Prompt: Heyy, if
you’re up for it, can I request an imagine where Negan was coach before the
apocalypse (your 18-19 now) and he finds
you by the road, realising you were his
student and he takes you back to the Sanctuary and is really protective of
you?? Sorry if it’s too long, love your blog <3 – Via @maddiemoo16602
Ships: None Words: 1,369 Warnings: Curses Category: Angst with a dash of fluff
You were walking down a street of an abandoned town,
dilapidated houses either side of you. You kept your eyes peeled for any sort
of movement. You heard nothing except the winds rushing through broken windows
and long absent streets.
Ivy crawled up the once neatly panelled houses like a
parasite. The neatly trimmed lawns and flowers which may have once been well
kept and colourful were now overgrown with weeds which had killed the beautiful
roses and daisies that once bloomed there long ago.
Your stomach rumbled as it had been for the past week. You
had eaten nothing but a dead rat and even then you only ate half of it, its
milky eyes felt although it was staring at you from beyond the grave.
You groaned as you threw your phone behind you onto your bed, annoyed with the fact that Harrison still wasn’t answering your calls. Before he left on the Spider-man press tour again he promised you that you guys would talk everyday, yet you were going on day 3 of no word. You were a worrier, the worst thing was always on your mind. He had found some one better, moved on to some exotic girl on the other side of the globe, someone who you could never compete with. Great. Since he was in Japan and there was a 9 hour time difference from London, you assumed he was most likely eating some kind of dinner now. “Waffles are ready,” your mum called from the kitchen. “Coming,” you replied. “Any word from Haz,” your mum asked you once you entered the kitchen. She was always curious about how your relationship was going. Your grunt as a response quieted her questioning tone arousing another stern one. “You know y/n, I don’t think this relationship is a healthy one, you’re such a beautiful, smart and intelligent young woman, you deserve the best.” “Thanks mum, I know it’s going to be a hard relationship, I knew that from the beginning and especially when he signed as Tom’s assistant, but it think its worth it in the long run. He’s an amazing guy.” With a nod of your mum’s head she stood and started clearing the dishes. She knew better then to argue with you on this topic. You felt your phone vibrate in your pocket and your hand immediately jumped to your hip. Your mum glanced in your direction, a warning look in her eyes. “No phones at the table honey, you know that.” With waffle still on your plate, you silently pulled your phone out. It could be Harrison and you had to find out. You peered at your phone under the table and at a message from your best friend that read “look at what Haz just posted.” Your blood ran cold. So he could post pictures on Instagram but he couldn’t give you a text back, letting you know where he is? Or how he’s doing? With anger and disappointment you clicked on the app and at the top of your feed was his most recent post. It was him posing with two Japanese girls, clearly fans of his, based off the fact that they were standing so close to him. The caption read, “Gotta love Japan.” Maybe your mum was right.
Once you were in your room after breakfast your bed seemed to be the only think calling out to you. Because Haz sure wasn’t. The familiar give of the springs under your thinning frame gave you a sense of welcome. The weight you had been losing recently came with the urge to sleep more and shut out the unfriendly world. You tossed and turned to face the right wall of your room where your mirror was hung on the wall. it was plastered with wide smiles and shining eyes. There were so many pictures of you and Harrison on the mirror that you could hardly use it for its original purpose anymore. As you rose from your bed, your eyes caught a particular memory that was your favourite. It was you and Harrison’s first ‘real’ date per say. It was the oldest picture in your memoire, so you had to move other pictures out of the way to get to the one you had your eyes on. With the photo in your grasp your weight shifted to your heels and you started falling backwards. Never to stop.
“Harrison,” a smile grew on your face as you opened the door to a bright smile and piercing blue eyes. “Hi y/n.” A warm voice greeted you in return. As he guided you out the door with his hand on your lower back you turned and let your mum know that you were leaving; you shut the door behind you. Once you were settled in his car, he got in and started the engine. “Where do you want to go?” he questioned. Anywhere with you, you thought silently. “Where ever,” you said trying to sound nonchalant, “whatever is easiest for you.” The familiar vibration of movement on tarmac could be felt through the seats and you relaxed. Your arm fell over the console in-between you two, the only thing separating you. You could have sworn that you felt the shock between your fingers and his forearm as yours fell. You turned your head towards the passenger window and watched the landscape rush by, unaware of how Harrison was gazing at you, the way your hands moved, and how in certain lights he was sure there was an angel in his car next to him. As you rolled the passenger window down, just enough to get your hair moving around, you heard a giggle behind you. You turned to find a smitten Harrison covering his mouth with his hand as he laughed to himself. “What are you laughing at?” You giggled along with him. “Oh nothing, its just that you’re so adorable.” A rose blush came to your cheeks, it was the same colour as the clouds in the setting sun. You shamelessly grabbed his hand away from his mouth and you held it in yours. As innocent as ever. The unfamiliar feel was soon to become familiar. You watched him as he drove to an unknown destination wind in both your hair and his, and you smiled. You had found something really worth hanging on to.
Your thin hips came in contact with edge of your mattress and you buckled. The picture with the torn and yellowed edges was pressed against your heart, it was trying to get back in, to reclaim old feelings. You longed to feel like that again. The stress of the day pressed on your lungs and it hung on your eyelids as your arm and the picture fell over the edge of your bed, just like it had fallen over the edge of his console that July evening. Except at the tips of your fingers there was no electricity. Only empty space.
The dreamless sleep that you had fallen into was torn by the notification buzzing on your phone. “Harrison,” you grumbled, half asleep. It was an Instagram notification, Harrison had posted. Wow. It was a picture of his legs on a plane. The caption read “Where to next? it’s a surprise.” Frankly you didn’t have time or the energy for games. Your head fell to your pillow and you realized it was 6:30 pm. You had slept through the whole day. Sleep continued to call and you answered just and you realized how damp the pillowcase on either side of your head was. You continued to cry as you fell asleep.
The familiar stroke of a thumb on your cheek brought you out of your state of unconsciousness. The music of a soft voice dripped into your ears, worth more then gold. You grabbed his wrist and leaned into his palm as he said “Good morning love.” You knew where you belonged and the feelings of wind in your hair and sea blue eyes against a pale blush sky filled your heart once more.
So you have swept me back,
I who could have walked with the live souls
above the earth,
I who could have slept among the live flowers
so for your arrogance
and your ruthlessness
I am swept back
where dead lichens drip
dead cinders upon moss of ash;
so for your arrogance
I am broken at last,
I who had lived unconscious,
who was almost forgot;
if you had let me wait
I had grown from listlessness
if you had let me rest with the dead,
I had forgot you
and the past.
Here only flame upon flame
and black among the red sparks,
streaks of black and light
why did you turn back,
that hell should be reinhabited
of myself thus
swept into nothingness?
why did you glance back?
why did you hesitate for that moment?
why did you bend your face
caught with the flame of the upper earth,
above my face?
what was it that crossed my face
with the light from yours
and your glance?
what was it you saw in my face?
the light of your own face,
the fire of your own presence?
What had my face to offer
but reflex of the earth,
caught from the raw fissure in the rock
where the light struck,
and the colour of azure crocuses
and the bright surface of gold crocuses
and of the wind-flower,
swift in its veins as lightning
and as white.
Saffron from the fringe of the earth,
wild saffron that has bent
over the sharp edge of earth,
all the flowers that cut through the earth,
all, all the flowers are lost;
everything is lost,
everything is crossed with black,
black upon black
and worse than black,
this colourless light.
Fringe upon fringe
of blue crocuses,
crocuses, walled against blue of themselves,
blue of that upper earth,
blue of the depth upon depth of flowers,
if I could have taken once my breath of them,
enough of them,
more than earth,
even than of the upper earth,
had passed with me
beneath the earth;
if I could have caught up from the earth,
the whole of the flowers of the earth,
if once I could have breathed into myself
the very golden crocuses
and the red,
and the very golden hearts of the first saffron,
the whole of the golden mass,
the whole of the great fragrance,
I could have dared the loss.
So for your arrogance
and your ruthlessness
I have lost the earth
and the flowers of the earth,
and the live souls above the earth,
and you who passed across the light
you who have your own light,
who are to yourself a presence,
who need no presence;
yet for all your arrogance
and your glance,
I tell you this:
such loss is no loss,
such terror, such coils and strands and pitfalls
is no loss;
hell is no worse than your earth
above the earth,
hell is no worse,
no, nor your flowers
nor your veins of light
nor your presence,
my hell is no worse than yours
though you pass among the flowers and speak
with the spirits above earth.
Against the black
I have more fervour
than you in all the splendour of that place,
against the blackness
and the stark grey
I have more light;
and the flowers,
if I should tell you,
you would turn from your own fit paths
turn again and glance back
and I would sink into a place
even more terrible than this.
At least I have the flowers of myself,
and my thoughts, no god
can take that;
I have the fervour of myself for a presence
and my own spirit for light;
and my spirit with its loss
though small against the black,
small against the formless rocks,
hell must break before I am lost;
before I am lost,
hell must open like a red rose
for the dead to pass.
Dunkirk is the latest film by critically acclaimed director Christopher Nolan (his 10th feature length so far) and is about the infamous retreat by British troops out of France. Focusing on four separate stories during the retreat (all of which obviously link), it highlights the grim, hopeless feeling of war, as well as the strength and courage by the British during their lowest point of World War II. With strong performances by big names like Tom Hardy, Kenneth Bragnagh, Cillian Murphy and Mark Rylance, smaller names such as Aneurin Barnard, Jack Lowden,
Barry Keoghan, and Bobby Lockwood, as well as brilliant acting from debutantes Fionn Whitehead (a terrific performance which should be seeing him more roles in the future) and Harry Styles (yes, the singer), and an incredible film score by Hans Zimmer, Dunkirk depicts the retreat brutally honest and quite emotionally haunting but ends up being, possibly, the best film of the year.
Before I go on about the performances, cinematography and score, I want to first mention how Nolan has truly made something different with this film. It almost abandons the three act structure of a film, with the entire film sitting right in the middle of the usual second act (i.e. the conflict) until the end, in which a usual third act comes in. It entirely abandons the first act, with only slight exposition within the first few minutes (not even an entire scene) before it chucks us straight into the action. It also deters away from any character history or character building. The characters we are given as our leads is an unknown, young soldier (Whitehead), an old, patriotic sailor (Rylance), and a machine gun fighter (Hardy). With the exclusion of Rylance, who we are only told has a son with him and has had a son die in the war, we don’t know anything about the other characters. We don’t know if they have family, partners, what their motives are other than to fight for Britain, they are unknown. Usually these two features are key to a film’s success, but here they aren’t really needed. It can be argued that without character depth we can’t connect with the characters, but they don’t need depth in the grand scheme of things. This film seems to want to show us a depiction of war in which each soldier and citizen is equal, with the film following characters who can easily be replaced by another soldier. Hardy is the only actor playing what can be perceived as a unique hero, playing Farrier, a pilot who does a lot to “save the day” per say (is there really “saving the day” in a film about a massive defeat?). Rylance’s Mr. Dawson (how many protagonists don’t even have a first name) and Whitehead’s Tommy are just two experiences we focus on, they are really no more special than the other civilians who drove boats over to save the day (Mr. Dawson) or soldiers trapped on the beach (Tommy). It’s a risky move, but it really works in giving us a very realistic experience and lets us focus on the what is happening more than the usual cartoon Hollywood heroes (looking at you Pearl Harbour).
The film’s plot is quite simple. An estimated 400′000 Allied soldiers (as well as an unknown amount of French soldiers who are still fighting for France) need to evacuate France due to the overpowering strength by Nazi forces. As France is slowly being lost to the Axis, the Allied soldiers are trapped on Dunkirk beach, in which they every attempt to get over is being stopped due to Nazi air strikes over the English channel. The British army, not wanting to waste too many resources as they are next in line to be directly attacked after France falls, send civilian boats and a small group of pilots to help the soldiers leave the beach. The odds are so low that at one stage Branagh’s Commander Bolton even states that rescuing only 35′000 will be a positive, with England needing as much defence as possible. We follow four main plots, a young soldier trying to be rescued, an old sailor trying to his best to rescue as many as possible, a skilled pilot looking to shoot down the Nazi aircraft, and the Navy Commander in charge of getting the soldiers off the beach.
Dunkirk relies on performances to be able to give the audience the emotional connection needed, especially since character depth is the focus. Whitehead plays a scared, young soldier who wants to get off the beach (same as everyone else really) but is consistently a moral character, along with his acquaintance Gibson (Barnard), who meet when trying to get an injured soldier on to the next vessel leaving at the start of the film. They often, for different reasons, take the moral path, acting as the level headed side of the young soldier. Styles on the other hand plays Alex, a character who has a moment in which he is willing to sacrifice an innocent man who he believes is lesser to save the majority. With a very spiteful role, he is able to be highlight the fear in his character, as well as the shame of losing a battle and letting England down which shows during the third act. His character is similar to the Murphy’s unnamed soldier (I think he said Harold was his name but it was hard to hear and the internet isn’t helping), who acts in a very questionable manner but is understandable due to the fear he has for what he has been through in Dunkirk. Rylance is incredible as Mr. Dawson, an old man trying to do his best to protect his country, with Keoghan and Lockwood providing the audience with realistic young people who are incapable of imagining the horrors they are about to witness. Branagh is at his usual brilliance with Commandor Bolton, the man in charge of getting the soldiers off the beach. There is a moment towards the end where he runs through about three emotions in a short change of time, each one as realistic and enduring as the next. Finally, Hardy plays a role which you could imagine only he could take on, acting mainly through eye reactions as his face is behind a pilot helmet/mask and his dialogue quite small (up until the end where you just want to give the guy a hug).
The movie does have little dialogue, bringing most of its emotion through the actor’s physical emotions, as well as the cinematography and film score. The former is where the film succeeds the most. Nolan and cinematographer Hoyte Van Hoytema are both genius in their choices of shots, with the set design (by Nathan Crowley) being a perfect for the visceral scenes we witness. For example, the opening shot is so colourful and simple, five soldiers walking down a very bright street with pamphlets floating in the wind. The obvious juxtaposition of such a sweet shot is quickly broken with the discovery of the pamphlets being from the Nazis and saying that they have them surrounded, and the beauty quickly broken by gunfire and the soldiers fleeing to escape. This scene is brilliant, with Tommy making it behind French lines and basically walking straight on to the beach after that, highlighting how little space they have. From then on most of the shots are quite ugly, with a grey, dull colour grading making the beach look miserable and escape hopeless. For the rest of the movie we are delivered scene after scene in which the environment drives our emotion, whether its the threatening image of sand dunes outside of the Allied lines, or the burning of a ship due to a bombstrike at night time.
The score is also excellent, with Zimmer once again showing his talent and making a statement that he continues to be one of the all time greats. He builds tension using highly dissonant string arrangements, building climatically and driving a sense of terror in the audience. There are moments where the score works with the cutting of shots, often given us three separate events at the same time, overloading us with tension and giving us a feeling of dread. The moments without any music are often even more tense, with the absence of sound allowing us to hear the diegetic sounds of the war going on around the protagonists.
Most of the film is very violent (although there isn’t much gore) and the moments of happiness and relief are short lived. There was a good hour of this film where it didn’t let up, only given us short moments of rest before something even worse happened. There are small victories, with a big one towards the end in which the civilian ships do return, but it doesn’t let itself become too positive or optimistic, making us feel that even though they are safe there could be more enemies just beyond their line of sight. The ending of the film is also, thankfully, not as happy and victorious as it could have been. It reminds us that the soldiers returning are still heroes and that it is a positive so many survived, especially due to the war to come, but it doesn’t forget that it was still a massive loss by the Allies and that the war isn’t over and Nazi Germany, at that point, were still winning. It is optimistic without losing the essence of realism.
I had high expectations for Dunkirk due to the director and actors featured, but it exceeded these expectations and is a hard movie to fault. It highlights the terror and hopelessness in war in a very raw and realistic sense without needing gore or horrific images of violence which many war movies utilise. It gives us a human experience without any character depth, allowing the audience to place ourselves inside the characters’ footsteps to see the horrors they are facing without the usual cliched love stories and sop-stories. Although it could be criticised by some due to the absences mentioned above, it doesn’t take away from the experience that Nolan is trying to have the audience endure. It’s a depressing, emotionally draining movie which tires the audience in the best way possible. We just want the violence to stop, but it is drawn out brilliantly, making every moment feel more hopeless than the last. It makes a strong case to be Nolan’s best film yet (and with a discography of Memento, The Prestige, The Dark Knight trilogy, Inception and Interstellar that is saying a lot) and maybe even the best war film ever (it definitely is up there with Saving Private Ryan and Full Metal Jacket). It’s a film which many might not enjoy as it isn’t fun. From a cinematic standpoint though, Dunkirk is an excellent film, with the performances, the cinematography, the direction, the production and the sound design all being nearly faultless, and it makes a strong case to be placed as the number one film of 2017.
This is the end of the poem, This is the end of poetry; The darkness drapes like a mantle, The light fades like an ebbing sea; The wind blows cold through the windows, The silence slithers through the air; Time flutters by in a flurry– Time flutters by in despair.
The flesh is drained of its colour, The spirit emptied of its youth; The truth is gone from the beauty, The beauty absent from the truth; Life melts away into shadow, Life melts away into scree– This is the end of the poem, This is the end of poetry.
You gently placed yourself on the freshly cutgrass, responding
with a consumed hum. Your view was exquisite, the sun just touched the open
waters of the lake, and if you looked closely, you could see the ripples formed
from its touch.
The winds were something you would never forget, how the
simple kiss of its warm air blew your long strands of hair onto your petite
face. It was October. Placing your gaze
on the tree that hung low above your head, you started to count all the red
leaves. The more you counted, the more lethargic you got. Red was your favourite
colour, it expressed such a diverse set of emotions it simply fascinated you…One
may use it to express anger, or one can use it to portray excitement.
Ever since you were 7, with a passion for painting, you
would sign your name on every art piece you’ve made in red ink…to show the
emotion you felt while creating your piece…but it was up to the viewer to identify
whether you were joyful or resentful. You’ve always dreamed of being an artist,
imagining your work next to great artists like Da Vinci or Donatello, you
wanted to be remembered…and the way you wanted to be was for your refined red
“Do you wanna get going Y/N? Your momma’s gonna be angry
again” Jimmy whispered in your ear,
You lost count at 125, and thanked Jimmy for that. You
turned to Jimmy, who was focused on the horizon.
“Why are you whispering?” You replied…in a whisper. Jimmy
turned to you, giving you a warm smile,
“Because, It’s all so perfect, I don’t wanna ruin it” You
closed your eyes. He was right, the field you both rested on was quiet, the
leaves sang quietly on the trees, and the sound of cicadas followed. You’ve
always wondered what it would be like to live in a big city, or by the seaside…but
with your mother’s shortage of money, those dreams were as unrealistic as you
wanting to be an artist. Letting out a sigh, it was quiet again…that was until
Jimmy decided to clear his throat.
“We should get going” Jimmy said in defiance,
“But I don’t wanna” Your response came out as a child’s
“Me neither” Jimmy chuckled, propping himself up with his
“But we gotta.” Jimmy was right, the sky was setting and
your mom specifically asked you to be home before the stars came out.
“I can’t wait to be 18…so I can runaway” You said, wiping
the dust off your ripped jeans,
“Y/N, you’re only 12… and plus, you should be happy you got
both parents…consider yourself lucky.” Jimmy giggled.
You both walked out of the open field, and headed down the
trail you and Jimmy made.
“Bobby made fun of me again, he called me lobster boy” Jimmy
was never the one to open up about his feelings, but after years of reassurance
that you weren’t judgemental, he finally opened up.
You knew about his hands, and honestly, you didn’t care. You
don’t remember how you met Jimmy, but you were happy that you did.
“Tell him to stick one up his ass” You replied, rather
“A lady shouldn’t speak like that,” he continued.
“Well I’m no ordinary lady then?” Jimmy shook his head,
“No you’re not…but that’s why you’re my best friend” He
smiled, wrapping an arm around your shoulder,
“You’re really leaving Jimmy?” You promised him you wouldn’t
be sad, you promised him you would stay strong, but how could you stay strong
if he wasn’t going to be there with you along the way?
“Yeah…it sucks, I wish I could take you in one of my
suitcases” He said, embracing you closer into his hold,
“I think I could fit” You both chuckled, but it soon faded
into a mournful atmosphere. The walk stayed silent, usually the silence between
you two was always comfortable…but today, knowing that was the last time you
would sit under the same tree you went to for 3 years…it was languishing.
You were steps from his home that was now just a house
“My mom’s gonna miss you” He said, breaking the silence,
“She really likes you.”
“Tell her I’m gonna miss her too, and that I wish her the
best of luck at her new job” You replied.
“Oh! I got you something!” Jimmy said, before running back
into his house. You waited with a smile as you heard him shuffle throughout the
“Here,” Jimmy said breathlessly as he jumped the last step.
He placed a small box in your hand that had your name on it written on the bow.
“Open it!” Jimmy’s outburst made your heart jump,
“Jeez, do that again and I wont be able to do anything!” You
retorted, grasping at your heart, dramatically.
You pulled out the ribbon and removed the top of the box.
In it was two necklaces’, connected with a broken heart
charm. The gold letters that were engraved were;
“Best Friends Forever”
Jimmy took one half of the heart and put it around his neck,
“See, now if we wear this forever we can find each other…eventually”
Jimmy took the other half and motioned you to turn around; speechless you did
what he asked.
His hands snaked around your shoulders and placed the
necklace on your neck.
“Do you like it?” Jimmy asked from behind you.
You turned around,
“I love it, thank you so much!” You ran to Jimmy and wrapped
him in an embrace, feeling his arms instantly hug you back,
“I’m really gonna miss you Jimmy” You said, finally letting
the tears fall freely down your cheeks,
“And I’m gonna miss you more” Jimmy whispered, kissing your
“Why are you whispering again?” You asked, pulling away from
“Close your eyes” He instructed.
Hesitantly, you closed your eyes. The sudden silence made
you curious, and wondered if Jimmy left.
“Jimmy?” You called, as the urge to open your eyes grew. The
The heat from a presence hit your skin, and hands cupped
your cheeks, in less than a second your lips were connected with his. His hair
tickled your forehead, and his breath warmed your skin. Butterflies danced in
your stomach as you felt the kiss slightly deepen. Slowly, he pulled away.
It felt as if those butterflies reached up your throat and
held your tongue, because you were rendered speechless.
“Always remember me ok?” He said, removing his hands from
your skin, but not before slowly grazing it with his thumb.
“Okay” You whispered, feeling his touch finally leave your
skin for good.
“A freakshow?” Your friend snarled,
“Why would you wanna go to one of those?” You couldn’t answer,
you didn’t know yourself as to why you wanted to go…but nevertheless you wanted
“Because, now c’mon! It’ll be fun” You flashed her a toothy
grin as you waved the tickets in her face.
“Alright fine” she groaned, grabbing one.
“Even though you’re 25 you’re an ass driver” Your friend
said, getting out of the car,
You ignored her remark and jogged to her,
You handed your tickets and made your way to the almost vacant set of seats.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, everything you’ve heard is true, all
that has been advertised is here, under this tent”
A lady, who was in fact Jimmy’s mother, stepped on stage and
recited her speech as if practised for hours. The sight of his mother brought
memories back, you longed to know how Jimmy was doing.
The sound of your friend’s laughter distracted you from her
“Stop laughing” You warned,
You turned back to Ethel on the stage,
“From jungles untamed to forest enchanted. From the Dark
Continent to the spice-laden lands of India. Astounding mistakes of nature, are
gathered here, for your amusement and your edification”
“See” Your friend said,
“They want us to laugh,” she snorted; you ignored her lack
of decency and remained focused on the show.
The show was filled with acts of the underestimated,
and laughter’s filled the air from their cheesy yet humorous jokes.
“Now, for our next performer—lobster boy!” Your longing to
know how Jimmy was soon became short as he walked on stage.
Out of all the ways you could of reunited, at a coffee shop,
on the streets or even at a park…you reunited with Jimmy darling at a freak show—and
he was one of them.
His juggling act was enthralling; he concentrated on the
baseballs as he added more. With a strong finish, he gave the crowd of four a
His eyes, leaving the floorboard to your eyes, brought the
same feeling in your stomach as the first time he kissed you. Shock was evident on
his face, he stayed frozen, consuming the same matter you were.
Standing up, you watched Jimmy jump from the stage down to
the audience floor.
“Jimmy?” You called, allowing the smile you tried hiding to show on your face.
“Y/N,” he replied, your heart began to race as he stopped in
front of you.
“It’s really you” He said with a chuckle,
“i’ve missed you,” your heart warmed from his expression of emotion, it reminded you of how much he trusted you.
“I see you’ve been doing good, lobsterboy” You teased,
“Well juggling isn’t the only thing I can do with my hands” he pointed out, wiggling his eyebrow,
“You’re disgusting” You giggled,
“Call me what you want” He smirked. In less than 5 minutes, you were both in deep conversation, talking about absolutely everything.
“Do you still have that necklace?” He asked, eyeing your chest.
“Not on me no, but it’s in my room…and my eyes are up here” You said, lifting his chin with your finger.
“Me too” He smiled, it was a smile you missed, and it was the only smile that could make you feel better, in any situation.
“Hey,” Jimmy said,
“Close your eyes”
From the moment you closed your eyes, you felt his lips
softly touch yours, a feeling you almost forgot. His hands cupped your face,
pulling you closer. You felt like you were 12 again, on his lawn, and kissing
Jimmy for the first time. You remembered that day…the singing of the leaves,
and the sunset that ended that day so beautifully. You remembered counting the
red leaves with Jimmy by your side, and the promise Jimmy made you make, which
you undeniably kept.
He pulled away,
“I’m sorry, but I needed to do that” He chuckled as his thumb grazed your cheek—like
“God, you’re so beautiful,” he breathed out,
“I can’t say I love you, it’s been 13 years since I last
loved you…but stay with me in my tent for a couple of days, meet everyone so
they can finally meet the girl I’m always talking about.”
“Fuck, who am I kidding? 13 years later and you’re still on
my damn mind. You were the only one who cared for me, and treated me like a
person…anyone would fall in love with someone as pure as you.”
Jimmy held your hand,
“Please stay? They’re nice people, and they would love you”
“Anyone would” he added.
The show ended minutes earlier, you missed everything after Jimmy’s performance. You felt whole again with Jimmy, it felt as if he was in fact the other piece to your heart, and now you had the chance to see for yourself.
“Okay” You replied, giving him a warm smile,
“But what’s with the whispering again?” You giggled, inching
closer to him. Jimmy quickly pecked your lips,
“Because it’s all so perfect…I
don’t wanna ruin it”
DHV HWDC IM SORRY I’M SICK AND I APOLOGIZE THAT THIS IMAGINE IS TRASH XO. It took longer to write than expected and I’m sorry again :’( hope you enjoyed!
In which memories come and go like the fleeting breath of summer, and a broken promise to stay is rekindled four years later.
Angst, Hogwarts AU. Word Count: 9.5k.
What if the clouds could be born a different colour? Purple, green, pink, ruddy brown, a ferocious red. The faint blue of the ocean at four in the morning when boats drift quietly with the sea sirens; the brilliant, almost heartbreaking yellow of leaves swaying in the autumn wind. Anything but white. White, with its expanse of absolute nothingness. White, with its detestable habit of passing through life without a shadow. It’s the colour that contains everything lost, abandoned, and forsaken at once; a regrettable paradox of what is ultimately empty and everything.
“I forget a lot of things when I look at you.”
Such is a pity, you sometimes think, that from the multitudes of colours which exist, from the rainbow of vivid hues that bring the universe to life, the clouds were cast off with the ugliest shade of them all. Ugly, because it is empty. Because it is something that comes with no warning and leaves without ever saying farewell.
“What my name is, how to breathe, even the fact that a whole other world exists outside of you.”
Because white, like so many other things that exist in this world, is so easily forgotten by those who once held it dear.
“I forget so much, but you know what? I don’t mind. Because as long as I’m with you, then I know everything will be alright.”
ichigo dies in the war against the quincy; and suddenly realizes how short life is // ichigo’s life in reverse. for @ichirukimonth week 3; angst
ichigo doesn’t see yhwach, or sense him, or realize him at all. all that registers in his mind is ishida’s frightened face, and for a second he wants to ask ishida what’s wrong, until he feels copper in his mouth and a sharp pain in his chest.
this feeling is familiar. this feeling is nothing at all familiar.
he begins to panic; topples over and feels his control slipping from his fingers, as if he’s holding butter with warm fingers. he screams - something. he doesn’t know what, but he thinks it sounds something like rukia, and his hands reach for someone - something. no one is telling him what to do, so ichigo doesn’t know what to do. he thinks he wants to scream, or cry, or tell his sisters that he loves them. tell his dad that he misses him. tell his mom that he’s sorry just one more time. say thanks to rukia. say i love you to rukia.
ichigo doesn’t know when he shuts his eyes. he feels hands grasping towards him and he thinks of memories. memories that he clutches tightly to his chest - the past is all he has now. all that he owns. but when ichigo breathes one last time, the memories fall apart; like petals falling off of flowers, falling down like drops of rain.
Warnings: the death of James and Lily Potter which I always find quite distressing
Word Count: 4206
A/N: So I haven’t written it in just Sirius’ POV but I hope you like the finished product :) also iI got a bit carried away so sorry its really long
The wind rattled hauntingly against the windows as the sky threatened to rain. It was an unusually dark and miserable Autumn day, the sun hadn’t peeked out from behind the dim clouds since the day before and the air smelt like rain was inevitable. The golden, orange and red leaves that had been shed from their now bare trees were blown around the streets of Godric’s Hollow as the wind picked them up and carried them like multi-coloured paper aeroplanes.
The chilled air slapped James Potter’s face as he opened the front door of his cottage, the doorknob cold to the touch of the pads of his fingertips. The frosty wind swirled through his already messy black hair as he upturned the collar of his jacket before ploughing through the thick, strong wind toward the front picket fence of their property. Somehow, he and his wife had forgotten that today was Hallow’s eve; with the preparations for their best friend Sirius’ birthday party in a couple days time, they had forgotten to buy treats for the children of Godric’s Hollow who would come knocking at their door that evening.
He looked back through the front window of their home, gazing into the living room he could see his son zooming around on a toy broomstick Sirius had got him for his first birthday. His wife, her red hair brushed out of her face, was sitting on their overstuffed couch laughing as her son darted around on the floor, his little legs moving as fast as they could carry him. As James turned right, hearing the click of the white picket fence close behind him, a warm, fuzzy feeling built in his stomach and spread to his chest despite the cold weather.
The general store on Church Lane was the only shop in the village within walking distance from their cottage which sold bags of foil wrapped chocolates. A bell chimed as James pushed open the door to the store to find it crowded with last minute shoppers who had evidently forgotten to buy treats just as he had. Friendly smiles were flashed as he walked over to the wall with bags of sweets lined perfectly in rows. A small radiator hummed at the front of the shop, its efforts barely noticeable with the cold wind that was let inside with every customer who opened the door to either enter or exit.
Grabbing a couple bags of sweets, James went up to the front of the store to pay. As much as Lily had taught him the currency of Muggles, he still had to concentrate to make sure he was paying the store clerk, a man with wrinkled, paper thin skin and grey hair, the correct amount of money. It always baffled James as to why Muggle currency had to be so complex, so many different sized coins as well as paper notes that crumpled easily, he longed for the Wizarding World where three distinctly sized and coloured coins bought you everything you needed.
His keys rattled and the tumblers clicked as he entered his cottage, the warmth from the fireplace filling him from the outside in. The house was much quieter than when he had left, instead of Harry rocketing around the living room making whooshing noises as he held the broom between his chubby legs, he was in his cot napping silently. Lily was waiting for him in the kitchen, the whistling of the kettle as it boiled the only sound filling the room besides the wind that rattled the windows.
Her green eyes, the colour he likened to a crisp green apple, darted toward him as he entered the room, a soft look falling over them as she realised it was only her husband. It was something that he would never get sick of, her beautiful, loving eyes, the ones that their son had inherited, gazing deep into his soul. He placed the bag of treats he had bought on the kitchen bench without taking his eyes of his wife; they had been cooped up here for so long now that he instinctively knew the dimensions of every room in the two-storey cottage.
James could see Harry’s stroller through the open door he had walked through moments before, sitting near the bottom of the stairs. The balloons and streamers Peter had picked out for Sirius’ birthday party sat at the edge of the bench in paper bags, the food for the party taking up space in the fridge. A pile of dirty dishes sat in the sink waiting, almost eagerly, to be cleaned. The rattling on the windows subsided slightly as Lily poured the boiling water from the kettle into two cups, flicking back her hair that dangled in front of her face.
The cuckoo clock that had once belonged to his grandparents struck four o’clock as Lily passed him his cup of tea. Lily let out an exasperated sigh before taking a sip from her cup, earl grey as usual. James hated that Lily, who never liked to be told what to do, had been instructed to lock herself up in her own home, like a bird that was never allowed out of its cage. Lily and Harry spent most of their time indoors, except for the occasional visits to the local park where Harry liked to be pushed on the swing. It was usually James who was granted the freedom of roaming the streets of Godric’s Hollow when they needed food or other supplies.
Granted, Dumbledore was only confining them to their home to protect them, but recently, James thought, that it felt more like solitary confinement than protection. Lily put on a brave face, she tried to act that being separated from the outside world wasn’t a big deal, that she didn’t long to be with her friends or at the Ministry in the Aurors office, but James could see right through her facade. She hated it, not being in contact with any of their friends bar Peter, fearing for the fate of her son who had only recently learnt to walk, but James knew Lily better than anyone, and he knew, without a doubt, that she would go to the ends of the Earth for her son, that she would die before she let anything harm him.
earliest memories are of scent. The corner shop in which I was born, with its
atmosphere of fresh cardboard and old newspapers, and the coal fire that smoked,
and the cellar in which my grandfather kept potatoes and pickles and
home-brewed wine. The scent of the Mustela baby lotion that my mother used on
my skin, and which she always brought home from France. The blue-green reek of
the tidal flats on the island of Noirmoutier, where my family had a house; and
which to me was the smell of the sea, so that every other coast seemed to me to
be missing some essential ingredient.
awakens memory; it speaks to the other senses; it seems to exist outside of
time; it sometimes even awakens the dead. My grandfather’s pipe tobacco, Clan,
has such a sweet and distinctive scent that, twenty years after his death, it
still evokes his presence. And its colour is a faded red, like the fisherman’s
smock he used to wear when we went sailing together, and the colour still smells
of sunshine, and wind, and a hundred happy memories.
most scents have colours. It’s a form of synaesthesia, in which the brain
confuses stimuli, converting sounds to shapes, or sounds, or tastes, giving
colours to days of the week, or in my case, converting colours to scent, so that
sometimes I find it difficult to separate one from the other. Perhaps this is
why, in my house, there are so many brightly-coloured things; and why I always
like to keep my favourite perfumes close by, alongside my books and my
Perfume is my greatest indulgence. Not chocolate, not shoes, but bottles
of scent; dozens - no, hundreds - of bottles, each one containing a
genie that, when uncorked, can work everyday miracles of memory and mood. Some
perfumes are little capsules of time; like the Ô de Lancôme I wore the year I
first met my husband – I was sixteen, at sixth-form college - and its colour is
the same bright-green as the pullover I used to wear, a fresh and vibrant
citrus scent that still brings back those happy days more clearly than a
photograph. Or Guerlain’s Chamade, with its dark chypre base, which I wore at
university – being an impoverished student then, I couldn’t afford the eau
de parfum, but used the bath oil as perfume instead and thought myself very
sophisticated. Or Yves Rocher’s Ispahan, which somehow smells of our first
home, a rather run-down terrace house, with colourful murals on the walls and a
perpetual fog of patchouli and frankincense.
sense of smell is the first of our senses to develop. As infants, it is the
sense of smell that first connects us to the world. I remember, in the
maternity ward, when my daughter was born, holding her – just a few hours old –
up to a vase of freesias standing by the bedside. Her reaction was immediate;
her little head turned; her mouth opened in an immediate and instinctive desire
to explore and to experience.
As adults, we can too often become jaded by
the multitude of sense–impressions coming at us all the time. Traffic,
televisions, radios, billboards, mobile phones, the constant comings and goings
of other people – all can contribute to a sensory overload that can lead to
stress and confusion.
close your eyes, relax, and the sense of smell comes back into its own. Scent
speaks directly to the subconscious, sometimes evoking whole scenes that even
photographs cannot convey. It has strong emotional associations, too; often
linked with memory. Nothing brings back the past like a scent; nothing speaks
so clearly and directly to the heart.
held a writing seminar in a women’s prison near my home. The women were all
different ages and from wildly different backgrounds; at first I struggled to
find a way to engage their creativity. Then I asked: “What smells do you miss?”
Each reply was a story. By the end of the day, I had poetry; short fiction;
essays; letters to the dead. The next time I came, I brought perfume samples.
In that sterile and utilitarian environment, each one was like an oasis.
time, a friend of mine suffered a stroke that left her completely paralysed,
unable to speak or to swallow. I knew she dreamed of food and drink, so I
brought her the closest things I could find; fruit-scented lip salves from the
Body Shop; pomegranate bath bombs from Lush; chocolate-scented lotions to rub
into her hands and feet. On her birthday, I made her a virtual birthday cake –
a cocktail of scents in a bottle. I used dark chocolate, Kahlua, cinnamon and
black pepper. It was inedible, but smelt divine. She kept it by her bed for six
months, until she was be able to eat again – in spite of her doctor’s
prediction that this might never happen. Such is the positive power of scent
and the energy it can harness.
first became aware of perfumes through my great-Aunt Marie, an elegant old Parisienne,
who had once known Chagall and Edith Piaf, and who until the day she died, always
dressed in pink and white, and never wore any perfume other than Chanel Number
5. I remember the glass-stoppered bottle that stood on her dressing-room table,
and the scent of impossible flowers, like something out of a distant dream. She
was the one who taught me that scent is the oldest magic there is; a scent can change
your identity; can bring back the ghosts of long-lost loves; like a fairy
godmother, transform the most timid of wallflowers into a heroine, just for one
night. Chanel Number 5 still brings her back, and she was the one who
encouraged me to haunt perfume departments, to collect samples and bath oils,
to discover the scents that would help me express my personality.
I tend to use scent much as I would my wardrobe. I have so many bottles that my
husband bought me a cabinet as a gift, in which I keep all my perfume bottles,
neatly categorized and ready to use. The top shelf is for gourmand fragrances,
with their notes of gingerbread; vanilla; honey and chocolate. Muegler’s Angel;
Rochas’ Tocade; Kurkadjian’s Absolue du
Soir. The second is for florals; Chanel no. 19; Fracas; Trésor; Paris. The
third, for herbal and citrus scents; Jo Malone’s Lime Basil; Acqua de Parma; Guerlain’s
Mitsouko. The bottom shelf is for orientals: Habit Rouge; Coromandel; L’Autre; the
lovely creamy sandalwood of Chanel’s Bois des Iles.
morning I choose a scent according to my mood. Wistful; exuberant; romantic;
brave. Some days I look for an old friend; on other days I need a breath of
fresh air. When I’m writing a new book, I often choose a scent on behalf of my
protagonist. I wear it much in the same way that method actors sometimes use
scent to get into character. Vianne Rocher was Aqua de Parma; Blueeyedboy was l’Heure Bleue; the
seductive Zozie de l’Alba was scented with Guerlain’s Habit Rouge. The book I’m
writing right now smells of a new Chanel perfume, Boy: a light and lovely
unisex blend of lavender and vanilla, with which I’ve recently become more than
a little obsessed.
me, the most important aspect of attraction has always been about feeling
good. There is a tangible radiance to well-being that no cosmetic can
duplicate. That’s why I tend to give more thought to the scent I wear than to
clothes or makeup, or even shoes. My wardrobe is made up of bottles, neatly
lined up in my scent cabinet. Some are old friends; some, new discoveries. Each
one fits me perfectly, tailored to my changing moods.
little black dress is Coromandel; I wear it with heels and attitude. My sexy
number is Bois des Iles, with its creamy sandalwood scent. Francis Kurkadjian’s
Acqua Universalis is my favourite pair of jeans; almost, but not quite unisex,
fresh and informal and effortless. I wear Fracas when I want to turn heads; with
its blast of tuberose, it’s my strapless Oscar frock. Yves Rocher’s Ispahan is
the hippy dress I can’t bear to throw out; I still have half a bottle (it’s now
sadly discontinued) that I wear on special occasions. Houbigant’s Chantilly is
there in the mornings for when I want to feel sixteen again. I wore it
throughout my teenage years, and it always takes me back.
at 52, whatever I wear, it’s getting less and less likely that people will say
in all honesty: “You look fabulous.” But very often, people do say (as did a
grumpy Head Porter on a recent trip to my old college, startled out of his
apathy by a passing whiff of Guerlain’s Samsara); “You smell fabulous.”
Because beauty isn’t about how you look, but how you make other people feel.
And whatever can make a Head Porter smile, on a dull autumn day in Cambridge,
is surely a power to conjure with.
Summary: Soulmates AU. You are excited about finally finding colour in the world, but unfortunately both Cassian and yourself are idiots when it comes to love.
Tags: just fun fluff, there’ll probably be angst eventually
Notes: I am Australian, colour has a ‘u’, grey has an ‘e’, and you can fight me. in this universe, you can see colour until you hit puberty and then again when you find your soulmate (just I don’t have to do the ‘wait what is that? blood orange, periwinkle?’ ‘yeah idk dude’). Also, colour doesn’t just appear when you touch/see them, it’s more as you fall in love kinda thing i think. also, it’s midnight, so grammar might be a tad interesting
“My ears hear what others cannot hear; small faraway things people cannot normally see are visible to me. These senses are the fruits of a lifetime of longing, longing to be rescued, to be completed. Just as the skirt needs the wind to billow, I’m not formed by things that are of myself alone. I wear my father’s belt tied around my mother’s blouse, and shoes which are from my uncle. This is me. Just as a flower does not choose its colour, we are not responsible for what we have come to be. Only once you realise this do you become free, and to become adult is to become free.”
Le Paon flew across the city for what must have been the third time that week, remaining hidden in the darkness and shadows. New to this life of magic and superpowers, he wavered on each step, still unsure of how to move and unable to completely trust the powers of the Peacock Miraculous. Behind him, the wide tail of his suit flared, manipulating gravity and giving him a brief feeling of flight before he settled onto the next rooftop. His three-piece suit, while at first glance did not seem to be the most appropriate attire for such midnight ventures, was actually quite flexible to his needs. Its shades of deep purple, indigo, and pink clashed against his bright orange-red hair. But in the evening gloom, the sky empty of the moon, everything was muted and dimed, a faded dusky blue in the shadow that aided him in blending into his surroundings as he adjusted to these new powers.
He wavered, coming to a stop at the roof’s edge. Looking down at the streets beneath him, he tried to remind himself that everything was fine—that was a lie. If he, for whatever reason, unexpectedly fell, he knew he wouldn’t be harmed. That theory had been tested more than enough on his first outing as Le Paon. The power of the Miraculous would protect him. And even then, he was Le Paon, and he wouldn’t have to worry about it once he had mastered the power of flight. He would be fine.
At least that’s what he kept telling himself.
The burden of the Miraculous pinned to his cravat weighed heavily upon him. Ever since he had been in possession of the Peacock Miraculous, Nathanael had found that it also came with a strange and unfamiliar sensitivity to the emotions of those around him. Initially, it had been a subtle hum in the back of his mind throughout the day. Sometimes the noise would vanish completely and other times it would grind and pulse irritatingly. But mainly it flared when surrounded by large groups of people. Hawkmoth had explained to him it would continue to grow with each passing day. And even more so this ability increased tenfold while transformed.
He was just starting becoming accustomed to it, being able to decipher what those around him were feeling. What started off mostly as flashes and sounds, that usually left him with a headache, were now being translated into bursts of happiness, shocks of rage, and clouds of sadness.
And now, while he flew through the brisk night he felt it, a myriad of feelings echoing around each corner. The sticky miasma of emotions filled the air, haunting him.
All around him he was bombarded with foreign feelings that were not his own. A flash against his temple signalled someone’s nearby annoyance; a heavy cloud fogged his senses with sleepiness as citizens slept; and a pleasant hum echoed in the back of his throat—if he listened close enough would he be able to hear a song being sung into the night?
He carried on, leaving these thoughts behind him as he further explored the city from his new vantage point. The faster he moved, perhaps the less he would feel.
However that did not seem to be the case. As he ran, he indeed felt them, more and more insights overwhelming his senses. And just as suddenly they burst into flame. His stomach dropped as he stumbled backwards, steadying himself against a nearby wall. Impatience and anger suddenly pricked his skin, and a sluggish, tired, ooze sunk into him at varying intervals, signalling those who were overworked and those already asleep. A cold chill ran through him, and he tasted fear on random people passing by on the streets down below.
It left him feeling nauseous and with a shortness of breath that had nothing to do with his midnight run across the rooftops of Paris. He tried to move forward, to get himself away from the commotion engulfing him, but his body seemed to reject the idea. Instead he tripped. He fell.
Unable to catch himself, he slammed into the rooftop, landing on his hands and knees. He breathed heavily as he tried to remember Hawkmoth’s words, “Let these feeling pass through you.” The mantra wasn’t helpful; he could feel the emotions clashing along his skin, breaking him out into a cold sweat. Sadness and confusion overwhelmed him. Eyes watering, he felt everything too much. It was an itch that was driving him insane. And all of it seemed to come to rest in his throat, drowning him…
“D-detransform me!” he coughed out.
In a flash of blue his costume melted away, leaving Nathanael unmagical and ordinary. Almost immediately he could feel the air rushing back into his lungs. He heaved violently, his body desperate to breathe.
But it wasn’t so easy, detransformed he still felt the lingering claws of emotions stuck to his bones, clinging to him for purchase. Even worse, as he tried to focus, it became apparently clear that the thoughts of panic and anxiety had been his own. Now that his head was a less disturbed, he could recognize his own feelings more clearly. And he didn’t like it.
Beside him on the roof, a small creature collapsed by his hand. Her large pink eyes stared out blankly in front of her. She shuddered violently and wrapped her little body up with her tail, cloaking her as she shifted herself into a little ball of blue. The pink dot on her forehead shrunk until it was almost indiscernible. She lay there still, catatonic.
Her bright pink irises seemed dulled in the evening light, even though they contrasted greatly against the deep blue sclera of her eyes. When Nathanael had first seen her, he had thought she was some sort of demon, her neon eyes flashing at him in the darkness…
And now he saw the same pink-red tinge to his once turquoise blue eyes in every reflection when transformed as Le Paon. He hated it.
Nathanael watched her as he caught his breath. She looked shell-shocked. He blankly wondered if he should say something…had she too been affected? Beneath her tail, her limbs seemed to twitch uncontrollably, making Nathanael immediately feel guilty.
Just as he opened his mouth to apologize, the little creature’s eyes watered, glazing over her demonic eyes with a clear sheen. Her tears soon poured forth, streams of liquid that sparkled and evaporated into glittered mists.
Nathanael had seen her cry many times already, but he was still left in awe as he watched the shimmering twinkle of her tears. He moved, wanting to reach out and offer a hand to comfort her, but he stopped unsure of what to do.
“Are… are you all right?” he tried with a deep whisper that didn’t seem to grab her attention.
Her eyes continued to stare forward, the three little feathers on the back of her head swaying in the wind. In the dark evening her tears lit up the shadows. And the bright scintillation of her tears felt inconsistent to the dour mood surrounding them.
Nathanael tried focusing on her. He was still unsure of how, but he assumed he would be unable have some control, to see if he could get a read on what it was she was feeling.
There was nothing.
“I—I’m sorry,” he continued, clearing his throat.
Her eyes flickered up towards him. She blinked, sending another outpouring of tears down into the air, silver stars glinting and fading into the night, as she looked at him.
Frowning slightly, Nathanael huffed another deep breath, before continuing, “I think that’s the worst it’s ever been… Does it affect you too?”
A single, final tear fell from her eye; she continued staring at Nathanael with the same blank expression.
But Nathanael held her gaze, waiting patiently for a reply. In return, Duusu slowly seemed to respond, her head moved slowly in a weak nod. He could feel a sudden wave of sadness cresting out from her being and it left him feeling lonely and unwanted. The sheen in her eyes increased once more.
Tentatively, Nathanael reached out with his hand, bringing it close, but not quite touching her. Her eyes watched staring between his nearing hand and back to meet his eyes.
After what felt like a few long stretched minutes, she shifted.
Ever so slightly, she shuffled the last few millimeters towards Nathanael’s open palm. Shocked, he was overcome with nervousness, but deep down he felt warmth. It started in his palm and moving slowly up his arm to where it bloomed ever so slightly in his chest. Duusu, in return, closed her eyes, as she softly nuzzled his hand. The pink dot on her forehead grew in synchronicity to the pulsing in Nathanael’s chest, calming him as he sat up. He kept Duusu delicately in his hands and rested himself, seated with his back against the building.
He could feel Duusu dozing in his hand; her own hands began absently roaming through her tail feathers. A simple calm blanketed over them and Nathanael finally felt a bit more whole. He breathed in the night, a cool crisp breeze, and looked up towards the sky. He couldn’t help but notice the colours of the darkening twilight reflected the little creature in his hand. Deep blues, purples, and pinks hazed against the horizon. He tried to memorize his view, already sketching out and painting the colours into his mind.
Together they rested their minds, focusing on this new feeling of friendship? camaraderie? of something—perhaps a silent acceptance of their fate? Whatever it was, it was something that kept Nathanael warm despite the cold wind rustling through his hair and her feathers.
Thanks to everyone who waited so patiently for this chapter!! I know there’s 0 chlonath in it…so i’m going to try to remedy that with a continuation from yesterday’s piece!! ^^
Big hugs to everyone for sticking through chlonathweek with me!! ITS BEEN THE ABSOLUTE BEST!!! ❤️ ❤️ ❤️
This is a song fic, in an Au where, instead of Kili dying at the end of the Hobbit, you fall in battle. I chose the song “Home” by Mumford and Sons. It is slightly like a Steve x Reader fic I wrote I while ago, but I hope it’s fine all the same!
~I ran away in floods of shame…
……I’ll never tell how close I came, as I crossed the Holland road…~
Kili woke, fearful, with his muscular back pressed against hard stone, his eyes reluctant to stay open. A small strip of blood wandered from his brow to the edge of his mouth, and he could taste the coppery liquid as it also got tangled in his long hair, vexing him.
Then he remembered you.
With horror clamped upon his bones, he sprang up, and began to run through the damned battlefield.
~..well, you went left and I went right…
……as the moon hung proud and white…~
An abandoned battle axe tripped him, and he fell hard, his nose scraping the hard winter ground. For a minute, he lay there, his skin feeling like water. A trail of ants scurried away from the dwarf, and it painfully reminded him of your journey.
Is that all we were, he thought, ants, just in line to be crushed? Kili rolled over, facing the moon. Should he just give up? Without Fili, he felt like half of….well, half of anything. Just half is never as good as a whole object.
Half is lonely.
The night was starless, and cold. And he was cold without you. The pang of longing he felt for you turned into a screech inside his blood, bubbling it up until it forced him back to his battered feet to run and find you.
~..you would have loved it here tonight.~
Kili’s eyes brightened when he saw a lock of your H/C hair winding its way around a rock, so he dashed around its corner to see you.
What he found he wished wasn’t you at all.
As swords went, it was truly as gnarly as they came. The sword which stuck out of your still lightly moving chest was black iron, the colour of Death and all of his demons. Kili stood petrified at the hateful vision that he witnessed.
Your lifeblood wove its way from your chest to your shoulder, tangling through your hair. Kili knelt by your side, and held your pulsing hand.
~Spin me round just to pin me down
on the cover of this strange bed…~
“…Kili?..” Your weak croak caused the hollow dwarf to tighten his grip on your hand, and your beautiful E/C eyes met his tearful ones.
“It’s okay, beloved,” he mused through quivering lips, “I’m here now.” Your own mouth curled into a feeble smile, and he brushed your cheek with the back of his blooded hand.
“..Did we,” you started, but you were promptly interrupted by a coughing fit, and more blood met your cracked lips, “Did we…beat them?” Kili almost chuckled, but then he remembered himself. You had always been so competitive, even in dire situations. This he had always found charming, even when Thorin did not.
“Yes, love,” he croaked, trying to hide the pain in his voice, “we did.” But I didn’t, he thought to himself.
~Spin me round just to pin me down…~
As you began to fade, the moon seemed to as well, becoming fainter behind dream-laced clouds. He held your head as you made yourself more comfortable in his lap.
“Kili?” Voice failing, you pipped up, making his hands shake. No, he thought, because he knew that he must be strong now.
“When are we going home?” Something snapped within Kili, something deep and ancient, and, as the tears of remorse fell, his shoulders shook.
“Soon, Y/N, soon. But you will go before I.”
“Will you follow?” You chirped expectantly, though still sounding like a child.
“In time.” After he said this, your body stiffened up.
“Kili, don’t leave me-” bringing your floppy head to his chest, perching his bristly chin against your scalp, he cried silently into your still sweet smelling hair.
“I’m always with your soul, love. Always.”
~…I’ll be home, in a little while…
lover, I’ll be home..~
Kili looked up to your soon-to-be home in misery, and cursed whoever took all of the stars away. They weren’t there to guide you, so who would? He wouldn’t be able to…the thought of you lost in the heavens made him sick.
Moving his weary eyes back down to you, he saw that your eyes were closed.
“Y/N,” Kili cried, distressed, “Y/N, wake up!” He shook your shoulder wildly, and you were roused.
“Kili….” You sounded like you always did in the mornings when you refused to get out of bed, “let me sleep…”
“No, Y/N,” Kili hugged you closer, “not quite yet.”
“Let me…..” You trailed off.
“What?!” He became distraught, “let you what?!”
~I’ll be home, in a little while…~
“…let me..go home.”
The dwarf was struck to his very core at your words, and more stray tears became visible on his dirty cheeks.
“Why?” Now he sounded like a child, in a whiny tone, as if begging Thorin for another piggy back when he and Fili were children. He could see the contours of your face lift, and you smiled to the lonely moon.
“Because I no longer belong here now.” Weakly, you raised yourself just enough to kiss him lightly upon the lips, and for a second to him it seemed that the stars weren’t so lonely; like Fili was just a touch away.
But then you fell back into his lap, and was still.
His eyes widened, and he shook your shoulders again.
“Y/N!? Love!? Wake up! Please!” But no matter how much he pleaded, your eyes would remain shut. He came to know this. Instead of shaking you more, he brought you closer to his chest, keeping you warm.
“It’s okay,” he whispered tearfully, more to himself, “I’ll be your stars. Don’t worry.”
the varia helping their anxious s/o calm down during a thunderstorm
((I feel like we have answered this before, but, sure, why not! ♥))
When the power was gone, silence, the flickering somewhere beyond the darkness that held your head tightly into his chest where Xanxus lie in the hollow bedroom engulfed in only the flashes of lighting.
Your murmurs escaping in sobs, eyes squeezed shut as his arm wove around your back tenderly, voice silenced as though he were too proud to speak of this comfort, but he knew. He knew how you felt.
His tension fading as you leaned into his affections. That adorable sigh audible as Xanxus let your body press to his comfortably, stroking your hair as your breathed in every last drop of that masculine perfection protecting you, and hiding the immense roar of the storm under his heartbeat so bravely.
“Is it over?” you dared ask, his grasp tightening as he seemed so unwilling to let you move just yet.
“Just a while longer,” He rasped, his fingers curling deeper into your skin.
Thin walls, pouring rain, the howling winds sealing the door behind you where your only comfort existed in a coat drenched in water. His hair lain on your shoulder in silver rivulets clinging to your bare skin in the drench.
You practically stuck together, like adhesive, clinging to the heat that lasted between you in hot breaths. Your pulse racing to the fear of thunder. Your chest so tight it hurt to breathe in the waves of pounding water begging to get in.
But he held you at all costs; Superbi Sqaulo embraced you through the bullets of rain drops. His swallow heard as you pleaded he never let go.
“I won’t.” He admitted, his cold chin burying softly into your shoulder where you leaned in close. “I’m right here,”
His voice always rang true. His heart always lie in the right place when he told you nothing but the honest to god truth. He loved you- and he loved doing everything to protect you.
“Oh, my,” Lussuria’s voice called out, the booming sounds outside deafening to the one who trembled massively in fear. Your skin crawling as the reception was gone, the lights a memory, the darkness an eternity that took it all from your grasp feeling nothing but air until feeling the sudden warmth. “That is nothing to fret over!”
“How can you say that-”
Their body wrapped yours somehow- the tug of their legs surround your own as Lussuria assured you with their hug that they were right there at your side.
“I won’t lose you to a mere storm, lovely.” They teased, smiling through the pain like it were nothing. That calming voice soothing it all as a face nuzzled next to yours sweetly with a purr. “It just gives us a reason to spend this time alone, doesn’t it?”
Strong arms held a lot of damage. A lot of pain, fear, pride- everything you could muster between flashing lights. The tense grasp of your hands to his waist almost hard for him to bear as Levi stiffened his posture just to avoid the awkward crush of his embrace.
He was never used to this romance; you were strangely refreshing. His love finding relaxation in what he used to destroy- your face pushing deep into his coat as you wanted nothing more than to be swaddled in his scent.
To lie on his bare chest and feel the cold metal of every piercing that you could count versus the swelling storm outside.
“Help me,” You tried not to cry, but it just flowed out. His eyes welled up, widening as his grip snaked around you, and pulled you in tight. “Just help me,”
“Did you forget?” His voice whispered, parting with the soft loop of saliva he aggressively pushed away from between you. His sleeve fell away, shape still trapping you down from the glow of the lightning. “Or do you want to keep going?”
Dare he ask? His mouth solved everything- the kiss everlasting, powerful, a poison that numbed it all with the flecks of biting that left your lip cracked, splitting with the leak of blood red down your chin he lapped away viciously.
His hands moved along your lower back, disguising tremours as the shocks of his touch- pushing you closer to how his lips tilted in deeper. His tongue brushed your teeth, gnashing further- grinding your mouth roughly with another blast, another wave of heavy rain you couldn’t hear behind his breathy laugh flowing into the kiss he divided again to smile.
“I don’t think I heard your answer yet,” Belphegor taunted, the hand on his waist digging hard into his flesh when your lips started to pout.
Drained, they leaned back to the wall, hand within yours as your eyes finally started to close. The panic formed as white in your cheeks- the stain of colour at last finding its way home as Mammon watched silently.
Your fingers refused to let go however, your breaths still ragged with crying as they merely stared at the mess you became over a little thunder and wind. The way you seemed so weak was…precious.
The tender, little, hopelessness rising from your heart making Mammon sigh as they let you coax them into a restless sleep whether they wished for it or not. But your soft breaths were an invitation, your tears wiped away by black fingernails as they fell softly within your hold and drifted to rest.
“Goodnight,” Mammon breathed next to your ear. “You can relax now.”
“Thank you,” You murmured in return.
There was no storm, Fran seemed to imply, the thunder replaced with the gentle flow of s stream suddenly by your feet plunged carefully into its depths. The rain turning to the current that breezed by in a burden of sun beams casting down on the back of your shoulders ready to turn as Fran knelt next to your bewildered form.
“W-what is this?” You asked sharply, head jolting to the clear skies above that moved by with ease. The cloudless streak leaving your eyes wide as his hand fluttered to your shoulder. “The storm-”
“Don’t think about it,” Fran spoke as assuringly as the sky. His solid gaze making your lips form a solemn stare. It was hard. Your fear haunting you even in the rolling meadow where Fran’s hand held yours. His body scooted closer, head resting on your shoulder where you jumped.
His eyes began to close. “I only want to make you happy here,” Fran added. “I won’t let you be scared this time.”
The Hourglass Nebula by “Fabled Creative” Part of the Space Destinations Series
Planetary Nebula - The Hourglass Nebula The Engraved Hourglass Nebula is a young planetary nebula in the southern constellation Musca about 8,000 light-years from Earth. It is conjectured that the hourglass shape is produced by the expansion of a fast stellar wind within a slowly expanding cloud which is denser near its equator than its poles. The vivid colours given off by the nebula are the result of different ‘shells’ of elements being expelled from the dying star, in this case helium, nitrogen, oxygen and carbon.
upon them like a tiger, fiery and quiet, stalking with the relentless eye from
the burning sky above. Lavi squinted against the glare bouncing off the
worn-out cobblestones. The colourful townhouses flanking the near empty street
offered no reprieve, the thin ribbons of their shadows clinging snug to the
bright walls. Striped curtains fluttered listlessly in a few open windows and
doorways. With a sigh, Lavi tugged his headband down around his neck and wiped
anything?” he turned to Allen, damp bangs falling over his good eye.
Allen shook his head, munching on some sugared jellies he had bought from a
miserable vendor at the train station. The sharp rustling of crinkled paper
ruffled the silence as he reached for another piece. How they hadn’t melted
into a solid block yet was a mystery.
something decides to show up, at least we’ll have a clear shot.” Cupping his
hand around his eye, Lavi peered along the street like a sailor on the lookout
for the faraway land. The glistening cobbles rippled in the sun, tinted ocean
blue with the reflection of the sky on their smooth surface.