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I remember reading you don't write x Pregnant Reader.
Is there a reason why? Tokophobia?
yeah pretty much! me myself I have a pretty big fear/aversion to pregnancy so I will not write about it because of that! it stresses me the hell out lmao
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Something sad and interesting I think a lot is that if Elhokar had survived, Brandon would have gone him on the arc of him learning that he does have the capacity to become a good king. Unfortunately, Althekar during these terrible times needs a great king and I don't think Elhokar had that in him. Admitting that, or something along those lines, would have been one of his Truths to go further in Radianthood.
And If I Never Sleep Again, I Will Stand In The Dark For You
A/N: Can I just say "Sonya Alone" From Natasha, Pierre, and The Great Comet of 1812 is a heartbreaking song that I am totally not crying to rn. umm warnings for canon bending slightly maybe, OOC darkling by accident maybe? oh angst angst angst I just have all these ideas floating around my drafts so this is like a little blurb or something yeah okay
She drapes one arm across the back of his shoulders, leans her chin on his shoulder and places a hand at the back of his hair.
The man is hunched over his desk, maps of an ever-changing kingdom splayed before him, pens and pencils scattering the area. His Kefta is hung on the back of the chair, there's a low fire burning in the fire place which provides the main source of light - save for the moon which streams in through the glass window.
"Sasha," She says, voice kind and gentle, "Come to bed, my love."
"I will," He says. He mumbles the words, still not looking up from his writings on the map until he finishes the first two words and then, "I just have to finish this, darling, and then-" the moment he turns his head to look at her, she's gone. Her touch disappears from his shoulders, the sound of her voice is a memory, and Aleksander Morozova has to remind himself that she has been gone, for a long, long time.
He stays there for a while, staring at the empty space he was so sure she stood in, eyebrows furrowed, mouth turned down in a subtle frown. He was so sure this time.
-
Y/N used to have a habit of falling asleep on the bench outside their house. Whenever he had to leave, she would see him off in the night, standing in front of that bench with her shawl pulled around her shoulders, waiting until he was out of sight to return back inside their home.
And on the nights that he was due to return to her , she would wait on the bench, for the familiar black clothes and long hair, for the slight trotting of a horse and the crunch of his boots on the dirt, for once he got close enough he dismounted and patiently walked the rest of the way. And normally, once he reached the house he would find his lover standing, as she was when he left.
"Have you slept?" he would ask, tying the horse to a fence.
She would shrug, "A little," and he would spot the blankets on the bench before he walked to her, and she placed her hands on his face and smiled, "I don't sleep well without you by my side, though."
-
He is, for better use of the word, haunted.
Fragments of her wonder around the empty halls of the Little Palace, daytime and nightime. For example, when he's walking down a corridor and he hears laughter from around the corner and he nealy stops in his tracks and whips his head around because he's so convinced it sounds like her. It never does though, and it never is.
He doesn't sleep consistently, always waking in the night, and every now and then he turns over and expects to see a body warming the other half of the bed. But when his searching hands don't meet skin or warmth, and instead meet cold, empty sheets, he buries his emotions into his chest and turns onto his side, pretending the large bed is a single, with only enough room for him. So her ghost can't slip in beside him in the moonlight.
She always does though. He always wakes to pure sunlight and arms around him that disappear the moment he opens his eyes, and in a moment of rage and love, he darkens the room and blocks out the light.
She comes back when he does that, a hand tracing down his back, soft words, "Don't do that Aleksander..."
"Why?" He whispers, and he nearly sounds offended.
He can practically hear the frown in her voice, "Not that I don't love it - you know I do. But I love how you look in the sun more... especially in the mornings - you're so pretty Aleksander." They're bittersweet words, ones that he knows off by heart by now, ones that she spoke to him on her final morning. But they didn't know that then.
"You're nothing." He says, "You're not here."
And he's right. He knows, it she knows it, and it's an awful moment of truth. No matter how long he waits for her, she will never come back to him. He will never know what she felt, sitting on that bench, waiting for him in the darkness and the moment that he finally appeared out of the forest that surrounded their home, and walked back into her arms, how he longs to do one more time.
