#a short

A drable about my dnd character and my fiancés dnd character because I listened to country music and here we are

Also I wrote this while in the er for a rupture in my reproductive system so if it’s not good just say so I’ll fix it later

It was pouring rain outside the mouth of the cave. After we got separated from the rest of the party in the attack we ran aimlessly into the forest, eventually ending up here. Fellen had started a fire while I set up a make shift camp.

I watched him brush his long red hair behind his ears before striking his flint and steel. He was beautiful, all 7 feet of him. From his long red hair, his pointed ears, angular jaw, ocean blue eyes and sun kissed skin down to his calloused hands from centuries of ranch work and hunting. His shit eating grin when I stumbled over something or when he made an innuendo that pissed me off. He was breath taking. And I hated it.

“This is all your fault you know,” I grumbled. He looked up at me, brow raised. “Is it now? If I recall, you were the one who can’t hide for shit,” he smirked at me. He fucking smirked. I growled in response throwing down my bedroll. “Listen here asshole-“

“Listening”

“-your fucking ego got us into this. You couldn’t let it go. You couldn’t just let that fucker think he bested you so we could get to the next town could you? Nooo-“

“Of course not, do you know who I am?”

“SADLY YES FUCKER! YOURE FELLEN GODDAMN GREYWOOD, FAE LORD. AND YOU WONT LET ANYONE ANYWHERE FORGET IT. THIS IS WHY YOUR LAND WAS STOLEN DICKWAD! YOURE INSUFFERABLE!” I breathed heavily, pointing in his face.

He smiled at me. Like an asshole. And reached up to grab my hand while standing to his full height. “That’s not why you’re mad is it?”

I swallowed, feeling my face tingle. “What are you talking about?”

“Moira, you’ve been at my throat for weeks for any and everything and it’s only gotten worse. I’ve been walking this realm for over 900 years. I know how to read a person.”

I glared at him. “Shut your whore mouth, pretty boy”

“You try so hard to be good, why?” He tilted his head as he held onto my hand.

My face was betraying me, the heat on my cheeks more than likely obvious with the fire light. “I hate you,” I swallowed out trying to not look at his face.

He stepped closer, his scent invading my space. Leather, horses, dirt and moss. He was intoxicating and he knew it. What a fucker.

I glanced up seeing his face soften. “why do you hate me Moira?”

“Because…”

“Because?”

“BECAUSE YOURE LIKE GRAVITY. I CANT- I CANT get away from you,” I confessed angrily. He watched me intently, eyes drinking in my face in the fire light. The glow of my blonde curls, the freckles splattered cross my peachy skin. “I’m tired of having to be on good behavior, you’re my boss.”

He sighed deeply, leaning in and whispered breathily in my ear, “Then hang up your wings.”

Holy. Fuck.

Just like that it was over.

I was so doomed.

He pulled back to look at me with that smirk, that god forsaken smirk, so I kissed it right off his face.

Tw: implication of self harm

The separation was a success.

There would never be a time creativity would ever forget that. Never. It was the first thing reaching the ears of newly existing forms, the first words to reach their minds. The first memory. After all the blur, the fogged over pictures this was the first. And it will be remembered. Even if it was said through pain. Even if it was said by a voice no longer existent. Even if it was not the truth. Not even a little. Not even at all.

Roman doesn’t feel his right hand. Not after that battle and not after the next. Not when he’s with the other sides or when he’s in the solidarity of his room. He doesn’t feel it, not now and not ever.

Sometimes it’s just the hand, the fingers, the weird clump he holds his sword with, makes his gestures with. Sometimes it’s just that. A tingling feeling at the edge, like electricity is trying to burst through, repeatedly hitting a wall that is not to be passed. Again and again and again. And when it can’t pass it goes back. The tingle taking a running start, going up as far as to his elbow, as far as to his shoulder, and then it tries again. Surging up and down through his arm, his hand, his fingers. All the way and back. Hitting a wall. He can’t control it. He can only bear. Take his sword and fight anyway. Grit his teeth and ignore the weird feeling as if something isn’t quite right. Do his gestures with a smile. Let the energy pass. Without control.

And sometimes it’s nothing at all. Sometimes it’s just numbness. And numbness is a lot worse then any tingle, any electricity could ever be. It starts at the fingers and gnaws it’s way through his veins, makes his blood freeze and his breath haste, climbs higher through every and all cells in its way, and when it reaches the shoulder it stops. It never goes farther. Presses the tingle away. Presses everything away. No feeling, no pain, no hope. Nothing. It happens from time to time. The tingle leaves and the hand dies. No energy no nothing. A battle without a hand to hold the sword in. Roman can’t grit and bear then. Can’t ignore the aching feeling that something is wrong. With him. With the way he exists. When his arm goes numb he tries everything to make himself feel again. Feel like he is normal, like he is deserving , like he is not just half of a whole. When it goes numb, blood means nothing. Just white lines on a black canvas. Not his skin. Not his pain. Not his arm.

Dead weight hanging at his side. Like it doesn’t belong to him. Not even a little. Not at all.

Remus doesn’t use his left hand much. It’s always slow and tired and he hasn’t quite figured out how its machinery works. You notice it in the way he moves. His left arm always limp at his side or scarcely used when he walks. You notice when he uses his hands to articulate his speech, wild gestures and risky hints, how his left hand is just that tad bit slower then the right one. His fingers curl in a millisecond later, his wrist goes limp a bit too fast. You notice it when holding his hand, always cold, even when he burns it. It never shows any sweat, it never turns red. It almost seems dead sometimes. You notice but you put it off. Remus knows how to make people stop worrying. Not like there would be anyone worrying about him at all. Not in this form, not now.

He can still hold his favorite weapon, make shot guns with both hands even strangle someone if necessary. It’s not like he can’t use it, he just prefers not to. Not when he has the choice, not when he can avoid it, not when he doesn’t need to hide that there is another thing wrong with him. People already have enough to pick on. They always do.

Sometimes the cold crawls up his skin, sometimes it just keeps itself in his finger tips. Like a glasier, melting in summer and then forming again when winter reaches. Sometimes it makes him go even more mad. Sometimes he tries to warm it up, make it alive. He just tends to confuse warmth with heat. Sometimes he doesn’t even notice at all. Dead weight attached to his side. Nothing more, nothing less.

When Remus looks at his arm he sees movement. He knows he is causing it, but it feels more like a machine. It feels more like he is watching and not actively doing. It feels like he is controlling something that doesn’t belong to him. Doesn’t concern him. Not even a little. Not at all.

Sometimes Roman wonders where the burn marks on his left arm come from, dark and obvious.

Sometimes Remus wonders why his right arm is littered in white scars, bright and distracting.

Sometimes Creativity wonders.

Had two hands held together longer, stronger, would it have changed anything at all? Would two halves of a whole be together still? Or at least be honest, loving, bickering? Would it have changed a thing?

Separation successful. In a way it was. But then again, not completely. Only partially .

You roll your eyes as he plops his head down on your lap. 

Your fifty plus year-old shifter boyfriend was occupying his silky-smooth golden retriever form to be a little shit (aka ‘doing it on purpose to make you smile’). With a beautiful dash of gray on his muzzle and face, you could not resist the urge to lean over and place many tactical smooches on his face.

His long, boofy tail happily betrayed his gruff, old man persona as it batted up against the leather couch you sat on. Soft whines coming from his throat as he indulged in his canine nature at the sweetness you laid on him.