I'm God's Stupidest Soldier (drank Coffee. Lactose Intolerant. Tummy Hurt)

I'm god's stupidest soldier (drank coffee. lactose intolerant. tummy hurt)

from now on your tumblr nickname is whatever you get from this sexual identity generator  ☆

😈🎶

Imagine

when time collides — Solomon x reader

⊹ word count: 0.4k ⊹ content: sfw, angst, hurt/comfort, established relationship between Solomon and reader, reader/MC is referred to as you/your. ⊹ warnings: mention of death (Solomon's parents and family), crying. ⊹ a/n: My baby just needs a hug omfg. An imagine of the story behind my favourite Solomon card animation (< click for the gif).

For Solomon, carnations are a painful reminder of the passage of time—everything he found, everything he learned, everything he created. But perhaps, most significantly, they remind him of everything he lost.

They grew in unhindered fields in the springs and summers. Like strokes of a shaky brush, petals painted over the hills, forests, and plains. Smatterings of crimson and blush and ivory created a natural masterpiece, whispering the stories of the people who called this land their home.

They still do, evidently. It’s been millennia since he returned here, yet the wind carries petal songs the same way they had when he was young. But now he gets to watch them twirl around you—the song snagging on your hair—and he doesn’t ever remember the petals being this beautiful.

Though, once they came close.

It was just after his father passed, sometime in early spring. The carnations had started to unfurl, still crinkly like the pages of a loved and withered book. He walked with his mother in a field somewhere far from their home, hand in hand through the blooms. And just like now, the petals danced around her, tickled their conjoined hands, and whispered their melodies to the breeze. Solomon was now king, but at a cost he never wanted to pay.

“I’m here,” his mother said, the petals winding through her hair and across her cheeks. “Let the wind carry your sadness for you.”

And Solomon cried in the safety of her arms, letting himself be at peace with his father’s passing.

He never had the chance to grieve his mother.

So now he stands at her grave, placing white carnations on the ancient stone that marks her place in the earth—and for the first time in a long time, the tears well in his eyes. He’s not sure he even remembers what it feels like to cry.

“Sol,” you call, your hand coming to rest on his shoulder. “I’m here.”

Just like he did all those years ago, he cries, turning to allow you to wrap him in the safety of your arms. The songs of the land—of his mother, his father, the family he’s almost forgotten—sing in the breeze as you sink with him to the ground, your hold never wavering. He hears your song—the story of teacher and apprentice, of lovers eternal—join in the breeze.

Carnations remind him of the pieces of his humanity he’s lost to the time that’s warped him.

But it’s you that reminds him to live.

©stellariah 2024 | do not copy, repost, translate, or feed my work to AI

He looks so constantly judgmental