grandfather had thought much of light, his father says. Grief mixes with pride in his voice, with longing, with anger. Tyëlpe mixes paint.

He sits in a little raised alcove, his working-table positioned by the window. On days like this he starts work as soon as the sun is up and keeps working until the light is gone. No lamp, not even Feanorian lamps, shall do; such work requires natural light.

Below him, his father works the forge. Tyëlpe draws away from his own work for just a moment to watch his back, well-muscled and broader than most any other elf, a strength that comes with bulk. He holds a thin sheet of metal over the flames, then pulls it back, laying it upon the concave swage tightened for such purpose and hammering it into place. He must be strong, for to be weak would be to sacrifice the precision of the act; he makes the pounding of the great hammer look almost languid with deliberation, as though it is nothing to him, as though the choice of where to apply such force is as trivial as spreading ink upon parchment.

Tyëlpe looks back down at his own hand, his fingers white where he grips the little paintbrush. His whole body tenses in anticipation of dotting the paint, of leaving a mark one twentieth the size of his thumbnail.

Curufinwë hammers and heats, bores and cuts. Tyëlpe dulls blue with grey and brightens it again. Outlines the edges of circle with one long, slow stroke; dabs oil-soot black into the center. Leaves his brush to dry in the sun as as he carefully scrapes silver-leaf to catch the light and bring out a little brightness.

His father comes to sit by him just as he applies the final clear coat of spirit varnish. He tuts approvingly when Tyëlpe holds his project up to the light, watching the sun dance in the blue and silver.

“Each day you improve in skill,” he says, pressing his lips the top of Tyëlpe’s head from behind, “now, I daresay, you have surpassed your dear old father in the mixing of pigments. Look at that dappling.”

Curufinwë is hot yet from the forge, huge and solid and immovable behind him. Tyëlpe’s chest floods with warmth at the words, at his father’s approving gaze. He means what he says; his pride, Tyëlpe feels, is earnest.

“Your words taught me,” he says, “and your hands guided me.”

Again he looks down at his creation. But his mind is restless, yet, and his gaze takes him further. Out the window, past the pine forests, towards the great grey-blue mountains in the distance. He been outside of Aglon, he knows; has come from other lands. But he remembers them not, beyond a hazy impression of sea and a great many people shouting. He cannot picture Aman. He cannot picture even the rest of Beleriand, his uncles’ fortresses only a few days’ ride away. He cannot picture where he sends his work.

“Father,” he says softly, nodding down to his work, “why should they need eight of these?”

Curufinwë freezes, startled. Tyëlpe feels him tense behind him, the comforting, soft solidity replaced with something far more rigid and fragile. “How do you mean, dear boy?”

“It seems a strange thing to lose,” Tyëlpe says, raising a hand to his own face, pressing his fingers against his own cheekbone, “so well protected.”

For a moment he thinks he may get a true answer. He knows there is much his father does not say. His father who fears to let him out of the fortress, to let him alone in the woods, even to gather sap. His father who comes to watch him sleep, checking twice each night that he is in bed, in his place. His father who cuts off his uncles’ stories with sharp words, too fast, too wounded. Watch yourself. Not in front of the boy. His father stretched too thin, fragile as the sheets of glass they work together. Push too hard, and he shall break.

But Curufinwë only exhales through his nose, sharp. He squeezes Tyëlpe’s shoulder from behind, and turns away towards the fire.

“These are strange times,” he says, “come, Tyëlpe. See my craft. I have built quite a clever mechanism for the fingers, and you shan’t like to miss it.”

Tyëlpe thinks of asking more. Of prying, of pushing.

Instead he sets the glass eye down on the table and follows his father to the forge.

#curufin #celebrimbor #my fic

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losojos-decupido · 7 days

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[ 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 ] : sender has just told receiver "you belong to me my club".

a thunderous entrance most grand! — with the intention of commanding the attention of a worthy recruit. odin's arms forcefully carve through the air, leaving trails of raw energy in their wake. he moves with the precision of a seasoned warrior, every gesture a calculated strike. in one swift motion, he raise a hand.

"you there!" he announces. "today is your lucky day, for destiny's hand beckons thee forth into the fray of legends untold! within you, i discern the glimmering ember of greatness, the SPARK that ignites the flames of heroism within! join, and we shall rise above the petty squabbles of mortal men, forging a legacy that shall endure for ALL of eternity! "

eyes aglitter with the mighty stars of fairness and good, fogado balks---hark, for he has been addressed quite directly by the arbiter of dark justice, he who is clad in fierce yellows, fiery reds, and mysterious blacks! what is a sentinel such as he in the face of the burning sun of heroics? woe, yet such an eye has been laid upon him!

okay, maybe he's not so good at the funny drama talk, but he can't say he's not almost shocked out of his wits when odin first calls to him. he didn't think that he would attract that kind of attention, but it's not unwelcome! fogado loves attention!

" gee, " muses he of great embers and hero-sparks, " that all sounds like pretty big stuff. do i really have all that potential? " of course, his considerations are a farce---he can't stop the growing grin on his face. this promises big action and lots of fun, which are two things that the fogeman is a big fan of. let's go, legacies!

" but as long as i get to help people and stuff, it sounds great! where do i sign to start legacying? "

#☼ ic #☼ answered #☼ fellpurpose #[ great tales of strength and strife await the foge ... ]

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stocky2016 · 4 months

Text

"UNSTOPPABLE!"

My life is filled with endless possibilities,

there exists a spirit unyielding, unceasing.

A force beyond measure, a flame that burns bright,

I am unstoppable, an embodiment of might.

Like a raging river, carving its path,

I break through barriers, conquer with wrath.

No obstacle too great, no challenge too vast,

I traverse the rough terrain, steadfast.

With unwavering determination as my guide,

I soar to great heights, reaching the sky wide.

Fear and doubt may try to weigh me down,

but I rise above, wearing victory as my crown.

In the face of adversity, I find new strength,

pushing boundaries, going to any length.

For each setback only fuels my fire,

propelling me forward, ever higher and higher.

I am a symphony of resilience and grit,

a testament to the human spirit.

Nothing can hinder my unwavering drive,

I am unstoppably me, and ready to thrive.

So let the doubters whisper, let them scorn,

their words are mere echoes, easily torn.

For I am a force that cannot be contained,

defying all odds, my success unconstrained.

In the realm of dreams, I am the king,

a conqueror of fate, an untamed thing.

No force on earth can hold me back,

for I'm unstoppably on the very right track.

So embrace the power that lies deep within,

unleash your potential, let your journey begin.

For you too possess the strength and will,

to rise above, to conquer, and fulfill.

Together we stand, united and strong,

bound by the belief that we truly belong.

For within our souls, the flame forever gleams,

whispering softly, "We're unstoppable beings.”

Unstoppable force, waves breaking on the shore

no matter what the odds, I'm pushing forward, evermore

An unstoppable force, like a train tied to its track

every step I take is forward, I never ever look back.

I'm always forging through life's labyrinth of roads

dealing with adversity and untold woes

Never stopping believin', never letting folk control

with hope in my heart, I protect the dreams of my soul.

Steadfast I stand, no runnin' away from fear

triumphant I am, courage remonstrating loud and so clear

Gonna tackle the unknown with all my strength and flair

been workin' too hard to let my dreams disappear.

I'm overcoming the strife, producing new light

moving forwards through any potential trial and fight

pressing on ahead, with chance to shine

don't ever doubt i'll thrive, it's now my time!

Take control of the reins, steer confidently your life

make positive moves even maybe ignoring the wife...

Make each step count, pull away from the strife

the future's still yours, go out and live, a fulfilled life.

Whatever the world throws at me, I'm ready for more

with courage and tenacity, I never close any door

I'm gonna rise up, and no matter what I have to face

I'll stand tall and proud, protecting my place.

I'm gonna keep the throttle on and continue on my way

through tedious winding roads I'll journey, every day

persevering through darkness, no matter the sky

I'm setting my own course, i'm ready to fly!

Prepared for anything, but in life's game I'll win

It doesn't matter what they say, or how they block my sins

i'll take every step of courage, because no grief can defeat

nor anyone contain me, I'm an unstoppable feat.

My spirit is free, I'll never ever fall

I walk through fire and brimstone, I won't ever stall

I'm just so ready to take on any challenge, whatever I face

there's no limiting me now, I have unstoppable pace.

https://youtu.be/h3h035Eyz5A?si=

(Graphics courtesy of Google Images)

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mariaofdoranelle · 2 years

Text

Royal Rebels — Prologue

Masterlist

I’m so so happy to show you this! I was going to wait a little more to post, but I got a little eager today and I already have an outline and 15k words so what’s the point of waiting? Lol

I’m going to use my general tag list now for the heads up and then make a different one for this au so let me know if you want to be tagged!

The prologue will be right below the synopsis. I hope you like it!

CW: cursing, small fire

Word count: 2,2k

˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜

When Queen Maeve starts taking merciless measures to save Doranelle from an economic collapse, two old enemies, frenemies with benefits, lovers, acquaintances, Princess Aelin Galathynius and Prince Rowan Whitethorn, must reunite to reach one goal: kill Maeve without starting a war. However, as they get closer to the Fae Queen, Aelin and Rowan might need to overcome old issues and wounds in order to work together efficiently, considering how quickly they could become the prey.

˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜

One year before

As Aelin sauntered into the closet she kept exclusively for her arms and armor collection, she mused about the line between loving a weapon and becoming one. Among her pieces it was easy to spot ones that were historical, personalized, jeweled, blades made of watered steel, armors made of gold. The room was big enough to have a small party inside, but Aelin didn’t want to stall. She took a deep breath, picked a dagger and some other blades and left.

Sneaking out of the castle wasn’t news to her, but she still got a little thrill on the first moments out on the streets. No guards, no bowing down or tiptoeing around her, not one person afraid of the Fire-Bringer. As much as Aelin looked forward to her future as a queen, she loved to be able to blend into the streets and just get lost in the crowds sometimes.

Thankfully, she didn’t need to ask directions to get to her favorite blacksmith. Aelin knew she could hire a small team just to forge and take care of her weapons if that was her wish, but she preferred to be discreet and take care of them herself. Every little thing Aelin did ended up being attached to her fire magic and reinforced people’s ideas on how she would act as a ruler, whether the opinion was good or bad. Her military power had been proved enough since her childhood, adding it to the attachment she had to her weapons and training... It would be too much, specially when Aelin’s temper occasionally got the best of her. Terrasen was a peaceful kingdom, if she tried hard enough, people would realize she could be a good match for a queen.

But she was used to it now, Aelin thought as she walked down the streets of Orynth and bought whatever street vendors tried to sell her, fulfilling her father’s exhausted wish that If you insist on sneaking out, at least help boosting the economy. When the sunlight got stronger and her skin started to tingle, Aelin thoughtlessly tugged at her magic, but stopped before her hand was filled with bright flames.

Anyway, her weapon situation wasn’t a real problem. Aelin could still do her thing. It just needed to be toned-down, so people wouldn’t perceive her as The Bloodthirsty Queen. However, that didn’t stop her from showing off to the few people she trusted, her cousin Galan being one of them. He was a bit late on his trip to visit her, something about two friends surprising him in Varese. She didn’t remember the details in the letter anymore, just told her court lady to include those friends in the arrangements.

Entering the costumer’s antechamber, Aelin waved at the blacksmith’s assistant, who already knew what she was there for. He immediately blushed and then waved back, but stumbled on a few boxes on his way because he kept looking at her while walking. Aelin only stopped to analyze her surroundings when an intoxicating smell of pine and snow assaulted her senses. When she looked for the source of it, there was a set of pine green eyes staring at her, sending a thrill on her body that made the flames beneath her skin dance.

Aelin had absolutely no control over her legs when she walked to him. It wasn’t even like her to flirt with random people. If anything happened, she would just tell herself she slipped and fell on hot stranger’s lap. “Well, that’s a fancy sword you have picked.”

Hot nice-smelling stranger had a tiny smirk on his lips before he opened his mouth and closed it again and looked at her thoughtfully. “Are you familiar with them?”

Aelin leaned on the table and stroked gently the blade closest to her. “Familiar enough to be one of Brullo’s favorite costumers. You seem like potential competition.” Aelin tilted her head, making her neck visible as her hair fell to the side, and sized him up.

Pine green-eyed stranger set his sword with a pine green hilt on the table and angled his body towards her, reducing their distance. “Is Brullo the blacksmith or the assistant? Do you think I can compete if it’s the latter?”

Aelin’s breath halted. “I think you can handle it just fine.”

Aelin could clearly see hot stranger’s pupils dilating until it swallowed most of his irises. “I assume you’re from Orynth.”

“I assume you aren’t.”

“No. I’ll be here for a handful of weeks, probably. It’s not up to me.”

“And that requires this gigantic sword?”

He twirled the sword on his hand. “I left mine at home, and you never know the next dragon you’ll have to slay.”

Was Hot Stranger a fantasy book reader too? Aelin smirked at him. “Are you here on vacation or on duty?”

Rowan glanced at a blonde Fae who had just neglected the weapons he was choosing to flirt with another costumer. After a deep sigh, he answered, “A mix of both.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Is that so?”

Hot Stranger snorted, “Sometimes you have to stop people from making a disaster.”

They were interrupted by the assistant coming with Aelin’s new dagger, which was absolutely stunning. Its size was perfect for her to carry around, and the blade was simple, slim and silver. However, the hilt was ornamented with gold in lots of small, wavy forms that looked like flames. She had payed in advance, so she put the blade away after admiring it for a little longer. Hot Stranger was looking thoughtfully at her when she focused back on him.

“What’s your name?”

Aelin hoped he didn’t see her fidget while she replied, “Celaena. Yours?”

“Rowan,” he said before slightly biting his lips, “Where can I find you in Orynth?”

She tilted her head and grimaced. “You won’t.” She wasn’t happy with that answer, he really seemed like a good ride. However, Aelin couldn’t. Rowan was completely off-limits. If her cousin Aedion or her father even suspected she had escaped the castle to buy weapons and ended up flirting with a foreign Fae stranger twice her size, she’d never see the end of it.

His brows furrowed. “Well, that’s a shame, Celaena.”

She took a deep breath. “Indeed.”

On her walk back home, Aelin kept replaying the moments with Rowan in her head, but she was sure it was because she was bored. In fact, she was so bored she got ready early reading in her room until Aedion picked her up.

“Excited, Ae? You’re not even late,” He said with raised eyebrows before linking arms with her.”

“Shut up. You know Galan is my second favorite cousin too.” Aelin was nodding at people they passed by with her chin raised as Aedion laughed in the middle of the hall.

When they entered the Throne Room, Galan’s party was already there. She smiled broadly at him and sent a tiny wave, until she swayed a little on her steps and her mouth fell open.

By the side of her cousin, was Rowan from the blacksmith and his blonde friend. Rowan was already blinking quickly at her, as if checking his own vision. When his friend whispered something to him, he gulped and straightened his posture immediately. Adding it to the sword she saw earlier, it was easy to tell he was a military man. He could be a general from a remote area of Wendlyn, that would explain why she had never seen him when visiting Varese. That thought made her smile, and when they looked back at each other, he nodded at her with a hint of a smile. Aelin didn’t even worry about lying her name to him, she seemed to be pretty much forgiven.

She had noticed Aedion eyeing her suspiciously, but she didn’t care. The announcement of the guests was mostly brief, but the longer it kept going, the more she became curious to know what he did back in Wendlyn with her cousin. Aelin’s heart started racing as Rowan started being announced.

Prince Rowan Whitethorn of Doranelle

Wait, what?

How in hell did Maeve’s nephew get inside her castle?

Aelin sensed Aedion’s body tense besides her, too.

Maeve, the creepiest person Aelin had ever known, even though she had only read letters from her. Asking her to visit Doranelle so they could get to know each other since Aelin was born.

Queen Maeve of Doranelle, the person Aelin knew was up to no good when it came to her.

Aelin had never set foot in Doranelle for a reason, but its Queen had found a way to sneak her people into her castle.

No fucking way.

After the guests were sent to their rooms, Aelin and Aedion locked themselves in a broom closet away from prying ears and started an emergency meeting.

Aelin blurted, “Do you think he’s trying to kill me?”

Aedion clenched his jaw, making some facial muscles jump. “Over my dead body.” He seemed to mull on something while started to crack his knuckles. “We should kill him first.”

Aelin’s eyes went wide. “Are you out of your mind? He’s the most powerful Fae alive, completely war material if we kill him out of the blue.” Her body stilled. “Maybe that’s exactly what Maeve wants.” Aelin was definitely not going to be the queen who murders her guests on their first day visiting.

As if sensing her thoughts, Aedion offered, “I can kill him if you want. Take the blame and shit.”

“No. Don’t.” Aelin’s thoughts were unfocused, her heartbeat racing as she thought on other solutions, but their hands were tied. Aelin started scratching her forehead. She didn’t know much, but of one thing she was sure.

Maeve’s best lackey was here on a mission, and her idiot cousin had just led him inside.

She knew Doranelle and Wendlyn were political allies, but she didn’t know Galan and the Whitethorns were freaking buddies.

Aelin was going to dismember Galan. And then incinerate what was left of her cousin.

One moment she was with Aedion, the other going towards the Guest Wing, her cousin hot on her heels. She didn’t need to ask which room he was at, the trail of his steps was easy to follow.

“Excuse me, boys. Would you mind staying back for a little while?” She said with a sweet smile at the castle’s guards stationed beside his door, who complied without a second thought. “Wait for me here, Aedion. You’ll know if you need to come.” Aelin stared at Rowan Whitethorn’s door for a few seconds and took a deep breath. It was going to be fine.

Then she set his door on fire until it burned to a crisp and barged into his room without announcing herself. But if you really thought about it, the fire was announcement enough. Despite her big entrance, Rowan didn’t even bat an eye at her. In fact, he was sat on a couch, tending for his daggers. Shirtless. But she wouldn’t be affected by his shirtlessness. It was absolutely disgusting, the way she could trace the movement of each muscle as he wiped—

“Good evening, Celaena,” he sneered her alias, “Can I help you?”

“Absolutely.” She sat on a chair across from him, her posture perfect as she assessed him.

Rowan raised his brows at her.

“I didn’t get to compliment your choice of sword at the blacksmith earlier.” She tilted her head. “Tell me, Whitethorn, apart from fictional dragons, which other fire-wielder creatures do you plan to kill with it?”

“I believe my plans didn’t work out the moment I reached Varese and was dragged here by Galan and Fenrys.”

Aelin’s pulse got even faster. Seriously? Was that really the best he could come up with? “Why would I trust Maeve’s killing dog?”

It was easy to spot Rowan’s nostrils flaring and the way he clenched his jaw. “I like to think I’d spend my time with something more challenging than murdering an attention-seeker little brat.”

“Then what are you here for? Watch me? You know, you must be very important to Her Immortal Majesty if she put you on nurse duty.”

He snarled, “I was not. Sent. By. Maeve.”

Aelin got up from her chair, her eyes wide. “I don’t believe you.”

Rowan rose from his couch too and scoffed at her, “Are you always this paranoid, Princess?”

“So, you come to Terrasen while your aunt has an scheduled visit to Adarlan and expect me to believe you have no hidden agenda?”

Rowan took a deep breath and said in a carefully controlled tone, “I command armies. Strictly. Do you see any troops here? Because she wouldn’t send me as a spy.”

Aelin squinted her eyes at him, trying to recall every detail in their exchange earlier. “Then what is the disaster you have to prevent?”

“Have you met Fenrys?”

Her eyes went wide. “Are you kidding me? He has charmed half the Court already!”

Rowan pinched his nose. “Of course he did.”

Aelin drew herself up to full height and narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t trust you, Whitethorn. And I don’t give a fuck about your relationship with Maeve. As long as you lead her armies and benefit from her government, I’ll be monitoring you.”

She didn’t know who stepped inside the personal space of the other, but they were close. Dangerously so. Their short breaths were mingling as they studied each other’s enraged faces. Aelin took a step back and started to leave, but not without hissing, “Don’t you dare think this conversation is over.” Too bad she couldn’t slam his door.

TAG LIST

@elentiyawhitethorn

@rowanaelinn

@leiawritesstories

#rowaelin #rowan whitethorn #aelin galathynius #rowaelin fanfiction #throne of glass fanfiction #throne of glass #my writing #royal rebels #prologue

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fabeong · 9 months

Text

Secrets in the Midden

This had been sitting around in my WIPs for a while, but at long last inspiration struck! Huge thanks go to @thana-topsy, who got me inspired to write more for Ryesandeii at long last. Hope this satisfies any cravings for ex-thalmor dragonborns Going Through Troubles...

Summary: When sent deep into the Midden in search of an answer to all the mysteries this so-called “Eye of Magnus” has brought, the dragonborn mage Ryesandeii encounters something that the College would probably rather he hadn’t.

(Quick content warning for descriptions of torture) (Also on AO3 for anyone who prefers)

------

It was a generally well-accepted fact of life in Tamriel that well-bred, well-raised, and superbly educated Altmer did not use foul language.

“This place is a fucking maze.”

Ryesandeii was used to being a contradiction by now.

His companion gave a half-hearted huff in response and looked up from the dark corner he had been sniffing curiously to shoot the elf an unreadable look. Not that Meeko was much of a conversationalist in usual circumstances but here in the dark depths of the so-called Midden the dog had quietened even from his usual litany of barks into soft, quizzical growls. Ryesandeii wasn’t sure if he liked the change yet.

Meeko padded on ahead of the elf as they poked around the frozen depths hidden deep beneath the College, in search of the apparent Augur of Dunlain. Wanting to conserve his magika for the light healing spell he rolled around in one hand, Ryesandeii held a lit torch aloft in the other, squinting into the gloom barely illuminated by the flickering light as he moved.

“What do you think Tolfdir meant by ‘what led to the accident’?” Ryesandeii mused aloud and decided to take Meeko’s backwards glance as an acknowledgment, if not a coherent reply. “I didn’t even think this Augur was a person, but it sounds like Tolfdir speaks to it �� I mean, him fairly regularly.”

Meeko didn’t even offer a reply this time, suddenly far more occupied with burying his nose in an unexplored corner. Then with a yelp of triumph muffled by the plants in his mouth the dog bounded back and proudly dropped the heap of mushrooms at his master’s feet. A rare smile lit up Ryesandeii’s face as he crouched down to inspect the find and, raising the fungi to his nose, recognised the tell-tale bitter tang of blisterwort. “Not bad, boy.” He mused, “See if you can find any more in this room and I’ll check the next one.”

Tucking the mushrooms into his alchemy satchel Ryesandaii got up and forged forward, determinedly ignoring the creeping cold that threatened to sap the strength from his shivering limbs. The Midden was indeed a shithole, he decided, and it was little wonder the College had built its glittering halls and adored Arcaneum in a way to conceal the winding dungeon beneath it. Whatever was hidden beneath was evidently not meant for mere student’s eyes, or any ordinary circumstances.

But secrets were not new to Ryesandeii, of course. He had been raised in the Summerset Isles, where secrets were second to gold – or even on par if you were desperate enough. Musing on what he knew were risky lines of thought, he hadn’t paid attention to his surroundings.

Then Ryesandeii rounded the corner and his torch fell to the ground. Even from the ground the flickering flame illuminated a heavy metal bar across the wall before him, adorned with glinting chains and eerily rusting shackles –

The icy metal slitting into his wrists as they suspended him above the pit of poisoned spikes for hours, days, months, time lost all meaning when the aedra in charge of it abandoned you –

Ryesandeii felt the icy floor of the prison – no, no, the Midden, the Midden, he was still in Winterhold wasn’t he? – seep through his boots as he stepped forward, a growing inexorable horror curling up his aching spine like a serpent. Somewhere inside of him a voice much like his own screamed at him to run but the all-too-familiar setting dragged him horribly closer, like a call he could not refuse. Beside him now floor-to-ceiling bars made a claustrophobic cell, the bars spattered with blood –

His blood, drenching what rags remained of his clothes after every lash of the enchanted whip, cursed to slice his skin so deeply wherever it landed that the wounds would never fully close, his blood as it bubbled up in his throat from the ice spikes they flung into his chest and the world grew blissfully dark except they would never let him sleep, never let him rest, they would never let him die, not when they could pull him back from the brink and start over again –

The world fell from beneath Ryesandeii’s feet as the walls closed in around him, the flickering shadows coming to life and curling into gleaming blades or outstretched hands –

And from their fingers lightning struck him viciously and endlessly from every direction, lighting his skin and hair aflame, burning his blood, draining and severing his magika until there was nothing he could do but scream for mercy that would never come, forgiveness they would never grant, scream even as the bolts and blows shattered his bones, they put them haphazardly back together and broke them anew, scream for help from a god that was no longer listening –

Something wet, warm, and disgustingly slobbery dragged across Ryesandeii’s cheek. And again. And again. The high elf’s head jerked up with a choked gasp, but the walls were far too close, his chest far too tight, there was a ringing in his ears so loud he felt they might bleed, his muscles jerked in agony as the deep-scarred lines across his back and chest began to split open again from how violently he was shaking –

“Arf!”

Something solid and warm wriggled its way under his arms where they were wrapped around his knees, and that wet thing touched his cheek once more, slobbery and smelling strongly of meat and… wet dog?

“Meeko?”

Ryesandeii opened his eyes. Instead of the cell, the blood, the chains, his vision was completely filled with thick grey fur and golden eyes, and a lolling tongue as the dog squirmed closer and licked his cheek again. Slowly Meeko’s whines became more audible than the agonising ringing and Ryesandeii’s arms stopped shaking to the point where he could open them, at which point his dog pounced properly onto his lap and nuzzled the altmer’s face; Ryesandeii spluttered in token protest at the slobber and indignity of it all and yet… the impossible had happened. His lungs loosened to the point he could breathe, the awful ringing subsided, and the walls returned to their normal place. Well, it was very hard to panic and succumb to terrible memories when there was a heavy nord dog weighing you down and apparently trying to lick your face clean.

“Alright, you silly dog..” Ryesandeii’s throat felt scratchy and hoarse – had he been screaming aloud again? His back felt sticky and wet, and he winced, hoping the blood had not seeped through to his outer robes; they were tricky to clean at the best of times without disturbing the enchantments, and he really didn’t feel like answering the inevitable questions. His gaze flickered unconsciously to the wall across from him again, to the bloodstained chains and –

Meeko was having none of it. The dog growled and Ryesandeii jumped as the sound reverberated through the Midden and Meeko nudged at his chin with a cold, wet nose.

“Alright, alright..” Sucking in a deep breath Ryesandeii looked firmly back at his dog and brought his hands up to scratch behind Meeko’s ears. “You’re not so bad, are you?” he murmured, quiet affection evident in his tone. If he didn’t know any better he would have sworn Meeko actually grinned at his admittance, revelling in the scratches and his whole body swaying with how much his tail wagged. Ryesandeii freed one hand and flexed his shaking fingers, taking a deep breath before calling on his magika to send waves of soothing restoration spells over his bleeding body. The sensations of forced healing wracked through his body and he ducked his head into Meeko’s fur, gritting his teeth and breathing hard through the sensation of his cut skin pulling itself back together, at least temporarily, the stretch of sinew and veins agonising as the spell sought to somewhat undo the damage the Thalmor had never intended him to survive.

Then at last it was done, and though the back of his robes still felt uncomfortably sticky with remaining blood the wounds themselves had sunk back into tenuous risen lines across Ryesandeii’s back. He didn’t move, and neither did Meeko. The dog, loyal and steadfast as ever, remained perfectly still and let Ryesandeii bury his head into thick fur with no complaint. Meeko was neither human nor mer after all and thus the least likely individual to take advantage or mock his weakness, and so Ryesandeii let himself stay where he was and clench his jaw against the remaining tremors. He only roused when the cold, wet nose was once again nudged against his cheek.

“What?” he mumbled. Meeko wriggled ever-so-slightly and Ryesandeii raised his head at last, his gaze following Meeko’s own line of sight. The dog was staring intently in the direction they had come, and once Ryesandeii was looking too he moved, nudging the elf gently yet undeniably persistently until Ryesandeii hauled himself up and obediently followed where his dog now led. This time, he did not look back at the chains.

Meeko bounded back along the corridors and Ryesandeii kept pace as best he could, almost slipping on the icy Midden floors and wincing as the sharp motions twisted his aching body. Once or twice he stopped completely, summoning more restoration to his shaking fingertips and forcing his scars to stay closed. It should not have surprised him that every time this happened Meeko paused, looking back and waiting with far more patience anyone else had ever afforded him. “I’m coming, I’m coming.” Ryesandeii mumbled, feeling guilty all the same.

But Meeko hadn’t moved further this time, and instead turned his head to a thick door Ryesandeii hadn’t even noticed the first time around. He approached it with a newfound caution. The very frame seemed to hum and the wooden slats trembled with a powerful, pulsing magika. Moving closer, Ryesandeii raised his hand carefully, pulling his focus into a steadfast ward and watching with wide-eyed intrigue at how the shielding spell shuddered and illuminated as streaks of magika from whatever was behind the door battered the ward, something powerful no doubt as his spell crumbled under its pressure.

Meeko growled, rousing Ryesandeii from his inspection. The dog was hanging back, hackles raised and tail low, evidently uncertain about the forces he could neither see nor interfere with as the Altmer could.

“It’s alright. I won’t let anything here harm you.” The softness in Ryesandeii’s tone surprised himself. When had he last been so gentle, or with whom?

Meeko’s head tilted cautiously at the Altmer’s words and he padded a few steps further. Despite everything he’d just relived and the crippling pain in his very bones, Ryesandeii found himself smiling as he leant down to ruffle the dog’s fur, quietly appreciating the solely innocent companion he’d ever had.

No more time for memories. Ryesandeii squared his aching shoulders and pushed open the door.

------

(...seriously though there's a whole prison and torture setup in the Midden wtf was Savos Aren allowing under his floor???

Like Ryesandeii? Here's his little bio!)

#skyrim fanfiction #skyrim #dragonborn #skyrim oc #tw torture #Skyrim: Ryesandeii #my dragonborn has a Rough Time #and Meeko is the best boi #meeko

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