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alliedbiscuit · 3 years

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msr fic / s7 post-closure but pre-all things / wc: 3398

Scully takes Maggie out for a birthday dinner, and you'll never guess who they run into.

************

“So, how are feeling about dessert?” the waiter asks hopefully.

Maggie Scully scoffs. “Oh, no. I couldn’t eat another bite. Maybe just a cup of coffee? Decaf, please.”

“Mom, are you sure? You should get dessert,” Dana Scully prods, stopping herself short before she could let it slip, “It’s your birthday!” The last gift her mother would appreciate is a gaggle of underpaid waiters singing some public-domain-compliant version of a birthday song while the whole restaurant turns its attention toward her. Like mother, like daughter.

Well, the daughter made an exception and found that kind of thing charming exactly once. But at least she got a nice keychain out of it. All her mother would get was humiliation and a chocolate lava cake.

As soon as the waiter leaves to fetch their after dinner coffees, Maggie reveals her true intentions.

“I was thinking we could go to that ice cream parlor down the street. If I’m going to indulge, I think I want a hot fudge sundae. Or maybe we could split a banana split?”

“Or you could get a hot fudge sundae and I could get a banana split, and we could split both,” Scully suggests.

“See, that’s why you work for the FBI.”

“Dessert Conflict Resolution was part of my training at Quantico.”

Both Scullys giggle.

“Does Fox have the same specialty? Or is that what you bring to the team?”

“Mulder’s dessert strategy is just to eat everything and then swim a mile and run five the next day. No, he’s a Takeout Menu Marksman, though. He knows where to order from and what to order so it travels the best and doesn’t get cold and congealed by the time it arrives. Might sound like a trivial skill, but it’s a lifesaver on movie night.”

Maggie continues smiling but cocks her head slightly. Dana realizes why almost instantly.

“You have movie night?”

“It’s not a set thing or anything. We just…if we’re not busy with a case.”

“You just watch movies? As coworkers?”

“As friends.”

“Just friends?”

Dana lets out a long sigh as she stares her mother down. Her mother, maintaining that gentle yet challenging grin. Dana considers her response carefully. She could offer a simple yes because that is the fact of the matter. They are just friends. She could criticize the wording choice. “Just” friends? Why does it have to be “just” friends? As if friendship isn’t somehow enough or isn’t valuable?

She could realize it’s her mother’s birthday and she’s the only other Scully woman left to confide in about matters of the heart, and although she doesn’t want to bring up the New Year’s kiss because she still doesn’t really know what it meant, maybe they both need this little gift of honesty, filled with tempered excitement and promise.

“For now,” Dana Scully finally admits.

Maggie’s grin grows as Scully just shakes her head and manages to keep her slight eye roll from reaching embarrassed teenager level. The waiter does bail her out a bit by choosing that moment to deliver their coffees.

“How is Fox doing? After his mother…” Maggie trails off, but her daughter knows not to expect any more specifics.

“Better? I mean, as well as can be expected. The thing is, right after that, he found out some more about his sister. About what happened to her. It was just so much all at once. I was really worried…”

Maggie reaches across the table to lay a hand on hers.

“But, it was almost like he was ready for it. He finally had some answers. Like it brought him some peace.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“Yeah. He needed that.”

“We all do.”

*************

Maggie is the one to spot him first as they’re heading for the door.

“Is that- is that Fox?” she asks her daughter.

“What? No, he wouldn't…” Dana trails off as she looks straight ahead to where her mother was indicating and confirms that it is indeed Fox Mulder, standing with his hands in his pockets and his eyes trained to the floor as he appears to be waiting near the vestibule for the restrooms.

“Mulder?” Scully questions as she approaches, her voice giving away her confusion and growing concern.

His head darts up in surprise, but a beaming smile of recognition quickly overtakes his face.

“Hey, Scully! Mrs. Scully, it’s so nice to see you!”

“You too, Fox,” Maggie kindly replies, although a quick glance to her daughter confirms her suspicion that Dana is still very confused by his presence.

“Did you…did you need something?” She suddenly feels silly for presuming that he must have come there with urgent news or a case or something, but why else would Fox Mulder be at Petrino’s on a Saturday night? Did his informants trade in clandestine meetings in parking garages for family-style Italian?

“Hmm?” Mulder asks.

“You didn’t come here to find me? I told you I was bringing my mom here for her birthday, didn’t I?” He didn’t look like he had rushed to the restaurant from the office or his apartment as she had originally assumed. He had clearly shaved and combed his hair nicely. He wore an olive green sweater with dark blue jeans and a black wool pea coat rather than his leather jacket. He had definitely made an effort.

“You did, but I thought you were going out tomorrow night on her actual birthday. Happy birthday, by the way, Mrs. Scully.”

“Thank you, Fox. I’m going to have lunch with some ladies from church after mass tomorrow, so I asked Dana if we could do Saturday night instead.”

“Ah. What a weird coincidence then. I can’t believe we didn’t see you at all during dinner.”

We.

Oh God.

Mulder was on a date.

Mulder was on a date in this restaurant on the night he thought Scully wasn’t going to be there. Mulder was on a date right after Scully had confessed to her mother (and herself) that their “just friends” status was in the process of changing. Mulder was on a date right after he’d been through so much pain but seemed to come out lighter and more open and he wanted to share it with someone…who wasn’t Dana Scully.

“So, you’ve already eaten then?” Maggie asks since her daughter appears unable to form a coherent statement at the moment.

“Yeah, we just finished. I’m just waiting for her…” he seems to trail off just to motion towards the restroom rather than say anything indelicate, but then he notices Maggie’s poorly masked look of concern toward Dana, and then he notices Dana’s completely unmasked look of shock.

And then he gets it.

“Oh, no! It’s not…I want you to meet her,” Mulder insists as he grabs a hold of both of Scully’s elbows and then glances anxiously toward the restroom door.

Dana Scully looks like she might be ill.

Thankfully Mulder only stammers a moment longer until the restroom door opens and he finds reprieve when a tall, thin woman appearing to be in her mid-60s walks through the door.

“Aunt Helen,” Mulder calls.

Somehow Scully’s eyes manage to get even wider as some of the color returns to her face.

“Aunt Helen, there are a few people I’d really like you to meet. This is my partner, Dana Scully, and this is her mother, Margaret Scully.”

Aunt Helen smiles widely in recognition, first shaking Maggie’s hand and then Dana’s. “It is such a pleasure to meet you both. I’ve heard such wonderful things.”

She lingers with her hand holding Dana’s while she says this, and the younger Scully is left blushing. She hazards a look at Mulder, but he doesn’t look embarrassed by this revelation. He holds her gaze with nothing but pride.

“This is my aunt, Helen Briggs. She’s my mom’s sister. She’s visiting for the weekend from Charlotte.”

They all kind of marvel over the fact that they were in the same restaurant and what a coincidence and oh, we were seated near the back bar, that must be why we didn’t see you and Scully is just starting to feel her pulse return to normal as Aunt Helen laments not having a chance to talk with the Scullys.

“Well, Dana and I skipped dessert so we could go to The Big Dipper for some ice cream. Would you two like to join us?”

“Oh, that would be lovely. As long as we’re not intruding,” says Aunt Helen.

“Not at all,” Scully assures her. “There is one catch, though.”

“It’s not real ice cream. It’s that Tofutti nonsense, isn’t it?” Mulder groans.

“It better not be,” Maggie insists. “I don’t know how she eats that stuff.”

Scully ignores her mother and her partner’s bad mouthing of her frozen treats as she returns her attention to Aunt Helen.

“I’m afraid if you want to come along, you will have to reveal a few good Young Mulder stories. And by ‘a few,’ I mean as many as you’ve got. And by ‘good,’ I mean the more embarrassing the better.”

“I’ll start thinking now,” Aunt Helen laughs.

“I knew I should’ve picked a different restaurant,” Mulder says regretfully.

***********

They’ve just sat down to a small, round table for four with their ice cream when Mulder stands up to get them all more napkins, and Aunt Helen retrieves a small, rectangular piece of paper from her purse that she then deftly slides to Dana.

“Oh my god!” Scully exclaims with joy.

Staring back at her from the paper is a very young Fox Mulder. She guesses he must be around 8 or 9 in the school photo. His long, sandy brown hair falls just above his eyebrows. He doesn’t have his distinctive nose yet, but his bottom lip is already a little pouty. The real give away is the eyes. He’s grinning for the camera, but his eyes still have that soulfulness, that slight sadness.

She’s surprised. She knows she shouldn’t be. His eyes didn’t suddenly change when Samantha was taken. His eyes were probably always like that.

But she had always assumed that the great tragedy had flipped a switch for Young Fox Mulder. That before that single event, he had certainly been a perfectly happy child. Funny and athletic, popular for sure. But the humor developed as a defense mechanism later in life. And the sports were a great physical release as well as an excuse to be out of the house as much as possible. She didn’t actually know what he was like before, but now that she thought about it, home life was probably never all that great if it eventually led to a father sacrificing one child and leaving the other to always live with the guilt and loss.

It was very possible that Fox Mulder had always been a little boy with a lot on his mind.

In contrast, present day, adult Fox Mulder looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world as he returns with extra napkins, ready to tuck into his chocolate peanut butter ice cream in a waffle cone – that is until he realizes what his friend and partner Dana Scully is looking at.

“Oh come on. I was gone for thirty seconds, and you have the visual aids out.”

Scully continues to beam as Maggie finally gets a glimpse of the photo in her hand.

“Oh, Fox!”

“Okay,” Mulder said exasperatedly. “Does this meet your embarrassment quota?” he asks, looking pointedly at Scully.

“Not even close! This isn’t embarrassing. It’s adorable!”

Mulder rolls his eyes but can’t hide his bashful grin at her comment.

“It’s only fair, Fox. I know you’ve seen family photos of Dana at my house,” Mrs. Scully says, sounding like a mother well practiced in settling disputes between children.

“Just a couple. I do like that high school graduation picture, though. I still don’t know how you kept your cap on with all that hair.”

“That was the style back then. Everybody teased their hair and used a ton of hairspray.”

“I thought it might be a religious thing at Catholic school. The higher the hair, the closer to God,” Mulder teases.

Maggie and Aunt Helen chuckle, though the latter gives him a good-natured swat on the arm in admonishment.

“See, this is what I need, though. I need something from the teen years. That’s peak embarrassment fodder,” Scully says.

“If you ask our colleagues, I think my peak embarrassment fodder would come from about 1991 to present,” Mulder points out.

Aunt Helen just looks slightly regretful. “I’m afraid I don’t have many stories from those years, Dana.”

Mulder makes eye contact with Aunt Helen. “You didn’t miss much,” he insists. She looks like she wants to debate him, but he just places a hand on hers reassuringly, and they seem to make a silent agreement to not argue the point any further.

Mulder had never really mentioned any other family before. She knew his grandparents had all passed before she met him, but she had assumed, just like with everything else, that any other extended family connections had disappeared along with Samantha. That no one would know how to comfort and console The Mulders in a situation like that, with no explanation.

His aunts and uncles must have had questions, probably even had their own theories. Did his mother’s side suspect his father’s involvement, or did his father’s side blame his mother somehow? Did any of them blame…no, she couldn’t go down that route. Besides, did anyone ever suspect horrific things like that before the days of cable news and supermarket tabloids?

The point is, it was a tense situation, so Scully assumed they had all done what wealthy white people in places like Martha’s Vineyard and Boston and Raleigh did with any uncomfortable subject – they avoided it completely.

And that meant avoiding the little boy with a lot on his mind as he became a teenager with even more on his mind.

Scully had accompanied Mulder to a small burial service for his mother in Raleigh a few months ago. It was just the service. No gathering or dinner after, or at least not one that Mulder told her about. The attendees at the service were all pretty spread out, not much mingling. Again, it was another sudden loss shrouded in mystery. They all avoided particulars as much as they could.

Scully didn’t remember seeing Aunt Helen that day, but maybe she was there and just couldn’t bring herself to say anything. Maybe she wasn’t there because she couldn’t bring herself to go and then regretted it. Dana Scully didn’t know, and it didn’t actually matter. The point is that she’s here now. And that’s exactly what Mulder’s look of reassurance and acceptance seems to say.

It seems to help her perk up because she offers playfully, “Oh, what about that summer on Quonochontaug? I think you were 9 or so, and you were collecting leaves for one of your Indian Guide badges.”

“Oh god!”

“I’m hooked already. Not to jump ahead, but please tell me there’s poison ivy involved,” Scully says gleefully.

Aunt Helen’s bark of laughter and Mulder’s exaggerated eye roll are all the confirmation she needs.

“It was heavily involved! But that’s not the worst part. While he was working on his Leaf Collecting badge, he also earned credit towards his Wildlife badge when he came across a skunk in the woods.”

“No!” Scully shouts.

“Ivyed and skunked at the same time,” Mulder admits.

“Oh you poor thing,” Maggie adds sympathetically, but with barely contained laughter.

“He had to jump right from a tomato juice bath for the skunk smell…”

“Which didn’t work!”

“…into an oatmeal bath for the itching.”

“Which worked better, but I still smelled like a Grateful Dead concert.”

Both Scullys are full on giggling at this point.

“Do you remember what Grandpa Ralph said when he walked in and saw you and mom dunking me in a tub of oatmeal?” Mulder asks.

Aunt Helen pitches her voice deeper and amps up her Southern twang, “Why don’t cha dip him in some egg and flour next? We toss him in the frying pan, we got supper! We’re havin’ Fried Fox tonight!”

Now they’re all in hysterics. Even the man who usually hates his given name can’t help but laugh along, especially when it makes his lovely company so happy.

*****************

Scully enters the basement office Monday morning to find Mulder already there, flipping through an open drawer in the filing cabinet.

“Good morning,” she says cheerfully.

He looks up and smiles. “Good morning. Long time no see.”

“How was the rest of your weekend? Did you guys do any sightseeing or anything?”

“No, we just had a late breakfast yesterday before I took her to the airport, but it was good to catch up some more. She told me to thank you again for letting us tag along for ice cream. It was really nice.”

“It was,” Scully agrees.

Mulder appears to be considering something for a moment before he crosses over to the desk and picks up a small envelope.

“She also told me to give this to you,” he says almost bashfully, extending the envelope in Scully’s direction. “She told me I couldn’t look inside, and I didn’t. But I think I know what’s in there, and if I’m right, you don’t have to keep it. You can just leave it here on the desk.”

Well, now she’s intrigued. Scully opens the envelope to find a small handwritten note at the top.

“I thought you might like these. I have plenty more too, if you’d ever like to see them or want any more stories. Please don’t be a stranger.”

Scully lifts up the note to see the remaining contents inside and finds a small stack of photographs, a mixture of more school photos along with a few wallet-sized family portraits and a couple candids taken on the beaches of the Vineyard or Rhode Island, she can’t tell. But she sees the same set of eyes in all of them.

She looks back to read the rest of the note.

“I’m so glad I got to meet you, Dana. Take care!”

Below Aunt Helen’s elegant signature, she has also written her home address and phone number. Scully will have to call and thank her.

“She tried to give some to me,” Mulder explains, “but I didn’t really want…and like I said, you don’t have to…”

“No, I’d like to keep them,” Dana insists.

Mulder lets her statement hang in the air for a moment, but he can’t help but diffuse it.

“You just want more blackmail material.”

“Something like that,” Scully says teasingly, but there’s no bite behind it.

“I knew I should’ve picked a different restaurant.”

She chuckles lightly as she shuffles the photos into a neat stack to place back in the envelope, thinking that this is the point where they get back to work. Mulder stays standing in front of her and appears to be considering something again. Does he have another envelope that he’s afraid to give her?

“You know it was pure luck that we ended up at Petrino’s the same night as you. I actually gave Aunt Helen a few options and let her choose. I was pushing more for that Thai place in Arlington, just off Old Dominion. The one that’s been there forever,” Mulder explains.

“Oh, the one with the secret menu? I’ve still never been there. Can’t say I’m surprised that Aunt Helen wasn’t up for Thai food, though.”

“Yeah. Fair point,” Mulder nods for a moment too long before continuing. “Would you like to go there sometime? Like this Saturday? With me?”

Scully slowly looks up from the envelope to see Mulder’s face because in all matters, other than the divine, Dana Scully needs to see to believe. And the slightly nervous yet gentle grin that she finds allows her to believe it to be true – Fox Mulder has just asked her out on a real date.

“I would like that,” Scully says gently.

“Good. You wanna say 7:30? Or we can always figure out time later,” Mulder states, aiming for practicality to keep him from grinning like a complete idiot. He ends up grinning like a moderate idiot, but he’s okay with that.

“Sounds good.”

Yep, Scully will definitely have to call Aunt Helen and thank her.

#msr fanfic #txf fanfic #msr #mulder and scully #dana scully #maggie scully #fox mulder

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janetbrown711 · 3 years

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My headcanons about Sir William the Good

This is like my Angelina II post, so be sure to check that one out too

Oh! And be sure to check out this fic, because it talks about a few of these situations ^^

As always, if you have any questions/requests about them, my ask box is always open :)

Buckle up, because I have a lot of thoughts

Early life:

His mother died not long after he was born, so he has no memory of her

His father’s name was Alan, and he loved William dearly, and William loved him too

His best friend growing up was Heloise Nerz (more better known as Hello Nurse)

They ran around Acme Falls like little rascals and were mostly adored by the town

She was always a lot smarter than him though, so whenever they got into trouble she’d have to usually get them out of it, though William was always very apologetic and felt very guilty when he did something wrong

Despite what the townspeople whispered and joked about, William never had a crush on her and vice versa. They were both just really good friends

His father got sick of a mysterious illness when he was eight, and died in less than a year, and William missed him terribly

He wandered around Acme Falls for jobs, and while most folks were willing to give him work, he felt unfulfilled and tried to search for the perfect job

No less than a year of searching, a royal knight came into town looking for a squire, and William jumped at the opportunity

He was young for a squire (he wasn’t even 10 yet) but the good natured knight liked his spark and took him under his wing.

It was hard for William to leave Acme, but he promised to write to the town when he could, and so he left.

For the first few years he did more of chores than actual knight training- but William never complained. He looked up to the knight quite a lot, to the point where he was basically a second father figure

However, once he turned 12, the real training began, and it was intense.

William never really complained though, knowing what he had signed up for

He was best at sword fighting, though he was a terrible equestrian

When he was 15, he was taken to the royal palace for further knighthood training, and he met Angelina on his first day by making an utter fool of himself (tripping over a bucket of water)

To his surprise, this didn’t push Angelina away, and William fell in love instantly.

Often, she’d watch him during his horseback riding lessons and would laugh when he screwed up and cheer for him when he succeeded, which made him work harder and harder for her.

Sometimes they even rode together, which was fun (though she beat him every time, but William was a very good sport about it- which Angelina greatly appreciated)

However, their favorite activity to do was to stroll and plant in the garden. Often the two were busy with their lessons, but they’d try their darnedest to squeeze in the time together

The queen, Angelina the First, strongly disapproved of him, but since William hadn’t really done anything wrong, he couldn’t find good reason to send him away, so he remained at the castle.

William knew how much Angelina hated the suitors and would always try to get the next day off to spend it with her to help her feel better

When he saw the bruise Salazar had left on Angelina he nearly cried out of empathy for her and her situation, and swore that he would never let anything like that happen to her ever again

(That was when Angelina realized she was in love with him too)

They began their secret relationship when he was 19 and she was 18.

He proposed two years later, right before gaining his knighthood, and Angelina didn’t hesitate to say yes

William was prepared to stay engaged as long as it took, but luckily for them, Queen Angelina the First died a month after he proposed and they were married shortly thereafter.

Yakko:

William had always wanted to have children, as he was an only child and loved the idea of raising and having children, and when Angelina told him she was pregnant he was over the moon

However, he was a bit nervous when he realized that his father died when he was eight, and he had few memories of how he was raised, so he studied and read up on every parenting book he could find and studied like a madman before Yakko was born

William fell in love with Yakko instantly

He was really nervous to hold him though, as he was terrified he’d drop him (which was odd, because being a knight made him very strong)

However, he did relax and eventually he was able to hold him without being nervous, and it soon became his favorite thing

He loved to read bedtime stories to Yakko when Angelina was too exhausted to sing a lullaby, and Yakko seemed to really like them, especially as he got older

Angelina said he got his talkativeness from William, and William couldn’t help but agree, he did have a tendency to ramble (especially when he was nervous)

He wanted Yakko to learn how to horseback ride, but Angelina forced him to promise to wait until he was at least eight because of how dangerous it could be

However, she didn’t stop him from getting Yakko a wooden sword, and William proceeded to try and teach him to sword fight, though it clearly wasn’t his forte. Still, Yakko seemed to have fun, and liked to act out the bedtime stories of William’s knighthood to Angelina, who also seemed to find it adorable.

Wakko:

William had been utterly delighted to find out that Angelina was pregnant again, loving the idea of a big happy family, which Angelina liked too, as she was also an only child

Yakko was curious about what being an older brother would be like, so this time both Yakko and William were studying to prepare themselves

When Wakko wasn’t born crying or breathing, William nearly had a heart attack and died right there

However, the doctor quickly fixed it, and he cried tears of relief and joy

William noticed Wakko had a lot of similar features to his own father, and so made his middle name Alan

It was really hard to get Angelina to let go of Wakko to let him get a chance to hold him (not that he blamed her in the slightest) so he had to wait until she fell asleep to hold him

Again, he fell in love instantly

He was really nervous whenever Wakko was out of his sight, but recognizing that someone had to be the sane one (as Angelina was having terrible separation anxiety) he stayed strong and reminded Angelina that they had done this before and that it was gonna be okay

Helping her helped him a lot, and soon enough their worries were down to a normal level

Wakko was a lot more energetic and wild than Yakko, which reminded William of himself when he was younger, running around Acme Falls.

William often had to chase Wakko around countless halls of the castle because of how much he loved to run and toddle around

Wakko had less patience for William’s stories- often interrupting with questions or little comments, much to Yakko’s annoyance. William didn’t mind though, as that was when Wakko was the most talkative with him

Dot:

Again, William was ecstatic upon hearing Angelina was pregnant again

However, his confidence and optimism wavered a bit when King Salazar started causing problems on purpose

He was determined to protect Angelina from him though, intent on keeping the promise he made as a teen

He was determined to not let Angelina worry herself to death though, remaining optimistic about having a little girl (hopefully) and how great it would be when they could all relax with the new baby after this Salazar nonsense ended

He often had to watch the boys as Angelina went to diplomatic meetings and so when he found out that he had actually gone into labor during one and continued to the end anyway he was both in awe and amazement at how strong Angelina was (though he also did have a fairly short lived freak out about how dumb of an idea that was)

When Dot was eventually born though, they were both so tired that they both cried, especially because of how cute she was

William had been in love with the idea of giving her Angelina’s name, and was happy she agreed to it, as he never thought of her name as her mother’s name

He did also like the name Dot (Lena’s suggestion), so he suggested that they call her that for short, and Angelina agreed.

However, he did panic momentarily as he realized he had no idea how to raise a girl, until Angelina said “just raise her like any other kid- being a girl hardly makes a difference” and William realized he was being stupid, and relaxed.

Since she was born in the spring around the time all the flowers in the gardens went in bloom, William loved to dress her in flower patterned clothes and hair pieces.

He loved dressing her up (perhaps even more than Angelina did)

He also helped Wakko with advice on what to do as a big brother, and watched him as he watched Dot, finding his curiosity and newfound tameness around her adorable and admirable.

However, as tensions were rising and Angelina being too exhausted and busy to go to meeting, it soon became William’s job to attend the meetings. William decided it was a good idea to bring Yakko along to help prepare him for when he’d be king, but he realized his mistake when he noticed how nervous he looked as they started discussing war. William promised he wouldn’t let that happen though, which helped Yakko to relax.

However, Salazar and his army invaded the castle that night, and William wished that he just had more time with his kids, having never wanted them to be orphans like he was, but unfortunately he had no say in the matter and he was killed

Misc. (bc that’s a depressing end)

Hello Nurse was the “best man” at his and Angelina’s wedding

He didn’t realize Lena was only a nickname special people got to call her until after they were married, and he said “it was his greatest honor” when she pointed it out.

“William, we’re married” “You could’ve married anyone you wanted, but you let me call you Lena”

He’s just... a big ol’ softie. A big teddy bear. He loves cuddling, hugs, crying, and just- he’s impossible to hate

However, like a bear, he gets very protective of his family, and died honorably while trying to protect them

The knight who practically raised him died before Yakko was born, and William held a huge funeral in his honor

He nearly cried when Yakko told him that his favorite story was the story of how he and Angelina met

He taught Yakko how to read and do math, as well as how to sword fight (though it was a slow process since he was only 8 when he died and all)

He grew a mustache bc he thought it made him look more like a king

He loved to just sit and think about all of his and and Angelina’s traits that he could see in the boys (like his optimism in Wakko, Lena’s love of reading and learning in Yakko, etc.)

He loved his children and Angelina with everything he had in him

#animaniacs #sir william the good #william warner #wakko's wish #queen angelina warner #animaniacs fics #long post #queen angelina II #holy shit i'm soft for them-#i ship it so hard #I know I basically invented them but asdklfajsd;a #yeah #asks and requests are always open!

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frobin · 3 years

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Hi! Ok, I know it isn't very related to Frobin (except if you decide to mention them in the answer), but I am curious about your opionion on this thing. If the end of One Piece have someone of the Straw Hat crew that can die, who can be? OBVIOUSLY I hope nobody, that this thing doesn't happen, but never say never. There're people who say Luffy to recreate Roger's connection. Someone else Usop (but I miss the reason). Or Jinbe, who has also some problems and enemies from previous experiences?

Hey there anon!

No worries about asking questions. This is a FRobin blog but it's also a One Piece blog so it's fine to ask all kind of questions about One Piece. Even though I wouldn't consider myself much of an *expert* so everything I write is very much influenced by my own impressions.

But you're asking for my opinion anyway so that disclaimer is not necessary in this case. XD

---

Okay, first of all: I'm no fan of death flags. I never see them and when I read about them I feel like people pull them out of nowhere.

So I don't think any of the Strawhats will die before or even while the big end fight. Also it's not like they will reach their goal and then just drop dead (don't forget the dream are very different too but more about that later). Like what kind of life would that be?

Also we can't forget that Oda still believes he is writing this story for 14 year old boys. So, even though death is and will be a theme I don't think he will kill off the main crew.

That would not be very clever story wise and is not how to tell a story about adventure and fulfilling dreams for young boys.

Right now it's very "fashionable" to let characters die for shock value. But the more it's done the more annoying it becomes and less of a shock and Oda won't stoop so low to use this kind of element. Why do I think that?

So far we had three deaths in OP and they all shocked us a lot. But they were also used as motivator for other characters. Whitebeards death was a motivator for a whole new Generation of pirates, as well as his crew to try to save Ace and his little brother. Ace's death was a launch of character development for Luffy, Sabo, Garp and even Sengoku and probably more. Pedros death was a motivator for Carrot and other Minks. (Even the fake death of Pell was a huge motivator for Vivi. Interestingly compared to other deaths his sacrifice did not stop the war, which would have been an adequate impact. So him coming back alive actually makes sense.)

But look how few and far between they are. Of course there was more death but the important ones are kept as those.

Why am I talking about that? Who would benefit from a Strawhats death?

Literally no one. They are all already motivated to go until the end for each other. It's more likely that a death would cause Luffy to just give up, him becoming catatonic again.

Who would Luffy fight for if he even loses one of his crew mates? Or maybe two?

If I were a Marine I would try to make Luffy think that his friends are dead and then catch him but that is beside the point.

But for One Piece, a Strawhat death it would not move the story further. There is no additional motivator needed and that would be the only reason to kill one of the crew.

Killing a Strawhat makes no sense in my opinion.

A death would only make sense after they reached their goal.

So it is possible that we see the Strawhats die but long after the story came to an end, them reaching Laugh Tale (if that is the end). And yes, I think all of them will die of natural causes and/or sickness. Most of them at an old age. I think Luffy, Zoro or Usopp being the firsts because of the trauma their bodies had endured would make most sense.

I hope that answered your question anon... and anyone who does not want to read even more about my nonsense can stop here.

But let me break down why I think that all Strawhats have plot armor against death flags, behind the read-more.

-> It is very important that I think the huge clash with the Blackbeard Pirates, which will be the end fight, will happen right before Laugh Tale. And Laugh Tale is the end-goal and the end of the main story. (I MIGHT BE WRONG!!!)<-

Everyones own story can only end after they reached their goal so let's look why I think that these dreams give the Strawhats Plot Armor.

Luffy: Become the king of the pirates. That means he has to reach Laugh Tale. I often hear that Luffy will die early because of the parallel to Roger. That does not mean he won't reach his 40s or 50s. Even after reaching Laugh Tale Roger lived a bit longer and even had time to "make a child" so, killing off Luffy in the end fight makes no sense. So maybe dying after the fight, on Laugh Tale? That could happen and would be the earliest death of any Strawhat imo.

Zoro: Become the strongest sword fighter. That means he still has to kill Mihawk. I don't think Mihawk will go and look for Zoro. So, Zoro has to survive and then return to Mihawk and have his duel. No sense in killing off Zoro. I am 100% sure that he will survive until then.

Nami: Drawing a world map. For that Nami has to travel the world many times more. After they reached Laugh Tale, Nami has only finished part of her dream. She has to visit all of the Blues, travel the Grand Line and the New world multiple times. Drawing a Map of the world will take a lifetime. Her dream will take the longest to be fulfilled.

Usopp: Become the great warrior of the sea. Now here we have a dream that is not really tangible. Usopp will be a great warrior as soon as he realises that he is one. In my opinion he already managed to become a great warrior. Time and time again he has shown how amazing he is but this is all about his own self image and so hard to grasp. This actually makes Usopp the most likely to have a death flag BUT we can't forget that he still has to return home and tell his stories to Kaya and the Usopp pirates. It's part of a promise that is only secondary but for me it's enough to think Usopp too is safe until he did that.

Sanji: To find the All Blue. Sanji thinks that the All Blue is something physical. We can't know that and if it is physical we can consider that it's maybe a part of the New World near the Red Line where all seas somehow come together. So again, until Sanji found that place he hasn't fulfilled his dream. And since I think that would be BEHIND Laugh Tale, again I think Sanji is safe. Alternatively the All Blue is just a metaphor for something completely different but I can't hink about what.

Chopper: To cure all illness. Here too, this is something that takes time. Chopper is still only at the beginning of his career of being a doctor. Finding a magical cure for every illness that exists is not something that just happens. Logically he would need to talk with many other medical experts and together they might be able to find it. When and how and if that happens is impossible to say but again that would be something that would fit best in the time after reaching Laugh Tale.

Robin: To find the truth of the void century. Right now we figure that she will find that at the end of their travel, on Laugh Tale. Maybe it will happen earlier in case the Strawhats storm the World Government. Either way she will learn the truth. But that will not be the end to her. After learning the truth it's up to Robin to bring it to the world, to write it down, to teach, to make people understand that they can't erase history and that they have to learn from it. Again, that is something that takes time and so, truly fulfilling her dream.

Franky: To travel the world in the ship of his dreams. Again that is a vague dream. But it would mean to at least return to Water Seven, so that Sunny has traveled the world once. But even then it's only been a small part of the world and traveling the world would mean to visit at least every of the seas. So far, Sunny had been in two to four, depending on how much you take the movies into account. But to fulfill Franky's dream he needs to survive a bit longer and so does Sunny.

Brook: To meet Laboon again. This is simple. But for that Brook has to reach the end of the New World and then get over the Red Line again. What he will do after that is hard to tell. But again, the Red Line is behind Laugh Tale and so I'm sure Brook too, has to survive... even though he is already dead YOHOHO!

Jinbe: Equality between merfolk and humans. Again this is something that is no easy feat and will probably take more than one generation. Also it is not only up to him and more to Shirahoshi and the World Government. This dream is about teamwork too, but who could be a better ambassador for the merfolk than him? Losing Jinbe would be a huge backfire for the cause. Jinbe too is safe in my opinion. If you have reached the end of the post, let me tell you again my headcanon about FRobin: After the main adventure Franky and Robin return to Water Seven where Franky helps to turn W7 into a boat and after that is done, they travel to the island where Ohara used to be and there they rebuild the island. More people return and it again becomes a hub for scholars and history.

#Not FRobin #One Piece meta #One Piece Fandom #One Piece Theory #One Peace Death Flag #Long Post #Text #Some Frobin at the end #ask #Meta #In my opinion no Strawhat will die #kon

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pedros-mustache-main · 4 years

Text

for reasons wretched & divine

summary: unfit: unfit for duty, unfit for a proper teaching position, unfit for you.

word count: ~14k

warnings: ~inappropriate~ student/teacher relations, age gap (27 & 19), war related topics, mental illness related topics, some suggestive moments (not 18+ but be mindful), angst, innuendo, language

a/n: what can i say? i’m a hoe for period pieces. i have been laboring over this for an embarrassingly long time so i’m pleased to finally share it with you all! would love to hear your thoughts. also: big big thank you to @joemazzmatazz for being an extra set of eyeballs on this one and listening to me ramble about my insecurities every other day! love you long time, sis. xoxo.

(photo: @consumedbygwirst)

snowshill, gloucestershire, england. 1917.

a deaf ear, that’s why they wouldn’t take him; a deaf ear. he’d tried—god, he’d tried—to convince someone on the medical board that he was fit for duty. he’d come dangerously close to offering a bribe; something, anything, to be able to go and fight alongside his kinsman. but in the end, they’d still slapped his file with a rejection stamp.

gwilym james lee: unfit for duty by reason of physical impairment necessary for proper military response.

the words are engraved on his very heart now. he can’t shake them.

unfit, unfit, unfit.

his hands shake as he gathers the papers littered across his desk. the tremor has plagued him since he left his review with the medical board. why he can’t say for certain, and he doesn’t like to probe the issue too deep, but it’s always there, fluctuating in intensity. a slight waver in his fingers one moment and a full-scale trembling the next. it makes him feel like an old man, his deaf ear, his shaking hands. he’s twenty-seven years old, in the prime of his life, not eighty.

it’s sunday, and the mid-afternoon sun warms him through the window. he’s been in snowshill for a fortnight now yet his students—all twelve of them—remain a mystery. it’s clear they miss their former schoolteacher, but, like most, jefferson lewis has gone to serve his country. the vicar, bless him, had proven to be of more harm than good during his brief tenure as schoolmaster for the last four months, hence, gwilym’s new post: a stone, one-room schoolhouse on the edge of a vast field; a community away from civilized society, away from his father, away from any place he could soil the family name with his failures.

materials gathered, he slips out the front door. he considers locking the place up, but if anyone does break in, there isn’t much to steal. he’d come by this afternoon on a whim. lodging with an elderly woman and her six cats is one of the many things about snowshill that grates on his nerves, and the quiet air of the schoolhouse is a welcome respite from constance’s inane titterings. it’s nearly time for afternoon tea, though, and she’ll be cross if he doesn’t show, so he heads down the dirt lane, hands in his pockets, head bent low.

his steps slow, but do not stop, when the sound of his name reaches his ears. it sounds muffled, far away, as most things do. still, it’s loud enough to give him pause. he throws a glance over his shoulder. two pupils—maryanne clouder and you—walk down the lane. you stroll arm in arm with maryanne, your hair tied back in a long braid. maryanne’s arm is raised in a motion meant to flag him down. begrudgingly, he stops.

“mr. lee!” maryanne is not coy in the way she grabs your wrist and drags you across the road. her cheeks are flushed when she reaches his side, her elbow still circled around yours. “we didn’t see in you sunday service this morning.”

he shifts on his feet, fingers curling around the strap of his satchel. “no, i didn’t attend.”

“any reason?” maryanne’s head tilts to the side, her lower lip caught between her teeth. he stifles a sigh. the girl is young, merely fifteen. she’s cute in a girlish sort of way; one might see her as a pesky sister. still, she tries to catch his attention each day, her eyelashes batting against her sun-chapped cheeks, her legs swinging back and forth at her desk.

“i... overslept,” he lies.

his eyes flick to your face, which struggles to remain unamused. you’re the eldest of his pupils, nineteen and itching to capture whatever semblance of freedom is left in the world. maryanne is your closest classmate in age, and he rarely sees you without her on your tail. to your credit, you never complain, never seem to mind. he admires that. there had once been a day he’d been like maryanne—so eager to please whoever would give him the time of day—but those days are long gone.

“well, mother asked after you,” maryanne continues. “she’d like to invite you over for supper sunday next—as a proper welcome to snowshill.”

he’s quick to turn her down, as he has two other families since his arrival. “that’s very kind, maryanne, but i’m not sure it would be appropriate.”

“nonsense, sir!” he hopes his eyebrows don’t rise too much in surprise when you jump to maryanne’s aid. “i’ll be there with my niece and my grandfather, and mrs. coulder makes the best roast you’ve had this side of london. you must come.”

from behind his circular, wire-rimmed glasses, he wonders if you can see the way his eyes widen. since arriving at the schoolhouse, he’s known you only as the eldest, wisest, and least rambunctious of his class. you’re quiet, but well-spoken; authoritative, but not domineering. the way you carry yourself—shoulders held straight, chin extended outward, eyes soft yet purposeful—he could easily mistake you for a woman. but you’re not. you’re a girl, his student, and just because you insist he attend sunday supper does not mean you look at him as anything other than your teacher. certainly, he doesn’t look at you as anything other than his student.

he clears his throat. it’s been a long day. he’s tired, on edge. he shouldn’t be thinking about these things.

forcing a tight smile, he gives a nod. “it seems i have no choice.” maryanne claps her hands together as he says, “tell your mother i’ll be there.”

“oh, goody! you won’t regret it, sir, i promise. i’ll be sure to tell hastings not to pester you too much.”

a groan nearly surfaces as he remembers the previous week’s antics of maryanne’s brother. he bites his tongue to keep from retracting his acceptance. “hastings doesn’t bother me, maryanne.”

her grin turns sly, and she pushes his arm in a playful gesture. “you don’t have to lie, mr. lee.” her tone is slow, drawling, and he has the integrity to blush. his ears feel hot, uncomfortable—and not at all pleasurable.

you tug on maryanne’s arm. “come on, mary.” stepping away, you jerk your head toward town, a measure of concern hidden beneath your smooth features. “we should leave mr. lee be. we’ve bothered him enough already.”

he doesn’t refute your statement. even if he jogs the rest of the way, he’ll still be late for afternoon tea, and he’ll still bear the brunt of constance’s wrath. in truth, you have bothered him enough already. so he lets you steer maryanne away without another word. at the last moment, he thinks he’s imagined it when you twist to look over your shoulder, your eyes running over him with a modicum of interest. he shakes the feeling off; it must have been his untoward imagination.

by the time he reaches contance’s cottage, a light drizzle has wet the shoulders of his suit jacket. his hair is damp, his glasses foggy. he ducks to avoid smacking his head against the doorframe as he enters. the cottage smells of tea and scones, both fresh, both warm.

from the kitchen, constance’s shrill voice meets his ears. no matter his hearing loss, her voice will never be one he can ignore. “is that you, gwilym?” she putters to the kitchen arch, wrapped tight in her pink robe, tea kettle in hand. when she sees him standing in the doorway, she frowns. “you’re late.”

“yes, yes, i’m sorry.” he sheds his jacket and places it on the wooden banister. rolling up his shirt sleeves, he makes his way to the kitchen. “i was accosted by some of my students.”

constance laughs, her fleshy cheeks taut with a smile. “oh, child, you make it sound like you loathe those students.”

he says nothing, simply brushes a few crumbs away from his place at the table. a fat cat jumps to take his seat before he can settle, and he sighs. constance chuckles at his misfortune, placing the tea kettle in the center of the table. she shoos the cat for him, and he sits.

“pour for us, won’t you?” she says, turning to gather the scones.

gwilym hesitates. his hand flexes on his thigh, but there’s no point in arguing with constance, so he lifts the kettle. heavy with hot water, the pot wavers in his hand. as he pours, his tremor grows stronger, the pot shaking so violently water makes it everywhere but the teacup.

“dammit,” he mutters. he puts the kettle down with more force than is strictly necessary; enough that he can feel constance’s eyes slide to his back as he rises to mop up the spilled water. it’s hot as it drenches the napkin, and he takes the moment of pain as punishment. he uses both hands to pour on the second go around. there’s still an unnatural rhythm to the stream of liquid as it descends to the teacups, but it hasn’t ruined the tablecloth, and he supposes that’s all that matters.

“there we are.” constance places a scone—blueberry iced with cream; she always makes his favorites—before him, and she does not mention the spilled water. “who were the rascals that accosted you this time?”

between bites of scone and sips of tea, he answers. “maryanne coulder and [y/n] [y/l/n].”

constance replaces her teacup on its saucer with a knowing nod. “ah, i know the coulder family. good bunch, except for that son of theirs.” her smile widens as his face blanches. “it seems you know him too.”

“he put tacks on my stool this thursday.”

“did you sit on them?”

he shakes his head. “no, but i might’ve.”

“and it would have given all the children a royal laugh.” she takes another sip, challenging him over the rim of her cup. “[y/n] i don’t know so well.”

“she’s in her last year. bright girl.” he doesn’t know why he feels to need to say such a thing. he’s barely given constance any information about his students thus far, but there’s something about the way she’s watching him that makes him speak and speak fast. “she could go on to university if she put her mind to it.”

“nineteen, i think, yes?”

he shrugs. “i think so.” constance hums and reaches over to pet an orange tabby cat. “they’ve wrangled me into sunday dinner next week. the coulders, i mean,” he adds.

“oh?”

“it was impossible to say no.”

“well, i believe it’s about time you show your face around town.” constance lifts a barely visible brow. “you really much try and engage your students more, gwilym. no one likes a sour puss.”

heat rushes up the back of his neck, and he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. she’s right, of course. he hasn’t always been this way, but since the war broke out and his subsequent service denial, he’s been nothing but a gray cloud in every room. he can’t help it.

constance changes the subject as her eyes move to the window at the back of the cottage. “did you know michael livingston went and shot a fox at four o’clock this morning?” she tuts her tongue. “that man! he really is the bane of my existence. a horrid excuse for a neighbor.”

gwilym’s gaze drops to his teacup, and he filters out what he can of constance’s prattle. she’s right. he should work on connecting with his students more. his father is a master at that. he has every student at the university eating out of the palm of his hand by the end of the first term week. gwilym thought he might have the capacity to do the same, but it seems he had been wrong. his students are respectful enough, but aside from maryanne and her silly crush, they are largely unattached. though, it isn’t as if he wants their affection or even their approval...

he’s fine without it. really, he is.

still, it wouldn’t hurt to at least seem approachable. he’s in snowshill for the foreseeable future. he might as well face it and try to appear like he gives a damn.

at four o’clock sharp the following sunday, he stands outside the coulder household, his fist poised ready to knock on the dark green front door. only he can’t seem to bring himself make his arrival known.

if he knocks, he has to be sociable. if he doesn’t knock, he can retreat to his attic room and spend the rest of his sunday in peace.

if he knocks, he might begin to chip away at the three-foot-thick barrier he’s placed around himself. if he doesn’t knock, he remains hidden, but protected.

his fist trembles in front of the door.

“mr. lee, are you alright?”

he nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of your voice. dropping his hand and readjusting his hold on the plate of muffins constance sent along with him, he turns away from the door. you stand halfway down the stone path leading to the home, one hand holding the chubby fingers of a toddler he doesn’t recognize. your other hand is pressed against the back of an old man, his shoulders bent with age, hands wobbling as he uses a cane.

gwilym swallows and looks away. “oh, hello. i just...” he can’t think of an excuse, so he, lamely, settles for the truth. “well, if i can be frank with you, miss [y/l/n], i was—am—feeling a bit apprehensive.”

you just smile and lift the toddler from the ground. with the girl on your hip, you come to stand by his side. he shifts when he catches a whiff of your shampoo. you glance up at him, your smile lifting, before knocking on the front door yourself.

“there’s nothing to be nervous about, sir,” you whisper in the lull between your knock and the door opening. “’s just maryanne.”

he isn’t certain, but he thinks you’re teasing him. the possibility makes his skin crawl in more ways than one. he hates that.

saved the duty of response, he pulls his mouth into a tight smile as the door opens. mrs. coulder, flanked by her daughter, stands in the threshold, brightly patterned apron snug around her waist.

“oh, mr. lee!” she stretches out her hand, and he shakes it, the plate of muffins tipping precariously in his opposite palm. “we’re so glad you decided to join us.”

“thank you for the invitation, mrs. coulder.” he waits until you’ve passed with your grandfather to cross the threshold.

“please, call me vivianne. can i take that for you?” she nods to the plate of muffins, eyes sparkling all the while.

“yes, thank you. from constance pruder,” he adds. “she told me to tell you hello.”

“how kind of her!” vivianne takes the muffins from his arms and gestures toward the back of the house with her chin. “my husband, john, is out back. why don’t you go and chat until supper’s ready. he is ever so eager to meet you.”

gwilym fights to hold back his cringe. fathers—he doesn’t do well with them. not his own, not anyone else’s. it’s just another item on his long list of dislikes and annoyances.

but he’s a guest, and he really does want to try. so he fixes his tie and follows vivianne’s directions to the back garden.

john is sat on a wrought-iron chair, his hands braced against the arms, round face pulled tight in a frown as he watches maryanne play with the toddler on the grass. he stands when gwilym ducks to step outside. he extends a hand, his grip painful.

“lee,” he barks in greeting before dropping back to his seat.

the old man—gwilym assumes he’s your grandfather—twists from his place in a similar chair. “forgive me if i don’t get up, son.” the way his fingers waver in the air makes gwilym’s stomach clench; his own hand shakes slightly as he touches the old man’s palm. “name’s richard.”

“sit down.” john points to a bench against the house. “i’ve got questions for you.”

gwilym hesitates, caught bent at the waist as he goes to sit. his hands are firm on his thighs, and unwittingly, his eyes flick to yours. he’s surprised to see you already watching him, your fingers twirling in the blades of grass around your legs. when the moment has stretched far too long, he sits and smooths his sweaty palms against his trousers.

“i hope easy questions, sir,” he says. his tone is light, but his teeth are gritted.

“easy enough if you tell the truth.” john withdraws a silver cigarette case from his breast pocket. jamming a butt between his teeth, he offers the case to gwilym, who declines with a shake of his head. john puffs on the cigarette for a moment before saying, “why aren’t you off fighting, lee? all the other lads from gloucestershire are doing their part. what makes you special enough to stay away from the battle?”

to say gwilym is shocked by john’s pointed question would be an understatement. the force of the query, spoken in harsh, biting tones, is enough to tilt him sideways in his chair. he’s sure his face is red, his chest tight from forgetting to release the breath he holds in his lungs. his hands curl against his trousers, his knuckles gone white with rage.

“well, sir,” he drawls, careful to keep his tone even. more than anything, he wants to stand, leave, and slam the door on his way out for good measure. his ears burn with embarrassment. “i would certainly be fighting if i could.”

it’s an honest answer, the truth if ever he’s spoken it. what he wouldn’t give to be away from snowshill, rushing the battle field with his brothers-at-arms. what he wouldn’t give to be worthy of a moment’s notice when he returned from war.

but he’s not worthy and he’s not fighting. he’s stuck in the back garden of his most precocious and love-sick student, the sun beating down on his brow with an undue heat, his muscles twitching with the restraint it takes to keep from decking snowshill’s most prominent lawyer.

john narrows his eyes across the cobblestone patio. “if you could? what’s wrong with you?”

gwilym says nothing. red—the color of blood, ambulance sirens, and fire—flashes before his eyes.

“in my day,” john continues. “we fought no matter our delicate sensibilities.” he huffs around his cigarette, his chest ballooning like a baboon. “i’d say that i—”

“mr. coulder!” your voice is sharp, though not unkind, when you break into coulder’s soliloquy. gwilym’s eyes snap from john’s throbbing forehead muscle to you. you stand beside your grandfather, your skirt tangled around your legs in your apparent haste to stand. there’s grass pressed against your knees, and a faint tinge of red on your cheeks. “i believe i heard mrs. coulder calling for your just now,” you say, sweetening the blow of your interruption with a smile.

john looks to the open door, a pucker forming between his brows. “oh,” he mumbles, rising to his feet. “i’d better go see what that’s about.” he ambles on bowed legs into the house, and gwilym is left to pick of the pieces of his fractured dignity.

he dares glance at you. your eyes lift from the ground slowly, your fingers curling along the hem of your cardigan. when you meet his gaze, you look away first, as if you’re scared—scared to look at him, scared to admit you had to rescue him like a drowning puppy. he swallows hard and stands, though he isn’t sure why. he just can’t stay sitting anymore.

vivianne pops her head around the frame of the back door. “come come, everyone. supper is ready! mr. lee, you sit beside john. he has so much he wishes to discuss with you.” she grins and waves him inside, and who is he to refuse her?

later that night, when his back is pressed against his firm mattress, moonlight washing through the attic room, gwilym feels the overwhelming urge to cry. he can’t remember the last time he shed a tear. after his mother’s passing—god rest her soul—tears have seemed... pointless. they didn’t bring his mother back; they won’t cure his deaf ear or his tremor, won’t stop people like john coulder from asking questions.

still, his chest aches. there’s something in his lungs scratching to get out. it rises in his throat like a lump and bubbles forth in a broken sob. he presses his hand to his mouth, feels a hot tear slide down his cheekbone.

god, he hates it here.

really, he hates it everywhere. there’s nowhere he can go to escape from himself.

class on monday is disjointed.

he didn’t sleep well, tossing and turning the whole night long, his dreams plagued with images of his mother, the war, you staring at him like a broken man. he woke several times in a cold sweat, his bedclothes drenched and sticky.

his students bear the brunt of his poor night’s rest. he is tired to the very core of his being, and it shows in the way he waves hastings away after one-too-many attempts at the same arithmetic problem. it shows in the way he sits at his desk before the class, rubbing at this throbbing temples, the echo of the previous night’s supper ringing in his ears. though the sentiment is there most days, today he truly does not care if his students learn or not. he just wants a stiff drink, maybe a quick shag, something to take his mind off it all.

shifting in his seat, he withdraws the pocket watch snug in his trouser pocket. the gold around the clasp is worn with decades of use, and when he unlocks the face, the watch within is slightly obscured by a thin crack over the number five. still, despite its flaws, the clock ticks on. there’s a metaphor there, he knows, about himself: worn, broken, but still working. he’s too jaded to believe it.

he rises from his chair. the legs scrape against the floor. “it’s lunch,” he announces, breaking the heavy silence of the classroom with his deep voice. “take your things and go home. class is dismissed for the rest of the day.”

from her place in the front row, maryanne bats her eyelashes in confusion. “what’s the occasion, sir?” she sits straight at her desk, eager to please, panting for some drip of his attention.

gwilym doesn’t have any attention to spare for maryanne, for any of his students, really. his eyes flick from maryanne to the open window to you. he clears his throat and looks away. “it’s a nice day out, maryanne,” he says. “we shouldn’t waste it inside. don’t you agree?”

she grins and nods as she hastily gathers her things together. “oh, yes, of course!”

his jaw goes tight as he says, “thank your mother again for inviting me to supper yesterday. it was very kind of her.”

scarlet blush crawls over maryanne’s cheeks. she holds her books snug against her chest, her shoes dancing back and forth in nerves across the hardwood floor. “you are more than welcome any time, sir.”

he nods once, glancing toward the open schoolhouse door. she gets the picture; their conversation is through. grabbing hastings hand, she drags her brother out of the building and into the sunshine, leaving gwilym in blessed silence. he drops to his chair with a groan, cradling his forehead between his pointer finger and thumb. outside he can here his pupils laughing in the field. he removes his hands from his face and looks out the window-lined wall. hands crossed in his lap, he watches the children play, wonders what it feels like to live so carefree.

had he ever been like that as a child: wild, uninhibited? he must’ve been—surely. his long-term memory is poor, brought on by a hard tumble he’d taken from a horse at an early age, but memory impairment aside, he wasn’t always this sullen, this removed. surely.

“mr. lee?”

he jolts at the sound of your voice, twisting in his chair to see you standing before his desk, a crease of worry between your brows. he frowns. “miss [y/l/n]? have you been there long?”

you shake your head, and a lock of hair falls out from behind your ear. you tuck it back, your eyes falling momentarily to the floor before you say, “no. well, yes. i was gathering my things, and you looked... pensive.”

he sits upright, and the urge to smooth his hair works its way to his fingers. he adjusts his glasses instead. “pensive? that doesn’t bode well.”

at his half-hearted attempt at levity, the corner of your mouth lifts. you step closer to his desk. “i wanted to be sure you were alright after supper last evening.”

his gut clenches at the memory, the shame of john coulder’s interrogation, at having to be saved by his own student, at that student being you. “i’m fine, truly,” he says, an edge to his voice he doesn’t mean.

still, you push further. “it’s just that mr. coulder... he’s not very diplomatic when it comes to asking questions. i thought maybe you—”

for the second time, gwilym stands from his chair with the intention of ending the conversation. he will not discuss sunday’s supper with you. the memory is still too raw, and his dream of you coming to his rescue is thoroughly and completely humiliating. yet when he stretches to his full height and sees you standing there, the most earnest expression of concern he’s ever seen on another face, he is powerless to stop himself from admitting the truth. he shoves his hands in his pockets, rolling his tongue over his teeth in thought.

“your concern is kind. mr. coulder’s questions were ill-phrased but not unwarranted. the men of this country hold a heavy duty right now. i suspect he was only asking out of patriotism.”

you blink, lips pressed together. he’d thought you’d be satisfied with his answer, but it appears you are not. the crease in your brow deepens. “sir, he was very unkind to you.” you speak as if he didn’t realize, as if he didn’t wet his pillow with tears of shame and hurt.

he nods. “perhaps.”

“it’s not fair, though. i’m sure whatever your reasons are for staying away from the front are valid.”

“again, your kindness does you credit.”

“i’m not trying to flatter you, mr. lee. i’m only speaking the truth.”

gwilym hesitates before saying, “i did not assume you were the flattering type.”

you shake your head. “i’m not.”

he’s not sure if it’s just the warm spring breeze drifting through the open window, but the air feels heavier than it did moments before. his eyes search yours. searching for what he can’t say, but he searches nonetheless. you hold his gaze until the faintest of blushes rises to your cheekbones.

“i must thank you, though, miss [y/l/n], for coming to my aid last evening.” he’s surprised by his confession. it should drive him to his knees in embarrassment that he must concede to his student after they help him with a man twice his age. he is embarrassed, but something—manners, the desire to replicate your honesty, your doe eyes—makes him say it. “i am not sure i would have answered mr. coulder’s questions with a cool head, but you showed great tact. i’m indebted to you for that.”

he bites his tongue. too far, perhaps. a teacher should never be indebted to his student. least of all his oldest, brightest, and yes, he will admit it: most attractive student.

your chest lifts as you draw in a breath through your teeth. “well, i know a way you can repay me.”

his eyes widen, his throat seizing around his adam’s apple. he removes his hands from his pockets and shuffles a stack of unmarked papers on his desk. his hand wavers as he moves, though he’s not sure if it’s due to his tremor or an unwarranted image of you in his arms flashing through his mind.

too far. too far. you’re just a student. he’s just your teacher.

“what would you have me do?” it’s stupid to ask, to play along, but he can’t help it when your hands are clasped behind your back, the ribbon at the end of your braid falling over your shoulder.

“there’s a benefit next week,” you say, and your face eases into a smile. “it’s for the wounded soldiers, and i’m in charge of the bake sale. my grandfather is too old to help and my niece is too young, so i thought perhaps you might like to help me? i’m sure more people will stop by if you’re there. everyone’s still curious about the new schoolmaster.”

gwilym stills, his eyes falling on you. not for the first time, he wonders if there’s something beneath your gaze, beneath your question. there can’t be; there isn’t. just like he is not interested in you, you are not interested in him.

unless...

he clears his throat and looks down at his desk. he brushes a stray pencil to the side. it rolls, rolls, rolls, stops against a heavy book. “i suppose i can make the time to assist.” he meets your eyes despite his gut telling him not to entertain this foolishness any longer. “for you, miss [y/l/n].”

your face clears in something akin to shock. you blink rapidly, your eyelashes fluttering against your freckled cheekbones. for a moment, gwilym imagines maryanne in the moments past, batting her own eyes. it hadn’t made his gut twist like this.

“it’s not for me,” you whisper, and the breathy sound of your voice sends a rush of blood from his head to his manhood. “it’s for the soldiers.”

“yes,” he replies. your gaze is locked on his, deep and probing. “the soldiers.”

a pebble hits the window with a sharp ting, and you both startle—you with a gasp, he with a muttered curse. turning, he stares out the window long enough to see a few of his male students playing a game of stickball with pebbles. a sigh shudders through his chest. no one had seen, had felt the thick tension in the room. thank heaven.

when he turns back to ask you how he can help before the benefit, you are gone.

the day of the benefit dawns bright and clear. it’s warm despite the month. april is generally cool and balmy, but gwilym breaks a sweat as he carries arrangement after arrangement of flowers to a little red wagon outside the cottage. constance sits perched on her portable stool, a cane between her legs as she watches him work.

“be careful with those, gwilym james,” she chides. “i spent all week and won’t have you breaking a single one.”

“i’m being careful, constance.” he huffs as he lowers a bouquet of blue hydrangeas to the wagon. the glass rattles as it squeezes between the dozens of other vases. the wagon is full to bursting of flowers of all kinds and where constance unearthed such of a treasure trove of flowers, he cannot be sure. “you truly expect to sell all these in one afternoon?”

constance draws in a sharp breath and whacks the butt of her cane against his shin. “how dare you!” he yelps, clutching his offended leg, but for once finds it easy to match her sly smile. “my flowers are sought after in the next three counties!”

“i’m sure they are,” he says, chuckling at her twisted features.

she stands, snapping her stool shut with ease. with her chin tilted, she gestures with her cane to the road. “we’ll be late. you know i detest being late.”

rolling his eyes, gwilym grabs the wagon handle from the ground and gently maneuvers the vehicle onto the dirt road leading to the center of the village. the flowers jostle and clang as the wagon dips with the unevenness of the road, but the arrangements hold steady. constance’s steps are slow and small, so he shrinks his stride to match hers. a whisper of a breeze cools the sweat lingering on the back of his neck, and he glances at the cloudless sky. no one could have asked for better weather.

“i hear you are to assist miss [y/l/n] in her confection sale today?”

gwilym nearly trips over a rut in the road, but catches himself at the last moment. he adjusts his hold on the wagon handle, his hand trembling even curled against the cool metal. “yes—she had no one else to help her.”

constance’s eyebrows lift. “ah.”

“you did tell me to be more kindly with my pupils.”

“that i did.”

“then why do you look so displeased?”

“i’m far from displeased, child,” she says with a laugh. “merely cataloging this moment for later.”

gwilym doesn’t ask for further explanation. he doesn’t want to know. it’s bad enough that he spent the entire morning primping and preening over his own reflection. god, he’d felt like such an idiot.

but he couldn’t deny the urge to at least try and put some effort into his appearance. he would be spending the day by your side, after all. not that it mattered...

by the time he rolls constance’s wagon into the village square, the benefit is well under way. snowshill is a small parish; only one-hundred-twenty-three residents, yet it seems every soul has turned out for the event. colorful streamers whip through the mid-morning breeze. a gaggle of musicians sitting underneath a shade tree amble through a litany of well-known tunes. the baker twins, annie and joy, race past gwilym, hand in hand as they head for the dunking booth. he pauses in his study of the square. there’s happiness here. despite it all—the war, the fathers and brothers and husbands so far away, the uncertainty of the future—the villagers have still found a reason to smile. surely, he can to.

“i’ll take this.” constance pulls gwilym from his thoughts as she pries the wagon handle from his hand. “you go over there,” she adds, nodding to a booth on his left. “miss [y/l/n] is waiting.”

he ignores the telling sparkle in her eyes. she can see right through him, the old bat, see straight to the part of his heart he so desperately wants—no, needs—to ignore.

chasing the thoughts away, he turns to locate the corner set aside for the bake sale. it isn’t hard. in an uncomfortable but familiar sort of way, he’s drawn to you, and he finds you easily. at the base of the church gardens, you’re already hard a work. your hair is loose around your shoulders, and the sun glints off a pearl barrette clipping a portion of the strands back. stepping forward, he allows his eyes, for the briefest of moments, to run over your frame. your forest green dress is cinched at the waist with a wide gold band, accentuating your curves. the sleeves of the dress, which fall to your elbows, are sheer, and he can see your skin glistening beneath the sway of shadows and sun. you’re lovely, breathtaking even. he hates the way his heart gallops in his chest at the sight, like he’s a love-struck schoolboy. in reality, he is your teacher and a grown man. the thought alone makes him advert his eyes from the picture of you, dressed well and elegantly, smiling as you speak to a customer.

“there you are!” you twist away from the pie, cake, and cookie laden table to grace him with a brilliant smile. knowing you first and foremost as the level-headed student who rarely speaks save to impart pearls of wisdom, the sight of your wide smile is near blinding. “i was beginning to think you’d forgotten.”

he shakes his head. “never.”

“good.” you point up the hill to the church. “the rest of the pies are in the kitchen. bring them down, won’t you?”

he does so without complaint, returning to the booth with a cherry pie in one hand and a rhubarb pie in the other. he places them on the table with care before asking, “who made all these?”

you shrug and straighten the sign hanging from the makeshift portico attached to the table. “mostly the older ladies of the parish. though,” you say, your eyes sliding to his with mischief. “i did make those.” you point to a small plate of chocolate chip cookies. “you can steal one if you like. i won’t tell.”

gwilym narrows his eyes. “how do i know if i can trust you?”

you laugh—a clear, bell-like laugh—and it goes straight to his gut. “try it and you’ll just have to find out.”

you sit, your attention caught by the toddler scooting about on the a picnic blanket behind the table. gwilym hesitates before taking one of the cookies. it snaps in his hands, and he nudges your arm with his knuckles. you look over your shoulder, glancing at the half of a cookie melting between his fingers.

“take the other half,” he says. “that way we both get in trouble. if i’m going to go down, i’ll take you with me.”

your cheeks color, and he wonders where your mind has gone, but then you take the cookie and your fingers brush his palm. a jolt shoot through his arm, but he ignores it, sitting in the seat beside you.

“it’s very good,” he says after swallowing the dessert. “chocolatey.”

you smile in thanks then reach out, your thumb nearing his cheek. he stills, uncertain if he should move back and risk offense or lean in and risk it all. you swipe your thumb across the corner of his mouth, your touch fleeting but like fire all the same. sitting back, your grin widens.

“you had a bit of chocolate on your lip,” you explain.

“oh.” he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks the opposite direction.

few villagers have meandered over to the bake sale booth, but the day is early yet. he dares relax and lean back in his chair. he unbuttons his suit-jacket, letting the breeze waft through his sleeves and around his torso. when he turns his head to look at you, he finds you already watching, your eyes trained against his chest which strains against his snug waistcoat. all thoughts evaporate until your eyes lift to his and you blush.

he clears his throat. “uh—the child?” he questions, pointing to the toddler on the ground. she’s chubby, her legs stumpy beneath a yellow day dress and bloomers. “who does she belong to?”

you lift the baby and set her on your knee. the little girl smiles at him and leans against your shoulder, her mouth gnawing around her fist. “my sister,” you say. “she’s away, so grandfather and i are left to take care of eliza.”

“and where is your grandfather?”

“he’s with his mates. they’ve set up shop outside the pub and are more than likely pestering anyone who will listen with their own war stories.”

“he seems like a kind man.”

“oh, he is!” you grin and return eliza to her spot in the shade. “after my parents died, he took me and peggy—that’s my sister—in without a moment’s hesitation.”

before gwilym can question you any further, a familiar voice hits his ears. he rises alongside you as vivianne coulder draws close to the booth.

“oh, look how darling! [y/n], you’ve really outdone yourself!” vivianne eyes the sweets with interest. “however am i to make such a choice? there’s simply too many good things here to choose from.”

“you can always buy multiples, mrs. coulder.” you press your palms against the table, leaning forward to watch as vivianne surveys the array of food. gwilym’s eyes stray toward your backside, which is pushed out, until vivianne breaks his train of thought.

“mr. lee, how did you get mixed up in a bake sale?” she asks, dropping a few coins in your palm as she makes her purchase. “i might have thought you’d participate in the dunk tank like my john.”

as if to punctuate her question, a bell across the square rings followed by a cheer and a splash. someone hit the bullseye.

“mr. lee owed me a favor,” you say. “i had to watch the class one afternoon while he tended to a feral dog in the yard.”

the story isn’t a falsehood, but it’s certainly not why he stands beside you now. he’d almost forgotten about that dog, but perhaps the mangy mutt had been a godsend after all. it certainly kept you from having to admit the real reason for his appearance at the bake sale.

vivianne giggles behind her gloved hand. “how brave!”

your hand, ungloved and warm, lands on his arm. your fingertips squeeze the flesh of his bicep nearly imperceptibility but he feels the gentle pressure like a vice around his skin. “yes,” you continue, seemingly oblivious to the way your touch wrecks him. “he was quite brave.”

vivianne chats with you a moment more—something about maryanne and her sixteenth birthday celebration—but he can barely focus. he’s unnaturally hot under his jacket, despite the cover of shade protecting the table of sweets. he wants to shake your hand from his arm, loosen your hold around his gut, but he doesn’t want to appear rude. he doesn’t want to push you away.

so he stands still. he lives with your fingers against the curve of his shoulder like a man readying himself for execution. his jaw is tight, his eyes focused on the people milling about the square.

when vivianne finally ambles away, he feels free enough to step out of your grasp. he releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. his eyes dart from the ground to your face. you stare at him, your own eyes wide and lips parted ever-so slightly. god, he could kiss you. maybe it would quell the fire in his stomach and get you out of his head. maybe the simple touch would fix all the worn-out and tired thought swirling through his head. he would give into his desire but there’s too many people around and maybe that’s a good thing. he’s not sure he could stop himself if he started.

blessedly, a trio of older women approach the table. he jerks his attention away from you and finds a modicum of solace in auctioning off the bake sale items to whomever will purchase them. the faster the table is clear, the sooner he can go home and take a cold shower.

fate, it seems, has other plans for him because it is not until past-dusk that the charity benefit ends. the last of the pies have been sold off, your niece dragged home by your grandfather when the hour gets too late. gwilym helps you break down the table in silence, the only sound a bird twittering in its nest overhead and the rumble of the dunk tank being hauled away. you look tired, and he’s sure he does too. on the whole, he enjoyed himself. you are pleasant company and skilled at carrying on conversation. in truth, he finds himself wondering if he could spend every waking moment simply sitting by your side. the busy-bodies and children who came by the booth brought him small smiles, as well. the occasional woman called him handsome, even though her age well surpassed his own, and it buoyed his neglected heart. mothers thanked him profusely for his work at the school. he had not realized how much his students seemed to appreciate his efforts in the classroom. on more than one occasion, he’d left the schoolhouse under the impression the vast majority of his pupils were plotting his demise for being so sullen and boring. but perhaps not...

with your aid, he carries the booth’s table to the basement of the church. it is cool in the dark hallway of the building. his shoes sound against the stone floor as he searches for a light switch with nothing but his gaze. he hears a sharp bang followed by a muffled curse.

“you alright?” he asks, casting a glance over his shoulder. he can barely make out your form what with the dim hall and your form covered by night.

you adjust your hold on the end of the table. “yes, i’m fine. i bumped into the doorframe ‘s all.”

“where do we put this table then?”

“the vicar got it out for me early this morning. i suppose we could simply leave it by the pantry in the kitchen.”

“i’m afraid i don’t know where that is.”

he swears he can see you smile despite the low light. “perhaps i should have led the way.”

he mirrors your grin. “perhaps you should have.”

nodding to the left, you say, “that way. down the hall and first door on the right. i left it open.”

with some trouble, he manages to make it to the kitchen, though he too runs into the doorframe of the hallway and you giggle at his misfortune. together, you lower the table against the kitchen wall and step back. you brush your hands together with an air of finality.

“well,” you say with a sigh. “nothing like a good day’s work.”

gwilym turns to look at you in the darkness of the kitchen. a beam of moonlight filters through a single window in the corner of the room. it falls agains the back of your head, shrouding you in a halo of yellowy light. you’re looking at him, too; he can feel it. you look soft, and you stand close enough to touch. he keeps his hands at his sides; they tremble against the creases of his trousers.

“thank you, miss [y/l/n],” he whispers. “i needed a day like today.”

silence reigns supreme for the longest of moments. universes are born and wither in the space between his confession and your response.

but then your lips are on his.

your hands grasp the material around his shoulders, your nails pressing through the fabric in earnest. he can think of nothing else to do—nothing else he should do—other than remain planted firm on the stone floor of the church kitchen. he itches to hold you, to weave his fingers through your hair, and move his mouth over yours. you taste sweet, like cookies, for the brief moment you claim him as your own. still, he is level-headed enough, rational enough, scared enough, to not react—no matter how much he wants to.

you pull back, swallowing hard. your fingertips skim over your mouth. you stare at him, starlight caught in your eyelashes, then run from the basement before he can say a word.

you do not come to class for several days. he calculates that it must be three days you’ve skipped out on him—no, on school. really, he can’t be certain how long you’ve been gone. since he felt the touch of your lips on his, he has thought of little else. the memory consumes him, threatening to swallow him whole. it distracts him when he turns around from the blackboard to see your seat empty and when he dismisses class at the end of the day and does not see you gathering your belongings with your elegant movements. he has lost track of time and of order. at night, he lays awake and stares at his ceiling, his hands clasped behind his head. he runs the moment over and over again, replaying and reframing how it could have gone different.

he could have pushed you away the second you moved closer. at least then he would be able to claim he tried to be a professional, that he tried to distance himself from his interest in his own student.

he could have kissed you back. he’d wanted to. he’d wanted to so badly. he’d wanted to so badly the mere thought of how he’d kept his hands still at his sides makes his brain clench with discomfort.

the thursday after the benefit, after yet another day without your presence in the cramped schoolhouse, he drags his feet to your home. he’s reluctant to go, knowing he should allow you to come back on your own time. whatever it was that possessed you to kiss him, he knows you probably regret the action as much as he regrets not seizing the moment for himself.

you live on the outskirts of snowshill on your grandfather’s sheep farm. the dirt road leading to the white farmhouse is clogged with tufts of fresh grass, revealing its lack of traffic. a handful of hens peck the ground beneath a sprawling oak tree. a flat swing hanging from a thick branch sways back and forth with the afternoon breeze. it’s idyllic—removed from the rest of the world, even as far as snowshill goes, but idyllic.

he’s out of breath from the walk by the time he reaches the front door, but gwilym is self-aware enough to know he would out of breath regardless of his mode of transportation. he’s nervous. his hands shake, and there’s an incessant ringing in his deaf ear. he waits, unsure if anyone on the other side of the bright red door has heard his knock.

“mr. lee?”

the sound, garbled by the blood rushing to his ears and the tilt of his head, comes from his right. he twists to see you standing at the corner of the house. there’s a basket in your hand; it’s empty, save for a pair of small scissors which catch the sun. your blue-checkered dress is faded, the sleeves bunched around your elbows. one of the pockets on either hip seems weighed down with an invisible object. he stops his perusal and notes the clear frown on your face.

he steps forward, huffing out a rushed “miss [y/l/n]”, and nearly topples off the rail-less stoop. he catches himself at the last moment, his hand darting out to press against the frame of the farmhouse.

you gasp, dropping your basket, and rush forward, but when you see he’s righted himself, you stop. “goodness,” you say. “that would’ve been a bad tumble. i’ve told grandfather dozens of times that we need a railing.”

gwilym chuckles in a lame attempt to save face. he takes the three steps to the safety of solid earth and crosses to stand before you. you blink up at him, your lips pinched. there’s a mysterious lack of sparkle in your gaze, and he wonders if he’s the cause of its disappearance.

“you’ve not been to school,” he says.

you shake your head as you turn to pick your discarded basket. “no.”

“why?”

you lift a slim brow. “isn’t the answer obvious, sir?”

“no.”

you hold his stare, and he is the one to look away first. a chill settles around his spine despite the warmth of the day. he wrings his hands together as he looks over the field.

“if that’s all, sir—”

his eyes snap back to yours. “no!” he winces at the desperation in his tone and tries again. “no. i think we should talk, miss [y/l/n], about what happened at the benefit.”

this time you do look away, your cheeks tinged with blush. you gesture toward the meadow behind your home. “i was going to walk down to the river. i need to replenish our herb stock. you may join me if you like.”

“that’s fine,” he says, nodding. “you lead the way.”

the beginning of your walk is spent in silence. the meadow grass tangles around the hem of his trousers, staining them green with leftover dew. you trail ahead of him, your basket skimming over the weeds and grasses like a sailboat in an ocean of nature. he realizes you are without shoes, and the sight of your bare calves and ankles sends his thoughts elsewhere.

you lead him into a grove of cherry and birch trees. pink petals cover the ground and obscure the sky. it’s a haze of color here—cherry blossoms and green leaves, the flutter of an anxious bird’s wings, the clear but rushing waters of the creek. he stops when you do and inhales deeply. strangely, tears prick the corners of his eyes. he could stay here, he thinks, in this picturesque place—no one to bother him or question him or loathe his very existence.

“i never knew snowshill boasted such a beautiful spot,” he admits.

from your place crouched against the ground, your voice is muffled. “yes. i keep it secret”—your voice is clearer when you rise and look over your shoulder—“from nearly everyone. it’s too special to share with the world.”

you lean down again and use your small pair of scissors to snip at a collection of herbs growing along the creekbed. gwilym dares take a step closer, and he points to the herbs in your hand.

“what are those?”

“mint. it grows well by the water.” you lift the bundle. “would you like some?”

instead of taking the offer, he squats beside you. his knee, bent as it is, almost brushes your elbow. he plucks a small leaf of the mint and puts it on his tongue.

you watch as he allows the herb’s flavor to coat his tongue. “my mother used to make very good lemonade with mint.”

“my mother too.” he clears his throat, glances at the trickling stream, then back at you. “miss [y/l/n], about the benefit...”

to your credit, you do not shy away from his pointed gaze. your jaw tightens, but you maintain eye-contact, and he wonders if you can see all the thoughts racing through his head as he looks at you.

“i’m sorry if you misunderstood my gratefulness for our interactions at the coulder dinner and at the benefit. my intention was not to give you any untoward thoughts or—”

“why are you not fighting? in the war?” you interrupt with ease and do not blink as you question him.

despite his initial shock at the change of topic, he finds himself rushing to answer, to explain himself—though to anyone else, he would balk and turn away. “my right ear is deaf.”

“oh.”

“has been for a long time,” he continues. “apparently, good hearing is the mark of a good soldier.”

“and your hands?”

“my hands?”

“why do they tremble?”

at this, gwilym does balk. he stands, running the hands in question through his hair as he turns his back to you. “my hands do not tremble,” he says, his tone close to seething.

you stand to your full height, which isn’t much next to him. “yes they do. i’ve seen them—in class, at the benefit. were you denied service because of that, too?”

he openly glares at you, but he answers truthfully. “no. it developed after my denial.”

“oh,” you say again.

“really, miss [y/l/n], this is not why i wanted to speak with you.”

“i know. you wanted to talk about us.”

“there is no us. there can be no us.”

“i disagree.”

“yes, you would because you are a child, and you don’t understand that you and i giving in to whatever is between us would mean disaster.”

the slap that lands across his cheek echoes in the small grove of trees. he whirls, clutching his face as he stares at you in disbelief. his ear is ringing again, and it’s painful this time, but he knows he deserves it.

your chest heaves when you next speak. “i’m not a child.”

he knows this. he’s seen you as a woman—dreamt of you as a woman—too many times to count.

dropping his hand from his face, he nods. “i know. forgive me.”

you’re quiet, thinking, then you open your mouth to speak.

“i don’t think you realize, gwilym, how good you are for this community.” the sound of his name on your lips is sinful, threatening to tear his focus away from your words. “in the short time you’ve been here, i’ve seen the children in that schoolhouse learn more than they ever did before you came. you’re truly teaching them about the world, not just maths and reading and science. why, even last week hastings actually apologized for pulling on my braids in the past. he told me that you taught him that.”

gwilym frowns. “how? i never told—”

“they watch you. he told me you apologized to mark after you were short with him one afternoon. he told me he wanted to be like you—not his father, you.”

“miss [y/l/n]—”

“and my grandfather? he so admires you. i think he sees himself in you, after he came home from the way. he told me you’re very brave. and constance swears you have the gentlest soul built for caring for others. you may hide it, but she knows that you—”

“that’s enough—please.”

you fall silent, unshed tears washing over your eyes before you say, “don’t you see, gwilym? you walk around with such a weight on your shoulders, but all anyone wants to do—all i want to do—is ease the load. you’re worth that.”

he shakes his head and swallows hard. your speech all but shatters his heart. more than anything, he wants to believe you, wants to believe that he’s good for something. but the pesky thoughts in the back of his mind grip him hard. he can’t shake them.

unfit, unfit, unfit.

“i kissed you that night because i think you are wonderful.” your face cracks into a smile, vibrant and gut-wrenching. “wonderful and smart and handsome and—”

he puts a stop to your words. winding his arms around your back, he pulls you flush against his chest, his mouth lowering to capture yours. you’re stiff at first, in shock by his sudden change of heart, but then you relax, your arms lifting to circle his neck, drawing him ever closer. his lips explore yours with desperation, the weeks he’s spent pining after you crashing to the surface in an explosion of want and need. he moves his hands to cradle your face, and your hands skim to his shoulder blades, your fingers pressed into the skin beneath his waistcoat and shirt. you taste like fresh mint. it’s all he can do to not lower you to the bed of blossom petals on the ground and ravish you until the sun dips below the horizon.

he pulls away, breathing heavy, his forehead rolling against yours. “[y/n]...” you suck in a sharp breath through your teeth, and he realizes it must be the first time he’s spoken your name aloud in your presence. “[y/n],” he whispers again. “we can’t.”

you fist your hands in his shirtsleeves. “don’t say that. you feel it as much as i do.”

nodding, he moves to hold your waist. the feel of your body under his hands is heaven. you are divine, like an goddess escaped from la primavera. “i do,” he admits. “i feel it.”

he bends his head to kiss you again. the touch is softer this time, more hesitant, but when he gathers the nerve to pull you closer, your hips against his, you whimper into his mouth, and the sound pulls him back to reality. he practically trips backward, breathing labored, thoughts muddled, and body rigid.

the space between you swims with lust and desire and yearning. your lips are plump, your cheeks flushed. your eyelids flutter, seemingly dazed, but not at all confused. you know what you want; he knows what he wants.

“we must keep it secret,” he says.

you nod.

“i won’t be able to touch you or—or be with you in public.”

“i know.”

“i could get in a lot of trouble if anyone finds out.”

you flinch at this, briefly looking to the side. “i know.”

shaking his head, he mutters “god help me, it would be worth it even if i did” as he crosses the space between you and crashes his lips to yours once more.

there is no hesitation now. he moves with purpose and you follow his lead. gently, he guides you to the blossom-strewn floor, his fingertips discovering the valleys and contours of your body with ease. his lips graze the curve of your neck, a feather’s touch, a butterfly’s kiss. you shift beneath him and pull his face level with yours. you glance between his eyes, chest brushing against his with the labor of your breathing.

he removes a twig from your hair, flicking it away. “do you want this?” he asks.

“always.” you smile, and it sends his heart tumbling in his chest.

you reach down and lift the hand pressed against the ground beside your hip. it leaves him in an awkward hunch overtop of you, only his left elbow propping him up, but he’s curious at your movements. holding his wrist, you touch your left palm to his.

“your hand isn’t shaking,” you whisper.

he looks at your joined flesh, at the way his fingers stand straight against yours. there isn’t the slightest waver in his hand. dropping his palm from your grasp, he melds his body against yours beneath the cherry tree as the sun inches toward the horizon.

it goes on like this for some time: you and he stealing moments throughout the week, in whatever privacy is available. for the first time in years, he is happy. he’d grown so used to his sullen state he forgot what joy felt like, but you’ve given it back to him in bundles.

he’s not exactly sure what it is about you that captivates him so. perhaps it is your whole being.

you are intelligent, easily tutoring your classmates when they fall behind. you are generous, often sharing your meals with the neediest of students. you are witty and lively in your silliest of moods and gentle and serene at your most centered. you listen to him when he speaks—truly listen—and you challenge him with your observations and questions.

he enjoys holding you, caressing your soft skin, kissing your lips. the cherry blossom grove is where he holds you most. it is a safe place amidst an unsafe world. beneath the shade of the birch trees, he is untouchable. he is free to speak as he wishes, love you as he pleases. he is open and honest and everything he feels he cannot be in town.

and, yes, he thinks he loves you—even after such a short time. he would be a fool not to have fallen for you by now. despite the years between you, despite the complexities of his position, he knows he would chose you again.

the weeks bleed into months. spring edges into the beginning of summer. you will finish school soon and be out from under his tutelage, released to the frayed fragments of freedom to which britain still clings. neither of you have spoken on the topic. though it looms overhead, it’s still far yet. you have time.

you are cradled against his chest, the aftermath of your most recent lovemaking still lingering on your bodies and in the air. you hum into the crook of his neck, and your fingers swirl around the hair peppering his chest.

“gwilym?” you press a kiss to his shoulder before adjusting yourself to lean on your elbow, looking down on him.

he opens one eye. “hmm?”

“what do you think will happen after the war ends?”

he opens both eyes at this and moves his head to meet your questioning gaze. the blanket beneath him rustles, and the branches overhead sway with the warm breeze. he isn’t sure what question he’d been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the one you posed. you surprise him every day in that way—always curious, always searching for answers.

“i’m not sure,” he says. “provided we win, i suppose germany will be forced to make reparations. with the americans in the fight now it won’t be long before the kaiser gives up.”

“will you leave us then? once everything’s back to normal?”

he answers quickly and honestly, surprised at the passion in his own voice. “no, never.”

your brow creases. “but you came here running from the war. won’t you go home when it’s done?”

he blinks and considers. months ago, he would have said yes. given the chance, he would have fled back to london without a moment of hesitation. now... now he’s not so sure.

“home is wherever you are.” the words tumble from his mouth before he can stop them, but once they hang in the air, he knows they are the truth. wherever you go, he will follow. he would forsake his entire past if it meant he could stay by your side.

your lips tug into a small smile, and you sit straighter, turning your face away. “you mustn’t say things you don’t mean.”

he runs a fingertip over the curve of your exposed shoulder, down the rise and fall of your spine. if anyone were to break through the line of trees, they would see you both and have no issue filling in the missing pieces of the puzzle, naked as you both are. still, he’s comfortable; he always is around you.

“i mean what i say, [y/n]. i’m not a flatterer.”

your head whips around, and your eyes twinkle with mirth. “don’t steal my words, gwilym,” you say with a laugh, pushing at his chest.

sitting up, he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you against his side. “i can steal whatever i please. like this,” he says, punctuating his words with a kiss on the mouth. “or this.” he kisses the flesh beneath your collarbone. “or—”

you press a finger to his lips. “not everything.” your grin turns sly, and you coquettishly bat your eyelashes. “i’m a virgin, after all, and must remain so for my future husband.”

gwilym laughs, tossing his head back. “is that so?”

you nod. “my maidenhood is the most sacred thing about me.”

“oh, we’ll see about that!”

with an easy maneuver, gwilym has you on your back. your giggles—girlish but edged with desire—circle his head like a drug. you swat at his shoulders when he braces himself over you, his mouth like a tattoo on your skin. he could stay like this forever—just you and him, the cherry blossom trees, and the endless sky. he would stay, too, but after your picnic dinner and an argument over the smartest literary character of all time (he insists sherlock holmes; you insist portia from the merchant of venice), he must walk you home before your grandfather begins to worry.

he wonders if the old man suspects anything. he comes to your house multiple afternoons a week under the guise of preparing you for university should you choose to go further with your education. that study time always floats from the kitchen table to the back garden to the grove of trees, and you’re gone for hours. you always return looking rumbled, your dress askew, his tie undone, but the old man never says a word if he does know the truth. for that, gwilym is thankful.

tonight, he leaves you at the backdoor. the sky is a blanket of stars, and the moon shines bright overhead. standing as you are on the lowest stair leading to the door, you can meet his eyes with ease, and you seem to appreciate the change in perspective. you run your hands through his hair, your fingernails grazing his scalp. his eyes flutter shut at the feeling, his grip on your hip tightening.

“don’t do that, [y/n],” he breathes.

you smirk. “why? do you like it?”

he grits his teeth and opens his eyes to level you a dark stare. “you know i do.”

grinning, you kiss him hard, enough to leave him breathless when you pull away. “tomorrow? same place?”

“i have a meeting tomorrow afternoon with the vicar. i’ll come by afterwards.”

you shake your head and smooth your hands against his shoulders. the action is so domestic, so wifely, he can’t help but picture you as his wife, sending him away for a day of work. “don’t bother. i think i’ll pop around for tea with constance. perhaps i’ll run into you then?”

gwilym audibly groans at the idea of seeing you in his own home, sat across from his landlady, smiling and laughing, all the while making eyes at him from across the table. he shivers—but not because of the cold. “you’re gonna be the death of me, girl.”

you touch his cheek with such tenderness it makes his knees weak. “i hope so.”

maryanne is the one who ultimately discovers and reveals your affair. even so, gwilym blames himself and himself alone. he got too comfortable. months of loving you in secret—months of tasting you and knowing you and cherishing you—cannot be hid behind a sullen face. and his face is not longer sullen.

he finds himself smiling more, asking his students about their lives instead of their assignments. he grades easier, waves his hand at forgotten homework, prolongs lunch break so he can eat with you. perhaps the change in his demeanor was what sent maryanne on the hunt. that—or the fact she caught him kissing you amongst constance’s prized hydrangea bushes.

he hadn’t been positive if the flash of pink fabric and yellow hair was maryanne, so he’d never mentioned it to you. he’d just kept kissing you, though his attention had slipped and his movements turned distracted when he heard the rustle of a bush. he’d opened his eyes long enough to see the out-of-place pink nestled within the green bushes and blue flowers, but then the color was gone and you were whispering something filthy in his ear and it made him laugh. he’d forgotten; he’d gotten comfortable.

now he wishes he’d grabbed maryanne and forced her to keep her mouth shut. with two weeks until your graduation, time is of the essence. he’d lose you if anyone found out, and he wasn’t about to let that happen.

he hadn’t caught maryanne, though, and she’d rushed home to tell her mother who had promptly told the idiot john coulder who had informed the vicar and the vicar had come to relive gwilym of his teaching duties—no questions asked.

“you do realize what a mess you’ve made, haven’t you?” the vicar had said upon his arrival. “there will have to be an investigation. we don’t stand for this sort of thing in snowshill.”

gwilym hadn’t said anything. he’d simply loomed over the squat man and summoned as much of a glower as he could. it wasn’t very hard, not with his entire world crashing down around him.

he lies down that night and wonders what will become of him. he will be a social pariah, an outcast, the man who seduced a child, the teacher who coerced a student. it isn’t like that; he knows it and you do too. he loves you, though he hasn’t said as much. he suspects you love him too.

he could take you away from here. you could both start over somewhere new, where no one knows your names. the idea is tantalizing, and it wouldn’t be hard, but he knows you won’t leave your grandfather and niece behind.

there’s a knock on his bedroom door, and he sits up, hitting his head on the slope of the attic ceiling. rubbing the offended area, he frowns.

“who is it?”

“who do you think?” constance says, her tone as unamused as his.

“i’m not really in the mood for visitors.”

he knows she knows. he knows she stood in the front parlor and listened to every word the vicar spat at his feet. he just didn’t have the guts to look her in the eyes before he fled to his room.

“you missed supper, child. i’ve brought you a bowl of soup.”

reluctantly, gwilym slides from bed and goes to open the door. constance stands at the top of the stairs, wrapped in a purple robe, the neck lined with feathers. she pushes him a bowl of split-pea soup and swishes into the room to drop in the single, hard-backed chair. it creaks beneath her weight. he turns to look at her; the heat of the bowl burns his hands, and his palms tremble.

“constance, i—”

“i must admit that i’d hoped you would find a friend in [y/n] [y/l/n], perhaps even something more.”

his jaw slackens. “i’m sorry?”

“when you mentioned you were going to the coulder house for supper and she would be there, i knew she would do you well. i knew her mother before she died, and that girl has her mother’s tender heart. both could heal even the sternest of wounds.”

he blinks, looks away. yes, you could. you healed him, after all.

“i simply wished you would have been more careful. my hydrangea bushes are not the most secretive spot in the world.”

“you knew?”

she nods, her painted lips tight. “mhm. ever since you came home that first afternoon smelling too much like women’s perfume and sheep’s wool.”

gwilym drops to his bedside, the soup in his bowl sloshing with the movement. “why didn’t you say anything?”

she laughs as if she’s taken offense by his query. “i may concern myself with everyone’s business, gwilym, but it is not my business to go about spreading the business which i know.”

“you are a strange woman.”

“you are a man in love.”

he looks down at the rapidly-cooling food in his lap.

“i shouldn’t tell you this,” constance continues. “it will only make you hope, but i know what it is you’re feeling.”

he scoffs. “do you?” somehow he doubted that. constance, having never been married, knew more of felines than she did feelings. at least, any of the feelings roiling through his person now.

“when i was seventeen i had an affair with my teacher. he was young and handsome and charming, and i was happy. but we were found out, and he was run out of town. i never saw him again.”

“how is this supposed to give me hope?”

“my xavier was not given the chance to explain himself before his accusers. you are being afforded that opportunity. use it.”

“they’ve taken my position already. they can do nothing more. this hearing is a farce, and you know it.”

constance smooths the wrinkles of her dressing gown and flicks away a spot of imaginary dust as she shrugs. “prides goeth before the fall. remember that come thursday.” she rises. “you have the chance to keep her, gwilym. she turns twenty next month and will graduate in a fortnight. even if you leave snowshill together, will you be able to live with yourself knowing you did not defend her honor before the people who know her best? sleep on that, won’t you?”

she exits the room before he can respond, and he falls asleep to growing pit of desperation in his stomach.

there’s a ping against his window some time late wednesday night. it startles him out of his uneasy sleep, and he sits up, rubbing his eyes. when it happens again, he turns to look out the window over his head. nothing but the black, starless night sky and open meadow beyond constance’s gardens. he huffs. perhaps it had been a bird or—

another ping.

teeth gritted, gwilym flings his window open and peers into the darkness, straining his eyes to see. what he doesn’t see, he hears, despite his deafness.

“gwilym!” the whisper is harsh and frantic, but a beautiful melody nonetheless. somewhere in the darkness, you stand, looking up at him. “gwilym, come down here!”

he doesn’t need to be told twice.

forgoing his shoes, he tumbles down the stairs and into the back garden. the night is brisk, chilly, a precursor of what is to come at dawn. he finds you in the darkness, or maybe you find him, but you’re there, in his arms, and that’s all that matters. you cling to him, your hands fisted in his bedshirt, ear pressed against his chest. he hasn’t seen you since maryanne revealed your relationship to the world; you feel like heaven amidst hell.

“i don’t have much time,” you whisper. “mrs. coulder is at the farm, watching over me to make sure i don’t come to find you.”

gwilym draws back. he holds your face in his hands and is struck by how large his palms are against the side of your head. your hair feels soft under his shaking fingers. the tremor is back; it has been since his world collapsed.

“are you alright? have they done anything to you?”

“i’m fine. the vicar questioned me yesterday, tried to make me confess that you’d pressured me into being with you, but i only told the truth.”

“the fucker,” he mutters. “i’m sorry you had to do that. the blame lies entirely with me.”

“don’t worry about me. you have to speak before everyone tomorrow.”

“and it’ll be fine.”

“will it?” tears sparkle in your eyes as you look up at him. “no one will accept us even if—”

he silences you with a kiss to the forehead. “hush, [y/n]. whatever happens will happen. so long as you are well cared for, it will all be fine.”

“you sound as if you’re prepared to go away.”

“if they ask me—”

“gwilym, you promised you wouldn’t leave.”

he looks down at you. god, he loves you. with every fiber of his being, he longs to make you his. but he’s reminded of constance’s story every time he thinks of you now, and he’s been imagining a new sort of life by your side. one filled with dirty looks and whispers around every corner; of evenings alone, no friends to call on, no family to worry over; of a job in a far off village which takes him on the road and leaves you to yourself in that overly large farmhouse; friendless children; lonely in old age.

can he subject you to such a life? a life so similar to the one you’d pulled him from? he’s not sure he can—and he’s begun to wonder if constance’s xavier did the right thing by leaving her, by giving her a second chance.

“i know i did,” he finally says.

“then why are you talking like this? like you want to go?”

he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip and feels his gut wrench. “that’s the last thing i want.”

you chin quivers beneath his fingers, and he removes his hand from your face. “then tell me what it is you’re planning to do. please, gwilym. don’t you owe me that?”

in lieu of answering you, he wraps his arms around your back, lifting you so your feet merely brush the carpet of grass. he kisses you softly, savoring the touch and tucking it away in his heart for a future moment. he wants to memorize the map of your skin beneath his fingers and the feel of your mouth on his. he wants to commit the smell of your hair and the contours of your body and the feeling of love that crashes over him to memory. he’s not sure if he’ll have a moment like this again, so he prolongs the touch until he can barely breathe. he returns you to solid ground and pulls away.

“gwilym—” you’re crying, and he wonders how he didn’t taste your tears.

“don’t come tomorrow. i don’t want you to hear what they say.”

you set your jaw. “i’ll be there. i won’t leave you.”

he knows you’re bating him to reveal his plan, but he won’t. until his dying day, he will protect you from harm. tonight, he must protect you from himself.

because he can’t help it, he grabs your elbow and pulls you in for a last bruising kiss. you circle your arms around his neck and cling to him, even as he tries to pull away.

“let me go, [y/n],” he whispers.

you hold tighter, your eyes screwed shut as you shake your head. “no.”

“let me go, angel.” with some amount of effort, he pries you from his body. a rush of cold fills the spot where you’d stood, pressed against him.

he turns away, returning to the cottage, but not before he sees you hide your face behind your hands and hears you sob softly into the darkness.

you arrive at the hearing dressed in red. the sight of you flanked by your grandfather, wearing your boldest, brightest red dress, almost makes him laugh. you’re nothing if not brave.

standing in the doorway of the church, you survey the room, which is full to bursting. everyone has turned out for the event of the year, and the air is hot with sweat and summer and scandal. when your eyes meet his from across the room, he can’t help but offer a smile. you smile in return, and the softness around your eyes is a balm to his soul. you point to an empty pew in the back of the hall and take your seat. though your face is obscured, he can make out the shoulders of your bright dress from his place in a chair on the dais.

he sits before the entirety of snowshill, the weight of the world pressed down on his shoulders. he feels close to vomiting, but he knows what he must do. he’s ready.

when the vicar begins the proceedings, outlining your entire affair in torrid detail, gwilym keeps his face set firm. his hand bunches the fabric at his thighs and his teeth press against his tongue but he’s calm to the untrained eye. it’s only when the vicar asks him to say his piece that his facade begins to crumble.

he stands too rapidly, and his chair crashes to the floor. he leaves it lying against the cobblestone. he opens his mouth and releases a squeak. heat rushes up the back of his neck, and he clears his throat. from her place in the front pew, constance leans forward, her brows knit tight in concern. his gaze skips to you and, standing now, he can see your face.

you’re beautiful.

gwilym opens his mouth to speak. “everything you have said about me here today is true, vicar.” there’s a muffled gasp throughout the crowd, but he continues. “i did enjoy an illicit affair with my own pupil and, though i admit i should have perhaps waited to court the girl in question until after her graduation, i will not concede that what we did was wrong.”

the vicar’s hands curl around the pulpit, his face ashen. “have you no shame, sir?”

“no shame in partaking in what the lord intended us for: communion and fellowship with one another.”

“how dare you!”

gwilym ignores him and returns his eyes to yours amidst the crowd. “if i am guilty of anything, i am guilty of doing as the lord commands us: loving my fellow man—or, in this case, woman. the greatest of these is love, i believe, yes? so yes, i am guilty, but guilty only of loving a woman whole-heartedly.” he pauses and feels the overwhelming urge to laugh bubble in his chest. “i love you, [y/n], and that is the truth. if that is my crime, i will bear it with honor.”

tears blur his vision as he extends his hand to you. a beat of silence and then—

you stand, your red dress a spotlight among the sea of browns and greens and grays. you step into the aisle, smile, and he notes as you walk forward that his hand does not shake as he waits for you to reach his side.

#gwilym lee #gwilym lee x reader #gwilym lee imagine #prof!gwil #bohemian rhapsody #bohemian rhapsody fanfiction #j writes

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vvakarians · 3 years

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Ch. 5 of Wolves Without Teeth is now up!

Beginning | Update | Rating: 18+

Fic Summary:

Voices born of tragedy are always the loudest, and the blast that destroyed the Conclave at Haven birthed thousands. The only survivor --a seemingly insignificant Dalish elf-- proclaims innocence despite the blood staining their hands. They make a lofty promise to the world, an oaken branch planted for every lost life, and justice for all those affected by the newly created rift in the heavens. Nothing will stop them from leading all of Thedas back into the light, even on wings of death.

Chapter Summary:

With Calliope mostly healed from the fight with the Pride demon, they think all will be well only to find out that their Mark has changed more than just their mindset, which comes at the worst possible time. But somehow they manage to meet with the advisors without too many ill effects.

V. It’s still days before Calliope is able to slip from their bed and manage to dredge up enough energy to put their armor on. Artemaeus is on his earlier rounds, though it won’t be long before he walks in. Solas has already done his rounds, he mostly comes by at night when he thinks Calliope is asleep. Not one word is ever uttered between the two of them and he seems content for that to continue, confusing as that is to Calliope. The whispers pick at that concept -- perhaps he is avoiding them somehow. Did they upset him that badly on the trail to the Temple? His behavior is puzzling to say the least. Solas appears to be protective of them --as if he knows them but they can’t ever place him-- but when they try to catch his attention, his interest vanishes.

They hum to themself as they slip on their tattered cloak, too deep in thought to notice the scurrying in the shadows of their quarters. Not until the sticky, wetness of something latching onto their wrist catches their attention. Pinpricks of terror make their hair stand on end and Calliope freezes, not daring to test the strength of whatever wrapped itself about them. Their heartbeat roars in their ears as they hazard a glance down, everything else forgotten but this. Though there is nothing to suggest anything ever touched them. Not a blemish, not even residue from what certainly was a slimy creature. When they push back the long sleeve of their tunic, there is nothing. Just their bare arm and--

What is that?

Ridges of their pale flesh seem to be jutting up slightly, creating a sort of ripple texture along the inside of their wrist. Welts the size of small coins dot along the back of their hand and palm, irritated and discolored. That terror turns into an icy panic as Calliope checks over the rest of their left hand, thrown from the need to stay frozen in place. A mirror was provided some time in the last several days so they could properly braid their hair back --something they had asked for to retain some form of control while regaining the use of their hand-- and they scramble over to it in a frenzy. There’s more than just the welts and ridges in their flesh; when they look into the glass their eyes are no longer a pale blue, they are a sickly, red rimmed green. Like the Breach. That damned thing that scars the sky and taunts them, speaks to them in their nightmares.

That sticky sensation returns, creeping up the back of their neck while they raise their left arm up to the mirror. In horror they watch as three of the innumerable welts slowly peel back the skin on heir hand, revealing demonic eyes that look back at them intelligently. Almost in a question. Throughout, the whispers have been silent; no buzz at the edges of their hearing. Now they rise to a scream that echoes and bounces off the inside of their skull. All nonsense, or perhaps every language on the material plane. Calliope does not know. Only that they feel the rush of being swallowed up by it, entirely consumed by whatever has trapped them here in this moment. Something that they can only later describe as other or eldrtich.

Minutes or seconds tick by --even hours, for all they can tell-- before the door opens and startles Calliope back from the mirror. They don’t register who enters, glancing wildly at the figure and then back into the glass. Yet the eyes are no longer there. The sickly green of their own irises are however, as are the ridges and welts. Confusion replaces Calliope’s anxiety while they stare and try hard to comprehend what the hell just happened.

“Ser Lavellan?”

Again, Calliope looks to the ill timed guest. There’s a face they recognize; chest length red hair that falls from beneath a deep purple hood, chainmail clinks on the outside of her robes. Leliana. It’s just Leliana.

“I-- yes? Apologies, I think I must have spooked myself,” they murmur, still distracted but not enough to ignore her presence.

“Do you need a healer? That arm doesn’t look good.”

Self conscious, Calliope slips the thick woolen sleeve back over their arm and they shake their head numbly, “No. I--will speak to someone later about it. There’s no pain. It--seems that the Mark has made changes without my permission.”

There’s a long, heavy silence between the two of them. It’s obvious Leliana is at a loss for words and Calliope is too in shock to say much, not even as they move towards the door. Stiff and unsure of themself. Perhaps Solas or Artemaeus will know more. For now they need to not think of it and are grateful that the whispers fade to a soft white noise.

“I came to see if you wanted to meet with the others in the Chantry. Do you think you can manage that?” Leliana asks, stepping to the side briefly for Calliope.

“I will try. That is all I can do.”

At least the cold is a welcome distraction this time around. Soothes rather than stabs them, though Calliope is sure that will change if they spend too long outside. The sun is high and bright in the pale blue green sky, the rift sealed but still puffed and raw --like an infected wound. They merely glance at it before narrowing their eyes back down at the muddy ground, careful not to sink too deep into the muck. Suddenly they are very thankful for the boots they were encouraged to take with them. Nice and soft on the inside, perfect to combat the freezing temperatures; wrapped with some cords that jingle with wooden and bone charms. A bit of home to carry with them. The sound comforts Calliope while they follow Leliana off to the large building just beyond the trail.

It’s a short walk, just a few minutes up a long dirt path that winds around a fire pit and various tents. Calliope prepares themself for another round of vitriol, unable to forget the guard who threw that rock. But nothing comes. In fact the people that do gather whisper amongst themselves in awe, or perhaps even reverence. Though that unsettles Calliope as much --if not more-- than the hate spewed days before. Why the change in tone?

One of the group is another familiar face -- Varric. Laughter lines crease his cheeks as he watches Calliope approach; how he can be so jovial they’re not entirely sure. But it is a comfort to see, and even makes their mouth twitch into a small smile. Or a semblance of one. He doesn’t stop with the others and in fact begins walking in line with two of them; Leliana gives him a nod of recognition as he does so. It quickly crosses Calliope’s mind that he’s wearing a coat that seems much too large for him -- the puffs of dense wool obscures much of his face, and the blocky shape of the leather makes his movements stiff. A complete wonder how he can even walk in it.

“Spin a story that convinced them?” he asks with a wink.

“I think so. They found my tales of a nug tripping me and slaying a dragon in the process very compelling,” they respond tiredly, “I managed to slip in a bit about your gorgeous chest hair as well.”

Varric laughter is a deep, resounding bellow that brightens Calliope’s smile by a fraction. Though they note a slight change when he fully looks them over, his unobscured eyes taking in the changes from when they last saw each other.

“Kid, are you feeling alright?”

“That seems to be the question of the day,” Calliope sighs. Their breath comes in clouds before them, “The Mark has made changes. I wish I could say I knew what was happening, but for now I think I’ll be fine.”

“You should let Chuckles know, if he hasn’t found out already.”

That gives them pause, it’s a good suggestion and begs the question--does he? Why has he not alerted anyone if he does?

A frown spreads across Calliope’s face and they give a short nod, “I’ll let him know after the meeting. Though I’m not sure what can be done about it.”

“Who knows, but for all his oddness he’s pretty good at keeping it in check.”

Another comment that makes them think too hard. What does Solas know? If the Mark and the Voice are connected, he should know of that but has never said a word about them. Did he...know this would happen as well? Calliope swallows hard and pushes those thoughts out of their mind, thankful that the large doors of the Chantry have finally come into full view. It’s harder to worry about hypotheticals when something so big is looming over you.

“I’ll keep you posted, how does that sound?” Calliope asks, glancing his way.

“Yeah, sure. Long as you take care of yourself, kid, that’s all that matters.”

His voice is too soft when he responds, as if a great sadness has settled in his bones-- but Calliope doesn’t draw attention to it. Not yet. Instead they try on a bigger smile for him and gesture to his much too large coat. Throngs of people start to gather around them but Calliope is too busy with Varric, the others --and their growing anxiety-- can wait. He’s been nothing but kind to them.

“If you promise to find a better coat then I promise to do as you ask. How about that?”

Another bellowing laugh escapes Varric, so much so there’s a jingle from the golden ringed necklace that rests on his chest. Warmth floods Calliope when they hear that, their anxiety melts away for the moment. Though they can’t help but notice the large group around them in their periphery, ever whispering, looking.

“Does it really look that bad?”

“Oh yes, it makes you look like a walking box,” Leliana interjects with a smirk. Calliope startles when she speaks, having forgotten she was there. She’s always so quiet.

Calliope’s smile widens at her response, however, “Someone had to have given it to him as a joke, right?”

“I think it was a gift from Cassandra, so something like that.”

“Ah, that would explain it.”

“Alright, alright! I’m sure there’s a tailor around here somewhere. You two do your important meeting and I’ll fix this disaster of a coat,” Varric snorts, rolling his eyes with affection. A welcome sight as the throng stares and Calliope’s anxiety spikes to another unimaginable height. Both Leliana and Varric take notice quickly; the one ushering Calliope into the warmer, darker Chantry, while the other bustles through the crowd, breaking some of it up.

Inside the old, creaking building there’s a sort of calm you only find among places of worship. Though it doesn’t feel nearly as ancient of a peace as Calliope is used to. It makes their chest ache, thinking back to the sprawling temple to Falon’Din that sat deep within the Graves. How much that single ruin felt like home. Here in the torchlight, hundreds of miles from their home, Calliope brushes their fingers along the stone walls of the Chantry and wishes to be back in that flooded sanctuary, surrounded by statues of their gods that have stood against the test of time.

The once rich but faded golds and reds of Andrastian tapestries feel familiar but foreign at the same time. Moldy furniture and dusty books surround them, old stained glass still shining brightly in the mid morning sun. Casting rays of colors all across the muddy floor. Their mother once spoke of these places, how they brought her comfort when the world was at its worst. Not because of the religion itself, but how gentle it was in those moments where no one noticed her and she could slip off without alerting anyone. There is a remnant of that here while Leliana and Calliope slowly walk across to another pair of large, ornate doors. Symbols of the religion embossed into the dark wood, a sunburst set into the seam where you would pull them open. Familiar but still foreign. They feel like they shouldn’t be here, even in the momentary peace.

That nasally voice from days before pierces right through the calm the moment the doors swing open and Calliope can’t help but make a face of disgust. This man again? Another shemlen who thinks he knows what is right and what is wrong, Creators forbid you tell him otherwise. Chancellor Roderick stands in his white, gold, and crimson red robes to the side of a large wooden table covered in maps, and what looks like small figurines. Curious, Calliope focuses on what that could possibly mean before looking around to the others flanking the Chantry man. All humans, it seems. Another man and two women, one of which is Cassandra.

The other man has curly blonde hair, in a slicked back style that interests Calliope --they wonder briefly how he can keep it so neat and tidy in this weather. His armor bears the many sunbursts that can be found through the building, a mix of gold and cold steel. Rich red fabric and dark furs hang around his tall, muscular form. Though his complexion and under eye bags speak of illness, sunken cheeks and a listless gaze. Perhaps he has the Blight?

“...Roderick, save your breath,” the man murmurs, catching Calliope staring as they enter the room.

“Why is the prisoner continuously not restrained?”

Roderick does not waste any time on saving his breath.

“I’m afraid chains would not do you any good, Chancellor. Has Cassandra not told you I practice magic? I could simply look at you and you’d be a crispy husk,” Calliope rolls their eyes, eliciting a snort from both the new man and the aforementioned Seeker. Though the latter seems to think that much funnier than the ill human.

“Andaran atish’an, Ser Lavellan,” another voice cuts through the Chancellors rebuttal.

This time it’s the new woman, dressed in swatches of golden fabric lined with thick, lightly colored and patterned furs. Necklaces hang from her soft, tan neck and glint just as her brilliant smile does. Long, dark hair frames her face in perfectly set curls that are then braided to be kept out of her eyes. Honestly, she seems much too warm and gentle to be in this situation at all, but that is exactly why Calliope assumes she is. Never underestimate the sweet ones.

They smile back at her when greeted in elven, and bow their head respectively, “Pleased to meet you, even under these circumstances.”

There is a sound of derision from Roderick that has both Calliope and Cassandra looking his way with annoyance, the former feeling a coil of anger build in their chest.

“What, do I offend you?” Calliope asks, raising a pale eyebrow at him.

“These circumstances are of your own doing, of course you have offended me! The Divine is dead and here you stand, still alive.”

“Shocking as it may seem, Chancellor, I did not kill your Divine. In fact I have been exonerated of all charges. Cassandra told me as much several days ago as I was recovering. While I don’t remember what made her change her mind, I’m inclined to think it was compelling evidence.”

This time there’s another amused snort from the ill man and he looks up at Calliope, dark eyes sparkling a bit in the lamp light.

“Careful, you keep prodding him and he might explode.”

Roderick once again opens his mouth, but quickly shuts it when Cassandra steps in with a scowl his way and a glance at Calliope. There is a brief moment where her expression turns from irritation to concern when she makes note of the change of Calliope’s eye color, which does make them wonder if they should wander about with their eyes shut from now on.

“I believe we have some introductions to get out of the way,” the Seeker says, shaking the worry off expertly, “You know Sister Leliana, our Spymaster.”

Leliana bows her head at the mention, smiling just a touch for Calliope who manages one in return. It’s the least they can do after her friendliness towards them.

“Our Ambassador, Josephine Montilyet. She is an expert in keeping the peace,” Cassandra gestures to the woman full of warmth, and then finally at the ill seeming man, “This is Commander Cullen Rutherford, you would have met him at the Temple but we know how that went.”

“I was nearly decapitated, apparently. Which I’m sure Roderick would have been pleased by,” they scoff, glancing away from Cassandra to watch the priest. He does nothing but stare right back, wrinkling his nose.

“We are lucky you weren’t, otherwise we would not be able to do what we’re doing now,” Cassandra responds, cutting in before Roderick can get a word out.

Something about that comment unsettles Calliope, makes them seriously consider the Seeker. She had said something about wanting them to stay, that there was danger following them possibly and they didn’t have anything on the Mark yet. Yet this doesn’t seem to be what she’s talking about.

“I’m assuming we found something when we closed the Breach? What are we doing now?”

A heavy silence descends upon the room like a thick blanket, extinguishing all sound so much so that the whispers come in loud bursts and Calliope’s pointed ears flutter uncomfortably. They wait for someone to say something, anything at all; nerves standing on end.

“We saw a vision in the middle of a field of red lyrium that was at the center of the Temple,” Leliana finally speaks, looking from Cassandra to Calliope with a sharp gaze, “Someone or something was there doing a ritual, said that the Divine was meant as a sacrifice. Then you came out of the shadows to ask what was going on. That was when the Rift broke open.”

A chill runs down Calliope’s spine, that familiar build up of anxious energy. Their eyes dart to the candles flickering just beyond the table, and one of them forms a tall pillar of fire before simmering back down again. No one seems to notice, not even Roderick who is barely paying attention to anything at all.

“That’s good to know but that doesn’t answer my question. What are we doing now?” Calliope repeats, their gaze hardening. The whispers buzz in anticipation, shadows dancing in their peripheral vision. Once again there’s silence but it’s short lived.

“The Divine created a writ in case her plan failed to restore peace between the mages and the templars,” Cassandra responds quietly, and taps a book on the table with a gloved hand. It is thick and old, filled with secrets Calliope assumes.

“What does that mean?” they ask, shifting their weight nervously.

“We are going to rebuild a group called the Inquisition, to find the Divine’s killer and end the conflict that led to her death. We could also use it to clean up after what happened with the Breach,” the Commander answers for her, and Calliope raises an eyebrow at those gathered around the table.

“It must be invoked by both of the Divine’s Hands, and will be with or without Chantry approval,” Cassandra says, shooting a withering glance at Roderick who sighs.

“You know how I feel about this Seeker-”

“And I don’t care. This is the only way, you know that!”

“We need to find a replacement for the Divine and quickly! None of this Inquisition nonsense will help us now.” The room descends into arguments and raised voices as everyone attempts to speak over the priest, who in turn raises his whine of a voice to disgustingly new levels. Anxiety and rage make the air thick, too hard to breathe, too hard to move in. From their spot at the other side of the space, Calliope watches that candle flicker once, twice, three times before it erupts into a roaring fire. All of their despair and nervousness centered on one singular wick that burns so brightly it lights up the entire room, banishing the shadows back to where they came. It’s certainly one way to get everyone’s attention.

Their arguments dwindle into nothing as they scramble to get away from the fire just as it starts to fizzle out and become a smoking ember. Consumed, wax and all, by Calliope’s magical presence. Embarrassment washes over them at the sight but they manage to hold it together while each pair of eyes comes back to settle on them. Calliope finally breaks the silence, that slimy sensation threading through their skin as they say in almost a snarl, pointedly at Roderick --who had decided to argue.

“Create your Inquisition, we replace the Divine and find her Killer. Maybe get answers about what the fuck happened to my hand. Does that sound good?”

There’s only a beat of silence before Roderick mumbles what could be a ‘yes’, easing Calliope’s volatile mood but not that horrific feeling of otherness wrapped around their wrist.

“We--should get you in touch with a proper Enchanter, I think,” Cullen comments in shock. A blurting out of words, really.

“There are mages here I can learn from, if it will soothe your fears, Commander Rutherford.”

“Perhaps we should take a recess? Cool down before we talk about our next steps.”

It’s Josephine who speaks, light and airy. Unperturbed on the outside by what just happened but the tremble in her hands as she grips her important parchments says otherwise. Calliope doesn’t blame her.

There’s a note of tiredness and defeat to their tone when they speak again, “I will get my magic under control, it’s been harder since the Mark. I’m sorry for scaring anyone. A recess would be good.”

#solavellan #dragon age #dai #pavellan #calliope lavellan #eventual pavellan at least LOL #mal writes #wolves without teeth

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voiceless-terror · 4 years

Note

hi friend!!!! i love your writing!!! if you're taking prompts from the bingo card (if you're not then feel free to delete this!!), how about N5 for Jon? :) i hope you have a great day!!

‘fighting to pay attention to urgent information’ ahh i love this prompt!! thank you so much for the ask, it means a lot since i love your writing so much (and it inspired me to starting posting my stuff, to be honest). Here you go, I hope you like! This takes place right after Sasha makes her statement to Jon in season one.

Sasha is talking but Jon can’t hear her.

It’s all muddled in his mind. So many things have happened over the last couple of weeks- Martin’s worm attack and now Sasha’s encounter with Michael- and his mind is refusing to process. She gave her statement in his office and was now explaining the situation to Martin and Tim while Jon stood awkwardly in the doorway, trying to nod at the appropriate time.

“We’ll need a plan of attack if Prentiss comes or if any of us encounter Michael again,” she’s saying. “Martin’s already living here, but-”

A plan. Yes. A plan would be good but Jon can’t think beyond Sasha bleeding in his office and Martin throwing open his door demanding to be heard. The worms on the pavement crawl and creep and remind him of something he thought he’d finally put behind him but he’s been chasing it the entire time, hasn’t he?

His body feels at once too hot and too cold. Jon’s never understood that about illness. How a body can burn with fever and shake with a chill at the same time. But he’s not sick, he’s just...overwhelmed. Needs to eat a normal meal, needs to get some sleep. If he could just get a deep breath in his lungs the black spots would stop dancing in front of his vision and he could pay attention and come up with a plan.

But every other word is ‘worms’ and ‘infestation’ and all matter of disturbing things and his mind goes wild with imagination, horrible scenarios playing out in his mind as his breaths turn into an uneven staccato of sound that he tries to stifle.

“-could get more CO2 you think? Jon?” That’s your name.

“A-Ah, yes. I’ll t-talk to Elias.” Sasha nods and Jon is relieved to have said the right thing. The fog in his brain lifts; the panic eases for just a few moments but it only reveals more physical pain and he starts to shake. He knows he needs to sit down soon or he’ll be lying on the ground either way. So he slowly backs out of the room, hoping no one notices as his hands grasp at the wall for balance. He manages to stumble back to Document Storage before he hears someone calling his name. But he’s lost now, barely breathing as his heart stutters in his chest and he sinks to the floor.

________

Martin had been watching Jon while Sasha spoke. Martin watched Jon a lot- innocently, of course, and Jon never seemed to notice. He was either willfully ignorant or really that oblivious.

Martin was starting to double down on the ‘willfully ignorant’ theory.

Jon was nodding along, sure. But his face held a detached blankness, as if each word were in one ear and out the other. Of course he would zone out during this conversation; it involved real, actual supernatural occurrences. He only contributed once, a vague promise to talk to Elias, who was turning out to be a very useless manager. Martin thought Jon was getting better about this. After all, he seemed to believe both Martin and Sasha’s stories. But he watched as Jon moved further and further out of the room when he should be contributing to the conversation. He disappeared down the hallway and Martin let out an irritated sigh, drawing Tim and Sasha’s attention.

“What’s up?” Tim asked from his perch on Sasha’s desk. “Don’t worry, we’re gonna figure this out-”

“It’s not-” Martin got up, starting to make his way down the hallway. “It’s Jon. I can’t believe he would just walk out on this. I’m going to go talk to him.”

“Martin-” Sasha sounded hesitant but he ignored her as he spotted the open door to Document Storage. Why would Jon go here instead of his office? This was Martin’s room with his things. And I didn’t exactly keep it clean. “Jon?” he called out. “Jon, you need to- what are you doing?”

The man was leaning against his cot, knees brought up to his chest as he stared at the floor. His glasses were tucked into his sweater and his hair was a mess, as if he’d been running his fingers through it. And he was ignoring Martin in favor of whatever the hell he found so interesting about the floor. Martin stooped down to his level, ignoring the twinge in his knees on the cold cement. “What’s going on?” he asked again, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice. God, Jon could be so infuriating at times, but he was still concerned.

Jon barely spared him a glance and tightened his arms around his knees, looking like a ball of tension. His shoulders moved very minutely upwards in a sort of shrugging motion and Martin thought he heard a mumble of ‘’nothing, fine,” under his breath and he couldn’t help but roll his eyes. He moved in closer, setting a firm hand on Jon’s bony shoulder- when did he get so thin?

“Look, I know it’s a lot,” Martin tried for comfort, though it was getting harder and harder to do so these days when the man refused to see reason. “But you can’t just bury your head in the sand whenever someone says something you don’t want to hear, alright? We’re all struggling and it would be a lot easier if we had a boss who actually listened instead of- shit.”

Jon was shaking so much. How had he not noticed? His breathing was off, like a sputtering engine as his white-knuckled grip dug into his knees. His face was ashen and sweaty. He was clearly unwell but he opened his mouth anyway in an attempt to respond. His eyes did not meet Martin’s.

“It’s- it’s all I think about,” he began, his voice more of a croak than the smooth baritone Martin was used to. “She’s after us, after you and Sasha and now there’s Michael and I don’t know what to do.” Martin watched in horror as his eyes filled with tears and his voice trembled. “And- and what if I go home and she’s waiting there? What if she gets Tim? What if we aren’t safe anywhere?” A slender hand shot out and grabbed onto Martin’s sweater, startling him as Jon’s eyes met his own with a desperate fervor. “I-I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. And Elias doesn’t even care, just w-watches while we all scramble around doing- doing-” his voice broke into a hacking cough and Martin couldn’t witness any more. He dislodged Jon’s hand and backed away. Seeing Jon like this was uncomfortable and he wasn’t sure what to do about it, so he went into his natural problem-solving mode. “I’m going to get you some water, yeah? You’re- you’re not well, we can talk about this later.” Despite keeping his voice soft and low, Martin watched as Jon shrunk into himself, desperately trying to stifle his coughs. “I’ll be right back.”

He hightailed it out of the storage area, eyes firmly on the ground and steps so quick he didn’t notice Tim until he ran right into him.

“Oof! What’s wrong, Martin?” Tim said as he grabbed him by the shoulder. “Boss giving you trouble?” Martin shook his head, voicing his next words as diplomatically as possible.

“He’s, um- I think he’s sick?” Tim’s brow furrowed in concern. “I’m just going to get him some water, yeah.” He walked off before Tim could ask another question; he didn’t want to leave Jon alone for too long but he also didn’t want to be subjected to Tim’s questioning.

It only took him a couple of minutes to grab some water and a cold towel but by the time he got back to the room Jon was laid out on his cot, eyes barely open as Tim said something Martin couldn’t hear and smiled softly at the man in the bed. He knew they’d all known each other before the Archives; it was something that he thought about quite a bit, to be honest. But he’d never really seen Jon interact with someone like this, so quiet and trusting that he nodded off right in front of them.

“There you are!” Tim said, uncharacteristically quiet. He reached out and Martin handed over the supplies, still stupefied by the whole situation.

“Just gonna let him sleep for a mo’ before I force this down his throat,” he chuckled as he gently placed the towel on his forehead. “Glad you checked up on him- didn’t realize he was having a rough go of it. I’m usually a bit more observant.”

“We’re all having a rough go of it, Tim,” Martin felt like he had to explain some of his frustration. “How did he let himself get to this point? I mean, he’s always so skeptical on the tapes but it turns out he’s worked himself up so much he’s sick and it doesn’t make any sense.”

“We all tell our lies, Martin,” The words weren’t said unkindly, but he remembered that Tim knew about his resume and though he didn’t think the man would ever tell anyone it did seem like the words were rather pointed. “His coping mechanism is all this skeptic nonsense. Don’t get me wrong, it’s terrible and very annoying,” Tim conceded, giving Martin a knowing look. “But not all of us ended up here accidentally. Most of us are here for answers. For a reason.” Tim’s far off look reminded him that he knew so little about the people he worked with. He wondered what Tim’s reason was, what Jon’s was. And if they would ever feel comfortable enough to confide in him.

Martin doesn’t know how to respond to those words, so he does what he does best- deflect and nervously offer his services. “I can throw the kettle on, maybe order some takeaway? Food would probably make him feel better.”

“Yeah, reckon it would,” Tim’s just staring at Jon as he fitfully dozed. Tim may not have been attacked directly but he looked tired and worried all the same. “He likes Thai.”

Martin noted the fact down for his mental file on Jonathan Sims. Hates spiders. Likes his tea with milk, no sugar. Hates my handwriting. Likes Thai. It’s not very comprehensive.

Later, when he’s making tea in the break room, he watches as Sasha slips into the hallway to Document Storage, attempting to go unnoticed. She’s got a hand to her shoulder like she’s trying to rub away the ache and Martin grabs some paracetamol out of the cabinet, knowing both her and Jon will need it. Everyone in the Archives likes to hide their pain, himself included. But maybe for one night they could help each other out. Four tired humans against two eldritch abominations.

Martin could get behind those odds.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27065482

#asks #my writing #tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #tim stoker #sasha james #sickfic #prompt #panic attacks cw #taylortut #thank you for the prompt! i loved it

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unsettlingshortstories · 3 years

Text

Genesis and Catastrophe

Roald Dahl (1960)

"Everything is normal," the doctor was saying. "Just lie back and relax." His voice was miles away in the distance and he seemed to be shouting at her. "You have a son."

"What?"

"You have a fine son. You understand that, don't you? A fine son. Did you hear him crying?"

"Is he all right, Doctor?"

"Of course he is all right."

"Please let me see him."

"You'll see him in a moment."

"You are certain he is all right?"

"I am quite certain."

"Is he still crying?"

"Try to rest. There is nothing to worry about."

"Why has he stopped crying, Doctor? What happened?"

"Don't excite yourself, please. Everything is normal."

"I want to see him. Please let me see him."

"Dear lady," the doctor said, patting her hand. "You have a fine strong healthy child. Don't you believe me when I tell you that?"

"What is the woman over there doing to him?"

"Your baby is being made to look pretty for you," the doctor said. "We are giving him a little wash, that is all. You must spare us a moment or two for that."

"You swear he is all right?"

"I swear it. Now lie back and relax. Close your eyes. Go on, close your eyes. That's right. That's better. Good girl..."

"I have prayed and prayed that he will live, Doctor."

"Of course he will live. What are you talking about?"

"The others didn't."

"What?"

"None of my other ones lived, Doctor."

The doctor stood beside the bed looking down at the pale exhausted face of the young woman. He had never seen her before today. She and her husband were new people in the town. The innkeeper's wife, who had come up to assist in the delivery, had told him that the husband worked at the local customshouse on the border and that the two of them had arrived quite suddenly at the inn with one trunk and one suitcase about three months ago. The husband was a drunkard, the innkeeper's wife had said, an arrogant, overbearing, bullying little drunkard, but the young woman was gentle and religious. And she was very sad. She never smiled. In the few weeks that she had been here, the innkeeper's wife had never once seen her smile. Also there was a rumour that this was the husband's third marriage, that one wife had died and that the other had divorced him for unsavoury reasons. But that was only a rumour. The doctor bent down and pulled the sheet up a little higher over the patient's chest. "You have nothing to worry about," he said gently. "This is a perfectly normal baby."

"That's exactly what they told me about the others. But I lost them all, Doctor. In the last eighteen months I have lost all three of my children, so you mustn't blame me for being anxious."

"Three?"

"This is my fourth . . . in four years."

The doctor shifted his feet uneasily on the bare floor.

"I don't think you know what it means, Doctor, to lose them all, all three of them, slowly, separately, one by one. I keep seeing them. I can see Gustav's face now as clearly as if he were lying here beside me in the bed. Gustav was a lovely boy, Doctor. But he was always ill. It is terrible when they are always ill and there is nothing you can do to help them."

"I know."

The woman opened her eyes, stared up at the doctor for a few seconds, then closed them again.

"My little girl was called Ida. She died a few days before Christmas. That is only four months ago. I just wish you could have seen Ida, Doctor."

"You have a new one now."

"But Ida was so beautiful."

"Yes," the doctor said. "I know."

"How can you know?" she cried.

"I am sure that she was a lovely child. But this new one is also like that." The doctor turned away from the bed and walked over to the window and stood there looking out. It was a wet, grey April afternoon, and across the street he could see the red roofs of the houses and the huge raindrops splashing on the tiles.

"Ida was two years old, Doctor ... and she was so beautiful I was never able to take my eyes off her from the time I dressed her in the morning until she was safe in bed again at night. I used to live in holy terror of something happening to that child. Gustav had gone and my little Otto had also gone and she was all I had left. Sometimes I used to get up in the night and creep over to the cradle and put my ear close to her mouth just to make sure that she was breathing.”

"Try to rest," the doctor said, going back to the bed.

"Please try to rest." The woman's face was white and bloodless, and there was a slight bluish-grey tinge around the nostrils and the mouth. A few strands of damp hair hung down over her forehead, sticking to the skin.

"When she died ... I was already pregnant again when that happened, Doctor. This new one was a good four months on its way when Ida died. 'I don't want it!' I shouted after the funeral. 'I won't have it! I have buried enough children!' And my husband ... he was strolling among the guests with a big glass of beer in his hand . . .he turned around quickly and said, 'I have news for you, Klara, I have good news.' Can you imagine that, Doctor? We have just buried our third child and he stands there with a glass of beer in his hand and tells me that he has good news, 'Today I have been posted to Braunau,' he says, 'so you can start packing at once. This will be a new start for you, Klara,' he says. 'It will be a new place and you can have a new doctor....'"

"Please don't talk any more."

"You are the new doctor, aren't you, Doctor?"

"That's right."

"And here we are in Braunau.”

“Yes.”

“I am frightened, Doctor."

"Try not to be frightened."

"What chance can the fourth one have now?"

"You must stop thinking like that.”

"I can't help it. I am certain there is something inherited that causes my children to die in this way. There must be."

"That is nonsense."

"Do you know what my husband said to me when Otto was born, Doctor? He came into the room and he looked into the cradle where Otto was lying and he said, 'Why do all my children have to be so small and weak?'"

"I am sure he didn't say that."

"He put his head right into Otto's cradle as though he were examining a tiny insect and he said, 'All I am saying is why can't they be better specimens? That's all I am saying.' And three days after that, Otto was dead. We baptized him quickly on the third day and he died the same evening. And then Gustav died. And then Ida died. All of them died, Doctor... and suddenly the whole house was empty.”

"Don't think about it now."

"Is this one so very small?"

"He is a normal child."

"But small?"

"He is a little small, perhaps. But the small ones are often a lot tougher than the big ones. Just imagine, Frau Hitler, this time next year he will be almost learning how to walk. Isn't that a lovely thought?"

She didn't answer this.

"And two years from now he will probably be talking his head off and driving you crazy with his chatter. Have you settled on a name for him yet?"

"A name?"

"Yes."

"I don't know. I’m not sure. I think my husband said that if it was a boy we were going to call him Adolfus.”

"That means he would be called Adolf."

"Yes. My husband likes Adolf because it has a certain similarity to Alois. My husband is called Alois."

"Excellent."

"Oh no!" she cried, starting up suddenly from the pillow. "That's the same question they asked me when Otto was born! It means he is going to die! You are going to baptize him at once!"

"Now, now," the doctor said, taking her gently by the shoulders. "You are quite wrong. I promise you, you are wrong. I was simply being an inquisitive old man, that is all. I love talking about names. I think Adolfus is a particularly fine name. It is one of my favourites. And look-here he comes now."

The innkeeper's wife, carrying the baby high up on her enormous bosom, came sailing across the room towards the bed, "Here is the little beauty!" she cried, beaming. "Would you like to hold him, my dear? Shall I put him beside you?"

"Is he well wrapped?" the doctor asked. "It is extremely cold in here."

"Certainly he is well wrapped."

The baby was tightly swaddled in a white woollen shawl, and only the tiny pink head protruded. The innkeeper's wife placed him gently on the bed beside the mother. "There you are," she said. "Now you can lie there and look at him to your heart's content."

"I think you will like him," the doctor said, smiling, "He is a fine little baby."

"He has the most lovely hands!" the innkeeper's wife exclaimed. "Such long delicate fingers!"

The mother didn't move. She didn't even turn her head to look.

"Go on!" cried the innkeeper's wife. "He won't bite you!"

"I am frightened to look. I don't dare to believe that I have another baby and that he is all right."

"Don't be so stupid."

Slowly, the mother turned her head and looked at the small, incredibly serene face that lay on the pillow beside her.

"Is this my baby?"

"Of course."

"Oh … oh ... but he is beautiful."

The doctor turned away and went over to the table and began putting his things into his bag. The mother lay on the bed gazing at the child and smiling and touching him and making little noises of pleasure.

"Hello, Adolfus," she whispered. "Hello, my little Adolf."

"Ssshh!" said the innkeeper's wife. "Listen! I think your husband is coming."

The doctor walked over to the door and opened it and looked out into the corridor. "Herr Hitler?"

"Yes."

"Come in, please."

A small man in a dark-green uniform stepped softly into the room and looked around him. "Congratulations," the doctor said. "You have a son."

The man had a pair of enormous whiskers meticulously groomed after the manner of the Emperor Franz Josef, and he smelled strongly of beer.

"A son?"

"Yes."

"How is he?"

"He is fine. So is your wife."

"Good," The father turned and walked with a curious little prancing stride over to the bed where his wife was lying. "Well, Klara," he said, smiling through his whiskers. "How did it go?" He bent down to take a look at the baby. Then he bent lower. In a series of quick jerky movements, he bent lower and lower until his face was only about twelve inches from the baby's head. The wife lay sideways on the pillow, staring up at him with a kind of supplicating look.

"He has the most marvellous pair of lungs," the innkeeper's wife announced. "You should have heard him screaming just after he came into this world."

"But my God, Klara..."

"What is it, dear?"

"This one is even smaller than Otto was!"

The doctor took a couple of quick paces forward.

"There is nothing wrong with that child," he said.

Slowly, the husband straightened up and turned away from the bed and looked at the doctor. He seemed bewildered and stricken. "It's no good lying, Doctor," he said. "I know what it means. It's going to be the same all over again."

"Now you listen to me," the doctor said.

"But do you know what happened to the others, Doctor?"

"You must forget about the others, Herr Hitler. Give this one a chance."

"But so small and weak!"

"My dear sir, he has only just been born."

"Even so..."

"What are you trying to do?" cried the innkeeper's wife. "Talk him into his grave?"

"That's enough!" the doctor said sharply.

The mother was weeping now. Great sobs were shaking her body.

The doctor walked over to the husband and put a hand on his shoulder. "Be good to her," he whispered. "Please. It is very important." Then he squeezed the husband's shoulder hard and began pushing him forward surreptitiously to the edge of the bed. The husband hesitated. The doctor squeezed harder, signaling to him urgently through fingers and thumb. At last, reluctantly, the husband bent down and kissed his wife lightly on the cheek.

"All right, Klara," he said. "Now stop crying."

"I have prayed so hard that he will live, Alois."

"Yes."

"Every day for months I have gone to the church and begged on my knees that this one will be allowed to live."

"Yes, Klara, I know."

"Three dead children is all that I can stand, don't you realize that?"

"Of course."

"He must live, Alois. He must, he must ... Oh God, be merciful unto him now..."

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punkinroses · 4 years

Text

Alright gang I got two rounds of next gen kids done, let's move onto the ones who names I struggled the most with. The previous two posts can be found here and here, showing Zuko and Kataras family, and Sokka and Sukis families, respectively. So, here's the next family on the list:

Taang Kids

Jai Bei Fong is the eldest child of Avatar Aang and Toph Bei Fong. An Earthbender trained in the art of Metalbending by his mother, he has been requested numerous times to take over her school by others. He has simply refuted numrrous times that those running it now are more than capable and prefers to keep to a more minor teaching role in coaching. He has become a Pro Bender instead and has become a part of a very famous team -- and boy does he love to showboat, even if just a little. He does coach minor league and junior teams. He uses a lot of his jovial cockiness for the purpose of getting people to underestimate him and his skills, and to aggravate his opponents to cause them to mess up so he can strike at the perfect time. He has, however, been dealing with a lot of frustration in his own personal life with relationships that never seem to lead anywhere, the struggles of a single father and feeling a responsibility to try and help his family more with his own father gone and them all being...not really about it. Jai is considered the most handsome between him and his brother, with styled black (greying) hair, green eyes and fair skin with his fair share of scarring from fighting. He chooses to wear a lot of darker greens and silvers to match his metal, always wearing a metal cuff with him presented to him from his wife.

Jai lost his wife Reilah a mere few years sgo but it has felt like an eternity without her. She was his biggest supporter in his matches...and a bit of a rival for him, as they had been Pro Benders on separate teams. They always made playful bets on what would happen if one lost -- and one of those times he used to propose to her. He still lost that fight, but she told him that she wouls have said yes regardless. She was mischievous and free spirited, and a little hotheaded. But she was a very formidable Firebender who picked up some tips to better her bending from her in laws. Her career, however, would be cut after she fell ill. Her illness spread slowly and try as they might, there was no permanent solution to heal her and she eventually succumbed to it, breaking his and their daughters hearts. She had short dark brown hair, piercing golden eyes and tanned skin and had an intricate tattoo sleeve that included Jais name and their daughters name.

He has tried to find love again after her, as that was something she was very poignant on. "Don't you dare try and shut your heart off. Don't swear off finding someone who can make you happy. Or I'm coming back and lighting a fire under your ass." But, so far, all of those attempts have failed, either because of a lack of chemistry between the two and from rifts between his daughter and some of his potential girlfriends.

Their only child is named Anzu. She is a rough and tumble, bright eyed Earthbender who has her Dad wrapped around her finger, especially after the loss of her mother. She struggles connecting her extended family, however, as it feels like they all grew apart way back when, but she idolizes her Grandma and Toph is rather close to her as well. She's been struggling to learn Metalbending, but she's stubborn and does not want to give it up. She's also very adventurous, loving every "life changing field trip" she and her Dad go on, and has a collection of various souvenirs on a shelf in her room. She's on her own Pro Bender team that she's currently struggling to whip into shape and has been dealing with that stress on top of trying to be happy for her dad finding love again...but with the ones he brings home constantly trying to replace her Mom. Anzu has shoulder length black hair that she keeps in a messy ponytail, gold-green hazel eyes, and tan skin.

Nyima Bei Fong is the second born child of Aang and Toph. A skilled Earthbender who found herself drawn to the art of Sandbending as well as Metalbending, she has pushed herself to make her own lot in life. She has opened her own resorts across the Earth Kingdom, and one that'll be opening on Ember Island soon. She has wanted to open one close to one of the Air Temples as a way to find a reconnection with her Dad, but her sisters are absolutely against it. She's a very business savy woman who also wants to expand into other new horizons. She's also a complete smartass and doesn't take anyone's nonsense. In her youth, she, like her sisters, was very vocal in reformation to make better changes across all four nations and Republic City, and she was always the most ready to go full out for a cause, even if it stressed both of her parents out. She's claimed she's held herself to a higher standard in recent years and wants to find success while creating a relaxing environment for everyone. Though, if you press the right buttons, her old streak may come out. She's got short, curled black hair, grey eyes and fair skin, and wears muted colors that's topped off with a colorful, stylish scarf.

She has been in an on/off relationship with her childhood romance, Bo. The two have been almost married on four separate occasions, but things have always put a stop to it -- usually things started by Nyima and what people have suggested could be a fear of commitment. Bo is a good humored, free spirited boy raised in the Air Acolytes by his father Teo and has always had a passion for romance and making a positive change in the world. And he's always been able to pull her old spirit out of her when she needs it. He has medium length brown hair with some pulled back in a ponytail, grey-brown eyes and fair skin.

Their eldest child is their daughter Jesa. She is a happy go lucky girl who is very close to her Dad and trying to develop a closer relationship with her Mom, but sometimes feels like she can be too busy and lost a sense of herself, especially when finding old pictures of how her Mom used to be. The two have gotten a bit of a closer bond upon the discovery that she is an Airbender, like her Grandfather before her, though it's lead to even more tension between her parents and aunts who have polar oppositr ideas as to what Jesas' furure should be. She wants to define her own future, like her Mother did for herself and how her Grandmother did. Her best friend in the world is Lian, who she's always felt a big connection to. And after she finds out she's the Avatar...it leads to a whole new world of adventure. She has long dark brown hair, grey-green eyes and fair skin and she wears bright colors, namely golds and greens to honor both her heritages and and she wears a headband similar to her Grandmothers.

Their youngest child is their toddler son Bisang. He's a rambunctious little boy who loves wandering around the resorts and getting to be strapped up in a baby sling while his Dad air glides through the air. He knows no fear and loves to be unabashedly himself. He also is a bit of Mamas boy and clings to her and has been showing promising signs of being an Earthbender.

Tophs final pregnancy shockingly resulted in the birth of triplets. The eldest of three being Hien Bei Fong. A gifted Airbender, she was the first to get her Airbending tattoos after mastering the 37 levels of the practice and it's something she holds in great reverence. She has since gone on to become a leader amongst the reborn nation of Air Nomads and sits among the council, residing on Air Temple Island in Republic City. She works with the newest wave of Airbenders to teach them the old ways and do what she can to revitalize the culture her father almost lost. She was once far more free spirited as a teenager and even though she was a very loud advocate for change, she could find when she could relax and enjoy life. Now her top priority is the politics to keep the balance and to preserve history in the name of her Father -- something that has put a strain between her and Toph, who reminds her that Aang wanted her to be her own person and to have fun. She keeps her bangs shaved off to show her arrows, and the rest of her black hair pulled into a side braid, and has piercing grey eyes, and many remark her glare reminds them of an owl.

Hien has no spouse and prefers not to find someone to be married to. She actually used to date a lot in her youth, but as the years have gone by, she does not want to settle down with someone, feeling they'd never be able to selflessly love all of her and her responsibilities, nor could she do the same.

She does, however, have two children of her own from very brief, unknown relationships.

Her eldest child is probably the eldest out of all of the next generation, her daughter Dema. Dema has struck out on her own, away from her mother's strict thumb and rigid traditionalist nature. She ran with a circus for a time after first running away, before finding herself starring in the new and upcoming phenomenon of Movers. Her actress life has landed her a cushy life in Republic City, which has lead to awkward encounters with her mother, but she stands her ground on the decisions she has made for herself. And Toph always tells her "I think you looked amazing in your new film!" And she always laughs along. Currently, Dema is engaged to one of her more frequent costars, a nonbender named Raiden. She has long black hair, with long bangs, dark blue-grey eyes and and olive skin.

Her youngest is her teenaged son Tenki. Tenki is an Airbender wise beyond his years and is an avid bookworm. He's also the most relaxed member of the family and is very go with the flow, and wants to simply travel around, experience the world with his nothing but his books, and maybe rediscover Wan Shi Tongs library. He has a shaved head, having just gotten his arrows and dresses in typical Air Nomad clothes, with a prayer bead necklace on him at all times.

The second born of the triplets is Hayato Bei Fong. Nobody really knows why Hayato always had a chip on his shoulder. Born with the same airbending abilities as his sisters, he found himself struggling with it and his spiritual side, having more of a stubborn, hardheaded side to him. He rejected getting his tattoos and took to heart the idea of going out on your own and making a name for yourself, though it broke Aangs heart when he left after a fight and never fully reconciled with him. A fact that hit harder following Aangs untimely death. Hayato has since gone off to work in his mothers home town of Gaoling to help bring in industry and has been working on his own company to produce automobiles and motorcycles, rathering to focus on making waves towards the future than tapping into the past and to the spiritual side. Now if he could just get his mother to stop trying to drive one of his automobiles... Hayato has shoulder length black hair, usually pulled back into a bun, dark grey eyes and a small scar going through his left brow. He's discarded any bright Air Nomad colorings for blacks, greys, silvers, and dark greens.

Hayato has a husband named Kazu. He's a nonbender, and an author out to publish his own books and also writes news reports as a gig to bring home money. He has a taste for the darker fashion style of his husband and writing about the struggles and triumphs of mankind in a post war world. He has layered black hair, hazel eyes and pale skin.

The two are looking to adopt in the near future!

For now though, they are quite happy with their Crococat, Boots.

Born the last amongst the triplets and the subsequent youngest child, Huuro Bei Fong is her own terror twister of an Airbender. She was the wild child of her siblings, always getting into her own antics and probably the protestor that almost got her and her sisters arrested numerous times in their youth. She gained her tattoos after the creation of her own move. She has since moved to the restored Southern Air Temple and is always causing trouble for the new elders to show the newest generation how to have fun. She's also been known to be quite skilled on the Sungi Horn, much to somes delight...and others dismay. Huuro wants to help the Air Nomads to find fun, lively and searching for new purpose, to establish new traditions and celebrations while acclimating to the modern world. She keeps her black hair long, flowing and down, and her grey eyes always are full of life.

Huuro is here and looking for love around every corner! She wants to find someone who loves life as much as her and wants a life full of new experiences.

#atla #atla ocs #avatar oc #avatar the last airbender #avatar lian #atla oc #avatar ocs #taang #taang kids #avatar #zutara au #atla au #avatar au #toph bei fong #aang

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snowflake-of-destruction · 4 years

Text

Observation

I can’t write a quick, few line caption to save my life Part 4/8. Based off of the fourth picture of THIS POST because I absolutely could not think of anything to write but “They are so hecking cute. Look at Roxas’s little blush” and so I just wrote everyone else saying they are so hecking cute. Basically. It’s that but wordy. Also, Roxas’s tail wagging motors Axel’s boat across the water because @complicatedandstained said it and nothing that cute can be left out.

@shaky-mayhemm

Part 5/? of Mermaid AU that needs a name

Xion was the first to know. Roxas's younger sister had always been the one he was closest to, more his other half than even Sora. That, and he felt he owed her for how quickly she'd chimed in and claimed Roxas had been with her all day, helping her create shell paths with Dory's parents. She'd even found a way to wiggle one of the shells she had kept for her own collection out of her bag and press it into Roxas's palm without Aqua seeing so he could show proof. Xion hadn't been happy learning that he'd went to the surface without her, and Roxas had only churned the currents more when he admitted he'd spoken to a human. She'd begged him not to go back, and left Roxas sure that no matter how she protested to the contrary that she didn't understand. Axel had proven every story Aqua had told them about sailors wrong even before they'd met properly, but Xion was more concerned that he'd been stalking the same human for weeks and his slip up had been premeditated.

She agreed to keep his secret because she was loyal to a fault. The only times she'd broken a promise was when she'd told Aqua that Roxas had been the one to bet Sora he couldn't last five minutes with his arm stuck in a sea anemone, and that only because Sora had a reaction to the toxin. She hadn't even told Aqua when Vanitas had confessed to her his plans to run away, but then perhaps she should have. Roxas only had to convince her that he wouldn't be hurt and he'd always come back.

He decided the solution was to take her with him next time he saw his sailor. She refused to speak to Axel that first day even though she'd been the one who had snuck into Aqua's rooms years ago and stolen as many volumes as she could of old King Eraqus's tablets for her and Roxas to learn all they could about the now forbidden surface. She refused to even come near. She stayed a whale length away from Axel's lifeboat at all times, keeping only her eyes and the top of her head above water, all the better to glare at the human with. By the end of the night though, the storm of her gaze had broken to calm seas.

For her it was the way Axel looked at Roxas like he was a treasure, but not one to own, just wearing a never-ceasing awe that shone through even when he was acting out other emotions. She liked the way he laughed full-throated when Roxas told a joke and scoffed at Roxas when he said something stupid too. She couldn't hear what was said, but she didn't need to. Roxas was funny. Roxas was dumb. Roxas's human listened, and more than he talked, though she saw him break in sometimes and speak with his hands as much as his mouth. She liked the way Axel kept trailing his hand in the water and then holding his hand above Roxas's head to drip over his face, looking too concerned to have it be mistaken for teasing. She doubted Roxas had even said anything about the dry air.

The next day she bobbed on the surface of the water next to Axel's little boat beside Roxas. He was just as friendly to her: willing to listen, eager to listen even to every thought or question she had, and then provide his own answers and commentary; excited to teach and to learn, but also falling into softness that said he cared about more than knowledge. He didn't look at her like a treasure though, and that remained the difference. He wasn't a human stunned he had discovered merfolk were real. He was a man that was thanking his human gods that he'd discovered her brother.

Xion was satisfied enough she let Roxas come to the surface without her after that (As long as he took her sometimes. She and Axel were best friends now. They'd agreed) and put herself in charge of explaining any long absences.

Vanitas was the first to find out without being told. Roxas didn't even know his estranged brother watched him and their siblings. Vanitas didn't need to follow them to watch them. Master Xehanort had taught him how to see them reflected in a jagged shard of glass he'd salvaged from a shipwreck. He usually watched for information he could pass to his master that would further their plans, or so he told himself, but he found himself observing Roxas' trips to the surface for weeks and not saying a word.

For Vanitas, it was how Roxas hardly stopped smiling for a moment. Roxas had always been the most like Vanitas, the only one out of the group of younger siblings the raven haired merman could remotely understand, quick to anger and slow to show he was happy. Roxas was still too innocent and too easily entranced by simple, stupid things for Vanitas to be able to stand his company for long, but he wasn't obnoxious like Sora's incomprehensible perpetual buoyancy. Until now at least. Roxas wasn't just happy. He was glowing more in the sun than he ever did in the depths where their scales turned luminescent. He kept wagging his tail and it was disgusting . More than that, his shoulders relaxed. It wasn't the slump or slouch Roxas sometimes fell into when he wasn't filled with tension. Roxas looked at home.

It wasn't completely foreign. Roxas belonged with their family; he wasn't constantly ill at ease like Vanitas had been and still was even after leaving and finding the role he had really been born to play. It was significant though, to see Roxas look so at peace with a stranger.

Vanitas decided Xehanort wouldn't have this news, not from him at least. To be happy and at home for a moment? Vanitas could be jealous, but he couldn't refuse Roxas the only thing he wanted himself.

Sora was the last to suspect but the third to know for sure. He was clumsy in following Roxas and would have been discovered easily if his twin hadn't been so absorbed in the only track his mind would focus on these days. And that was what it was for Sora: the complete absorption. He wasn't the only thing Roxas didn't notice. Roxas sat on rocks until his scales started to look crusty and he wheezed. Roxas was startled by a seagull that had been tapping around Axel's boat for several minutes and had been circling overhead long before that, apparently unaware of its pretense until it stood on his hand and squawked in his face as if affronted that he was a fish too large to eat. Roxas had to have a pod of leaping dolphins that he should have been expecting, considering he'd been the one to suggest their swimming route when he and Sora had talked to them that morning, pointed out to him by Axel. Sora would have been worried not endeared if he hadn't been forced to chase Axel's little wooden boat he'd taken from the the big boat when Axel had neglected to secure it properly to the rock island he and Roxas had claimed, and then further failed to notice it starting to float away. Both parts of the couple still didn't seem to notice him when he towed the boat back.

They were lost, utterly lost, and Sora wasn't going to be the one to admit he'd found them.

Besides, he was glad not to be the oblivious one for once.

Kairi was the last one, save Aqua, to see Roxas with Axel and the hardest to convince. Her protective instincts weren't of a sibling that could also be swayed by biased affection, and she hadn't heard the story of how King Eraqus had died enough times for it to seem more like a scary story to ensure good behavior than a tragedy to be mourned like the princes and Xion. It was one thing when she suspected Roxas was just following boats like Xion had told her they'd done half their lives. It was concerning then, but Xion had rattled off the precautions they took, and Kairi had concluded it wasn't her place to interfere. Sora telling her Roxas was in love with a human and didn't care about secrecy or distance was another. Axel didn't seem like the type of human capable of such atrocities as Aqua had warned about, but by the time any of them could know for sure it could be too late. She planned to corner Roxas on his way back to the palace after he'd left his little rendezvous and give him an ultimatum of whether he'd rather stop seeing the human willingly or have her go to Aqua, but then she saw the kiss.

She wouldn't be able to defend why it made all reservations melt away. It had to be witnessed. She could say Axel kissed Roxas like he was the water that sustained all life and he had to drink every drop. She could talk about the contrast of the softness in the way he touched Roxas, as if he'd been trusted with something fragile he'd break and end up broken himself if he did. She could laugh until she cried about how Roxas's tail flapped so forcefully that he'd propelled Axel's boat at least a dolphin-length when they'd shared their last kiss goodbye, and then try to describe how even the scrunched corners of Roxas's closed eyes told their own story of a moment so perfect you felt you could just float away on a current. None of that quite captured the feeling of being there and understanding what the tall tales were speaking about when they included true love's kiss. It all sounded like fanciful nonsense when reduced to words.

Kairi dived and headed back to the palace on her own, swearing that even if all she had was fanciful nonsense, she'd try to defend Roxas and his human when Aqua found out. Then she found Sora coaxing a pod of squid to play a game he'd just invented that involved five different goalposts and several starfish for each player to use as projectiles. She asked if they could talk alone, but ended up helping him convince the starfish that they would have fun playing his game instead. There would be other days to see if they could create a fairytale of their own. She'd be grateful later, because some fairytales didn't just feature princes and princesses but a knight needed to propel it to happily ever after.

Aqua had secrets kept from her for too long and then uncovered in traumatic ways, which should have hardened her heart until there was no softness left, but a combined testimony was hard to argue against. Find someone who cares and shows it even in small actions. Find someone who is your home. Find love consuming. Find a passion that's pure. It's what she always wished for Roxas and for the rest of her charges.

In the end, what call could anyone make but to swim away and let Roxas be happy.

#mermay #akuroku #kingdom hearts #xion #roxas #axel #vanitas #kairi #sora #axel x roxas #mermaid au that needs a name #watch me quite obviously and deliberately bait shaky into drawing Sora creeping unnoticed in the background of future Axel and Roxas pics #protecting them from unseen dangers #mermaid au stories

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druggedupdog · 4 years

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major tw sorry. this is pretty graphic and long. please like if you read.

chris had it all planned out the moment he started talking to me. i was eleven. it was after school, i was trying to walk home and these kids from my class kept fucking trying to follow me and rile me up because it was apparently funny watching an obviously mentally ill child have a breakdown. and chris just. appears out of nowhere and tells the kids to fuck off and they leave and i INSTANTLY want to be his friend because HOLY SHIT someone actually defended me and i was just so desperate for company and honestly at the time i was already planning to kill myself. and i just. i just tell him everything. that same day, the same day i met this complete stranger, i just start spilling my life story. my dad's an asshole and beats me, my brothers think my pain is funny, no one likes me at school and thinks i'm weird, my mom's fucking dead, i live in a moldy delapidated house with little food because my family is fucking poor, i hate church and i hate school and homework and i just want to get away from my stupid town or die. etc etc etc. and he listens and says he's gonna protect me and stupid fucking me believed him. i set myself up, i don't even know if he knew about all this prior because i thought maybe he stalked me but no i told him everything about my shitty life and he used it for his advantage.

two years later he says i'm old enough to date him. but honestly prior to that it had been maybe a month of me knowing him and he was hugging me a bit too long, smelling my hair and clothes, touching me in suggestive ways, calling me baby names and other nicknames, always talking about how hot i was and how he couldn't wait until i was older and he could fuck me. but what the fuck did i do? absolutely nothing. because i grew up in a sheltered mormon home and didn't know jack shit about sex or love or anything. i just loved the attention he gave me because fuck at least it was "positive" and i felt like such a rebel when he would buy me things i wasn't supposed to have like alcohol and cigarettes and any illegal street drug you can think of. he very easily manipulated me and i fell so fucking hard for it because i have shit for brains. anyway the literal day i turned 13 he basically pushes on me that we're dating now and i was just like "lol haha okay! whatever you say! please don't leave me!" and after school he took me to his "parent's house" while they were "on vacation" because he was very obviously 16 and definitely not lying about it. then he took me to his bedroom, told me we'd play some video games for a while, gave me some alcohol and i got drunk as shit. he kept saying some nonsense about like... how i looked really warm from the booze and i should take my clothes off to be more comfortable. i don't remember it that well. i think i did it really half-assed and he ended up taking my clothes off for me and then he started cuddling with me and touching my dick and i kept trying to push him away but i was too fucking drunk to really do anything and i just. i just kept saying stop. stop please. please please please. and he kept going until he turned me over, pushed my face into the mattress and penetrated me. it hurt so fucking bad and i tried screaming but nothing came out. i started crying and he told me that everything was okay. it was supposed to hurt. i was supposed to be scared. and i still believed him even though every part of me found it hard to believe. i black out from the alcohol and the fear. the next day i'm awake in his bed, covered in his cum, trying to process what the fuck just happened and i'm freaking out but i don't know why because chris loves me and said it was okay so why do i feel like this. why. he made me breakfast and i throw it up when i get to my dad's and he screams at me for being sick and missing school and he asks me where i was and i don't say anything and he beats me. so i go back to chris's house that night to get away and this time chris has heroin for me instead of booze and he rapes me after i shoot up and start nodding off. i find out chris is 19 after looking in his wallet for spare money while he's asleep after getting off. i go back to my dad's house because i'm uncomfortable and i get beat by my dad again. and then i go back to chris's and get raped again. back to my dad's and get beat again. back to chris's and get raped again. the cycle repeats again and again and again. until i'm 16 and my brothers snitch to my dad that i like men and i have a boyfriend and my dad beats the shit out of me, raids my room while my brothers hold me down and force me to watch as he finds candid photos chris took of me nude and getting violated by him as well as all the heroin and other drugs and paraphernalia i had stashed and hidden in my room. he beats the shit out of me AGAIN and starts throwing all of my shit out of my bedroom window and when i run out to grab it all he locks the door behind me and doesn't let me back in. so i go back to chris's house and beg him to let me live with him and he obviously agrees.

so then i get raped for even more months but at this point i'm just conditioned to accept it no matter how much i hate it. then chris starts yelling at me for trivial things. then he threatens me. then he starts hitting me. then he locks me in the moldy spare bedroom with only a dirty old mattress in it whenever we disagree over shit and starves me for days. at this point i'm very deep in my heroin addiction, so he forces me into withdrawal whenever i'm locked up and i am in so much physical anguish. he only comes in to give me my fix and rape me. sometimes he only rapes me and i feel and remember everything so i actually scream during these times and he shoves his fingers in my mouth to shut me up and if i bite down he slaps me. this goes on for two fucking years. but i stay because i need the drugs and i need the love and attention and he really does love me he's just going through a phase he'll apologize and see what he's doing eventually i still see glimpses of it sometimes when he lets me out of the room and cuddles and kisses me and calls me his cute little boy. but then as i approach my 18th birthday i find out he's molesting another 13 year old. i dont do anything. when i'm 18 he tells me he's had enough of my shit and kicks me out. i beg and plead for him to let me stay. i promise him i'll do anything for him i'll let him rape me nonstop all day or murder me if that's what he wants to do. i tell him i love him so much we're meant to be together i want to marry him i want to spend the rest of my life with him and get high all day with him. he tells me he doesn't care. i'm useless to him now because i'm an adult. i'm a pathetic junkie and i was just an experiment because he had a fetish he really wanted to test out and i seemed like a good target. he's already found another child to lust over and torture the same way he did to me.

this post is long and i basically spilled my life story but i dont care i don't anymore i'm going to kill myself. i quit heroin but i regret it so fucking bad EVEN THOUGH IT REMINDS ME OF HIM ITS THE DRUG HE USED TO HURT ME AND TORTURE ME FOR YEARS AND YEARS I WAS TORTURED INA DIRTY ROOM FOR YEARS USED AS HIS CUM RAG. i can't get over it. i abused heroin because i was in so much pain. i didn't want to handle it all it was just too much. i need it again because the memories just keep coming back every time i lay down and close my eyes. i want it to go away i want the pain gone it hurts. it hurts all the time. i hurt everywhere all the time and i can't process it. why. why did he and my dad leave me so broken like this. wouldn't it have been less effort to just kill me? it would hurt me less, actually. it would have been more humane. i wouldn't have to suffer the memories, the nightmares, the panic attacks, the learned behaviors, the harmful coping mechanisms and self-medication, the mental anguish that manifests as intense physical pain, the nonstop crying and bouts of rage that make everyone around me fear me. i can't be normal anymore. i'm just like this now and i never wanted it and i can't be a useful contribution to society. the last actual job i had i lost because a coworker made a rape joke and i beat him over it. i'm some fucking animal i'm not human anymore. i don't want to be this.

so it's either go back to heroin again and possibly lose ethan over it or kill myself and i guess suffer the consequence of death and hurt ethan. those are the options because i can't do this shit anymore, sorry.

#journal entry #do not reblog

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dammitadolfnomorecake · 4 years

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Once Bitten, Twice Stupid prt.10

When the others finally left for the night, Lance was mentally jumping for joy. Hunk was driving Shay home, Lance had his fingers, and toes, crossed that his best friend would finally profess his feelings. His joy lasted until his stomach rolled, telling him it was time to purge the human food he’d forced down the evening. Bolting for his upstairs bathroom, he gripped the toilet hard as his stomach rolled and everything was vomited out forcefully. Keith’s stupid blood was still in his system. The effects should have been wearing off by now, not lingering around like his unwanted house guest.

Hunched over as he heaved, there was a soft knock on the bathroom door

“Lance?”

Ugh. Shiro the goddamn hero. He was none too happy with him at the moment. Humans always made things so bloody complicated, no pun intended. Behind him the sink tap was turned on, the sound of the water hitting the basin was like a fucking waterfall again rocks, the noise coming to an end not a second too soon

“Here”

Gazing up with glassy eyes, Shiro was holding out a wet hand towel, Lance taking it from the man and draping it over his face. Thankfully Shiro had been kind enough not to turn the bathroom light on, though that hadn’t stopped him being stupid enough to put the damn cloth over his glasses

“Are you okay?”

“Fantastic”

“Can I do anything to help?”

“Yeah, you can keep your damn distance from Pidge”

Shiro shuffled his feet

“I...”

“If she knows, she’s going to want that bite. Matt is doing everything he can to protect his family, but Pidge... Pidge is so goddamn smart. Do you know what kind of situation you’ve put me in”

Lance heard the rustling of Shiro’s clothes before he felt man sitting down beside him

“I never thought she’d be Matt’s brother. It was stupid of me to speak out. Look. It’s not my place, but I know the look of someone haunted by the past. Speaking of Matt, that brought something up you’d rather not remember, didn’t it?”

“Someone should give you a damn medal. Shiro, you’re not my friend. You don’t know me. There’s nothing you can do to magically help”

“I can listen”

“Yeah, so you have more evidence to use against me when you finally kill me”

“It’s not like that...”

“Then what’s it like? Feeling pity for the sick vampire? Keeping him alive purely to help your brother? Now I’m left lying to Pidge for however long I’ve got left”

“I’m worried about you...”

Lance would have laughed if he wasn’t so shocked. What did Shiro have to worry about?

“... you’re not getting any better. You drank Keith’s blood to save him, and you’re still suffering from the effects. I don’t know what to do to help you”

“There’s nothing you can do”

“There has to be something”

“There isn’t”

“Then is there someone I can call? Someone who knows more about what’s going on?”

“I’m not going to bring a hunter onto the doorstep of anyone”

Shiro sighed

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let Keith take control of the mission. We haven’t reported back to our supervisors one way or the other. Your name came up flagged under suspicion of being a vampire with no confirmation. I don’t know who reported you, and I still don’t know what to make of you. You were polite and kind to both of us, yet helping Keith has made you this ill. Right now, I don’t want to kill you. I don’t know what to feel. You bit and turned my brother, yet you deny it. You openly socialise with humans, keeping as close to human as you can. You turned into a bat, despite claiming you carried no powers. All of this is confusing. Then there’s Keith. He’s my brother. My only brother. The only family I have here. I need to do what’s right for him”

“Then stop filling his head with ideas. He’s not a vampire. You enabling him isn’t helping anything. You guys can crash out in front of the TV if you want, help yourselves to whatever you want in the fridge. I’ll do the dishes tomorrow, so for now, let me just go to bed and be done with today”

“Lance, I...”

“If you say you’re sorry again, I can’t guarantee I won’t snap”

Shiro gave a nervous kind of a laugh, his hand squeezing Lance’s shoulder

“Alright. I get it. We’ll talk in the morning. Are you sure there isn’t anything I can get you?”

“I’ll be fine once your brother’s gross blood passes”

“That’s good to know”

Lance could hear Shiro and Keith talking about him as he laid in bed with Blue. Shiro was attempting to reason with Keith, who’d broken down over being bitten. His mouth ached, arm between his teeth as he rode through the pain of it all. This wasn’t normal, not for him. He needed to go see Coran. Coran would know what to do and how to help, and laying about in bed wasn’t going to magically cure him.

Dressing, it was a little after two in the morning when he crept down his stairs. So many thoughts were trying to push themselves to the forefront of his mind, yet none were clear enough to reach out grab. Stepping off the last step, the light in the lounge room flicked on, Shiro appearing in the doorway, rubbing at his eyes like Lance had woken him up

“Lance?”

“Go back to bed, Shiro”

“Going somewhere?”

“To get some blood”

Shiro saw through his lie

“Dressed and with your car keys?”

“Going to get some blood from Platt?”

Lance cringed at his tone, and at his big mouth

“Great, I’ll come for the drive then”

“Shiro...”

“You’re in no condition to drive yourself anywhere. It’d be irresponsible to let you go alone”

“What about Keith?”

“If you’re going to see some one about blood, then they have to know what’s going on with him... Your arm’s bleeding”

Lance looked down at the dark patch spreading across his sleeve. He’d bandaged his arm, but for some reason he was still bleeding

“It’s nothing. Look, go back to bed and we’ll talk in the morning”

“I can’t do that”

“Leave me alone!”

Shit. As if Shiro hadn’t caught enough of his bad mood of late

“I’m sorry, Shiro. I’ll be back by morning, but I can’t take you where I need to go. You’re not one of us. They wouldn’t even let you inside the lobby”

“Look, it’s late. I think you should go back to bed and we can all talk about this in the morning”

And what if he flipped out in the mean time? What if he really was as bad Keith thought he was? He didn’t want to hurt Shiro... or Keith for that matter. Maybe shave Keith’s mullet off, but not hurt him physically

“I can’t do that”

“Why not?”

“Because there’s something wrong with me and I don’t want either of you being hurt. Please, Shiro, I have to go. I promise I’ll be back as soon as possible”

“How can I trust that you’ll be back?”

“I’d never leave Blue. Plus Pidge would be merciless if I went missing. I can’t do that to her and Hunk”

“Alright... just... stay safe”

“You, too”

The drive to Platt passed in a blur, Lance doing well above the speed limit in the long straights of the road. The city it’s self never seemed to sleep, but the roads were clear as Lance slowed to the posted limits, the last thing he needed was a speeding fine, or to bite a cop. Parking in front of “Castle Altea”, the building front marketed itself as a 24 hour bookshop catering to the obscure. The whole block was actually owned by the organisation Coran ran, shop owners paid half the price of rent in the area, probably thanks to the complex that ran beneath their feet. Gripping his arm, he just about fell out the driver’s side, head swimming to the point he thought he’d vomit.

Passing through the bookstore, the woman behind the counter hit the button under the desk to let him straight through the back doors and into the elevator that’d take him down to Coran’s first level. There were only two buttons in lift, one up to the bookshop and one down to “VOLTRON”, the name of outreach network for Platt. Lance knew the “V” stood for “vampire” and the “L” stood for “lycanthropes”, and maybe the end “ON” stood for “outreach network”, but the others he’d been clueless on. He didn’t really need to know the name, only that he was going to the only truly safe place for him in his current situation. He couldn’t even tell how many metres the lift went down, but the more the better right now.

The doors open to bright lights of the reception, Coran pausing mid pace, before rushing over to him

“Lance, what happened to you, my boy?”

“Mercury... poisoning...”

“Oh, my boy. You came to the right place. Here, lean on me. How’s your hunger?”

Lance felt so awful he didn’t even know if he was hungry. Coran felt safe and warm, his arm slipping around Lance, deceptively strong as he took his weight

“My teeth really hurt... all of me hurts... Coran, I’m scared”

“Hush, my boy. We’ll get to the bottom of this. You’re safe here”

“Thank you... I’m sorry... for turning up like this”

“Nonsense. Let’s get you comfortable”

Taken down another two levels, the doors opened to the medical floor. Coran leading him to the first available examination room, and assisting up onto the examination bed. Whimpering at the lights overhead, Coran switched them off, leaving the lighting in the room to come from the computer in the corner and the lights under the bed

“Hypersensitivity... Atypical for simple poisoning. Lance, can you tell me what happened?”

“Hunter”

Coran let out a small gasp

“A hunter?”

“Poisoned himself with silver and mercury... sucked it out of him... I’ve never fed off a human before... Coran.... what did I do?”

Coran smiled softly at him, brushing Lance’s sweaty fringe off his forehead

“You did a brave thing. Mercury in blood makes it very potent. I suspect the trauma of your first feed and the metal have come together to make a rather nasty combination for you. How long ago was it since you bit them?”

“Wednesday...”

“Oh, my boy. Let’s do a full work up. You’ve been through enough trauma as it is. Have you had any blood since?”

“A bag and a bit... it’s not helping”

“Alright. Let me see what I can do. You relax, you’re safe here, Lance. This is a safe place”

“I didn’t want to bring you trouble”

“Hush now. No ones going to get you. Close your eyes and just relax”

Lance felt eyelids start to grow heavy, Coran’s words a spell on his senses as he felt himself slump completely against the bed beneath him. Coran knew his traumas... Coran knew everything about his life. He shouldn’t have left Shiro and Keith at his house... but coming here was the right thing to do.

Allura came in as they waited for his blood tests. With practiced hands she set up an IV line, direct to a fresh bag of blood. Coran had helped him out his jacket, mortified he’d bitten himself to starve off the pain of his teeth

“Lance, it’s Allura. I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’m going to take a look at your arm”

“Hey, ‘llura. Sorry for the trouble”

“Nonsense. Coran said you had a run in with some hunters. We knew there were new guys in town, yet I hardly expected they’d go after to you”

Why wouldn’t they go after him? He shouldn’t exist according to them

“I bit a human... I’m going to be put down”

“You’re not going to be put down. You’re not a typical vampire, but you’ve got a kind heart. You’d never hurt a human if you could help it”

Tell that to his teeth... and Keith’s fist

“I still did it”

“Lance, you’ve always been kind and sensitive. I promise you that we’ll get this all sorted”

As Allura applied ointment to his wound, Lance let himself float. His mind that was, not his body. Shiro was wrong, he couldn’t turn into a bat. And he was handling being caught out rather poorly. If Shiro and Keith did hunt the big bad things in the night, then he should be grateful. They’d probably saved countless lies by not thinking twice, whereas he was laying here being completely useless. He’d never killed a vampire, not even when tempted by their behaviour. As she worked, Allura hummed along, her humming somewhat soothing his headache. He liked Allura. She was smart, pretty, funny, and brave. She had so many things going on, yet she wore all her pressures on his delicate shoulders with grace

“Healing has already begun, it should heal without a scar. But do try to take it easy for the next few days”

“Thanks, Allura. I’m still really sorry for how I showed up”

“Nonsense. I would have been mad with you if you hadn’t come to us. Have you got enough blood at home to see you over?”

“The hunter’s got to it. Trashed my house, waited for me to come home, the whole nine yards”

“Do you need help with the repairs? Furniture replacement? Is your home safe to return to?”

“Yeah. No, I’ll be fine. I’ve got somewhere to go”

“If you’re not safe, you can stay here for as long as you need”

“I’ll keep that in mind, but I’m safe for now. I’ll take some blood though. Healing this is has taken more than I expected”

“Anything you add blood too amplifies it’s effectiveness. Being stabbed by a mercury dipped dagger has a much different affect than ingesting it”

Lance hummed

“I didn’t think about it like that”

The room to the examination room slid open, Coran letting himself in. Allura smiling at him, their conversation now dead in its tracks

“Sorry to interrupt. Allura, how’s our boy doing?”

“His arm’s started healing. He seems more lucid too. I would like to see him in three weeks for reassessment. I’ll be logging 21 bags of blood on his record, I don’t trust that his supply hasn’t been tainted”

Tainting the blood seemed too much effort to be a Keith move. Shiro had the patience, but he’d brought him up blood to help him heal... poisoning Lance was a sure way to ruin any chance of getting information from him

“Excellent. Now, Lance, I’ve got your results right here. Silver and mercury were found in your bloody, both in trace amounts. My advice would be draining what we can from your system, then rehydrating you”

“How long will that take?”

“Twelve hours, give or take. Then a nice nap in your grave dirt, for a couple of hours, just to make sure no hidden nasties are left in your system”

“I don’t have time to do that”

“I’m sorry, my dear boy. You’ll need to make the time. Your levels across the board are all over the place, and you’ve had quite the shock. Anything else could affect your will power to fight the curse. You could find yourself performing actions with no memory of the event”

Stupid fucking Keith. This is what he got for helping him, when he didn’t deserve it. They’d barely talked, not when the man hated him with the passions of a thousand suns. Now he was stuck being drained like a car having it oil changed. He’d be breaking his word to Shiro. He’d said he’d be back in the morning, now he was going to be stuck in Platt until mid afternoon at the earliest

“Coran, I need to make a phone call... I need to let my friend know I’ll be back later than planned”

“Sure, my boy. Do you know the number?”

Shiro’s number? That was a no. He knew his home phone number because he still had a land line. Pidge had laughed and called it “antiquated”, no one had house landlines anymore, according to her. Lance wasn’t about to take advice from someone who’d never he the displeasure of growing up with one family landline in the living room where everyone overheard your conversation. Lance didn’t know Keith’s number either, not that Keith would answer if he did

“They’re at my house. They insisted on sleeping over in case someone came back”

“Oh, dear. You must be worried about them. Give them a quick ring and let them know you’re all safe and sound”

Shiro didn’t answer the home phone when Lance rang, Lance leaving a message on the off chance Keith decided he snoop about in Lance’s office again, Lance quickly explained he needed to stay in Platt longer to sort the situation he was experiencing, and that it was best for everyone involved if he remained until the afternoon. Taken from the examination room once the IV had run through, he was taken to a much more depressing room that held a vertical board for a bed. Thick straps came off the sides, his head, neck, arms, legs and torso all strapped down, preventing him from escaping should he flip out from being drained. The device looked barely a step above something that’d be used to hold prisoners being tortured

“Now, this is going to be quite painful and uncomfortable for you. I know you only ingested trace amounts, but the stress has made your system a bit, shall we say, whacky. We’re going to introduce a sedative to your system, before running a line from your jugular. You’ll be both awake and asleep for the procedure. The injection keeps the brain from registering and reacting. All very safe, all very well researched. We’ve had particular success with werewolves poisoned with wolfsbane”

“Alright. Do what you need to do. I don’t want to feel like this anymore”

“You’ll feel good as new when we’re done. Then we can have ourself a talk”

The bed behind him was stiff, the whole room white, and the straps cold against his skin. Cool air was pushed through the single vent in the room above the doorway, as Lance waited for the injection in the back of his neck to kick in. He should really be billing Keith for his time. From Wednesday until now, at douchebag wanker lawyer fees, the man would be pushing three grand for all the time Lance had wasted thinking about him. Was Keith fighting with Shiro as he “lay” here? Was he still going on about being bitten and turned while Shiro didn’t balls up and prove to him that he was still human? Keith should know better. Shiro should know much better. Those purple eyes that seemed to see his soul were bright and unclouded. A rare fire burned behind them, not the fire of a confident man, but the fire of someone who still very much alive in the human world. Keith had his whole life ahead of him, yet he must have his reasons for joining the Blades. If only Keith and Shiro could have both walked away, Shiro wouldn’t have lost his partner, and Keith could have a normal happy life without the bloodshed and fear of being turned. Why the fuck was he stuck now thinking on the man who hated his guts. Keith hadn’t even been willing to talk, let alone listen. He was hot headed and rash, leaping before he looked... Keith was going to be pissy that he’d skipped out on explaining things in the morning. Coran would fix Lance right up, only for Lance to go home and die. Letting out a sigh, Lance closed his eyes. When he’d been 18 he’d had to spend three months sleeping as he made his death soil. If a wounded vampire could get back to their death soil, most damage could be overcome... His death soil now sat in his garden, but he did have a shoe box of soil in his wardrobe, to remind him not to get too comfortable in his current life...

#once bitten twice stupid #ashratherose #vld au #vampire Lance #klance #keith is a dumb dumb

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yanderedbh-moved · 4 years

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H/C

Just a handful of Hurt/Comfort prompts for each character because H/C is literally my crack. A sort of post in the same vein as this one I made earlier. Requests are open, though if you want me to expand on, or write more from any of these ideas.

Connor

The pain of sitting at your bedside and watching as someone he once knew as a reliable and capable partner is forced to ask for assistance to get a drink. You’re recovering from sustaining damages from a past mission. Currently, you’re too weak to so much as lift a glass of water.

The two of you out in the field together, in the thick of battle. He notices you’ve taken damage and can’t help but ask if you need to leave, to go rest up. You tell him you’re strong enough to continue the fight, and he believes you. It’s only several days later that he notices the bandages under your clothing and is overcome with the guild of not pulling you out of the situation.

Before now, Connor always saw whimpering as cowardly, something no decent fighter would do, even with their dying breath. But watching you on the ground, writhing in pain causes him an awful kind of pain he’s never known before.

Markus

You blackout during a fight, and for fear of losing you, Markus carried you out of danger himself. The risk was too significant to ever lose you, and it wasn’t one he anticipated on taking. Now you’ve awoken in a place you’ve never seen before with no idea how you got there, the confusion almost as intense as your physical pain.

His famous bridal carry.

Markus watching the way you’re severely bandaged up and limping around after a battle. He knows you willingly gave everything you could to help support him in the fight, but still, he can’t help but feel responsible for this.

Kara

On the run together, you’re cornered and need to think fast to make it out alive. On a split-second decision, Kara decides to try and save time by leading you over a rooftop where she believes the two of you won’t be spotted. Only to her horror though she turns around to make sure you’re still following her, only to feel her heartbreak as she watches one of the people below shoot up at you, causing you to flinch, lose your footing and fall.

Despite wanting to be the strong one here, Kara has a bleeding heart. And even though she worries she’ll look weak because of this, Kara can’t help but wince when you’re in pain, stuck in bed, unable to help yourself.

Kara shushing Alice. And keeps the poor young girl from crying over the sight of something she’s too young to have seen.

Hank

The two of you sitting all alone in a hospital room together. This is your first time sustaining severe damage from a mission. In this case, several abrasions of the skin which required stitches to patch up, but the real issue here, your broken ribs. He’s been in your shoes, and he just wants to do whatever he can to make you feel better. There’s nothing he can do to numb the pain you feel coughing for the first time with broken ribs, and he can’t help but flinch in remembering the pain.

After an unsuccessful mission, you’re in the worst pain you’ve ever felt, gunshot wounds and other bodily trauma leave you immobilized with pain. An ambulance in on its way, but now, there are no painkillers to numb the pain. The most Hank can offer is a few sips of whiskey he had in the back of his car to comfort you.

Luther

Imagine you’re escaping Zlatko with Kara. The two of you are doing the best you can to keep each other out of harm’s way, and when Luther is on your side, it becomes all the easier. The lot of you are so nearly out of harm’s way, and safety is so close you let your guard down for just a minute. In that time, you are struck by the bear you never even knew about. Luther and Kara do their best to get you away, but the damage is done. Luther can’t help but hate the way he knew about the bear, but still, wasn’t able to protect you from it, and because of that, your blood is on his hands here.

His deep voice doing the best he can to comfort you with an “Easy now, it’s alright, I’m here, just relax, everything will be ok.”

Luther doesn’t even need to say anything at all sometimes. His knowing, kind, and empathetic gaze is the one thing you can understand in your hazy painful current state of mind.

North

North was never one to shy away from even the most intense of conflict and would throw herself headfirst into battle in the name of defending her friends and her cause. Unfortunately, this means she saw first hand the way a single critical hit downed you, leaving it up to her to remove you from the situation. Sitting there beside you North is almost too afraid to touch you, fearing any contact would only cause you more distress. The most she can offer you here is to gently push the hair from your forehead, which is stuck in place by sweat.

North yelling other people to stay away from you, tears in her eyes, emotions straining her voice. You’re hurt and in need, but she doesn’t trust anyone but herself to look after you.

You knew if you were an android, she wouldn’t hesitate to end her own life in the name of saving your own. There is no cost too high for her to give up to you, sadly this just won’t work. And as you lay, bleeding out below her, there is nothing she can do to save you. All she can do now is provide what little fleeting comfort she can for you in your final moments.

Simon

He may already be regarded as one of the gentlest members of Jericho, but when it comes to handling you while you’re wounded, Simon would practically treat you like you were made of glass.

There are no painkillers he can offer you while in Jericho, and Simon knows it wouldn’t be worth it to leave your side to go out and try to find them. All he can do now is hold you and pray your pain passes swiftly, and it won’t be long until you’re back in commission.

He’s fighting a war, pain, death, and sacrifice is a part of his daily life. For the most part, Simon thinks he’s accepted this as the way things are, but when he watches you get caught in a deadly crossfire, Simon is affronted by a fear he’s never known before.

Josh

If he were to lose you, the one person he cared about the most amid a violent raid, it would really stick out as a somewhat ironic kind of heartbreak. Like it’s nothing short of tragic that the one who opposed violence so aggressively ended up losing so much on account of it.

He knows if you’re in rough condition, he must do his best to keep in control to make sure you survive this, but he feels so weak and overwhelmed here. Josh can’t stop his hands from shaking as he does his best to dress your wounds to the best of his ability.

While he knows you can’t hear him, Josh mutters over and over again that he promises never to leave your side while you’re murmuring nonsense in a fevered daze. Josh is doing the best he can to keep you awake, and to keep you from falling asleep on him because he knows how dangerous it would be to let you fall asleep now.

Kamski

You’re stuck in bed after contracting a severe illness. You feel as though all the strength has left your body, and the world around you feels muted and bleary. What you don’t see here is that even though there’s no way you see him now, Elijah refuses to leave your room. He has every confidence you’ll find the strength within yourself to carry on, but for now, he wouldn’t dare abandon you like this.

Kamski, the man usually so slow to offer any kind of physical comfort holding you as tight as he can. You’ve just awoken from an awful nightmare and are still coming to your senses, without any other idea of what to do, Elijah holds you close, doing his best to show you’re safe here, there’s nothing to worry about while you’re at his side.

Gavin

One without much medical experience or information personally the most he would know how to do after watching your body fall to the ground after suffering a nasty blow is to try and frantically find a plus, or to check if you’re still breathing. But still, if he can’t find those things, there’s no promising he’ll know how to handle the situation from there.

Gavin would basically turn into your personal guard dog while you’re in recovery. He wouldn’t want anyone alone with you while you’re in such a condition, there’s no way anyone’s getting to you without going through him first.

If it were a group mission, there were more than just the two of you imagine how much more awful the situation if you were downed by a gunshot. Gavin really wants to do his best here and to remove the bullet from you. However, another member of the party would have no choice but to step in and force him to stop. On account of the way Gavin’s rough, unexperienced movements were only hurting you further.

Ralph

While keeping you in his home as a hostage, your body begins to lose the fight against the cold exposure and lack of sustenance. Even though you’re trying to keep your distance from him, you lose focus and faint. Not understanding the situation, Ralph fears you’ve actually died.

This abandoned house, so drafty and frigid and cold. Without any sunlight to provide a source of light or warmth, you fear this night will never end. The only source of comfort here is to huddle in close with Ralph. Try to fight off the cold any way you can.

Ralph wants to be a secure provider for you. Especially while you’re sick and stuck in bed, unfortunately for him, there is no way for him to stay strong when he looks at the way you appear so weak in bed. Something about the way your body seems so weak and helpless leaves Ralph fearing the worse for you.

Daniel

The two of you were out late, all alone one night. Not harboring any commitments to any but each other, the two of you decided to have a little fun and investigate the secret and abandoned area of Detroit. Finding a small stream nearly frozen over the two of you have a little fun messing around, threatening to push each other in, or. Accident strikes, and as the two of you are leaving, you slip and hit your head against one of the hard rocks around the pond. Daniel feels his heart skip a beat. He never imagined something so innocent would turn so morbid, and he’s left at a loss for what to do but hold you close, and beg that you don’t leave him here all alone.

Daniel wishing he wasn’t programmed to be something as weak as a house servant whenever you’re suffering from a bout of anxiety at home. He wanted to promise you he’ll be strong enough to protect you no matter what. However, on account of what he is, Daniel can’t help but hate the way he feels so inadequate, especially around other androids.

Imagine him softly singing you a lullaby to calm you down in a time of distress. While this tactic may only be intended for children, it’s what Daniel knows to work. And because of that, Daniel loves to hold you close and softly coo a little melody to keep you calm and to help you find comfort.

Nines

The two of you on a mission together, after taking damage from the opposition, you’re officially downed. Nines want more than anything to take you out of danger and get you to safety, but for the moment, he can’t. The only thing he can do now is force you to keep quiet to keep from being discovered.

You try your best to hide an injury from him. The last thing you want is to appear weak in front of your partner, but he knows better. Nines read you instantly and without hesitation demands an explanation for what happened to you.

It’s an inconvenient bother to Nines to see you in pain. The only thing worse than this, of course, would be Nines delivering the pain to you himself. Imagine his nightmare scenario here. He’s forced to perform an impromptu bullet removal on you while in the heat of ganger. As the only one with the necessary level of competence, he’s no choice but to hurt you all the more in the name of hopefully keeping the bullet from killing you.

(Edit: I did my best to provide everyone with three original and unique prompts, but upon editing, I do realize how similar many of these sound, I feel kinda mixed about how this one turned out, but I hope this was a pleasant read for you!)

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temeraire-stuff · 4 years

Text

Spoilers for Black Powder War Chapters 11-END

Hello Everyone,

Long time no post. But I finally finished the book!! It has been an exhilarating, rage inducing, hilarious, and historically frustrating few chapters. As such, there were quite a few times, I had to put the book down because I couldn’t bare what was about to happen or what I thought was about to happen. And it either turned out as I expected or completely surprise me. As such, my slow progress is finished and I’m ready to share my thoughts, predictions, and results of previous predictions!

SPOILERS:

I would summarize this portion of the book to the previous section as “Out of the Frying Pan and Into the Fire” situation and that summarizes a good portion of what goes from one chapter to the next in this section as well. I think that would be the best way I could summarize it without spoilers. But Spoilers:

And so, my prediction in my previous post came to pass regarding them getting waylaid on the way back to England and forced into the war between France and Prussia. They were told they couldn’t leave until the promised dragons showed up. And newsflash they never did. Also, when an opportunity arises for Laurence to take his Temeraire and Crew and leave, he doesn’t take it and sticks it out only to suffer under the terrible decisions of the Prussians and them losing the war.

Also, the Prussians’ in ability to listen when they were told what was wrong with their battle strategies because it came from dragons. This along with the inability to listen to advice and their exuberance lost them their land. They try after their first loss and the fact that they are disorganized and under committed leading to such tragedies as seen in history books regarding this campaign. This sadly while tried to remedied later has no effect as they are too little to late.

The ineffectiveness of the leaders is obvious as it was throughout history and the fact that they are so disorganized and giving themselves false advice loosing thousands of men because they can’t make their minds up makes me want to scream and swear and tell them how stupid they are in very colorful words. But I’m not going to do so here as I do plenty of swearing at their incompetency as I’m reading the book. And while I knew this was coming to some degree as I know this history, it is still frustrating as these are our precious crew that are left to suffer for it!

Though, I’m amazed by how it feels like I’m facing down the battlefield against the French and losing at every turn. The brilliant aerial battles and strategies that Lien brought to the war. The way they effectively distract and take down our allies is terrifying in how well it works. And the ways that they utilize things seen in China for everyday uses to battlefield advantages just are amazing and well thought out and utilized. It is even more terrifying because I can see how it could potentially go even worse as they implement more of these strategies to war.

ALSO, WE FINALLY MET BONAPARTE!!!!!!!!!! He is interesting based on what little we have seen of him. He is definitely ahead of his time on things and they skills he used to plan out what happens is enormous. I doubt that this series will get any less heart pounding when we are in battle especially if he is there. Though I’m wrong and it is the second battle and not the first one where they fight Bonaparte.

WHAT IS WITH CHARACTERS FALLING PROBABLY TO THEIR DEATHS!!!! When Granby fell and was rescued by Temeraire I had a heart pounding, anxious minute where I thought he was going to die and I just stopped. I couldn’t face another death and be okay with it. So it was a great relief, when he didn’t. Though I don’t think I’ll ever recover from the deaths.

So earlier, Tharkey said he was leaving and told Laurence he was leaving. I didn’t expect it but he did fill his contract. But what he did was even more surprising. I was prepared to not see him again and be very depressed about it only for him to come back with the aid for Laurence and Temeraire. He brought the Ferals and I was completely surprised! Tharkey has cemented himself in how much I love the guy!!!!

ISKIERKA IS A RIOT!!! I love that my prediction came true but she is better than I ever expected. From her hatching, Iskierka is a battle hungry little thing and Granby is just like all my plans for if I ever got a dragon are dashed and she is a riot terror but I’m completely in love with the little devil. Granby has his work cut out for him with keeping Iskierka from causing trouble. And she is going to be hilarious and won’t take no nonsense and will probably be just as head strong as the series continues. But it does make me sad to know he will not be part of Temeraire’s crew anymore and we will see less of him then prior and that makes me sad.

The grand escape at the very end of the book using the Ferals and Temeraire as transportation saving most of the garrison was ingenious and I sped through it on baited breath to see how many they would save and if they would make it out. Tharkey dressing up and drugging the Fleur-de-Nuit was worrying as I didn’t know if he would make it but I was so happy that they did and that they succeeded and are now heading back to England.

I’m sad to say my prediction involving the Ferals was wrong and that our trusted crew doesn’t have a Feral egg to go along with their other egg. It would have been interesting but I wasn’t expecting them to return with all the Ferals.

I’M ENRAGED BY THE IDIOT’S LETTER AT THE END OF THE BOOK! D. Salcombe’s letter just enraged me. I’m sitting here going no you moron who knows nothing of dragons and not interested in actually meeting one you shouldn’t put your two cents in. The fact you are uneducated idiot and a religious fanatic does not mean you have the right to say anything. I’m just so mad at it. Especially after, Laurence realization that the French and to some degree the Prussians getting used to dragons the way the Chinese are with their dragons was amazing. Watching this growth and him admitting that Temeraire’s opinion about Dragon Rights and that they need these changes. And here is a man that thinks that it shouldn’t happen.

PREDICTIONS:

I’m updating my earlier prediction: I predict that the plague/illness/sickness seen in Throne of Jade, is going to be the cause of why the promised British Dragons didn’t show up and that it will be a very bad situation back in England.

With this prediction, I add another prediction where Temeraire and his crew go on an adventure to find a cure, which means Africa.

I also predict that Temeraire is going to try to introduce his ideas and the stupid people in power are going to ignore him and treat him like an animal.

My last prediction at this time is that the Ferals aren’t going to like the state of Britain and are going to want to leave or go fight elsewhere.

#temeraire #will laurence #william laurence #granby #tenzing tharkay #iskierka #spoilers #Black Powder War

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vivilove-jonsa · 4 years

Text

So to go with this prompt from @ao3commentoftheday I’m going to share a little bit of the Rhaegar Won/Arranged Marriage Jonsa AU I’m very slowly working on for the future (once I get some other WIPs done).

Fingers crossed that one of these days I’ll get far enough along to start posting it on ao3 but for now, here’s the start :)

***

Yours Before I Knew

ELIA-

The queen sucked on an orange wedge relishing the sunshine as the clacking of wooden swords silenced the morning songbirds. She did not mind that. All her life, she’d known the sounds of boys and men training every morning.

The stone walls of her little courtyard had been baking in the sun since it rose three hours earlier. Touching those walls might lead to a burnt hand now. But Elia would not touch them. She was content to enjoy the radiated warmth of them as she broke her fast and watched the boys, her son…and Lyanna’s.

Not everyone loves the sun as the Dornish do and the Sun does not love everyone.

The Dornish had been infuriated with her husband of course, none more than her brothers, but they had stayed true to the Iron Throne. When Robert’s Rebellion had ended with the usurper’s death outside the city walls, they had remained Rhaegar’s subjects though silently sullen over the insult he had done their princess.

Heeding the advice of others, Rhaegar had chosen to avoid single combat with Robert Baratheon and instead made overtures to Tywin Lannister, appealing to the man whose ego his father had wounded more than once with promises of a better reign in the future.

And despite his melancholic outlook in general, her husband chose not to dwell overly long on his part in his father’s removal from the throne nor the circumstances surrounding his death. Lord Tywin’s men had done all the dirty work for their new king and the unpleasantness had been swept away like filthy rushes to be replaced with fresh, sweet ones.

But not everything had been forgotten and not everything had been swept out the door either.

“Do you yield?” she heard Aegon cry, an edge of triumph in his childish voice.

“Nay!”

Elia scowled and continuing sucking on her orange wedge. The boy was stubborn. Aegon was a year older. He was taller and a bit broader. But Aemon would not yield until he was on the ground and pinned, usually with Aegon shoving his face into the stones if the master-at-arms did not stop them quick enough. Always determined to prove himself, Aemon fought like a wolf. No doubt the stigma surrounding his birth and his questionable place at Court plagued him.

Like a wolf. Elia smiled despite herself. That was what he was. He is no true dragon.

“That’s good, Jon!” the master-at-arms said as the tempo of the clacking wooden swords increased.

Jon. He preferred to be called Jon. It was the name his uncle had given him when he’d taken the child and his sister’s bones out of Dorne before he’d learned of his friend’s death.

Lord Stark had been spared by Rhaegar. Some whispered that he should’ve met a traitor’s end but their shared grief over Lyanna had stayed her husband’s hand. Elia did not object to it though she would’ve thought Rhaegar might’ve stripped him of his title and lands at least. However, the Northman had been allowed to return to his frozen forests, grateful to be reunited with his wife and young son. He’d only been south of the Neck once since the end of the war.

Rhaegar had permitted the boy to be fostered in Winterfell as a babe before sending for him when he was five. “The North is in his blood. It is where he will fight his greatest battles…and where he will die someday perhaps,” her husband had once said. Rhaegar’s obsession with prophecy had only grown with the passing of years.

The North was a place that held little interest for Elia but she was aware of their own discontented murmurs. Nevertheless, Lord Stark had kept the vast kingdom under control and helped stop Balon Greyjoy’s ill-fated rebellion recently even though many of the Northmen held no love of the Crown. And why should they? Aerys had killed Lord Eddard’s father and brother after Rhaegar had made off with the Stark girl inciting the rebellion to begin with.

The fact that Rhaegar had married Lyanna in a secret ceremony, pressuring the High Septon to allow the practice of polygamy as the Targaryens of old had, had not tempered their displeasure. Most did not believe Rhaegar’s talk of prophesies or Aemon’s potential role in some war to come but no one said as much to the king.

“My lady? May I join you?”

She tilted her head in acquiescence. “Have you come to watch them?” she asked once Rhaegar had taken a seat and kissed her hand, his courtly manners undimmed despite the strained state of their marriage.

He looked towards the courtyard for a handful of seconds, watching the battle below with an indifference she couldn’t understand. “I’ve spent my morning closeted with the Hand arranging betrothals.”

“Whose?”

“The children’s, both mine and my father’s.”

Elia swallowed her disquiet and brushed her hands along her silk skirts. “Did Viserys have objections?”

“Objections to Arianne? Why would he? And it was agreed to long ago.”

“And Daenerys will marry Quentyn?”

“She will.”

“Doran will be pleased.”

He hummed softly in response. She knew the young princess’s opinion would not be sought. Elia felt sorry for the girl and her own daughter but it wasn’t as if she’d been given any choice in the matter of her own match. It was the lot of all highborn girls whether they carried the title of lady or princess. And besides, Quentyn is a sweet boy.

“And who are our children to marry?”

“Rhaenys will marry Willas Tyrell.”

“You’d marry my daughter to a Tyrell?” she asked sharply, her earlier acceptance of the fate of highborn girls quite forgotten.

“The enmity between your family’s house and the Tyrells should end. Willas bears no ill will towards your brother nor Oberyn towards him. It’s time the rest of you follow suit.”

Elia bowed her head, knowing that any argument would be fruitless. Rhaegar was not his father but he would not be talked out of a decision easily either.

“And Aegon? Who is to be his queen?”

“I had thought to heal another breach. The North is vast and anger lingers there.”

She could not be silent on this. “You will not marry my son into her family!”

Rhaegar’s eyes moved from the boys below to his wife, that strange distance in him so visible. If he was blood and fire, why were his looks always so cold? She contained a shiver but dropped her eyes. She rarely spoke so heatedly towards him. Her rages would do her no more good than her sweetness in this case regardless, she feared.

“I had thought to. I’ve decided differently. Tywin has been a faithful servant and Cersei serves you well.”

Tywin had decidedly differently is what that meant. And Cersei... “She hates me.”

“Nonsense.”

“You see her beauty and her smiles. You do not see her contempt. You do not hear her barbed words.” You only see what you wish to when you bed her, the wife of your best friend. She would not dare speak those words.

“She won’t be marrying Aegon, her daughter will.”

“Myrcella.”

“Yes.”

“She’s only three.”

“He’s only eleven. They’ll marry a few years after she flowers.” He softened marginally. “It is only a betrothal, my lady. If things change, things change,” he shrugged.

She stewed over that before asking about Rhaegar’s third child. “And Aemon?”

“It is my hope that match will end the rumbling in the North. He will marry his uncle’s daughter, the eldest girl.”

“Lady Sansa?”

“Um…yes, that’s her name.”

Did he know it to begin with? she wondered. No matter. This arrangement did not matter to her. It suited her. She’d have Lannisters and Tyrells as her children’s good-parents. Wasn’t that enough to worry over?

Who cared if Aemon, or Jon as he preferred, went North someday? It wasn’t that she disliked him. It was just that he was a constant reminder of things that Elia would rather forget. He’d go North and marry the Stark girl. Maybe she’d never see Lyanna’s son again if he did.

But Rhaegar had other plans as always, it would seem.

“Aemon will marry Sansa Stark once they’re of age, get an heir by her and then…we’ll see where I need him most.”

“Well done! Well fought, boys!” the master-at-arms cried seconds later.

Elia’s expectant smile curdled when she saw Aegon clutching his hand, his wooden sword on the stones at his feet and Aemon doing a poor job of hiding his delight. The North could have Lyanna’s son. She could not say she’d miss him here.

#jonsa fanfiction #jonsa #vivilove-jonsa fic #a snippet of fic for someday #canon divergent au

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kitsunebaba · 4 years

Text

Just a Little Change

Rei stared down at the body at his feet, the butt end of his dagger still raised from the strike. Ryu stared at him in shock, gaze slowly drifting down to focus on Teepo's unconscious form. He wasn't entirely sure how he'd managed it but his brothers had been so focused on one another and Rei had seen the opening and before he could really think it through, he was moving.

And now Teepo was out cold on the grass.

"Oh good thinking Rei!" Nina exclaimed, the first one to move. She went straight for the pack on Ryu's back muttering "rope, rope," to herself.

Everyone else seemed to jump out of their stupors, with Nina breaking the silence: Momo riffling through Teepo's pockets, Garr interjecting the best way to restrain one of the brood. Rei couldn't quite follow the conversation, his ears still ringing from this whole mess of a situation. For years he'd been consumed by nothing but revenge and now to find that not just one, but both of his brothers were...

Teepo was alive... Teepo was alive!

A grin was slowly stretching its way across his face and when he looked down at where Ryu was fixing Nina's knots, he saw a smaller but just as bright smile on his face, too.

Rei wasn't quite stupid enough to think this was going to be easy. Whoever this God was, they'd really done a number on Teepo's outlook. All that nonsense about the brood, his self righteous attitude. Teepo had never been particularly kind, but this just wasn't who he was meant to be.

Well, whatever he'd thought of this pilgrimage before, it was personal now. No one did something like this to his family and got away with it. No one.

With Teepo wrapped head to toe in rope, Rei hefted his little brother over his shoulder and on they went. On to meet God.

---

Teepo didn't wake up until after God was dead and they'd escaped to the desert.

Garr had finally found his peace and they'd lost track of Peco in all the chaos of their escape. Their victory was bittersweet at best but that was just how vengeance tasted, he'd learned. Rei wouldn't kid himself into thinking his own participation was anything but. Ryu was the selfless one in the family.

There was a gasp to Rei's side, a groan and instantly he was kneeling to turn Teepo over. His brother squinted against the harsh desert sunlight and Rei shifted to shadow his face.

"That was a dirty trick," Teepo murmured, voice deeper than before but cadence much closer to what Rei remembered. Then Teepo tried to move his arms and froze. Eyes narrowed and flicked intensely to his with so much venom it made Rei's heart jolt.

"You dare-?" Teepo hissed and his teeth were already extending, his skin turning purple, scaly, face elongating.

Before Rei could so much as move, Ryu was there, sitting down hard on Teepo's chest. It knocked the wind out of him, the shock enough to stop the transformation. They glared at one another, two obscenely powerful beings vying for dominance.

Teepo looked away first.

Huffing, Teepo glared at the sand instead. "So you bested me and removed me from my sanctuary. Does the safety of the world mean nothing to you? Our God Myria has-"

"We chose freedom," Ryu murmured, interrupting.

Those words confused Teepo more than anything and he cast his gaze around to the others, as if they had the answers, as if he'd forgotten how to read Ryu and everything he didn't say.

"He's saying we killed your God," Rei couldn't help but clarify. It was petty and not worth the devastated way Teepo's face fell. His brother's breath caught and, alarmingly, his eyes began to well with tears.

"Myria is...?" his words were barely sound.

"Yes, I'm sorry," Nina replied when no one else did.

Rei couldn't watch the clear grief on Teepo's face but nor could he hide from the sounds, all the more heartbreaking for their restraint. Small sniffles and whispered denial. Each one struck home in Rei's chest until he felt ill. He couldn't regret what he'd done but there was always a price and once again it was Teepo who had to pay it. Yet another way Rei had failed.

There was no giving up this time, though. Rei had people to fight for again and he wasn't letting them go without one.

---

They almost lost him on their way to the oasis.

Teepo had refused to eat or drink. Occasionally they could get some water down his throat, with Ryu coaxing or Momo forcing but that hadn't stopped his lips from cracking or his cheeks hollowing out. They couldn't afford to untie him, either. When Teepo wasn't catatonic with grief, he ranted.

Rei was ashamed to say he left Teepo to Ryu when he got like that. There was something stalwart to Ryu that Rei could never even hope to emulate, so he didn't even try. To Teepo's threats, his fanatical recitation of God's rhetoric, Ryu kept a straight face, silently stoic as he held his brother down and waited it out.

By the time they reached the oasis, Teepo hadn't woken in at least a day and his breathing had begun to get laboured. They couldn't just leave him with the head man's wife like they had with Nina, either. That first night, they'd all been exhausted. Ryu had taken first watch regardless, making sure no one was hurt in Teepo's lucid moments as he was tended to.

Eventually, though, even Ryu couldn't keep his eyes open.

A shout woke them all, then a scream and they all clambered to their feet in alarm. Rei could feel his rabid side start to stir, eager for a fight, but pushed it down. The head woman had scrambled backwards, Ryu trying to hold back a struggling Teepo, free from his bonds.

Unable to think of anything else, Rei punched Teepo in the face and his brother slumped in Ryu's arms, his form shrinking, changing until he was a tiny, purple dragon. The look of disappointment that Ryu gave him for that made him want to shrivel to the size of a mouse and hide for the rest of eternity.

They got Teepo back into bed, tied to the posts, and Ryu went to sit back down at his side.

Rei didn't let him. He finally had to admit to himself that he'd been avoiding this new, heartbreakingly unfamiliar Teepo. Rei had promised himself there was no giving up, yet he'd almost done so to spare himself more hurt. So Rei swept Ryu into his arms and lay him down gently along Teepo's winged side, then took up the chair himself.

It was one of the longest nights of his life, watching his brothers sleep on that bed, one struggling, again, to hold onto life. When morning came, his eyes itched with tiredness and his muscles screamed from sitting for too long, but Teepo was once again in human form and Ryu smiled at him and that made it all worth it.

---

Teepo started eating again, a few days later. It had taken many, many hours of nagging and begging and pleading (and a few guilt wrenching tears from Ryu) but they'd managed to convince him to continue to live, at the very least. While his brother's ranting had stopped, along with his attempts to escape, he hadn't started speaking normally again, either, or at all.

Instead, Ryu talked. It was more than Rei thought he'd ever heard him say in his entire life, let alone at one time. He spoke of their journey, their lives, why he'd come to the decision he had. Ryu talked himself hoarse and then some until Rei took up the slack. There was only so much he knew, so much he'd been there for, but he could reminisce on their time together, at least.

Rei spoke of their lives before Ryu, reminders of the people they'd been, the ways they'd changed after they'd adopted their third family member. That one, near perfect winter and early spring where they'd been accepted, well fed, happy. That one season of bliss before everything had fallen apart.

And then Rei confessed how he'd gone off the rails in his quest for revenge. How devastated he'd been to lose his brothers to one mistake.

Teepo listened, at least, even if he never said anything in reply. He listened and Rei hoped he was taking it all in, considering their perspectives instead of clinging to a dead god's dogma.

---

Once they were all well enough to walk, about a week later, they resupplied and made their way north. They didn't need the ropes by this point. Teepo was silent and submissive, following along when asked.

It was Momo who tried to strike up a conversation this time, as they made their way through the debris of old technology. She asked a stream of questions about Eden and the space station, though the whole thing went over Rei's head. Teepo watched her, wary, but he must have understood because once she was done with her rambling hypothesis he either nodded or shook his head. One time Rei swore he heard a response but it could have been his imagination.

A few trips by Portal Drive later and they were emerging from the hut hear Mount Levett. Why they'd gone here, he wasn't sure. This whole place left a bad taste in his mouth, memories blurred from spending such long periods transformed but certain moments horrifically vivid.

"I... um, don't want to go home yet," Nina offered when he asked.

It was understandable. The prospect of possibly being confined to one place for your whole life... Rei wasn't sure he could do it. Certainly after the trick they'd played on the king and queen, she wouldn't be allowed to leave for a good long while, even if they didn't just lock her in her room.

There were other reasons she didn't want to go home. Nina still had to work out what she would fight for now. At least Rei didn't have that problem anymore.

Down the path towards the Yraall Region, they reached the road in good time. Across the bridge and they quickly came to the edge of the farmland that marked the area. A sense of unease passed over Rei the closer they got to the place they used to call home. The girls sensed it, too and the whole party remained subdued as they trekked. It was by far the easiest terrain they'd navigated in months but the tension in the air ruined any relief.

It was at the junction where the Yraall Road split towards McNeil Village that it happened.

Nina screamed as Teepo shoved her back and in an explosion of power he transformed. Momo was already aiming her weapon as he spread his wings, taking to the air. Rei jumped forwards to push the bazooka towards the ground and they were both flung backwards as it went off.

Rei picked himself up with a groan, grumbling a few choice swear words. It took a few moments to get all his senses back in alignment and by the time he had, Ryu had transformed too, staring at him, waiting.

The dragon tilted his head, indicating his back and Rei didn't have to be told twice. Scrambling to his feet, he didn't even consider what he was about to do until he felt muscles lurch below him and the ground began to lift away. Rei's eyes widened and he wrapped his arms in a vice lock around his brother's neck.

They shuddered and shook as they climbed altitude and Rei had to wonder how they weren't just dropping out of the sky. At last, though, they evened out. The turbulence stopped. Wind still whipped about his ears, pulling at his clothes and tail, but slowly he pried one eye open to look down at the ground below.

It was like a patchwork quilt he'd seen some of the women in town making; all greens and browns with the occasional patch of colour. He couldn't see any people, though with the roars he could hear in the distance, it wouldn't be a surprise if they'd all sought shelter.

With a jolt of surprise Rei found himself able to pick out landmarks. There was the farm near town, the village itself not too far off, McNeil manner. Already they'd travelled what would have taken hours on foot. He watched as it all passed below them, turning into the forests he'd once known like the back of his hand. A glimpse of Bunyan's hut, the mountain close by, then they were descending and Rei had to bury his face in Ryu's neck again or risk being sick.

When they landed, Ryu shrank back into his human form, collapsing to his knees, breathing rapid. Rei rested a comforting hand on his shoulder for a moment, long enough to know he was okay, then he was moving again.

Teepo stood at the base of the burned shell of their hut. The smell of ash and smoke had long since been washed away but Rei could still remember them, phantom scents in his nose. He came to a stop three steps behind his brother, staring up at what remained of their home.

"Sometimes I was half convinced this was just a dream... but then that would mean you had simply abandoned me."

"What?! I would never-!" Rei cut himself off, nails cutting into his palms with the effort.

Teepo shook his head, "no. You're petty and self severing like everyone else, but you wouldn't do something like that."

They were quite for a while, lost in their own memories.

"You know, Ryu said he looked for you after," Rei gestured vaguely at the burned building. "Me? I just assumed you were dead and went off to get revenge but... He went all the way to Wyndia. Would have gone further, I think, if he hadn't been caught up in all that Brood shyte."

Teepo frowned. "Wyndia...?" The frown deepened and he crossed his arms. "I... perhaps I reached it? I remember being hungry and stone walls. It wasn't long before Myria saved me, gave me a home, clothes, food, love."

"If you'll remember, so did I. And I didn't lock you in a damn cage and feed you self hate for ten years," Rei growled.

"Myria has good reason to think the way she does... did..." Teepo turned his face away, swallowing thickly before he continued. "How many people died for Ryu's cause? Just defeating her you lost two of your number. Can that be justified?"

Rei snorted, "oh, so when she kills thousands of people, it's for the good of everyone, but when a few people sacrifice their lives willingly, it's not justified? Well don't that just beat all. And here I thought we had numbers on our side."

"We are dangerous!" Teepo spun, one fist raised threateningly but Ryu was already situating himself between them, a hand on each of their chests to keep them apart. He still looked worn out from carrying someone on his back, using muscles he wasn't used to for so long, but the colour had returned to his cheeks and he wasn't winded any longer.

"So am I," Rei countered, sounding much calmer than he felt. "Sure I don't hold a candle to you guys but I slaughtered an entire crime syndicate in cold blood. It was easy. Should I be put under lock and key?"

Teepo scowled, "yes."

"Okay, so what of God's Guardians then? I know for a fact that Garr alone killed, what was it, Ryu?"

"Two hundred and ninety nine," Ryu replied softly.

"Two hundred and ninety nine Brood members during the war. That's way more than a measly crime syndicate, I'd say. And he only did it because he was told to, not because they killed his family or something."

"That was God's power-"

"So should God be locked up then? Why is her power okay but yours isn't? What gave her the right to dictate what we can and cannot do? Who lives and who dies? Since when is genocide something the good guys do?!" Rei snarled, breaking away from Ryu's restraining hand to pace, prowling the path.

Teepo rose to his full height, clearly trying to look regal. "She saved the world."

"Does it look destroyed to you? Has Ryu gone on some monstrous rampage and killed everyone? Blown up any mountains lately? Because let me tell you, he's had the motives. Half of this crap isn't even what he wanted, he was just dragged along because he was being hunted or someone else wanted to know the truth! He lost us, he lost friends, he lost years of his life and he's never destroyed anything that wasn't asking for it!"

"And what if I do?!" Teepo screamed. "What if I... I hate everyone. I hate what the world did to us! I hate how petty people are, how self serving, how no one will ever share just because they... No one ever deserved what Myria did for us, not even me!"

The silence in the clearing could have been cut with a knife.

"What if I'm the one who destroys the world?"

"You won't," Ryu said, clear and confident, "because we won't let you." Slowly, like he was touching a wild animal, Ryu lowered his hands to clasp one of Teepo's gently between them. "Just like you won't let me."

For a long moment it seemed like Teepo would pull away, whole body tense. Then he slumped, head bowed. "Is it that easy? I don't want to be around people. I don't want to go back to a society that would let children, orphans just- just starve. I don't want to-"

Rei let his hand fall heavily on Teepo's shoulder. "So we live in the woods, away from everyone else. Heck, that's pretty much what we did here before Ryu came along, just without all the stealing. Maybe we try grow our own food or something? We got friends and resources that we didn't have as kids, yeah?"

Teepo's gaze was unreadable as he looked from Ryu to Rei.

"Not here," he said at last, raising his free hand to rest on top of Rei's. "Not here."

---

They met Nina and Momo back in McNeil Village but didn't do more than pass through after joining back up. The frightened rumours of dragons in the sky effected both his brothers negatively and Rei had to suppress the urge to take his rage out on the villagers, too. They'd never wanted help, but they'd been children. Someone should have given it regardless.

Nina didn't try to pry like Rei had expected. One look from Ryu and she looked more relieved than anything. It was odd, seeing someone else able to read his brother so well but slowly Rei was coming to see Nina as family, too, and well maybe they needed a little sister to balance them out.

Reluctantly he had to admit that Momo felt like family, too, but that was dysfunctional at best. Not all family could be sunshine and roses, he'd learned. Well, one out of four wasn't so bad.

Conversation picked up when Rei voiced their intentions some time later. Nina was eager to offer locations and Momo building advice. She'd had to fix her own equipment often enough that she was handy with a hammer or a welding torch. After all, if they built with metal and brick, they couldn't be as easily burned out of the home again.

The process wasn't as difficult as he thought it might be. The forests surrounding Wyndia were vast, so before they parted ways with Nina and Momo they all ventured into them to find a good spot to build. Officially this would be Nina's vacation cottage, since the forests were technically royal hunting grounds. Hopefully they were deep enough that no one ever noticed they were there in the first place.

Momo threw herself into the building with as much enthusiasm as she did new machines. Confusingly enough, after the initial distrust, Teepo and Momo ended up getting along well. She was oblivious enough she didn't notice the way he talked down to her and he was knowledgeable enough in machinery that she was endlessly pumping him for details that he was now willing to give.

Nina, for her part, could only come by extremely occasionally. The king and queen hadn't locked her in her room but she was under strict guard whenever she argued an outing was legitimate. Slowly she was amassing a following of soldiers more loyal to her than her parents, however, and sometimes she could slip away.

When they were finally done, Momo and Nina had tentative permission to visit on occasion, though Rei could see Teepo only agreed with Nina doing so because Ryu always looked so sad when she left. It probably helped that she was their main source of supplies and Teepo could easily use that as an excuse if anyone ever confronted him on it. He'd always been unwilling to admit how soft he was where his brothers were concerned.

Rei mused on Nina's situation and how he'd thought he didn't ever want to be confined. Funny, how he didn't feel like he was locked away staying here, even though technically they were. Perhaps it was the self imposed nature of it... though Rei would put more zenny on his brothers having something to do with it.

They had to be careful with hunting in the area but they had a neat little vegetable garden going by now and a book on pickling to get them through the winter. Nina had even visited bearing some fruit tree saplings yesterday. Rei had left his brothers to plant them while he'd gone to find them some meat to celebrate.

Coming home, Rei heard them before he could see them.

"Ryu that's not how you dig a hole. No you have to- No use your- Oh, just give it here!"

Holding back his mirth, Rei rounded the corner of their house to see Teepo instructing Ryu on the proper technique for digging a hole, complete with demonstration and short, sharp directions.

Rei caught Ryu's eyes and his youngest brother flushed. Then Rei noticed there were quite a few holes already done, perfectly created, and couldn't quite hide his amused smirk as Ryu once again failed to dig a hole in the most dramatic way possible. Teepo promptly snatched the shovel back again and dug two more holes. They'd have too many at this rate.

Dropping the rabbits he'd caught by the house, he strode forwards to clap a hand down on top of each of their heads, grinning ear to ear. "I may not be very good at math but even I can see we have eight fruit trees and seven holes." Grabbing the spade himself, he dug the last one quickly, before anything could escalate. It was a little sloppy but deep enough that Teepo only scowled a little at it. He didn't even try to fix it when Rei handed the spade back.

Ryu moved off to start putting the saplings in the ground and Teepo only looked alarmed for a moment before he realised Ryu was doing this part right, at least.

Turning back to Rei, he said, "I see you're getting bolder with your kills."

"Their Royal Pains In The Butts aren't going to notice a few less rabbits in spring, Teepo."

"Early Spring."

Rei waved off the concern. "Whatever. I think we got enough tomatoes for a stew, at least. Momo better bring us more spices when she comes next. I got used to fancier food on the road than we ever had as kids. Who knew salt could do so much to a hunk of meat."

"You're getting careless. If we're-"

"Relax, Teepo."

Teepo scowled but they lapsed into silence, watching Ryu move from plant to plant, carefully placing them in the ground. For someone with the power to literally destroy the world if he wanted to, Ryu was the gentlest soul he'd ever met. Even plants were treated tenderly.

"Do you still think he's dangerous?" Rei asked softly.

Teepo watched Ryu as he answered with a shake of his head. "I don't think I ever did... not really. The kid that cries at the drop of a hat? With too much empathy for his own good. That's not someone who wants power."

"But...?"

Teepo sighed, "but I still don't trust myself. All I've had time to do is think and I know who I am. I don't want to leave, but I don't want to keep him here, either. If he wants to go..."

"And what if he wants to stay?" Rei murmured.

Ryu looked up from his work and waved, Rei waved back with Teepo reluctantly doing so too a few seconds later. The grin on their youngest brother's face was heartbreakingly bright.

"All he ever wanted, was be with his family, and that's us, Teepo. Ain't no way you can change that." He swung an arm around Teepo's shoulder, drawing him in close. "Maybe one day we let him go, yeah? But he's gonna come back. No matter where he goes without us, he'll always wind up back here sooner or later with a new story and some new friends. Probably a few new scars the way trouble finds him."

"Then maybe we need to go with him to protect him..."

"If we ever do, I'm sure we can go wherever you want..." Rei replied, giving him a squeeze.

"...Except Wyndia. We're wanted criminals there."

"You're what?!" Teepo squawked.

From where he was planting, Ryu looked up to watch Teepo chase Rei across the clearing and smiled.

#bof3 #breath of fire iii #fix it fic #I wrote this for you sama because you had to break my heart with that last bit of writing #just knock the boi out and take him with #problem part way solved

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