#Now that I think of it I should have made him as a Welsh Guard

[rooster-does-art]

In honor of the coronation the new King, I made this quick little piece. Iron Hoof as a Grenadier Guard!

#Iron Hood #Art #Random Art #MLP #My Little Pony #Earth Pony #Grenadier Guard #Now that I think of it I should have made him as a Welsh Guard #Since his 24th Solar Regiment of Hoof was based on the British Army's 24th Regiment of Hoof #Which is now the Welsh Guards #Oh well XD

[aralezinspace]

Spoon Theory

Requested by anonymous: reader unexpectedly says they want to marry morpheus when they're together in the dreaming, and the statement takes him off guard? reader panics when he takes too long to respond and they jolt themself back to the waking world in embarrassment while morpheus metaphorically kicks himself in the shins for not saying yes when he shouldve. eventually they talk things out after reader finally returns to the dreaming

A/N: I tweaked it a liiiiiiittle bit, hope that's okay! Y'all do you have any idea how hard it was to find an ancient marriage/proposal/love declaration that could be turned into an accidental proposal ?? like I studied history in college and had to use all my rusty research skills xD Hope you enjoy it!

~~Requests for Morpheus and the Doctor (9-13) are open!~~

It came to you one rainy Saturday afternoon that you had decided to spend at the local antique shop. About half of the items on the shelves were junk, but they had meant something to someone at some point. Fingertips brushed gently over figurines and buttons, jewelry and old postcards. But then, something caught your eye, hidden behind some silverware and a small porcelain horse.

It was a carved wooden spoon, lovingly crafted over fifty years ago. The little attached tag said it was an old Welsh tradition, to carve a wooden spoon for the one you loved. The carvings all had different meanings as well. You took a photo of the tag for future reference- being rather crafty and good with your hands, you had wanted to make a gift for Morpheus, but had no idea what.

Until now.

~~

That night, while you dreamed, you made your way to Merv’s workshop to ask for the tools and materials to make your gift. It took you a while to find the place; you had only been seeing Morpheus for about a year, and the castle layout tended to change with the wind. Merv was more than happy to help, even giving you a wide pumpkin grin when you told him your plan. The two of you worked in a companionable silence on your respective projects: Merv worked on a new door for Abel’s house (Goldie had accidentally torn the old one off its hinges) and you carved away at your spoon.

A sketch of your design was pinned to the wall above the table where you worked, along with a page of notes on what each symbol meant. You worked with single-minded focus, tongue between your teeth as you carefully whittled away at the block of wood.

A twisted stem to show your intertwined lives. Three chain links for loyalty. A key for safety. And a heart for love.

A few nights later, you were rubbing the final coat of polish into the grain of the spoon. Merv whistled his appreciation as you threw the polish-soaked rag onto the work bench. “Looks real good kid, you should be proud.”

“You think he’ll like it?”

“Oh, definitely. He loves everything you do. And something you made with your own hands? He’s gonna go crazy.”

~~

The next night, you raced to your rooms the second you appeared in the Dreaming, knowing you didn’t have much time before Dream sought you out. There was no way he hadn’t noticed your arrival in his realm. The spoon was already wrapped in a silver box, hidden in the back corner of your wardrobe. Your heart pounded in your chest, pumping your nerves through your entire body. You hoped and prayed he’d like it.

Box held in trembling and slightly sweaty hands, you walked through the halls to the gardens. It was one of your favorite spots. Morpheus would be there before long. You sat on a stone bench, forcing yourself to breathe and stay calm.

You felt Dream’s power slide over your skin a few minutes later. You jumped to your feet and hid the box behind your back. “Hi Dream,” you chirped, smiling somewhat nervously. Of course he noticed, you were an open book to him.

“Something wrong, my love? You seem nervous.”

Slowly, you withdrew the box and mumbled, “I, umm… this is for you.” Whatever Dream was expecting, this wasn’t it; he thought something was wrong. He carefully took the box in long, pale fingers.

“For me?” You nodded. “Yea, I just wanted to make you something.” His gaze lowered to the box as he removed the lid, revealing the spoon.

The whole Dreaming seemed to stand still. Morpheus was fixated on the spoon, glacial eyes frantically darting over all the symbols carved into the wood. The silence was spine-chilling, unnerving. “D-do you like it? I made it myself.”

He looked back at you so fast you almost got whiplash. Before you could say anything else, he raised a hand, and with a gust of sand, you found yourself awake in your bed.

~~

Morpheus stood in the same spot, a slight imprint in the grass the only indication you had been there. The box holding the spoon you made was still tightly clenched in his hand. He could not deny that it was beautiful; he could see the love and care you had poured into every minute spent carving it. But then, surely you knew just what such a gift entailed?

He did not dare get his hopes up. You had not been courting for very long, and surely you would consider this a huge step in your relationship. Yet his thoughts ran away from him: he could not help the rose colored fantasies that skipped across his mind of the two of you, living together in bliss.

You had offered him everything he could have ever wanted with you in a silver box, and he had panicked, sent you away. That brought a whole new wave of worries: would you resent him? Would you even speak to him again? Were you hurt, crying?

Not to mention, Death would never let him live it down.

~~

The next night, when you found yourself in the Dreaming, it was outside the palace. Your stomach writhed and churned with nerves, the empty spaces filled with dread. How could you possibly face Morpheus after yesterday? Clearly he had interpreted your gift in a way you did not intend, and you two needed to talk, but it was sure to be awkward and uncomfortable, maybe even painful.

With a heavy sigh, you started walking towards the palace, but it felt more like walking to your execution. You couldn’t seek him out, not yet. Not when you didn’t understand a single thing about his reaction.

Your footsteps carried you to the library, where Lucienne was working diligently as usual, writing in a large ledger with a sleek black pen. She looked up when she heard your footsteps, the smile when she saw you immediately falling from her face when she saw the state you were in.

“Oh goodness, what happened?” she put her pen down and pulled a chair next to her, giving the seat a pat in invitation. You slumped into the chair and hid your face in your hands as you told her the story of the previous night. When you were done spilling your worries, you peeked through your fingers, watching as she took off her glasses and cleaned them with a handkerchief before replacing them on her face.

“Y/N, my dear, I’m guessing Lord Morpheus did not explain himself, which is why you have come to me.” You nodded. Lucienne sighed again. “One moment.” She left the table and headed into the maze of shelves. When she returned a few anxious moments later, she was holding a small green book, turning the pages as she walked. By the time she reached the desk, she had found the spot she wanted.

Without a word, she handed you the open book and nodded for you to read the page. Your eyes darted over the text once, twice, three times, widening as you absorbed the words.

“MARRIAGE?!” you yelled, earning a glare from Lucienne as your voice echoed off the walls and ceiling. “Marriage?” you repeated in a mortified whisper, looking at the page again just to make sure you had read the words correctly. “But- it was just a spoon! D’you think- you think that’s how he took it?”

“I have no doubt in my mind. Perhaps he could have handled himself better, but I am sure that is how it was interpreted.” You groaned and let your head thump against the desk.

“Ugh, how am I supposed to talk to him about this?”

“Talk to me about what?” Morpheus’ gentle baritone came from over your shoulder. You were so absorbed in your thoughts you hadn’t even noticed him approach. Your face turned tomato red as you looked up, refusing to meet his eyes. Lucienne quickly murmured an excuse and took her leave. The tense, thick silence stretched between you for what seemed an eternity.

“So…” you began softly, apprehensive. “How’s your day going?”

“Well.” His response was an equally uncertain murmur. Silence again. Before you could break it with another awkward question, Morpheus cleared his throat.

“Y/N, I wanted to apologize for my poor reaction yesterday. It was ungracious of me.” His hands were jammed into his pockets, you could see his fingers clenching and releasing behind the soft black fabric. “Please do not think I am rejecting your gift, I was taken quite by surprise.”

“It’s okay,” you sputtered quickly. “I didn’t know that's what it meant, that I-“ you let out a short, barking laugh at how absurd it all sounded. “That I basically proposed to you.” A sigh. “I just saw a spoon like that one in an antique store, and the tag said they were made as gifts for the one you loved, and I thought it would be nice to give you something I made, like you’ve done for me.” The tomato red in your cheeks had faded to a bashful pink blush. “It’s okay, I would have been surprised too.”

The barest hint of a smile touched the Dream Lord’s face, his relief palpable in the air. Maybe it was his age showing, maybe he was old fashioned, but your understanding and forgiveness of his slight was more generous than he thought he deserved. “It is beautiful,” he assured you, his eyes dropping to the spoon. “And your desire to gift me the labor of your own hands is… touching, in a way I have not experienced for some time.”

He placed the box on Lucienne’s desk and took your hands in his. “And while I desire nothing more than to spend eternity with you as my partner, I am prepared to wait as long as you need to feel confident in that decision.” You sighed again and shifted your hands to press a loving kiss to his knuckles. The breath caught in his throat, little tingles spreading through his form from the spot where your lips met his skin. It was such an electrifying sensation, to be the one receiving a gesture he so often gave.

“Thank you,” you murmured against his skin, peering up at him through your lashes with a smile. “Trust me, when I propose for real, it’ll be a much bigger thing.” Morpheus chuckled, already pondering what schemes you’d come up with for that moment, whenever it came.

"Of that, I have no doubt.”

#The Sandman #The Sandman fanfic #Morpheus x reader #dream of the endless x reader #Morpheus fanfic #my stuff

[next-autopsy]

A/N: Well, hi there! Bernadette is getting a bit home sick. And the women are getting some extra combat training. Read and enjoy x

Based on the actors portrayal/hbo show and written with no disrespect to the real life veterans. Also all images found on Pinterest.

TW: I don't think there is any....

Tags: @malarkgirlypop, @panzershrike-pretz

Made of Glass

Chapter seventeen: Another Promotion

North Carolina was intense. 

After completing five jumps and becoming qualified Paratroopers in Fort Benning, the whole 506th battalion moved to Camp Mackall. There they focused on practicing defensive maneuvers with some physical combat and lectures peppered in. 

The mood had dropped significantly as Easy company experienced their commanding officer; Sobel, in action. His inability to lead them to safety became the talking point of the century, everyday Birdie heard whispered worries and doubts from her comrades.  

Bernadette’s birthday was coming up, this would be the first she had spent away from her family, her hometown. She hadn’t told anyone the exact date and she wasn’t sure if she was going to, maybe she should let this one slip passed, unnoticed, uncelebrated. 

The young southern girl focused her energy on other things, hand to hand and close quarter combat being the main target. Fighting against the men had been frustrating for her, as they did the chivalrous thing and let her win, they didn’t put their whole weight into punches aimed at her and would miss or hesitate purposefully. 

She had found it sweet the first few weeks but as time went on, Birdie realized this wasn’t helping her. Her enemy would smack her in the face, no questions and she wouldn’t know how to block or counter properly. So the Easy company men babying her was doing more harm than good. 

Bernadette had gone to her fellow women to complain and most of them had experienced the same treatment. All apart from Rossi. She had a ‘take no shit’ attitude with the men of George company and they respected her for it. She would call them out if they pulled their punches with her and then hit them twice as hard to teach them a lesson. 

Francesca fundamentally disagreed with the porcelain doll treatment the rest of the ladies received, she of course spoke up about it to her CO, not willing to stand back and allow the girls to scrap by without actually learning how to protect themselves. Her CO had brought her concern to HQ and the women were given an extra self defense class to balm to mishap. 

Each woman would have to bring a man from their company to spar with while being overseen by a small handful of instructors. 

At first, Birdie didn’t know who she should take with her. Whoever she brought would have to fight her without the princess handling, that ruled out Toye, Guarnere, Luz, Malarkey, Muck and Penkala. She knew for a fact that Bull would rather die than hit her, he had refused to partner up with her before so how could she expect him to agree to fight her now. 

Winters and Nixon were ruled out when the no officers rule came into play. Plus Nixon had just been promoted to OSS, and his replacement; Harry Welsh was also a no go. Carwood was far too polite and she felt like she would be taking aim at her mother. 

The only real option was Johnny Martin. Or someone she wasn't as close with but still on good terms like; Talbert, More, Christenson, Grant. Maybe she should switch between the guys, take turns beating them up. Either way, Bernadette would have to convince them to say yes, she couldn't drag them by their ears to the sparring lesson, they had to be a willing volunteer. 

Birdie brought it up at dinner that night. She was seated at a table with Toye on one side and Guarnere on the other, like usual. Bill almost spat out his food when she spoke up, granted she’d abruptly announced she wanted to fight someone while there was a break of chatter and it took most of the men off guard.  

“You want to… fight someone?” Toye clarified, raising his eyebrow at the small woman. She nodded, amused by the reactions of her friends. Bill was still coughing up the food that had gone down the wrong way, he smacked at his chest to ease it down. 

“Who?” Johnny narrowed his eyes, he was ready to pull out a knife and threaten anyone who’d upset the girl. 

“Probably Lieb.” George smirked, from down the table. That actually wasn’t a bad idea, they could hash out whatever the heck was going on between them, air out the awkwardness. 

“Why? What’d he do?” Martin growled, “Birdie, what did he do?” His jaw clench and Birdie knew if she didn’t explain he would be having words with (and most likely throwing hands at) the Californian man. 

“Jesus. I don't wanna fight Liebgott….well….. No." She tilted her head and pretended to consider it, making George chuckle. Johnny still sent a glare to Lieb across the room, who had no idea what was going on and was beginning to worry for his life. 

“I have a class and I need a sparring partner.” She felt like she was a schoolgirl again, asking her parents permission. Birdie looked at Johnny, his arms were crossed over his chest as he contemplated what she was telling him. He shot Liebgott another glare just in case.  

“You got an extra class?” Toye questioned, he thought Birdie told him everything so why was he finding this out amongst a group? Joe was starting to get bitter, she should have come to him first and asked him to be her partner. 

“Yeah, all the girls do.” Her voice was nonchalant and she shrugged off Toye’s attitude. 

“Why?” Bill added, finally recovered and ready to take part in the conversation. 

“Cause y’all baby us ladies. How are we gonna learn how to fight if y’all keep pulling your punches?” The men around her 'um'ed and 'ahh'ed, it was a fair point. Toye was still butt hurt, but he supposed he understood, after all, he just wanted Birdie safe. That didn’t mean he liked this.

“What, so we're supposed to actually try and hit you?” Toye narrowed his eyes, no fucking way would he let someone else be Bernadette’s partner, not if the guy was trying to hurt her. 

“Yes!” He was exasperating her, Birdie rolled her eyes at her best friend. His protectiveness was normally welcome and even adored but now it was more of a hindrance and the woman just wanted him to shut his mouth.

“Fine. When’s our first class?” Toye had gone back to casually scooping up his food, acting as if this was just like any other normal discussion. He completely disregarded Bernadette as she dropped her jaw and uttered an irritated, “Our?” 

“You think I'm gonna let anyone else fight you, Little Bird?” He smirked at her, ruffling her hair and laughing when she huffed and smacked his hand away.

“Uh, no.” She declared, narrowing her eyes at him, “Not you.”

“I don’t see anyone else volunteering to kick your ass.” Toye joked though he secretly hoped no one chimed in at that moment.

“I’ll do it.” 

“Thank you, Johnny.” She made an ‘I told you so’ face and stuck her tongue out at Toye, who just rolled his eyes in return. 

“Tomorrow at 1000. The girls will be so excited to finally meet one of my Easy men.” The southerner got up from the table having finished her meal. She looked around and locked eyes with Carwood, he noted her readiness to leave and also got up, making his way toward her.

“Wait, the other girls will be there? I’ll go! Please pick me Birdie!” Guarnere seemed to put two and two together, the realization dawned on him and suddenly he was very eager to join the extra sparring class.

“Ew no. Don't be gross.” Birdie scrunched her face up at Bill, “Besides, I already told them you have Herpes.” She tossed a chuckle over her shoulder at the sputtering Italian man and left the dining hall with Lipton. 

Carwood walked her to her barracks and wished her a goodnight before leaving. 

Bernadette could hear the ladies' commotion from outside, it sounded like a squabble or some fresh, hot gossip had just been spilled. Birdie shook her head, mentally taking a bet with herself before she stepped inside.

Lucy was jumping on top of the corner most cot and held a book high above her head, while Blythe attempted to retrieve what Birdie assumed was her book. A diary maybe? 

Bernadette took note of Charlotte and Francesca watching and smoking from the adjacent corner, next to the butts bin and the door, and Betty sitting the furthest away from the loud women fighting over a book. Connie, who was curled up on her bed, burst into giggles watching the two best friends playfully pushing each other off the bed and wrestling for the journal. 

“Give it back!” Blythe squealed at her friend, who laughed and took post on yet another bed. 

Frankie waved Birdie over and she happily joined the two smokers, sitting away from the racket. Rossi held out her smoke which was snatched up instantly by the Mississippian. 

“You wanna fill me in?” Bernadette prompted, grinning as Blythe had now pinned Lucy to the floor.

“Not really.” Frankie deadpanned, making Charlotte roll her eyes and begin explaining how Lucy had found out about a crush Blythe was harboring and begged her to tell who had caught her eye, but the redhead refused so Lucy had stolen her diary in hopes she written down a name or description of some kind. And apparently she had. 

Birdie let out a chuckle and returned Frankie’s cigarette to her before heading over to Constance. The youngest woman had come out of her shell quite a bit since Birdie had first met her in Toccoa, they got on like a house on fire.

“You know who she’s sweet on?”

“No clue.” Connie grinned, happy to be entertained by the ruckus. 

By now, Blythe had gotten her precious diary back and the first thing she did was smack Lucy over the head with it. 

“Just tell meeeeee!” Lucy stuck her bottom lip out, hands together with interlocked fingers like she was begging her closest friend.

“No, it's a secret.” Blythe answered, tucking the book under her mattress. Lucy seemed to leave it at that and the pair were back to their usual shenanigans, chatting about the day's events and laughing about various inside jokes. Lucy settled on her bed with a comic and Blythe lay her head over the brunette's lap and read the personal letters she had received that morning.

Connie and Birdie shared their daily chit-chat on the blondes bed, the room had quietened down a fair amount, just the typical conversation and smoking. 

So when Betty spoke up, announcing her promotion to Corporal, the room hushed. None of the girls really knew what to say, Betty wasn’t exactly a conversationalist. 

“Oh, Uh… What for?” Lucy was the one to break the quiet, attempting to be polite. When Betty gaped and couldn’t form an answer, a knowing look was passed around the room. Her father had put in a word and gotten her promoted. Typical. Birdie could see the animosity forming between the women in the room and decided to try defuse it. 

“Congratulations, Betty. That's great.” She smiled at the new Corporal who was quite obviously, just trying to fit in. Out of the corner of her vision she saw Lucy rolling her eyes and mouth something unkind to Blythe, who giggled. 

Bernadette cleared her throat and threw them a pointed look, both Lucy and Blythe turned their attention to Betty and gave their congratulations. Followed by Connie and Charlotte who praised the woman. Betty let a small smile creep onto her face as the others began another discussion about their COs. 

“What about you, Betty?” 

Bernadette watched her facial expression change to one of shock, her eyebrows raised; she was being included. The room waited for her answer and when she gave it, they laughed with her instead of at her and Betty felt warm in her chest. 

Elizabeth turned to Bernadette and mouthed a silent ‘Thank you.’ She knew the girls were only talking to her so kindly because of the Easy company lady and she was beginning to appreciate the unacknowledged endeavor.

A/N: Kinda a filler chapter, more exciting things to come!

~ next-autopsy ~

Chapter eighteen

#band of brothers #easy company #hbo war #made of glass #band of brothers fanfic #fem oc #oc #george luz #joe toye #bill guarnere #johnny martin

[starlingflight]

Welcome to the Family.

A/N: This started as a joke on discord and now, apparently, it’s a one-shot. I hope you all enjoy learning Charlie Weasley’s deepest, darkest secret. 

Charlie couldn’t sleep. It was always the same his first night back in The Burrow. The house was loud and, seemingly impossibly, more cramped than usual. Mum and Dad were on the sofa, having given up their room to the Delacours. Hagrid had been forced to sleep in a tent in the neighbour’s field and in a strange way, Charlie thought he might have felt more at home if he’d joined him. 

The Burrow was full of noise but it was all the wrong ones. The wind that whipped through the trees which lined the reserve in Romania was missing as was the distant rumble and roar of the dragons. Instead, he could hear Bill’s soft snores beside him and a suspicious pattern of banging coming from the twin's room on the floor above. 

It was no use. The clock had rolled all the way past midnight and Charlie was no closer to sleep than he had been two hours ago. Knowing that he was risking his life if his mother caught him, Charlie sighed heavily and rolled out of bed. 

What he needed was some relaxation. A way to unwind after the long hours spent travelling and the responsibility of socialising with so many people in one day. With that in mind, Charlie headed for the bathroom, passing carefully over the second step on his way up to the third floor, which he knew from many years of experience creaked loudly if you were foolish enough to step on it in the middle of the night. 

He was only mildly surprised to find a faint trace of light coming from the gap beneath the bathroom door. With this many people in the house, it was near impossible to find the bathroom empty, even in the small hours of the morning. Charlie leant back against the faded floral wallpaper of the landing, the hallway illuminated by the glow emanating from the tip of his wand and waited. 

The minutes crept by slowly. Charlie checked his watch. Five minutes passed, then ten. After fifteen long minutes, Charlie frowned at the bathroom door, unsure who could possibly be taking so long in there at this hour. 

After twenty minutes his patience had completely eroded and Charlie knocked softly on the door. 

A moment passed and nothing happened. Charlie reached out and placed his hand on the cool metal of the door handle just as a shadow flickered across the gap below the door. It opened and Charlie found himself face to face with Fleur. Her usually immaculate silver hair was piled messily atop her head and her sapphire blue eyes sparkled with unshed tears. 

“Sorry,” she whispered, casting her eyes to the tiled floor beneath them. “I didn’t realise anyone was awake.” 

Charlie, thoroughly unprepared to deal with a crying woman he hardly knew at almost one in the morning, froze for a moment. Fleur began to shuffle awkwardly around him in the doorway. She was almost past him when Charlie finally came to his senses and gently placed a hand on her arm. 

“Are you alright?” He asked, concerned. 

Fleur nodded wordlessly but even as she did so, more tears began to slide down her cheeks. “It’s very stupid,” she said, swiping at her face with the back of her hand. “Please don’t worry about it.” 

Charlie had always proclaimed that he was better with dragons than people but even he knew that if you found a woman crying in the bathroom just hours before her wedding you should probably be at least slightly alarmed. 

Without considering how strange it might look to anyone who happened to pass by, Charlie tightened his grip on Fleur’s arm just slightly and gently guided her back inside the bathroom, placing a silencing charm on the door as he closed it behind them. 

Fleur immediately perched herself on the edge of the bathtub and covered her face with her hands. “It’s just terrible timing!” She exclaimed. 

Charlie frowned down at her. “What is? The wedding? I know it’s not perfect but Dad told me about all the security measures and -” 

Fleur finally looked up from her hands, the sharp expression on her face was enough to silence Charlie instantly. “Not the wedding! This!” She pointed at her cheek. For a moment, Charlie was utterly perplexed at what he was supposed to be looking at. He crouched down and squinted and finally saw a small, red blemish upon Fleur’s otherwise flawless face. 

“A spot,” he said. 

“Yes!” Fleur said, her voice so loud she may have woken the whole house if not for the silencing charm Charlie had thought to cast. “I have never seen anything so hideous! It must be from the stress!” 

Charlie didn’t bother to clarify if she meant the stress of the war or the stress of the wedding, he had a feeling he already knew the answer to that. 

“I have tried everything!” Fleur continued. “Maman’s potions, Fred and George’s Wonderwitch products, even some Muggle remedies!” 

Fleur looked frantic. Her eyes were wide and wild with panic and a hot, red flush had begun to creep up her neck and across her face. 

Charlie hesitated for a moment, shuffling nervously from foot to foot. He barely knew the girl sat in front of him. He’d seen her compete in the tournament years ago and he’d been impressed with how she’d handled the Welsh Green. He’d witnessed less elegant handling on the reserve by wizards who’d worked with dragons for years. 

And he’d agreed to be Bill’s best man. Charlie supposed a good best man would do everything in his power to help the bride if he stumbled upon her crying the night before the wedding. 

“If I tell you something, do you swear to keep it a secret?” 

His question seemed to catch Fleur off guard. She stared at him for a moment and then slowly nodded her head. “I promise.” 

Charlie sighed loudly, still not sure if this was a good idea. He waved his wand in front of him and a second later a glass bottle appeared out of nowhere, landing securely in the palm of his hand. 

“What is that?” Fleur asked, peering curiously at the bottle. 

“This,” Charlie said. “Is for your face.” 

Fleur leant back over the bathtub, eyeing the bottle suspiciously. “What is it?” She asked again.

“It’s my secret recipe,” Charlie said, aware of the heat rising in his face. “I make it in Romania. Put it on your face for twenty minutes and I guarantee that spot will vanish.” 

Fleur reached out and tentatively took the bottle for him. She inspected it closely before rising to stand before the mirror above the sink. “You use this on yourself?” She asked, the reflection of her eyes meeting Charlie's. 

“Yes,” he admitted. “I er- I do self-care Sundays.” 

Fleur smiled as she tapped her wand to the top of the bottle, removing the stopper. With no further hesitation, she began to smear the rosy pink paste liberally across her face. “It smells incredible.” 

Charlie nodded. That would be the vanilla extract he added to activate the dragon’s blood. Not that he was prepared to share that with Fleur. 

She finished applying the mask and held the open bottle out to Charlie. For a moment he wavered, this had been his plan when he’d first made his way to the bathroom but he’d expected to do his pampering routine alone. Still, he supposed he’d already told Fleur the worst of his secret, what harm could it do at this point? Tentatively, he dipped a finger into the mask and began to spread it across his face. 

“I think we are going to get on very well!” Fleur announced happily once Charlie had finished applying the mask to his face. 

“Just don’t tell anyone!” Charlie said urgently. 

Finally, the minute hand informed Charlie that twenty minutes had passed. He nudged Fleur gently on the arm and then gestured to the sink. She washed the mask off eagerly, the pink mixture mingling with the water and disappearing down the drain. 

Fleur nodded dismissively, turning her attention to the stack of magazines beside the bath. She selected a copy of Witch Weekly for herself and tossed an old, battered issue of The Magizoologist to Charlie. They sat perched on opposite ends of the bathtub and began to read. The only noises inside the bathroom were that of Fleur and Charlie’s magazine pages rustling as they flipped them and the tick of Charlie’s watch counting down the minutes until they could wash their faces. 

Charlie handed her a towel and Fleur began to pat her face dry whilst he took her place at the sink, washing warm water vigorously across his face. 

It was impossible for Charlie not to smile at Fleur’s squeal of delight as she looked in the mirror and discovered the spot had disappeared just as he’d promised her. 

“Merci! Merci! Merci!” She cried, wrapping Charlie in a firm hug as she jumped up and down in excitement. 

“It’s alright!” Charlie said through a chuckle. “What are brothers for?” 

Fleur stopped jumping and looked Charlie in the eye, a dazzling smile upon her face. “I’ve never had a big brother before.” 

“Yeah, well, I have a little sister and I can already tell you’re going to be just as much trouble as the other one already is.” 

The smile slid from Fleur’s face. “Thank you,” She said earnestly. 

“Don’t mention it,” Charlie replied. “Ever.”  

#charlie weasley #fleur delacour #hp fanfic

[ofpineapplesanddawns]

Prompt Sentences 2 & 19 for 10th doc/Malcolm (whether to go maximum angst potential of that combo up to you)?

2: “I just want to let you know that I love you. A lot. Never forget that.”

19: “What? No, I never said that…”

Hoo boy, what can I make outta these two!

On with the fic!

--

Visiting has become a bit less frequent over the years, not because the Doctor was avoiding Malcolm, it was just the TARDIS seemed wary about stopping on the island. She kept sending him back further and further into Malcolm's past on the island, as if she were avoiding keeping him closer to...

Well, to when the timeline of the prophet could go from bad to worst with one simple thing going wrong.

Still, she was kind enough to let him land now, it had to be a few years before hand, from what he could tell. 1902, yes, it seemed to be the year when he stepped out.

There was time, always time, to tell Malcolm to be careful. He'd probably wouldn't listen, that was normal, the basic song and dance of them and their complicated relationship.

The Doctor walked through the woods, before coming to the hidden trap door, to the barn.

Blood was in the air, old and fresh. It made the Doctor's stomach turn, made him sick. He heard voices from the barn, loud ones, shouts in Welsh. He slipped away, behind a tree, out of sight just as the doors opened to the bar and someone stormed out.

It was Malcolm, and he was clearly furious. He shouted at someone in the barn, the words fast, slurred in anger, the Doctor almost didn't catch them.

"It's better than what you're doing! It's better than what you suggested! I am Her voice! I do what I can in exchange for Her gift!"

He slammed the doors shut and limped towards the trap door. The Doctor watched him come to a stop a few feet from it before pinching the bridge of his nose, sighing loudly. "Damnit..." He said to nothing before looking up, in the direction of the Doctor.

The Doctor hadn't noticed he had slipped out from his small hiding spot. "Uh... hey, everything alright?"

Malcolm stared before shaking his head. "No, not at all. I'm sure you heard enough."

"Not really, just you being mad at someone. And talking about the goddess." The Doctor shrugged, stepping out completely, shuffling through the fallen leaves on the ground. "What's going on?"

The prophet looked like he wanted to talk about anything other than this topic. But he replied anyway. "My brothers and I are having... trouble communicating over what is proper when it comes to providing for Her."

"Blood letting not enough anymore?"

Malcolm's mouth was a thin line. That was enough of an answer for the Doctor. "Have you spoken with her?"

"She is vague on what She wants." Malcolm admitted. "And it's annoying, and worrisome. “

Then he glared at the Doctor, which caught the taller man off-guard. “Aren’t you going to tell me off? Tell me that I should find a better way of going about feeding the Goddess, about how it’s vitally important that I do something soon or else... some vague horror will fall upon me?”

“What? No, I never said that…” The Doctor frowned, taking a step back on instinct, why was the anger directed at him now. “Well, I mean, I’ve said things like that in the past, but I don’t think this has anything to do with that...”

It probably did, but best not to anger Malcolm more.

The human’s eyes were hard, but then he seemed to realize what he had said and he sighed, his expression softer, sadder. “I’m terribly sorry, Doctor, I... I’ve been having a rather difficult time lately.”

“Do you... want talk about it?”

“In private, I fear we are not quite alone out here.”

The Doctor looked towards the barn, there was a stronger sent of fresh blood in the air. His jaw tightened and he nodded, turning to help Malcolm down into the tunnel under their feet.

He slipped down after, following after the prophet. “When was I last here?”

“Four months ago, I believe.”

“You lot were doing fine, last I checked. Crops were good, animals were fine. Was the harvest well? It’s clearly getting closer to winter now.”

“It was a good harvest, but not nearly as much as we had in past years.” Malcolm sighed. “We lost a few goats, we still have no clue what killed them. I suspect... She might have done something, in a moment of clarity and freedom. She can do it, sometimes, but not often. My brothers and I have done our best to keep Her from doing that again.”

The Doctor frowned deeply, that’s probably making things worse, but he kept that to himself. “We’re thinking of taking more offerings from the people.” Malcolm spoke up, and the Doctor’s eyes widened.

“Have they...?”

“A few have willingly offered Her blood, knowing I’ve been doing it. Quinn and Frank are not keen on it, but She seems to be fine with it. We never take them to Her, we just get a bowl or a jar, an offering from a few people, once in a while, not daily or weekly.”

The Doctor cursed under his breath. “You’re thinking of increasing the donations.”

“It’s... an option. We have other ways of feeding Her.” The way Malcolm said it filled the Doctor with a cold dread, but he didn’t press. He didn’t... he knew what it could be, he was sure he knew.

“Just... keep your options open, more humane.”

“I think it is better that they are.” Malcolm replied as they got back to the church. “For mine and my people’s sake.”

They stood in the empty building now, with the Doctor looking at Malcolm. He looked tired, older than he should be. Every visit was bringing them closer to those events in 1905, where Malcolm would either die or live, or... there was the option of both at once.

There was so much the Doctor wanted to say, it was getting harder and harder not to just take his hands and beg him to join him on the TARDIS, to run away with him, off to the stars. But the Doctor knew better, he knew that Malcolm was a devoted leader to his people, that he did care deeply for his community.

And... it was better that the Doctor traveled alone, it might hurt worse if Malcolm traveled with him and something happened.

He stepped closer, about to say something, when he could hear it. It was faint, off in the distance, muffled by the walls of the church, but he knew that sound anywhere.

The cloister bell.

Damnit, he was needed, the TARDIS was warning him of something, he needed to go see what it was about.

“Is something wrong?” Malcolm asked. He stopped, frowning curiously. “I sense... that the Goddess is trying to alert me to something. A sound of distress?”

“It’s my TARDIS, she’s calling out to me, I need to return. The... she’s letting off the cloister bell, so something is happening that requires my attention.” He took Malcolm’s hand. “I’m sorry my visit is so short, and not at the best of times, but I’ll try to be back as soon as possible, if I can.”

“Then I best be patient for your arrival.” Malcolm replied, his smile small, sad, but knowing. This has been how it always been between them, the Doctor could never stay, Malcolm could never leave.

Still... 

The Doctor gave him a small kiss, he was torturing himself at this point, but he had been doing that for so long now, with so many people, Malcolm was just another ache in his chest that he could live with, just like Rose, Martha, Donna, so many others...

“I just want to let you know that I love you. A lot. Never forget that.” He said softly, then turned, taking his leave for the doors.

Maybe the cloister bell wasn’t for an emergency somewhere in the universe, maybe it was for him, for taking too many risks with this man.

#malcolm howe x tenth doctor #john's drabbles #good omens extended universe #the prophet and the oncoming storm au

[eugenesmorphine]

Hi! Can I request for some Ronald Speirs with a women from an enemy side,like a german nurse/prisoner smth like that😁

AN: I have returned. I know, from the hole of depression and school. I hope to be more active, so imagines will be coming out more. This one isn't my best since i'm trying to get back into the swing of things. But, regardless, I hope you enjoy.

First Sightings // A Ronald Speirs Imagine

Words: 2,365

Taglist: @alienoresimagines @ricksmorty @punkgeekcryptid !@hellitwasyoufirstsergeant @valterras @adamantiumdragonfly

It was early within the morning when Easy Company quietly invaded a small town overtaken by the German army. About three in the morning to be exact. Hiding beneath the cover of the darkened sky, the moonlight shining down dully between the trees and clouds.

The town had been converted into a small base, or headquarters for the Germans. Most of the homes were clearly not in use as the enemy had forced the remaining habitants out from their homes. Just a few homes were being used at barracks, and it seemed like the small town hall had been used as their aid station.

Four officers took a knee on a hill whilst using the brush as cover. Winters, Speirs, Nixon, and Compton all kneeled within a small line, close together, staring down their own scopes. Ronald Speirs pulled his scope down first and let out a scoff. Causing the three other Paratrooper officers to lower their scopes to turn towards the officer.

“Only a few guards posted out on a few balconies. For being such a “strong force”, they’re situational awareness seems to be at an all time low,” he whispered. Winters let out a quiet chuckle and turned back to the front. Bringing the scope back up to his eye. Peering over to what seemed to be their aid station. Small jeeps continued to pour in and out hourly to drop off wounded Nazi soldiers. Two nurses continued to rush in and out. Same two nurses each time. Blood covered the aprons and dresses they wore, along with their hands. It was clear even from a decent distance away.

“Looks like that aid station is quite busy. Just two nurses it seems though, got to be careful of them,” Winters stated quietly. To which Ronald just scoffed again.

“Why would they ever decide to side with them? To nurse those son’s of a bitches back to health just to come and kill our men?” Ronald asked. His eyes now steadying on the nurses in the distance. Nixon was the one to pipe up this time.

“A lot of them don’t make the choice themselves. Some of them don’t have a choice. Kind of like how we draft men. They’re people just like us. They don’t want to kill our men, the soldiers do. They merely just want to get home. Just like us,” he told him. Nixon was right. And Ronald knew that, but he didn’t want to admit it. He wasn’t going to, because he wasn’t that type of man. So instead, he didn’t.

“They all have a choice. Just like us,” Speirs responded. Keeping his opinion voiced. Gritting his teeth. Nixon went to sarcastically respond, but Winters clapped a hand on his shoulder and pulled him back slightly. The location officer turned to look at his higher up. And Winters just shook his head. Knowing that his dear friend Ronald Spiers wouldn’t give up his opinion. Making the “come along” motion and quietly walking away. Nixon just sighed and followed his tail closely.

Speirs sat alone for a bit longer. His dark eyes staring down at that aid station.Watching the two nurses now standing outside as they washed blood soaked linens and bed sheets in old horse troughs filled with water. “Yeah, we all have a choice,” he repeated below his breath. Knowing no one would hear him. A small grunt came from his chapped lips and he stood up quietly. Grabbing his Thompson and turning around to follow his fellow officers back to their foxholes. They were to be invading soon, he just needed to prepare a bit.

///

It didn’t take long to take over the small base. Maybe an hour, and only minor wounds and just one fatal casualty. Speirs and the other officers had been working with the rest of the Paratroopers to take care of the prisoners and organize them to take them to the holding base.

Ronald had been hanging back a bit, just watching over the small process of everything they were doing. It was going smoothly. Until one thing popped into his mind. His back straightened and his head went up. He looked up at all the groups of captured Nazis, and even around at the bodies. They weren’t there. Where were the nurses?

In a flash he turned and began to briskly walk towards that aid station. He didn’t see their pale blue dresses and white aprons anywhere. Even as he searched while he walked. His eyes fell back towards the building where medical supplies had been being hauled out crate by crate. But still no nurses. He grumbled slightly and picked up his pace. Pushing past some soldiers and walking through the large wooden doors. Pausing when he saw a bunch of bodies laying down with sheets over their heads. Clearly the men the nurses were trying to save. He huffed and looked up. Seeing a group of men with their guns pointed at one of the nurses. The other one is still yet to be seen. The nurse with the soldiers around her all peered down at her. Her hands behind her head in surrender.

“Please, please let me see if I can help her,” she pleaded through a strong German accent. Ronald pursued closer. Wondering what she was bantering about. But as he walked closer, the officer was quick to understand. The other nurse, a pretty blonde woman, had been laying on her side. A pool of blood coming from her stomach. Ronald’s eyes widened. As much as he hated the Nazis, and what he had stated to the fellow officers, this was a war crime. And the sound of the other H/C nurse crying didn’t make him feel any better.

“Was this any of your bullets?” he asked sternly. Snapping his head towards the group of paratroopers, and weeping woman who still knelt on the wooden floor of the church. The woman was dead already, her body already beginning to turn ghost white, while the blood had stopped flooding from the wood. And her breath could not be heard. The downed nurse’s chest did not rise, nor fall.

The young paratroopers jumped at the menacing officer. Swallowing fast as they all shook their heads. One decided to finally speak up. “The woman was on the ground before we came in here, sir. We heard a gunshot and some German and rushed in here. The little lady was on the floor bleeding out, and a Kraut standing with a gun to this one’s head. He is over there,” he spoke, pointing to the dead German who was slumped against a wall. His head bent over, as he too was dead.

“They are speaking the truth, it was the German soldier that had shot her. I was next, they thought that we were the ones that had been giving information to you Americans when you first stormed here,” she paused as she tried to look away from her dead friend. Tears continued to pour down her face. “Please, I am not a threat. I had no choice but to be a nurse. I want nothing from this war. They would have killed me if I didn’t. Please, I do not want to die,” her English was broken. But so was her voice. Ronald stood there for a moment, wondering what he should do. She seemed sincere. And genuinely scared.

“I’ll bring her to Roe, he could probably use the help,” was all Speirs said. Leaving the men a little shocked. The woman slowly stood and wiped her eyes. Briskly walked past the corpses of her fellow nurse, and the rest of the bodies that were within the church. Following the paratrooper officer closely. Her flats hit the mud that was outside of the church, splashing up her legs and all over her shoes. She chose to ignore it for then, keeping silent as she walked behind the cold faced officer.

They walked in silence for quite a bit. The young nurse felt as if she was in fact a prisoner. The stares of the other Americans, her eyes stayed focused in front of her. Staring at Speir’s back.

Speirs had gotten sick of the silence. He was one for it, but sometimes it was boring. And with this woman, he felt compelled to speak to her for some odd reason. Just an itch that he wanted to at least learn her name. “What is your name, little lady?” he asked bluntly. To which the nurse perked her head up nervously yet quickly.

“My name is Y/N L/N. May I ask you yours, Army Man?” She responded. Ronald nodded to himself. Taking in her words and taking a deep breath. Rounding a corner of one of the run down buildings, continuing to head towards the aid station where the other medics had been stationed.

“My name is Ronald Speirs, Captain Speirs is what you can call me,” he responded. Y/N sat there and practiced the name under her breath. Repeating it quietly until she had gotten it right.

“You have a nice name, Captain Speirs,” she complimented. Making Ronald’s ends of his lips quirk upwards with a smile. He didn’t even realize he did it. “I wanted to thank you, and your men. For not killing me. You must know that it wasn’t our-” she paused for a moment and took a deep breath. “It wasn’t my choice to be this way and help the Nazi party. Many people were trapped under the work of the Nazis. Many men and women did sign up for the role for the fatherland, but many were forced, sir,” she tried to explain. Y/N was merely afraid of the worst. To be sent away and jailed, or killed. “All I wanted was my family to be safe,” she finished.

Ronald stayed silent for a moment. He remembered what he said to Winters, Welsh, and Nixon. He knew the truth, and he was just an angry type of man. But with how this young woman said certain things, how scared she sounded, how she wept and begged when they first entered that church. It made his eyes open just a little bit.

“Are you hungry?” he asked bluntly. Y/N just lifted her head a little confused at the question. She had been thinking that she was a prisoner of sorts. She didn’t exactly know how she would be treated, but definitely not like this. To be asked if she was hungry, unlike when she worked for the Germans. They pretty much told her when she was to eat, sleep, drink, use the bathroom. It was odd hearing the question after a while of just being given so many orders she was forced to do.

The young nurse didn’t understand the truth of the Americans. She wished for liberation. Prayed for it even. She was still scared she would be arrested or killed. Much like what the Russians did to the German forces. But with the company of the rather quiet, intimidating officer gave her a bit of comfort. Especially from the looks of all the men that the two walked by. The hatred filled the eyes of some, who just screamed out to blame her for helping the Germans. Y/N merely tried to ignore it, just swallowing hard and looking forward. Continuing to step through the mud.

///

When Ronald had brought Y/N to Eugene , Eugene stared up at her with surprise. “Doc, this is Y/N, she is a nurse. She is going to help you out with the wounded for now. I’m going up to HQ to figure out if we are sending her with the other prisoners or not,” he reported. Eugene just gave a respectful nod towards the officer. Y/N took a few steps towards the medic.

“I wish to help. My English isn’t the best, but I am good with my hands. I promise,” she said softly. It seemed her voice was almost permanently soft due to the harsh cold that attacked all of the soldiers. No matter what side.

Eugene just nodded and outstretched his arm to jester to the few wounded men that sat around. Y/N didn’t hesitate, she went. Kneeling in the mud and aiding a soldier that had a large shrapnel wound across the thigh and down the leg. Muttering soft prayers within her language as she began to suppress and wrap the wound.

The Officer had found himself staring. His mind was a mess. He was a close minded, but very smart man at times. Very wise for his young age. He wanted to understand. But he knew everyone had a choice. Though, he wasn’t as angry, just wanting to understand why it made her want to protect her family in a way to help the people she hated. It was a question for another time. Ronald glanced at Roe and back to the female. “If you have any problems, let me know. But other than that, keep an eye on her,” The officer spoke to the medic. Roe gave a stiff nod and looked back at his patient. A man with a bullet wound in the shoulder. And Spiers turned around and began to walk off.

As he walked, he quickly began to feel frustration bubble within himself. The image of fear etched across Y/N’s face when he had first seen her within the church, had remained burned within his mind. This was the first time he felt genuine remorse. He couldn’t tell if it was from how pretty he had found her, or the sincerity in her begging for her life. Or was it both. He hated it. He didn’t like feeling soft. Only hard and just his normal intimidating stature of an officer in charge. He wanted to brush it off, but the remorse filled his stomach with an odd feeling. He thought he was sick at first. But instead, it was butterflies. He hated it. He didn’t know why he was feeling it. But he was.

A story of love at first sight. And he didn’t know it. And neither did she.

#ronald speirs imagine #ronald speirs x reader #ron speirs #ronald speirs #bob imagine #band of brothers headcanon #incorrect band of brothers quotes #band of brothers imagine #band of brothers x reader #hbo headcanons #hbo imagines #hbo headcanon #hbo war imagine #hbo war headcanon

[yespolkadotkitty]

Chapter 1 ~ Chapter 2 ~ Chapter 3 ~ Chapter 4

Thanking @mourningbirds1 for the beta!

Luncheon passed as slowly as usual. Bea’s father regaled her with this week’s list of suitors - only two - and their various accomplishments. The third had become struck down with some sort of foot-related malady which her father started to expound upon in too much detail. Bea feigned a coughing fit until he changed the subject, but his raised brow said he knew her game.

Nevertheless, he indulged her and they spoke about the autumnal plants flowering in the gardens.

“No letter from Mama today?” Bea asked, hoping perhaps he’d forgotten.

“Not today.”

She swallowed her disappointment and pushed the last bites of quail around her plate, trying to drum up some interest.

It was a feast for the senses, all the meals here were, but her stomach barely growled. She would have been just as happy with her mother’s cook’s plain, fresh fare.

“Where are the soldiers eating?”

“In the servants’ quarters,” her father replied, brow furrowing. “You want them to eat here? As the knights did? You need to learn to behave like the Lady of a Manor you’ll soon be, Beatrix.”

Bea swallowed back her disappointment. “Very well, father.”

He quirked a brow. “I know that tone. It means you’re biding your time until you can find a way around me.”

Bea dipped her head, her face flushing.

“Beatrix.” Her father took her hand, waiting until she looked at him. “Do you think I wouldn’t like you to live wild in the country? But your mother has done you no favours. You must take your place among your family line, like it or not.”

I don’t like it, Bea thought. But she could have it much worse. As fathers went, she believed hers was lenient. For now.

If she kept refusing suitors, though-

Lord Wolfe released her hand. “Do not forget that Sir Gareth will be joining us for dinner. Do not be late, and for the Lord’s sake, do something with your hair. All right?” he added, softening his tone a little.

“Yes, Father.”

“Good.” He looked as if he would perhaps add something, but then waved a servant over. “We are finished here.”

The young man bowed. “Yes, my Lord.”

Beatrix sat at the table for a few minutes, idly turning the cloth napkin between her fingers.

Lord Wolfe paused at the door. “Your company for the afternoon, Beatrix.”

When Bea turned, William stood in the doorway. His heavy beard caught the afternoon light from the dining chamber window, and she had a sudden idea.

“William?”

Yes, my lady?”

“I think you could do with some...smartening up.”

His brows lifted for a second. “As you say, my Lady.”

********

William eyed Bea suspiciously as she soaped his bearded jaw. “You have used one of those before, haven’t you, my lady?”

Bea turned the cut-throat razor over in her hands. It glinted in the light of the bathing chamber. “No, but how hard can it be? Just scrape the hair off. Correct?”

William seemed to sort of shrink in his chair. “I, ah, believe that’s the way of it, yes.”

Tapping the razor in her hands, Bea tilted her head, considering. “How long since you’ve been clean shaven?”

“Years, my lady.” He leaned away just a fraction; but Bea saw the move.

For a moment she pretended to study the way he shifted in the chair. “William, I’m shaving your face. Not your balls.”

He barked out a nervous laugh.

A rap at the door made Bea turn. “Come.”

“My lady.” The maid Bea has been assigned here, a timid, mousey-haired woman, bowed deeply and kept her head down when she walked forward. “I was asked to assist you.”

“Ah yes. Come, Matilda.” Bea beckoned with her free hand. “I was about to shave William. William, this is my lady’s maid, Matilda. Matilda, meet William.”

The maid raised her gaze for a moment, and William met it. Matilda’s cheeks flushed and she looked away.

Bea watched the exchange with interest.

“Matilda, the bowl, if you would.”

The maid wordlessly held the bowl out to William’s right side. Bea dipped the razor in the water and began to gently scrape at William’s heavy beard. Hanks of it dropped into the water, and after each pass, Bea rinsed the blade. A bead of sweat rolled down William’s temple as she worked.

“Afraid?” Bea teased. “Of a woman?”

“Only a fool isn’t afraid of a blade near his neck,” William said, moving his mouth as little as possible when replying.

Bea smiled. “You and Tovar. You’re different from the others.”

“As are you.” He stilled again when she scraped another few hanks of dark blond beard from his jaw, moving the blade with care.

“Never been assigned to busywork before?” When he arched a brow, Bea rolled her eyes. “I know what this is. I’m not an infant who needs to be minded. My father merely wants to ensure I don’t flee back to the country, or embarass myself before he can find a local lord I’m willing to marry.”

“And do you want to? Marry, I mean?”

Bea smiled without humour. “How different the world of a woman is. You, William, are the first person ever to ask me that question.” She scraped gently at the curve where his jaw met his ear; more hair fell away. A curl landed on Matilda’s hand and William reached up to brush it away; his touch lingering a fraction longer than was seemly.

Very interesting.

“There.” Bea rinsed the blade, shaved off a few of the straggling hairs, then set the razor in the bowl. “Matilda, the looking glass, if you please.”

The maid set the bowl down on the tall, oak Welsh dresser by the window, and fetched the looking glass. Recently polished, it shone in the afternoon light.

“Wait one moment.” Bea rummaged in her pocket for a strip of leather she used to tie her hair back - a fashion her father detested - and gathered William’s hair into a tail. “There. You look a little roguish; I like it.”

Matilda tilted the glass obligingly.

William admired himself for a moment. “Am I more pleasing to you like this, my Lady? More fitting to be your guard?”

Bea’s brows raised in surprise. “It’s not about appearances, William. To be frank with you, it is either find ways to entertain myself under my father’s arrest, or go quite mad. Do you think the Spaniard would consent to being sheared?”

William smiled at the term. “We are in your employ, are we not? I should like to see his reaction to it, though. I should like that very much.”

********

Bea found Tovar in the Manor courtyard. Apples hung heavy from the trees, a bright green, their flesh perfectly ripe. Bea picked one, and as she approached Tovar, he turned to face her.

He wore a clean black tunic, belted at the waist, a sword in a scabbard at his right hip. The afternoon sunlight picked out the dark brown slices in his black hair, highlighting the richness of the shade. Would it be soft?

To distract herself, she offered the apple. 

“I am to be Adam, no? Taking a bite of the forbidden fruit?”

“Did anyone tell you it’s forbidden?”

His dark gaze was on her face when he replied, softly, “fruit as enticing as this is always forbidden, Princesa.”

Bea frowned, slipping the apple into her pocket. “Don’t call me that. Can’t you call me Bea? Or even Beatrix?”

Tovar’s hand curled into a fist at his side. “It would not do to become over familiar. Princesa.”

She scoffed, walked away a few paces.

“It is your time with William, no? But you sought me out.”

“Yes.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why? You wish to rub salt into my wound, hmmm? To discover more about my less than illustrious past?”

“No.” Her throat closed. “No. Not at all, Tovar. You have no reason to trust me, but I adore those children. I would bring them all here if I could.”

His mouth ticked up into a half-smile, warming his bottomless, ale-brown eyes. “A manor of waifs and strays?”

“Better than a Manor where the Lords eat well while the wretched others starve,” she bit back, then sighed. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. It’s just…. Things should be different.”

Tovar’s eyes went wide for a second. “You did not come here to apologise to me, Princesa. Tell me what it is you want.”

Bea stuffed her hands in her pockets, because she wanted to touch the Spaniard. Feel the drum of his heart under her palms. Breathe him in.

And that reminded her that none of the peacocking suitors her father arranged her made her feel thus. It excited her; it unsettled her.

“I just shaved William’s beard off,” she told him, her fingers brushing the smooth green apple skin in her pocket. “And I want to ask if I can practice on you, too.”

WiSC taglist: @ladytrashbird @knittingqueen13 @heatherbel @aeryntheofficial @corellians-only @lilangeldevil006 @agirllovespancakes @alienprincesspoop @frannyzooey @thirstworldproblemss @chook007 @jaime1110 @badassbaker @thebubblecone @nelba @poenariuniverse @teaofpeach @pinkzsugar @holographic-carmen @songsformonkeys @absurdthirst @chews-erotically @lilkermit13 @gooddaykate @rnlaing @winters-buck @kindablackenedsuperhero @f0rever15elf​ @lokiaddicted​ @pancakepike​ @emesispo​ @mskitt79 @pedropascalito​ @wildchild1964 @rhemasky​ @fics-for-kit​ @roxypeanut​ @skdubbs​ @yoohoo307 @the-feckless-wonder​ @javiers-tac-vest​ @littlemissthistle​ @dermandalorianer @giselatropicana​ @princess-and-pedro​ @raspberrydreamclouds​ @ksgeekgirl​ @10-96dispatcher

#pero tovar x ofc #pero tovar fic #the great wall fic #pero tovar #william garin #pedro pascal fanfiction #pero tovar fanfiction #pero tovar x fem!ofc

[soyforramen]

Sting

Or an update to the urban-fantasy AU:

Betty bit at her nails as she stared at him. It was unnerving, to say the least. Jughead had seen her in many moods, but this was the first time she’d stared at him as if he were a specimen behind glass. He’d been startled when she stormed into his apartment, clearly with a purpose, though the longer they stood there the more that purpose seemed to fail her.

“Take your shirt off,” she said.

Jughead was grateful that she’d missed his shocked expression in favor of digging through her backpack.

“I’ve got a grimoire that should work against Penny. It took some experimenting, but Veronica and I think it will work against demon fire.”

Oh.

Of course Betty would have come up with a solution to that particular problem. And of course her interest in his skin was purely professional. Why should it be anything else?

(Careful, Jug, came a voice that sounded far too much like Veronica for his tastes, otherwise we might think you’d want her to have a more personal interest.)

He sneered at that thought and stripped off his jacket. Betty was a problem solver, and in this case Penny had become a big problem. The demon had been creeping around the cult’s warehouses lately, likely waiting for a time to catch either one of them alone and vulnerable. And when a demon decided to claim a territory, they were keen to keep out anything that might threaten their dominance.

Jughead turned away from Betty as she was pulling out a plastic sheet and stripped off his flannel and undershirt. Even now, dead and starving, his breath hung in the air. He glanced over his shoulder at Betty, still working on the spell, and wondered if he should turn the heater on. But when she stripped off her own jacket and sweater to reveal the scarred, tattooed skin underneath – her runes sharp and stinging to his eyes – he decided against it.

He stared at his bookshelf, his heart pounding as hard as it could after two days without feeding. Jughead put all of his energy into focusing on the overflowing bookshelf rather than the half-naked witch behind him. As he scanned the titles, he realized he’d never been able to track down the last copy of his grandfather’s treatise on how to find and kill witches; now, though, he was immensely grateful that he’d never found it.

“This might sting,” Betty said softly behind him. She placed her hand on his back to steady the stencil, and the electric tingle of her skin reminded him of being alive in all the best ways. Strange, mumbled words hummed in the air around him.

Sharp, stinging pain dug into his very soul and Jughead bit his lip to keep from crying out. Unable to bear it for more than a few seconds, he cursed out and leapt away from her.

“What the hell is that, holy water?”

Betty winced. “And aloe and grimwood. It’s the only thing guaranteed to protect against demon-fire, and after she attacked you last week …”

“And she’s been guarding the cult,” Jughead finished, recognizing why Betty used the equivalent of jalapeno juice in an open wound on him.

She nodded, flushing a pretty crimson color. “And until we know what she’s doing with the cult, this is the best I can do.”

Jughead’s eyes were caught on the flush of her cheeks and how it lit up her face. His stomach growled suddenly and Betty’s eyes went wide. The color on her cheeks deepened and she stepped back, twirling a finger at him.

Dutifully, he turned back around to let her finish. He bit the inside of his own cheek this time and focused on the crack in the wall rather than the pounding of her blood as it ran through her carotid artery at a rate of 5.1 kilos pure, viscous, life-saving liquid a minute, pushing 95% oxygenated blood through her body, rushing it to her cheeks, her neck, her throat, each and every red cell warming up her temperature to the perfect –

“Done.” Betty reached around him and held out the canister and plastic sheet. “My turn now. There should be some open space back there, but be quick about it. The ingredients won’t stay active too much longer.”

When he turned, Jughead found her back towards him. Her lithe, delicate hands held her ponytail away from her skin and he could see the pulse point on her neck jumping. His eyes, inherited from Judas’, no doubt, traced her skin, bronzed from the sun and full of life, to a mostly blank spot between her shoulder blades.

Hesitantly, he placed the cut plastic against her skin. Her whole body shuddered and he drew back.

“Sorry. Cold hands comes with the being dead thing.”

“No, it’s not you –“ Betty cut herself off and the back of her neck flushed.

Jughead fought back against the hunger that sat at the back of his throat and pressed the plastic against her skin. When he pressed down the nozzle, a sickly green liquid that attacked his eyes and nose clung to her skin. Slowly, he ran the liquid across the plastic.

“Now what?”

Betty shook her head and reached towards her sweater. A shiver ran down her back and Jughead traced the air along her spine, careful not to touch her.

“I think that’s it,” she said.

When she turned, Jughead held the canister out to her. (What did she do with them?, he wondered. Recycle? Reuse them for other spells? Throw them out into the city dump to create mutant creatures resistant to both human and underworld threats?)

Betty took it from him, taking great care not to touch, or look at, his skin.

“There’s some still left, if you want another hit to your front,” she offered.

“Will it help?”

She shrugged and took the plastic, turning it over in her hands. “It can’t hurt.”

“Alright.”

Betty placed the sticky, warped plastic against his skin. Her fingers were light and hot against his chest, forcing him to grind down on his back molars and count backwards from a thousand in Welsh.

As the liquid ate away at his skin, Jughead threw his glance towards the ceiling and held his breath as the noxious substance was applied. To keep his mind of the pain and the fumes, he counted all the ways his upstairs neighbor had irritated him in the past two centuries, the most recent of which was finding her nosey way into his brain. The liquid hit a scratch, not fully healed, and he jerked away.

“Sorry, almost done,” Betty said softly, misreading his movement.

She shifted so that her hand covered his heart, stilling the sudden fever in him. In this instant he knew that he’d do anything she asked, regardless of the risk to himself or the rest of the world. It was a dangerous thing, especially when one considered Betty didn’t realize the power it gave her.

The plastic peeled away from his skin, taking with it Betty’s hand. It’s absence left him colder than he’d ever been before, alive or dead.

“The protection should last a week, as long as you don’t wash it off,” she said, refusing to look at him.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Betty told him, her focus on packing up her ingredients.

The sudden cold behavior came as a start, and he slowly drew his own shirt back on. It wasn’t until he walked her to the door it struck him. After all, witches never made it their business to consort with the undead, and it seemed as if she’d finally found her senses when it came to him. Perhaps this was her way of politely setting boundaries. They were finally starting to get somewhere with the cult, and it wouldn’t be much longer that they’d part ways. It was only natural that one of them begin thinking about what happened after. And what it meant when they –

Betty paused at the door, her eyes catching his for the first time since she’d entered.

“I didn’t shiver because of the cold. My runes protect me against that.”

And with that she was gone into the night, leaving him to wonder whether she’d spoken those words at all.

#bughead fanfiction #bughead au

[popatochisssp]

if/when you get the energy/time to- im really curious; what kinda fuzzy friends do the newer skeles have? does pitch have a seeing eye-dog version of princess? or does ell and/or nemo have a fuzzy buddy to help with their anxiety or anything similar or in-between? spare fuzzy friend hcs for the poor, ma'am????

Well, you asked for it!

Ash (Undergloom Sans): A cat named Annie (Ragdoll), adopted as an emotional support buddy! She picked him, really, just ambling right on up to him, and it was love at first flop-over-his feet. Having a little sweetheart like her to take care of has really helped to pull Ash out of the doldrums and he loves her a lot. She’s a big-time cuddlebug, just like he is, and they definitely spend a ton of time napping together, everywhere and anywhere.

Annie’s Quirks: Extra chunky (master of the ‘I haven’t been fed yet 🥺’ con), stockpiles socks and undies beneath the bed, shameless catnip junkie

Yrus (Undergloom Papyrus): He feels like he’s not as active as he should be, lots of time spent indoors doing academic things, when there’s a whole beautiful world out there that he should be getting out to see at least sometimes... He has the idea that maybe an animal companion would be the right motivation to get up and out at least a couple times a day, and Cannoli (Pembroke Welsh Corgi) is the solution to the problem! They click pretty much immediately and are just very well-suited to each other, especially as exercise partners.

Cannoli’s Quirks: Loves (short) walks, rests his head on any feet that stay still long enough, must sleep in the same bed as the people and will hop/bark/cry if he can’t get up there himself

Brick (Horrorfell Sans):He doesn’t know too much of the story himself, he’s sure he was told in more detail but probably forgot. All he remembers is, a friend of a friend had a dog who had an accident...or maybe it got sick? Either way, it went deaf, and the dog was too big and unwieldy for them to try to retrain themselves. But they had a friend who was HoH, and that friend was active in the community with lots of other signing and HoH folks and could ask around about someone who might be up for the challenge of having and training a real big dog that couldn’t hear a word you said to it. That’s how Brick heard about it, anyway, and he’s not deaf but he’s big, and he figures he probably knows at least enough sign by now to train a dog. And that’s how Tiny (English Mastiff) comes to stay at his place. They clumsily work on understanding each other, it’s definitely a Process, but there’s plenty of fondness there to make any difficulty worth the trouble.

Tiny’s Quirks: Bit of a digging problem, gets very excited about balloons, likes to sit near people and lean his entire weight into them

King (Horrorfell Papyrus): This one may look familiar, but it’s fate-- Doomfanger (Persian) belongs with him and could find her way to him in any universe. ...But King was a little later getting to the Surface, and wasn’t there to pick her up when she was freshly on the streets. She spent awhile longer being an alleycat, a few years of living the rough life, and one day when she’s not quite fast enough to scurry out of the way of an oncoming car, it probably would’ve been the end for her... if not for the kind Samaritan skeleton who was just passing by that scooped her up off the pavement and brought her to a vet. King tried very hard not to get attached to her, especially when it was still looking like she wouldn’t make it, but he kept moving the goalpost of when he’d let himself care about her. ‘IF IT LIVES UNTIL MORNING,’ ‘IF IT MAKES IT TO THE VET,’ ‘IF SHE SURVIVES HER SURGERY,’ ‘IF--’ and then she looks at him, with her goofy drugged up face, freshly missing the foot of her back paw so that they even match now, and... And just like that, Doomfanger has a home and a devoted cat-dad owner and anything else she could possibly need.

Doomfanger’s Quirks: Likes to be raked, makes an incredible fuss when shut out of any room for any reason, very spooked by loud noises and immediately runs and hides under daddy’s bed

Merc (Horrorswap Sans): He wanted a pet, especially when things were still a little strained with his brother and the nature of his...condition...made it difficult to make friends. He was lonely and a little pal would be very welcome in his home, but he’d also really hate to curse a furry friend with the ever-present threat of being dripped on and getting nasty bone-goop stuck in their fur... Ella (Sphynx) is the workaround to this unusual problem and makes herself right at home with Merc, happy to love on him whether he’s solid or sticky.

Ella’s Quirks: Has an extensive collection of sweaters that she adores (will sit by her dresser and meow until she is clothed), great sense for emotions and tends to appear whenever she’s needed, transfixed by mirrors

Ell (Horrorswap Papyrus): He didn’t choose Ripley (Maine Coon), Ripley... well, he’s not even sure Ripley chose him. He definitely chose Ella, because that pretty little sweater-wearing vixen in the window is what drove him to bust into Ell and Merc’s house and start sauntering around like he owned the place. Ripley (named before they realized he was a boy-cat) was definitely feral, with a notched ear and a missing eye, but he just keeps coming around, breaking and entering, cuddling with Ella and sharing her food, and when he one day hops into Ell’s lap and curls his big fluffy body up there... Ell makes the (possibly bad) decision to just shut the doors and windows on this mean, fat bastard and make him commit to the self-domestication he’d started. Ripley’s fickle, anti-social, and nine times out of ten mean as hell, but despite it all, Ell’s attached to the fucker. Doesn’t stop him from talking mad shit about his demon-cat to anyone who’ll listen, but y’know, there’s a weird sort of love there, between them both.

Ripley’s Quirks: Hates other cats and people, with Ell and Ella as the only exceptions (Ell sometimes, Ella always), does truly heinous things to birds and rodents and even bugs if the opportunity presents itself, an escape artist who is not to be trusted around doors or windows

Pitch (Horrorswapfell Sans): Ms. Sandy Peaches (Golden Retriever) is a service dog, trained to assist people with visual impairments in a variety of tasks. Pitch, who’d long been mulling over the idea of getting one such dog, eventually follows through, and as soon as he hears her name, he’s decided-- Sandy Peaches is the one for him! He’s been blind awhile by the time he gets her and generally knows his way around things, but she’s very helpful in his day-to-day and some of the things that were moderately inconvenient to get through before are only mildly inconvenient now, and her value as a helper and a companion is much appreciated.

Sandy’s Quirks: Gets excited when it’s time to put her vest on and go work, thinks the appropriate amount of brushing time is probably about three hours, loves to go swimming

Nemo (Horrorswapfell Papyrus): He found Dizzy (American Shorthair) after an accidental click led him to a local shelter’s Instagram, where they had a video of her playing and a few hashtags that explained her condition. He learned a lot about cerebellar hypoplasia, aka ‘wobbly cat syndrome,’ and when he eventually made it back to her video and watched it again... it was too late, he was already half in love with her. He contacts the shelter and after a couple weeks making arrangements, purchasing necessities, and wobbly-cat-proofing the house, he braves the outdoors to go get her and bring her home. She’s probably 100% his baby within the first hour and he loves being able to take care of her and help a kitty that not everybody would have the time or dedication to take in. The love is very much mutual and Dizzy’s tail does the ‘omg it’s you, I love you!’ tail-quiver whenever she sees him and trots on over.

Dizzy’s Quirks: Sixth sense for when there’s clean laundry to be laid on, likes to hold extended warbling and yowling conversations with people, chews on anything that crinkles (keep plastic wrappers out of reach!)

Sunny (Gastertale Sans): As soon as he knew he wanted a dog, he knew he wanted to pick up one of the less adoptable ones. Skipper (Beagle mutt) was certainly that, with only two legs--one in front and one in back. Sunny had a play session with the little guy and admired his energy and how enthusiastically he played, like his missing legs didn’t even phase him. Whatever happened in Skipper’s past, he’s not letting it be his problem now, and needless to say, he’s adopted and taken home in pretty short order. No holds barred fetch and spontaneous frolicking in open fields are a great bonding activity for these two, probably a match made in heaven.

Skipper’s Quirks: Tennis ball fiend (literally can never have enough), chews on unattended shoes, loves to sing (read: howl) along to music

Aster (Gastertale Papyrus): He wanted a guard dog, some big intimidating-looking thing that would look really, really cool guard the house. He finds Ace (Doberman/Great Dane), unfortunately with his ears already cropped (Aster wouldn’t have chosen the procedure himself), but otherwise a very handsome fellow and still definitely in need of love and a home, both of which Aster was willing and able to provide. He’s attentive with all the care and training his new pup needs, and when Ace grows up just as huge as predicted, looking like a cross between a panther and a hellhound, he’s become an extremely well-mannered and obedient dog, full to the tips of his pointy ears with love for Aster.

Ace’s Quirks: King of naps, the worst nightmare of any strangers at the door (but very affectionate and loving once they’re in!), will tell you if you’ve stopped petting him too soon, boofing and trying to put your hand back to make you resume

#animal #cat #dogs #headcanons #sans #papyrus #undergloom #ug!sans #ug!papyrus #horrorfell #hf!sans #hf!papyrus #horrorswap #hs!sans #hs!papyrus #horrorswapfell #hsf!sans #hsf!papyrus #gastertale #g!sans #g!papyrus #mapleshmaple

[stillbandofbrothersthirsty]

As Far As Friends Go

Chapter 8 (Chapter 1; Chapter 2; Chapter 3; Chapter 4; Chapter 5; Chapter 6; Chapter 7)

Nixon - March 1944

The new year saw no improvement to Emily and Nixon’s relationship despite his fumbled attempts at reconciliation. Nixon felt that he went out of his way to make small talk with her, to be friendly (especially in the mornings) and to be enthusiastic about her work. Emily was outwardly friendly, to an appropriate degree, but Nixon could sense the barrier she had put up between them. When they had first met, she had been so open and warm, bordering on desperate for his friendship. Now, she made polite small talk and performed her tasks with a new rigid professionalism. Nixon couldn’t help but feel that this behavior was exclusive to him. He saw how she interacted with the men in the pub, in the mess, and on the rifle range; she didn’t seem to have a problem with any of them.

On more than one occasion Nixon found himself complaining to Winters about Emily’s insufferable behavior.

“Didn’t you find her attitude obnoxious before?” Winters asked.

“Yes, but I got used to that. Now she’s changed it up on me again! It's annoying is what it is,” Nixon said.

Winters dipped a spoon into a bowl of soup and brought it to his mouth, patiently waiting for Nixon to continue, “its the unpredictability, the mood swings! Women.” Nixon scoffed.

“Well,” Winters ate another spoonful of soup, “you were a jerk.”

Nixon’s brow furrowed, “not enough of a jerk for her to give me the cold shoulder for three months.”

“Has it been three months?”

Nixon didn’t answer. “You two still talk, I’ve seen you,” Winters said, “maybe she’s focusing on her work. It has gotten busier.”

“Yeah we talk, but not like before. And she seems to have plenty of time to talk to Harry or George Luz.”

Winters’ mouth crooked into a small, thoughtful smile, “why do you think it bothers you so much, Nix?”

Nixon caught his friends smirk, “Oh no,” he shook his head, “its not like that at all. She’s a kid. Besides, I’m invested elsewhere in this boring town."

Winters cocked an eyebrow, “so this really is just about friendship?”

“Friendship, friendliness - I just want things to go back to normal!”

Winters nodded and turned his attention back to his soup, “maybe this is the new normal.”

Nixon was running out of patience and hope. As March crept along he decided that he would simply have to come to terms with the impersonal working relationship that Winters called the new normal.

“Morning,” Nixon entered the intelligence HQ room with a manila folder already in hand. He was flipping through the aerial photos inside.

“Good morning, sir,” Emily said, barely looking up from her typewriter.

“We received some aerial photos this morning. Here look at this,” Nixon said, stretching out a black and white print to Emily.

She took it, “what’s this of?”

“Undisclosed,” Nixon said, “but we’ll be getting a lot more. Our office needs to piece the photos together and start building sand tables of the geography.”

Emily blew air out of her cheeks, “Wow, so this might be..”

“Yeah,” Nixon caught her gaze, “this might be it.”

“Okay, yeah we’ll get started on this.”

“Great.” Nixon shut the manila folder firmly and threw it on Emily’s desk. “Let me know what you need.”



“Will do, sir.”

Nixon waited until his back was turned to roll his eyes. He hated it when she called him sir. No one else would hear it, but he could hear the contempt in her voice. She wasn’t saying sir out of respect. He knew that she was doing it purposely to annoy him. Sure, he couldn’t prove it, but he knew it.

Nixon dropped into his desk chair just as Vest entered the room with uncharacteristic hesitance.

“Uh, Miss Rooney?” Nixon’s dark eyes flicked over to Emily. An unexplainable feeling of dread grew in his stomach. It grew stronger as he saw Emily’s face change. She was sensing the difference in Vest’s energy just as he had. Vest made his way over to her desk with a letter in hand.

“A letter for you,” Vest cleared his throat, “from the war department.”

Nixon sat straighter in his chair as Vest made his awkward retreat from the room. Emily ripped the edge of the envelope with trembling hands and slowly pulled the typed letter from its folds.

Nixon watched her eyes run across the ink-black lines. His heart beat in his ears in anticipation for her reaction. Finally, Emily let out a shuddering breath and the letter dropped from her hands. Fat tears began rolling down her cheeks. She pressed a hand to her mouth in an attempt to squash her sobs, her body folding in on itself as if to guard her from the world around her. Jolted into action, Nixon stood abruptly from his chair and was beside her in two strides. He positioned his body on the edge of her desk, blocking her from the curious looks from the other intelligence staff.

“What happened?” he asked in a low voice.

Emily shut her eyes tightly against the tears, she shook her head indicating her inability to speak. Instead, she held up the letter. Nixon took it and read,

Dear Miss Rooney,

The following information is provided in regards to your fiancee, Corporal John Elliott. Your fiancee sustained significant wounds of the left leg and arm and on 11 March, 1944 was reported as being in a naval hospital in London, England for further treatment. You may be sure that he is….

Nixon stopped reading as confused relief softened the knot in his stomach. 

“Wounded, wounded in action,” he said.

Emily nodded. She ran her finger tips under her eyes. Her cheeks were sopping wet with tears, her eyelashes heavy with salt.

“Here,” Nixon handed her the handkerchief from his pocket. “It’s clean. Well, cleanish.”

Emily accepted it and swallowed hard, doing her best to compose herself. She patted her cheeks dry with the fold of the linen cloth.

“You okay?” Nixon placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. This was their first physical interaction in months, but neither of them seemed to think anything of it. It was such a natural action considering the circumstances.

“Yeah,” she gulped, “I’m alright.” Emily exhaled, “it took me by surprise is all.”



“Naturally,” Nixon rubbed her back.

“I don’t know why I’m such a mess,” Emily’s voice cracked with emotion.

“You don’t need to excuse your reaction,” Nixon murmured, “this is big, scary news.”



“I thought- I just thought that it was going to say he was dead.”

“I know, I thought so too.”

“Lew, I - I was,” she hesitated.

“What?” he encouraged her.

“Never mind,” she screwed her face up as if thinking against what she was about to say. Her lips were swollen from crying, her lipstick slightly smudged from the press of her hand. “If he’s wounded I have to see if I can visit him.”

Nixon nodded, “absolutely.”



“Do you think we could find out where he’s at?”

Nixon grimaced with uncertainty, “uhm, I mean it’s not our branch. But I’ll see what I can do.” Nixon was conflicted; this seemed awful personal for him to get involved with. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to get involved with Emily’s business considering how things had been between them lately. Then again, this could be his chance to make amends, to show her that he meant well by her.

“Lewis, thank you!” her voice was full of gratitude and looking down at her red rimmed gray eyes, Nixon prayed he would be able to find the hospital easily.

A few days later Nixon interrupted Emily at lunch, which she was once again spending with Welsh.

“I found him,” Nixon announced. He expected Emily look more excited.

“Oh thank you, Nix! Where is he?” Emily asked.

Okay, back to some version of a nickname, Nixon observed. That was a good sign. “Worcestershire.”

“Who’s this?” Welsh looked between Emily and Nixon.

“Worcestershire? I thought he was in London?”

“He was. He was originally with an evacuation hospital but has since been moved to a convalescent hospital in Worcestershire.”

“Ah, okay,” Emily said.

“That’s a good thing,” Nixon said, “he’s on the mend! And Worcestershire is only north of here.”

“Who’s this we’re talking about?” Welsh asked again, this directed just at Emily. 


“Right, I guess I should go up this weekend,” Emily spoke more to herself than the men. “I guess I’ll have to make sure…” she trailed off lost in thought.

“You’ve got my permission. That’s all you need,” Nixon said.

Welsh opened his mouth again but didn’t have the chance to speak before Nixon interjected, “her fiancee Harry, we’re talking about her wounded fiancee.”

“Ah,” Harry looked down at his plate suddenly uninterested in the conversation.

“Get the train Saturday morning and plan to be back by Sunday night, okay?” Nixon rapped his knuckles on the wooden dining table. “Okay, I’ll see you both later,” and he walked off without Emily’s confirmation.

The Friday before she was set to leave Emily was a ball of nerves. She was constantly tapping her foot, or getting up to walk around aimlessly. Her restlessness was grating on Nixon’s nerves, which was the last thing he needed with the headache he was nursing.

“Would you relax?” he finally snapped.

“Sorry, sorry,” Emily stilled her foot. But then only a few minutes later her fingers began drumming against her desk. The rigid tension between them had relaxed slightly since the letter had come but Nixon still felt like he was walking on eggshells. He was worried about being too harsh with her or of saying anything insensitive. The last couple of days he had been careful to be extra kind to her. The stress of seeing her fiancee again for the first time in at least a year, and knowing that he would be both physically and mentally different than he had been, was a lot to carry. Nixon knew this. He had taken it upon himself to offset her edginess but boy was he finding that particularly difficult at that moment.

“What’re you gonna be like when we get to the continent huh?” Nixon demanded, “that’s gonna be stressful too, are you gonna be able to handle it?” So much for not being too harsh or insensitive.

Emily scowled at him from her desk, “leave me alone, Nixon. I’ll be fine when we get to the continent. Will you? Gunfire isn’t great for a hangover.”

Nixon narrowed his eyes at her but didn’t say anything more. Finally, they made it to dinner and she excused herself early due to her early departure in the morning. A peculiar sensation came over him as he watched her leave. Seeing her walk away in her woolen skirt with pieces of her dark, red-brown hair flying away from where they were pinned down felt like some sort of goodbye. An anxiety that she was leaving to join her fiancee never to come back tickled at the back of his mind. Beside him, Harry Welsh was looking after her in just the same way. Nixon couldn’t help but wonder what that meant for both of them.

Nixon didn’t have plans for the weekend. He had a loose arrangement with a beautiful young local woman but didn’t feel particularly motivated to call after her that Saturday. His mind was with Emily, worrying if she had made it to the hospital safely. He squandered the day away in bed, then the pub and during a brief window of sunshine, walking around the outskirts of town.

England was beginning to defrost into Spring. When Nixon looked out at the rolling hills of Wiltshire, he could almost pretend he wasn’t there because of a war. He might have been there to study, or to visit family friends. There was a peacefulness in the open plains that surrounded the town of Aldbourne. Every stone, field, and building held a storied past that seemed to look past the impending events as if to say I have been here before and I will be here after.

Later that night Nixon excused himself from a game of poker for a cigarette outside. It was chilly out, but he was grateful for the fresh air while it wasn’t raining. He was stood just in front of the steps leading ups to the HQ building when he spotted a figure making its way up the driveway, suitcase in hand. It was a woman’s figure and Nixon’s first thought was another nurse was coming to join the ranks. But it was such a late hour for a new member of staff to check in. As the figure grew closer he recognized her.

“Emily?” he asked in confusion. Her features became clearer as she stepped into the dim light coming from the building. There was a bizarre expression on her face. Nixon didn’t know what to think of her. “Emily?” he repeated, “what’re you doing back?”

She didn’t smile, but her countenance was calm, serene even. Her eyes were wide and bright despite the limited light. She parted her red lips and with the intonation of surprise said, “I’m free, Lew.”

#band of brothers #fanfiction #original character #as far as friends go #lewis nixon #lewis nixon x oc #harry welsh x oc #george luz x oc #dick winters #harry welsh #george luz #hbo band of brothers

[imaginesbymk]

PINK + WHITE.

— chapter ten ; stained glass window.

summary: teresa’s permanent resignation from the peaky blinders leads her to a whole new chapter of working in an art museum. but little did she know her best life would be butchered some time later when her former lover tommy shelby gives her no choice but to return to the peaky blinders after they make new enemies, with the leader, of all people, being the man teresa fell in love with one night after a wedding reception back in post world war; luca changretta.

pairing: luca changretta x OC x tommy shelby

tags in this chapter: swearing + smoking

[ chapter index ]

A/N: I am sooooo sorry for the long hiatus! </3

This story is getting more views on Wattpad than here on Tumblr. I still love the show and Luca's my favourite villain, but as much as I want to discontinue this story, I want to get it out of the way because I have drafted a timeline of this story, including Teresa's and Luca's closure on their relationship. So I'm stuck in the middle on what to do???

BTW, I've come up with a headcanon for Luca's full name as Luca LaPaglia Changretta! His middle name is never revealed in the show, I just did this for the fic.

RIP Helen McCrory. You were one of my favourite stars of the show. Fly high <3. The Peaky fandom will miss you so much.

///

TERESA wasn't as religious as the next person, but she kept her respect as her heels echoed down the aisle, immediately spotting the tall man kneeling on one of the pues. His hands were folded in prayer, and he murmured what the Welsh could make out to be Italian tongue.

"Do you want to be alone?" she asks.

Luca pauses, his eyes still shut and hands still in folds. "No. I want you here."

Teresa slides over and sits next to her lover, staring at the giant crucifix behind the front podium. "How often do you pray, amore?"

Luca pauses his prayer again. "Almost every day. God and I keep in touch, y'know."

"What does he say to you?"

"He tells me to tell you to quit interrupting until I'm done talking to Him." Teresa chuckles, prompting her to let him finish. As it took another good minute for Luca to conclude his prayer, Teresa gazed at the stained glass windows on each side, casting a good light from the clouds that allowed a bit of sun for England, some of it casted its light onto Luca, like an angel on an opera stage.

Luca makes a sign of the cross, sitting back on the pue and grunting a bit from kneeling for a while. "How was lunch with Mamma?"

Teresa nodded. "It was lovely."

"Just lovely?"

"Mhm." She holds his hand. "She says your middle name is LaPaglia."

Luca hums, kissing her hand that curled with his. "C'mon, I wanna take you out with me for wine."

"Hmm... Luca LaPaglia Changretta," She said out loud, admiring the beauty of his full name slipping from her lips. "And I had wine with your mother."

"I meant wine shopping. I'm doing most of the taste tests, it's my cousin's birthday soon."

"Then shouldn't he be the one shopping for wine?" she asks.

The Italian pulls the heavy door, escorting Teresa out of the church and into the chauffeur. "He counts on me, I'm better at choosing wine and gin these days."

"ARTHUR, quit pacing. You'll burn your legs out."

"Where the fuck is she?" Arthur grunts. "Eh? Tom, you're really in it for this one. The fuckin' Welsh is not gonna live up to a fuckin' promise."

"You stop that, she's on her way," Tommy takes a sip of his drink.

A split-second passes as the maid knocks on the heavy office door. "Mr. Shelby?" the feminine voice calls softly. "Miss Griffith is here to see you."

Tommy gives a smug look to Arthur and Polly. "Yes. Send her in," he says. They waited for the woman to walk in, kind of wishing for Tommy to immediately scold her once she stepped foot into his office, but Tommy wasn't up to waste that much energy.

Arthur was the one to step in and do so, otherwise. "What? Did you stroll around Manchester or something?"

"Sorry," Teresa frowns, her face reading she wasn't holding any joy from her day so far. "I was with Luca."

"We're all ears," Polly walked around Tommy's desk. "What's happened? Did he fuck you until you forgot how to tell time?"

"I'm assuming Finn told you?" she asks.

"That's Finn for you, Teresa," Arthur points out.

Teresa rolls her eyes. No point of getting back at him this time. Rat or not, he would never hold back a word from the family. She remembered seeing him appear at the gallery, and he wasn't going to keep a secret from Tommy.

"I invited him for a meeting at a bar...then he took me to the theatre..." Teresa trails off.

Tommy opens his cigarette pack. "Go on."

"That's all, Mr. Shelby."

"You slept with Luca Changretta, just say it."

Teresa folded her arms. "Actually, yes. But earlier events prove what I'm about to propose; I'm in."

The members of the Peaky Blinders all raised a brow, mostly Tommy's.

"You slept with Luca Changretta, I didn't expect you to actually follow up with that, I don't recall telling you to do so, either."

"I wanted to discuss his plans on taking the Penarth gallery. It's not for his dirty hands to touch."

"You wish to join because your heart was too broken to hold back?" Polly says. "Is that where we're getting at, Teresa?" The Welsh woman stared at her. This was probably the first time they had seen each other after all those years that followed from her resignation. Since the last time they spoke, Polly didn't have anything held against her, and here she is, quite disappointed that Teresa shared her heart with a man like Luca. She did quite enjoy her company and her contribution to the Peaky Blinders, even when she chose to depart from Tommy and their relationship, then came Grace Burgess. Polly just didn't want to deal with another afterwards unless it was Lizzie.

"You're doing this just to get even? Luca could care less about your feelings now."

"Teresa," Tommy sighs, nodding at his old friend. "Come back here tomorrow."

Teresa nodded and made her exit out the foot of her door.

"And come on time, please." Teresa wished she could slam the door on him, but Arthur shut it as soon as Teresa's foot took a centimeter away. She presses her ear against the wood to hear them muffling.

"Tom?" She hears Arthur speak. "We can't trust her."

Tommy clears his throat, setting down a scrap of an article he read on his desk. "She'll go back to Penarth, but we can't let her stay there. I know what's going to happen."

"What do you know?"

"Italian men will show up to the gallery."

"It's certain Teresa Griffith keeps a firearm in her drawers," Polly says.

"No," Tommy shook his head. "Not enough to take down at least five men. Luca keeps count of who he orders - who he sends. We're more careful of that, we know of that."

"We're not morons, Tommy. Now we hear from Finn that Luca and Teresa were together?"

"Teresa should give us what we need to know from Luca Changretta. She knows too much about him."

"And Luca knows too much about us," Polly slowly walks over to Tommy. "If Teresa forms an alliance, what will she do? She's already slept with him, but I doubt she got anything out of it. She's not here for the sake of helping. She wants in because she's a woman with a broken heart."

Teresa detaches herself from the door, having heard enough. One of the maids returns, noticing the guest hadn't left yet and was suspiciously eavesdropping their boss. Teresa was pulled back by the shoulder like a child, escorting her out of the foyer.

SEVERAL HOURS EARLIER, Teresa woke from the blinding sun. The silky bed sheets that covered hers and Luca's nude bodies were unmade - ruffled around. If you left the curtains open, you're more alerted. Luca never intended on waking Teresa up that way. In fact, he wasn't even lying next to her in the bed.

Luca's white dress shirt casted more brightness but his trousers were half done. He stared outside, holding his China cup of tea in one hand before looking back down at the papers sprawled across his desk.

Teresa sat up to clip on her brassiere, her accent thinned to greet in basic Italian. "Buongiorno."

He didn't respond.

She slides out of bed and approaches the desk. "Do you need me to leave soon? Though, you don't look like you're in a rush for an important meeting."

Still nothing.

"What, Luca?" This wasn't new for Luca to strangely switch up his mood. He wasn't an easy man, it's hard to impress him or to even study his emotions at times. Teresa had the feeling that Luca didn't enjoy what they had done. "Was this a mistake?"

"This was unprofessional." Luca sets his cup and coaster on his desk. "If you think something will come from this, then think again. I never should have taken you to the theatre. You were trying to let my guard down, were you?"

"No," Teresa shook her head. "I wasn't surprised that this was going to happen."

"Such a mind you carry in that blonde head of yours."

"Seeing you again felt good, Luca. I seized the opportunity to share another moment with you. I was thinking you were going to plan on coming back to Penarth indefinitely."

"Miss Griffith, did it ever occur to you that I wasn't supposed to stay here?" Luca frowns. "I'm no citizen here. America is where my heart belongs, if not America; Sicily."

"You fled to America. That was your last ditch effort to get away from the police," Teresa murmured. She folds her arms. "I understand why you had to do it."

"Then why do you hold it against me?" he asks, exhausted.

"Because I never heard from you ever since."

"I was fairly active in New York, you know?"

"I didn't know."

Luca stared at her. "That's your own problem, Miss Griffith."

"Christ, Luca. Enough with the formalities!" Teresa snaps. "I'm standing at your desk, half nude. We fucked in that bed right there!"

"Which was something we shouldn't have done," Luca began rubbing his temples. "I didn't come back here for you, all right? Porca miseria-" he cuts himself off to heave in a deep sigh. "I have to ask. All this time... you're still hung up on me?"

"Yes," Teresa says, her face paling. "Because I missed you, you bloody bastard. I couldn't reach out to you or your mother, not even the American press, to see how you were doing, or if you were kissing another woman's lips."

Luca slid his hand over to pick up the dress and shawl he placed on the side of the desk. "You need to leave now."

There was no point of convincing him anymore. All was said. Teresa knew not to vex a mafioso unarmed. If she had her handgun with her, she would have tried to pull something in a spite of anger. Would that do her a favour? Probably not. The rest of whoever's left of the Changretta family would go after her without question.

There was Tommy, though, and he's still waiting for her response back in Small Heath.

Grabbing her clothes, Teresa marches back to the bed, gets dressed and leaves the hotel room without saying a word to her former lover. Not even a curse.

#pink+white #luca changretta x oc #luca changretta fanfic #luca changretta #luca changretta fanfiction #tommy shelby x oc #tommy shelby fanfic #tommy shelby #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders x oc #peaky blinders

[sergeant-spoons]

4. June 7, ‘44

Judy Hartmann

Taglist: @thoughpoppiesblow​​​​​​​​​ @vintagelavenderskies​​​​​​​​​ @wexhappyxfew​​​​​​​​​ @50svibes​​​​​​​​​ @tvserie-s-world​​​​​​​​​ @adamantiumdragonfly​​​​​​​​​ @ask-you-what-sir​​​​​​​​​ @whovian45810​​​​​​​​​ @brokennerdalert​​​​​​​​​ @holdingforgeneralhugs​​​​​​​​​ @generousdreamlanddestiny​​​​​​​​​ @claire-bear-1218​​​​​​​​​ @heirsoflilith​ @itswormtrain ​​

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

June 7, 1944.

Heart-

Only one day has passed since I last made an entry in your pages, and yet so much has happened, I can hardly slow my pencil strokes to get it all down in a neat manner.

Lottie is here! Ever the inventive, she joined the ANC (our nurse corps, that is) and found her way to me on the eve of D-Day itself. And with all the censorship going on in the mail, too, it's even more of a feat that she managed it. The men have taken to her quite swiftly, particularly the more extroverted of the bunch. I am not surprised in the least, Lottie has always had the gift of gab. If there's one thing we share a passion for, it's storytelling. We could both go on for hours, though I prefer the poetry of the page and she the drama of the spoken word.

Lottie is a firecracker; she has quite a lot of spark. Captain Nixon mistook her for a nurse, and though she was just yesterday determined as one, she corrected him with no hesitation whatsoever that she is a medic, now. He thought that was funny, a female medic, then seemed to remember me, a female NCO, and wisely quieted himself. Lieutenant Welsh thinks Lottie would get along with his girl Kitty. I feel as though I have some good impression of the woman, though we are strangers, from how much Welsh has spoken of her, and thus am inclined to agree.

Sergeant Lipton spoke to her, once she had exhausted the others with her boundless energy. He told Lottie, and I quote, "It's all about keeping your head the right way on your shoulders. You lose your wits, you may lose something else." That's got to be some of the best advice I've heard in a while; then again, I am surrounded by men who routinely employ expletives as punctuation.

It is a pleasant sight, to look across the bungalow we have usurped for a short spell of rest and see my sister at rest with the men I call my brothers, and yet altogether terrifying at the same moment. Who am I to believe she will not perish in this war, by chance as a result of her own recklessness? She does not have the training of a paratrooper, does not know how to fire any sort of gun (to my knowledge), Still, I believe her recently-acquired skill as a nurse will transfer well to our medic corps- indeed, Doc Roe seems as if a weight has fallen from his shoulders -and Lottie is not a fool. She knows when to get out when the going is good.

"Semper Paratus." That is the motto of the United States Coast Guard, a Latin phrase that translates to 'always ready'. Ironic, in a way, that I am always the prepared sister concerning physical things and plans and ploys, yet Lottie has always been the strongest between us. Always ready to dive in- sometimes quite literally -to the aid of others. For all her bravado and brass, she is selfless. She is, truly, 'always ready' to do good by others. I do not commend her for that often enough. I really should.

Interesting, that we should be so different yet one and the same. We do not share the same eyes or hair; our hearts beat the same with a fierce love for our country and the people we care for. She is an athlete, I am a scholar; together, we  Lottie and I were raised the breadth of a country, nay, a continent apart, our parents the same yet their manners of child-rearing explosively conflicting. Their separation is no longer a wonder to me, though their choice to split their children seems a selfish one I find myself continuously unforgiving of on my worst days. 

It was in that same division, the Coast Guard, that my sister so proudly and bravely served since the mere minute she graduated high school. Twenty-two years of age and she already possesses several commendations for her skill at the prow and the tiller. She can swim like nobody's business and she's a hero already, back in Cape Cod. She has the featurette in the newspaper clips to prove it. It is only a matter of time before her new compatriots find out. I believe they will take to her even quicker, then.

My time runs short now. We are rising to our feet, readying to return to the march. Winters did what he could to ensure Lottie remains here, and I pray Colonel Sink will find some sympathy in his heart despite the absurdity of the whole situation.

Pleasantly, frightfully astonished,

Judy

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

#band of brothers #scripted tides #band of brothers oc ficlet #band of brothers oc #band of brothers ficlet #hbo war show #hbo war #hbo war show oc #hbo war show oc ficlet #hbo war show ficlet #hbo war ficlet #hbo war oc ficlet #hbo war oc #oc fanfiction #oc ficlet #scripted tides rework #lottie hartmann #judy hartmann #judy hartmann ficlet #judy hartmann journal #judy hartmann 4: june 7 '44

[ineloqueent]

where the wildflowers grow

Gwilym Lee x Fem!Reader

synopsis: they say there lives a witch in the wildflower woods, but Gwilym has never believed the tales. until now.

warnings: use of medieval swords (no blood)

word count: 2.1k

see the moodboard here!

⭒

It’d been dark when he’d set out that morning, and though it was always dark on his mornings in the woods, this day had begun darker than usual.

He’d dressed by the flame of a single candle and sheathed his sword at his side, fastening the buckles of his boots with practiced hands, for this was routine.

Gwilym liked routine. He even liked his shifts in the Wildflower Woods, and while the other members of the royal guard drew straws to determine which unlucky bastard would be patrolling the woods that day, Gwilym always volunteered.

The woods were quiet, and an outlander might have thought that this silence was what the men feared, the dull buzz that began in one’s ears once exposed to soundlessness for an extended period of time, alone with the sound of one’s breath and the wealth of one’s thoughts, but the outlander would have been sorely mistaken.

The men did not fear silence; they feared what lived in the silence.

It was said that a witch lived in the Wildflower Woods, capable of a dark and terrible magic, magic which the king had long since outlawed, criminalised. There had been innumerable huntings and burnings when the legislation had passed, and to this day, every citizen of the kingdom could hear the cries of the men and women killed for crimes they had most likely not committed.

No exceptions had been made, and everyone deemed a witch had faced a terrible fate upon the courtyard pyre of the Castle Gaerwen.

No exceptions had been made, but one particular individual had slipped from the grasp of the king’s guard.

They called her Morgana, after the enchantress of Arthurian legend, and she was feared as equally as the woman of the legend. It was said her gaze was deadly, and that she could take any form she desired, turn water to liquid poison, revive both the dying and the already dead, and change the weather at will. No one had any power over her, for even the elements bowed to her magic, and so she had been deemed too much of a risk for the royal guard to capture.

And so, the royal guard now patrolled the Wildflower Woods morning and night, to ensure that the witch did not move to attack the good citizens of Daryn.

Gwilym had patrolled the woods for years now, and had neither seen nor heard any sign of a witch. Thus, as all logic demanded of him, he did not believe the tales. The other men called him foolish, shuddered at his naïveté, but Gwilym laughed merrily at their fears whenever he was given the chance. He did not believe the tales, and so he did not fear the woods. The woods were a solace, and in living the life that he did, with chases and fighting and travelling, it was nice to have some time to himself, in a place where the world was quiet.

His boots crunching on the gravel of the path which led out from the guards’ quarters and toward the outer wall of Castle Gaerwen, Gwilym nodded morning greetings to those arriving home from the night shift.

Women stood lined up to draw water from the wells in the courtyard, and a group of them giggled as Gwilym passed. He sighed inwardly. He did not encourage their attentions, and yet, they continued to behave in this manner whenever he was about.

Ignoring the chatter that followed him, Gwilym arrived at the outer gate.

“Morning,” he said to Mercher, his friendly acquaintance and the man whom Gwilym was to share the day’s shift with.

Mercher mumbled his own greeting, and Gwilym smiled.

“Nervous? It’s just the woods, you know.”

The other man grunted. “There’s more to those woods than you think, ffwl.”

“There is no witch in those woods, fy ffrind,” Gwilym countered good-humouredly.

“Perhaps you are right,” Mercher responded, as he tapped his fingers along the hilt of his sheathed sword, “but there are other things too.”

Gwilym raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Mmh. Venomous serpents larger than fully grown horses, boars with tusks longer than your forearm, spiders which will crawl into your eyes if you close them unawares.”

Gwilym’s eyes twinkled; he was amused. “Well then, Mercher,” he clapped his companion on the back and strode forward through the opening gate, “we should get going so that these creatures can have their breakfast.”

Mercher swallowed thickly, standing rooted to the spot. With a shake of his head, he hurried to catch up to Gwilym, who was still smiling to himself.

“By rights, we shouldn’t be allowed to risk our lives like this,” said Mercher.

Gwilym laughed. “You should have been a baker instead of a soldier! Courage, fy ffrind. It will get you far in life.”

⭒

As they were only two, Gwilym and Mercher were forced to split up in their duties. Gwilym appreciated the solace, but Mercher was fearful. The former repeated his advice of courage to the latter, and the two parted ways.

A deep mist hovered betwixt the trees this morn, and so it was difficult to see very far beyond one’s own hand, but it also afforded the woods a mysterious quality, one which only fuelled Gwilym’s lust for adventure; outwardly, he was grown, but at heart, he was still a child, and longed to live the stories of pirates and highwaymen that his mother had told him when he was little.

Gwilym was still searching for his purpose in existence, and though he had yet to find it, he was sure it involved adventure, something more than this little life he presently lived.

Almost as though the world around him were aware of his longing, a rustling arose from the surrounding shrubbery.

Gwilym’s hand flew to the sword at his side, his knees bent, prepared to run.

There was silence. Not even a bird cawed in the canopy overhead, no river water rushed, no wind was heard between the trees.

Something slithered in the undergrowth.

Slithered. It was very distinct.

Hyperbolic images of terrible, scaled bodies with large mouths bearing fearsome, pointy teeth dripping venom conjured themselves in Gwilym’s mind, and his heart kicked up its rhythm.

His eyes flitted about the bushes, the endless wildflowers which carpeted the forest floor and provided the wood with its name, but he could see nothing. It was still rather dark out, and the mist did his eyes no aid.

Then, suddenly, a great, scaly body launched itself from the undergrowth, and before Gwilym could react, tore its fangs down his calf.

He gave a cry of pain, and lashed out with his sword, but the venom must have been rapidly acting, because his vision had already turned blurry.

But with, quite literally, a stroke of luck, he struck the creature, and with a violent hiss, it retreated rapidly back from whence it had come.

Gwilym was left to his solace once more, but now he was panting, and nearly doubled over in trying to lean his weight against a tree.

He shouted for Mercher, once, twice, but no response came.

He was on his own.

Feeling as though he were going blind, Gwilym staggered forward at a pace that was rather quick, fuelled by desperation. Pain lanced through his leg and up toward his heart, and he knew that one must not allow venom to circulate once in the veins, but what else was he to do? Lay himself down to die?

No, for that would be a coward’s death, and Gwilym Lee was no coward.

A light flickered in the mist, between the trees.

Perhaps he was hallucinating. It was not unlikely.

But he held onto hope, and dragged his heavy feet forward until the light grew bigger, brighter.

The light came from a window, in a cottage built of heavy stones. Gwilym imagined the craftsmanship to be excellent, but he did not know for sure. His vision was beginning to grow dark around the edges.

At last, he happened upon the door. With a heavy arm, he knocked against the wood, and collapsed, just as the door swung open.

⭒

He could smell woodsmoke, and heather and all kinds of herbs.

His eyes were heavy, as though he had not slept for days, and a dull pain throbbed in his leg. But it was nothing of the agonising pain he had felt before.

There was a sound like the clinking of metal pots and pans, and someone was humming.

With tremendous effort, Gwilym rose to his elbows, and opened his eyes.

The light was low, but there were candles aplenty, and they flickered softly, in their places about the room— in teacups and saucers, upon plates and wooden carvings, standing proudly in window sills and atop shelves.

On the shelves, there were potted plants and what appeared to be bottled herbs, labeled with names both familiar and unfamiliar to Gwilym’s vocabulary.

His eyes wandered about his peculiar surroundings, before returning to where he lay— in some sort of bed that was really more of a cot, made of linen and crowded with sheepswool blankets and a stitched duvet.

Bless the kindness of strangers, he thought, until his gaze happened upon his host.

She locked eyes with him before he could turn away, and his breath caught, because the woman before him was enchantingly beautiful, and without a doubt the witch of the tales he had not believed.

A slow smile curved over her lips. “My stare is lethal, no?” she said, a thick Welsh accent carving her English words differently from the way Gwilym spoke his.

His first instinct was to laugh, and he almost did, before he thought better of it. There was no telling what this witch was capable of, and presently, he was utterly at her mercy.

But a question had occurred to him as well, and so he asked it.

“However did you guess that my English is better than my Welsh?”

That slow smile touched her pretty lips again. “Like you say, it was a guess.”

“Damn good guess,” Gwilym said, not bothering to hide the fact that he was impressed.

She laughed, a warm sound, and he felt oddly comforted by it. “Us gwrachod do have a talent for those sorts of things.”

“So it is true, then?” he spoke carefully. “You are the witch of the Wildflower Woods.”

“I am. Morgana, if you will.”

He fixed her with an inquisitive look. “Yes, but that is not your name, is it?”

She had been standing by a stove, but now, she wiped her hands on the apron that hung over her full skirt, and walked toward him. She perched in a rocking chair positioned by the cot and leaned back into it, folding her arms.

“No one has ever asked my name before.”

Her voice was quiet, low, and surely as enchanting, as lethal, as her stare. But he detected a loneliness beneath the words.

“Well,” Gwilym said, “I am asking you now, politely, if you will give it to me.”

She narrowed her eyes. “There is much in a name, Gwilym.”

He raised his eyebrows in surprise, sitting up properly. “You know my name?”

She nodded. “A pretty name, no? But a bit long. I like Gwil better. Do people call you that?”

His heart felt strangely light at his name on her lips, even when it was shortened. “They do now,” he said, and thought that her eyes glittered. “And your name?”

She murmured it, and it sounded to him like the songs of old, a lilting melody with an alluring darkness humming beneath the surface.

He rolled the sound over his tongue, and felt a faint blush rise to his cheeks as he said it. Indeed, there was much in a name. An intimacy, too. Gwil did not often use the given names of his acquaintances.

“You healed my leg,” he remarked thoughtfully, shifting it from beneath the blankets.

“And purged y gwenwyn from your veins,” she added.

Her eyes were deep, and he felt himself sinking into her gaze as he met it.

He murmured, “You saved my life.”

“Ie,” she said. “That I did. A witch is not so bad, you see.”

Her smile was teasing, and he knew then that he had nothing to fear from the witch of the Wildflower Woods.

“And for that,” Gwil began, his eyes searching the room for his sword. It was resting just beside him, on the floor by the cot, and he drew it now, standing it upon its point on the stone floor and bowing his head briefly. “I am forever in your debt.”

She smiled, and Gwil feared that more than his honour was indebted to her.

His heart, for certain, was too.

#s&t celebrate #tina's writing #gwilym lee x reader #fic

[thecat-isblogging-blog]

Introspective to Say the Least

Summary: Remus Lupin is late for class - his class actually. Matters don’t seem to become easier when the Potion Master, Severus Snape, hands him a riddle for him to decipher.

Author notes: I wrote this in January 2021 but I felt it needed one more look over. I absolutely love the in between moments that aren’t included in the books - but definitely hinted at.  Fic was inspired by this GIF set. Hope you enjoy :)

T&Cs: Header image is not my own but used from Pottermore.

---

Bugger

Lupin swore to himself as he turned the corner that led towards the Great Hall. He hastily sidestepped, avoiding a close collision with a group of Hufflepuff students.

‘Morning Professor.’

‘Morning, morning,’ He politely greeted back over his shoulder.

Lupin dared a glimpse down at the misty scratched surface of his wrist watch. Groaning to himself, he picked up the pace. Curse his greed for an extra hour of sleep this morning.

Entering the Great Hall at long last, Lupin pulled on his teaching cloak and adjusted his frayed collar over it. He approached the teacher's table and took his usual seat, nodding towards the last remaining professors who were sharing a quick word before class.

Lupin reached for a piece of toast that was still warm and placed it between his teeth before beginning to cut an apple into quarters. Glancing up at the nearly empty Great Hall, he turned his wrist to take another peek at the time. Breathing in sharply, and almost choking on the toast still lodged between his teeth, Lupin hurriedly tossed a liberal amount of marmalade on his half bitten slice.

As he did so, a looming figure had drawn beside him, blocking the beam of morning sun that had been pleasantly spilling onto him.

‘Lupin - late start to the week I see,’ Came the familiar slow drawl.

Lupin looked up smiling courteously. ‘Good morning Severus, yes afraid so.’

‘I trust you had a pleasant time off,’ Snape added, his tone offering no actual intention on wishing for it to have been pleasant at all.

‘As best I could, thank you. Did you need something from me?’ Lupin asked.

‘Yes, actually,’ Snape’s mouth curled into a sardonic smirk. ‘When I took over the extra work of teaching your class - I assigned some homework. But seeing as you are back, and looking refreshed,’ Lupin smiled at the effortless sarcasm, knowing full well what he looked like today. ‘Perhaps you could mark them yourself, it is your class after all Lupin.’

‘Yes of course Severus, I am very grateful,’ He nodded. ‘I can mark them today actually. I'm going to be giving the-’

'Wonderful,' Snape interrupted. ‘And dare I say Lupin, you might even find the essays… introspective.’

Snape strode off, leaving Lupin with one final glimpse of an ominous sneer. Transfixed, he watched as the black billowing cloak disappeared out the doors. The marmalade's sweetness turned tart on his tongue and the crunchy toast now sat unpleasantly soggy in his mouth. From his own experience, Snape never uttered the word 'wonderful' unless it meant the opposite for a foe.

Introspective

Nothing good could come of that.

A translucent veil came to stand between his view and Lupin slowly looked up at Nearly Headless Nick. Floating in the centre of a sausage tray, the Gryffindor ghost raised his eyebrows and tapped a ghostly finger to his wrist warningly.

Lupin turned his own wrist around.

Bugger it

Washing down what was left in his mouth with water - Lupin reached into his pocket and pulled out his cotton handkerchief. He folded the remains of toast and apple quarters into it before stuffing it back into his pocket.

As he ran up the stairs to where his class waited, his mind flew at possibilities waiting for him. A nasty image of howlers from disgusted parents made his stomach sink - and worse - Dumbledore, realising his mistake of hiring a werewolf, sacking him.

Lupin took in a breath and opened the door to his classroom.

‘Good morning everyone, I apologise for my tardiness,’ Lupin said quickly. He scanned over the many eyes that looked back at him, waiting for some sign of revulsion or fear. The lack of pitchforks were a good start, he figured.

‘Professor, you’re back!’

‘You’re alive!'

Lupin smiled meekly. 'Yes, Dean, quite alive.'

‘When we didn’t see you at breakfast, we were certain Snape would be back,’ Neville added placing his hand over his chest in clear relief.

‘Professor Snape, Neville,’ Lupin corrected and made his way towards his desk.

‘We thought he had snuffed you out,’ Ron added, a hint of warning in his voice that amused Lupin to no bounds. ‘He’s been after your job for years.’

‘Is that so?’ Lupin pulled off his teaching robes and draped them over his chair.

Hermione raised her hand. ‘Professor, I tried to tell him that we were still on chapter three - Barely Dangerous: Hexes and Curses - but he was quite adamant to skip ahead.’

‘Follows potion recipes for a living but can't follow a blimmin' syllabus, the git,’ Ron said under his breath.

Lupin opened his textbook. 'Wonderfully colourful, Ron, but I would prefer you save your creativity for lessons.'

‘Professor,' Hermione raised her hand again and was looking anxious. 'Does this mean the section on werewolves will be in this term’s tests - because I haven't added it to my studying schedule yet.’

Lupin tugged at his shirt collar, he suddenly felt as if a rather stubborn piece of toast had lodged itself in his throat.

The class had erupted into groans - some panicked that they hadn't even started a studying schedule yet.

‘I am sure professor Snape had his reasons everyone.’ He held up his hand to quieten the students down. He turned around setting the matter aside in his mind, there was a class to teach after all, and hitched up his sleeves. ‘Now, should we begin with the lesson?'

Waving his wand above him, Lupin covered his nose instinctively as the blackboard dropped down sending a great puff of chalk dust into the air.

He coughed, waving the dust away from him. 'For today's lesson, I thought we could discuss a recent story in the Daily Prophet.' He gently tapped the piece of chalk with the end of his wand. 'Anyone have any guesses?'

The chalk flew onto the blackboard waiting for Lupin to dictate.

‘Oh! Is it the Sphinx, Professor?’ Lavender asked excitedly. ‘I read a stray cat got into Gringotts and infected half the Sphinx guards with some kind of feline flu. The goblins were in an absolute panic.’

Lupin dragged his finger down the textbook. ‘I see you have been keeping track of the news Lavender, that is correct.' He looked up at her pleased. 'Now, before we get into the more enjoyable part of the lesson, please grant me your patience as we go through a brief history of the Sphinx on page 277.’

The reading of the chapter went by fairy quickly leaving plenty of time for what Lupin had in store for his class. He closed his textbook and tapped the blackboard which shot back up above him. He dusted off the chalk dust from his shoulders and turned around once more.

'With that, we have arrived to the practical side of the lesson - not to worry, I don't have one hiding in my desk,' He said seeing the nervous glances around. 'I shall be the Sphinx this time round, hypothetically of course. I will give you a riddle and the first person to come to me with the correct answer will receive the rest of the lesson to do as they please.'

The classroom erupted into instant excitement and chatter.

Lupin peered out the window. 'I myself would be quite partial to spending time enjoying the sunshine outside. As the Welsh say, to return to my trees. But-' He clasped his hands behind him. '-the choice will be yours.'

'Professor, what about those who can't figure it out?' Harry asked.

'I think it is punishment enough having a fellow student enjoy some free time while the rest continue work, is it not?' Lupin chuckled at the sounds of agreement from his class. ‘Now, as is custom with the Sphinx, you will only get one opportunity to hear the riddle. Please listen carefully:

He watched as his students rapidly wrote down the riddle, quills fluttering profusely.

You have me today,

Tomorrow you'll have more;

As your time passes,

I'm not easy to store;

I don't take up space,

But I'm only in one place;

I am what you saw,

But not what you see.

What am I?

‘Before you begin, please place professor Snape’s essays on your desk so I may collect them.’

Lupin walked up and down the rows of desks collecting parchment. Catching sight of the title, his stomach twisted unpleasantly: How to Recognise a Werewolf and Kill Them. It seemed subtilty wasn't a priority for Snape.

Holding the pile of parchments in his arms, Lupin felt weary as he walked back towards his desk. He sat down stretching out his legs, ignoring the click in his knee caps, and paged through his textbook. Lupin glanced over the werewolf skeleton diagram in front of him, the very same his own bones had broken into but three nights ago.

He dragged his fingers through his hair. How long until his students eventually placed the clues together? Because it really was a matter of when - not if. He glanced up and looked at Harry, he was muttering the riddle out to himself, brow furrowed.

Lupin looked away and reached for the first roll of parchment. He took in a deep breath as he read the first name.

Hermione Granger

If someone could follow breadcrumbs, this was the student.

Lupin read through the crammed handwriting and he had to admit, it was - as Snape had promised - introspective to say the least. Hermione had provided detailed visual aids, up to date information that would put any Ministry of Magic information pamphlet to shame. Turning over the page to a table titled 'pre and post-transfiguratio symptoms', Lupin felt cold wash through his veins. She might as well have been shadowing him the past week - it was all there.

Humans with the affliction may succumb to the skin condition eczema, often found on the hands, feet, knees and even neck. This is largely due to skin irritation caused by the rapid growth and contraction of fur during the transformation stages.

She had gone to this much research? Dragging his eyes from the words to his own hands, he saw the red and dry patches of irritated skin as clear as day, peeking out from under his sleeve. They were still raw and itched at the mere thought of them. He immediately pulled his hand away and placed it onto his lap out of sight.

This is what you get for forgetting your ointment you fool.

He had grown careless at his time back at Hogwarts, feeling self-assured under the safety of Dumbledore. Greedily, he had taken advantage and now had become negligent in hiding the evidence. With the clever minds and prying eyes around him, adding in his monthly absentness, he was at greater risk than he had ever been outside the school. Who was he kidding? As he played professor in front of his class, handing out riddles and dressing in teaching cloaks.

Clearly, Snape's ploy was not only cruel mockery, but also a necessary realisation.

Lupin took in a shaky breath as he felt his heart pick up pace. He circled Hermione’s full marks with another extra five points to Gryffindor for good measure.

Lupin knew his anxiety wasn't about to ease up as he reached for the next parchment.

Harry Potter

Feeling a quick ease in his shoulders at seeing that his, unlike Hermione’s, was single sided, double-spaced and had no tables. He could have kicked himself under the table, now wasn't the time to be celebrating Harry's lack of interest just because it suited him. If anything, he should tell Harry to put in a little more effort. Lupin was his teacher first and foremost, he had lost the privilege of being called anything other than that since he vanished from the boy's life.

Dangerous, uncontrollable, and deadly.

Lupin's mouth twisted - yes, those things is precisely what he was called.

It was then to Lupin's surprise, that the corners of his mouth began to tug in amusement. Harry, who must have eventually found the topic of werewolves quite tiresome, had drifted off from the textbook's description.

Werewolves have rather large teeth and could probably take a considerable chunk out of someone’s buttocks. They are known to howl at the moon, but I don’t think only werewolves do this, I once saw a Pomeranian howl. Come to think of it, that could have very much been a werewolf as it bit my aunt once on the nose and she got a nasty infection from it. Since then, she has become prone to chasing the neighbour’s cats. So, I would steer clear of Pomeranians as well.

Still smiling, Lupin felt a tingling of teacherly disappointment as Harry's solution on how to kill a werewolf was certainly not in the textbook.

I once saw a muggle movie where the guy killed a werewolf with silver bullets. I don’t know about most wizards, but I don’t normally walk around with a gun and silver bullets in my back pocket, so I guess if I ever met one I’ll just throw a couple of paperclips at the werewolf and hope that’s good enough.

Lupin let out a rather large and uncontrollable snort of laughter which he tried his best to cover up with a cough. Caught in the moment, he looked up and half expected to see James sitting there - it had to be. The impulse sent a wave of grief that settled in his chest where his heart beat miserably. It should be James here, reading his son's essays - not him.

Turning over the parchment, he circled Harry's barely passing mark.

James, you’d be in tears mate.

Reading over his favourite lines one more time, Lupin wondered whether it was frowned upon for a teacher to keep their student's essay. He would have quite liked to frame it actually.

‘Excuse me, professor.’

Lupin looked up. ‘Yes Ron? You figured it out already did you?’ He turned over his wrist to look at the time.

‘I think so, is it "memories"? Is that the answer?’ Ron rubbed the back of his neck unsure of himself.

Lupin grinned and nodded. ‘Yes it is, you may have the rest of the lesson off.’

The class erupted into disappointed groans as Ron turned around and gave Harry a thumbs up - which was returned enthusiastically.

‘I had it written down,' Seamus cried out banging his head onto his desk. 'And I crossed it out!’

Lupin, feeling lighter than he did at the start of his lesson, pulled out his handkerchief with the remnants of his breakfast. He reached for the next roll of parchment, an even shorter essay than Harry's. He read the name at the top:

Ronald Weasley

Tutting to himself, Lupin decided that perhaps he needed to have a little talk about the effort these two were putting into their substitute teacher's homework.

He leaned back, smiling as he picked up a browning piece of apple and ate it.

Introspective indeed Severus - much obliged.

---

Read on A03

Fic was inspired by this GIF set

#Remus Lupin #Hogwarts #prisoner of azkaban #Canon fic #Professor Lupin #harry potter #werewolves #HP #Lupin fanfiction

[coreastories]

The Heartbeat

AO3: Part 14 of Days and Nights of Forever  

One dark day for Corea, one terrifying day for Gon and Tae-eul, but life goes on.

When it's fate, there are no coincidences.

Directly follows 

Corea News: The queen of Corea stuns in London and 

Corea News: A dark day for Corea

I’m so sorry. When I dropped A Dark Day for Corea last Friday, I meant to get this done the next day and not prolong the suspense. But I underestimated it. Sunday came and went and I wasn’t done. 

I spent all weekend finishing this so I couldn’t reply to you guys either. I mean, what could I say to you all wailing at me except that I’m writing, which I should DO, not say, right? 

So here it is. 11,000 words. Let me know what you think! I hope you enjoy. 

With thanks to @collectsfallenstars and @pateetsie for support and threats and encouragements and threats and confidence and threats and all the love and swearing at me. 

November was more beautiful in Corea. Perhaps it was unfair to make the comparison because Corea just happened to be closer to the tropics, closer to the sun, farther from the frozen winds of the north, but she couldn’t help it, even if she did have one sunny day in London and that was considered lucky, Elizabeth had told her, especially in November! 

No, lucky was living in this beautiful country, coming home to her husband, and with the view of all these red and gold trees outside the car window. 

And she had breakfast ready when she got home. She grinned. She thought about calling Gon again but he was probably busy cooking, and she didn't want him to time her arrival. She'd already ruined her own surprise by giving in and calling him earlier. 

“Jangmi, did you tell your omma we’re home?” 

“Ye, Mama. And she says she’s got cheonggukjang ready for us.”  

Both Tae-Eul and In-Yeong said, “Oh my God.” They laughed. Jangmi’s mother’s cheonggukjang was a hit among the guards-- and the king and queen.

And after days of British food, chonggukjang would be heavenly. 

“Don’t tell Ho-pil until we’ve all had some,” said In-yeong. “I don’t know how he makes it disappear so fast. Maybe he has a black hole in his stomach and he just pours it in.”

They were still laughing when Tae-Eul saw it. The other car. 

It was barrelling through the left of the intersection too fast. Too fast to make the turn it should make. 

And then, in contrast to that speeding car, everything else went slow. 

In this slower time, Tae-Eul recognized several things. 

One: Jangmi was a good defensive driver and had already slowed and stopped the car. 

Two: The other car could have crossed the road, perhaps grazing their front bumper, but it could have gone past all the same.  

Three: The driver of the other car was too senseless to see the opportunity Jangmi provided to avoid collision. In the grip of panic and trying to control his car, Tae-eul saw him wrenching at the steering wheel with both arms in a mindless attempt to make his turn. Even though it was too late. Even though there was no room. 

Four: At that speed, at that trajectory, the other car would nosedive into the side of their car. 

Tae-Eul laid both arms across her lower belly and prayed to God and the fate that brought her here. Was lashing out praying? Because she lashed out in shock and anger that this would happen to her, to Gon, their child. 

Maybe God heard her, or maybe it was her mind playing tricks to help her cope-- the crash was deafening but it was like a gentle rocking when it came. 

It was what happened after that was terrifying. 

Tae-Eul felt her seatbelt simultaneously loosen and tighten around her. For half a second, she was buffeted bodily against nothing but air before she felt secure again. There was a terrible noise like thunder right inside her ears and something slammed onto her face, stunning as a well-placed uppercut. 

She was blinded and her eyes burned. 

She tried to see what had happened to Jangmi and In-Yeong but she cried out at the pain and shut her eyes tight and kept both arms over her pelvis. A firebrand shot through her left shoulder and she cried out again but she kept her arms where they were. 

That was when she prayed. With her eyes watering and burning and her ears ringing, she begged to be safe. 

----------------------------------------------------------------------

“How are you? It’s not too cold?”

“No. Or maybe I’m just hot. Go back to sleep. I’m going to bed, too.” 

“Have you had anything to eat?”

“I had ban-ban on the plane. Go to sleep. I’ll call you when I wake up. Saranghae.” 

“Saranghae.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------

“I loved the music and the story but I was honestly so sleepy. It lasted more than two hours. In-yeong had to poke me several times. I lost count after the sixth one. Stop laughing. I bet you fall asleep watching it before it even gets good.”

“Go to sleep. I’ll call you again on your morning.”

“What are you making for your breakfast?” 

“Nothing special. Just eggs and tofu and I have kaktugi.” 

“Mmmm. I miss that.” 

“I miss you. Go to sleep.” 

 -----------------------------------------------------------------------

“Don’t worry so much. Just think of her as any old ahjumma.”

“Are you crazy? She’s the queen.”

“No, she’s not. Not to me. Not to the kingdom missing you. You’re the queen here. She’s a queen. You’re a queen. You’re equals.” 

“I’m wrinkling my nose at that but I miss you. You should have come with me.” 

“You said--” 

“What do you want me to bring you?” 

“Nothing. Just come home.” 

"How cheesy."

---------------------------------------------------------------------

 “How was the food?” 

“Quite good. I’ve had Angus roast, fish and chips, a full English breakfast-- the sausages here are good, maybe I can bring some-- scones and clotted cream-- I need you or the cooks to learn to make that-- cottage pie, shepherd’s pie, crumpets, and this thing they call Welsh rarebit? It’s cheese and toast. And I loved the vegetables in my salads. 

“And the milk and cream here--I think it tastes a little bit like Corea’s. It’s so creamy and delicately sweet. 

“I love their chocolate. Cadbury’s. I think we have it at home, right? Should I order more? 

“I forgot to tell you-- I almost drank alcohol at brunch when they sent more dishes and apple cider to our table with the chef’s compliments. In-Yeong thought it was juice too. They forgot I was pregnant. I was taking a sip and it didn’t smell and taste like alcohol but Elizabeth took my glass and told me it can be quite strong here.

“I can’t wait to eat ramyeon, though. And ban-ban. I’ll have them when I’m on the plane. What are you laughing at?”

“You talked for five minutes about food.” 

“That wasn’t five minutes!” 

“I love you. I miss you so much. I’ll see you in… sixteen hours.” 

“I can’t wait.” 

“To see me? Or for ban-ban and ramyeon?” 

“Take a guess.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I’m here.”

“What?”

“I flew earlier. I wanted to surprise you. I’ll just drive over. Jangmi was on the phone with Yeong long before we landed so I’m sure they’ve arranged things for the escort.”

“But I was going to pick you up-- all right. I’ll see you here, then. Do you want breakfast?” 

“Oh do I! I want everything. I want moo saengchae and galbi and my mouth is watering and I can’t talk anymore. Stop laughing.” 

“I’ll make everything. Saranghae.”

“Nado saranghae.” 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gon clung to her voice in his head while everything else seemed to ring and clamor in an infuriating barrage of noise.

He had been talking to her less than an hour ago. 

Less than an hour ago, his only thought had been kissing his wife, making breakfast, and holding his wife, his queen, the mother of his child, the best part of his life.

Now he couldn’t get enough air. His mouth was dry and he felt like he’d be violently ill. His hands were fists on his knees and he resisted the urge to thump something.  

He prayed. He listened to her voice from their last conversations together and he prayed. He sat there in the back of his car and prayed as they sped to the hospital. He begged that they weren't his last conversations with her. Begged for her safety. Her safety was his child’s. Both of them had to be safe. He begged to hear that voice again soon. Now. 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Yeong sat in the front seat and tried not to let his brain spirale. He needed facts, not speculations and imaginings. In his ear, he could hear his team as they kept him up to date on every minute detail. Everyone was his eyes and ears. Yeong listened and tried to stay in the present, not any horrendous future. He was trained to look ten steps ahead. But it was difficult in this case. His brain refused to catalogue the unthinkable.  

The king was quiet in the back seat, still as pale as when Yeong first told him what had happened.  

The queen was supposed to arrive at ten this morning. Yeong already had plans in place for the escort going to the airport and back, because the king wanted to pick up the queen. 

Nine am and the PA office would have given word to the media whether or not the press could gather at the airport. Yeong had already coordinated with the airport authority for traffic and crowd control as a contingency.  

He would have received a brief from the PA office and given a brief to the teams at eight-thirty. 

Before seven o’clock, his phone rang. Jangmi told him the queen’s jet was already approaching Corean airspace and the early arrival was supposed to be a surprise for the king. It was testament to how much Yeong had changed-- or how much he had gotten used to the king and queen anyway-- that he didn’t even sigh. He just ended the call, made another, and deployed Ho-pil’s team to the airport in their SUVs. 

At eight o’clock, Ho-Pil called him. 

“Seonsaengnim. Code Orange. Collision with civilian vehicle. The queen seems to not have major external trauma. No... bleeding. En route to CorGen now. Civilian in custody. Also en route to CorGen under escort. Jang and Park also injured. En route to CorGen.”

A pause. Yeong couldn’t speak and Ho-pil seemed to be catching his breath. And Yeong stupidly waited for the punchline. That he was being pranked. Dumb and dangerous prank, but a prank all the same. But all Ho-pil said next was, “Captain, that fucker was fucking soused. I could smell him when they loaded him on the ambulance. I wish I could kill him.” 

Yeong closed his eyes and tried not to close both fists. Wouldn’t do to break his phone right now. “You said she’s not bleeding?” They both knew the significance of what he meant. 

“No. But after examining her for a bit, they sedated her. They said it was because she couldn’t breathe properly and her heart was already working too hard, which would be bad for both of them. She has a bad friction burn on her left cheek from the airbag. The other windows all held except Jangmi's so the queen didn’t have lacerations. In-Yeong broke her wrist. And Jangmi took a real beating. When they were getting him out, they were so careful, but he still cried out. Never heard him make that noise before. And they both couldn’t hear me, Captain.” 

Yeong took a deep breath. Ho-pil’s report gave him information and time enough to get back his wits and his sense of duty. It was his queen, not his friend. Not his best friend’s wife. And he had to go tell his king, not his best friend. 

“CorGen knows to keep quiet when it’s the royal family. And they know protocol. Don’t let her out of your sight.” 

“Yes, Seonsaengnim. And the EMTs already called Seonsaeng Chae. I’ll call you with updates if you don’t join us first.” 

Yeong hung up. He must have drooped during the call because he realized he had to square his shoulders as he went to find the king. He was almost relieved when the king wasn’t in his suite. To make things simple, he asked the control tower where the king had gone. With the queen away, he could be anywhere. 

The control tower answered quickly: The kitchen. 

Right. Of course. The queen had probably already called him. 

When he entered the kitchen, the king was laying a slab of meat on the grill pan. 

“Yeong-ah. We don’t need to leave. She’s already on her wa--” 

One look at Yeong’s face and the king stopped talking. In quick, efficient movements, the king turned everything off, wiped his hands on a towel, and rounded the counter. “What happened?” His voice was clipped and dangerous.  

Yeong told him. He saw the color drain from the king’s face with every word.  

And then there wasn’t really anything else to say other than, “The car’s ready.” 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

CorGen was used to VIPs. This hospital was where high society wanted to be treated. They had six VIP rooms and these went to ministers and their families, athletes, actors, chaebol owners, heirs and executives. 

Royalty was a different level altogether. With the queen pregnant and seeing a CorGen doctor, they’ve opened the seventh VIP room. It was reserved for the royal family, always had been since the hospital opened, but the king had never used it yet in his lifetime. 

While the hospital preened at the prestige of opening VIP 7 at last, no one had imagined VIP 7 would ever be needed yet. 

Because the queen was only at fifteen weeks. 

So when the full force of the Royal Guard arrived at the ER, there was a momentary stupefaction as if everyone was waiting for someone to tell them what to do, or to tell them it was just a tasteless, dangerous joke: it couldn’t really be the queen in that gurney.  

Song-eun, arriving at the ER to attend to the queen, saw that freeze. She had frozen herself. She didn’t realize she’d stopped breathing until she exhaled when she saw the queen wasn’t  bleeding. She had expected the worst. 

And then everyone moved in sync. 

They wheeled the queen straight to the prepared trauma room and surrounded her while the EMT and residents rattled off vitals and conditions. Airway and breathing good. Hypotensive because of vasodilation, CO at 45% higher than normal, right, they would fix that. The queen was already on oxygen and fluids. Pulse ox was stabilizing. 

“Mama, I’m here. You’re with me,” Song-eun said to Tae-eul, this queen who had made Song-eun a friend, a sister. “I’m going to take care of you and the little bean.” 

Sok-jun joined her with two other attendings--neuro and trauma--and they all rattled off directions to their residents and interns. One of them took samples for the trauma panel and the KB test while Song-eun assessed the queen. 

“Mama, I’m going to perform a pelvic exam to check on you, okay?” 

Under the sheet, her hands moving efficiently, no blood, everything normal. Good. 

The queen was already in a neck brace, and she didn’t seem to have spinal injuries as the EMTs have said. The fetal HR monitor beeped steadily. Almost sixteen weeks. Could probably detect omma had been in trouble.

“Mama, you’re doing good so far. And the little bean isn’t upset either.” 

Sok-jun was finished with his own examination and did FAST again even though the EMT’s already did. Song-eun scanned the monitor alongside him. No free fluid. Good. He met Song-eun’s eyes and nodded and left. 

The neuro attending was already examining the queen’s eyes. Song-eun saw what he saw. “Reactive, symmetrical pupils.” Thank heavens. Good reaction to stimulus. “We can check for focal deficits later. Keep her stabilized.” 

Both of Tae-eul’s eyes were red with corneal abrasion and Song-eun winced. She gestured to one of the interns to administer antibiotic eye drops. 

“Get me that KB test result asap,” she said as Tae-eul got the polymyxin for her eyes and an ortho team looked at the queen’s legs, which had ugly bruises. But they were superficial. “Let’s use the Lodox right now and then take her to CT. Head and chest just to be sure." Neuro nodded. "Keep her asleep for another hour. Mom and baby are stable. Let’s keep it that way.” 

She’d just only noticed and recognized Seok Ho-pil when he spoke. He had stood quietly at the door, not getting in the way, but not relenting to be pushed out either. 

“Seonsaengnim, forgive me-- are all those safe for Her Majesty? The CT and the Lodox? What’s the KB test? And can she hear you? I thought she was sedated so she won’t be distressed?”

Song-eun nodded. “We talk to patients under sedation. Sometimes they can hear us. And no, she’s not in distress or in pain, don’t worry. And yes, everything’s safe. Absolutely. I want the CT of her head and chest because that’s where the airbags hit. The Lodox is a full body scan, very safe, low-dose x-ray. I don’t want to miss any injury at all. The Lodox will see if there’s any and we can determine if we need more imaging done then. The KB test is to check if and how much the baby’s hemoglobin transferred to the mother’s bloodstream and we can prevent the potential of Rhesus disease if mom and baby have different Rh blood factors.” 

She looked at the rest of the Royal Guard, all listening intently. They were probably privy to the fact that the queen was a rare B negative. It was why Song-eun had been so afraid if the queen was bleeding. Only 1 in 3000 Coreans matched Tae-eul’s Rhesus negative blood. She could take O-neg, but if she needed platelets… Song-eun shuddered. At least she hadn’t slipped and informed the entire room. But the entire room would probably be under NDAs in a matter of minutes. 

She could see eight guards in total, scattered in the ER lobby, gathering stares from everyone, and three had already moved ahead, probably to check the Diagnostics Room where the Lodox was. 

And then suddenly there were more black suits almost completely covering up the seafoam walls of the hospital. 

Song-eun stepped out of the trauma room and came face to face with the king. 

She had faced her share of devastated husbands in her career and she hoped she never had to look at the king looking like that again. This was her king and her namdongsaeng and it was heartbreaking to see him so terrified. 

She broke protocol and spoke first. “Pyeha, we’re still about to confirm with CT and Lodox about the queen’s injuries, but the baby seems to be fine right now and the queen has passed all tests so far. We just need to confirm and keep them both stable. We’ll do our best. We have everything we need here.” 

The king didn’t speak, just stepped past her and into the room. His eyes landed on the monitors and then on the queen. Song-eun was glad everyone had been prompt and fastidious about keeping the queen under a warm sheet. 

As it was, the king only saw the queen’s face, with those angry red patches on her left cheek and jaw. The king took a deep shuddering breath and released it, hands rising and fingertips pressing to his eyes. 

Song-eun looked away. 

She nodded to the orderlies scattered like discarded umbrellas because of the arrival of the Royal Guard. They were easy to spot in their lilac scrubs in the mass of black suits. The two closest bowed to the guards on the way, bowed to the king, bowed to the queen, and then pushed and pulled the gurney. 

The king startled as if he was going to grab the gurney but stopped himself. Song-eun laid a hand on his arm, and he jumped again. 

Song-eun pressed her hand on his arm more firmly. “We’re taking Her Majesty to the Lodox and then to CT. You can come with us if you like, Pyeha.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Ok-nam watched Mo Jin-ha burst into tears and wished she could just as easily let go like that. But she couldn’t, she never had, and one of these days, it might kill her, but she wasn’t going to faint this time. 

Not until she heard something that would really make her faint. 

“I’m sorry-- it’s just-- you know how much I struggled before I finally had Woo-jin and this is-- this is awful.” 

Ok-nam patted Jin-ha on the shoulder. Poor Jin-ha had had three miscarriages. It was why she was here, crying, instead of following the king to CorGen. Woo-jin was her little miracle, but the loss of her other children still stung. Would always do. 

“Hush now. Let’s wait and pray. We should hear from them any moment now. And you need to make an announcement before rumors spread.” 

Jin-ha nodded, wiping tears and straightening her spine. Ok-nam turned to the two policemen who had arrived, hoping to get a statement here but instead seeing the press secretary lose the composure she was famous for.

“Drink your tea, gentlemen,” Ok-nam said. “You do have colleagues who went to the hospital?”

“Yes, ma’am. But if we could get a statement from you--when you hear from them-- then we wouldn’t need to disturb Their Majesties.”

Jin-ha gave another sob. “Oh, the poor queen. She loves that baby so much-- I hope she doesn’t--” 

Ok-nam thumped a hand on her chabudai and Jin-ha and both men jumped. “Stop that,” Ok-nam said, ignoring how her heart thumped mournfully and fearfully in her chest. “Don’t think that. Don’t speak of that.” 

The phone rang and they all jumped again. Ok-nam answered it just as Seung-ah arrived and knelt beside her. 

“Captain Jo, what has--” 

“Lady Noh. The queen is fine. No major injuries. They’re still monitoring the queen and the baby. The king is with her. They’re getting her scans.” Ok-nam closed her eyes and sagged in relief. Jin-ha gave a sob of relief and Ok-nam shushed her. 

“Seung-ah has the accident footage so you can see,” Jo Yeong continued over the phone. “We’ve already released it to the police. Jangmi has a clavicle fracture and rib fractures and In-yeong has a broken wrist, three fractured fingers, bruised ribs.”

Poor Jangmi and In-yeong. “Do you-- do you have that driver?”

“Yes.” And that was all Yeong said. Ok-nam heard rage in that calm voice. She felt rage herself. “I’ve sent all information to Secretary Mo. She can make the statement at her discretion. I’ll update you.” 

Ok-nam put the phone back in its cradle. Seung-ah, pale-faced and pale-lipped, raised her iPad but Ok-nam turned away. 

“Are you mad? I don’t want to see it. Show it to these gentlemen.” 

Jin-ha seemed to have already received the same footage and the information Captain Jo mentioned in her iPad, and judging by her gasping over the screen, Ok-nam made the right decision not to look at the footage. 

“I’m going to pray.” 

She took a private, empty, circuitous route so she wouldn’t trail anxious and hysterical court maids and court ladies. She had no time and no patience to comfort anyone. 

In the kitchen garden amongst the onggi, her tears surprised her. She wiped them almost angrily. 

There was no call for tears yet. 

She bowed and prayed. 

----------------------------------------------------------------

The sound is not unlike galloping horses. Maybe galloping horses on the coast, because he can also hear a swishing noise like the wind and the surf. 

Tae-eul is laughing. “It’s so loud and fast! Are you crying?” 

“No.” He blinks his eyes and sniffs as quietly as he can. He sees Song-eun biting her lips and looking amused as she holds the Doppler against Tae-eul’s belly. 

Tae-eul squeezes his hand. He moves his eyes away from the ultrasound screen just as she also does. Their eyes meet, and his breath stutters a bit because her eyes are at their most beautiful yet since he met her. 

He kisses her hand. And with their child's heartbeat drumming in the background, they grin at each other. 

------------------------------------------------------------------ 

Gon listened to it more times than he'd admit. It was in his playlist for cooking breakfast. He even danced to it in the shower. Tae-eul had caught him at it one time and had laughed so hard and so long she had to sit on the floor.

She didn’t tease him about it, but she invariably looked at him and giggled whenever anyone brought up the baby’s heartbeat or when she listened to the file in her own phone. 

He stopped the audio file and put his phone back in his pocket. The beeps of the two heart rate monitors were discordant and so different from the rhythmic gallop and swish of his baby’s real heartbeat but he let those beeps deafen him to everything else. 

He kissed Tae-eul’s hand and wished her awake. 

She was so pale against the cream sheets on the bed. She now had bandages over her cheek and jaw. Her eyelids were rimmed with red. Her brows were slightly furrowed. She wasn’t tranquil in her sleep. 

They’d told him she wasn’t in pain. What scared him was if she was trapped in some nightmare after the terrifying experience she just went through. 

It had been almost an hour or so since the tests were done. The CT and the Lodox both found a hairline fracture on her left clavicle. 

They’d put her arm in a sling for that and kept her in the neck brace in case of whiplash. Everything else seemed fine. Her head, her spine. Until she woke up and complained of what else hurt, they had no way of knowing, apart from the bad bruising on her left shoulder, on her toes, and on the front of her shins when her legs might have flown and hit against the front seat. 

Her blood pressure was back to normal. They’d told him she had been distressed--in the emotional term-- when the ambulance arrived, her heart rate too fast and her breathing erratic, which was why they sedated her and put her on oxygen immediately. 

He just knew why she’d been so anxious and afraid. 

Song-eun walked into the room and Gon blinked back the sting in his eyes. “Noona.” 

“Pyeha. You know Her Majesty is Rhesus negative. We can confirm now that Little bean is Rhesus positive, just like you. We found some hemoglobin of little bean’s in the queen’s circulation so I’m giving her the RhoGAM now.” 

Gon watched Song-eun administer the shot on Tae-eul’s arm. 

So he saw it when Tae-eul grabbed Song-eun’s hand. 

“Mama, you’re awake. How are you feeling? I just gave you a RhoGAM shot. We talked about it before.” 

Gon got up and Tae-eul saw him. She let go of Song-eun and reached for him with both hands at first, but both hands went to her belly below her navel, where the fetal HR monitor’s attachments were. 

The vital signs monitor made a harsh protest. Tae-eul’s heart rate was spiking. 

Gon said, “Tae-eul, you’re all right, the baby’s okay.” 

She looked at him and opened her mouth to speak but made an expression of pain, touched her jaw, and cried out when she discovered the raw skin of her burn there. 

Gon grabbed her hands in his, looked into her eyes and said, “Tae-eul. You’re all right. The baby’s all right.” 

She just looked at him as if she couldn’t understand him. And she was already crying. 

Gon stared at her. Why wasn’t she-- and then it clicked. She was probably still deaf from the airbags. He looked at Song-eun and she had obviously come to the same conclusion. She tapped her ears, and then pointed and nodded at the fetal monitor, already rounding the bed to get to it herself. 

Gon beat her to it. He let go of Tae-eul with one hand and reached for the fetal monitor to turn the screen toward Tae-eul. His movement was enough to make Tae-eul look in that direction, turning her head as much as she could in the brace. 

Gon returned both hands to cradle hers. He bent down to press his lips against her fingertips. He could feel himself shaking with relief now that she was awake.   

She looked at the fetal monitor for long moments. The vital signs monitor quieted but her crying continued. Gon bent over her and gently took her in his arms without actually lifting her up. He snaked one arm under her waist and the other arm under her side. She sobbed against his shoulder and he felt her grip the back of his pullover. 

He pressed his cheek against her hair, glad she was awake, his heart breaking a little with each sob. She shouldn’t have had to go through this. This much fear. This much worry. 

Her sobs slowly stopped until she was only taking deep shuddering breaths. Gon gently pulled back his arms, kissed her uninjured cheek, and wiped her eyes, careful not to actually go near her eyelids with the tissues. 

Song-eun caught Tae-eul’s attention. As if she hadn’t just witnessed a breakdown, Song-eun spoke and gestured at the same time, and she enunciated carefully so that even Gon saw her words as much as heard them. 

“Tae-eul. Look at me. Baby is here--” Song-eun cupped both hands low on her belly, over her pelvis. “Airbag was here--” Song-eun pointed both open palms on her shoulders and mimed the slam of the airbags over her face and shoulders with a slamming movement of her hands. 

“So baby is safe. Okay?” She turned to Gon. “And your car was awesome. God. I have to get one of those.” 

“I’ll buy you one,” Gon said, without taking his eyes off Tae-eul. She had calmed down, wincing and squinting with her eyes, looking between them and the fetal monitor. 

Song-eun nudged him away from Tae-eul’s side and took his place, sitting beside Tae-eul’s hip and leaning forward to Tae-eul. She held up her index finger. “Follow the finger, Mama. Good. Okay. I’m going to use my light.” She shone that light in and out of Tae-eul’s eyes. Then she placed both her palms under Tae-eul’s. “Pyeha, show her to push on my hands. I saw how she gripped your sweater but I want to make sure.”

Gon mimed bearing down with his hands. Tae-eul pushed. Next, Song-eun mimed making fists with both hands. Tae-eul did that, too. Song-eun swiveled her hips on the bed so she faced the window, leaned back on her hands, and extended and raised her legs, one after the other. Tae-eul did the same. 

Song-eun smiled and squeezed Tae-eul’s hands. “Good, good. Just need to wait for your ears to come back. They’ll be back in a bit. You’re good.” 

Gon nudged Song-eun aside and she willingly went, smiling. He pushed the button on the side panel and raised Tae-eul’s bed gently, watching her face for any discomfort from her fracture.

Then when she was more or less sitting up, he leaned forward and hugged her as gently as he could, kissed her on the forehead and on her right cheek. He felt her arms close around his waist, and he pulled back before she tried to raise her arms higher. He didn’t want her to strain her fracture. 

He enunciated like he saw Song-eun do, not exaggerated but clearly defining each syllable. “Are you all right? Does anything hurt?” 

Her eyes went from his lips to his eyes.  She spoke carefully now, testing how much her jaw would let her do. “Why can’t I hear you?”  

Gon said, “The airbags.” 

Song-eun said, “It’s temporary. Around sixteen to forty-eight hours. Is there a ringing noise?”

It took three tries before Tae-eul understood the question, then she shook her head no. 

“Oh, good. I’m glad you don’t have tinnitus.” Song-eun cast another long look at the vital signs monitor, smiled at Tae-eul, retrieved the empty syringe she’d dropped when Tae-eul grabbed her, and left, saying she’ll be back later. 

“Did you catch that? She said your deafness will last overnight or two days.” 

Tae-eul nodded. Then she looked past him at the fetal monitor again, blinking, her eyes spilling tears. Her hands went up to her eyes and Gon stopped her hands before they made contact. She looked at him, wincing. “My eyes hurt.” “I know. I’m sorry. That’s from the airbags, too. Here, noona gave me your eye drops.” 

If she didn’t catch that, she quickly understood when he came back to her side with the bottle he’d fetched from her bedside table. Tae-eul being Tae-eul, she tried to be helpful. When she couldn’t tilt her head back at all in the neck brace, she tried anyway. “Ow.” She looked down at her shoulder and her sling as if discovering it for the first time.

Gon used her bed’s recliner and applied the eye drops. 

“You have a crack on your clavicle. So don’t move your shoulder or your arms. Does your neck hurt? We’re not sure if you have some muscle strain there.” 

“Will you just use your phone? Or find a pen and paper. A… a whiteboard and marker. I’m getting tired trying to read your lips.” 

That return of her spirit made him smile. He put down the bottle of eye drops and started writing on her palm instead. And grinned when she also smiled. 

But when he was done, her lips were trembling and her face was twisting. She reached for him without raising her hands much from her lap. 

Carefully so he wouldn’t jolt her injuries, he moved forward where he sat on her right. He slid his arm around her waist and gently pulled her close. She sighed and entirely rested her right side against him. 

“I can’t believe it. Just-- just my collarbone?” 

He nodded. It wasn’t just her collarbone, but he could elaborate later. 

“I was so scared. I thought it would be worse--”  

“Me too.” He wrote the hangul on her palm. 

“What about Jangmi and In-yeong?”

“They’re okay, but they have fractures. They’re in surgery to fix them.” 

“Oh no. Fractures where?” 

“I don’t really know yet. I’ve been with you all this time.” 

“They’re going to be so frustrated,” Tae-eul said. “They’ll have to be off-duty.” 

“Well, you’ll also be off-duty. You can all be off-duty together.”

“Talk again.” 

“What is it?”

She pressed her hand against his chest. “I can feel your voice.”

“Oh. It’s the vibrations.” 

She pressed her fingertips at his throat. “I feel your voice better here. Say something.”

“Saranghae. I was scared to death. I’m grateful you’re all right. Are you really all right?” 

She nodded, eyes spilling tears again. “You and Song-eun said I am.” And her eyes flicked to the fetal monitor. 

Gon sighed and held her closer. 

“And you’re sure the baby’s all right? What did Song-eun say?” 

This time, he took his phone out of his pocket and typed on it with his arms around her. 

She said we’re lucky you’re only almost 16 weeks. The baby’s still small, and the layers of protection are thicker than if you were further along. You did have to get a RhoGAM shot now, and Song-eun says she’ll monitor the baby for Rhesus disease from now on.  

Tae-eul was nodding as she read his screen. The Rhesus incompatibility situation wasn’t new to them. They’d learned about it in her first screenings. 

Do you have other questions?

Tae-eul stiffened a little in his arms, and Gon thought she was finally going to ask about the driver. Gon had been trying not to think of him either. He had focused on Tae-eul, but now that she was awake and asking questions, the driver was invading his thoughts. 

He still didn’t know much aside from the fact that he was completely drunk. 

However, after relaxing in his arms again, Tae-eul poked the top right of his phone screen and said, “It’s almost eleven. Why am I not hungry? I haven’t eaten in twelve hours.”

Gon exhaled a laugh. He kissed her hair. He loved this woman. He typed, You ate at eleven pm?

“Don’t go there.” 

Still smiling, he typed, I think they gave you something in your IV so you won’t feel acidic and hungry in case you stayed asleep longer. And they gave you vitamins and other essentials. I’ll go ask if you can eat. 

He gently maneuvered her back onto her bed. She sighed against her pillow and then looked at the fetal monitor again. Her eyes suddenly went droopy, and Gon knew her adrenaline spike after waking up had worn off now that she knew their baby was safe. And her eyes were probably tired anyway. With her corneal abrasions, sleeping would do her good. 

“Hold off on the food,” she said as she closed her eyes. “But get me my kalbi.”

Gon pushed the bed’s button again and put the bed back in full recline. He pressed a kiss on her forehead, and then on her lips, lingering there for several long moments. He loved her, he had missed her, and today he’d nearly lost her.  

When they parted, she said, “Saranghae.”

“Nado.” 

He didn’t leave her, of course. Gon dropped on the armchair and took several deep breaths, exhaling quietly. His relief sent him doubling over, elbows on his knees, and he thanked God over and over. A litany of Gamsahabnida. 

Then he leaned back on the armchair and just looked at her. Now her face no longer looked pinched, as if she was truly sleeping now. Once he was sure she was in deep sleep, Gon hit 3 on his phone. 

“Yeong. Ask Dr Chae if Tae-eul can eat. She’s asleep now but she asked about food.” 

“Ye, Pyeha.” And before Gon could ask, Yeong added, “My report is in the Drive. I have a lead so I’m about to leave, Pyeha. We’ll continue updating the doc.” 

“All right. Thank you.” 

Gon took a deep breath and navigated to the Drive. He wasn’t about to leave Tae-eul’s side and Yeong couldn’t deliver the report personally, so this Drive folder, usually for documentation only and something Gon had never looked at, came in handy. 

He saw the thumbnail of the footage and his jaw clenched. As king and sovereign justice, he had to watch it. 

He watched Jangmi approach the intersection defensively, not crossing it even with the light on green because of that suspicious oncoming white car from the left. 

He watched the white car barrel through the intersection-- other cars swerving to a halt. 

He watched his wife’s car stop beyond the path of the white car, just like all other cars had done. 

He watched the white car swerve for no reason at the last second and ram into his wife’s car, even though practically all the cars had given it a clear path across. 

He watched it twice and closed the video before his blood boiling made him throw his phone at the wall.  

He could feel his jaw trembling with rage and he swore under his breath to release some of his anger. It made him feel dirty even though Tae-eul was asleep and couldn’t have heard him. He rubbed his hands over his face and looked at Tae-eul, letting the sight of her calm him. 

He opened the report next. Aside from details that he already knew, like the time and location of the collision, and Tae-eul’s condition at the time of the ambulance response, it now included photos of Jangmi’s and In-yeong’s x-rays and Yeong’s notes. 

Jang Mi-reuk: 

lacerations on the face, neck and arm (left)

Type 1 distal clavicle fracture (left)

Type A oblique rib fractures (left posterior 4th, 5th and 6th ribs) 

Type B transverse rib fracture (left posterior 7th rib)

30% pneumothorax (left lung) 

severe bruising on the left side

sensorineural hearing loss and tinnitus (prognosis: temporary)

Park In-yeong: 

bruised ribs (left)

distal radius fracture (right) 

displaced, mid-shaft and intra-articular fractures of the phalanges (left little finger, ring finger and middle finger)

sensorineural hearing loss (prognosis: temporary)

Gon was glad Jangmi wasn’t worse. He was the only one on the left side of the car, the side of the collision. The other car had rammed the queen’s car a little behind Jangmi’s seat, and even with the car’s airbags and collision safety technology, look at all those broken bones. And his lung had collapsed.  

Yeong’s report says they didn’t know how exactly In-yeong broke her wrist and fingers. Probably from slamming them against something during the crash. 

Damn. And it was In-yeong’s right wrist. She wouldn’t be able to shoot a gun for weeks. The little crack shot wouldn’t like that. 

The next page was about the driver. 

Gon read it all but the only thing that stood out was the blood alcohol concentration. The driver weighed 160 pounds with .25 BAC. 

That was beyond driving under the influence. Influence was about a quarter of the man’s blood alcohol level. What the driver did was practically-- 

Gon’s brain supplied manslaughter. He closed his eyes. No one had died. But someone could have. Someone could have. And if Gon hadn’t bought the safest car in the world, or if Jangmi simply chose any of the other cars in the fleet, where would Gon be right now? 

---------------------------------------------------------------

“SPEAK UP! I ASKED YOU WHAT HAPPENED TO THE QUEEN AND YOU HAVE TO ANSWER ME!”

Ho-pil gestured to Dong-min and ran to VIP 6, the VIP room where he could hear Jangmi bellowing. He found the man shouting at his nurse from his bed by the window. 

On the other bed, In-yeong was awake and looking mournful. When she saw Ho-pil, she said, “I can’t hear it but it’s hurting my eardrums. How’s the queen?”

Ho-pil gave her two thumbs up. Queen was okay. Baby was okay. In-yeong sighed and then winced when that action jogged her ribs. 

Ho-pil marched over to Jangmi, who was still bellowing like a wounded bull. 

He was a wounded bull. His face, neck and arms were bandaged, his torso was bandaged and in thick braces. He also had a bandage over his clavicle where his surgery incision was. His left arm was in a sling secured with straps to keep his shoulder immobile. 

When he saw Ho-pil, he stopped shouting. But he was still yelling. Ho-pil winced. “Sunbaenim. How’s the queen?”

Ho-pil repeated the two thumbs up that worked with In-yeong. 

Jangmi burst into tears. 

“Should I have moved the car and tried to avoid it? It happened so fast. I should have done something.” 

Ahh shit. Poor Jangmi. Ho-pil pulled out his phone and typed rapidly.  

You did exactly what I would have done if I’d been the one at the wheel. This wouldn’t have happened if that other bastard wasn’t blind drunk. The queen is fine. She has a clavicle fracture like you, but not as bad. And there’s something about her getting the Rhesus injection thing because she has that rare negative blood type and the baby’s a positive. Don’t terrorize your nurses. They’re the ones who’ll give you food and pain meds. 

He showed the screen to Jangmi and the great bull calmed down with every word, and then turned sheepish by the end. 

“I’m sorry, sunbaenim. Thank you. But I still want to apologize to the queen. Can we see the queen?” 

Ho-pil mouthed, “Can you get up?”

“Sure, if you help me.” 

“I’ll help you later. Rest for now. I think Their Majesties will let us know if they want to see--” 

Dong-min pounded on the open door and waved frantically at Ho-pil. “Seonsaengnim, the king wants--”

And then the king himself stepped into the room. 

They all bowed their heads. Not just out of respect. The king looked murderous. For some reason, Ho-pil had a flashback he couldn’t identify because he had never seen the king like this before, but his mind told him the king was dangerous when he looked like this. 

And contrary to Jangmi, the king spoke in quiet, precise syllables that made the hair on Ho-pil’s neck rise. 

“Sub-captain Seok. Captain Jo is already investigating that man.” Ho-pil heard disgust and knew the king wanted to call the man something else. Ho-pil already did in his own head. “He has a lead somewhere else. Now I want information on where that man drank all night. If it was an establishment, the owner, and the staff who served him. If it was a private party, who he was with. Call his employers or his employees.” 

“Ye, Pyeha. His family, too?” 

“We already know his family. Captain Jo sent it in. In any case, I don’t want testimony from anyone who might beg for him not to die.” 

“Ye, Pyeha.”

With a nod toward In-yeong and Jangmi, the king left. 

They waited ten seconds, and then In-yeong and Jangmi asked him what the king said. Ho-pil typed it on his phone and showed it first to In-yeong, and then to Jangmi. 

In-yeong had just looked vindictive. Jangmi spoke their thoughts aloud. Real loud. 

“HOLY SHIT.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

A loud, grinding noise and the crash of metal against metal. 

The piercing shatter of glass breaking. The explosive full blast of airbags. Brakes squealing. 

Pain and burning on her eyes, her shoulder, her legs, everywhere. She struggled to part her eyelids but they wouldn’t cooperate beyond a small squint. She couldn’t see Jangmi and In-yeong at all. 

She couldn’t hear anything either. 

Someone was lifting her and she told them to be careful, she was pregnant, but if they heard her she had no idea-- she knew she was speaking but the way she heard herself was different. Was she dead and was it this quiet when you were dead? 

She couldn’t be dead-- she was going to have a baby. And Gon would be devastated. No, no.  

Suddenly, her eyes were open and she saw the car coming again as if to finish the job now that the paramedics had brought her out of the shelter of the car. 

Determined that it wouldn’t get her this time, she struggled against the paramedics and ran with all her might away from them all, away from that car. 

But it still hit her and she felt that gentle and violent rocking again. 

It made her ill. 

Suddenly, she realized she really was throwing up over a basin. Her eyes were really open. When she was done, she could see beyond the basin and her sheets. Cream sheets and blankets now being gently and efficiently changed around her by court maids in their familiar uniform. Leaf green walls and cream paneling and a big glass window showing the dimming light of sunset. 

She was in a hospital room, not a highway full of stopped traffic and one murderous car. 

Something cool and comforting was being pressed against the right side of her face. Comforting in contrast to the dull ache she felt in her legs and feet, her shoulder, her face. Everything hurt. 

Gon was beside her. He was the one holding the basin and the towel against her cheek. When he saw she was really done being sick, he passed the basin to a court maid, wiped Tae-eul’s mouth with the towel, and offered her a glass of water with a straw. 

Tae-eul sipped water and swallowed it with some difficulty past the sobs building in her chest and throat. She held off as long as she could, but they came out anyway. 

When she woke up this morning, she had cried with relief. She had been so afraid, so sure that she was about to be told she was no longer-- but then she felt the attachments on her belly and saw the fetal monitor and-- she cried with relief. 

Right now, she was crying from residual terror. She had been a detective. She knew what this was. Only, she had known and seen it happen to others. In colleagues, in witnesses, in suspects. 

Now she knew what it was like. And her detective’s brain tried to feed her with facts to ease her anguish. She focused her eyes on the fetal monitor. Her baby was fine. She was fine. She couldn’t hear but she was fine. She was in the hospital. She cracked her collarbone. But she was fine. The car hadn’t hurt her. Hadn’t hurt them. 

Gon was real, his arms around her, his hand stroking her hair soothingly, and his breath against her ear. 

The sick feeling in her stomach receded. Her heart slowed down. She clung to Gon’s arm and let herself fall back against him, on the familiar shelter of his shoulder. 

She pressed her lips together to close her mouth and stop crying. There was no need to carry on like this. She looked at Gon, drank him in with her eyes, and let that gaze and that nose and those lips and that jawline blot out the last vestiges of that car from behind her eyelids. 

But it frustrated her that she couldn’t hear his voice. She could feel his chest rumbling softly and his lips moving against her forehead but she heard nothing. 

He brought his face close to hers, gently tilting her chin so she could see him. She focused on his lips as they moved. “You’re all right. I’m here. Are you all right?” 

She nodded and shook her head. “Everything hurts.” 

Gon’s mouth curved down. “I’m sorry. Your medication should take effect soon. Noona gave you another dose some time ago. You’ll be fine.” 

She nodded, raising her right hand to cradle his neck. When he spoke again, she felt it against her palm. “Do you want to tell me about it? What woke you up? Was it the accident?”

She nodded again. “Just… I saw it all over again. And everything I heard then. I wish I could hear something else to push it out of my head.” 

Gon pulled some tissues from the box on her bedside table and gently dabbed at her cheeks, careful not to make contact with her eyes. 

He said, “I could sing to you. Maybe only feeling the vibrations on my throat would make it sound better.”

She caught all that from reading his lips and it made her smile. “Go on.” 

And Gon sang. An English song he’d heard her alternately sing and hum. It was like a lullaby. Soft, comforting, the notes rising and falling in smooth harmony. She could hear the song in her head, and her mind added the tune to Gon’s voice vibrating against her palm, drowning out that awful screech of metal.  

“Moon river, 

wider than a mile, 

I’m crossing you in style some day.”

Her stomach chose that moment to grumble. 

Gon stopped singing and looked at her. “I know I can’t sing as well as you, but that was rude.” 

Tae-eul laughed. 

“Come on. Let’s get you fed. You’ve had nothing but liquid nutrition all day.” 

As if listening for this, another court maid came in and laid a tray on the bed. Then she placed and uncovered a black and gold ceramic dosirak on top of it. Tae-eul smelled kimchi and kalbi and her mouth watered. 

Gon picked up the tray and placed it over her lap. She opened her mouth and he chuckled, taking a little bit of everything into a spoonful and bringing it to her mouth. 

“Good?”

“Really good. Did I lose my phone?”

Gon nodded. “It was on the seat behind Jangmi. Why?”

“Give me your phone.” 

She didn’t even have to navigate much. The file she wanted was on the homescreen. She played it at maximum volume. Nothing. 

She sighed. 

“You remember how it sounds, though, right?” Gon asked. 

Oh, she did. But she wanted to hear it, not remember it. 

She wanted that heartbeat to assure her, distract her, make her feel safe and happy again. And Gon’s voice. She needed his voice, too. 

They both ate the dosirak without talking much, both of them retreating inside their own heads, and then Gon helped her wash her face-- with wipes-- and brush her teeth-- with a basin. 

Maybe her pregnancy-safe painkillers still had narcotic side-effects, or maybe she was just tired out from everything. She drowsily played with Gon’s hand in her lap. 

She decided she couldn’t put it off any longer. “Gon. The driver.” 

He looked at her, and his gaze was still the same whenever he looked at her, but she saw the fury there, the hard and unforgiving glint. 

“Tell me about the driver.” 

He took his hand from hers, navigated his phone, and gave it to her with the document open. 

She scrolled past Yeong’s notes on her condition, on Jangmi’s and In-yeong’s, her heart squeezing at their injuries, and then there he was. His driver’s license. Kim Ae-go, 1977 08 29, Gijang-gun. 

The report had been updated an hour ago with priors. Several counts of DUI and possession, the first one when he was 16. When he was 19, he had crashed his car into a house, killing a cat and her four kittens. The case was settled. When he was 24, he had hit a 15-year-old kid on a bike and the kid was paralyzed from the waist down, but the case was settled. Five years later, he was tried for vehicular manslaughter-- a 17-year-old girl and her 10-year-old sister were killed-- but was acquitted. 

“I can’t believe this.” 

Gon looked at her, that glint in his eyes sharper now. 

“This... this son of a bitch is a menace.” 

Gon blinked. 

“Well, now that he has endangered the bloody queen and the heir, he has no chance of being acquitted, has he? You can even behead him.” She slammed his phone down on the bed. 

Gon stared at her, his eyes flickering between her and the vital signs monitor. 

“What? I suppose we can’t have him beheaded just because I was the one attacked this time. He should have been punished long ago. Just… just get him imprisoned for life. No parole.”

In response, Gon’s hand came to cradle her uninjured cheek, and then he was kissing her, pressing and stroking her lips with his, taking her lower lip in his mouth, pulling on it and teasing it with his tongue. 

Then he just lingered there with their lips brushing while they both breathed each other’s air. His eyes stared into hers, and the glint was still there, but it was a different kind.  

He kissed her again, just a quick but still persistent kiss, and then withdrew. 

He took his phone from where she’d slammed it on her bed covers-- now the silk from the palace-- and typed on it. He showed her the screen. 

I wanted him beheaded. But I suppose life imprisonment is more appropriate so he can properly reflect and pay for his sins. He’s already under lock and key in the hospital. No chance of being acquitted, no. And yes, life with no parole. 

Get better soon, my queen. I missed you. And I love you when you’re bloodthirsty.   

She didn’t quite slam his phone down on the bed again, but it was still close. She felt ridiculous about it and glared at him. 

He was laughing as he pushed the button on her bed.  

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Gon was shaken, however. He watched Tae-eul asleep in the glow of the lamps, her face golden and beautiful and angelic. Was this Tae-eul’s purpose in his world? Not just a queen but a trap for pests? 

He opened his phone and tapped their favorite audio file almost automatically. The volume was still on the last setting by Tae-eul-- maximum-- and he didn’t lower it. He let it wash over him. 

It sounded like how his heart thundered in his ears that morning-- just that morning-- when Yeong told him Tae-eul had been in a car crash.  

It also sounded like a drum roll before an announcement. What would he announce? That the queen was taking a leave of absence? Could he send her--ask her--to stay in the republic and hope she was safe there?  

He grimaced at the stupidity and futility of that thought. 

His phone buzzed in his hand. It was Yeong. 

“Pyeha. I’m coming to your room and I’ll stay with the queen.”

“Why?”

“He’s awake. He remembers everything. And the Minister of Finance is here.”

----------------------------------------------------------------

Ok-nam saw the sickle moon again in her dream. And just like before, it turned into a brilliant sun. 

She didn't know why that thrilled her and assured her but it did. 

She was just about to happily sink further in her dream and sleep when she felt herself being pulled to wakefulness. 

It was the phone. She answered it and heard the king’s voice just as what happened that day hit her.  

"How are you? Have they told you everything?" 

"Pyeha. How is the queen?" 

"Better. She's fine. They're both fine." Ok-nam sighed. "Lady Noh. Should one punish severely or well?" 

Ok-nam didn’t even have to think about it. “Do both. Always.” She dipped her head with emphasis even though the king, her little boy, couldn’t see her. “This is how you make things right. This is how you inspire other people to also always make things right.” 

“Hmm. You and your punishments that involve three generations.” 

Ok-nam raised her eyes to the ceiling. “I don’t really do that! You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do. Thank you.” 

---------------------------------------------------------------

The Minister of Finance was prostrate before the king. 

This day was just full of surprises. Ho-pil had just arrived back at the hospital to make a report to the king when Captain Jo asked him to escort the minister to VIP 5. Ho-pil balked at that, disgusted that the minister and his asshole son were in the VIP wing right alongside the queen, but Yeong told him the entire VIP wing was currently occupied by the Royal Court. 

True to the Captain’s word, VIP 5 was empty. 

It seemed to be under renovation. Bare walls. With the minister prostrating on the bare floor. 

“Pyeha, I beg your forgiveness. I am horrified at what has occurred. At what my son did. My entire family deserves to die.” 

The minister was a spry seventy-four year old that Ho-pil had admired. But the man had aged since Ho-pil had last seen him. He felt almost sorry that the son’s sins were being visited on the father. Almost. Because the father had sins himself, didn’t he? 

The king, standing tall with the minister at his feet, spoke in his quiet way. No fury this time, but it still made Ho-pil swear he’d never do anything to warrant the king speaking to him in that tone. 

“I am not going to make accusations, Minister. But your son has been endangering people for more than two decades. He has even killed two girls. He was acquitted. With his priors, the acquittal seems impossible until one looks at the family he belongs to.  

“What do you hope to obtain?” 

“Our lives. We deserve to die but please let my family live, Pyeha. I will accept all other punishments I deserve.” 

The king replied without pause. “So be it. You are henceforth stripped of your title and ministership. You and your wife are banished from Corea. Your son will be tried and imprisoned the maximum sentence. As I’m the sovereign justice, and this time the case is right before my eyes and I hope I’m no longer an inadequate teenaged monarch, I can assure you your son will die in incarceration. Is that to your satisfaction?” 

The minister lowered his head further on the floor. “Pyeha-- my parents-- they’re the ones who coddled the boy. I humbly suggest the punishment extend to them.” 

“Very well. I trust your word. They will join you in exile. None of you are allowed to set foot in the kingdom. Not even to die here.” 

“Thank you for your mercy. Thank you for sparing my children and grandchildren, Pyeha.” 

If the father impressed Ho-pil, the son disgusted him. 

The king didn’t even bother to speak to the gibbering man. What a fucking cockroach, begging for forgiveness without acknowledging his actions. The king entered his room, looked at him, and just seemed to tune him out when he began talking.  

And when Ho-pil told the king that the cockroach had thrashed the server who had confiscated his car keys, Ho-pil saw the king’s hand clench at his side. 

Ho-pil was sure that if the Four Tiger Sword had been at the king’s hip in its scabbard, he would have slit the man’s throat. 

But aside from that small movement anyone untrained would have missed, the king didn’t even flinch as they left the room. 

“Add that to his charges. And place the server in protective custody. I think Captain Jo already made contact with the family of the girls and they’re under our protection as well. Cut off all communication channels of the Kim family until and after the four senior Kims are exiled.” 

“Ye, Pyeha.” His investigation had told him as much. The old Kim patriarch had a long reach without having to step outside his villa. It was just unlucky for the old man he was now standing toe to toe with the king. 

“Sub-captain Seok, please inform Secretary Mo that if there are other cases like this that have escaped my notice, I want them all at my desk by Friday next.” 

Ho-pil stood tall and took immense pride in saying, “Ye, Pyeha.”

----------------------------------------------------------------

The guards at the door of VIP 7 were instead standing near VIP 6. Gon heard the din of raised voices as he stepped past them. The guards had stepped away so they wouldn’t hear. What on earth--

As he stopped at the door, he heard Tae-eul’s voice clearly, and it stunned him because for a moment, he thought she was talking to him. 

“And do you think the republic has force fields that prevent a car crash? I could have a car accident there, too.” 

Then Yeong spoke. “What if you had died? What if the baby--”

“Don’t think that. I didn’t die. I didn’t lose--” 

“Are you going to look at death every day? I thought it was over.” 

“Why do you always make me talk in cliches? We do look at death every day. Anything can happen to anyone at any time.” 

“Don’t tell me you don’t see it. You were used today to finally catch that man. You saw his records. Once he slammed into YOUR car, there was no hope for him. His entire family’s power gone just like that because he happened to crash into the queen this time. That was unnecessary. That was senseless. The king would have caught on to him sooner or later. But look what happened. And because you and I both know you’ve been put here on purpose, aren’t you a little suspicious? Aren’t you even a little afraid?” 

“Of course I’m afraid. I’m terrified. But there are things you fight and stay for even when you’re afraid. You know that.” 

Gon had felt his stomach drop at Yeong’s words, and then Tae-eul’s just knocked the wind out of him. Yeong didn’t answer, so Gon opened the door. He found them on opposite ends of the room, Tae-eul in bed and Yeong standing at the window. 

Both of them looked impassive, although Tae-eul’s visible cheek was flushed. 

“Did I interrupt something?”

Yeong said, “No.” Tae-eul just sighed. 

Gon knew that no matter how tenacious she was, what Yeong said had bothered her. Of course, it would. 

To his surprise, Yeong spoke up. 

"I'm worried about you. Both of you. If something happens to either of you, I'm the one who'll be left with the pieces. I’m meant to protect you. Why else do I remember everything? But how can I protect you from something like this? I’m powerless and useless.” 

Gon took a deep breath and spoke of the realization that had come to him between his call to Lady Noh and his audience with the ex-minister. “Something or someone else will prove powerful and useful then, Yeong-ah.” 

Yeong scowled at him.  

“It’s a balance. How do you think I felt this morning? I was king but what good was that when Tae-eul was in a car crash? But that car proved powerful and useful. Jangmi’s defensive driving ended up powerless and useless but that car protected them, didn’t it?” 

Yeong turned his head to the side, his gesture of thinking over what Gon said. 

“I was thinking like you earlier. It crossed my mind that maybe I could ask her to stay in the republic. But like she told you, that didn’t make sense. And when I found out about that man’s family, everything made sense. You said I could have caught on to him sooner or later-- but can you think of any other circumstance where he would have been trapped so cleanly without escape?” 

Yeong scowled and sighed. Tae-eul said, “I think that’s the longest he explained something without a math reference, don’t you?”  

Yeong sighed again, but this one sounded amused, and the look he gave Tae-eul was full of exasperation. Something Gon was familiar with because it had been directed at him for dec--

Gon snapped his head to Tae-eul. “You heard me?” 

Tae-eul grinned and tapped her right ear. “Loud and clear. Ever since Yeong came in and woke me up.”

“I didn’t wake you up. You were already awake.”

“What about your left ear?” 

“Still fuzzy. I think because it got the brunt from all the airbags and the… the crash.”

“It will come back. I’m glad you can hear again.” 

“Me, too. Give me your phone.” 

Gon smiled, moving eagerly toward her, and Yeong did the same, toward the door. “I’ll see myself out. I don’t like being in the room when you two start smiling like that.” 

Gon clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry too much. Live for today.” 

Yeong just gave him a side-eye. “Tell yourself that, too.” 

Gon nodded. “I do. Everyday.” 

------------------------------------------------------------

Tae-eul watched the two best friends exchange words--too soft for her to hear-- before Yeong made it out the door. When she was out of here, she was going to send Yeong and Seung-ah to Jeju or Pyeongchang so he could decompress. 

Maybe they could all go as a treat to the entire guard while Jangmi and In-yeong were recovering. 

Gon gave her his phone, kissed her, and then retreated to the en suite. She heard him at the sink, brushing his teeth, the clink of the water glass against the counter, and then the gentle thump and soft buzz of his luggage as he opened zips and probably got his pajamas. 

There was the faint noise of the shower door sliding on its track, once, twice, and then the muffled cascade of the shower running.  

She listened to every little noise. She thought she even heard the soft hum of his electric razor. Even the soft slap of his hands as he applied aftershave. It made her smile.  

And then she heard the shift of the sound of his footsteps from tile to carpet, and when she opened her eyes, he was watching her from the side of the bed. 

“I thought you’d have it in full volume but I came out to absolute quiet.” 

Tae-eul snorted. “You don’t know absolute quiet. And I was waiting for you.”

He smiled and helped her move on the semi-double bed to make space for him. It might be a VIP room but the bed still couldn’t be too big to hinder patient treatment. She made sure the space was big enough for Gon to lie on his back rather than on his side all night. 

He laid down on his side, however, with his arm over her waist and under her sling, kissing her temple and her cheek. 

She squeezed his arm with her left and then she tapped play on their favorite audio file. 

Tae-eul closed her eyes and listened to it. Then she remembered Gon dancing to this and giggled. She turned the volume loud and then softer, and the little bean’s heartbeat remained steady and strong. 

This was what she’d wanted to hear all day, what she’d known she would hear soon when she’d heard the soft click of the door after Yeong had entered and it latched closed. 

So when Yeong had seen she was awake and started talking about his fears, she had been calm and peaceful, with her faith a solid presence in her mind and heart, all because she had known she was about to hear this heartbeat again. 

She felt Gon’s thumb swipe at her cheek. “Do you hear any difference?” 

She didn’t open her eyes but she tilted her head a little. Gon’s voice was another thing. “Hmm?”

“This is from today.” 

“What?”

“This is the little bean at fifteen weeks, not at twelve weeks.”

Tae-eul smiled and laughed a little. “Really? I don’t hear any difference, do you?”

“No. It’s like nothing happened.” 

Tae-eul chuckled. “Like nothing happened.” 

___________________________________________

Question/reader reaction to A dark day for Corea: WHY DID I DO THIS?! WHYYY!

Answer: You know that sweet pregnancy trope where they listen to the baby's heartbeat? I wanted it in a flashback in a currently bleak scene. 

And this is what came to me. I did my research and I kept finding things to support what I wanted to do, like the new Mercedes Benz S-class 2021 (to be released in September), the loss of hearing from airbags, and so many other bits. I loved it.

I did drop Corea News ahead so I’d be committed to seeing this through. 

I almost paid for subscription to a medical procedures journal, but I did find specific answers for free. The key is to ask specific questions lol.

If I got anything wrong, forgive me. I could have asked medical people around me, but I’m shy and writing is solitary. 

FACT: Rhesus negative blood is RARE in Asia. There was a sad news item in Korea where a man died because he needed platelets and couldn’t find enough donors. He had B-negative blood. 

All right, let me know what you think. Please drop a line, thank you! :) 

#CoreaNews #CoreaFiction #the king and queen #the king: eternal monarch #TKEM fan fiction #CoreaStories

[maxwell-grant]

I hope you don't mind me dropping asks on you every day? Anyways, a general question on modern-day attempts at using existing Pulp Heroes; do you think there is value in setting such tales in the modern day, rather than being period pieces? And if one does do so, do you think the best approach is to go full setting update, or to somehow translate the characters into the modern day, or to go the Legacy route?

I eagerly look forward to answering all kinds of questions, so don’t hesitate to send any my way!. Any feedback or excuse I get to go off on a subject is extremely appreciated. 

Okay so on to your question: 

...Man, that really seems like the billion dollar question when it comes to the pulp heroes, isn’t it? The one at least that every conversation regarding adapting these characters, giving them reboots or new stories, seems to inevitably get stuck on: Should these characters be left as is, or modernized? Is there any point to trying to modernize them when often, at least in the public view, the only thing that separates them from being diet superheroes is their time period? Can these characters even survive as anything other than historical footnotes if they don’t move past the trappings of time holding them back? I’ve been very firmly on both sides of the question at different points and I think every answer inevitably brings up solutions and problems of it’s own. 

For the moment, I’m going to start by saying that it’s something of a case by case basis. For example, The Scarlet Pimpernel is a timeless archetype, but one who’s specific characterization and history is so tied up to it’s time period that it’s far better to just reimagine the Pimpernel into a different character set in a different time, than to try and remove the Blakeneys from their time period, likewise with characters who cross into historical fantasy like Conan or western characters, where they have such strongly defined settings and playgrounds that you’d be losing much by removing them from it. 

But on the other hand, you have characters like The Phantom, or The Avenger, who very clearly could exist at just about any point in time and don’t have any specific complications holding them to the 30s (in fact The Phantom was arguably designed for this, being he kickstarted the whole legacy superhero concept). A lot of the times, people seem to think or insist that certain pulp characters cannot be separated from their time periods, even when they were well on their way to doing so before some unfortunate cancellation. The Shadow, for example. Gibson had no problems updating the character’s adventures to the 60s for the Belmont series, and if The Shadow had maintained the kind of continuous publication that Batman and Superman had, I have no doubt whatsoever that nobody would even peg him as a character that belongs to the 30s and the 30s only, even if a lot of important aspects of his character are tied up in 30s America and The Great War and whatnot. 

To try and streamline this response into something more general, I’m going to state that, yes, I do think it’s a case by case basis where some characters don’t work as well outside their time periods, and others should have left them ages ago, but in general? I think most of the pulp heroes would stand to benefit much more from being set, not just in modern times, but outside of time. Or at least, outside of a specific time period being something that defines and entraps them. Pretty much none of these characters, outside of historical fantasy examples like Conan or characters whose genres are locked into specific past time periods like cowboys, were intended to be period pieces, and yet that’s what they became, because time has been extremely cruel to the pulp heroes in many ways. 

To bring up superheroes briefly, while I maintain that I think the real secret to making pulp heroes work and achieve success again is to distance them from superheroes, or at least the popular blockbuster superheroes, as much as possible, the superheroes have been around running the show for a while now and experimenting a lot as an inescapable facet of pop culture that's worked out monstrously well so far,nso clearly there’s a lot to learn there. The superheroes by and large belong in shared universes held tight by copyright where the weight of accumulating timelines inevitably forces them to either undergo reboots every couple of years, or endure constant quiet retcons snipping away at continuity so the cohesive “Superhero Universes” can function. But there’s no such thing as some big “Pulp Hero Universe” existing anywhere near the same capacity, there’s works gesturing to the idea like the Wold Newton Universe and LOEG and Dynamite’s shared author works largely scrapped together from separate sources all drifting apart, and most of these characters have largely fallen through the cracks of copyright law and into outright non-existence, or are halfway there. Very few modern instances of "cinematic universes" outside of the MCU work, so what we do instead is go the opposite route, closer to DC's "throw anything at the wall to see what sticks" approach.

What I’m getting to is, I could flip through the pages of Jess Nevins’s Encyclopedia of Pulp Heroes, pick about 3 or 5 random characters, put them in a story regardless of whatever time period they used to be a part of, and make something out of it, without anyone stopping to question “Hey, hold up, why is Joel Saber not on Victorian England? Why are Uirassu and Tom Shark in a loving relationship when they don’t even belong in the same decade? Why did you turn Allan Crystal into a talking sparrow? You are betraying the source material, these characters don’t work outside of it”. Because nobody has any idea who those guys are, they might as well be just original names I made up (I didn't, btw), and nobody has any reason to care, they will only care if they read good, engaging stories with strong characterizations that give them a reason to be invested. And if achieving that requires ditching adherence to the source material (which doesn’t even exist anymore for at least a third of these characters), I cannot see that as a bad thing. 

He's nowhere near the ballpark of pulp heroes but I'm going to bring up King Arthur as an example because he’s been on my mind today. 

All of these, and countless others, are King Arthur. I’m no expert in Arthuriana, but from what I’ve gathered, I’d make a pretty good guess that one of the main reasons why King Arthur has been able to endure so strongly, and have so many variations that we have an entire area of study dedicated just to untangling those messes we call Arthuriana, has less to do with his historical or mythological importance (you hardly see that many stories about Cú Chulainn), but because the lore and imagery and events surrounding King Arthur have so utterly transcended the source material that people still dispute what the source material even was, or if he was a real person, or if he was created by the Welsh and stolen by Brits, and etc, and because he's completely free for any writers and artists to mold and use to anything they see fit.

King Arthur is not so much a character as much as he’s a sandbox that literally anyone can play in and reshape as they see fit, with no shortage of existing events and characters and magical items that you can treat as either essential staples, or guidelines and suggestions at best. I have three separate ideas for King Arthur as a big shark man in a greaser outfit who yields an oversized hair comb with fishhooks attached as Excalibur, one where he’s a monstrous dragon who sleeps in the ruin of his former kingdom guarding the only remaining memory of Guinevere left, and one where he’s a disembodied consciousness inside a giant mechanical bear. I could pick any of these and make a story out of them, or insert these into a story, any time I want, and nobody could stop me.

Point is, I think a lot, even most, of the pulp heroes would benefit from having some kind of “no-holds-barred, just do anything you want out of whatever you find interesting about the original” approach, a lot more so than the superheroes already do, because if there’s a single group of characters nowadays that best embodies an “anything goes” approach, a group that is almost entirely in public domain nowadays save for it’s biggest icons and therefore is already available for people to take and spin any way they want, it’s the pulp heroes. These characters have been in stasis for so long, or all but faded into nothingbbut mere footnotes in encyclopedia or records in libraries not even available online, and sometimes not even that. Most of their fanbases have largely died off and they are nowhere near close to gaining new ones, and our changing media tastes call for contrasts as much as it calls for profit. No sensible person would invest in most of these properties as they stand now, which is precisely what ultimately gives them the freedom to be anything at the conceptual stage. The only thing that really, really holds them back is time, which, again, has really not been kind to them. So why adhere to it? Screw time and whatever power it’s long held over these characters, let’s get weird with it. 

So if I have to choose between “full setting update, translating the characters to modern day, or the Legacy route”, all three of which are perfectly viable depending on the character, I think the best option, generally speaking, is full setting update, if only because the setting should never be the main priority in the first place. The setting, like everything else, is there to serve the story and the author’s needs and wants, and I’m of the opinion that the setting should always primarily exist in service of the characters, as my writing and my favorite writings are all character centered above all else.

I think putting the pulp heroes in radically different time periods and settings could even yield interesting results. Genndy Tartakovsky’s Primal stars a caveman Conan/Tarzan type protagonist interacting with dinosaurs, Alan Moore’s V for Vendetta is a Shadow-esque character set loose in a dystopian future, Grendel is the Fantomas of 1980s New York, and so on. The precedent is there and I think it can be taken much further.

Really I think a lot of the problems and arguments that have arisen over the years in regards to adapting the pulp heroes often result of people overthinking things, lord knows I do enough of that all the time. I really think it’s just something that only seems impossible because it hasn’t really been done yet. Of course, in regards to The Shadow I obviously have a whole different text as to whether I’d want him to be adapted or not, but in general, my ultimate response to what you asked is just do whatever you think is gonna make the story better and the characters more interesting. A.K.A, do whatever you want.