#bragii

“firefly” starter prompts

bragi just: ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) orly

send a symbol for a thread in which my muse is dying in your muse's arms | accepting af | @bragii

🎯  my muse has been shot and is dying in your muse's arms.

      Up was down, down was up, the world tilted further on it’s axis. Spinning, spinning, spinning while she remained stationary, pinned in place by an arrow that entered her chest and exited her back. It was not a slender thing, not a mysterious mythical object, the fletching was not made up of beautiful feathers, this arrow was nothing like those she imagined or even those she had held within her own hands. This one was cruel; it’s sharp end made of bone attached to a shaft nearly a finger and a half thick, and the feathers... Oh, those terrible feathers. Black as night and falling apart as if the bird they were pulled from was ridden with disease and decay. Now they stuck out of her, a beacon for death. 

      A cold, grey sky came into focus, a backdrop for vulgar feathers. Then his face. A face that she tried to forget desperately, now that it was there, hovering above her, speaking words she could not yet hear, she found she had not forgotten a single aspect of the man’s countenance. What cruel joke was this? That he should appear now when the world was turning itself inside out around her, or rather, within her. 

      Lips parted, bringing forth a burst of blood already darkening. This was not the blood of minor cuts that blossomed as red as rubies upon her skin, this was blood that spoke already of death, a deep crimson that only seemed to grow darker as it rolled across her paling skin. Cold, she was so cold, looking at him changed nothing. Perhaps once it had warmed her, the girlish giddiness of love, now her heart thrummed with nothing, but the acknowledgment that any beat could be it’s last. 

      Bragi was not real, he was a figment, he had to be. A vision thought up by the dying cells of her brain to give her some peace in the final moments of life. What peace was this, what trick of the mind, Fox saw this as unfairness. Death was enough, must she be tormented by regrets that had never surfaced upon her tongue? Yet, as she reflected on these facts she realized too that the arms that came around her felt anything but vision-like. They were real, the touch was real, which could only mean one thing. 

    ❝ Have you made it a tradition to spy on me, already? ❞ Flattering as it was, his conscience rendered him still on the spot — SHE was standing there, after all. ❝ Well, are you going to join me or did you just stop by for a free show? ❞ A show she was apparently enjoying,    judging by the expressiveness of her fair self — or perhaps it was just his presence that was enough to light something within. Freyja certainly was enough to illuminate ANY dreary day.

SHE IS TOO ADORABLE TBH 8’)

▼┊HAMILTON SENTENCE MEME. ( @bragii )