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write-r-die · 3 years

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Prisoner - Part 14

February, 1067

Henry Cavill is a respected Norman baron who has been tasked with finding Lady Thomasin, an ill-tempered Saxon noblewoman, and returning her to London so the king can marry her off to a cruel Norman invader. The two grow close during the long journey, and Henry puts his own life in danger (more than once) to protect the woman he loves.

Masterlist

This chapter sucks but it’s about to get super good!

Thomasin went straight to church in the morning to confess. She liked and trusted Elaine, but she wasn’t comfortable sharing her innermost thoughts with her yet, especially since her daughter was likely to eavesdrop.

Not that she particularly trusted William’s priest to keep her confidence, especially considering what she planned to confess.

Her conversation with Charlie pricked at her mind like a sewing needle hidden in a bed might prick at her body.

Thomasin lowered herself to her knees and made the sign of the cross. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been three months since my last confession.” It was the custom to confess at least once a month, but the past year’s events had altered everyone’s routines.

“What are your sins, daughter?”

“I have been unkind. I have blasphemed. I have not loved my neighbors. I have not kept the Sabbath day. I have been . . . amorous.” These were mostly the same sins as usual, but the amorousness was a new addition thanks to that week she spent in Henry’s lap. “That’s all I can remember.”

“Are you sure of that?” asked the priest.

Thomasin took a deep breath. “No. I have not yet - that is, I’m considering another sin. You won’t betray my confidence, Father, will you? That must surely be a sin. Is it not?”

“It is. No, child, I won’t betray your confidence and share your secrets. What is this sin you consider?”

“I’m thinking of . . . lying . . . to the king.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the curtain. “Explain.”

All at once, Thomasin’s story came rushing out starting with the night the Cavills took her prisoner to Charlie’s idea that she lie to the king about her virginity. “And I know I mustn’t bear false witness against my neighbor, but I am not bearing false witness against my neighbor, only myself. You see?”

The priest was silent for a long time. “Would it truly be so bad to marry Lawrence?”

“Yes!” He drove his wife to commit self-murder. Didn’t he? He didn’t seem actively cruel. Did he truly become so angry that he beat his wife until she lost the child in her belly? It seemed to Thomasin that he couldn’t be bothered to do such a thing, that he didn’t feel anything strongly enough to act in such a way – to act at all, really.

“I think so,” Thomasin amended. “I can’t be sure. But it cannot be good.” Of that, she was quite certain.

“Is that the only reason you don’t wish to marry him?” asked the priest.

“There’s Henry, too, of course.” She swallowed hard. “I cannot bear the thought of Henry being with someone else.” The words stuck in her dry throat like fish bones. Lord. That was the first time she’d admitted it. It was painfully true. The idea of Henry bedding another woman, her bearing his children – it made her sick to her stomach.

The priest sighed. “It is never easy to follow God’s laws. We all must make sacrifices to enter His Kingdom, for the road to Heaven is narrow and steep.”

“You think I ought to marry Lawrence? Don’t you know what happened to his last wife?”

“Seek solace in the spiritual world. Devote yourself to God. It is through Him that you will find comfort and joy.”

Thomasin had to literally bite her tongue to keep from lashing out. Wouldn’t God want His children to be happy? Didn’t He want Lawrence to be punished?

The priest told her to recite certain prayers to atone for her sins. She thanked him as graciously as possible and nearly stomped out of the chapel.

She was being childish, she knew, but she could not help it. Most girls were married off at fourteen to men they did not know. She was some twenty years old and unwed. She spent her life being coddled and guarded by her father. And now she was a piece of chattel to be traded by men who did not know her or care for her wellbeing.

She knew in her heart that Henry wouldn’t let that happen. He’d give his arm for her if she asked him to. But it might not be enough.

She believed that he was a finer swordsman that Lawrence – better than even King William, perhaps – but she also believed his honor made him vulnerable. Henry might be the finer warrior, but she suspected Lawrence had a great and dark mind. That could be just as dangerous. Sometimes more so.

Henry ordered her to let him deal with the matter. It was the only thing he ever truly asked of the woman he held so dearly and treated with such generosity and respect. But if it was in her power to preserve the life and limb of the man to whom she owed her own, how could she not? Surely he would understand. He must.

***

The next few days numbered among the most difficult in Thomasin’s life. She felt sick even after her courses passed; she’d worked herself into a fine state. She had an episode like this when she was young, around the time of her mother’s death. The healer, a monk, called it hysteria. She’d been blessedly free of it since then – it didn’t even happen when her father got sick – but now it was back, and it would not go away.

One of the Saxon prisoners died – of what, Thomasin did not know – and two more pledged their loyalty to William, even though it meant giving up everything they owned, including their dignity. They made their pledge in front of the entire court just before supper.

Thomasin and Henry were seated at the table at opposite sides, one chair over from each other. They could steal glances at one another during the meal, but they could not speak. Thomasin supposed that was the point.

Lawrence had taken to sitting next to her most nights. They didn’t speak. Lawrence had ceased with the pleasantries after her comment about his last wife. He ignored her as much as possible, but he sneered whenever she spoke.

Thomasin understood that he didn’t want this any more than she did, but he needed a wife to produce heirs and Thomasin was a gift from the king. He couldn’t refuse. He did still get pleasure out of the arrangement, for seeing him with Thomasin upset Henry to the point where he could hardly hold back his anger. Between Henry’s jealousy and Thomasin’s feistiness, conquering her was sure to be excellent sport.

The Saxon knights came forward and fell to their knees before the king and his wife and made their pledges. The other Saxons in attendance – mostly women, but a handful of warriors and former nobles that pledged themselves to the Normans early on – showed a range of emotions. Some of the men applauded their brothers for being sensible; others appeared to be ashamed. Most of the women looked like the wanted the whole thing over and done with, especially Elaine, who knew most of the Saxon prisoners either from tending their wounds or meeting them at court before the Norman invasion.

Henry’s reaction was surprising. He glared at the trencher of food in front of him, nostrils flared and jaw clenched as though he were the one being forced to swallow his pride. Thomasin made no effort to hide her concern, and neither did Charlie.

He, of course, knew about Cerdic’s presence in the dungeon, and he worried that Henry would allow his emotions to get the best of him. Frankly, he didn’t understand why Henry was so upset. He thought Cerdic was dead already; soon enough he would be. Perhaps he was feeling guilty for his part in the conquest. Thomasin had his head in knots.

During the applause that followed the oaths, Henry shoved away from the table and made a beeline for the main doors without offering any excuse or explanation.

Thomasin looked quizzically at Charlie, who sat directly across from her. He shook his head. She stood up and went after him anyway.

The large corridor was mostly empty, except for a young couple kissing deeply in a shadowed corner and a handful of female servants walking back and forth between the hall and the kitchens. They gossiped as they walked, paying no attention to those around them.

“Henry,” Thomasin called, scurrying over to him. He had his shoulder leaned against the wall and he was rubbing his face with his hand.

He looked up at the sound of Thomasin’s voice and gave a weary smile. “You should not have followed me,” Henry said, trying to sound stern; he just sounded tired. He caught sight of his ring hanging from the chain around Thomasin’s neck. He held it in his hand, still hanging from her neck, and smiled slightly.

“You followed me when I ran off in the woods,” she said. “I’m only returning the favor.”

“Or exacting your revenge,” Henry teased.

Thomasin shrugged her narrow shoulders and repeated Henry’s earlier words back to him. “It’s a matter of perspective.”

“This looks very fine on you,” Henry said of the ring.

“Will you have a pendant made for me like your brothers’ wives and your mother?”

“Patience,” he said teasingly. In fact, he had commissioned a jeweler shortly after arriving in London, though the piece’s production was delayed because Henry didn’t have his ring to show the jeweler. Instead, he had to provide the man with his shield so he could study the symbols painted on it. It wouldn’t be very pretty, he thought, but as long as it was recognizable it didn’t matter.

He knew better than to seek to borrow Charlie’s ring when he arrived. He would lend it to Henry if he asked him to, but he’d certainly put up a fuss about it.

And then he remembered the Saxon awaiting his death three floors below them.

Henry’s smile faltered.

“What’s wrong?” Thomasin murmured.

Seeing Cerdic, simply knowing that he was alive and nearby, upset Henry. As far as he could tell, the man was a boar, and it would be no great loss to the world for him to die. But it still bothered him.

Cerdic didn’t know about Henry’s relationship with Thomasin, her betrothal to Lawrence, or even that she was at court. He had no fondness for Thomasin, it seemed, and he would certainly not treat her with respect if they were wed, but he was still a living reminder of the life the Normans stole from her. That Henry stole from her. He sometimes felt that Thomasin was as much a prisoner as her former intended.

She cared for Henry, of course, but he wondered how much of her affection was true – true, in that it would still be there if she were free of Norman rule – if she had the option to return home to her father and go on living as she did before.

More than that, he worried how Thomasin would feel if she knew Cerdic was here. He swore Roger and Charlie to secrecy, of course. Lawrence didn’t know of his intended’s former relationship with the red-bearded prisoner – if he did, he would surely use that information to inflict pain.

“The Saxons . . .” Henry shook his head. “I’m so tired of all this fighting.”

Thomasin took a deep breath knowing she was about to start a fight. “Then why do you insist on fighting Lawrence?”

Henry’s nostrils flared in anger; he let the ring fall back into place. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not trying to start anything,” she said apologetically. She stepped closer as he started pacing in a circle, one hand on his hip as he rubbed his brow with the other. His hair, still short by Saxon standards, was a small pile of tumbling curls stacked atop his head. But he still looked so handsome. “I just . . . I’m just . . .”

“Just what?”

“I’m frightened! All right?!” How dare he make her say it out loud?

Henry stopped pacing. He tried to soften his features, but he was still stiff with nervousness. “It will be all right, Tom. Nothing will happen to you.”

“I don’t care about me!” she hissed. “I want to protect you just as much as you wish to protect me. Why won’t you let me?”

Henry was lost. “How?”

Kal let loose a warning bark that nearly made Thomasin jump. She hadn’t even realized he was in the hall with them. “Go,” she said to Henry. “I need a moment to compose myself.”

Henry slipped past her just as Lawrence came into view, carrying a goblet of wine in one hand and holding the other behind his back. Henry tensed his muscles so hard he nearly shook. Thomasin nodded silently to assure him that she was all right. Henry stomped back into the hall as Lawrence took a long drink from his goblet of wine.

“Would you like some?” he asked Thomasin.

“No, thank you.”

“Very well.” He tapped his fingernail against the rim of the glass. “You remember the nobleman’s family that I put to death?” he asked, lifting the cup to his lips again.

What sort of a question was that? “Yes.”

“Do you think they would’ve been better off alive, surrounded by lustful soldiers?” Lawrence asked calmly. “Do you think the baroness would be pleased to see her young daughters beaten and defiled in the same home where she was once mistress? It was a mercy killing in some ways.”

Thomasin was silent. She’d considered such questions for months after the Normans landed up until the night Henry lifted her out of her hiding place. She always concluded that she would rather be dead than passed around like a brood mare.

“You’d never have been so lucky. That would’ve been your fate if the king weren’t so set on bringing your brother to heel, which he clearly cannot, and if anyone but the Cavills had come for you, you would’ve been tied and beaten into submission and raped nightly, not carried about like a babe with your virtue intact.”

“I know that,” Thomasin snapped. What was his point? “Are you truly surprised that I might wish to marry someone who would treat me well? Someone I know would never raise a hand to me?”

“I won’t deny that I struck my wife on more than one occasion,” Lawrence said. “She came to me when she was fifteen years old. Still a child in need of discipline. You’re more intelligent, more mature, and I think you will know better than she did. I was not the source of all her troubles, as much as you might like to think so.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I dislike the way that you fawn over Henry and regard me as the most heinous of villains. You should be grateful for your good fortune. You’re betrothed to a man capable of mercy toward women.”

Beating his wife was mercy? He likely just meant that he wouldn’t take her against her will, and that was a great mercy indeed for women. Beating wasn’t so heinous, Thomasin supposed, but that didn’t mean she was all right with it.

“What do you care what I think?”

“I don’t. I care about whether or not my peers perceive me as weak, though, and I won’t have a wife who runs after another man anytime he frowns.” His voice remained even but his whole face had gone bright red with anger. “We’re to be wed next week. Once you are mine, I won’t tolerate such behavior. A wife obeys her husband in all things; you will not embarrass me by fawning over a weakling. Should you continue to do so, I won’t hesitate to show you my displeasure. Am I clear?”

The calm with which he spoke was unsettling. God’s truth, Thomasin would have felt better if he shouted.

Thomasin dipped her head. “I understand, my lord.”

Lawrence’s face returned to its normal color and a smile bloomed across his face. “Good.” He gave Thomasin a peck on the cheek. “Sleep well, my beloved.”

She didn’t notice Elaine and her daughter standing nearby until Elaine called out to her. “Thomasin?” She scurried over to her friend. “Are you all right?” Thomasin swallowed back the lump in her throat and nodded. “Here. Come with me.” She released her grip on Mercia to pull Thomasin around a corner for greater privacy, squeezing her hands reassuringly. “What’s happened?”

Thomasin didn’t realize all the color was gone from her face or that she was quaking like a leaf. “I’m fine.”

“Mamma?” Mercia said.

“A moment, my love,” her mother told her. “She was falling asleep at the table; I was leaving to put her to bed,” she explained to Thomasin. “I didn’t mean to listen in on your conversation.”

“I don’t care about that,” Thomasin said, shaking her head.

“I didn’t hear anything clearly,” Elaine said over her. “I only saw that he was talking to you and the look on your face.”

Mercia wasn’t paying attention to what the women were saying, she only saw the sadness in Thomasin’s eyes. “Why you crying?” she asked, eyebrows knit together. Thomasin noticed for the first time how cherubic the child appeared.

“I’m not crying.” Thomasin honestly didn’t think she was. And she wasn’t really, in that there were no tears, but she certainly looked distressed.

The child wouldn’t accept the non-explanation. “Mamma, why she crying?”

Elaine released her friend’s hands and crouched to look her daughter in the eye. “Go back inside, please. Lady Thomasin and I are speaking. I’ll take you to bed just as soon as we’ve finished.”

“But she sad!” Mercia objected. She looked around. “Where Bear? Bear make you happy. I go find!” She was still upset with Kal for assaulting Batty, but she trusted in his ability to bring joy to others.

“No, no, that’s all right,” Thomasin said with a sniffle. “I don’t want to bother him.” The last thing she needed was for Henry to be involved.

Mercia frowned for a moment before thrusting her doll up toward Thomasin’s face. “Take,” she commanded. “Batty make you feel better.”

Thomasin swallowed again and reached out numb fingers. She couldn’t remember the last time she held a doll. “Thank you.”

“Not for always,” Mercia said, holding up a finger. “You keep just until you feel better.”

“I understand. Thank you.”

Elaine and Mercia walked Thomasin back to her room. Elaine gave Etheldreda some instructions. “Mercia, can Lady Thomasin borrow some of Batty’s magic?”

“Just a little bit,” Mercia agreed.

Elaine smiled in thanks. She tore the doll open just enough to pull out some of the dried lavender, which she instructed Etheldreda to put in hot water for Thomasin to drink. “It will keep you from getting upset. I’ll send along some more herbs to help you rest. And more of Batty’s magic,” she assured her daughter. She turned back to Thomasin. “It won’t seem so bad in the morning. A good night’s sleep always helps.”

“I don’t think I can shut my eyes,” Thomasin said.

Elaine smirked. “Sleeping drafts are my specialty.” She didn’t mention that the drafts were the only thing that kept her from going mad when the Normans arrived. Without them, she’d spend all night staring up at the ceiling, clutching her daughter to her chest, praying for mercy from God and the invaders both.

She slipped away to put Mercia to sleep while Etheldreda prepared Thomasin for bed she sent a servant back with a pack of herbs for Etheldreda to make a sleeping draft and a handful of lavender to replace Batty’s stuffing.

Thomasin watched the fire flicker until the draft was ready. Etheldreda watched her drink, ensuring she drained every drop. Thomasin wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist.

“Lie down,” said Etheldreda.

Thomasin shuffled down in the bed as her maid drew the covers over her. “Etheldreda, have you ever been married?”

She nodded. “Twice.”

“Did you love your husbands?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Did they ever beat you?”

The old woman frowned. “Peasant women can be lucky on occasion. Sometimes we get to choose our husbands.” She tucked Batty under the covers beside Thomasin. “Shut your eyes and rest.”

“I don’t feel tired,” Thomasin said skeptically. She was asleep moments later.

Thomasin woke around noon the following day. She was still in a daze, so she decided to keep to her rooms for the day. She’d go visit Henry once she was feeling better.

Etheldreda drew her a steaming bath to ease her into the waking world. She washed and brushed her mistress’s hair, as there was too much of it for Thomasin to manage on her own. She told little stories about her daughters and granddaughters. She had sons, too, Thomasin thought, but she didn’t talk about them. Thomasin guessed they were killed in the war.

A servant dropped off some bread and cheese so Etheldreda and Thomasin did not need to leave the room for their nooning meal. Thomasin did feel better, she thought as Etheldreda laced the back of her simple gown.

The servant had only just finished when someone pounded on the door so hard that it shook. “Thomasin!” It was Charlie’s voice.

She pulled the door open, knowing immediately that something bad had happened. “What is it?”

Charlie’s shoulders heaved as he breathed heavily; he’d clearly run from wherever he had been to Thomasin’s room. “Henry’s challenging Lawrence.”

“Today?”

“Now!” Charlie said. “If you want to help him, we must go.”

Thomasin didn’t even stop to put on her slippers. She ran alongside Charlie, damp hair loose and whipping around her. The people they passed looked at her like she’d gone mad. Maybe they thought she was drunk for presenting herself in public like that. Or a strumpet.

They finally reached the throne room.

Charlie shoved the doors open and Thomasin rushed inside. Henry had removed his glove and prepared to throw it down; Thomasin surged forward and managed to grab it out of his hand before he could and careened toward the dais and the king.

She fell so heavily on her knees that she scraped the skin. She’d have awful bruises tomorrow. It didn’t matter. She stared up at the king with enormous eyes. “Your grace, they can’t fight,” she gasped. “Please don’t let them fight.”

“Thomasin,” Henry snarled.

“There’s no need for them to fight,” Thomasin said over him. She refused to turn and look at him.

William raised an eyebrow. “No need? Does this mean you’ll marry Lawrence willingly?”

“Absolutely not.” Her tone was far too harsh but she prayed William would excuse her given the circumstances. “But – I cannot be his wife. Not truly.”

William asked, “Why?”

Oh, God help her. This stupid, stupid girl. Charlie’s plan might not work but she at least had to try.

“Because. Because I’m not – I’m – I’m not a virgin!”

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radiosandrecordings · 3 years

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A bunch of cosplayers on tiktok are going on about web!Martin again and how its confirmed after 194 and how he's secretly been puppeting Jon and it's honestly annoying not because I'd be devastated or anything but I just feel like if it happened it would be boring and not at all narratively satisfying and I like to pretend Jonny is a better writer than that. Especially when I go anywhere else and see all these compelling and interesting endgame theories and then the people on tiktok choose to go on about the least interesting one. Like yes aesthetically in a cosplay it's super cool but I think there's a more interesting reason why Martin has a lot of web imagery surrounding him in text than a boring "oh this character is evil" bit. I think I dislike it more in how smug some of them act about it, feels a bit condescending. Sorry for the ramble.

As technically the first Web Martin cosplayer do I have seniority here? Command them Father Galahad style, My People, My Flock, Please Stop Acting Like It’s Canon?

I could absolutely not stick it on TMA TiktTok any time I hear about like, ‘TikTok Fandom Discourse’ I just feel a bone deep weariness. I absolutely feel you on this one anon, I was on the Web Martin train for a bit myself back pre S4/Early S4, because it seemed quite a bit more likely then because we’d had less of his character arc play out, and we didn’t know he even had a connection to the Lonely yet. So I agree that there is something going with him and the Web, which is only more confirmed by 194, but I wouldn’t say it’s Web!Martin at all?

@our-jacket-men-of-interest had a very interesting theory that Martin could basically be immune to the Web, because it’s all built out of fear of manipulation and if he wasn’t afraid, they’d have no real power over him (Either by just refusal, or outsmarting it somehow). I really like that one because it’s a lot more narratively interesting and doesn’t just follow the expected route. You’re absolutely right in my opinion that it just wouldn’t be narratively satisfying to have Martin be Web, especially when we’ve literally been told by the domains that Martin is Lonely/Eye. I suppose there’s an opportunity there to hammer home the Fear Soup thing and maybe have some kinda reveal that he can be Web too, or have had the Web be concealing that by manipulating his domain? It just feels a little convoluted to try and fit that into the end of the show when there’s so many other unfulfilled things to clear up. Martin and the Web definitely have something going on but I don’t think he’s an avatar for it.

Okay I just re-read what you said and wait they’re still on the puppeting shit? I thought we got other that literally years ago. God I absolutely hated that theory at the time and I get it as like, an interesting concept or au to explore but do people actually thing of it as a genuine theory that might be canon? That after 194 episodes of a romantic build up and eventual relationship they’re gonna reveal it was all fake and manipulative? I do not know what story these people think they’re listening to but it is... Not that one, unless it takes a sharp left turn, or I’ve been interpreting it wrong. There’s so many ways to view Martin’s relationship with the Web and ways to theorise about it and that’s just... the worst one.

#My Post #Asks #Anonymous

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circumstellars · 4 years

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Hello there! Can I have a ficlet with dialogue prompt, 'What's making him scream like that?' for Five and Diego, or any siblings you like ;)

[Ok so this turned out slightly longer than intended, but I was able to blend it together with another idea I had for a follow up to this ficlet.

The context is that this is canon compliant in that it happens somewhere near the end of S1EP4, when passed out drunk Five is recovering in Diego’s bed.

Basically Five has an PTSD episode, or a night terror if that’s easier, and the line you prompted I rearranged and altered a bit to fit the scene, so I hope that’s okay?

In this addition to the canon, when they were little Ben begins to have trouble controlling the otherworldly monster he uses, and Five has made a promise he won’t let things get out of hand. Fast forward to S1, where Luther and Diego are taking care of him, but before Al comes to deliver Eudora’s message, and it is sandwiched between two Five apocalypse flashbacks.

So so so many thanks to @michlle, or @/kkie on TUA Adult Fan Discord server. She’s an amazing beta that helped me in a pinch! So the only reason my grammar is so much better than usual is entirely thanks to her.

Very angsty. Blood, just a snippet a violence. Brotherly pain all around, emotional suffering. Enjoy! I hope you like it.]

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⟨p⟩=md⟨x⟩/dt=mddt∫∞−∞x|ψ|2dx=m∫∞−∞x∂|ψ|2∂tdx. 'It's a simple fucking equation, what is wrong?' His shaky fingers struggled with the chalk, accidentally snapping off one end against the concrete wall. Five swore, making a face at the broken piece of chalk like it spoke ill of his mother.

Oh god. Mom. His face crumpled. 'The expectation values of displacement and momentum... obey time evolution equations analogous with,' a wet cough interrupted his deflated musing. He spun around and rested against the concrete he had been writing on moments before, before turning an eye to Dolores. '... the mechanics of Schrödinger’s equation.' Dolores gave him a weary look. Five avoided her gaze. She didn't know. It's not like she had been forced to pick up quantum physics at age ten, and really, he had to forgive her for that. The sun was powerful today, as it had been at least seventeen of the twenty-six days he'd been stuck in the apocalyptic ruins of his former city. It should have only been the end of April, if that newspaper clipping he held close was in fact the last thing to have been printed, but it felt hotter than middle July easily. The aggressive winds of mid-afternoon whipped all sorts of debris into his frail body and any exposed skin, and Five simply couldn't risk any injuries that could deplete his energy. He was on the cusp of fixing this, he could feel it in his exhausted bones.

He swallowed down the start of a painful sob, careful to steel over his expression. 'I know you said something about the farthest right term Dolores, but I'm not neglecting it,' Five chided, breathing into the dirty scarf around his face.

He turned around and scooped up the chalk he had rejected moments ago. 'The spatial extent of the particle wavefunction isn't smaller than the variation length-scale of the potential. You're clever, and pretty, but not that clever.'

Five snorted at his own banter, smiling into the trails of chalk spilling from his hand as it ran across the rubble. 'Now, listen carefully this time...' --- Diego unceremoniously dropped Dolores on a nearby chair. The fuck is this for? He gave the mannequin an odd look. A few steps away Luther lowered their brother carefully into Diego's roomy, luxurious twin cot, rolling the sleepy, drunken Five so that he was resting comfortably on his side.

Diego sidled next to Luther, joining him in looking over their tiny brother. Small, frozen in time for them both in memory and now, awkwardly, in reality too. The baby fat still very much clung to his still rounded features and made him look impossibly younger in a way that brought nostalgia roaring up the esophagus like heartburn. He was supposedly twice their age now? Diego scrunched his nose; to think this child, for all intents and purposes, laid here so serenely- so sweetly, dare he say it, looked like a boy who'd just tired himself out at school that day. Yet he knew, the moment Five sobered up, the illusion would crumble swiftly and without mercy. 'Funny, if I didn't know he was such a prick, I'd say he looks almost adorable in his sleep.'

Luther snorted. 'Well, don't worry. He'll sober up eventually... and be back to his normal, unpleasant self.'

That's not good enough. 'Yeah - I can't wait that long.' Diego spun on his heel, intending to grab provisions. Five had about ten minutes of rest before Diego would be ready to forcibly pull him into consciousness with soda crackers and ginger-ale. 'I need to find out what connections he has to these lunatics before someone else dies.'

Luther didn't respond right away, eyes flickering to Five and back. He looked pensive, uncomfortable. Diego still hadn’t gotten used to the subtle changes in Luther's personality; it was disquieting the way he looks so much bigger than he used to, and yet now he seems so much smaller to Diego than he ever physically was. The big man had an air of constant uncertainty around him.

'That stuff he was saying before...' Luther began after a moment, 'what do you think he meant by that?' Diego glanced over his shoulder at Five's sleeping figure, curled up tightly in foetal position. His expression darkened in his sleep, and Diego frowned. 'I don't know...' The words came slowly, his focus narrowing in on his littlest brother. He turned quickly again, box of soda crackers forgotten on his dingy counter.

Five began to fuss, still unconscious, but his body began to shake some, and his entire expression was pinched in discomfort. Luther was watching Diego, puzzled, and followed his eyes back to Five on the cot behind him.

Then came the screaming.

Both Luther and Diego jumped back in alarm as the most harrowing, stomach-churning scream came from Five. He was folded into himself, clutching at his own biceps so hard his knuckles were bone-white. The screams that were coming from him sounded so raw Diego was sure he was damaging his vocal cords in some way.

Luther came down from his initial shock quicker than Diego and was at the cot in an instant. Diego held his breath, jaw fighting to unhinge. He was always quick in his reflexes, but something held Diego down and glued his feet to the floor. His body was alarmingly stiff with inaction.

Luther was gripping at Five, holding him as he jerked back and forth, scream after scream tearing through his rattled body. Over and over Luther tried to talk over Five, wake him up, continuously asking him what is wrong and 'what is happening Five? Can't you hear me?'

'W-ww-why is h-h-h-he screaming like t-that?'

Diego’s broken voice was swallowed up in the cacophony of Five's agonising wailing and Luther's panicked mantra of Five, Five, Please Five, Five!

Five's painful screams were tearing bloody wounds into Diego’s eardrums, and the sound of his little brother in such convincingly raw misery pulled terrifying tremors up from deep within his belly.

Go.

What happened?

Iego.

Five?

'-Iego. Diego! Diego!' Luther's voice hit him like an anvil. 'Hey?'

Why is he screaming like that?

All at once life moved forward with a start. Air sucked its way back into Diego's lungs and his attention snapped to his brothers. Five was no longer on the bed, but crumpled over on their large brother's lap, clutching not his own arms anymore but instead had all ten, trembling fingers gripped into Luther's jacket for absolute, dear life. Luther had a pained expression etched into his normally hard visage, and his arms came up to hold Five in place as gently as Diego had ever seen his giant brother move. It only dawned on him then, that Five wasn't screaming anymore.

Diego moved quietly, setting himself on the bed next to his brothers as silently as he could, almost as if he were afraid to spook an already terrified deer pinned between a rocky ledge and an oncoming truck.

Mindlessly Diego laid his gloved hand to his little brother's head, cupping the back of it gingerly. Something heavy threatened to pull his heart into his guts, and the struggle disguised itself in the shadows of his expression.

For a while everything was deadly quiet. The pipes in the old building gurgled apropos nothing, the boxing business outside long closed for the evening with only Al's occasional footsteps any sure sign life still existed outside this hole he called home.

Diego couldn't hear much else, aside from the ragged breaths shaking Five's small chest. His eyes were still closed, creased with concern, delicate fans of black eyelashes twitching as his brain worked through whatever dark secrets Five hadn’t dared to yet share with any of his siblings.

'Five...' but Diego’s voice aborted the words in his throat, and he met Luther's eyes. He found no answers.

What did you see, Five?

--- Day 42.

A rat scampered past Five’s feet and jumped into a pile of debris outside the remains of a nearby fast-food joint. He shaded his eyes with his left hand and looked over the large expanse of the now lifeless tundra he used to call home. The details of everything in the distance dissolved into the intensely hot horizon.

‘Today is as good a day as any,’ he said, exhaling loudly. Dolores agreed from where she was perched in her wagon. I’m ready.

Five ripped off his weighty, layered scarf and tossed it to the ground. Today is the day. He was going to get back to his family.

He took another deep breath and ran over some calculations a final time in his head, his eyebrows pinching together with determination. Focus.

First, just a hum. Then, a moment later a spark. Five growled and redoubled his efforts, tightening his fists as hard as they would go, until the jagged half-moons of his nails cut right into the flesh of his palms.

‘Come on!’ And then it appeared. Small, at first, but definitely, absolutely, positively the start of the vortex, undeniable as it began flickering into existence. It was immediately apparent Five couldn’t do this for a second longer than he had to; every muscle in his body was desperately working to help him rip a hole right into the material of the space-time continuum, and pain blossomed in every limb, one after another.

‘COME ON!’ The air around the wormhole became unstable, trying to escape the vacuum and whipping everything around Five into a frenzy. Dolores tipped over in her wagon, and Five nearly lost his grip on the material of time. He willed himself into ignoring her momentarily, letting out a howl as he pulled open the vortex as far as it would go. Five inhaled shakily, and let go.

I did it. There it was. He was finally going home. Five’s knees nearly buckled underneath him as he was hit with a heady wave of excitement and relief. Luther. Vanya. Ben! Diego-- all of them. He was going to see them all again, today. Now. Tears spilt from his eyes, but he didn’t take any notice. There were flickers of life beyond the vortex, and then faces, and bodies, and Allison and Klaus, unmistakable as they filtered in and out of focus like the signal was dying on an old television set. Five was animated in an instant and turned to grab Dolores. They had to go. Now. He scooped up her feather-light body. ‘Leave it, Dolores! We don’t have time!’ He’d find her a new sweater once they were home. Hell, he’d buy her a whole rack of her own sweaters, anything Dolores wants, if only they got home right now.

And then the screaming came.

Five whipped around.

Again. First one voice, then two. Many more joined them, and Five ran toward the wormhole.

‘BEN!’

Ben? Five braced himself against the pull of the vortex, the air thin and difficult to pull into his lungs. It whipped around him with a force he’d never felt before, and his hat and goggles were snatched from his head and thrown well into the distance. The shrieking was getting louder, closer, and the images from the other side pieced together the closer Five inched into its grip. The voices were blood-curdling, and his whole body went cold with terror.

‘Diego, don’t!’

‘Ben! Klaus, get out of the way!’

‘BEEEEEEEEEEEENNN!’

‘BEN! WHATS HAPPENING!?’

‘BEN!’

No.

No, no.

He was going back, it was going to be okay. Five was going back, it was going to be okay.

It all happened within the span of three seconds.

The fuzzy images of his siblings running, screaming, blood soaked into their clothes, painted across their young faces – dripping from their feet as they scrambled away.

Ben.

Ben’s body dangling nearly fifteen feet off the ground, monstrous appendages thrashing wildly and destroying the surroundings with savage flings.

Two grotesque limbs held his bloodied and mangled brother skywards, uninhibited by his terrified screams.

No.

No. no. no. no.

No. no. no. no. no. nonononono-

‘Someone stop him!’

‘Klaus you can’t! KLAUS-‘

It felt like his skin was being flayed from his muscle. Five thought he might have been screaming too but couldn’t hear anything. All he knew for sure was the feeling of his molecules being pulled apart.

Everything was silent. Like the deadness of space itself, for a fraction of a second, a microscopic fragment of time - absolutely nothing existed. Crunch.

The blood that hit his face hurt. And then someone pressed play.

Everything moved again and it knocked the wind out of his lungs. Five was violently thrown from the throes of the wormhole, sucked back into his own point in time and tossed several feet backwards into strewn debris.

‘NO!’

The vortex he’d spent forty-two days working on was gone, just like that. Absorbed into the material of space, the deep wound he’d used every ounce of energy to create was now healed over in a matter of seconds, lost to some other dimension and out of his grasp. Ben. He’d promised him. He had promised his brother he would be there, that he would figure it out.

That Ben wouldn’t die. But Five let him. He watched the brutal final seconds of his brother’s life, his body torn into pieces by the beast he tried so hard to contain. Five wasn’t there.

He didn’t make it. He had told Ben he wouldn’t let him die, but he did, and Five just watched it happen, unable to do absolutely fucking shit. The sun was merciless. It baked Ben’s blood on every part that had briefly touched the other side. It settled into the cracks of the tattered skin on his right hand, pulled at the skin under his eyes and on his cheeks – crusted where it had dripped into his mouth and over his tongue. When the trance that numbed Five finally broke, it was nightfall.

He still sat on his haunches, a few fingers on his left hand barely curled around Dolores’ shirt. And when it did, and his throat finally moved to swallow, his limbs twitching with overwhelming pain, and his chest trembling violently, the only thing Five could feel was the fiery strain of the unending wailing that tore ceaselessly from his lungs.

#tua #the umbrella academy #umbrella academy #request fill #ficlets #five hargreeves #diego hargreeves #ben hargreeves #luther hargreeves #attempted canon-compliant angst featuring a bunch of the emotionally stunted man-children #my nonsense #mywriting #myworks #myficlets

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henryobsessed · 4 years

Text

The Widow and The Witcher Chapter 25

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Summary: Getting ready to leave Kear Morhen Julia stumbles on a room that should have remained closed.

Word Count: 3790

Warning: PTSD episode, Bath tub scene,

A/N What can I say, PTSD is a horrible thing that is difficult to live with and is not so easily worked through. Geralt and Julia will still experience issues as the years go on but they are working through it together. If this has bought up issues for you can I suggest that you reach out to a trusted friend or a professional you don't have to deal with it alone.

Song best played once the door has opened.

Chapter 25 – Song "Find Me" by Sigma

Geralt's throat felt sore as he opened his eyes to the light. Realising he was wrapped up in Julia's arms he moved his head to look up at her. He met her eyes which were watching him, a soft smile on her face as she ran her hand through his hair "Morning" Geralt heard her soft voice and even though it was a single word he could hear the questions behind it. Not ready to talk just yet he smiled instead at her. His chest felt lighter today, the events that had occurred in the middle of the night had uncurled a band that had been constricting there for so long that this feeling was foreign, he was amazed at the lightness he now felt. Tucking his head back into the crook of her arm he said "Thank you Julia, thank you for creating a space where I could be safe"

Julia relaxed at his words. She could hear the effects of the night on his voice as it was deeper and more gravelly than normal. She had been worried at how he would be after, but she could hear a change in his voice. Now relaxed and just enjoying him in her arms she said, "Anytime you need it I'm here my love." She bent her head and kissed the top of his hair. "How do you feel today?" Julia questioned turning herself whist still holding him so she could look at him. Geralt smiled a genuine smile that reached deep into his eyes. "Peaceful, I know that I will never understand why my mother did what she did, I don't think even she knows, but I think I have come to a place of acceptance." He breathed deep and Julia saw peace etched in each relaxed muscle of his face. Smiling she reached her hand behind his head and pulled him close to kiss him on the lips. A slow kiss that deepened into a kiss that lasted well into the morning.

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

It was their last day at Kear Morhen, Vesemir was loading up a wagon with the possessions to take to the estate whilst Geralt and Julia were doing a walkthrough of the Castle. Checking to see if there was anything else that might help her as the now designated healer for the wolf pack. This was the first time she had really been shown the castle as most of their days had been spent out in the forest enjoying nature. Particularly the last week had been full of adventure as they explored the mountains, valleys and each other. They made their way down the stone corridors and through large and small rooms until they came to a door that felt strangely familiar to Julia. As they opened it she felt Geralt stiffen behind her, there was nothing in this room but empty shelves along the walls but there was a strong old smell of herbs that prompted a memory. The dream. She turned to see if Geralt was ok. His face had gone pallier that usual and his breathing was coming out in short pants as his eye darted around looking for an escape.

Geralt had been distracted when Julia had opened the door. As they stepped in the smell of the herbs triggered memories that he had locked away. Pain, excruciating pain, fear, being held down, trapped, screams, death rattles, and more Pain. His breathing became erratic and his vision blurred all he could see were the green bottles hanging from the walls, he felt frozen unable to move. Julia was standing before him talking to him, but he couldn't make out what she was saying, what was she doing here she had to get away it wasn't safe here. She took his hands and he stared down at them the contact helping him to focus. "Geralt, listen to my voice and breath with me, deep breaths, tell me what did we have for breakfast?" she said in a light voice, He tried to breath with her, to focus, and thought of breakfast. He could see them sitting in his room eating "Oats we had oats" he replied his voice sounding distant to his own ears.

Julia smiled at him her sweet voice cutting through the haze her eyes moist with unshed tears as she whispered, " That's right we had oats, and we are about to head home to see Ciri" Ciri he could see his daughter in his mind her sweet smile and hear her chattering. He could see the room now see that it was bare that the danger was no longer there. Julia kept hold of his hands, turned and lead him away from the room, away from the smells and away from his past.

Finding a place to sit in an outdoor courtyard near by Julia pulled Geralt down next to her and wrapped him in her arms. They stayed that way until Vesemir found them. He had waited for along time and wondering if they had gotten lost or maybe lost in each other had decided he needed to hurry them along. What he had not expected was to find them sitting outside the rooms where the trial of the grasses had been held. Blanching at the thought of what Geralt must be feeling he approached as quietly and softly as he could. Julia heard him but Geralt seemed unaware gazing off his eyes unfocused. As she looked up at him the look in her eyes, the unshed tears tore at his old heart. Why had they come here, what had they been looking for to make Geralt open this door, one that all the Witcher's avoided when residing at the castle.

Vesemir crouched in front of Geralt and put a reassuring hand on his knee. Geralt could see the old mans face, could feel his touch but he couldn't form words to talk. He felt a bone-weary tiredness overwhelm him. He could see Vesemir his face focused on Julia they were talking but he couldn't work out what they were talking about. Julia was asking about an extra wagon, and Vesemir nodded looking back to Geralt. His eyes held concern but he didn't try talking he just squeezed Geralt's knee and left them. Julia started talking again stroking his back, "its ok honey, its normal to feel tired after what you have just experienced. Just keep breathing, focus on your breath, Focus on the sound of my voice and the other sounds you can hear." Geralt closed his eyes, he could hear her voice and the sound of birds chattering amongst the trees. He could smell the fresh air and feel her comforting hands as she continued to Rub circles on his back until Vesemir reappeared.

Vesemir came along side Geralt at Julia's request putting his arm around him to support him. Together they helped Geralt out to the cart where He had laid blankets down in the back along with a pillow, to created a make shift bed. Vesemir supported Geralt to lie down and Julia made sure he was secure and drifting to sleep. Stepping down from the back of the cart Julia looked at Vesemir, he could see the sorrow in her face. As the first of many tears slid down her cheeks he pulled her into a fatherly hug. He felt her soft sobs as she whispered "why did they have to hurt so many boys Vesemir, It was so violent, and they were so young" as she spoke it was almost like she had experienced it with them he shuddered at the memory.

Holding her close Vesemir said in a tired voice "It was the lesser evil, the continent needed special warriors who could rid them of the monster pests who were creating havoc in the land, the monks did trials on themselves and with the help of sorcerers and their elixirs the mutation was created. These young boys were mostly abandoned, left orphaned and would have ended up dying on the streets or on the battle field at least here they were fed and cared for and if they survived ended up with a family for life." He knew it wasn't a conciliation, but it was the truth he had lived.

Attaching Julia and Geralt's horses to the wagon Julia took the reins. She turned to check that Geralt was still sleeping and then with a click of her tongue instructed the horses to follow Vesemir as they left the place of beauty and horror behind.

It was almost night fall when they stopped to camp beside the road, Julia had woken Geralt and together they had helped Vesemir set up camp. Geralt was silent during the evening and Julia worried about his change in demeanor. It was frustrating to her as he had such a breakthrough regarding his mother days before and he had been so happy and carefree. Now he looked tired, flat and unmotivated only responding with grunts when instructed to help with something or asked a question.

That night as they slept near the fire Julia pulled Geralt into her arms, at the contact she felt him stiffen, then snuggle deeper. The only things she could do was validate his feelings and so as she stroked his hair and rubbed his back she said "its ok to feel tired and overwhelmed after what you experienced Geralt. I'm here when you want to talk and if you don't that's ok too." Her arms held him close and for the first time that day she felt him respond by squeezing her back.

The three travelers made their way quietly back to Wolnosci, and to the estate. Each day travelling as far as the horses could cope with the loads they pulled and then setting up camp for the night. They avoided villages and kept to the forests. Each day Geralt began to feel a little more ok, he still didn't want to talk much the images and memories that he had relived that day burned his mind. He had to work hard to not let them overtake his daydreams. His nights were a different story, once he was snuggled into Julia's arms her familiar scent and the familiar peace, he associated with her touch helped him sleep. It was for this reason that on their last night before arriving home he decided to open up with both Julia and Vesemir. He needed to talk about it before arriving home, he wanted to leave it here in the forest.

The night air was cooling and they were sitting around the fire. Julia had for the last few nights started to worry that Geralt would not come out of this experience unharmed. He seemed lost most days and uninterested in any passion. She made a point of kissing him good morning which he did not reciprocate and at night he would burrow into her arms but again there was no affection it was more of a lifeline he seemed to be grabbing onto. A small fear had begun to plant itself in the back of her mind that he would retreat back into his stoic self. The image of the White wolf, The Witcher that he had for 70 plus years inhabited. All she could do was wait, all she could do was pray, all she could do was continue to show him he was loved.

Julia sat playing with her food, her appetite lost when she heard Geralt clear his voice. Both she and Vesemir looked to the quiet man. His eyes unsure as he looked to Julia and said "I need to talk this out before we get home. I don't want it to follow me there, tainting the place I now associate with so much joy." Tears welled up in his eyes as Julia put an arm around his waist. Vesemir moved closer to his other side placing a hand on his shoulder speaking with concern "you do what you need to Geralt, you know we have shared similar experiences but we all feel it in a different way."

Geralt felt both his Father mentor's and his wife's care and love giving him the strength so share his burden. "I know you went through this Vesemir, every day they took me into that room I expected to die. The pain was so intense, the other boys screams and then silence, I had buried it all until I walked into that room. Each day they took me back and each night I survived when the others didn't, I should have died too, they were my friends, my brothers." He felt so guilty that he had survived. Geralt hung his head, the weight of his guilt and pain overwhelming him. He could feel Julia, her love, her peace as she continued to hold him. Then she spoke "Geralt, what you are feeling is real. They were your family and you were given no time to grieve them. I can't explain how but I saw you, I saw the pain you were in. I heard the screams and cry's of the other boys. You have every right to feel how you do. But you survived, and I am grateful every day that you did"

Vesemir echoed her words "I hated watching the boys die, I hated seeing them and you go through trial after trial. We were told it was the lesser evil, told that you would be the ultimate Witcher. The only good thing that came of the ran sacking of Kear Morhen was that they could no longer create more of us. It was done. But son, no matter how you see what happened I am glad that you survived. You, Eskel, Lambert and Cohen are my family and have bought so much joy to my life. I can imagine some of what you feel but not all. I am also grateful you survived"

Geralt heard the compassion, and love coming from his family. He knew it to be true. He knew that when he arrived home tomorrow he would be able to forgive Visenna. To be able to love her as a mother. His greatest concern now was could he forgive himself, for surviving, for living when the others had not. Shutting his eyes he focused on the calming presence of both Julia and Vesemir. Thinking of his family back at the estate, Ciri, Tobias, Renee and the children, Yennefer and Jaskier. The picture enveloped him and his heart as he saw that they were there because of him and he would fight for them. He would forgive himself because of them. Opening his eyes he looked at Vesemir seeing truly for the first time that he was his father. He reached out and hugged him.

Julia held her breath as she watched Geralt hugging Vesemir. Her heart was so full of grief for what this man had been through, but if was also full of love for him. She watched as Geralt released Vesemir and then turned to her. She could see the depth of pain but also a clear acceptance of who he was showing in them now. A confidence that had been missing since the first day she met him. He smiled and lifted his hand to cup her cheek. A small smile lifted the corners of his lips as he said "My beloved, I love you so much." With that he drew her in and kissed her gently but with every promise of many more to come.

The next evening the weary travelers arrived back to the estate. They had not sent word ahead, so it was a surprised household that greeted them. Ciri was as always overjoyed and greeted Geralt first with a big hug. Her presence bringing a completeness to Geralt's heart as the weight of the last few days completely fell off his shoulders. Ruth and Hannah set about preparing their rooms and Nessie set out a simple but filling meal for them all before they headed to their chambers. There was one thing that Geralt needed to do before heading in for the night. Standing at their chamber door he bent down and kissed Julia "I'll be back soon, I just really need to do this before I go to sleep." Smiling back at her husband Julia squeezed his hand and said "Its ok, I'll be here" she reached up and kissed him gently on the lips and then turned into the room.

Geralt stood at the door and knocked. The door cracked open and light from the room spilled into the corridor as Visenna looked at him surprise on her face. He smiled at her, seeing her standing before him. Her red hair braided ready for sleep, a gentle smile broke across her face when she saw it was him. Geralt did what he had wanted to do since last night as he stepped forward and engulfed his mother in his arms. A squeak of surprised from Visenna made him chuckle as he buried his face in the crook of her neck not as a lover would have but as a child would. He held her like that for some time as she began to reciprocate the hug. Eventually he pulled back and he saw the same unshed tears in his eyes reflected in hers. "Mum, I forgive you, and I want you to know I love you." At that Visenna broke down in his arms his words breaking through her years of grief and hurt, replaced now with the love of her son.

Julia knew when Geralt entered the bathroom, even though her eyes were closed as she soaked in the bath. For one she could smell his stench of horse and days of travel a mile off but she also felt his presence so strongly that she knew she would always be able to sense him. She chuckled as she heard him discard his garment and walk to the bath. She felt his breath on her ear sending a shiver through her body "Is there room in this bath for a weary tired traveler?" grateful she had already washed her hair and was just relaxing now she opened her eyes to his and said with a smirk "yes, but you forgot smelly too"

Laughing at her quip she was relived and happy to see a spark of peace and joy in his eyes. Sitting up she made room for him to sit in front of her as he stepped into the tub. Pouring water over his head she then began to shampoo his hair. He groaned in pleasure as she massaged his scalp cleaning away the grime and tension from the last few days. She loved that sound, it was reserved for her touch, for her ears only a reciprocation of her love. She continued to clean and massage the days of dirt from his hair and skin leaving him like melted putty in her hands.

As he enjoyed her ministrations he began sniffing at the air, "What is that smell" he groaned and not the kind that she was previously enjoying. "honey and chamomile" she said with a smile, "Jaskier gave me the bottle that he used on you for your wedding preparations" he hummed and then said with a huff "That boy needs to find a more manly scented option." Laughing at his gripe Julia dumped more water over his head to wash the soap from his hair "Maybe we should find a horse scented one, would that suit you better" chuckling Geralt turned over his eyes sparkling with mirth "now that's the best idea you have come up with yet wife. Why don't you put that down so I can show you how much I like the idea" putting down the soap quickly Julia wrapped her arms around her husbands neck and they kissed, her last thought before she couldn't think anymore was "Its so good to be home"

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It had been a few weeks since they had returned, Geralt and Julia had settled into a familiar routine and were enjoying life at the estate. Tonight, was a special evening though as the whole family was here to celebrate the naming of Tobias and Renee's twins. They had spared no extravagance for this evening, hiring minstrels plus of course Jaskier who had managed to make himself at home in the estate as the permanent nanny and singer for the twins. In fact, it was impossible to put them down to sleep without his voice carrying on the wind. Nessie had made a menu fit for a king and queen for the twins although only their mother carried their food option for the present.

The hall had been decorated with bright coloured material wrapping the columns and tables. Reminiscent of the very last party Wilfred had shared with her. She was glad he was represented here tonight as a part of this joyous occasion. Right now, she was lounging in her favourite position with a strong muscular body behind hers as a pillow. Her Warrior, Her lover, Her best friend now with his arms around hers. She nestled deeper into his arms whilst enjoying the view before her. Yennefer was sitting with Ciri and Visenna and seemed to be engaged in a serious discussion until Ciri laughed brightening their faces, Vesemir was sitting back with a small smile on his face as Eskel, lambert and Cohen were debating the joys of having a good cook at their disposal.

Her final joy was seeing Tobias and Renee holding their precious bundles in their arms, their Son Wilfred and their daughter Amelia. Her family made complete being surrounded by her servants enjoying the feast eating and celebrating with them. Geralt leant down and kissed her on the top of her hair whispering as he did "I Love you" with that Julia sighed a contented sigh her life now completed with family, friends and children. Looking up into the face of her greatest contentment his eyes meeting hers as she whispered back "I Love you too".

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#thewidowandthewitcher #geralt #geralt of rivia #geralt fanfic #henry cavill

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ottelis · 4 years

Photo

"I gave you my life, Eliott," Lucas's voice shatters, splinters.

Eliott replies softly, broken, "And I gave you mine."

aka: eliott and lucas grow up together, but are separated when eliott is institutionalized in paris after a severe depressive episode. they reunite two years later when eliott is released, but everything has already changed before their eyes.

epigraph. i.

tw: brief depictions of anxiety/panic attacks, very brief reference to child abuse, uses of the q slur, mentions of a suicide attempt

october 22nd, 1962

01:34

caen, france

Outside Eliott's window, the waves sigh against the shore and rest their weary heads on the cool, silver sand. They hold each other, breathing together until they both slip into a dreamless sleep, fading into the depths of the sea. The wind drifts breezily along, whispering its secrets to anyone who is awake and willing to listen; secrets so dark and hidden it leaves a sharp chill in the air and a bitter tang on your tongue. The moon stands guard on her throne in the dark, inky sky—darker than usual—and welcomes all the lonely souls wandering through the night into her embrace. She is the one weaving the waves and the shore together, the one giving the wind the courage to speak its mind. "All is well," she seems to whisper, sing, "There is a calm after the storm, a peace after the war, a warmth and a comfort when burning heat fades away. Brave through, my darlings. To be brave is to be alive, to be well. All I ask is that you remember, still, to be gentle all the while."

Inside Eliott's room, the only light is glowing from the flashlight clasped in his hand like a lifeline. Its beam shines on yellowed, weathered pages filled with words that his eyes drink in hungrily, almost desperately. He's tucked himself away beneath his blanket, the fabric seeming to float just above his skin, leaving the softest touches and the gentlest warmth. Everything is quiet, still, here in this little corner of the gaping world he's created for himself. Here, it's warm, and as wide and as bright as he wanted it to be. Here, he has his books. Here, he has himself and his mind and his heart. Here, he has time halted in its tracks, and it wouldn't continue to tick forward until he told it to. Here, he has all of space at his fingertips, stars leaving freckles that scattered up his arms. Here, he is safe. Here, he rules the world.

Outside, a pebble clatters against Eliott's windowsill, startling him out of his hiding place. Lucas , he thinks. They agreed what felt like years ago that if Lucas ever needed something, he would throw a rock at Eliott's window. But it's late. Lucas only ever needed to come in this late when—

Eliott throws off his comforter, panic shocking time and space back to their natural rhythms. He hurries as quietly as he can down the stairs and to the back door, careful not to wake his parents. He opens the door, an autumn gust sweeping over him. Lucas is standing there, his eyes bleary with tears, his cheeks rosy from the cold, his hand hovered by his mouth with his teeth clamped onto the end of his sleeve. He's trying to stay quiet, hold back the sobs. He's shivering.

"Lucas, what's wrong?" Eliott asks, placing his hands on Lucas's shoulders. "Did he hurt you again?"

Lucas's tears started to fall, but he shakes his head. He slowly pulls his sleeve away from his mouth so he could answer, his lower lip quivering. But all his sobs escape. He throws his arms around Eliott. With a trembling breath, with a hiccup, Lucas finally replies, "He left, Eliott."

Eliott's heart drops to his feet. He holds Lucas as tightly as he can. He feels his tears soaking through his shirt, feels his body trembling with the force of his sobs. He feels tears of his own wet his cheeks. He doesn't say a word. He lets Lucas cry. He shields him from the cold, bitter wind; Lucas doesn't need its secrets when he already has so many of his own. He waits for Lucas, patiently, gently.

"Let's go inside," Eliott suggests once Lucas started to calm down. "Okay?"

"Okay," Lucas agrees, sniffling.

Eliott releases Lucas from his tight hug, instead taking his hand to guide him up to his room. Lucas bites his sleeve again, looking nervously towards Eliott's parents' bedroom.

"It's okay," Eliott reassures him. "They're asleep."

Lucas nods, letting his hand drop to his side.

Eliott opens his bedroom door and enters, turning on the lamp on his bedside table. A small, warm light breaks through the darkness of the room, barely mingles with the darkness outside. Eliott turns to Lucas, his blood suddenly running cold when he sees all the tear stains on his face. He bites his lip, forcing back his tears. He needs to be strong right now. For Lucas.

"Let's sit on my bed," Eliott manages, his voice wavering. He sits, gently tapping the spot next to him.

Lucas nods, another tear slipping down his cheek. He sits, too, letting out a trembling sigh. Words start spilling out of his mouth before Eliott could find his own words, the right words.

"They couldn't stop arguing," Lucas starts, his voice thin. "They were arguing before Maman took me to school, and they started arguing again when Papa got home from work. I hid in my room and tried to block out all the noise but I could still hear all of it. Papa was yelling at her, and I could hear her crying. He... He kept saying that she was insane, and he was threatening to send her to an asylum. He said he wanted to leave, and that he should have left years ago. He said he should've left her at the altar. He said he should've left when she told him she was going to have a baby. He said he should've left the day I, that queer, was born. Maman tried to talk to him but he wouldn't listen. Every time she tried to, he would scream at her and tell her to shut up. And then I heard him walk towards their room. And I heard Maman crying and begging him to stay. Then—"

Lucas started to crumble again, more rivers of tears streaming down his face. "I think he hit her. And then he left."

Eliott wraps his arms around Lucas again, speechless, anger beginning to boil in his stomach.

"He left us, Eliott," Lucas weeps, clinging to Eliott's shirt. "And he's not coming back. And I had to hold Maman while she cried. She's asleep now, but... I don't know what we're going to do. We can't survive by ourselves. We need Papa. But he hurts us. He hurts Mama and he yells at her when she didn't do anything wrong. And when I do something wrong, he hits me and he hits me and he—"

"Lucas," Eliott begs, his voice breaking. "It's okay. You're safe here."

Eliott feels completely helpless as he holds Lucas tighter, closer to his chest. So, he promises him that everything will be okay. No matter how far time stretches away from him, no matter how many tears he sheds, no matter how much it feels like his world is crashing around his ears. He promises him that he's not alone. And a small part of Eliott hopes he isn't lying to him through his teeth.

june 21st, 1968

08:22

caen, france

Eliott wakes with a start, instantly blinded by a curtain of sunlight. He blinks through it until his vision clears, then studies his surroundings. A green, luscious forest streaks by through the window, awakened and enlivened by the newborn spring. The sky is clear, a light, crystal blue. He hears the chatter of the other passengers—hushed whispers, joyous laughter, excited gossiping. He sees men reading the newspaper, women with their children in their laps, workers in their uniforms sipping cups of coffee. They all seem ordinary, mundane. It's comforting, almost. How Earth seems to move smoothly, gradually as her people help her along. Walking forward together, guiding her through her orbit, through the universe.

Eliott wonders what the other people on the train would think if they happened to look over and see him. They must see tired, bleary eyes, messy, tousled hair, an old, worn out coat two sizes too small. Can they see the fear that's settled deep in his bones, just underneath his skin? Can they feel his fear that nothing will ever be the same again, that everything has already changed too much? That the world he once controlled has moved on, has found its own orbit without him? Can they see right through him? Can they see all the shame, the secrets, the trauma? Do they pity him? Do they understand his pain, see him in the echoes of their own? Would they just ignore him? Write him off as some strange, young man they saw on the train one day?

Eliott blinks, biting his lip. He can't think about any of that right now. He's supposed to be happy. He's coming home! After almost two, long years, he's finally coming home!

He remembers his sweet, lovely Maman. She came to visit him as often as she could, of course, but now he gets to go home with her. He gets to hug her and hold her close as long as he wants to without nurses telling them visiting hours were over. He gets to see her smile and laugh without a sadness in her eyes as she realizes she'll have to leave him again. He gets to sit in the living room with her and watch TV, or linger in the kitchen while she makes tea and cookies. He gets to spend his birthday and Christmas with her again. He gets to celebrate her birthday, too, Mother's Day. She gets to be his mother again, and he gets to be her son again. He gets to fall asleep every night knowing she's just down the hall if he needs her. Everything will be normal again. Maybe she'll start singing again, like she used to before Papa died. He misses hearing her sing while she wanders around the house.

He remembers Lucas, his best friend, and maybe something more. Lucas hasn't been able to visit him since he's finishing lycée, but they've written letters to each other whenever they could. Eliott has always wondered what Lucas looks now, now that he must be all grown up. He's wondered if Lucas has changed, if his smile is a little more genuine now, if he's learned that the fire within him is something he should embrace, letting it give him the courage that's buried somewhere in there, too. He wonders if he's spent as many restless, reckless nights as he has dreaming of him. He wonders if Lucas misses him as much as he does. He wonders if Lucas knows he misses him. How he's missed kissing him as slow and deep as the sun sinking into the horizon, how he's missed weaving his hands through his hair until they got lost in its tangles. Has Lucas waited for him, patiently, gently? Or has he moved on? Has he found someone else? Someone better, someone kinder, someone who loves him more than Eliott can? Everything should be normal with his mother, but what about with Lucas? Eliott loves Lucas with everything inside of him, but does Lucas still love him, too?

He loves me, his mind begins to chant, beg. He loves me, he loves me, he loves me. I need him to love me. Please.

If Eliott closes his eyes, he can see them together in his room that day, the books in their laps falling to the floor as Eliott deepened the kiss, the dying, golden rays of sunlight smiling down on them. He can see Lucas, his brilliant, blue eyes suddenly subdued and darkened with desire, desperation. He can feel his heart slowing in his chest, swaying to the rhythm of Lucas's. He can feel his lungs expanding, greedy for more of the air that was suddenly hanging still and silent between them. He can taste Lucas, salty air and sleep. He remembers the fleeting image of his parents finding them slipping through his mind, and how his world ending was less terrifying than this one, blissful moment ending a second earlier than it needed to. Eliott could never find the courage to believe in infinity until he kissed Lucas, loved him. Suddenly, he'd found the strength to fight for infinity, for the boy in his arms.

If Eliott closes his eyes, Lucas still loves him.

If Eliott closes his eyes, infinity is still within his grasp.

But his eyes are open, and the train suddenly begins to lurch to a stop.

What a luxury, he thinks, to come and go as you please. To change along with the world; move forward along with it.

The other passengers begin to gather their things, rising from their seats. The coffee is cold, the gossip has run dry, and there's no more news for today. They must move on. And so must Eliott.

He stands, however slowly, picking up and holding his suitcase with a desperate grip. He lets people walk past him and smiles politely, gathering the courage to keep moving, to live as he once did. He waits until he's the last one aboard, then walks down the aisle, hoping he can turn his mind off, just for a moment.

Remember Maman, he tells himself. Remember Lucas. Remember home.

He steps off the train, looking out at the crowded platform. He used to know everyone that lived in his quaint, little town, but now, he doesn't recognize anyone. A million, blurred faces he doesn't know. And he's a stranger to them, too. There are people in the town he's called home his whole life that don't know who he is, that he even exists. Don't they know him? Eliott! Noémie and Eduard's boy! The artist! The one who flew off to the cuckoo's nest! Don't they remember him?

They pass him by, barely bothering to glance at him over their shoulders. They don't know him. They don't remember him. He's a stranger.

Eliott grips the handle of his suitcase tighter, feeling pressure build up in his knuckles. He just needs to find his mother then she can take him home and he'll be safe. Everything will go back to normal. Everything has to go back to normal.

A small jolt sparks through him, straightening his back and squaring his shoulders but leaving an odd, unpleasant taste in his mouth. He blinks, biting his lip. He focuses on searching the crowd, looking for dark hair and warm eyes and a gentle smile. He takes a few, careful steps forward, flinching whenever bumped into him as they walked on. He feels like he's swimming, the current threatening to sweep him away, further out into the ocean. He starts walking faster, his eyes flickering all around the old, bustling train station. He's getting overwhelmed again, like the doctors always said was almost too easy for him to do. He feels the jolt again, barely, like a ghost, a memory. He tries to ignore it.

"Things are going to be difficult at first when you come home, Eliott," one of the doctors had said. "You'll have to readjust to society. It'll feel like you're starting over from scratch. It's important you still try and control your symptoms. Take your medication. Okay? Like we've been practicing while you were here. And if you ever feel like that isn't working, we are opening a psychiatric office over in Normandy. You won't be institutionalized like you were here, but you'll be able to visit often and they'll help you feel better. You will feel better, Eliott. You're going to be okay."

"I'll be okay," Eliott repeats under his breath. "I'll feel better."

He takes one more step forward, and he feels like he can breathe again. He looks behind him and sees the current continuing, surging. He sighs in relief. He's made it to shore.

"Eliott?" his mother's sweet, frail voice calls, somehow piercing all the noise of the station.

He whirls forward, and then he sees her. His mother. She's grinning like she used to, tears rolling down her cheeks. She holds her arms out to him, warm and wide. He runs to her without a moment's hesitation and falls into them. He has his mother again.

He holds her as tightly as he can, breathing in her familiar scent. He feels her tremble with her tears, and he shushes her quietly, comfortingly.

"I'm here, Maman," he says, beginning to weep himself. "I'm home."

"Don't be gone for that long again," she tells him. "I can't stand it."

"I can't control it, Maman," Eliott replies, biting his lip. "But I'll try."

His mother pulls away, holding his face in her hands. Her smile wavers, wobbling into a frown. "You look so much like your father."

Eliott feels sadness twinge in his chest, too. "I know."

He bites back a sob as he remembers a question that's lingered in the back of his mind since his father died, one he's never gotten to ask his mother. "Do you think Papa would be proud of me?"

His mother wipes away his tears. "He is proud of you, dear. I know it."

He pulls her into another hug, burying his face in her shoulder. "I miss him so much."

"He misses you, too, Ellie," she reassures him, rubbing soothing circles into his back.

The old nickname brings a smile to his face. He lets out a little laugh. "Thank you, Maman. I love you."

"I love you, too," she returns, chuckling, too. She pulls away again. "Let's get you home. Okay?"

It's still hard to stomach the thought of going back home after so long, but he already feels exhausted. He misses his house, his bed, Lucas.

Lucas.

"Okay," Eliott agrees. "Maman, Lucas is still here, right?"

"Of course he is," she smiles. "I thought about asking him to come with me to get you, but I figured you'd want to surprise him."

"He..." Eliott begins, stuttering a little. "He doesn't know I'm coming home?"

She nods, her smile widening. "As far as I know."

"How's he doing?" Eliott asks, anxiety beginning to settle in his stomach.

"He's well, I think," she replies. "He's graduated lycée, and he's heading off to medical school in the fall."

Eliott can't fight his smile. Lucas had always wanted to become a doctor when he grew up. But then his smile fell almost as quickly as it appeared.

"In Paris, right?" he mutters, biting his lip.

"I think so, dear," his mother answers, placing her hands on his shoulders. "But Paris isn't too far. We could always go visit him every once in a while if you wanted to."

Eliott nods. He can feel his hope being chipped away, falling to the earth like ash. It hurts.

"You have the whole summer to be with him and catch up," she says, noticing his shifting demeanor. "And I don't think he's going to give up on you without a fight."

Eliott manages another smile. "Thank you."

"Let's go ahead and get you to him. Okay?"

Eliott nods. "Okay."

june 21st, 1968

09:00

caen, france

The car ride home was almost unbearable. The radio was full of songs he'd never heard, and the ones he sang at the top of his lungs before his breakdown had all but disappeared. There were so many new buildings, some so tall Eliott had to crane his head to see the top of them. Buildings were this tall back in Paris, not back home.

"When did they build that?" Eliott asks, pointing at an especially tall, commercial building.

"I think it opened about a year after you left," his mother answers. "Things have changed a lot around here, dear. I wish you could've seen all of it when it was happening."

Eliott doesn't respond at first. He closes his eyes, imagining the town he knew before his life changed forever. Before his father died, before that day at the beach with Lucas, before his breakdown, before his diagnosis, before his long, long stay at the institution. The town with the quaint houses, old brick and mortar shops, tranquil fields of lush grass and clean, quiet beaches. The town with an almost constantly cloudy sky, the town that always has a chill in its air, the town with millions of drops of blood crying vengeance from deep within its soil. The town that cradled Eliott but then left him to die all alone on the cold, hard ground. This town holds everything he's ever loved, everything he's ever hated or regretted, everything he's tried so hard to forget, and now he doesn't even recognize it if he opens his eyes.

"Me too," Eliott finally says, more melancholic than wistful.

He keeps his eyes closed, letting the music play and the car move onward, hopefully towards something familiar, someone he loves.

He loves me, he loves me, he loves me

"Eliott," his mother begins, making Eliott open his eyes again. "I can tell what you're thinking. You've been gone a long time. No one expects you to put on a smile and act like everything is still normal."

"I want everything to be normal," Eliott mutters. "More than anything."

"They'll be normal again soon, honey," she replies, looking over at him with her unwavering kindness in her eyes. "Just take your time. Let yourself heal. You need it."

"I was supposed to heal at the institution," Eliott sighs. "And I did. Now I have to heal all over again?"

His mother considers for a moment, biting her lip. "Healing never really ends, Eliott. There's always something that can be fixed or mended. We just need to hold our hand out to the healing, and once it takes it, it'll guide you through the hurt. And it'll never let go. It's a gift. A blessing. A friend. It's warm."

"Why can't the healing stop the hurt, then?" Eliott asks, getting tearful again. "Why can't it find some other path to take, or clear the one we're walking on if we do have to walk on it? Why do I have to hurt to feel the healing?"

"Maybe the healing needs us as much as we need it."

Eliott isn't sure. He sighs, letting his mother's answer hang in the air, and she lets it hang, too. Maybe one day he'll believe everything she said.

Suddenly, distantly, he can hear the gentle crashing of the waves against the shore. He can hear the water breathe, the sand call out its name. Oh, how he's missed that sound. He looks out the window, and he can just barely see the beach. He's missed the pale sand, the smell of salt in the air...

His mother must have noticed him gawking. "You missed the beach, didn't you?" she asks, smiling.

"So much," he breathes. "I can't wait to swim again. It's been so long since I've..." He breaks off, the beginnings of unwelcome memories infiltrating his mind. He sees his mother's smile falter.

"Sorry," he mutters.

"It's okay," she replies, so quiet Eliott almost didn't hear it. "It's okay," she repeats, louder. "You're home now."

Eliott nods, letting himself smile again. "I'm home."

Eliott keeps looking out the window, watching the waves ripple and curl like ribbons on the horizon. He feels a million emotions swirling around in his chest, his mind. He remembers splashing and laughing and building sandcastles. He remembers choppy waves, cold, biting water, salt burning his eyes. He feels relief, panic, love, abandonment. He wonders if the water is still the same, or if it's not, if it'll ever be the same again.

"Eliott, look," his mother says, pointing ahead.

He looks, and his heart begins to soar. Just ahead, he can see his childhood home with its white, brick walls and faded, gray roof. There's still little ropes of ivy climbing the side of it, it's just climbed a little farther now. There's still the steel blue front door, wooden porch, window shutters. There's still the little bushes lining the driveway, green and alive. It's his house. The one he grew up in, the one he fell in love in, the one he slept in every night, the one where he drank thousands of cups of tea and ate thousands of biscuits. It's his house.

And if he looks just beyond it, he can see Lucas's house. He smiles wider. Lucas must be in there, watching TV or reading a book and not suspecting for a moment that Eliott was just down the street, heading straight toward him. Eliott imagines knocking on the door and Lucas bursting into tears when he opens it and sees him standing there. He imagines them finding somewhere private and kissing again; kissing and breathing the same air and laughing and existing together again. He imagines things going back to normal, everything falling smoothly back into its natural rhythm again. He imagines him being okay, and being okay with Lucas by his side. Is he foolish, too hopeful, for imagining these things?

"I can't wait to surprise Lucas," Eliott says aloud, his excitement beginning to brim and spill over.

"He shouldn't be expecting a thing, dear," his mother replies, winking. She pulls into their driveway and parks their car. "Now go knock on his door and talk with him again. I'll be inside, okay?"

"Okay," Eliott grins. "Thank you, Maman. I love you so much." He unbuckles his seat belt and gives her another hug.

"You're welcome, dear. I love you, too," she returns, hugging him back.

He lets her go and takes a deep breath. He's about to meet Lucas again after two years. Either his worse nightmare or his fondest dream is about to come true. He opens the car door, and steps out.

He makes the short walk to Lucas's house, running his fingers along his bottom lip, a nervous habit. He breathes slowly, taking in all the sights and sounds and smells. He holds his head high and strides up to the Lallemants' front door. He takes another deep breath before knocking on the door.

"I'll answer it, Maman," Lucas's voice calls through the door. Eliott could cry right then and there. His voice! Sweeter, softer than the sound of the waves, or the wind chimes on the porch.

The door opens, and there stands Lucas Lallemant, older, more handsome. His blue, blue eyes widen and his pink, pink lips part in shock.

"Eliott?" he chokes out, half-laugh, half-sob.

"Surprise," Eliott replies cheekily, smiling and tilting his head. Before he can catch himself, his tears start rolling down his cheeks and he envelops Lucas in his arms. He holds him tighter with a new strength, with an old love and fondness. "I've missed you more than anything in any universe, my love."

Lucas hugs him back, tenderly, carefully. "And I, you."

Eliott could hold Lucas in his arms for a million years if he had to. He'd spend every moment running smooth circles over his skin, playing with his hair, breathing him in—his smell, his breathing, his thoughts, his heartbeats. He'd spend every moment trying to get closer and closer, silently hoping one day he'll melt into him and they'll never have to leave each other. Maybe, when they collided, they'd explode into a whole other universe—a whole other parallel universe as Lucas always talked about—one where Eliott wasn't sick, one where Lucas didn't carry so much weight, so many scars. Their universe.

"Eliott," Lucas whispers, almost afraid. "Can... Can we talk?"

Eliott ignores the twinge in his chest, the tug at the back of his mind. He pulls away, his hands drifting down and taking Lucas's. "Down by the shore?"

"No," Lucas replies, too quickly. "I don't go down there anymore. If I can help it."

"Does it remind you of..." Eliott can't finish the sentence, the last word getting caught in his throat.

"No," Lucas says again. "It reminds me of you."

The twinge is sharper, the tug pulls harder. Eliott swallows his nerves. "What do you mean?"

"Eliott, please," Lucas begs, his eyes closed and voice shaking. "Can we just talk somewhere?"

Eliott nods, biting his lip. "Okay."

Lucas lets go of Eliott's hands, looking up at him with pity. Eliott feels like he could explode.

Lucas starts walking towards the shore, but doesn't stray past the small patches of grass, a little ways past their houses. He looks out at the water, his brow furrowed, frowning. His eyes are dry, his breaths aren't shaking anymore. But somehow, Eliott notices, he looks sadder than he ever has before.

"Lucas?" Eliott tries, gently, patiently.

"So, you're home?" Lucas asks, turning to him but avoiding eye contact.

"The doctors said I was stable," Eliott answers, trying to keep the fear from edging into his voice. "So, they said I could go home. Live a normal life again. Be with everyone I love. Be with you."

Lucas takes a deep breath, wringing his hands. He's nervous.

Eliott takes his hands again. Lucas finally looks back at him, his eyes darker, lackluster.

"I love you, Lucas," Eliott says, moving his hands to cradle Lucas's face. "I love you."

Lucas closes his eyes, leaning his forehead against Eliott's. Eliott closes his eyes, too, and gathers every ounce of courage he has. He kisses Lucas, but their lips barely brush against each other before Lucas yanks himself away. Eliott swears he hears a sob rip out of Lucas's throat. His eyes fly open, and he sees Lucas backing away from him, hugging himself. There are tears running down his cheeks.

Eliott walks over to him cautiously, wanting to cry himself. He needs to be strong for Lucas. "Ça va, mon amour?" Eliott asks carefully.

"Don't call me that," Lucas begs, strained, tired.

Eliott feels the color drain from his face, feels the wind being knocked out of him.

He still loves me, he still loves me, he still loves me, he has to love me still

"Why not?" he chokes out.

Lucas shakes his head. After a moment, he looks Eliott in the eye. His eyes are shining, hopeless.

"I'm engaged, Eliott."

Eliott's heart nearly stops.

I need him to love me, I need him to love me, I need him to love me!

"To whom?" Eliott asks, his voice strangled.

"Chloé," Lucas answers. "Chloé Jeanson."

"That girl in the year below us?" Eliott asks, his heart racing now.

Lucas nods. He takes a deep breath before he continues. "We're getting married in December."

"And when did you propose to her?"

Lucas bites his lip. "Yesterday."

"Yesterday?" Eliott repeats. He feels tears running down his face.

"I love her, Eliott," Lucas justifies, stumbling through his words, his tears. "And she loves me."

"Lucas, you told me you can't fall in love with girls," Eliott cries, so desperate he can't control his tongue. He rambles, pleads through every hiccuping sob. "Remember? You told me that when we were sitting in my bedroom. And then I told you I can fall in love with anyone, but my heart chose you. And then you kissed me. Please tell me you remember that. Because I can't stop thinking about it. You kissed me and then I kissed you back and we kissed and we kissed and I'd never been so happy. We spent that whole spring, that whole summer kissing each other and every day I loved you more than I ever thought I could. I told you over and over again how much I loved you and you told me over and over again that you loved me, too. Was that a lie, Lucas? Have you been lying to me this whole time? Every time you wrote to me and called me the love of your life, the only good thing that's ever happened to you, those were all lies?"

"I was a boy, Eliott," Lucas bites back, anger twisting his features. "You were a boy. We didn't know anything about love. We didn't know anything! When I met Chloé, I knew!"

"So, you just moved on?" Eliott asks, his face burning bright red. "You fell in love with her? I was in misery in Paris, and you were here carrying on with some girl? I loved you, Lucas. I still love you!"

"If you loved me, you wouldn't have tried to kill yourself!" Lucas shouts, his voice echoing off the air, the water, the sky.

Eliott can't breathe. He can't feel his arms, his legs. He falls to his knees, shaking his head, his body wracked with sobs. "Lucas, I was sick, you know that."

"You could've talked to me that night, Eliott," Lucas replies, just as tearful. "You could've talked to me, instead of leaving a letter at my window sill and expecting me to find it by the time it was too late. You left me with the unbearable thought that you'd saved me from almost the same fate you were subjecting yourself to, but I wasn't gonna be able to save you. How could you have done that?"

Eliott presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, pushing away the memories. "Stop, please," he begs.

"I gave you my life, Eliott," Lucas's voice shatters, splinters.

Eliott replies softly, broken, hollow, "And I gave you mine."

"No," Lucas says, low and dark. "No, you didn't."

Eliott pulls his hands away, sunspots crawling across his vision. He can't see Lucas's face, but he can feel the anger radiating off of him. "Lucas, please, if you would let me explain..."

"Maybe someday," Lucas concedes, his voice still sharp and cutting. "Or maybe in another universe."

"Lucas—" Eliott begins, his voice breaking along with his heart.

"Everything has changed, Eliott. We've changed. I'm not a queer like you, and I'm not sick like you. And you're not in love like I am, and you're not moving on like I am."

"Please,"

Lucas pauses. Eliott hears him choke back a sob. "I'm sorry, Eliott."

He hears Lucas walking away, hears the sand shifting beneath his feet. He hears him sniffle, sigh. He hears his worst fear, his worst nightmare, laughing at him from the back of his mind. He hears a voice, deep within his heart wail,

He hates me, he hates me, he hates me

june 21st, 1968

9:43

caen, france

Somehow, Eliott finds the strength to rise to his feet and walk back home. He follows Lucas's footprints, like they used to when they were kids. Eliott usually led the way, taking the longest strides possible with his longer legs. Lucas struggled to keep up, often having to hop to the next footprint. Lucas would complain the whole way to their houses, ask why Eliott always had to lead the way. He would wish his legs were longer, so he could follow him easier, run faster than him. Eliott would laugh at him, tell him that maybe someday he would be as tall as he was, have legs as long as his. In Eliott's eyes, it was an innocent game, playful. In Lucas's, it was frustrating and unfair. Yet, they played it every day after playing at the beach, in the water. Because Eliott wanted to play it, and Lucas was always right behind him, nipping at his heels. Somehow, for all those years, Lucas had found the strength to keep walking.

Lucas has gotten taller, though not as tall as Eliott did. His feet are bigger, too. His strides are longer, angry. His feet barely had time to make impressions in the sand, and his footprints quickly disappear when the sand is overtaken by grass. Eliott's footprints are clearer, deeper from the sand threatening to pull him under and bury him, consume him. Somehow, despite the earth's pleading, Eliott found the strength to keep on walking.

He resists the urge to look over at Lucas's house, ignores the hope that he may see him through one of the windows. Lucas hates him, and he isn't sure he can handle seeing that hatred in his face, in his eyes. Lucas is engaged to someone else, and Eliott isn't sure he can handle seeing him kiss her, love her like he used to kiss and love him. The Lucas he just talked to isn't the same Lucas he grew up with, loved. But he also knows he isn't the same Eliott he was when they were kids. He's not the same Eliott Lucas grew up with, loved. Neither of them are the same. He should've known that from the moment he knew he would see Lucas again. He should've known that two years is a long time to be away from someone, especially considering the circumstances of why Eliott had to leave. Lucas has every right to be angry, but Eliott wishes with everything in him that he won't be anymore.

He makes it to his front door, taking a deep breath, another. He hasn't been inside his childhood home in two years. He would've been nervous, anxious, but he's too exhausted from his argument with Lucas to feel anything. So he breathes, and he opens the door.

"I was wondering where you were, dear," his mother calls. "How was reuniting with Lucas?"

Eliott doesn't answer. He drinks in his family's old living room. The once weathered, muted yellows were now a pure white, the rich, darkly stained wood floor were pale and matte. The old, paisley rug had been replaced by a plush, sky blue one. The couch his mother was sitting and reading a newspaper on was plush, too, a steely gray with wooden legs. The house looked new, cold, wide and gaping. Eliott feels like if he spoke, his words would echo for hours, miles. Was this really the house he grew up in? He doesn't recognize it...

"Eliott?" his mother repeats, putting down her newspaper.

He blinks and forces a smile. "Sorry, Maman. What did you say?"

"How was reuniting with Lucas?" she asks again.

He widens his false smile. "Good. I've missed him a lot."

"I'm so glad, honey," she smiles, genuine. "And do you like the new house?"

He nods, tells another lie. "Yeah, I do."

"I'll tell you, though," she begins, getting up from the couch. "I didn't touch your room, besides for some dusting and cleaning. Do you wanna see it?"

His smile falters, only to widen again, but genuinely this time. "Okay. Yeah."

He follows his mother upstairs, the stairs not creaking like they used to. The door to his room is closed, and his mother stands beside it excitedly, her hand on the doorknob. He can't help but smile.

"I remember what my room looks like, Maman," he laughs. "Why is it a surprise?"

"There's a few surprises in there," she replies, winking. "Ready, dear?"

He nods. "Ready."

She opens the door, and steps aside so he can walk in. He steps inside cautiously, but he was right. His walls are still a pale blue, his floor still dark, shiny wood planks. His bookshelf still standing tall in the corner of the room, all his pictures still framed and sitting on top of his dresser. The same sheets are on his bed, all made up. But there was a cardboard box on his bed. He grins, walking over and picking it up. It was heavy.

"Is this one of my surprises?" he asks, shaking it lightly.

"They're all in that box," she replies, nodding. "This is your birthday present, by the way."

He looks up, chuckling. "Is it?"

"No, not really," she concedes. "I do have birthday presents for you, but these are welcome home presents."

He shakes it again, holding it close to his ear. "Can I open it?"

"Of course, honey," his mother says, grinning.

He sits down on his bed, opening the box carefully. On top was a book, old and yellowed.

"The Waves?" he reads aloud, pulling the book out to study out. "Virginia Woolf?"

"It was one of my favorite books when I was your age," his mother tells him, sitting next to him. "That's actually my copy of it."

"Oh, Maman," he replies, suddenly feeling guilty. "You don't have to give me one of your books."

"It's a gift, honey," she reassures him, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Besides, I think you need it more than I do. I think it'll help you."

"Thank you, Maman," he smiles, giving her another hug.

"No, go through the rest of the box!" she laughs. "You can hug me when you've seen all of them."

"All right, all right," Eliott gives in, putting the book down and looking back in the box. He sees thick, tawny fabric. It looks familiar. He pulls it out of the box, and tears brim in his eyes again.

"This is Papa's old coat," he says, in awe.

"I know it's still summer, but once it gets cold, I thought you'd like to wear it," his mother says. "Your father loved this old coat. He rarely took it off while it still fit him. Remember?"

Eliott nods. "I remember."

"Put it on," she urges. "I wanna see you wearing it for a bit."

Eliott gladly takes off his old, too-small coat and puts on his father's. It's a little big for him, but it's warm and it smells like his father's cologne. He pulls it tight around his body, letting it envelop him. "I love it," he says, closing his eyes. "I love it, Maman."

"He loved it, too," his mother replies. There are tears in her eyes as she watches Eliott. She's probably thinking about how much they look alike. She blinks, and she's suddenly out of her reverie. She points at the box, smiling. "Oh, there's one more surprise in the box, Eliott. Lucas's mother helped me with it."

His heart sinks at the mention of Lucas's name, but he looks down at the box anyway.

It's a framed picture of a drawing he remembers making as clear as day. It's a self portrait, where his hair is a little lighter, and he's wearing a blue shirt and gray pants. He drew birds in the sky, the beach and the water and his house in the background. At the right edge of the paper, his five-year-old handwriting scrawled out a half-written message.

Fri

For

Lucas had the other half, with his own self-portrait and his handwriting finishing the message.

Best friends forever

"Lucas's mother found this in their house, and she gave it to me and we got them framed. Lucas should be getting his half today, too. Remember the day you made these? The day I had to visit Papa at the hospital in Paris?"

He isn't listening to her. He studies his picture, remembers Lucas's, and it hits him all over again that everything has changed, that everything has been ruined. His tears come back, more bitter, and they refuse to be held back.

"Eliott, honey, are you okay?" his mother asks, suddenly worried.

"Yeah," he lies, leaving the picture sitting in his lap and wiping away his tears. "Yeah, I'm okay."

"Are you sure?" she presses, putting her hand on his shoulder again.

He shakes his head, choking out a sob. "He hates me, Maman. He's so angry with me."

"Ellie," she starts, her hand moving to cradle his face.

"He hates me because I tried to kill myself," he sobs. "And he's engaged now and he's moved on without me and we're not best friends anymore."

"Honey, you don't know that," she tries to tell him, but his emotions only surge.

"I do, Maman! He told me! I've already almost lost him once and now I've lost him. He'll never talk to me ever again and he'll get married and have kids and be happy and he'll forget about me. He's gonna forget about me!"

"Eliott—"

"I love him, Maman! I love him and he hates me now! How can I live without him? How can I live without my best friend? How can I live without the love of my life?"

He looks down at the picture in his hands, and he's angry. Angry at Lucas, angry at himself, angry at his mind, angry at his parents, angry at the world. He screams, throwing the picture down on the floor. It shatters into a million pieces, leaving the picture exposed. He hears his mother calling his name, but he ignores her. He snatches the picture, ripping it in half, in fourths, in eights.

"Eliott, please!" his mother yells, grabbing hold of his hands.

He stops, his heart missing a beat and his breath hitching in his throat. He looks down at the paper shreds in his hands, the glass on the floor.

He's out of control again. He's lost it again.

He bursts into tears, his chest tightening, exploding. He falls into his mother's arms, wailing into her shoulder. She holds him close, kissing his hair and comforting him in soft, caring whispers.

He's falling apart all over again. He thought he was stable, he thought was gonna be okay, he thought everything would be normal.

How could he have ever been so wrong?

#here we go folks #we'll see what happens #skam france #skamfr #elu #elu fanfic #lucas lallemant #eliott demaury #skam france fanfic #skamfr fanfic #hush bailey #my writing #my fic #ttmc #suicide tw #q slur #child abuse tw #panic attacks tw

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bluethedream · 3 years

Text

I don't think I have ever seen or will ever see a more painful episode in animation than Zuko Alone 02×07. Can't stop thinking about all the things that were swirling around in Zuko's head throughout the episode. I'd also like to point out the voice acting done by Dante Basco... there was a huge sense that something is missing, the absence of a very important thing in him... am I making sense? There was nothing in his voice, but there was also bone deep weariness, the urge to give up.

Never give up without a fight.

Never before has an animation made me reflect so deeply on a character. That's what books make me do. Not movies and tv series, and most definitely not an animation.

At the end of the episode, after he defeats the earth kingdom soldier the people shun him away, it just further cements in his mind that he is inherently unloveable; the one person who actually loved him is gone, and he left the other one behind himself. Through it all he still remembers who he is even if it doesn't mean anything anymore.

#I want to go on a rant about azula too but I'm too tired and too hurt and too hung up #Zuko #Atla #Avatar the last airbender #Sokka #Katara #Aang #Toph #sabi's words

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theangrypokemaniac · 4 years

Text

Since I rant enough about the wizening Ma and Pa received in Sinnoh it's only right to wreak bloody rhetorical vengeance elsewhere:

However harsh it may be, I'm glad Takeshi Shudo isn't alive to witness the hateful desecration of his legacy.

...

In a universe where no one's allowed to age, why are the modern Jessie and James so withered and decrepit?

Dragon Ball has been on for more than three decades. Its stars were permitted to grow up, because the head can cope with the opportunities this offers.

Yet Goku, Krillin, Bulma et al bear a greater similarity to their younger selves than these gurning invertebrates do to Team Rocket, wearing a papery approximation of their skin.

Akira Toriyama is actually concerned about his life's work, still coming up with interesting concepts, brand-new characters, and most importantly, values his audience by keeping to the established canon.

If a Dragon Ball fan reads this, I am so jealous of you.

Consider yourselves fortunate not to have seen the thing you loved the most pulverised and the resulting glutinous mass moulded back into makeshift sloppy cadavers.

Look at the state of that man! That's a good picture these days!

Why have the eyelid lines turned into upside down bags?

And why has she collected her lashes for this particular screen shot?

On eyes with a strangely feline slant...

Has she had a face lift?

Get yer money back on that one, love.

And why has he marks under his eyes and round his flapping gob to add the hint of exhaustion?

And why don't her lips reach the edge of her mouth anymore?

And why must he display Beaver Toof, as if he's only got six pegs left?

Giving it to him but not her implies she's lost the lot, needing to gum objects for a result.

And why do her low-slung ears consist only of lobe?

And why can you see his featureless lugs? Why does his barnet stand outwards in tentacles like he's taken to wearing a floppy Starmie?

What's that's meant to be, purple dreadlocks?

And why is her hairline curved and absolutely straight, like a bad wig, apart from the perfunctory bits to the side, which I guarantee won't alter their position throughout the run?

Hair used to move about, now by law there's a set pattern which cannot change. Stamp that life out immediately.

And what's that flaccid growth between his weary peepers? Is that meant to be fringe?

PFFFT!!!

And why are her digits just as thick and oblong as his?

It ain't fingers. It's trotters.

And why's he got a back to his throat, but she hasn't?

And why are we forced to witness it? You can see all the way to his dangler!

The great gaping pink cave looks like the end of Looney Tunes when Porky Pig pops up and stammers: "That's all folks!"

Remember a lack of Beaver Toof? And triangular mouths?

Remember when Meowth was a cheeky, spirited little cat, not a middle-aged human midget, an emaciated wreck bored of it all?

Remember when it wasn't deemed necessary to expose us to internal organs?

And when James was a handsome, hysterically camp dandy, not a creepy, snot-ridden science dweeb?

And when Jessie was a beautiful, stylish young girl, hot-tempered but loyal, not a sullen, cold, reptilian, Botoxed-to-the-gills gorgon?

Remember when Team Rocket were fun? And attractive?

Remember when they had joy in their hearts in spite of their poverty? And vim? And hope?

Remember them acting with flair and imagination?

Remember when their schemes had variety?

Remember when they had more than a single disguise per era?

Remember when they had many occupations? And were good at them?

Remember when they'd have a go at everything and weren't reduced to flipping condemned meat in a grotty burger van FOR THREE YEARS?!

Remember when those in charge didn't despise them, when they got happy endings?

Remember split screens? And face faults? And background tones? And purple streaks down your cheeks?

Remember big, bright open eyes, not shrunken, sagging and empty holes afflicted by glaucoma?

Remember when Jessie had eyelashes?

Remember when Pokémon was an anime?

And when James had a fringe, not a bent swelling like a balloon animal?

And when the artist could be arsed to draw Meowth's Charm properly?

Remember when the voices weren't nails down a blackboard?

When Meowth didn't sound like a wedge of coal grinding beneath an oil-deprived door?

When Jessie's dulcet tones had a wider range that just screechy, and weren't reminiscent of a cacophonous banshee clawing her way from a bog, using her own mug as a shovel?

When James speaking didn't suggest he was at best, suffering sinus difficulties, and at worst, constantly battling to swallow his own sick from looking at her?

Mind you, I'm grateful the 4Kids cast are no longer here. They deserve better, and their presence would only validate the crude bastardisations.

Every time the guttural howls reach my poor ears a chill runs through my system, and reminds me of The Pokémon Company sacking the real dub crew in preference for a job done on the cheap.

Remember speed lines? And Pokéball-throwing animation?

Remember a new motto performance in each installment, not the same stock footage reused again and again?

Remember when it rhymed?

It shows.

Remember remembering it?

Remember when Team Rocket would walk down the street in their uniforms and no one took a blind bit of notice despite the organisation operating there?

And they didn't fanny about in one scabby polyester costume every minute they were travelling, even when NO ONE KNOWS WHO THEY ARE?

Since Unova, whilst confronting Ash and this era's soon-to-be-forgotten companions, you get this exchange:

Moron-Of-The-Week: "Who are Team Rocket?"

Ash: "They're bad guys who steal other people's Pokémon."

EVERY SINGLE BLOODY TIME!!!

WORD-FOR-WORD IDENTICAL!!!

The writers have such deep appreciation for their work they're sending in cut-and-paste scripts.

Remember blasting off when something blew up, not an explosion from nowhere, or giving it the slip with a jet pack, or abduction by a Care Bear?

Remember when the eyebrows matched the hair?

Remember when he wore it long?

Remember blue shock? And sweat drop? And hammerspace? And comedy violence?

Remember her jagged hairline? And it being RED!!!

Remember proper highlights to it, rather than the odd white lump now and again, as if sweating like a pig, or their heads are infested with giant space ticks?

Remember when they were in all the episodes? And were main characters? And on the introduction sequence?

Remember when Jessie and James used to hug? And hold hands?

And bicker as only a couple can, but you knew they'd never cope alone?

Remember when they'd fly into each other's arms under the flimsiest pretext?

Remember when they meant more to one another than just being a pair of unconnected and disembodied wraiths coincidentally walking down the same road?

And they had more than civil interactions?

Remember when she loved him as much as he loved her?

And no one else could ever take his place?

And canon wasn't infected with the ruinous depiction of her as a hard, heartless bitch barely tolerating him until someone 'better' came along, at which point she'd fuck off without a backwards glance?

'Better', as in a scabby, satchel-mouthed, gormless cretin, just to add surly insult to merciless injury.

Never has such a life-long and hardcore defender of the faith flipped into an ardent Rumishipper as I did after that episode, once I'd swept up the fragments of my soul.

Remember when they were sympathetic?

Remember when they showed human warmth?

Remember when they cared about each other?

Remember when they weren't just a jangling, distorted mess of half-recollected traits?

Remember when they weren't really evil?

Remember Rocketshipping? That was a thing once, believe it or not.

Remember when they had a conscience?

Remember when actually wicked characters turned up, and Team Rocket ALWAYS sided with Ash, rather than the nauseating spectacle of suddenly being best buds with the Boss?

Remember when they had contact with the Twerps?

Remember when Team Rocket and the Twerps loved each other in secret and would endanger themselves to save their 'enemies'?

Everything that was once good and winning about them was sucked out, degree by degree, to leave the corpse, hollow and dead, strung up on wires as a grim marionette.

I'm sure most who see this will vehemently disagree, that I'm completely wrong, that THEY like them.

Yes, you like this three, but you don't like Team Rocket. This is not them. You have yours, and I have mine, but let's not pretend they are the same.

Why, if there is no difference, would I be so hostile, when they meant so much too me?

Did you ever wonder where the original fans went, why they all departed en masse? It's not because they 'moved on' or 'matured'.

They didn't leave Pokémon. Pokémon left them.

As the makers rely so heavily on repetition (sorry, nostalgia) they arrogantly expect us to still be here, having blithely welcomed our memories minced and our canon ripped up or ripped off, apparently.

We're intended to put up with watching them lay waste to ťhe series's body, clinging on for when a rotting bone is pulled up now and again and waved at us, before they chuck it aside to continue the dismemberment.

It's been eaten from the inside out, explaining the facial collapse. Behold the beauty on show:

You see what I mean, don't you?

Don't you? No, because otherwise you'd say the same.

How anyone feels able to describe three deformed freaks as 'hot' or 'cute' I will never comprehend.

The uniform collar protrudes like a solid pipe, emphasising the pencil necks.

It gives the impression of wrinkled, leathery tortoises peering out of their shells to secure a tasty lettuce treat.

Is that pretty? No.

Is it so surprising I don't care for my favourites to resemble melted waxwork skeletons of their own dæmonic counterparts?

S&M is a most fitting name, for this is torture.

In the film Death Becomes Her, Meryl Streep and Goldie Hawn vie for the attention of Bruce Willis, both taking a serum giving everlasting youth and slimness.

The catch is it confers immortality, but not invulnerability, so when pushed down the stairs Meryl survives but is dead, her neck broken, thus she's zipped up in the morgue fridge.

When Goldie is shot with a canon she too rises, internal organs blown out.

The rest of the adventure involves the pair losing the war against time, patching up and painting over peeling grey skin, holding onto loose limbs as their bodies fall apart.

This obviously is the case here. The trio lapped the potion up at the close of Sinnoh, experienced a fatal accident and are now steadily crumbling to mush before us.

According to grave-diggers the head always goes first, so there you are then.

I have a suspicion that Giovanni lured all three to his crypt, experimenting on them to engineer his ultimate super soldier, which explains their flat, plastic appearance. Those since Unova began are the cyborgs, the real ones locked in his cellar.

You may notice I have about the lowest opinion possible of the current writing team, as they deserve.

Why should I have any respect for vindictive halfwits like this, who hate Team Rocket so much they're going out of their way to distort and uglify them, expressing the resentment in celluloid?

Jessie, James and Meowth lost their only defender in Takeshi Shudo. From that point they descended from loveable, hapless tragic figures to self-parodies (Hoenn) whiney, irritating divs dumping one another at every interval (Sinnoh), robotic, amoral scum (Unova and Kalos) and now physically repulsive minor additions (Alola and Galar). Is that trajectory all accidental?

It not that it's a new 'style' (for want of a better word), as were that the case, this hideousness would apply to the entire cast, but it's only done to Team Rocket. How could that be unless motivated by malice?

Given the sub thesps are obliged to prostrate themselves in the dust, begging fans to make their appreciation known, it smacks of desperation.

They wouldn't need to ask that were the trio treated as an integral component. They must sense the objections and are thus drumming up support to avoid the dole queue.

Are those in charge so resentful of their presence it manifests in mutilating them, keen to do anything that may alienate the fanbase, so at the first sign of a dip in popularity they can leap upon it as the perfect excuse to write Team Rocket out?

Why be surprised? These are imbeciles who reject their own canon at the close of every generation, so why care about someone else's?

If people have to harangue the writers with grovelling praise of their retcons, rehashes and all-round twatting about, butter 'em up sufficiently, with the implied threat of deserting the franchise should Team Rocket be ejected, taking their purses too, all so the smug, avaricious berks deign to put the trio in the next generation, that proves they don't want them, so how can what they write for their characters be objectively of any worth?

Team Rocket would've departed by now, were there not a palpable worry their absence might ring the death knell of the whole thing, turning off the financial tap, which is what matters.

Therefore they are retained, grudgingly, and only so long as the clamour continues at its current decibel level. If that drops it's over, and don't expect a romantic resolution. Why should pleasing you be a concern when you're to leave with them?

Ask yourself: how much of your devotion is based on what they are right now, and how much is from who they used to be?

How long can they live off past glories?

The offences done in Unova and Kalos were bad enough, but remarkably Game Freak found further depths to plumb, therefore it can only get worse.

I have of course retained the loveliest for last:

Be still, my beating heart.

No, really, be still. Stop infact.

Planet of the Apes.

#Team Rocket #Jessie #James #Meowth #Alola #GIFS

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seasonofthegeek · 5 years

Text

One Jump Ahead: Kiss

In this AU, Ladybug has been the hero of Paris for over a decade. She had a Chat Noir but lost him in the final battle against Le Paon Royale years ago and has worked alone ever since. With the loss of her closest friend and partner, she’s been more closed off and reserved, declining interviews and leaving scenes as soon as the police have things under control. However, a new threat has arrived on the scene and she will need help from an unlikely source if she has any hope in saving the world.

There will be character spoilers from the Season 3 episode “Timetagger” in this story.

Written for @ladrienjune

Day 1:

“You’re drooling, dude.” Nino held out a napkin with a teasing grin.

Adrien snatched it from him and wiped at his mouth primly. “I won’t apologize for that; she’s amazing.” He looked back out the window of the sandwich shop they were eating in to see Ladybug help a young mother and child out of a car. The driver had lost control and the hero was able to create a net with her yoyo string to stop it before an accident could occur.

“She really is,” Alya sighed dreamily and sucked up more soda through her straw. “I wish she’d give me an interview.” They watched the net disappear with a neat flick of Ladybug’s wrist and then she was swinging away.

“And just like that, she’s gone again.” Nino sat back in his chair. “Do you guys ever wonder who she really is?”

“All the time. I think she’s around our age. We could’ve gone to school with her.”

“Well, since it was just me and a tutor until I got to university, I don’t think I could’ve.” Adrien pushed his food basket away and looked out the window again. “I wonder if I’ve passed her on the street though. Maybe we’ve even spoken.”

“Maybe she’s already in love with you and just doesn’t know.” Nino pulled Adrien’s leftovers in front of him and picked up a chip. “Maybe she’s your destiny and one day she’s going to save your life and then immediately lay true love’s kiss on you.”

“I know you’re making fun of me but I don’t even care. I hope it’s true.”

“And that’s why I adore you, dude.”

_____________________________

Ladybug was tired and it wasn’t the kind of tired that a good night’s sleep could fix. She was weary all the way down to her bones and she didn’t think she had much fight left in her. Everyday was so hard. She was tired of being alone but terrified of getting close to anyone again. It wasn’t worth someone’s life just so she could have a friend. Not again.

The week had been filled with odd accidents all over the city. Drivers claiming their cars went out of control, electrical fields going in and out, the weather severely changing from one hour to the next. She knew something was coming and most likely it was big, but she couldn’t seem to rally the right amount of apprehension.

Maybe her time was going to be up soon and though logically she knew it wasn’t a great though, she was almost welcoming it.

_____________________________

Adrien stood frozen in the quaking crowd filling the plaza. Ladybug’s broken body was being covered by a sheet but the news was already out. The hero of Paris had finally been taken down and the newest villain’s monologue before she disappeared in a show of smoke had been bone-chilling.

No one seemed to know what to do. Adrien certainly didn’t. There were muffled cries and hoarse whispers. It was one of the hottest months of the year but he wasn’t sure if he would ever feel warm again. He hugged himself and felt the tears leaking down his face.

She was gone.

She’d been there for so long and now...

A pale hand slipped from under the sheet as Ladybug’s body was moved onto a stretcher. Adrien felt his heart seize up. Whoever was under that sheet now wasn’t Ladybug anymore and he wondered if the world would ever know everything that nameless woman had done for it.

“You, come with me.” A hand closed around his wrist and Adrien spun around in surprise, trying to pull away.

He blinked at the woman dressed in a white and blue bunny outfit. “I...”

“We don’t have time,” she groaned, yanking his wrist and turning to cut a swath through the crowd.

Adrien looked back to see his spot in the crowd already being filled in. There were too many people in the way to see what was left of Ladybug now. That was his last glance. He dug his heels in and halted their progress. “Let go of me! Who the hell are you?” He wiped angrily at the remaining tears on his face and glared at the woman.

Her brow raised beneath her mask and she seemed to be trying to fight a smile. “Good. So you do have some fire in you. I gotta admit, I’ve been watching you for days now and I was thinking I’d been sent after the wrong guy.”

“Who are you?” he ground out. There were too many emotions fighting for dominance and he needed to regain control. He took in a deep breath and then squared the ridiculously dressed woman up with an expectant look.

“You can call me Bunnix.” She bared a fierce grin. “Now, are you ready to come with me or what?”

“What are you talking about? Come with you where?” He looked around and realized the crowd was beginning to disperse but no one seemed to be paying them any attention which was absurd. “How do I know you aren’t one of the new villain’s henchmen or something? I could call out right now and have you arrested.”

“You’re the only one that can see me, dum-dum. Cloaking agent.” She tapped her temple. “And I’m one of the good guys.”

“Sure.”

Her expression grew serious. “Look, I’ve been sent back to this moment to grab you so you can prevent this from happening. Are you in or what?”

His head ached. This person was obviously a lunatic and he needed to get away. Even though he had never personally interacted with Ladybug, he felt like a part of him died along with her and he needed some time and space to sift through that feeling. They had no connection; he shouldn’t feel like his soul had been ripped out of his body, shredded to pieces, and stuffed back in.

Bunnix studied him. “You could save her,” she said softly.

Adrien’s head shot up and he stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

She brandished a white umbrella and pointed it back at the alley mouth they stood in. A brilliant streak of white light shot out of it and formed a glowing portal. “Time travel,” she shrugged. “I take you back and you keep this from happening.”

He stepped back, shaking his head. “This is...this is nuts. You’re crazy.”

“Look, man, you’ve seen what she’s up against. You could change it for her. Today doesn’t have to be the end of Ladybug.”

He glanced back at the pack of police still surrounding the area where she’d fallen. “But she’s...”

“Dead, yeah. But that’s the now. We’re going back to the then.”

He shook his head and took another step back. “I don’t understand.”

Bunnix inhaled deeply and nodded. “Yeah, I know. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense but let me just ask you one thing. If you had the ability to go back an entire year to make sure this doesn’t happen, to make sure she doesn’t end up dead on the pavement over there, would you?”

“Of course,” he whispered.

She grinned. “That’s all I needed to know.” And then she was grabbing his wrist again and pulling him towards the portal.

#ladrienjune #miraculous ladybug #temporary character death #time travel

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onwardintolight · 4 years

Link

Han x Leia, ESB, Trip to Bespin, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff

Summary: ESB from Leia's POV. A journey from despair to hope, a blossoming, an opening to vulnerability and love.

Warnings: Deals with some heavy themes, incl. working through trauma, depression, self-harm, attempted sexual assault. Each chapter will be individually warned.

Note: I’m currently in the process of reposting the first nine chapters here in full, since when I first wrote this fic, I only shared links to the chapters on AO3 and FFN. I will try to post at least weekly. In the meantime, if you’d prefer to binge-read it, the entire fic is posted in full on AO3 and FFN.

Part: Masterlist | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | Epilogue

~~~

Warnings for Chapter 24: Brief reference to the torture and attempted sexual assault that occurred in Chapter 19

Author’s note from 1/2020: An important disclaimer: As I wrote this fic, I strove to make it canon-compliant—at least compliant with the canon that existed at the time. Now that I'm posting this, however, a few things have changed; notably, we've seen the release of the first issue of the new line of Star Wars comics set after ESB. While I haven't had a chance to read it yet, I'm pretty sure it diverges from what I've written in my final two chapters, and I have no desire to change any of what I've written to fit it. I know most of you don't even care about canon—this IS fanfiction after all—but I just wanted to give you and all future readers a heads up anyway!

One last thing: Several of you have asked me if I'm planning on writing a Leia-focused fic like this one about ROTJ. First of all, I'm super flattered that you'd like more! Tbh though I don't really see myself writing it as another big multichapter; however, I would really like to do a few shorter fics about it. So keep an eye out for those! That being said, things can always change. If I discover that there's an arc I really want to tell through the whole story, I may find myself in over my head again ;)

~~~

The Kaliida Nebula was about six hours away, not counting the brief stops they’d have to make every few hours to switch hyperlanes. Lando had once again joined Chewbacca at the Falcon’s helm; they had both insisted in no uncertain terms that Luke and Leia get some rest, promising they’d comm if they needed anything. She was tired enough not to argue.

Immediately after the jump to hyperspace, Luke had sat frozen, staring out the viewport into the whirling star tunnels. He’d glanced at her when she offered him a hand, looking for all the universe as if she were his only tether away from the maw. Silently, he’d let her help him back to the crew quarters, and once more she shakily attached the fluids line and pulled a blanket over him.

He was gazing up at her again, now, eyes wide and hollow. “Leia,” he whispered.

Tenderly, she brushed the hair from his forehead and reached down to clasp his remaining hand, squeezing it. She perched on the edge of his bunk. “I’m here,” she said softly. “You’re safe now.” Slowly, his eyelids began to flutter, and he drifted off into a fitful sleep.

She sat there for a long time, weariness bleeding into her bones, listening as his breathing grew deeper. Finally, when she was fairly certain her movement would not wake him, she slipped her hand carefully out of his, turned out the light, and walked over to her bunk, curling up on top of it without bothering to remove the blanket.

The pillow smelled like Han.

She thought of him laying there next to her, his fingers tangled in her hair. She thought of the hungry kisses she had never wanted to end. She thought of easy laughter and healing tears, of potent words and new openings.

She thought of the bed on Cloud City, and how they’d never have the chance now to find out if she’d regret it. She thought of his rending screams, of coils and needles and agonizing pain. Of Captain Orffa’s leers, her ripped shirt, his broken neck as he lay on the other side of the room. Of Vader’s hated mask, cold and merciless. Of throbbing rage. Of helpless grief.

Of finally saying “I love you.” Of the one she loved, turned to stone and torn away.

All the emotions she’d been trying to hold at bay rushed in. Her defenses crumpled, and the first tears came in like a flood, violent and inevitable. Burying her face in the pillow to muffle the sound, she wept, her body shaking with sobs. She wept until every breath came as a gasp; until she could no longer imagine what it was to not be weeping. She wept for Han, and for Alderaan, and for every loss in between. For a galaxy full of loss, cracked all the way through with the cruelty of it.

Long after her tears ran dry, she lay there, face still buried in the pillow—Han’s pillow—breathing in the scent of him. She wasn’t ready to let him go.

She wouldn’t let him go.

She would find him, somehow.

Slowly, exhaustion crept up on her, disarming her resistance just as her tears had done earlier. She gave into it with a mild sense of relief, letting her eyes close.

I don’t regret it, she thought as she began to drift off. Sleepy astonishment at the realization gave way to the certainty that she had always known this, somehow, despite her fears. I don’t regret loving him. Not one bit. As much as this hurt—and oh, how it hurt—she would gladly love him and lose him again.

Then sleep took her, carrying her far away into blessed nothingness.

~~~

She was woken up what felt like minutes later by the chime of her comm.

Lando’s voice was on the other end. “We’ve stopped at Terminus,” he said. “We need you up here to watch for Imperials while we search the ship for homing beacons. We’ve got her pretty well hidden behind a moon, but it’s a race against time until they find us.”

Trying to keep any bitterness out of her voice, she gave her consent and stumbled groggily toward the cockpit. Lando gave her a look when she arrived—she must have looked like hell, with red-rimmed eyes and smeared makeup—but to his credit he didn’t say anything, only giving her a nod on the way out. Chewie was already gone. She moved to sit in the co-pilot’s seat, but changed her mind halfway there, instead opting for the captain’s. Curling her legs beneath her, she leaned back into it, smelling its faded leather and a hint of old cologne. She scanned the starfield carefully, glancing at the sensor displays afterward for any signs she might have missed. There was nothing; only stars. On the other side of the moon, she knew, the sky would be filled with ships of all kinds. Terminus was a busy world; she hoped that, as such, it would distract the Empire long enough that they wouldn’t find the Falcon.

She shifted in her seat, anxious. Finding the homing beacon would likely take Chewie and Lando awhile—they had to suit up to examine the hull, after all—but she wished they would hurry and be done with it. Normally, this would have been made a much easier exercise by simply scanning the hull via the ship’s sensors, but the Empire had certainly disabled that function. Or rather, they probably just hadn’t bothered to fix it—it was, after all, one of the sensor systems that had been damaged during their escape from Hoth.

The minutes ticked by. Fifteen minutes passed, then half an hour. A light freighter moved into view. She stiffened, then relaxed again as it jumped to hyperspace moments later.

Forty-five minutes. Her eyelids drooped; she pinched her arm to stay awake.

Finally, she heard the door open behind her, and Chewie came in with a roar. «We found it,» he said. He was triumphant, but his voice was laced with sorrow. She knew enough of him now to hear it. She caught his gaze, and he sat down next to her. For a minute, they looked out on the emptiness together. «You should go back to bed, Little Princess,» he finally said, his voice gentle.

“You sure you don’t need sleep?” she whispered.

«I will,» he said, «but I have strength left to spare, and I was not hurt as badly as you. Go sleep.» She nodded and got up just as Lando came through the door. She didn’t look at him as they exchanged places. Hazily, she walked back to the crew quarters, fell in her bunk, and was once more lost in unconsciousness.

~~~

Leia’s eyes flickered open. How long had her comm been beeping? Yawning, she sat up, flipping on the light over her bunk, and froze as all the memories of the previous day flooded back in. The deep ache in her chest nearly knocked her over, and she fought off the urge to lay back down and forget everything again.

Luke. She had to make sure he was okay. She glanced over towards the other side of the room; there he lay, as still as a stone. Alarmed, she leapt out of bed and lurched over to check on him. His chest rose and fell, and she sighed in relief. He was in a deep sleep. That was good.

Feeling her heartbeat calm again, she sat back down on her bunk and answered her comlink. “Yes?” she croaked, her voice hoarse.

“Just wanted to let you know we’ve arrived at the Kaliida Nebula,” said Lando. “Whenever you’re able, I’ll let you take over and see if you can reach that contact of yours. Could use a little shut-eye myself.”

“Of course,” she said curtly. “I’ll be right there.”

When she arrived, Chewie was once again nowhere in sight. She felt a pang in her chest, thinking of his grief. At least, she thought, he was getting some sleep, too.

Lando nodded awkwardly to her as they switched places again and left without a word. For a minute, she stared at the glowing pink clouds outside the viewport. She knew he’d be just a comm away, but still, she was nervous. The nebula could be perilous. From time to time, it was home to migrating neebray mantas, which could do some serious damage to ships. Moreover, if the Empire had somehow found out about this checkpoint—

She felt her throat constricting and her heart pounding, and she stopped the thought short. Yes, the Empire had caught up with them a few too many times recently—she had good reason to be fearful of that. But she should be wary, not paranoid. This was the best chance they had to make contact with the Alliance. Straightening, she set a Rebel-coded message to broadcast at intervals to the surrounding parts of the nebula, then she took the Falcon on a leisurely tour through the cloud tunnels.

An hour later, she had a reply. It was also in Alliance code, and it gave her coordinates to meet nearby. She tensed. The Empire could have cracked that code since she was gone, they could have found out about this location, they could have—

She forced herself to breathe slowly. “Chewie,” she said into the comlink, “I’m making contact. I may need backup if it’s not who I think it is.”

The Wookiee yawned, but he didn’t hesitate. «I’m coming,» he said.

Soon both he and Lando joined her again in the cockpit. She felt bad that they’d only had an hour of sleep, but she supposed there was nothing to be done.

Well, mostly bad. She didn’t feel all that bad about Lando. As far as she was concerned, he could suffer. He sat behind her, keeping watch as she and Chewie maneuvered the ship to the meeting point.

Finally, the clouds in front of them parted, revealing an X-wing.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me!” the pilot whooped upon seeing their ship. “I was starting to think I’d never see that hunk of junk again! Is the princess there?”

Leia breathed a sigh of relief. “Hi, Wedge,” she said, transmitting the codes to confirm it was her.

“Good to hear your voice, Princess,” he said. “High command’s been going out of their minds. They figured if you survived, you’d make your way here. Lucky you found me now; they were beginning to think it was a lost cause. We probably wouldn’t have been patrolling out here much longer.”

“Thanks for waiting,” she said.

“Where’s ol’ Han?”

All the words seemed to dry up in her mouth, and she sat silent for a moment. “He’s gone,” she said finally, her voice quiet. Chewie let out a mournful wail.

She heard Wedge exhale. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice full of genuine grief. “Sending you the jump coordinates now.”

Within a few minutes, they’d left the bright clouds of the Kaliida Nebula behind and were headed home. It wasn’t truly home, of course—Home was Alderaan, and that was gone forever. These days, though, the Alliance had become the only home she could claim to have. But whatever familiarity it offered, it would be empty without Han.

“Hey,” Lando said from behind her, startling her. She didn’t turn around. “Chewie ’n I have been talking and…” he faltered for a moment, then he went on. “…We’re gonna find Han and bring him back. We’ll leave for Tatooine as soon as we can get fueled and ready.”

She leaned back in her seat. “You got a plan?”

Chewie responded. «We have some ideas, yes, but we wanted to talk with you and Luke and hear yours, too.»

Leia nodded slowly. “We’ll discuss it when we get there, after the briefings. I don’t want to put too much strain on Luke before then. He doesn’t even know what happened yet.”

“Sure thing,” said Lando.

She clenched her teeth to avoid telling him to shut up. Instead, she shifted her focus outside, watching the whirlwind starlight.

Somewhere out there, Han was trapped, but alive. And somehow, they would find him and bring him home.

A warmth grew inside her chest; the fire of hope.

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thirsttrapholland · 5 years

Text

What Happens in the On-Call Room

Requested? Yes

By: anonymous

Pairing: Doctor!Tom x Doctor!Reader

Anonymous said to thirsttrapholland:

hello love! wondering if doc!tom interested you, like idk he fucks her in the toilet or smthn and he gets paged for surgery idk

Warning(s): Smut, adult language, Dr. Holland making you swoon, I think that’s about it.

Word Count: 2050

A/N: Alright y’all, I don’t know jack about doctors or the inner workings of hospitals except for what I learned from Grey’s, Scrubs and the occasional episodes of General Hospital I used to watch with my grandma after school,lol. So, if I got any details or lingo wrong, please forgive me.

Changed it up just a little bit anon. I hope you like it. Feedback is always appreciated.

You had promised yourself that you would never fulfill the cliché of overworked, stressed out and sleep deprived doctors that had neither the time nor energy to maintain real relationships and instead took sexual solace in a colleague they might not even like or barely knew just to stave off boredom, loneliness and to feel something at least akin to a real human connection.

And yet, just like something out of a particularly shitty and depraved episode of Grey’s Anatomy, there you were on the lumpy sofa in the on-call room being fucked senseless by Dr. Thomas Holland.

You had been stretched out on the sofa trying to recall from the abnormal psych class you’d taken as an undergrad, just how many hours a person could go without sleep before they started to hallucinate.

You were over halfway through your second 12-hour shift of the week and despite how bone tired and weary you were, sleep seemed to be eluding you. You had just started to drift off for the first time in you couldn’t remember how long, when the door to the on-call room banged open and you heard someone walk in. You opened your eyes to find the infamous Tom Holland standing over you.

Dr. Holland was known all around the hospital for three things.

Number one, was his impeccable bedside manner. He really had a way with people. He was both incredibly charming and had a soothing presence. He possessed an innate ability to calm even the most terrified patient or family member. He never talked down to his patients but explained exactly what would take place during their surgeries in a way that they could understand and patiently answered all their questions. Most of the hospital staff was convinced that most of his patients were at least half in love with him by the time they were released.

Secondly, he was the youngest and most arrogant cardiothoracic surgeon on the staff and that was really saying something. Most surgeons were at least a little bit arrogant by nature; it was hard not to be when you were responsible for people’s lives. Probably a little hard not to develop an outsize ego when you literally held other people’s hearts in your hands on a regular basis.

Even you yourself weren’t immune to having your head up your own ass on occasion; so, the fact that his cockiness stood out in a building full of doctors really kind of said it all. He was very good at what he did and wasn’t about to let anybody forget it.

And finally, it wasn’t just patients who were taken in by his charming bedside manner. If all the talk around the halls was to be believed, Tom had a cut a swath through the hospital, counting nurses, fellow doctors and maybe even an administrator or two among his conquests. He never really dated anybody; it was more just random hook ups.

Of course, hospitals were worse than the average high school cafeteria when it came to being a breeding ground for rumors, so who even knew how much of the gossip was true. Dr. Holland had been the attending on a couple of your intakes and there had been a few moments that if you squinted hard enough, he might have been flirting with you but for the most part he was always professional.

Which is not to say that you were immune to his charms; not at all. Tom was handsome and that was just a fact. Big brown eyes, thick wavy dark brown hair, killer cheekbones, a ridiculous jawline and the kind of smile that could literally light up a room. The kind of soft, gentle voice that could probably talk you into damn near anything if he wanted to. So, if people really were queuing up to be next in line, you got it.

In fact, if you were being honest with yourself, you knew that if he ever made a move on you or if an opportunity presented itself, there was a very high chance that you would say yes. You just weren’t going to go out of your way to be the latest notch on his bedpost.

You gave up on the notion of getting any sleep as you swung your feet off the sofa to make room for Tom to sit down. “What are you doing here?” His casual street attire, a plain black t-shirt and a pair of faded jeans, was a tip off that he was no longer on the clock. “Didn’t your shift end a couple of hours ago?”

“It did but the patient I operated on earlier should be coming around sometime soon and I promised her I’d be here when she woke up.”

As many physical assets as Dr. Holland had, you thought that perhaps the most attractive thing about him was just how much he genuinely cared about his patients.

It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence to pass by a patient’s room and see Tom sitting on the edge of their bed, regaling them with some ridiculous story, sneaking them an extra pudding cup from the cafeteria or simply just holding a hand.

You could tell from the dark circles under his eyes just how tired he was. He should have been at home in his own bed, but he’d promised a patient that he would be here, so here he was.

“You look dead on your feet. It’s really nice of you to wait for your patient to wake up.”

“Well, I promised.” His face lit up with a wicked grin. “Besides, I’ve got the next two days off.”

“Oh screw you, Holland.” Time off was a rare and precious commodity and your next day off seemed a lifetime away. You couldn’t even pretend not to be jealous.

Tom let out a chuckle as he flopped down next to you on the sofa. “Sorry if I woke you up.”

“Don’t worry about it. The chances of me actually falling asleep were fairly slim anyway.” You leaned your head against the back of the sofa. “I’m just gonna rest my eyes for a few minutes though.”

“You don’t mind if I sit here with you, do you?” Tom asked.

“Of course not.” You stifled a yawn with your hand as your eyes once again slid shut.

You awoke with a start. You were slightly disoriented as your brain made the transition from sleeping to being fully conscious. Your surroundings suddenly came into focus and you remembered that you were in the on-call room.

What you were having more trouble comprehending was why there was an arm around your shoulders and whose warm solid chest your head was resting against. You slowly sat up and looked up into the face of the person you’d been using as a pillow.

Tom grinned down at you. “You’re awake.”

“I don’t even remember falling asleep.”

“You were out like a light about two seconds after you claimed you were just ‘resting your eyes’. Next thing I knew your head had lolled over onto my shoulder.

“This is so embarrassing.” Of all the people to fall asleep and probably drool on. “Why didn’t you move me?”

Tom reached out and stroked a stray strand of hair off your forehead. “I didn’t mind.” It was such a simple gesture but it stirred something inside of you that you couldn’t explain.

You could blame sleep deprivation. You could blame the fact that you hadn’t even been on a decent date, let alone had sex in far longer than you wanted to think about. You could even blame the fact that you kind of, lowkey had a crush on him.

Whatever the reason, a switch had been flipped in your brain and suddenly, having Dr. Thomas Holland on top of you, inside of you seemed like the best idea in the world. The lusty gaze in his dark eyes let you know that he had reached a similar conclusion.

Tom tore off his own t-shirt before making quick work of your clothes, as he pulled off your underwear and scrub bottoms and tossed them onto the floor. He fished a condom out of his pocket and handed it to you before hurriedly shoving his jeans and boxer briefs down to his knees.

You licked your hand and pumped his cock a few times with your spit slicked palm before tearing the condom wrapper open with your teeth and rolling it smoothly down over his hardness.

Tom peppered kisses down your neck and across your exposed collarbones as he settled his slender hips between your open thighs and teased your clit with his cock; tapping against the swollen nub and making you squirm beneath him. You gasped and dug your short blunt fingernails into the firm flesh of his lightly freckled shoulders as he finally slid inside your already slick walls. He slowly pulled halfway out before thrusting back in and bottoming out.

You pulled his bottom lip between your teeth before sucking his tongue into your mouth, the two of you exchanging wet sloppy kisses as you tangled your fingers in his soft hair and pulled; the way he moaned against your lips let you know how much he liked it.

You wrapped your legs around his waist; your ankles crossed behind his back, locking him in place as he moved deep inside you.

Tom buried his forehead against the crook of your neck as he took one of your hands in his and held it above your head; your fingers intertwined with his.

You could feel him twitching inside of you and knew he was close. You brought your free hand down between the two of you and started to rub your clit. Tom’s strokes came harder and faster until all the tension that had been building in your body exploded; the fluttering and clenching of your wet inner walls spurring him right behind you into his own release.

The spasms in your body had barely subsided when you were brought out of your post coital bliss by the hospital’s blaring PA system.

“Dr. Holland, please report to 445-C. Dr. Holland, you’re needed in 445-C.”

The loud announcement was like a splash of cold water to the face, bringing you back to your senses as your stomach dropped with the realization of what you had just done.

You’d just had sex with a colleague that in all honesty, you barely even knew.

You’d just had sex with a colleague that you barely even knew while you were at work and on duty.

You’d just had sex with a colleague that you barely even knew, while you were at work and on duty in a room with an unlocked door that anyone could have walked into at any time.

One quick glance at Tom’s face let you know that he was coming to the same realization. He stood up and dropped the cum filled condom into the trash can before he hastily pulled up his boxers and jeans. “That should be my patient, I need to go.” He grabbed your scrubs and underwear off the floor and handed them to you.

Overcome with a sudden wave of modesty, you waited until he turned his back to put his shirt back on before you shimmied into your underwear. You couldn’t help it as you thought to yourself, ‘Is that it? Wham, bam and not even a thank you, ma��am?’

You were just about to step into your scrub bottoms when Tom turned back to you. “What time are you off?”

You regarded him with a slightly suspicious expression on your face before answering. “Two a.m. Why?”

“I was just wondering if you might like to grab a cup of coffee with me.” When you didn’t answer right away, Tom raked his hand through his hair and shook his head. “Okay, that was really stupid. Last thing you probably want at two o’clock in the morning is a cup of coffee.”

You had never known Dr. Tom Holland to be anything less than confident so to see him like this, nervously asking you out for a cup of coffee, it was kind of endearing.

“Yes.”

He looked up, a grin growing across his face. “Yes?”

“Yes, I’d love to get a cup of coffee with you.”

“Okay then. Meet you back here in a few hours?”

“Sure, it’s a date.” You instantly regretted the words as soon as they were out of your mouth. You didn’t want him to think you were trying to make this more than what it was. You were wishing you could take the words back into your mouth when Tom flashed his beautiful smile at you.

“Yeah. It’s a date.”

#tom holland #tom holland smut #tom holland x reader #doctor au #doc!tom #fic request #anon fic request #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland imagine

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fatbitchwrites-archived · 5 years

Text

okay so i’m doing my senior thesis on game of thrones, sansa stark, and how tumblr users talk about her so i’ve been DEEP in the anti/sansa/stark tag and i have some things to fucking say

also, i don’t know or care about any leaks, this is mainly a response to the absolute fuckery in the tags right now. let’s fucking go, shall we

first of all, blaming her for things she did as a child is fucking stupid. yes, arya didn’t do these things. yes, dany didn’t do these things. they were different people. sansa and arya are different; that doesn’t make one bad and one good. this entire show is about moral ambiguity; neither one of them are perfect. she was a bratty kid who did what she thought she was supposed to do. “what she was supposed to do” saved her own ass over and over again. if you blame ned stark’s death on her instead of joffery, littlefinger, or cersei, you are out of your goddamn mind

second of all, she has the right to be pissed at jon. they won winterfell back - the battle wouldn't have been won without her and that’s just the fuckin tea. her entire arch for the past few seasons is about getting her home back, getting her autonomy back. she told him that dany would make him bend the knee and take the home that she just got back. he gave winterfell to a foreign queen. i personally think that she has more claim to the north than he does, but the north claimed him as king and like it or fucking not - she backed him. people said she was the one who was supposed to rule and she said that jon was their king and they should respect that.

also, i’m going to lose my fucking mind if someone says shit about her “undermining” anyone. despite the fact that many of her “teachers” were shitty, she does know what the fuck she’s doing. she knew that going south was a mistake, she knew that the food would become a problem if their armies suddenly doubled without anyone telling her, she knew that resting was in the best interest of fucking everyone. she’s a smart bitch, that’s just the tea on that. as the lady of winterfell and one of the two leaders responsible for getting winterfell back, she has every right in the world to share her opinion on it’s upkeep and independence.

just bc she doesn’t agree with everything jon does doesn’t mean she is undermining him. just bc she doesn’t agree with dany doesn’t mean she is undermining her. sansa is advocating for the

third of all, her being weary of dany is absolutely 100% justified. i’m not going to discuss ships bc this is not what this is fucking about. this one is going to be a while, so settle the fuck in.

sansa is traumatized - by cersei, joffery, littlefinger, lysa, ramsay. the fact that she doesn’t trust someone calling themselves queen - esp without living or understanding the culture and history of the country she is going to rule. dany clearly doesn’t know jackshit about some of the houses she’s trying to bend to her will or understand their fear of her house in general.

not to mention, another smarty pants on the show said something like - anyone who feels the need to call themselves queen/king clearly isn’t one so fucking take that as you will bois

also, jumping back to the first episode of this season with the whole “whatever they want” bullshit; dany straight up admitted that the dragons were a danger to the people of the north and her own armies. she showed everyone that the dragons and dany are unpredictable. that was a fucking power move by dany and it backfired.

not to mention, dany has consistently threatened sansa over and over again throughout this season. sansa has every fucking right to be pissed about that. she didn’t bow to dany, the north didn’t bow to dany - having a targaryen come in and threaten her in the home that she has been fighting to get back since SEASON FUCKING ONE is more than enough reason for her to get fucking pissed. so yeah, sansa has reason to not like dany. the whole idea that her dislike of dany is not warranted is absolute fucking horseshit.

and dany didn’t save the north out of the decency of her heart, let’s get that fucking crystal clear. dany is an aspiring monarch who wants to rule over the seven kingdoms and she couldn’t have done that if the seven kingdoms’ people were all fucking dead. so sansa and the north aren’t “ungrateful” for dany. dany did what she did to preserve the country she hopes to rule over. she didn’t want to be the queen of the ashes or frost or bones or whatever the fuck. i’m not even saying that’s a bad thing - it makes total sense that she would want to do that but for the love of god, stop acting like she did this bc she’s such a good person. she did it for herself and for the kingdoms she wants to rule over. yeah, jon convinced her there was a threat and that’s why she felt the need to move forward but it was a self serving move. that’s fucking it.

to be fair to dany, jon also convinced cersei of the danger and she didn’t actually care bc she has always been fine being the queen of the ashes or frost or bones. so, yes, i will admit that dany did better than cersei did.

fourth, the little bird conversation pissed me the absolute fuck off. it’s lazy and problematic writing. there is a whole bunch of other people who discussed it more eloquently than i can atm so plz go read those.

fifth, as for the whole oathbreaker thing - get the fuck over yourself. brienne said it best - this isn’t about loyalty or oaths, it’s about survival. i understand this was in reference to the long night and the war aginst the NK but it still applies. all the signs are pointing to dany going full mad queen and sansa is going to do whatever it takes to ensure the survival of her people. and honestly, in my opinion, the benefits of this might vastly outweigh her telling tyrion. dany is going to burn hundreds of thousands of innocent people to get to cersei and if this is the start to her reign, what is end? sansa doing what she did could save so many innocent people.

also, when the fuck have y’all given half a fuck about the religious honor and shit of GoT?? like i’m sorry, you don’t get to worship arya for the whole god of death thing if you’re going to condemn sansa for not honoring the weirwood tree. fuck off with that absolute bullshit.

ALSO IF I SEE ONE MORE PERSON SAYING THAT SHE’S A SHAME TO THE STARK NAME OR A DISAPPOINTMENT TO NED STARK, I WILL LOSE MY FUCKING MIND. she is doing whatever the fuck she needs to do to protect her family. she has lost nearly everyone in her family and until theon told her otherwise, she thought she has actually lost everyone. now that she found it, she’s going to protect it. she is the reason jon even fought for winterfell and she is the reason they got it back. she is finally back in her home and with her family and you think she is going to risk that?? she is a fucking stark and you all can fuck off.

also, ned stark did everything he could to preserve his family, to keep them safe - and in the time and setting he was protecting them in, he lied to keep jon safe. in this context, keeping her family safe is vastly different than it was with ned. dany has shown on multiple occasions to want sansa out of the picture, who is going to be the future of house stark. if sansa is half as smart as anyone thinks she is, not to mention if she can read jon, she knows damn well that dany isn’t happy with jon having a stronger claim and can probably tell that she might do something to make sure he could never take the throne to begin with. letting someone else know - like tyrion or varys - means that there is some insurance policy on jon. dany can’t fucking off him or have him killed or some shit without cause now that other people know what’s going on.

about the future of house stark comment - bran, as the three eyed raven, cannot and does not want to rule winterfell; also, dany seemed pretty fucking pissed with bran bc he knew too much so.... also arya has shown no interest in ruling winterfell. jon, as it stands right now, doesn’t have the stark name. the actual name of house stark will fall to sansa.

sixth, “sansa is conspiring against dany so fuck her.” HA BITCH, what the fuck do you think dany is doing???? what the fuck do you think everyone in this goddamn garbage fire of a game is doing??? i personally don’t consider her pulling a varys and doing what she can to protect winterfell and her family (and the realm indirectly) is conspiring to do shit but we can fucking go this route if you want bois.

there is a theory that dany was planning on legitimizing jon as a stark, like she did to gendry, to get sansa out of the way as a political rival and i think that’s def true. whether or not that was her plan to begin with doesn’t matter; she sees sansa as a threat and we’ve seen the lengths she’s willing to go to if it means eliminating a threat. dany even said that she’s also clever and learning how to play the game of wits instead of just using force. that implies that she’s planning on doing more of that shit. she is absolutely conspiring; so is tyrion, and varys, and arya, and cersei, and jaime, and literally everyone. except maybe jon??? i personally think political!jon might be a thing but also the manbun boi has been proving to be just as pretty and dumb as we all knew he was going in.

seventh, “sansa admitted to wanting to be queen” yeah in season one, when she was starry eyed and a fucking child. but yeah, shit on her and not dany. it’s not like dany says “i’m the queen” every fucking five seconds. clearly, sansa is the real power hungry one for wanting to be the lady of winterfell and keeping her fucking family safe.

eighth, i wan to thank all of the antis in the tag bc you are absolutely proving my fucking hypothesis that most, if not all, of the hate centered around sansa is rooted in sexism and femmephobia. it’s been absolute hell dealing with all of your comments but i truly owe y’all for proving that to me

#ingrid speaks #got #sansa stark #long post

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