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grayson1996 · 3 years

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You Have to Let Me Go

https://archiveofourown.org/works/34210816

No. 1 All trussed up and still nowhere to go.

"You have to let go" | Barbed Wire |Bound

Unlike what most people assumed, the cave was not usually a quiet place.

How could it be, when each one of Bruce’s children would filter in and out throughout the day and night. To ask questions, to spar, to prepare for patrol. Each inhabitant of the manor came with their own soundtrack that when put together created a familiar and comforting symphony.

Damian was the sound of quiet purposeful footfalls, followed by the scurrying steps of a small animal trailing dutifully after him. He was small huffs of breath made out of annoyance or interest (or amusement if it was a good day). The metallic sound of a sword being drawn out of it’s sheath, followed by the dull thud of it striking one of the many wooden posts in the training area. When Damian first appeared at the Manor he had been like a ghost, gliding along and hiding in the corners of rooms and the sides of hallways. The League believed that their assassins should neither be seen nor heard. The sound was a relief to Bruce, an outward sign of his youngest growth.

Cassandra, like Damian, was taught to be silent. Deadly quiet. And to this day Bruce couldn’t hear her coming and was often spooked by her sudden appearance, much to her amusement. But she too had her own trills. The sound of the skin on her hands rubbing together as they signed to whoever was nearest to her. A breathy chuckle, usually in response to something done by Stephanie or Dick. The awful sound of knuckles cracking striking through the cave. Despite Alfred's reasoning that it would cause arthritis Cass wouldn’t stop and frankly Bruce thought the twitch that appeared above his surrogate Father’s eyes when it happened was hilarious.

Tim was the slurping of coffee, and the rumblings of an empty stomach. He was the quick typing of a keyboard, and the distracting tapping of his foot against the side of the computer console. People thought that Dick was the most fidgety of his children, but it was Tim. Though true that Dick enjoyed moving, his movement was always purposeful. While Tim’s seem to flick out of him sporadically and without much thought. Tim was also the most spatially unaware of his children, though whether that was from lack of grace or just sleep deprivation was anyone’s guess. It wasn’t uncommon to be alerted of his approach by the sound of something being knocked over or of a quiet curse being uttered after stubbing his toe on the stairs.

Jason perhaps contributed to the symphony of the cave the least, though thankfully his presence had become more and more common in the years since his resurrection. The sounds he made were purposeful and designed to annoy. The sound of chips being crunched by an open mouth during a mission report. A scoff at the end of an order or request. And on bad days the sound of arguing, of things being thrown and property being destroyed. But on softer days it was more comforting. The crinkle of a packet of cigarettes in his back pocket being smushed as he leaned against the computer console. Leather rubbing against leather as he crossed his arms. A quiet ‘thank you’ to Alfred after being handed a cup of tea. Or even a softly sarcastic ‘See ya old man’ if Bruce managed to get through an interaction without pissing him off.

All these sounds, these beautiful little noises that told Bruce his children were home, were safe. All of these sounds were gone from the cave. As he sat alone, staring blankly in front of him at the black computer screen. Half dressed in a torn and ripped Batsuit, his cowl and gloves having been discarded at some point. It was a space he hadn’t left for nearing three days much to his family's chagrin and thinly veiled concern. At the end of the first day he had locked them out, pushing back the familiar feeling of guilt as he did so.

He wasn’t sure if he was punishing himself. Perhaps he deserved this, deserved to be denied the comforting presence of his children, and deserved the oppressing quiet? Or perhaps he just didn’t have the energy to get up from this spot, to do anything. Perhaps it was easier to just sit here alone in the dark and quiet, because moving seemed impossible at the moment.

Usually when he sequestered himself away from any stimuli or love, he would be hounded by his thoughts. He would allow them to fester and devour his happiness, and drain him of anything resembling hope. He would allow himself to feel as awful as possible, because he deserved to tear himself up from the inside out.

Now however his thoughts were blank, deafened by the silence as though he were wearing noise cancelling headphones and his thoughts were the outside world. It was all blank, silent, there was nothing except him and his chair and the blank screen in front of him.

Then a warm hand gently placed itself on his shoulder.

“They’re worried about you.” Bruce let out a heavy sigh.

“I know.”

“I’m worried about you too.”

“I’m fine.” A snort of disbelief followed his statement.

“Clearly.”

“Why are you here?” The silence grew again and for a moment the hand began to retreat.

“I can go if you’d like?”

“NO!” Bruce spun around in his chair and reaching out he grabbed the tan hand and held it tightly in his grip. His son raised an eyebrow but did not retreat further.

“Alright I won’t.” Sitting down on the ground next to him, Dick’s gaze did not move from Bruce. “You look like shit.” Despite himself Bruce let out a huff of amusement, and felt warmth as Dick grinned back in triumph. “Seriously, take a shower B and get out of those clothes. You know Alfred’s upstairs dying to get you a proper meal.” Bruce shook his head, his grip tightening around Dick’s hand.”

“I can’t.”

“Sure you can, all you have to do is stand up and put one foot in front of the other.” Bruce shook his head again.

“I can’t leave you.” Dick let out a heavy breath, and his eyes softened at the admission.

“You can’t stay down here forever B.” Bruce felt his chest tighten and his gaze quickly flickered over to the med bay where the curtain was drawn.

“I’m not ready.”

“Bruce-”

“ I’m not ready.” His tone was stern and for a moment Dick’s eyes narrowed, much like they had when the two were younger and always at each other’s throats. When it was just the two of them and neither knew how to be a Father or a Son. But just as quickly Dick’s face smoothed over, changing into something kinder then pity. Empathy perhaps.

“Okay, you’re not ready. But at least let the others down here Bruce. Isolating yourself like this, keeping them locked out and grieving on their own? It’s not kind B, you should all be together.” There was truth in his son’s words but still Bruce couldn’t let himself get up and see his other children. Because to see them, to let them in and to acknowledge what had happened meant that it was over. It meant that Dick was dead, and all that remained was his body now being kept cool in the medbay so that it didn’t begin to decompose.

And if Dick was dead then what the hell did that mean for Bruce, for the rest of them?

Dick was the one to calm Damian down after yet another fight with Bruce. Dick had been the one to soften the boy, raise him even. Damian didn’t deserve to lose the man. Didn’t deserve to lose the kindest person in his life.

Dick was the one to pull Tim away from the computer screen when he was going on his 3rd night of no sleep. To pry his phone out of his brother's hand, and tuck the boy into bed. He was the only one who could get away with treating Tim like a child. He was the only one who could get away with showing Tim love, without the boy recoiling in uncomfortableness.

Dick was the one who brought Jason back. Maybe not back to life but to the family for sure. Dragging the man in after him for a family dinner, pushing Jason to the table and breaking the tension with a quip or bad joke.

Dick was the one who brought Cass to her first dance lesson, and encouraged Stephanie to get her Masters, and got Alfred to take a break and join them for movie nights.

Dick was the one who had given Bruce hope again. Dick was love, Dick was family, Dick was goodness and righteousness and fury and passion. And all of sudden he was gone, with little fanfare or reason. He was just…. gone.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this chum.” Dick shrugged his shoulders, a small smile on his face.

“You just do it Bruce. You just get up and move forward. It sucks and I’m sorry but sitting here alone is only going to make it worse… and it’s only going to make them resent you.” Bruce knew he didn’t deal with death well. It was obvious in the black eye Dick sported after Jason’s death, in his anger after Damian’s. His whole life was built around it, and while he loved what he and his family had created as Batman, part of him hated it as well.

“I’m not a man who can change Dick…. It’s not something I ever learned how to do.” The confession was quiet and Bruce felt uncomfortable by the unusual genuineness of his words. Dick chuckled and shook his head incredulously.

“Of course it takes me dying to finally get you to open up.” The words were said without any scorn but it still caused something heavy to settle in Bruce’s gut. Dick however continued. “You have to grieve Bruce, you can’t push this away and ignore it. You have to let yourself grieve, and you have to let the others do it to. And it will suck and it will be hard and some days you won’t want to say my name because you just can’t . And some days you’ll forget for a moment that I’m not gone, and you’ll go to call me or turn to talk to me and then you’ll remember. And it will hit you like a brick.” Dick smiled sadly at him. “And it will be especially hard because you have lost a lot of people in your life but you haven’t let yourself experience that loss”

“ I can’t do this Dick . I’ll break.” Dick shook his head.

“So you let yourself break. And then you do what anyone who has lost someone does, you put yourself back together.” Dick sat up from the ground and moved to kneel in front of Bruce. Placing both his hands on his Father’s knees. “I can be there for them Bruce you have to be, which means you have to let go. You have to let go of me and let yourself fall, and trust trust that you’ll be able to get back up again.”

Maybe it was because this was all happening in his mind. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation and lack of food and water. Maybe it was because looking at Dick all he could see was the little boy who over 20 years ago first taught him how to actively live life again. Maybe it was the knowledge that the same little boy was now lying several feet away, dead. Whatever it was Bruce knew that he needed to do things differently.

Jason’s death had felt like a punishment. Dick’s felt like a lesson.

“I’ll try Dick… I can’t promise that I’ll do it all right, but I’ll try.” Dick smiled and standing up he pulled Bruce into a deep hug. The arms seemed less real then they had before, but the warmth and love was obvious. “....I’m going to miss you Chum.” A small huff of amusement brushed the top of Bruce's head.

“I love you too B.”

#whumptober2021 #no.1 #you have to let go #batman #fic #dick grayson #bruce wayne

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prurientpuddlejumper · 4 years

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A Lipless Face That I Want to Marry, Ch. 8

<- Chapter 7 | Chapter 9 ->

Summary: Frederick alone.

2,163 words

How many days had he been in the hospital? There had been at least one more surgery since you left. More blood transfusions.

It all bled together without you there. There was nothing to distinguish one day from the next except the tedious procedures—a blood test to see how his kidney was holding up, some new skin here, a z-plasty there. He was a little bit glad you were not there when they grafted his penis with a stretchable mesh of skin. God forbid he got aroused while that was healing. He laughed at the thought, as if your absence was just temporary.

The sun outside his window told him whether it was day or night, but the stretches of hours he was knocked out under anesthetic and pain meds made it impossible to know whether it was was from the same day, or if he had slept until the next one. Without your schedule to ground him, it was pointless bothering to find out.

At least you were not always touching him, asking him about his feelings. Staring. He could feel the pressure of your gaze on his face, dancing like jabbing needles across his barely-healed skin. He hated it. He had some peace and quiet now.

It did not feel real yet. It seemed so certain you would be back—you had become such a steadfast presence in his life for the past three years, he never imagined you could leave it. Not forever. It did not seem beyond taking back.

But as much as he was in denial, he knew what he said could not be taken back. One cannot break off an engagement, tell their fiancé to move out, and expect things to ever go back to normal.

He didn’t need you. You always hated his preening, the sophisticated circles he traveled in. You wanted him this way—destroyed and disgusting, unable to pass in decent society. He was not sure if he really believed that, or if he just needed a reason to hate you.

A nurse could bring him the phone. All he had to do was press the nurse call button and Pamela would come running, and he could call you. He could apologize. If he reached you before you got rid of the ring, before you packed your bags, he might be able to convince you to stay.

He did not call.

***

The sun was down, whatever day it was. There was still fluorescent light shining in from the hallway, enough to dimly light the room. Frederick lay awake. Parts of his back ached from lying in the same position too long, and it had been too long since a nurse came and shifted him. He shifted himself, what little he could, and the heart monitor climbed frantically with the feeble effort of a few inches. His tight scar tissue pulled like he was wearing too-tight denim over his whole body, and his more recent stitches stung. He was so weak. So pathetically weak.

The sun was up again, some time later. Frederick eyed the small stack of mail for him at his bedside table. You were always the one who read to him. But he did not need you.

He pressed the nurse call button, which had been rigged with tape and a wooden tongue depressor into a large switch he could push more easily with his limited dexterity. He pushed down on it and it buzzed so loudly he swore, a throb of pain shooting through the back of his skull. Part of the jury-rigged switch caught on the gauze mitten wrapped around his hand and left the switch stuck on in a continual buzz. He swore again, more fiercely, and jerked his hand until the makeshift switch snapped, and the call button fell off the edge of the bed. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!”

Where the hell was the nurse? If this had been an emergency he could be dead by now.

In his last physical therapy session, he had been able to reach nearly as far as the bedside table, with assistance. He reached for an envelope, and his mittened hand made it all the way to the edge of the bed before bumping against the metal railing that prevented him from rolling out. That was it. All at once, every latent frustration came out at that goddamned railing in a primal scream. He punched the metal—barely a twitch with his atrophied muscles, but enough to sting his tender fingers and draw another enraged shout. His breathing came in heavy, choked bursts, and he began to sob.

When finally a nurse showed up—his favorite, Pamela—she didn’t make any humiliating sympathetic comments about the tears wetting his face. He asked if you had called or tried to visit.

You had not.

***

The dead at least have the luxury of being done with what they lost.

The sky was dark, nearly black with clouds, though Frederick suspected it was day. Heavy rain pummeled against the window, and it gave the room a cold, dreary cast. He wondered if there was a way he could kill himself. To be done. It would have been easy in a hospital, if he had use of his legs and hands—he could tamper with his morphine drip, or find some anesthetic… the options were limitless to one who knew what he was doing with medical equipment.

The one person who never manipulated him into danger, the one person who stood beside him, the one person who loved him completely for everything he was, he had thrown away. Was it worth it staying alive for revenge alone? He was never going to get better. Not completely. He would be trapped in this scarred, aching body for the rest of his life. If he died, his will left all of his money to you. Then you would be free.

But he was Doctor Frederick Chilton, damn it! He did not give up. He did not give up after Abel Gideon tortured him, or after being framed for murder and shot. Every time he fell, he held his chin up, and rose higher. This whole incident brought him notoriety, a spotlight he would take advantage of to bring him greater fame than even Hannibal Lecter himself. Forget national bestsellers, this time he was thinking movie deal. In a few years, he would be walking again, he would have a new face, lips. He would have everything back.

Except you.

He could never get back the one thing that already felt like a hole in his life, and would feel like a gaping sinkhole when he finally returned home and you were not there. His comfort. If you were coming back, you would have done it by now.

Every time he angrily demanded you leave, you would always slink off with your tail tucked, but crawl back all sweetness and forgiveness the next day. This time was different. He said so many unforgivable things. But he had to go that far, he told himself—he had to break things off.

He was so bitter, and angry. He was never the easiest man to live with, and now all of his compassion had been burned out of him. You didn’t deserve to keep running back to a cruel, bitter man out of loyalty, to be smothered inside a dark hospital when you were meant to be in the sun. He knew exactly what Chiltons could be like, and he never wanted to put you through that. If that was the nightmare he was turning into, then it was better for you to be far away, not married to it.

But, oh, to touch you one last time…

***

Another day. He thought about calling you again, if just to hear the sound of your voice. But what would be the point? You could have called him. Clearly you wanted him out of your life.

A nurse knocked tentatively on the door. Not one of his usual nurses.

“You have a visitor, Mr. Chilton. They said… they’re not sure if you want to see them?”

He perked up immediately, so eager to respond, “Of course I do!” that he didn’t bother to correct the nurse about his title. His face fell when a young black woman walked in, carefully tapping a long white stick across the ground. “Oh. You.”

She stopped in her tracks, a timid expression of guilt written on her face. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be here...” she stammered, turning around.

“No, no, no. Come in, come in, Reba McClane,” he pronounced her name pointedly. “I wanted to speak to you anyway.”

“You did?” She began searching her way closer to his bed.

“Naturally. For my book. An interview with the Tooth Fairy’s lover.”

Her tentative smile quickly turned into a scowl. “Freddie Lounds already offered to tell my story.”

Frederick scoffed. “Tell me you are not considering that libelous TattleCrime gossip rag. I am a distinguished, respected author—what I could do with your story is far—”

“I told her the same thing I’m telling you: I do not want my name associated with that man. My entire life is already tainted. I won’t talk about him anymore. I only came to apologize… it seemed the least I could do. You’re the only one of victims left alive to apologize to.”

“You forget to count yourself,” Frederick corrected with uncharacteristic empathy. “We are both his survivors.”

Reba’s shoulders relaxed a little at that. “I wasn’t sure you’d see it that way. A lot of people, they think I knew. Or that I must be a monster to have loved a monster like that. I can’t blame them… I don’t know what to think of myself anymore.”

“There is no accounting for taste.”

Reba and Frederick settled into a surprisingly comfortable chat. She unburdened her guilt—she thought she had sensed someone else in the room that night, and knew something was off, but didn’t call the police—and Frederick magnanimously forgave her. Dolarhyde would have killed her and slit Frederick’s throat on the spot if she tried to be a hero. He chose not to call out for help, knowing that. They talked about love, and the deep vein of anger they both shared. Perhaps it set Frederick at ease that she was blind. If she stared, it was not with any regard to his face.

Then she went to the window, to stand in the warm light streaming through the glass, and knocked over a vase of plastic flowers. He snapped at her, his voice raising with violence so out of proportion to the offense, she wasn’t sure whether to apologize or yell back. After scrambling to find to the vase on the floor, she settled on dryly calling him an asshole.

Nobody had called him out so bluntly since before he was hospitalized, and it made him smile, as best as his cheeks could manage. “You remind me of someone,” he said.

Reba pondered why his voice was so fond at the memory of someone who called him an asshole. She wondered what the flowers meant. “Was this the somebody you were hoping it was when I walked in? Who—”

“Nobody important.”

“Really? That’s not what I’m hearing.”

He sighed grumpily. Then just sighed. “You told Dolarhyde you were not so damaged that you were incapable of love. Do you still feel that way?”

“If you’re looking for relationship advice, I do not believe myself qualified to give any,” she said, reading him like braille. “But I’m not going to give up on the goodness in people. Everybody has a darkness deep down, but not everyone’s darkness is murdering families. I survived Dee, and if I can do that… I can find someone whose darkness is a little softer. Soft enough to live with. I have to believe I can still love—that he didn’t break me. I hope he didn’t break you, either.”

***

Another day. He ruined everything with you.

The first question Frederick asked when EMTs found his still-smoldering body—rasping it over and over until someone understood—was if you were safe. Had Dolarhyde gone after his family? But of all the things that the Red Dragon had taken from him, you were the one he had destroyed all on his own.

Finally, after two weeks of resisting, he could not bear it anymore. When his physical therapy session ended, he quietly, firmly, with fragile pride, asked the nurse to help him with the phone. He dialed your number, and she held the receiver to his ear as it rang.

It rang.

It went to voicemail.

Frederick leaned into the receiver as your friendly, guileless voice instructed him to leave a message. It must have been recorded before everything, back when you were so happy all the time. It had been ages since he heard you sound like that. He wondered if you would be happy and carefree again soon, without him.

• ● • ━━━━━─ ••●•• ─━━━━━ • ● •

Tags: @beccabarba @caked-crusader @itsjustmyfantasyroom @thatesqcrush @dianilaws @permanentlydizzy @eclecticreader2020 @mrsrafaelbarba

#did someone ask for angst?? Who do I have down for angst? Come get your order!#frederick chilton #Frederick Chilton x reader #Hannibal #Raúl Esparza #dr. frederick chilton #My writing

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kimkymury · 3 years

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Blue Rose Tears - Chapter 14

Hello again,

I’m back with another chapter of the Pascal x Carl fanfiction. The story is coming to an end, there will only be two more chapters before the Carl Messier saga comes to an end, so stay tuned in the next updates.

This chapter is softer and cuter, so prepare your hearts for the next ~

The Portuguese version of this story is available on Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/1048844817-as-l%C3%A1grimas-da-rosa-azul-cap%C3%ADtulo-14

I'm also posting the English version there, so if you want to follow it over there or reread a chapter, here it is: https://www.wattpad.com/story/262308791-blue-rose-tears

Under the cut!

Chapter 14

P.O.V Narrator

Carl's restlessness had persisted for three weeks, a period of time considered even short, but that was enough to depress him. He rubbed his pale hands together, trying to keep them from the cold. Winter had come, Lacombrade was surrounded by a vast white desert, which made the whole atmosphere of the place even darker. The school corridors managed to keep the temperature cool even on the hottest summer days, and now it looked like the walls were meant to freeze them.

The last month of the year always seemed to be the most physically demanding, getting out of bed in the morning became a more arduous task than usual. All he could think about was the comfort he would receive after the end of the school year, he could return to his family's house and spend Christmas with Sebastian. The sky was greyish in color, as if life was not present in that place, making everything even darker. But young students had no time to notice details like this, most of their time was spent preparing for final exams.

This time of year was both a delight and a torture, veterans were immensely concerned with the possible approval of a renowned university, while the other students focused on impressing their parents with good grades. There was a small portion that didn’t care about the tests, it was those repeating students, delinquents or even those who had no goal in mind for the coming year. Carl found himself in the large percentage who devoted themselves entirely to studying, putting other needs aside for a short period of time.

His thoughts could not keep his focus only on the books he studied, several flaws took his concentration, making him frustrated by wasting time. A red-haired figure was still rooted in his mind, for three weeks he had avoided contemplating the image of the scientist, but the memories of past moments were alive inside him. That was still something that depressed him daily, he felt empty and dejected, what most led him to exhaustion was to act normally for his friends, avoiding any suspicious behavior. But life was not in Carl's favor, as if that wasn't enough to make him gloomy, he had still received sudden news.

Serge had recently said that he needed to talk to Carl in private, and that the matter was of the utmost importance. The religious boy did not know what to expect, a part of himself just asked what it could be, but another small part, in which his subtle fixation by the pianist still existed, made him nervous. He said it directly, without outspokenness or worries, explained the whole situation to his friend. Serge and Gilbert were leaving for Paris next week, and they had no intention of returning. The concept of the idea itself did not startle Carl, he had already heard stories of students who left Lacombrade without authorization or notice, deciding to live on their own or with a partner elsewhere. But when it came to his friends, his reaction was different, he feared what might happen.

He knew that life in Paris would be complicated, especially for two young men who had not even reached the age of majority, and were marginalized by all of society. His first concern was whether his friends would have somewhere to sleep and what to eat, and how they would survive until Serge officially received his title of Viscount, along with his father's possessions and inheritance.

Knowing Gilbert, he imagined that it would not be easy for him to live in an environment where he would be completely unprotected, not to mention the absence of his social skills. There were no questions or doubts, he knew all of Serge's motivations and how difficult the last few days have been for both of them, as he and his roommate were forcibly separated. It was not the time to expose his own insecurities, he should support his friends, even if he did not agree with his choice. He felt lonely, even though he was not literally alone, but everything would change over time.

Everyone grows up someday, the days of youth would eventually end, but that does not mean that this process would not be painful. Perhaps that was his farewell, there was a chance he would never see them again, especially after graduation. Carl just wanted everything to go back to the way it was before, when his life was under control, when he was happier. His reaction was neutral when he received the news from Serge, he made his concerns evident, but he never failed to support him.

He even offered to help them pack their belongings and organize their luggage. It would be a difficult time for everyone, especially for them, any sign of positivity and help was welcome.

The pianist was delighted with the response of the religious boy, just as he expected, he spared no thanks before going.

"I knew I could count on you." - A simple sentence that meant a lot to Carl

Being alone again, the dark-haired boy was left to reflect on what he was doing. After only a few minutes, he was able to firmly understand the gravity of the situation, and his despair began to surface. Breaking one of the school rules was not what frustrated him the most, but to be witnessing a sin without intervening, the motivations of his friends' flight were diverse, but the relationship they had was what most influenced the decision.

Even if he wanted to, he could not deny the request coming from Serge, he would not endure the guilt he would feel at the thought that it did not help in any way. Looking more closely, when he looked at Serge and Gilbert together, he didn't see anything negative. He felt a certain relief when he saw them close, as if this situation were natural and common, thoughts of judgment rarely appeared.

He recognized that the independence of the pianist would be extremely useful to live alone in Paris, but what intrigued him the most was how the blond boy's adaptation would take place. He hadn't handled changes, rules or responsibilities in general well, but Carl didn't criticize him for that, he just wished he didn't suffer. The empathy he felt for Gilbert gradually increased, and it was not long since he had an experience that made him look at it differently.

~ FlashBack from two weeks ago ~

Carl's warm breath left a mark in the air as he exhaled the cold winter air, with his clothes made especially for this harsh season, he felt protected from the cold that surrounded him. He was beginning to regret having gone for a walk around the school, he did not imagine that the thick layer of snow that covered the earth could slow his steps. The only sounds he could hear were the noises of the few animals that had not heard, along with the sound of the wind passing through the dry branches of the trees.

Nothing would be different from what he was used to, except for one detail that caught his attention, they were low noises that seemed to come from close by. He could not immediately identify what it was about, he imagined that it could be some wounded or abandoned animal, but as he followed the sound, he was surprised by what he saw.

A boy whose skin could camouflage himself in the snow thanks to his coloring, lying face down, totally immobile. Only a thin piece, which resembled sleeping clothes, covered his torso, leaving the rest of his body exposed. His blond hair covered his face, making it impossible to decide whether he was conscious or not. Around him there were red spots, together on his body and on the fabric that covered him, which made him resemble a deceased.

For a few seconds, Carl felt completely frozen, there was no reaction. His heart started to race, he quickly knelt beside the body, checking immediately if there was any sign of life left in him. He was not as surprised as he expected, after all, it was Gilbert, he had already seen him in situations similar to this one, although it was not as serious as this time. He turned him over and placed him in his arms, relieved to see that his cheeks were flushed and that he was breathing.

There was a cut on his lips, the red liquid spread over a part of his face, making Carl even more tense when he saw him in that state. He should call for help, leaving Gilbert in such a sick state in such precarious conditions could be considered a homicide. The school was a few meters from where they were, the blond boy visibly could not walk, he could barely stay fully awake. The religious boy would have to carry him until he found someone who could help him, which immediately made him think of Pascal.

It was not the time for such thoughts to take hold of him, his greatest concern was to keep Gilbert alive, he could not bear to see him leave precisely in his arms, when he could save him.

"Gilbert, answer me, please! Can you hear me?" - He asked distressed, fearing that the worst had happened.

The younger boy's icy hands moved in vain, trying to reach something that didn't exist, while his lips trembled due to the low temperature. He was staring at a specific point, although he blinked a few times, before looking at whoever held it.

"Serge ..." - A faint murmur came out in an almost inaudible tone, a single word was able to sadden Carl.

Gilbert did not care for himself, at no time did he cry out for help or any kind of comfort, he just longed for the presence of his beloved pianist. He didn't think he could be confused with Serge, so he supposed it was a request for him to be taken to him. The communication methods of the green-eyed boy were confusing, subjective and not always coherent, but those who knew him the longest could understand. Carl quickly removed his coat and put it around Gilbert, trying to keep him warm; and with a handkerchief that he kept in his pocket, he wiped away most of the blood that spread on his face.

"I will have to carry you, please, hold on a little longer!" - Wrapping his arms around his thin, weak body, he used all the strength he had to get him out of the snow and take him to school.

It was easier than he imagined, the blond boy's lightness made him easy to hold, it made him increase his speed in the direction he had come from. Along the way, he constantly checked vital signs by pressing his hand on Gilbert's chest, where he could feel the slight contractions of breathing and heartbeat. Upon entering Lacombrade, he quickly ran to the infirmary, asking for immediate help and handing the boy over to one of the teachers to put him on a bed. It didn't take long before more people came to know what happened, but the only thing that interested him was Serge.

Carl managed to catch sight of him from a distance, and waved as he came running towards her. He was taken by surprise, a desolate embrace enveloped him, he had to hold on to whoever was in front of him so as not to lose his balance.

"We were told what happened, we came as quickly as we could, Pascal and Kurt will be here soon"- The pianist wraps around him in torment, his voice could express the pain he felt.

Still in silence, he hugged him back, saying words of comfort to calm him down. He doubted his own words, prayed internally that Gilbert would resist, he couldn't leave now. His condition was serious, perhaps worse than the other occasions that found him injured. They were anxiously waiting for Professor Watts to bring good news, he still remembered the blond boy's expression when he stared at him. Time passed quickly, Pascal's medical care would certainly make a difference in Gilbert's improvement. He was still asleep, only one of the boys could enter at a time, which made everyone even more anxious.

The countless thanks from Serge soothed him, as he knew he had been useful, and if he hadn't made the decision to go for a walk, the blond boy would probably not be among them.

Carl was the last to enter the room where Gilbert rested, accepting only by requests from his friends and teachers, since he was the one who had saved him from death. The sight of the young blond man sleeping soundly was a relief to the religious boy, he could observe the movements of his breathing, and his appearance seemed healthier. He approached lightly and cautiously, already imagining a possible outbreak from the blond boy, similar in other situations that occurred in the past when they tried to help him.

The eyes of the one who slept before opened slowly, trying to understand what was happening and where he was. To the surprise of the dark-haired boy, there was no aggressive or immediate reaction, it was as if he was conscious all this time. Gilbert looked at Carl with his usual empty expression, which left him a little scared and at the same time paralyzed, he feared the younger boy, even if he did not admit it, perhaps because he did not fully understand him.

"Where did you bring me?" - A low and soft voice asked, without showing much emotion.

"We are in the infirmary, how are you feeling?" -He replied hesitantly, since he had not had the chance to have a dialogue considered "appropriate" with Gilbert.

The blond boy sat on the bed, despite the protests of the dark-haired boy, saying that he shouldn't be bothered and needed to rest. He wrapped himself in the blankets and covered his face with his hands, as if he were avoiding being seen in such a vulnerable state.

"You didn't have to do that ... I would be better out there." - Gilbert said as he rested his head on his knees, raising just a little to look at him.

He could feel his pain with just one sentence, knew his "bad habits", knew that he tried several times to take his own life. A feeling of sadness invaded Carl, even though he didn't know him well enough to give his opinion on something, he didn't want to see him suffering like that.

"I had to do it, you would die if you were still there!" -Carl said anguished, not understanding the reason behind Gilbert's behavior, and blamed himself for having sounded more emotional than he expected.

There was a silence, none of them said anything else after that, and the religious boy felt that he should go back to his own room. Gilbert was safe and he had been useful, just as he should have been. He said goodbye and started walking towards the door, stopping in front of it after hearing something.

"Thank you ..." - The green-eyed boy said as he watched him leave the infirmary, in an almost inaudible and emotionless voice on his face.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" - Thinking he was wrong, Carl asks what was said, he never heard Gilbert say something like that.

"I said thank you, now leave me alone ..." - He replied, using an arrogant tone this time, making it evident that he was not comfortable saying this kind of thing.

The religious boy did as he was asked, but from this day on, he started to have more compassion for Gilbert, seeing him in a more humanized way. The blond boy felt that he could trust Carl, if only a little. Both established a bond that determined the beginning of a friendship, perhaps in a peculiar and dark way, but it was still important.

~ End of Flashback ~

Thoughts like this made the future farewell a difficult task, but his restlessness was filled daily with studies and chores, which took up most of his time as the end of the year approached. His winter afternoons, which in the past used to be quiet, were now spent within the Church, taking up full-time Bible studies. He had decided to dedicate himself to Theology after graduation, leaving Lacombrade in about a year or two, along with the memories he created there.

The innumerable verses were not enough to erase the images that haunted him, the moments he spent in the greenhouse or in the laboratory were still fresh in his mind. He constantly martyred himself, because even after he left the scientist, his presence continued as much in his life as in his thoughts. None of his friends had known of the disagreement that had occurred between them, which made it all the more difficult, since they saw each other frequently and could not make evident the coldness with which they treated each other.

The days that followed had not been easy for Pascal either, he could hardly keep his concentration on his experiments, and his failures frustrated him more than usual. From the laboratory window, he could occasionally watch Carl walking around or heading towards the Church, and this was a way to fill his loneliness. He was preparing to leave Lacombrade in a few weeks, but his main concern at the moment was with the escape of his friends. He had carefully planned how he could help, and all the advice he could give before he left.

His letter to the German University had been answered recently, along with an invitation to the admission test that would guarantee his entry, even with his poor academic performance. For days he had been rehearsing inside his head how he would say this to others, he did not worry about their reaction, he already imagined it would be at least positive. What distressed him was the dark-haired boy, according to the circumstances, it was not appropriate to just say it as he would have done in the past, but he could not leave in secret. At the same time that he yearned for new opportunities and a decrease in his pain, he knew that he would suffer for not having him around, and that made him reflect more than he would like.

Pascal was to leave with the veterans, travel to the neighboring country to accomplish his parents' ambition, and which in the future would become his own. His departure date would be close to when Serge and Gilbert left for Paris, the second week of December would be one of the most turbulent. Part of the luggage was ready, the farewell and thank you cards were already written, it was enough to wait anxiously for that day. He still had one more concern, he didn't tell anyone he was leaving Lacombrade, and he had no idea how to do it. He reluctantly made the decision to tell his closest friends about his departure, and kindly asked them not to say anything to Carl, as he wanted to say it on another occasion. The boys were suspicious, which was in fact natural, as they assumed he would be the first to know, but they listened to the scientist and did what was asked.

His sisters and parents were informed afterwards, they would probably receive his letter after departure, but he explained in detail the reasons for his choice and what he would do next. In the letter, he said goodbye to each of his sisters, asking them how they were doing and making them promise to keep in touch.

Dorothy, Mei, Nina, Lila, Sonya and, her favorite among all, Patricia; he expressed the immense longing to have them close by, and that he would endeavor to make them proud. He reserved a part of his letter dedicated to his parents and his half brother, Michel, who had recently fallen ill again. He couldn't help it and was a little thrilled by rereading the words dedicated to his younger brother, he was very concerned about his fragile health and recommended frequent rest and healthy eating.

Part of his duties had been done, now he must prepare himself to be as convenient as possible to assist Serge and Gilbert's escape. He then decided to write a series of instructions, recipes and advice for when they are in Paris, and knowing the blond boy well, he focused on teaching the pianist to take care of injuries and advising him on how to deal with possible outbreaks of his companion. The written pages were carefully folded and placed inside a small wooden box, where there were some medicines, produced by Pascal himself. This served both as a substitute doctor and as a reminder of him. A considerable amount of money was placed in the middle of the medications, just before being closed and tied tightly with a ribbon, in order to withstand the long journey.

The redhead sighs looking at the calendar again, the end of the year was approaching faster than he would have liked, and to make matters worse, it was not ending the way he would have liked. The classes that day had ended, the scientist insisted on attending all of them, as he wished to have Lacombrade's memories recorded in his mind. There was nothing more to be done, he could do whatever he wanted until nightfall, boredom chased him as he walked slowly through the laboratory. Harvesting specimens of plants that survived the winter did not sound bad, it would be a good distraction to prevent bad thoughts from depressing him.

With reasonably slow steps and a calm expression, Pascal heads for the greenhouse, passing the corridors full of students. That everyday scene managed to awaken a feeling of nostalgia in him, which made him happy and saddened at the same time. In the midst of that crowd, the faces of the boys who walked there were mixed and confused, he was unable to recognize them, except for one in particular. A boy with white skin and a little pink from exposure to low temperature, with perfectly combed dark hair, came towards him while carrying a small pile of books.

They walked in opposite directions, there was not even an exchange of glances, both went on their way without imagining what was going on in the other's mind. The dark-haired young man hid the tension he had felt when he saw the scientist in a discreet way, rushing his steps to the library, while trying to appear overly frightened not to arouse suspicion. His efforts were not in vain, Pascal firmly believed that his presence was not noticed and there was no relevance to Carl, which hurt him deeply. The attention of those who wanted it so much and who had always been by his side, was now a very rare event to happen, and it was always covered by a thick layer of coldness and formality.

He rubbed his hands, warmed by wool gloves, in order to relieve the pain he felt at his fingertips. There were few species of plants that were able to withstand the dense layers of snow, most of which consisted of dry branches or leaves that could fall apart with a single touch. Walking in a straight line, he crossed a part of the forest and ended up finding a large building in front of him. It was the well-known chapel of Lacombrade, he did not agree with the choice of name, the structure was too majestic, a masterpiece of architecture to be considered just a chapel.

It had been some time since he had visited such a place, he would go only in times of extreme need, he was not interested in religion at all. Even with his lack of belief in the divine, he could not deny that he was able to admire every part of that wonderful building, he was enchanted by the details and the grandeur of the torrers. He watched the small snowflakes falling delicately in different regions, especially under a cross that was at the top of the Church. It was this same cross that facilitated the identification of the building over long distances, and it was the one that cast a long shadow on summer afternoons, where the sun was in the perfect position.

The scientist remained motionless for a few seconds, lost in thought, and feeling foolish for what he was about to say to himself:

"I doubt your existence, I don't think you are around here or anywhere else." - He said in an almost inaudible tone of voice, still keeping his eyes towards the sky - "But if it is, do not allow that depressive countenance to remain on Carl's face ..."

He did not believe that his words could change anything, he quickly moved away from the Church and walked in a random direction, berating himself for speaking to a being, who for Pascal, was nonexistent. His words might seem vague, but his intentions did not, he could see the changes in the religious boy's behavior from a distance. He no longer smiled as often, he isolated himself from his other companions, with whom he had always accompanied him before.

He could use whatever excuses he wanted, he didn't want to appear arrogant, but he felt that such changes had occurred thanks to what they felt for each other. Pascal still remembered perfectly the moment when Carl confessed everything he felt, remembered how strong his heart was beating and the feeling of the last time they embraced.

The same boy who missed him so much, was now surrounded by books, forcing himself to keep his eyes open and continue to read them. The most varied subjects were not enough to keep him focused, his mind was often lost in thoughts that he wanted to avoid. The causes of his distraction were the most diverse, he was concerned about the escape plan that would take place on Friday night, he feared that his lack of concentration would hamper his performance in the final tests.

It wasn't just that that troubled him, Pascal's image came to mind when he least expected it. He missed his presence, his conversations, having him around and all the good times they shared, delving into this type of memory was what made him worse. But there were other sensations that young Carl remembered more than he would like, he lowered his head when he remembered the arms around him, and the texture of his lips next to his. He felt like a failure for not being able to forget, but deep down, he wished he could experience it all again.

The dark-haired boy reflected on how difficult the past weeks had been, it frustrated and tired him. He felt prickled in his head, which made it more difficult for him to concentrate and caused continuous discomfort. Such pain was caused by the excess of alcohol he had consumed the night before, he used to drink when he felt frustrated, but what was something occasional, started to be a recurring habit.

Most of the time, the amount was not enough to make him drunk, but the dark-haired boy had crossed his limits yesterday. He needed to get his feelings out, his frustrations were too heavy for him to carry on in silence. The bottles hidden in his closet were his confidants, the only ones that saw him in his most deplorable state.

He felt weak, he knew it would happen if he drank more than he was used to, so why did he insist on continuing? He was becoming what he promised not to become, he feared that those bad habits were his only reason for living.

Fiery waters erode inside him, inflict so much pain on him that he is able to forget what it really hurts.

"The only moments I stop thinking about this is when I can't even think ..."

His greatest comfort was the calendar, the days passed quickly and the moment when he returned home was getting closer and closer. That year's vacation would be a good one, he could stay with his family during the holidays, and maybe even travel together. He planned every detail of the next two months in his head, which served as a distraction and gave him hope. He would participate in dances, he could cycle around the house with Sebastian, just like when they were younger; he would wake up without the worries and fear of judgment.

He would walk the long corridors of his house, listening only to the sound of his own steps, read all the books he wished and enjoy the visits of family and friends. It all seemed too perfect, and it really was, all he wanted most were moments of joy like these. But everything was still not quite right, the harsh reality would come back to haunt him at the beginning of the following year.

He would feel even more alone, thinking about how Serge and Gilbert would be living on their own in Paris, facing the dangers that surrounded Lacombrade outside.

He focused on what was about to happen, he would need to be there that needed his help, he could take care of his own problems alone, after everything was over. Everyone had been informed in detail about the big day, counting down the minutes to Friday night, where they allowed friends to achieve freedom and hope for a happier life. Carl felt anxious, feared that they would be discovered, that something unexpected would happen, or worse, that they would not be able to survive outside.

This was his biggest fear at the moment, he realized recently that his feelings towards the pianist had diminished considerably. He no longer saw him as an idol or someone unreachable for some time, his presence turned into something normal, and his anguish about this matter seemed to be finally disappearing.

There was only one thing about Serge that Carl longed for: his happiness. He was delighted at how devoted, loyal and enamored the pianist was for his blond companion, when he saw them together, it was as if they could complement each other in some way. He saw them as opposites, which was really true, but they worked perfectly well together.

They were kindred spirits, that was a fact, however immoral and sinful Carl might find, he somehow wanted to experience it. He dreamed of being able to have someone by his side, someone who knew him better than anyone else and that he felt completely comfortable being himself. The young Carl Messier longed for someone to love, and when he was finally able to find ...

The sentence was not completely formulated in his mind, because soon after he started to cry among the books, silently and with caution so that he would not be noticed by the other students. He begged for forgiveness and to give him strength, it was the moment when he needed it most.

A few days have passed since what happened in the library, which Carl would rather not remember and imagine that nothing happened. He was now in room 17, surrounded by suitcases and crates, along with his friends. They had agreed to assist Serge and Gilbert in packing their belongings before the trip, since all help was welcome and it was another opportunity to spend a moment together before leaving. That half of the second week of December had been hectic for everyone, those who were staying were busy preparing for the final exams, and those who were leaving longed for their longed-for freedom, and took every possible care not to be discovered.

The room seemed even smaller with the number of people present; Kurt and Neka, boasting of their physical strength and athletic build, chose to carry whatever was heavier. Serge and Gilbert carefully removed their clothes from the closet and folded them on the bed, the blond boy preferred to do this silently and alone, while the pianist talked to little Sebastian, who helped him with the task. And lastly, Pascal and Carl arranged the books in small piles and tied them up so they wouldn't be wrinkled during the trip. Although they did the same task, the two boys remained physically distant, each preferring to occupy an opposite side of the room.

The presence of everyone made the atmosphere more pleasant, although they had to pretend that nothing had happened between the two, that they remained close as always. This made the situation even more embarrassing for both of them, who struggled to maintain physical and emotional distance.

There were many moments when they exchanged glances across the room, they looked at each other frequently and tried to hide it afterwards, they could feel the tension rising in the air. The little space did not contribute to the distance, since they had to get out of the way so that Kurt and Neka could carry the heaviest luggage around the room. They were sitting on the bed of Serge, the red-haired scientist with Carl, beside a pile of books and other objects. Gilbert sat on his own bed, close to Serge and Sebastian, who watched the other two boys position their bags in the center of the room.

The religious boy greatly appreciated the fact that his brother was sociable enough to be able to hold a conversation for a long time, preventing the awkward silence from taking over the room.

The body language of Pascal and the boy who was now sitting next to him could not deceive anyone. They avoid eye contact and act as if the presence of the other does not exist, hoping that this will not be seen strangely. In a moment of carelessness, where everyone engaged in casual conversation, Carl was distracted from the subject and lost himself in his thoughts. He admired Pascal carefully, watching the details of his appearance and trying to see if anything had changed during the time they stayed away.

His red, tousled hair remained the same, perhaps a little longer than he had noticed the last time, sometimes falling in front of his eyes. Carl realized what he was doing, and punished himself mentally for it, the withdrawal would be of no use if his mentality remained the same. He didn't know how long he had fixed his eyes on the red-haired boy, but he just hoped it wasn't long enough to be noticed. Unfortunately, the person the religious boy had so praised earlier for keeping the conversation flowing was responsible for exposing what he so longed to hide.

"What's the matter, Carl? Do you see something that caught your attention?" - The younger boy said, mocking his brother.

He hesitated to answer for a second, everyone was looking at him curiously now, he felt frozen and avoided this as much as possible. He made a point of mentally recalling having a conversation with Sebastian later, being irritated by looking like a fool. His brother looked at him with a mischievous smile, as if he knew something

"What are you talking about? Don't change the subject so suddenly." - Carl luckily was able to formulate a convincing sentence, he returned to the topic that was being discussed before Sebastian's provocation

Fortunately, there was not much more to be done, in a few minutes they all went back to their respective rooms. The corridor of room 17 was empty now, except for the presence of two brothers, who enjoyed the silence to talk. Carl made Sebastian wait for everyone to leave to talk to him, he seemed authoritarian, but that didn't bother his younger brother. The younger boy already hoped that his antics would have a consequence, but that only served to amuse him even more. Leaning against the wall, arms crossed and a smile on his face, Sebastian asks his brother:

"What would you like to talk about, Carl?"

Cynical as always, it irritated the older brother from time to time, because he did not have this malice when he was his age. Discussions between them were rare, Carl usually scolded him and he smiled as if he didn't care.

"Keep your inopportune comments to yourself ..." - He replied with a serious expression, trying to command respect, which didn't work much.

Sebastian never saw him as an authority figure, even though he tried very hard to make it happen, in the end he was still his good older brother, victim of his mischief. His comment did not bother the youngest boy at all, on the contrary, he only made him smile before positioning himself in front of him. With a childish and innocent laugh, the younger brother subtly mocked the sermon he was receiving.

"Be smart, hiding that you love someone makes everything more noticeable, I've told you that before!" - Sebastian said before running out towards his own room, which was in the opposite direction from room 17.

The religious boy, perplexed by what he had just heard, did not answer anything and stayed there for a few moments. He did not believe that someone as young as his brother, managed to understand the real reason for his behavior. He wondered what else he could know and be omitting, he feared rumors would spread through Lacombrade, since his brother was Rosemariné's assistant. He would be more cautious from now on, especially with Sebastian, as his childish appearance was only a cover for his great intelligence. Indeed, one of the most pure and naive young men, he had the precocious brother he could ever have.

Continued in the next chapter

Written by KimKymury, Thank you for reading it <3

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dewitty1 · 4 years

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Burn The Witch

lettersbyelise @lettersbyelise

Chapters: 20/20 Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Pansy Parkinson/Blaise Zabini Characters: Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Zacharias Smith, Narcissa Black Malfoy, Scorpius Malfoy, Original House-Elf Character(s), Original Animal Character(s) Additional Tags: Businessman Draco Malfoy, Spy Harry Potter, Bodyguard Harry Potter, Demisexual Draco Malfoy, Past Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Past Draco Malfoy/Pansy Parkinson, Past Draco Malfoy/Pansy Parkinson/Blaise Zabini, mentions of a poly relationship, Case Fic, Pining, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Falling In Love, Getting Together, Friends to Lovers, Declarations Of Love, autistic Scorpius Malfoy, Asperger Syndrome, Mutual Pining, Scars, Sectumsempra Scars, Unspeakable Hermione Granger, Auror Ron Weasley, Minister For Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt, Financial auditor Zacharias Smith, BAMF Narcissa Black Malfoy, Minor Violence, Angst, Slow Burn, Mention of Panic Attacks, Mentions of Therapy, London, Paris (City), Other goodness includes:, Bars and Pubs, Holding Hands, I mean Harry and Draco hold hands, and it's kinda hot, and meaningful, now on to the smut tags:, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Top Harry Potter, Masturbation in Shower, wanking, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Slow Sex, Rough Sex, sex with feelings, Couch Sex, Bedroom Sex, Office Sex, Comeplay, Dirty Talk, and finally, Banter, Snark, Happy Ending, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE

Summary:

When Harry Potter is sent in to investigate Draco Malfoy’s successful potions company, posing as Draco’s bodyguard, he doesn’t know the case will launch a series of events that will change his life — and Draco’s. A story about choices, scars, Chopin piano pieces, and finding all kinds of love in the most unexpected places.

Excerpt:

When Harry finally shuts the door to his bedroom behind him that night, his whole body is buzzing with frustration and excitement and guilt and exhilaration.

He feels more alive than he has in years.

He leans against the closed door, letting his eyes fall shut and a low groan escapes him. He’s so turned on he can’t believe he found the strength to leave Draco to go to sleep alone one floor down, when he’d have given all the gold in his vault to follow him into his room.

They’d Apparated from the pub a few streets away from Draco’s house, and walked in together, still holding hands like smitten teenagers. Maybe that’s exactly what they were in that moment. Harry certainly feels like a teenager right now, just thinking about it, his heart beating painfully hard in his chest, butterflies bursting in his stomach.

Because Draco’s hands stroking his had felt exactly like he’d imagined — better, actually. His strong, elegant fingers; the warmth and softness of his skin against Harry’s. Harry had often fantasised about his first touch with Draco — hell, he was old enough to admit that some of his fantasies dated back to sixth year; he was old enough to understand where his infamous ‘thing for blondes’ stemmed from — but nothing could have prepared him for this. Just the tiniest of touches had been enough to set his heart and body on fire. Enough to make him wonder, vividly, what sex would feel like, if Draco’s fingers caressing his own felt already more erotic than most of his past sexual escapades.

He groans, hitting his head against the wooden door. Don’t think about sex, you fucking wanker, he scolds himself.

Once they'd made it inside the house, Draco had walked around a sleeping Balzac, curled in a heap of black, white and rust shaggy fur in the foyer. He’d gently tugged Harry towards the kitchen, where he’d set the kettle to boil. Then, without warning, he’d crowded Harry against the counter and pressed his entire body against his front.

“I thought you wanted to wait,” Harry had gasped helplessly against Draco’s neck, Draco palming his sides and nuzzling his hair and sighing with satisfaction.

“I do,” Draco had murmured. “I’m just… getting a taste of you.”

“Okay,” Harry had agreed incoherently, feeling himself melt against the countertop at the press of Draco’s erection against his thigh.

And just when Harry had been sure Draco would begin to rut up against him, the wonderful bastard had pushed away to attend to the whistling kettle, and had left him trembling with want.

“You’re such a tease,” Harry had whimpered in complaint.

Draco had glanced at him over his shoulder, looking unbearably smug. “I’m not. I’m just… giving you a taste, too.”

“Like hell you are,” Harry had groaned, but Draco had pushed a steaming mug of tea into his hands with an air of finality that reminded Harry of his earlier promise.

They’d sipped their tea in companionable silence, only interrupting the quiet to discuss tomorrow’s orders of business in low voices, socked feet touching, shoulders brushing.

Then they’d gone up the stairs, Draco stopping on the first floor to check on Scorpius, then joining Harry on the landing, taking his hand as though this was something normal, something they did without a second thought. In front of Draco’s room, Draco had pulled Harry close to him, pressing a light, bergamot-scented kiss against his lips.

“Thank you for tonight,” Draco'd whispered before giving Harry a small, secret smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He’d disappeared into his room.

It had felt like sneaking around. Harry wonders if this is how it would have been fifteen years ago, if instead of wasting his time obsessing over Draco, he’d understood the intense attraction his obsession was covering. If he’d found a way around their years-long animosity and had become Draco’s boyfriend. His nighttime wanderings along the drafty corridors of Hogwarts would have taken a far more interesting colour if that had been the case.

Harry hits his head against the door again. “Stop it,” he tells himself out loud, and heads for the bathroom. A shower. He needs a shower. Preferably very cold. So he can sleep and be clear-headed and ready and fucking calm when tomorrow comes. He turns the water on with a swish of his wand and dutifully ignores his hard prick as he undresses and steps into the shower cabin.

The water pounding his shoulders and back is not cold, however; it’s deliciously warm, relaxing his taut muscles but doing nothing to quell his erection.

“Like master, like house,” he growls through gritted teeth. “Are you both going to tease me until I give in?”

At Harry’s words, the shower head spurts a cloud of steam and honeysuckle-scented bubbles, and Harry can’t help but laugh, shaking his head in disbelief.

“You’re fucking testing me, aren’t you?” More bubbles, and the scent is so evocative that he only has to close his eyes for the smell of Draco’s skin to invade his senses, the touch of his warm hands on his to overwhelm him. His own right hand wraps around his erection on its own accord, and before he knows it he’s stroking himself slowly, leisurely, images of Draco’s messy hair and warm grey eyes and teasing smile flooding his head.

“Fuck it,” Harry moans, letting the day’s emotions run through him, the adrenaline of protecting Draco’s space from Smith’s greedy curiosity, the grief and empathy of hearing Draco’s story, the tenderness and honesty of Draco’s admission.

That Draco hadn’t found anyone attractive for years, until Harry had come along.

That Harry had turned Draco’s switch on.

“Oh, fuck,” he grits again, and his cock jerks in his fist. He runs his fingertips over the head, palming his balls with his other hand. They’re already tight against his body, and he knows he’s not going to last long.

The guilt, though… The guilt had been there, too. No matter how much Harry might like Draco, no matter how good his intentions might be, he’s still breaking all the rules of moral and professional conduct: he’s starting a relationship with someone who’s supposed to be his employer; he’s starting a relationship with someone he’s being paid to spy on; someone he’s agreed to protect against the institution that pays him in the first place. He hates himself for it, the double act, the inextricable mess of it all, and he wanks himself all the more furiously, remembering Draco’s touch, Draco’s body against his, Draco’s lips, soft and sure. The wait, the headlong attempt, and the relief of Draco’s fingers curling around his in unspoken agreement… and Harry shudders and spills into his fist, biting down a sob and squeezing his pulsing cock until he sees stars. Panting hard, he rests his sweaty forehead on the tiles, watching the water wash his come away, willing his heart to slow down.

Thinking of Draco and feeling impossibly torn, and equally incapable of backing out.

Shaking the water out of his hair, Harry grabs the bar of soap and washes himself thoroughly, before rinsing the suds and stepping out of the shower. He wraps a towel around his waist and pads to his bedroom, leaving wet footprints on the floorboards. Naked, not even bothering to dry off properly, he climbs under the covers of his bed with a sigh.

Tomorrow. He’ll sort everything out tomorrow.

And with that promise in mind, he lets himself fall asleep.

#Burn the witch #lettersbyelise #Drarry #drarry fic rec #fic rec #drarry squad #draco malfoy #harry potter #scorpius malfoy #Carey's bookmark fic recs #carey's personal bookmarks

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curiosity-killed · 4 years

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a bow for the bad decisions: chapter 13

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(on ao3)

The sects squabble over what’s left of Wei Wuxian in the Burial Mounds. There’s no body to claim or burn, so they rise up against each other over scraps and trinkets. Jiang Cheng can’t bring himself to enter the cave where he last saw his brother alive; he stands still and turned away from all of it, somehow removed from his own body. Around him, the little village smolders and charred walls collapse into the ash. Bodies are borne down the mountainside where possible. The dead outnumber the living now even with the Seal destroyed, and there are some so thoroughly shredded that it’s impossible to tell which body the parts belong to. No one says what happened to the Wen remnants, but Jiang Cheng can see the seals and wards half-burnt across the houses, closing them off and preventing entry. None of the seals would stop the wood from burning. Turning away from them, Jiang Cheng holds tight to Sandu and lets Bujue and Xingtao handle the other sects. His palms still ring with the memory of vibrations, the echoes of his brother’s last gasps.

Around him, he hears murmurs, unquiet complaints about Yunmeng Jiang taking Wei Wuxian’s sword. No one can find Chenqing, and without the flute as a prize, the Jin sect in particular grows petulant. One of their disciples whines too close to Jiang Cheng about unreasonableness, and Jiang Cheng feels something cold and vicious rise in his chest. He turns to them, jaw tight and a sneer curling his lips.

“He was a disciple of Yunmeng Jiang and I’m the one who killed him,” he spits. “Remind me, what did you do?” Jin Guangyao hurries up then, already trying to make peace with blood and ash still staining his cream robes. Jiang Cheng swallows bile and doesn’t let himself reach for the flute hidden in his sleeve. He returns to Lotus Pier with four disciples dead and his brother’s blood still soaked into his sleeves. Their party is silent, grey-faced and withdrawn. Bujue holds himself with a fragile stiffness as if he is held upright by only fraying force of will. Xingtao healed the gash cutting across the left side of his face back in the Burial Mounds, but a thin thread of black remains through it, like the resentment wove itself into his skin. They land before the gate and Jiang Cheng tries not to feel the warm loop around his wrist. His stomach is empty from throwing up everything back in the ashes of their victory, and it gives a hollow twist, queasy. When they first returned to Lotus Pier after the war, their home was rife with ghosts. So many had died violent deaths here, had been tortured, murdered, desecrated. They had spent three weeks liberating trapped spirits, burying their bodies, completing their last wishes. He had known almost every spectral face that appeared, bloodied and wailing, before them. Some were so badly damaged that they had been little more than convoluted knots of resentment and pain, faces torn away so that they barely even resembled the humans they once were. Wei Wuxian had been the one to handle these. He’d sit in lotus position, palms upturned in offering, and let them show him their stories. Jiang Cheng had sat beside him throughout, one hand clinging to Sandu and the other tight around Wei Wuxian’s own clarity bell. Each time, Wei Wuxian had pulled out of Empathy looking half-spectral, drawn thin as fog. Jiang Cheng would help him to his feet, keep his arm close when Wei Wuxian stumbled. He was always quieter afterwards, too, as if he had used up all that frenetic energy that usually animated him. “When’d you become so good at Empathy, anyway?” Jiang Cheng had asked once, when they were walking back to their rooms. The last spirit had been particularly brutal; one of their shimeis, who had tried to stand up for their littlest disciples, and had earned herself a tortuously slow death. She’d joined the sect around the same time as Wei Wuxian and had always been bright and fearless. There had been tears running down Wei Wuxian’s cheeks before he slipped out of the connection. Now, his lips twisted and he looked away, out into the lake-dark night. There were shadows in his eyes, edges to his tight expression that looked like hunger manifested in bone. “I had practice,” he said, and Jiang Cheng had wanted to press, to ask when and where and why — but he shied away from the knife-sharp cracks in his brother’s eyes. Lotus Pier has long since been cleansed, but Jiang Cheng walks haunted through its halls all the same. His feet carry him to his brother’s room, and he slides open the door half-expecting to see Wei Wuxian hunched over his desk, scribbling away at some design. He opens it to emptiness instead. It’s been almost two years since his brother lived here, and the room is far tidier than he ever kept it. Bedding sits neatly folded on his mattress; all the drawers are closed. Swallowing, Jiang Cheng forces himself to step inside and close the door behind him. It’s too neat, too still and swept, but it still looks like Wei Wuxian’s room. There are his brushes and here, an unfinished drawing. He picks it up carefully, holds it gingerly in his calloused hands. The three of them form a small triangle on the paper, black strokes sketching out their smiles and hair. There are rabbits in their laps, and he realizes abruptly that he remembers this moment. That last day at Cloud Recesses, the last morning of their childhood, even if they’d had no idea at the time. There’s something choking in his throat, a chrysanthemum unfurling all its fine white petals. Wei Wuxian must have started painting it in the days before Baifeng Mountain. Care has been taken with both a-jie and Jiang Cheng’s forms, their faces delicately drawn with warm smiles. The lines run out along Wei Wuxian’s figure, his arms posed as if to reach both of them but unfinished, his face sketched as if he couldn’t quite remember it. A white gap separates him from them, bleeds into the space between the lines. His hands are shaking, he realizes distantly. The paper flutters between his fingers, desperate little wingbeats. Setting it down, he forces himself to straighten and turn away. There’s a chest along the far wall where Wei Wuxian always kept little trinkets that somehow mattered to him. Father had given him the box himself years ago, back when Wei Wuxian first came to them and never quite trusted that he got to keep the things he was given. It’s spelled, warded against decay or intrusion. Even the Wen fires couldn’t touch it when the rest of Lotus Pier burned. Laying his palm flat on the lid, Jiang Cheng can feel his brother’s own additions to the protections hum against his skin. The energy is still so alive, still contentedly ringing the entire box. Even now, it feels like him — feels like Wei Wuxian’s bright laughter and his solid shoulder shoved against Jiang Cheng’s arm. If he closes his eyes, Jiang Cheng can almost imagine he’s here, almost believe that the qi he feels is from his brother’s singing core and not this lifeless box, this tiny vault of precious nothings. He doesn’t let himself. Releasing a shaking breath, he shifts his hand so that he can try to open the lid. Mostly, he isn’t expecting to be able to. Wei Wuxian surely warded the chest against opening to any but his own hands. Instead, the lid lifts easily at his touch. Guilt tugs in his gut at this silent permission, at the implicit trust even now, even after all he’s done. Within the chest are little mementos from throughout their life: the nine-petaled lotus hairpin a-jie had given Wei Wuxian the day they received their courtesy names, an old grass toy from when they were young, a copy-book from Cloud Recesses with ‘Cangse Sanren’ inked neatly into its cover. His hand shakes as he pulls Chenqing from his sleeve and lays her to rest among them. He closes the doors behind them and then seals them, bringing up his hands to write a tight array to lock the room from inside or out. There’s a hum, a faint shimmer through the walls as his qi writes new protections into them. It’s wasteful. Excessively indulgent. The rooms should be used, after all, and Wei Wuxian won’t be returning to claim them himself. Pathetic, he hears in Mother’s voice. Lowering his hands, Jiang Cheng closes his fingers around Zidian’s ring. It’s temporary. Compartmentalization in its most physical form. He’ll sort through Wei Wuxian’s things and empty out the room eventually but not — not yet. He can’t yet, can’t bear to walk back into that room, much less close himself off enough to divvy up Wei Wuxian’s belongings and give them away. Once he’s had some time, once his robes aren’t stiff with his blood. He’ll get to it then. Suibian is placed on a rack in the ancestral shrine, another insult his mother never would have permitted. He thinks briefly that he should at least clean the blade before setting it away — but some of the Jin disciples had tried unsheathing it in the Burial Mounds and found the sword sealed. So loyal, he thinks around a knot in his throat as he lifts the sleek wood scabbard. Wei Wuxian would never believe it, that he could inspire such love and devotion. Jiang Cheng should have done a better job of telling him, should have done something, anything to protect him, to stop it from going so far—

Thank you.

The sobs tear out of him, hideous and heaving. His shoulders shudder beneath the gales of his grief, and tears run down his cheeks like rain. He killed him. He killed him. His brother is never coming back. He’ll never get to tell him, never get to apologize or hug him or be dragged into mischief by him. His brother’s gone and he’s the one who did it. He’s the one who killed him and for what? For the mercies of a sect that would see them all bled dry? For a reprieve from the whispers and gossips of cultivators who never bothered to know his brother as anything other than a leashed hound? He’ll never get to see their nephew. He’ll never get to find that shishu who so impressed him. He’ll never get to come home again because Jiang Cheng killed him and let him be torn apart by the world’s anger. His knees buckle, fold beneath him, and he crumples over them. He’s gone. He’s gone he’s gone he’s gone— Huddled over his blood-soaked skirts, Jiang Cheng weeps. He’s still crouched there hours later, tears dried and throat choked, when Bujue finds him. “Zongzhu?” he asks. Trembling, Jiang Cheng keeps his head bowed and refuses to look up. A small hand comes to rest on his shoulder. “Zongzhu, Xiong-daifu is waiting to see you,” Bujue says gently. For what? He’s not the one who’s injured. He’s not the one who needs saved. It’s too late. He’d told Wei Wuxian to see Xiong Chunfeng back when all this began — could they have avoided it if he’d only pushed him to do it? He was Wei Wuxian’s sect leader, he could have ordered him. Would they have known, then, what Wei Wuxian was hiding? Would that have changed anything at all? “Zongzhu,” Bujue says. A tremor runs through his voice. “Zongzhu, please. We can’t lose you, too.” Fear and grief shake through his tone, rendering him impossibly young. He’s only twenty, still. A year younger than Jiang Cheng, orphaned like him. Meishan was taken a week before Lotus Pier, with greater skill and fewer deaths, but Bujue’s parents had both fought back. They’d been among the first to die, alongside his older sister. “Why,” Jiang Cheng manages to whisper. “Why, Bujue? Why did he do it?” He tilts his face up now, even as his eyes burn with all the tears he’s shed in this silent shrine. Bujue’s lips tremble, dark eyes wet, as he shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know. I thought — I thought we were going to get him back, zongzhu.” Tears slip down his cheeks, make his dark eyes seem doe-like and childish. The scar that cuts along his brow and down his cheek looks misplaced, wrong, juxtaposed with his wide eyes. The sight jolts something within Jiang Cheng, makes him draw in a shaking breath. He’s the sect leader. He’s the eldest disciple left of Yunmeng Jiang. An old coldness slips over his skin, the armor of the war coming back to cover him. Pushing himself to his feet, Jiang Cheng reaches out to grip Bujue’s shoulder briefly. He’s never been good at comfort. Jie could always soothe hurts away with her kindness, her unfaltering love. Wei Wuxian could tease and coax anyone into laughing until they forgot why they were crying. He’s never been any use at either of those. “Go check the barrier arrays still hold,” he says. “Take Gao Yang and Sun Hai and repair any weak points.” Hesitating a moment, Bujue’s eyes scan his face before he lifts his sleeve to scrub at his nose. He folds his hands together and salutes quickly. “Yes, zongzhu,” he agrees. “I’ll go at once.” Jiang Cheng nods and watches him turn and stride out of the shrine. Left alone once more, he closes his eyes and draws in a steadying breath. Gao Xiyang and Sun Luzhou were two of Wei Wuxian’s best students in talismans and arrays. They didn’t know him like Bujue and Jiang Cheng but they’d been impossibly fond of him, would share in that grief. At least it might be some comfort. He remembers distantly the anger he felt after his home burned and his family died. He remembers viscerally the jolt through his hand when he punched Wei Wuxian in the face, the scraped-raw feeling of his throat as he screamed at his brother and wailed into the rain. None of it comes to him now. He feels only tired, exhausted to his bones and newly aged. Is this what it means to be a sect leader? His father always looked so resigned, carried fatigue with him like a cane. Perhaps this is what Jiang Cheng actually inherited, more than a title or sect: the exhaustion of never quite being enough. Three days after he returns to Lotus Pier, Jin Zixuan wakes. He finds out through a Jin messenger butterfly; a-jie’s voice is so gentle as she delivers the news. “Zixuan doesn’t think a-Xian meant to hurt him,” her voice says, “but he can’t remember much at all. It doesn’t matter. There was never going to be any atonement for Wei Wuxian, and what would it matter if the world forgave him? His sentence has already been passed. The world was his judge, Jiang Cheng his executioner. There is no exoneration in a death sentence. The message goes on, lays out the truth in soft, familiar tones. “Wen-guniang has been working very hard, along with the Jin physicians, but they say there is too much scarring in his core and meridians to remove.” She doesn’t say it, but Jiang Cheng can hear the rest of that information. Jin Zixuan lives, but he will never be the radiant cultivator he was before Wen Ning punched a hand through his chest. Even if he can still wield Suihua, he will never inherit his father’s mantle as Chief Cultivator. With a weakened core, he may not even inherit the sect. Jin Guangyao has proven himself so useful since the war. A month later, he hears that Wen Qing has left for Qinghe with the Nie sect. Alone at his desk, Jiang Cheng worries at Zidian’s ring on his finger. In the days after the siege, he’d wanted to run to Carp Tower, to scoop up a-jie and a-Ling and Wen Qing and bring them all back here where he could guard them himself. He hadn’t, of course, because there was no possible way to do so without causing a diplomatic incident with at least two separate sects. Still, the desire had burned, hungry and terrified, behind his breastbone. If he could bring them here, he could keep them safe between Zidian and Wei Wuxian’s wards that still hum, steady and unfailing. They say Wen Ning has disappeared, and no Wen made it off that mountain alive. Sour spills into his mouth at the thought of a-Yuan, of a solid weight on his ankle, of that bright laughter mirroring Wei Wuxian’s. His dreams of bringing the boy here, training him the way he and Wei Wuxian were trained, now seem so distant and bitter. Maybe it’s better that Wen Qing goes to Qinghe. She’ll be safe there. As safe as anywhere else, anyway. Having her here would only hurt her, remind her of all the family he helped kill. No one hears of Lan Wangji after the siege. Jiang Cheng thinks of the broken grief in his eyes, the flash of his robes as he was thrown to the ground. Someone would have seen if he died. Someone would have said. Hanguang-jun couldn’t just disappear without the world’s notice. He tells himself he’s not worried, that whatever Lan Wangji had with Wei Wuxian, it doesn’t make him Jiang Cheng’s responsibility. He turns his back on the past and barricades himself from the old hurts. There is work to be done in Lotus Pier and more yet outside of it, the restabilizing of their whole world after the massacre in the Burial Mounds. In the months after the siege, all the sects are busied with funerals and mourning. They retreat, pull back to lick their wounds and shore up their defenses. Within Yunmeng, Jiang Cheng stretches his reach. His mother’s information network still spiderwebs through the territory and beyond, and he attunes himself to its pathways and processes. This would have been Wei Wuxian’s duty, once, but instead, he finds Bujue at his side as they sift through reports and determine priorities. Sightings of demonic cultivators pile up in a high stack until Jiang Cheng and Bujue both go out to follow them. They don’t talk much on these trips. A desperation runs through Jiang Cheng, childish in his hope. Wei Wuxian walked off death before. He’d done so many impossible things. He knows better than to believe it. It’s a child crying for his big brother to chase away a nightmare, begging for comfort that can never come. Still, they look. They find bereaved mothers trying to bring their children back to life. They find raging fiends trying to seize power over their neighbors through ghouls and curses. They find cultivators rotting out their own cores; they find mediocre people scrambling to chase dreams they thought out of their reach. Yunmeng issues a proclamation that declares demonic cultivation a capital offense and lays out the punishments risked for such practices. The other sects affirm and support the proclamation, permit Jiang Cheng greater jurisdiction along their borders. What else can they do? The majority of two generations across the world have been slaughtered by demonic cultivation first through Wen Ruohan’s war and then Wei Wuxian’s rampage. No family has been left untouched by its ravaging claws. It only makes sense that Yunmeng Jiang is taking the lead; they were, after all, the ones most injured by the ghostly path. They are the ones best suited to meting out punishment. The ones who are hurting others, killing their family or neighbors out of greed and revenge, are executed with the same swiftness as any fierce corpse. Jiang Cheng has grown used to the stench of Zidian’s burn through flesh and hair, and he no longer flinches when Sandu slides through a demonic cultivator’s guts. He doesn’t let himself notice the color of their robes, the shade of their expression as they die. The others, the few who have fallen onto this path out of desperation rather than desire — those are offered three options. First, for those who are young enough and have potential: come back to Yunmeng and accept a position within the Jiang where they can learn proper cultivation. Second, for those who are too old or lack the potential for a golden core: lay down this path and walk away back to mundane living. Third, for those who refuse either: kneel for Sandu’s kiss. It makes his stomach twist to see how many bend their knees. His hunts take him through Yunmeng, and he accepts invitations to meet with other sects at their own residences. He does not offer any to come to Lotus Pier. He has given enough, hacked away at his own soul, for them. Let them be the hosts, gracious and generous. He sees jie when he comes to Carp Tower to speak with Jin Guangshan and his ever-present shadow in the shape of Lianfeng-zun. He goes to Qinghe and Nie Huaisang only tries to get him to come out drinking once before giving up; he carefully does not hope to see Wen Qing on these trips. On the anniversary of the siege, all the great sects come together at the feet of the Burial Mounds. Together, five thousand cultivators pour their energy into the greatest summoning spell Jiang Cheng has ever heard of. Qi rushes through them, slips between them like they are the golden core in some massive chest. The lines of the array act as meridians, directing the qi until half of the Yiling countryside could be illuminated in spellwork. Surely no other spell has received such force of intention, such overwhelming spiritual energy behind it. The elders of every sect confer — or, well, the elders of every sect except Yunmeng Jiang, who no longer has elders to confer — and agree that no spirit could choose to refuse such a summons. If Wei Wuxian’s spirit lingers, still, then it would surely be dragged into the array whether he wished it or not. Jiang Cheng’s not sure what he hopes for as he takes up his position across from Lan Xichen in the central formation. No, that’s not true. He wants to see his brother. He wants, desperately, for the chance to talk to him — to apologize, to ask why, to demand answers. He doesn’t want to watch Wei Wuxian be destroyed once more. He doesn’t want to help kill him a second time. If he appears now, the other sects will set to work destroying his soul permanently. He sits and steeps in his fearful indecision all night long, and no spirit appears in the midst of their thousands. Opening his eyes to see empty space before them, Jiang Cheng swallows down the hollowing ache in his chest. Wei Wuxian’s spirit hasn’t been drug from the afterlife to be destroyed before him. No intact spirit could resist the demand of so powerful a spell. Grief wars with hope as he flies home. They drag themselves into an exhausted stalemate. He never receives an invitation to Cloud Recesses in those first three years. Some part of him stings at the silence, though he has no right to expect anything else. He’s never had any special relationship with Gusu Lan, after all. Still, his heart gives a protesting pang. Lan Xichen is only a few years his elder, became sect leader himself when his father died in the war. His brother has vanished, never seen at his side at discussion conferences. If he had allowed himself to think about it at all, Jiang Cheng might have thought they would find some camaraderie through that common ground. And if Lan Wangji is there, is recovering in the safety of his home — who better to understand, who else was there to see the ruin and waste? No invitation arrives.

#mdzs #cql #the untamed #untamed fic #my writing

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angelkurenai · 5 years

Text

Imagine being able to heal others by taking their injuries. After a fight, you heal Jack, you are left weaker and hurt and he feels guilty and sad, because he’s in love with you.

“Look, I know you think that you can use him as some sort of interdimensional can opener, and that's fine. But don't act like you care about him, because you only care about what he can do for you.” Dean's whole attitude along with his words made your blood boil and at the same time your heart drop.

“And what about me?” you asked in a softer voice, coming into view “Am I also defending Jack because I can benefit off him too?”

“(Y/n)” he sighed, avoiding your eyes mostly out of guilt “Don't. Just don't get involved in this. You can't-”

“What? Understand? Oh I understand perfectly fine, Dean. You being unable to deal with your grief the proper way is the problem here, not Jack.” you stepped forward, despite your blurry vision or all kinds of emotions bubbling up inside of you “Come on, tell me I am also trying to gain something. Say that's the only reason I'm close to him. Only thing is, I have no benefit to gain from him, do I?”

“(Y/n)-”

“No, this time you will hear me out. Jack is trying, ok? He is trying to help, he is trying to improve himself and he didn't even do anything wrong in the first place. He's to this world, he's new to emotions, he's new to everything and despite how hard it is for him, he's doing his best. How can you not see it?” your voice lowered “He's good, Dean. He's really good and I can see it. He's not responsible for any of the terrible things that happened. He's been only kind to me for so long. He's just broken, but he's not like his father by any means. He's nothing like the devil. You heard Donatelo his powers are pure and I can see it too, he's just innocent. He's sweet, and caring and-”

“Totally your type huh?” he cut you off in a rough voice, his jaw clenching.

Your eyes widened, the air got knocked out of your lungs. It was one thing knowing it and trying to deny it to yourself and it was another thing to hear it out loud, from someone else who had also noticed it. “I- I- What?”

“Not used to someone saying it out loud?” he asked in a gruff voice, his eyes hardening “Well that's the truth and you know it too. Yes, you're right, you're not doing it because you have something to gain from him but deep down you probably are. You're hoping you can get some affection from him in return, and that's probably more pathetic. You're doing it because of your feelings for the guy.”

“Dean” Sam warned in your defence, when he saw your eyes fill with tears. Even if he knew it, he wasn't supposed to say it out loud and in this harsh tone.

“But you're so blinded by your feelings for him that you don't even see him for who he is. You think he's perfect, you think he's nice and sweet and willingly ignore the fact that he could become worse than satan himself. You think everyone saying something bad about him is just because they have a problem but you don't see it's because your boyfriend is to blame for all of it. You think he's great because your stupid feelings are getting in he way of doing your job right. You side with Sam but you both forget that everything that's happened is because of him!” him roaring the words made you take a step back. Before Sam could protest though he spoke again. “So if you wanna pretend you're doing it because he's actually good, then that's fine! Go ahead and lie to yourself, but you can't lie to me. You only care for him for his pretty eyes and smile and not-”

But you didn't let him finish as you growled “Fuck you. I care about his good heart and caring nature!” you walked past him to leave before stopping for a second “I lost people I loved to but unlike you I am not blinded by my grief.” and with that you were gone, leaving them to continue their own argument.

You let a soft sigh, blinking you were brought back to reality. Of course Dean had apologized for snapping at you the way he did, and you didn't hold a grudge on him because up to some point you could understand him. Besides, everything apparently happened for a reason. You moved your eyes away from the pencil you had been staring at for the past couple minutes. It was the same pencil which you and Sam had tried to help Jack move with his powers and the one that now brought back all these memories. There was only so much you could do in a bed, without the ability to move because your entire body was aching.

“I'm sorry.” it was a weak murmur, for a moment you thought it was only your imagination. It was only you heard it again that you felt your drop in realization that not only was it real, but it was Jack's broken voice that said it. “I'm so sorry. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have let this happen.”

Turning your head you found him sitting in a chair by your bed, his face buried in his hands. You realized that he didn't expect an answer, probably talking to you but he thought you were still sleeping. “Why do you keep hurting people? Why the ones you love? Why?” this time you understood he was talking to himself, the anger in his voice hurting you more than your wounds now did.

Parting your lips you found it impossible to speak. A dry sound came out of your lips and it was enough to alert him that you were awake. His head shot up and his eyes widened when he saw your eyes were already on him. “(Y/n)!” he breathed out your name and in a blink of an eye he was taking a sit next to you on the bed, his hands taking hold of yours.

You cleared your throat softly before attempting to speak again. “H-Hey Jack.” thankfully it didn't hurt, although it came out as low and raspy. You've been sleeping for quite some time as it seemed.

“How are you feeling? Are you still hurting? You don't look good. Should I do something? Can I?” he asked urgently but you shook your head with a smile.

“Did Dean give you hell about it?” you asked with a small smirk, trying to lighten the mood but he sadly didn't even try to give you a small smile.

“No, not when-” you tilted your head to the side with a frown when he paused “Not when he saw me holding your body and crying while begging you to wake up. He just- he helped me get you here and let me stay by your side when I asked him to.”

His words made your smile fall as well, your heart dropping to your stomach. As you tried to get up in a sitting position, he placed his hands on your shoulders and stopped you. “Don't- don't try to stress yourself, please. You need to rest, your wounds are still very severe.”

“My wounds are just fine. I'm a big girl and I've taken worse. But you-” you took hold of one of his hands and squeezed it “Have no reason to blame yourself for it.”

His eyes slowly cast down when he realized you'd heard him. The guilt on his face was very clear, despite your words. “How?” he asked in a raspy voice “How can I not blame myself when this- when you can't even move because I was so naive?”

“Perhaps innocent is the better word to use. And believe me-” you got up in a sitting position, despite how sore your body felt “That is one of the most beautiful things to be, especially in a world full of so much darkness, Jack. Besides, this was my choice and mine alone. It's just not fair for you to take all the blame. If anything, the rest of it was Asmodeus' doing, he hurt me not you.”

“He didn't hurt you this bad though. He didn't hurt you to the point where you were... barely alive.” he pulled his hand away from your grasp, his eyes refusing to meet yours “That was my doing.” he choked out, burying his face in his hands again.

“No, no it wasn't.” you shook your head “Jack look at me.” but he didn't “Jack. Please, don't do this. Look at me, come on.” he hesitated “Jack, I really need you to look me in the eyes.” he slowly but surely did “Do you remember what I told you about your powers the first time you thought they were only meant for chaos and destruction?”

“I...” he gave you a weak nod “That they were a gift and I should see them as such. Because as a gift, they could be used to do some good to others, not just hurt them. Just like yours.”

“Exactly.” you reached out and placed a hand on his cheek “My empathy, having the ability to take others' pain has always been like that, even if I too struggled to see it in the beginning. And just like I am sure you will one day use your powers to help me, the way I helped you. Taking your pain and wounds was my decision, if I ended up weaker and much more hurt isn't on you.”

“But I- I should have seen it coming.” his voice was shaky, his glossy eyes casted down but he couldn't bring himself to pull away. He loved its warmth and the comforting feeling it gave him. Not to mention the way it seemed to make his heart swell beautifully inside his chest with love. “I should have stopped you, I should have never agreed to it. I should have not let you take my pain and allow yourself to become so weak. I- I-”

“Jack, you put up a fight far bigger than I expected you to, to be honest. Especially given your state.” you let a soft groanwhen you tried to scoot closer to him, but ignored it along with him when he tried to stop you. You cradled his face in your hands, his eyebrows raising and his beautiful eyes widening as he bashfully looked at you. “You did all you could, alright? Both in protecting me and fighting against letting me take your pain. But we both know just how stubborn I can be when I want to. There is no stopping me when it comes to the ones I care about, especially when it comes to you. I'm used to getting hurt, Jack, it's part of the job and I've had to endure it for years. But you're still so new to this, heck everything around you, you wouldn't be able to take it. So, yes, I would have still taken your pain even if that was the last thing I did.”

“No” he whispered in a low ad breathless way, his eyes filled with horror “No, I would never allow you to do such a thing. I- I would rather give my life for you than let you do that for me. It's-” he shook his head, eyes casting down “It's far less important than yours. It's clearly nothing compared to yours. You've done so much good in this world and I- I only know how to hurt people. I can't do one good stupid thing. If- if giving up my life was for your well-being then I would finally have a purpose. My life just... doesn't matter.”

“What?” it felt as if all air was knocked out of your lungs. You felt as if someone had stabbed you right through the heart. “Jack what are you-” you stopped yourself, your throat felt tight and it hurt to speak. You took in a deep breath and looked him the eyes again. “No” you said firmly yet gently “No, don't you ever say that again. Nobody's life is any less important than any other's, especially yours. And don't you fucking dare tell me your life does not matter, because your life is the most important thing to me, Jack! You are the most important person to me and I'd be damned if I let something happen to you. You...” let out a trembling breath, smiling softly yet sadly because of what he'd said “You've already done so much good, especially for me, that you can't see it.”

“I... I have?” his eyes widened and you noticed the corners of his lips lifted slightly into a hopeful smile. His eyes still glossy and it broke your heart to think he was on the verge of tears.

“Can't you see how much more beautiful you've made it? Jack, after losing Cas a-and possibly Mary, I didn't think I'd ever be able to see myself smile again but you've managed to take away such a weight off my shoulders. You made me find the hope I thought I'd lost, you showed me the positive and beautiful side of life that I had slowly started to forget all about the more I got into this job. And you did it so easily, so effortlessly that I-” you tucked a few stray strands out of his forehead, a giggle slipping past your lips when he did smile “You have no idea how thankful I am to you for this nor how I will never be able to repay you for all of it.”

“I don't...” he looked down at on of your hands that was on your lap and took hold of it “I don't need anything, no actions or good things. I already-” he paused, a shy smile breaking on his lips, wider than before, certainly happier, and much more confident than you'd ever seen on the young man. “I already have your love, and that is all I need.” he said caringly, rubbing his thumb over your hand in soft circles.

Your eyes widened and all the air got knocked out of your lungs. Your smile fell and your eyes widened. You looked at him back and forth, trying to search for a sign that could tell he didn't mean it in a romantic way like you did or he had not heard your argument with Dean but you couldn't see any. “How do you-”

“I-” he shrugged softly “I heard you and Dean, when you had that argument and you tried to defend me. And I've ever since been trying to look up and discover if... my feelings for you are the same.” you literally held your breath, waiting for him to say if he did or not. The squeeze he gave your hand was the first sign before he spoke. “And they are. So, as long as it is up to me, I won't allow anything to happen to the woman I love even if I get hurt in the process.”

“Then it's good-” you tried to swallow over the lump in your throat, ignoring the way your heart hammered inside your chest and just how your cheeks were heating up “That I love you enough to take this and every other risk.”

He smiled sweetly, letting you rest your head on his shoulder. He brought his hands as carefully as he could not to hurt you, around your shoulders. He hesitated but in the end kissed your forehead before he whispered “We'll take it together.”

#supernatural #supernatural imagine #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural one shot #supernatural x reader #jack #jack kline #jack x reader #jack kline x reader #jack imagine #jack kline imagine #jack fanfiction #jack kline fanfiction #jack one shot #jack kline one shot

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wolfpawn · 5 years

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Life is a Game of Risks, Chapter 44

Chapter Summary - As Tom broached the idea of a holiday with Alexianna, they discuss other matters.

TRIGGERS - Past domestic abuse, Past emotional abuse, Past sexual abuse.

Previous Chapter

Tags: @damalseer @hiddlesbitch1 @winterisakiller @theoneanna

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Tom's nostrils flared and his glare remained fixed on the wall ahead. He was not an aggressive man but at that moment, he shook in anger. He had never felt so angry at a supposedly throwaway comment and the manner in which he reacted shocked everyone around him.

'Tom?’ He turned slightly to see Alexianna in his peripheral vision. ‘Are you okay?’

He knew it was a rhetorical question, he knew he looked almost like a man possessed. 'Where….where's Lily?’

'Daniel has her at the moment.’

'He came early.’

'Anna got extra time off work, they decided to come down a few days more so we could all spend some time together apparently. They're thinking of staying in the Premier Inn in Archway.’

'Why not yours?’ He toyed with his hands.

‘Because they don't want to intrude too much. My place isn't big enough for four adults and a child.’ She said nothing more for a moment. 'Do you want to talk about it?’

'Did Luke call you?’ Tom ignored her question.

'He did.’ She admitted. 'Talk to me, Tom.’

'How dare she say that.’

'Tom, don't let her annoy you any further.’ Alexianna put her hand on his comfortingly. 'I know it hurts and I know it is completely and utterly wrong, so don't let it fester anymore.’ She beseeched.

Tom sighed and rubbed his hands over his face.

It was an interview, nothing mad, he had done them a thousand times before. This one was on a BBC programme, it was in reference to several topics, one of which being how UNICEF use celebrities to get people to listen to the plight of others. Tom had done work with the organisation in Sudan and was available to interview along with two others involved with the group, Martin Sheen and Ewan McGregor. The interviewer made a comment regarding seeing these tragic events in different countries and how they affect the most vulnerable, especially children and how they played on the thoughts of Sheen and McGregor as fathers. That in itself, though slightly hurtful to Tom, he did not comment on, but when the interviewer specifically dismissed Tom when Ewan had answered on his personal take on it and looked to both other men for their reactions, Tom nodding in agreement and the interviewer stated “Well, this is not really something Tom can understand fully, he is not a father” that things went downhill.

Tom first very diplomatically stated that though he did not father a child personally, he had a niece he adored and was the father figure to another little girl. Which both men and the second female interviewer nodded to. But the first interviewer did not stop there, she, without a moment's hesitation added: “Well, that's not really the same, is it?”. Her fellow interviewer looked at her appalled, as did the other two men but Tom saw red. He honestly was shocked into silence for a few moments.

'Now, hang on a second here.’ McGregor was the first to find his voice. 'Not all families are cookie cutter design. Tom said that he is that wee girl's father figure, so he does know the feeling. He does not have to be her biological father to be her father.’

'But she had a real father surely.’ The interviewer retorted.

'That's no one's business but theirs. Some kids don't have the biological parents around and that is no one's business. If she sees Tom and him alone as her Dad, then that is it, end of discussion. Stepfathers are just as much fathers when they are the ones doing the heavy lifting.’ Ewan declared.

Tom finally found his voice again. He knew Luke would be livid but he could not remain silent. 'I am the man she calls her Dad. I am there to clean up when she has a stomach bug, when she has a nighttime accident and when she has tantrums, like every other four-year-old. I collect her from school, read her stories and I can name every Paw Patrol character. I may not have given her half her genes but I am her father in everything but that. Having come from a home with separated parents myself, I understand the value of a good and present father figure and never would I have thought, in 2018, that there would be such prejudice against a family situation that does not fit within the restricting confines of one particular person's definition of a family unit. Families are not always mother, father and two kids, it is often dictated by outside circumstances that prevent such a unit existing for whatever reason; death, abuse, whatever reason and to dismiss a non-biological parent as being incapable of understanding the parental bond with a child is utter rubbish and entirely offensive, both to the child and the adult involved.’ as he spoke, Tom's anger grew in intensity.

'Here here.’ Sheen commented beside him, McGregor nodding in his seat.

'Many of the children I met in Sudan are without one or both biological parents. Many of them are in the care of relatives or in some cases, they are orphaned entirely. War and famine tend to cause such situations. They are crying for their parents, they are scared and often weak and you do not need to be a biological parent to feel empathy and heartache for them, such is not a requirement but to put a personal perspective on such situations is entirely natural. I have gone there again since having my life as it is at present and yes, on a personal level, I project my situation into it, as everyone does and it made it even more harrowing. It is a natural human process. We do it all the time in any situation. These children are what we should be focusing on, not backhanded snipes at someone for no reason other than to attack non-conformist families.’

The interviewer became the one to be silenced. She scowled at Tom who held her gaze with a glare of his own. His anger growing as she tried to get him to back down.

'Now that Tom has put that matter to rest with an eloquence and decorum I would not have been able to maintain, can we get back to the matter at hand?’ Sheen asked.

The interview continued after that but there was a tense atmosphere throughout. The second and inoffensive interviewer did most of the talking and all three men were wary of anything that the first asked.

When it was done walked off the set to see Luke looking at him with equal parts concern and anger. 'I stayed polite.’ He stated.

'I could see that it was a struggle for you.’ Luke acknowledged. 'It doesn't make it any less damaging.’

'Standing up for my personal life should not have to be seen as a potential risk. I am not racist or bigoted so why should I have to worry about what other people think of my home life?’

'Because you are a public figure and as such, in the minds of the many, you are public property.’ Luke explained. 'Look, Tom, I get it, I do. In your life, Lily is your little girl and any attack on that relationship is an attack on you and her but this was not the time for this.’

Tom was about to respond when one of the BBC representatives came over. 'Mr Hiddleston, I am so incredibly sorry for the personal attack on your personal life in that segment by one of our employees. The company does not share the views of Ms Davies.’

'It's fine. Honestly, I would never have made such a correlation. Mrs Thompson clearly did not share such views either, I understand that on occasion emotions come to the fore, as they did for myself and I must apologise also for taking the focus off the cause that I came here to support.’

'Not at all, you have every right to defend yourself and your family.’ The man stated. 'Ms Davies will be subject to reprimand for her actions. The BBC is an inclusive company and though there are some areas that require some updating, we are insistent that we will not tolerate such actions.’

'Please, I don't want a big deal made out of this.’ Tom requested. 'But thank you for taking the time to speak with me, I appreciate it.’

'Of course. Thank you, Mr Hiddleston.’ the man shook his hand again before leaving.

'So, what are people saying?’ Tom asked Luke.

'Honestly, I am half scared to look.’ the publicist responded.

Luke called Alexianna immediately after the situation and informed her. She had been due to go to a lecture but for once, she felt she was needed elsewhere and got a taxi to the BBC to help placate the irate Tom.

After a few minutes, she realised what he really needed and messaged her brother, who rang back, Lily on his lap.

'Daddy?’

'Yes, Princess?’ He turned to see Lily on the phone, Baloo in her hands. 'Lily?’

'Why are you sad, Daddy?’

'I am not sad, Love.’

'Are you angry?’

Tom looked at her with incredible guilt. Lily had sensed his upset even through the device and seeing how the other adults were with Tom, especially her mother, she was trying to make sense of the situation. 'No, Princess. I am not angry, not really.’

'What happened? Did you not get a prize? I get sad when someone else gets a prize in school and I don't.’

Tom wanted nothing more than to pull her to him and onto his lap. 'No Lily, it's not that.’

'Do you want Baloo? You can have him if you want, for a while. I need him for bed. But if you are really sad you can have him tonight.’

Tom felt his gut clench at her kindness. Every time he thought it was impossible to love her more, Lily proved him wrong. 'To be honest, Lily. I need you more than I need Baloo.’ He confessed.

Confused but seeing his upset, Lily simply kissed the phone. 'I want to cuddle you too, Daddy.’

'Lil's?’ She looked at her mother. 'A lady said something to Tom today and it hurt his feelings.’

Tom looked at Alexianna, shocked she was admitting this to her daughter.

'She said that he cannot understand what it is like to be a dad because he is not one.’

'Yes, he is.’ Lily declared angrily. 'He's my Daddy.’ She looked at Tom, her indignation clear. 'She is just a silly poo poo bum head.’ She stated factually. 'Tom is my daddy. He loves me and I love him and that lady is stupid.’

'The boss has spoken.’ Daniel chuckled.

Tom felt himself fill with pride at Lily's words. Any doubt he had as a result of the interviewer and her statements were quelled by Lily's declaration.

'You told her that, didn't you, Daddy?’

'I told her that I was your dad and that being your dad means more than just making you.’ He admitted.

'You want to be my daddy, that makes you extra special.’ She beamed. Tom looked to Alexianna, who gave him a look of “I told you so” with her smile. 'Are you coming over for dinner?’

Tom looked at Alexianna, who gave a look of “up to you” before looking at the phone and the hopeful look on Lily's face. 'Yes, I'll just finish here and Mummy and I will come home soon and we can have dinner with Uncle Daniel and Anna then.’

There was an elated cheer from the phone before “I love you” and “goodbye”.

Tom looked at Alexianna. 'Thank you.’

'You needed to hear it from her, not me.’

'You missed your lectures for me.’

'You have been there for me when I needed it, what sort of partner would I be if I was not there for you?’

#Life is a Game of Risks #chapter 44 #tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston fic

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corellian-smuggler · 6 years

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“Leia.”

“Go away Luke,” she muttered, refusing to look at him. She couldn’t stand it, not if she met his gaze—without even seeing his face, Leia could sense as though with some kind of physical awareness the touch of his keen eyes upon her, knew instinctively the tenderness of his expression, the crease to his brow, the piercing compassion, empathy, and concern she would see there. It would be too much, she knew, too disarming. Here she was day in and day out, desperate to maintain her composure, her control; if she fell apart, how would she ever pull herself together again? And there wasn’t time for her to lose it—one second could be the difference. She needed to be solid, focused, efficient. She needed to be strong for him—constantly planning, training, searching—but strong for herself, too. How would she survive if she let herself truly feel this? And she needed to maintain her position, needed to fight the Empire, inspire the troops, cling to her authority for when the time came to make a demand... take a leave...

“Leia,” Luke’s voice again, so quiet.

“Please, Luke,” she begged, scrubbing her hands over her face. Her voice cracked, and she physically felt herself—inside herself—scrambling, grappling for impassivity, for compartmentalization, for repression. “I can’t do this. I can’t. Please, just leave.”

There was a moment of silence during which she could almost have deluded herself into believing that he would relent, but then from across the small room the sound of his quiet footsteps sounded; she tracked his movement across her quarters to her cot, where she was huddled like a frightened child. The furthest thing from regal, from princess or soldier or spy, so far from senator or leader was Leia in that moment. Curled on her side with her back facing her door, wishing she’d never given Luke the key code to enter, Leia felt unbearably human. She hurt everywhere. Her heart, yes, but deeper somehow even than that. She was angry and afraid and guilty and ashamed, and if she looked at Luke, she knew, the fragile dam that held all those feelings at bay would crack and break, swept away by the violent tide of her loss.

“No,” Luke murmured simply. She tensed as she felt the mattress behind her shift with the sudden weight of his body perched behind her. “I’ve left you alone with this for too long already, Leia.”

“It’s been three days,” she hissed, defensive and brittle. When had she become like this, a person who lashed out, who pushed away the people who cared about her, terrified of hurting, of people seeing her hurting. When had pain started feeling like such shameful weakness? Never would she have faulted anyone else for their feelings, and yet her own? The durasteel plates she bolted all over herself, the makeshift, shoddy armor? Cold, collected mask?

Oh, she knew. She knew the answer, knew when. And how it had cost her, how it had cost her with him, all the wasted time. All the bitter fights just to keep him at arm’s length. Keep him out, keep him from seeing all the cracks in her metal, all the bruised, tender parts of herself that she needed to protect at all costs, so vulnerable, so easily hurt again. She was so hurt now, again, like she’d known she would be. Like it was a premonition, a foreseen truth—like she’d known that giving into him would bring her pain.

It was just a different source of pain than she’d initially feared.

“I’m fine,” she snapped at Luke. “Please,” she said again, softer.

“Leia,” Luke breathed, and to her horror just those two syllables brought forth a hot sting to her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

Her lip began to tremble, and her hand shook as she tugged the covers more closely around herself, her entire body rigid.

“It wasn’t your fault—“

“It was my fault,” Luke cut across her, sounding, shockingly, angry himself. Angry with himself. “It’s my fault, Leia. I should have gotten to you sooner, I should have been there. He didn’t want you guys, you said so—it was because of me. You were just bait for me,” he bit out. There were goosebumps on Leia’s skin—under the blanket, hiding the worn, too-big shirt she didn’t want Luke to see, and on her skin and in herself it was like she could feel Luke’s anguish, and self-blame, and grief, and loss. Were those just her own feelings? Was she crazy? The sensation was eerily distinct, this acute empathy, and she knew, without a doubt, that Luke was hurting just like she was.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she insisted again, sick with anger, then, at herself, and only the bolstering strength of her anger allowed her to sit up and turn to face him, allowed the blanket to fall to her lap, exposing the faded t-shirt she wore to him. Finally, then, she saw Luke’s face, and instantaneously, as she swore, hot, angry tears leaked over her eyelashes.

“It’s my fault, Luke,” she cried, furious. She was furious.

“No, Leia—“

“It is!” she gasped. “If it weren’t for me, he would have paid off his bounty months ago. I was the one who always manipulated him, insinuated he had no principles if he left. I was the one who insisted he stayed with the rebellion, Luke. He didn’t even believe in it, but I made him feel like a coward, like—like a bad man—every time he alluded to leaving. I said—all those terrible things to him, I said he was—complicit in slavery and oppression—I said that if he had any integrity that he would stay and fight. He didn’t pay that gangster because of me, and he only got caught,” sobbing now, when did she start sobbing? The force of it wracked her chest, stunted her breath. “He only got caught because he was making sure that I was safe,” she wept.

The dam was broken. Leia couldn’t stop.

“I missed my transport,” she confessed to Luke. “He ran back into the command center for me. He saved me—again—and if it weren’t for me that—that monster—“

Luke was adamantly shaking his head.

“No Leia,” he said, again and again. “It’s not your fault. It’s not. He wouldn’t want you to—blame yourself like this.”

Frantically swiping the scalding tears from her cheeks, Leia’s anger was dissolving, quickly dispelled by the sheer intensity of her anguish.

“How can I not blame—you didn’t see him, encased—you have no idea—!”

“I know, Leia,” he whispered.

“You don’t!”

Luke was wrapping his arms around her; she could feel that the prosthetic hand was clenched in a fist against her back, like it was some alien thing that he didn’t even want to comfort her with.

“This is why I told you to leave,” she gasped, giving up now on the futile battle with her tears. She rested her face against Luke’s shoulder, wetting his shirt as she cried. “I knew that you would make me—I needed to keep—“

“You needed to feel what you’re feeling,” Luke whispered.

“You have no idea what I’m feeling,” she sobbed.

Against her temple Luke shook his head.

“I know that you love him, Leia,” he whispered, words so certain, and in his voice the acknowledgement of undeniable truth, the allusion to the grins he hid, the knowing looks across the holochess table, his patient exasperation during their bickering and fights and flirting, and at his words Leia was lost, utterly. Love him—fear on his face as they stood in that chamber, hazel eyes lit golden amber in the terrible scarlet light. Love him—his lips against hers, the desperation, how he’d been torn away from her. Love him—her words, echoing, said before all those terrible people—why hadn’t she just said them before? Darth Vader as witness to that most precious and intimate confession. Why hadn’t she ever, ever?

She wasn’t sure for how long she cried, clinging to Luke. His arms squeezed her back just as tightly, so familiar and safe. Again she thought of the Death Star, of the day they’d met, of the unspeakable, incomprehensible anguish that had been roiling inside her, how she’d comforted him that day, comforted him for his loss. She’d been dying, dying inside, but she’d comforted Luke, because he’d been hurting, too. Unimaginable then, to have turned to him for human touch, or solace, or support. How awkward it would have felt, crying like this in front of him just a few years earlier, being held so closely, sobbing, shivering in her bed wearing Han’s ratty smashball shirt. But now turning to Luke was second nature.

“We’re going to get him back, Leia,” he vowed, holding her impossibly tighter. “I swear. We’ll get him back.”

“He could already be—what if he’s already—“

“He’s not, Leia, he’s not. I can feel it. I can feel that he’s alive.”

At this Leia finally drew back, startled, to stare into Luke’s face, into his wet, blazing eyes.

“You can feel him?” she demanded, her heart pounding. Feel him. Feel him. Never had Leia envied Luke his gift with the Force, but oh, if she could sense Han, be assured of his life.... she caught her breath. “How do you know? That it’s him?”

Luke gripped her shoulders, face so solemn. His eyes were so different now, like between the battle of Hoth and pulling him into the Falcon below Cloud City, he’d aged a hundred years. He was so different, and yet entirely the same, and Leia could see that despite the horrors that Luke might have endured—battling with a Sith Lord, losing his hand, coping with his perceived culpability just as her own guilt was eating her alive—Luke was still the same. Still himself, a man that she trusted and could depend on no matter what, and a man with such unwavering faith.

“I know, Leia,” he whispered. “You aren’t the only one who loves Han.”

Another sob shuddered up from down in her chest.

“We have to, Luke,” she choked. “We have to get him back.”

Luke looked her dead in the eye.

“Han wouldn’t give up on us,” he said vehemently. “We won’t give up on him.”

Leia could only nod vigorously, wiping again at more tears. Letting Han creep past her defenses seemed to have obliterated them in the process; it seemed that in conceding those feelings once, she was powerless to deny them again, and the crying seemed much the same. She couldn’t stop now that she’d given in to the depth of this emotion, but Luke was right. If there was anything in the galaxy that Leia knew with the utmost surety, it was that Han Solo would never have given up, if it were Luke who was lost. If it were Leia, herself, lost to him. She knew without a doubt that Han would have stopped at nothing to get them back, and she knew, with a fierce, painful fire blazing inside her, that she would not ever give up on him. Luke would not give up on him. They could count on nothing and no one—not old friends helping them out, not fairness, not safety.

But they could depend on each other.

“I hate him, Luke,” she whimpered. At once she could tell that Luke understood who she meant. “I hate him. I had to stand there while he restrained me and watch as Alderaan was destroyed. I had to stand, while he restrained me, and watch as Han was tortured. I had to watch, while he froze him inside that—that prison—I hate him.”

For the first time since he’d entered her quarters, Luke averted his gaze.

“He hurt you,” she snarled, protective, agonized as she took Luke’s one flesh-and-blood hand, held his knuckles against her chest, over her heart, over the fabric that still smelled like Han. “He hurt Han. I want him dead. I want to kill him. I hate him.”

Luke looked back into her face.

“Hate won’t get Han back,” he said slowly, his expression as tormented as she felt. “Hate won’t end this war.”

“Then tell me,” she murmured, still clutching his hand in hers. “Tell me what will.”

Luke looked down at his lap, and then at their joined hands. When he lifted his gaze again, all she could see in the blue of his eyes was bright, unwavering resolve.

“Hope,” he said. “We have to have hope.”

Leia closed her eyes and rested her forehead against his, hand-to-hand and heart to heart with her best friend, Luke who she could always depend on. Luke, who she trusted with her life, and now, with her anguish. Luke, who had raced across the galaxy to their aid, just as Vader had known he would, with such certainty, because it had been an absolute certainty. Luke who spoke of hope when her soul was blackened by such dark despair. But darkness had been the destruction of a world, and they hadn’t lost hope. Darkness had been an indestructible space station, a crumbling, besieged base, an unnavigable asteroid field. They had lived through so much darkness without losing hope, and they would live through so much more. They had to fight through so much more.

Leia curled back down onto her cot, drawing the covers up around her neck and drawing Luke down beside her, the two of them silent in their mourning—his best friend—his brother—and the love of her life—

Luke would never lose hope, she sniffled, fingers curled desperately into the softness of Han’s shirt.

They would not lose hope. Never.

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fuko-yugure · 6 years

Text

DEM (creepypasta)

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The woman standing before me was giving me her condolences, the men behind her lower their gaze while the lady spoke, and I feel my little brother hugging me as he balled his eyes out crying. I could only look at the girl, hoping it was a joke, but instead, she stands up from the chair, walked up to me and places her hand on my shoulder. My body didn’t move, I simply stayed quiet as tears rolled down my cheeks, dripping on to my shirt. I hadn’t even noticed that the woman who brought me the news had left, that the person that was always there for us, no matter the difficulties in life, had died today. the heavy guilt my heart heavy; she just wanted the best for us and yet I never thanked her, in the small time that I saw her I never hugged her, but now that she is gone I had the need to do it, even though that was impossible. Now I wouldn’t see her anymore, the heavy workload had ended her life, the same work that had provided for us to have a better future.

The voice of one of the men had pulled me from my train of thoughts, we had to pack the little we had. I stood up without a trace of emotion on my face, took the small hand of my brother and told him everything was going to be fine as we walked to the wardrobe with our clothes.

I helped Uriel with putting away his things feeling the watchful gaze of the men on me.

With everything packed in trash bags we left the small unkept apartment with no return. We got in a grey car in complete silence. The only thing that was heard was the car’s engine and the breathing of the little boy beside me.

The car stopped in front of a large building with white walls with black gates with sharp points on top. This was going to be our new ‘home’ from now on. We got out the car and on the woman’s command we enter the large house.

Only a few minutes inside and all eyes were sending daggers at my vacant gaze and the scars on my skin. Some whispered, others laughed pointing at me or even ran away. I only took Uriel’s hand with a stronger grip and advanced up to where the lady told us. She filled out some papers with our information and told to leave our stuff in our rooms. The only thing I wanted to do was to be alone for a little bit. I picked up our stuff and guided by one of the men to where the rooms are.

Arriving at the door, he signaled us which beds were ours and left us to settle in. Uriel, who had stayed quiet the whole time since we left the apartment looked at me straight in the eye, with sadness, as he breathed anxiously and whispered, “I’m scared.”

Hearing those words, I got in front of him and placed my hands on his shoulders then spoke the first thing that came to mind, “Don’t worry, DEM will take care of us.”

Just as I finished my sentence, the kid stops crying from his coffee colored eyes, saying “But mom said that DEM isn’t real.”

I didn’t know what to respond, mom never believed in his existence, always said that he was an imaginary friend I that I made to not feel lonely. Because of this we argued many times, every time DEM did something, I was blamed, but of course, since she couldn’t see him I was the one grounded. I glanced at DEM for help, but he only laughed. My brother looked at me weirdly, so I let him go silently and continued organizing our stuff.

As the days went by Uriel was able to talk to some of the other boys around the same age as him almost to the point of having a group. But for me, it was impossible, everyone looks at me with disgust, in part I could understand, I’ve been told since I was able to think rationally. At five years of age living with my mother in an abandoned building practically in the streets, this one man which we remembered every time he passed by would say that we only filled his world with shit, that it would be better that our class would die. He was the one who took my right eye as well as made the scars on my face, solely tot remind me that I was nothing. Of course, my mother found work and in time we were able to move away to the humble apartment with limited space. We were okay with the one bed until mom was pregnant and I ended up sleeping on the floor. my father and his father were both a mystery to us, my mother never told us who they were, but she also never brought men to our home, surely if she did they would leave when they saw me. Hence why I asked her about it, she deserved to be happy and I would only destroy it.

DEM also laughed at me, but he did help me sometimes, with him I didn’t feel so alone, and I owed him because of it. He accompanied me half my life, at first, he was simple an imaginary friend but I depended on him so much that he become real. No one knew since my mom worked so much that one day I ran away from home and without realizing I arrived at a dark place with various mirrors where a weird lady taught me how to make tulpas. With lots of practice DEM became real, now he is one of those creatures known as ‘tulpa’, but not yet as powerful to make himself visible to other people. I know that for him to gain more power he needs to take my energy, but that will mean I would die, so we made a deal. I do what he orders me to do while DEM only absorb just enough energy to exist.

Time has passed by very slow in this place. Sometimes new kids came, others were adopted, but for me it stayed the same. After a year my brother was almost adopted but he asked that if they were adopting him to also adopt me. The couple agreed at first but seeing me they kept quiet. The following day they adopted a different kid, leaving us both to this horrible place called orphanage.

Of course, with all the time we spent there one day a boy approached to talk to me, about maybe twelve-year-old, probably Uriel asked him to be my friend, so I wouldn’t feel so alone. But it didn’t work, DEM got jealous that I was talking with someone other than him, he ordered me to hit him. Some years ago, the same happened at school with a seven-year-old kid which ended up in the hospital with the few punches I threw at him. Needless to say, I was expelled and since then I haven’t attended school. I can read and write though since I would practice with Uriel. This kid though, I only punched him once in the stomach. They punished me by taking away my dinner for a week. It wasn’t very important to me, when we lived with mon the most meals we had a day were two.

The punishment had finished, and they made me apologize to the boy and hug him. In the hug he told me that the punch didn’t matter to him, he knew I was like this because of how I was treated and that’s why he wanted to be my friend. I was surprised by his words and gesture, but that angered DEM and I noticed. Before he could order me to do something to the boy that I would regret, I left running as fast as I could.

The boy didn’t approach me anymore, I still don’t know why but its much better like this. It scares me to imagine what DEM would have made me do to him if he tried to be my friend.

The rest of the days went the same: sleep in the bed beside Uriel, wake up, dress up, and eat breakfast at the sat seat at the end of the table so I wouldn’t need to sit beside the rest of the people. Then I would go back to the bedroom and talk to DEM until lunch time doing the same thing as breakfast, later we go to a type of school that was there where a woman taught us the basics. I would like to say that I learned something, but DEM would distract me and always ended up outside the classroom. During snack time some of the kids would go to do trials with families, they just had to spend some time with candidates and fosters. Others would just leave, already being adopted, and when this happened their friends would cry. But I stayed the same, it didn’t matter to me who left and who stayed since I didn’t talk to anyone other than DEM or Uriel, I didn’t feel empathy for anyone. After the tears and the farewells came dinner, except for those who misbehaved of course. When dinner was over, we go back to our bedrooms to sleep.

After 2 years I could not tolerate being here anymore, DEM told me that I should do something for myself. Thinking for a few days, and with help, I did it. Past midnight, on a Monday I woke up my little brother, he looked at me confused as I was a bit agitated, got a hold of his shoulders and sat him on the bed. With a serious voice I told him my plan, his face turned to a look of horror. Before he could yell I placed a hand on his mouth and with my other hand I plunged my fingers into his left eye taking it out. I broke the window and jumped out, glass shards scratched my skin some even stayed on my clothes. Now I was free and my little brother, he wouldn’t be adopted, someday I will be back to find him.

Since that day DEM and I lived going from house to house, hiding and robbing what we could. Once owners found out, DEM would help me eliminated them, and I would take a moment to take one of their eyes out and place it in the vacant hole of my right eye socket.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

#creepypasta #creepypastas #creepy #oc #creepypasta oc #horror #terror #history #brothers #tulpa #tulpa blog #blog

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talesofealdancynedom · 3 years

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Tale 18: Patrick Monabellan & the Paladins (3/4)

Tale 18: Patrick Monabellan & the Paladins (chapter 3 - In The Night 3/4) part 3. Stories of True Love

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Patrick, searched his brain for the right story to tell Holly. They sat near the fairy fire warming his home. He wanted something personal, about how he felt about his father, and about paladins. Something that described his childhood, and led him to Holly’s side in the middle of nowhere. Then Patrick remembered a small memory, that he kept for some reason. He took a deep breath, and then began to speak;

“Father was young and dedicated to his work; but desperately wanted time with his children and wife. Thus, he decided to have a family vacation to the Capital, since he was on his way there anyway for a conference. Might as well make it a long Weekend. The Capitol was the biggest city in The Grand West; the land where I grew up. Father loved magic conferences, because what fanatic does not like a convention catering to their very niche interests. Furthermore, Father’s goal was to bring unity to fey, wizards and mages, by teaching empathy and the joy of magic; with history lessons. Going to a bustling city was mother’s idea, as father felt his feral magic children, could be socialized to common folk at public school; which was intended to give us options in life. Yet mother insisted we needed more. Me and my three bigger sisters grew up on a giant gate, about the size of this valley; The deepest part of the magical forest. As mages, we had become very attached to that way of living.

We took the train to the Capitol, though we could all ride our familiars. The train is a popular and fancy way to travel outside the West lands. It is considered luxurious, even though tickets were cheap. I hear the trains very from land to land. I however, never understood the appeal of five cent trolly snacks, open public booths, and colourful paint chipping off the smooth wooden benches, rails, windows and walls. It smelled good though, like coal, dust, resin and old carpet. The train trips could take days; ours took twelve hours. My parents were forced to wrangle four very magical children in public. We were, for lack of a better word, animals.

Father said he was pleased by his children’s behavior on trips. Mother on the other hand, had a dark sense of humor; She said she had given the four of us a sleeping draft in our morning tea. She had learned to plan ahead after baby number two. It only now occurs to me, that her drugging her own children was a joke, and is very inappropriate; but still funny. An overactive sense of humor aside, mother knew five mages, confined for twelve hours on a train, could end badly. Her and father’s adventures often went crazy; “one’s problems are proportional to their power” as father would say. They must have been so nervous the entire trip.

Once in the Capital, we stayed at a castle like motel. Most of the buildings and streets in the Capitol are old, and made of brick and marble; people would rather spend good money to upkeep and preserve the architecture, then redeveloped. In the inn, my parents had their own room, and the four of us kids where to share our own. Most siblings would fight, but the four of us are very close and loved sharing a bed. Cadence, the eldest, in the middle between Calliope and Artemis, with me curled up at the foot of the bed. I was still small then. We had a whole queen suit to ourselves, because cadence had just turned old enough that our parents trusted her. This trip was indeed a treat for the lot of us. As long as we were together, and didn’t have to interact with anyone else. Which defeats the point.

While father was at the conference, trying to woo the wizard community to accept fey and mages as equals, mother went to get some shopping done. She booked a theater to perform a magician show the next day, so she wanted to get chores out of the way. I wanted to go with mother, so I could shoplift candy, but she knew this. Mother was a woman who took crap from no one. Even if I was the best at buttering her up. I love my mother so much. Anyway, She was really good at reading people because of her job. Mother was a show woman, charming people with her magic; Her magic tricks were very silly, just like her acts. If we ever leave Grand Snow, you have to see one of her shows. It’s unlike any other magic we’ve known. Anyhow, I wondered why I tried to get things past mom and dad sometimes; and then I remembered they never actually caught me when I did. Like they knew I would teach myself it was wrong via guilt. Instead of shopping with mother, like I asked, I was sentenced to spend time with my sisters; Cadence was in charge of watching her three younger siblings, as we stayed at the inn. And by ‘watch us’, I mean Cadence interpreted it as she had to tire us out on the courtyard playground, while she read. This is honestly how most fourteen-year-olds babysit to my knowledge. Huh…I guess that would have made me eight years old at the time.

The intention of keeping us at the inn, was to make sure we would be safe from wizards who conspired to exterminate mages; or kidnap us to get at our parents. We didn’t know this at the time. The common folk seemed to walk wide around us if I recall. Just imagine an eight, ten, twelve, and fourteen-year-old, each with animal familiars, using magic in the open without a parent around. Wizards. Everything scares and amazes them at the same time. In paladin training, I was told to tell people scared of magic, that ‘if you leave magic alone, it will leave you alone’. Our family would never leave magic alone. Therefore, I was planning on taking on the Capitols magic head on. I knew the Capitol of the Grand West is actually the Raven Gate’s magic forest. There was no way I was spending the whole long weekend in a tiny hotel, or being a tourist leashed to my parents.

The city was full of fey, if you looked past all the attractions for common folk. Most people in the city don’t even know it’s a magic forest, in spite of the amount of fey that live alongside them, blending in with the city’s fauna and flora. Getting out to see it would not be a problem; I knew how to escape my three sisters, to do a little exploring. I was overconfident in my abilities, viewing paladins and mages as fearless and strong. I aspired to be the same. I decided to wake at night, and leave silently to examine the streets while my family slept. I loved nighttime; and sneaking out was a pastime I used to hone my abilities. I would pretend to be a knight or paladin, cleaning the street of mythical crime. I wonder if everyone found that cute. However, roaming around at night was safer back home, in our cozy village where everyone was friends. Thus, I didn’t know any better, and assumed it was the same everywhere. But the streets in a city are too dangerous for a young boy. There is no tight knit community, easy to navigate roads, or befriended fey.

I remember it clearly; on my mini-adventures, I always had a plastic bag of five cent candies in my pocket. I enjoyed tossing them in the air and catching them in my mouth. I had a talent for it. My sisters loved tossing snacks at me to watch me catch in the air too. Each time I went exploring I did that. And just as usual, when I left that night, I have a pack of candy, and my familiar Orion by my side. I felt even more comfortable having a wolf companion around. But it was not long before I wandered into Paladins on night patrol. I froze as my interests were peaked. The one thing I had most in common with father, was a lack of fear in situations that actually warrant it; making me undeterrable from certain danger. I disregarded all consequences in the presence of real paladins before me; That was so cool to kid me. My cup was so small and easy to fill. If I recall, they were not as impressive as Amadeus, who was the paladin protecting my family, or Melida who was head paladin of the Grand West; but still. I had stars in my eyes, that blinded me with bewilderment. Danger all but disappeared. I stalked those wizards like a wolf for an hour, straying so far from the inn, that when they noticed me and asked where my parents where, I could not say.”

Patrick cuddled Holly in; the furs had begun to slip off the couch. The two of them readjusted, and relaxed further into the blankets. Holly was enchanted by Patrick’s descriptions of the Grand West. The people of Grand Snow weren’t allowed to be influenced by outside culture, or leave their pristine home, thus Patrick’s words made Holly’s imagination surge. Holly had always wondered what life was like outside the magic valley. Her family controlled the radio phone tower, and guided people in and out of the magic forest, but no details were ever given by travelers or calls. Ouroboros had left to learn more magic, medicine, and find true love, in his youth. So maybe leaving for a little while wasn’t impossible. The thought of seeing where Patrick grew up, made Holly want to see it for herself even more.

“Your family sounds lovely; I would love to meet them all. And the trains, a comfy town by a massive gate, or a magical forest in a city. It is like everything is permeated with wonder, outside these mountains. Just like here in Grand Snow; but bigger and warmer. Why would you ever leave?” Holly asked.

“My family life was something else, for sure. But the culture of wizards, and all the people; It is the exact opposite of life here. No amount of wonder can undo centuries of ingrained stigma and terrifying legends. That is why Grand Snow is protected and isolated. It is a precious oasis of peace, unattainable by the world wizards have tainted. That’s my father’s job actually; he wants to change that…” Patrick said. It made him sad that the rest of the world, only now, realized the values Grand Snow, because of his father’s work. “When I graduated from the academy, I was eager; I wanted to find somewhere to be a paladin, but I also wanted to find somewhere that had Grand Snow’s type of wonder. A place where common folk loved mages and fey, and there is snow in winter that goes up to your shins. A place that smells of pine and ice, honey or fresh wild flowers. Where mead is sweet, and I can be myself unapologetically. A mystical safe place where I can meet someone special, and is worth loyally guarding.” Patrick said. His tone had begun to rise with excitement. Just thinking of Grand Snow, Holly and the incoming spring filled him with joy. He exhaled contently. He was grateful, and glad he said yes to a less glorious post.

“We’re not done yet. That tangent was what I needed to tell the rest of the story. Don’t you want to hear what happens next before you fall asleep?”

“I’m not falling asleep.” Holly yawned. “But I don’t think you’re asking. Go on.”

<---PREVIOUS

#tales of ealdan cynedom #fantasy #short stories #story 18 #holly #patrick #morgan #emilia #cadence #calliope #artemis #orion

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allenmendezsr · 4 years

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Transform Grief

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scrapbook-imagines · 7 years

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Mermaid!Reader x McCree

Despite the calmness of the seas, Hana was absolutely insistent that she could not handle being in the boat for much longer. “What d'ya mean, darlin’? You’re the one who asked for my help with the sails.” The brunette Korean sluggishly turned her head to catch a glimpse of the tan man gripping the wheel of the boat. While his brown eyes were full of compassion and empathy, hers were not so forgiving.

“You didn’t tell me it was going to make me this dizzy!” She accused, fighting back a gag reflex.

“The water ain’t even bad, Hana.”

The girl didn’t seem to be listening anymore, glumly pressing her chin against the metal railing of the small boat as she peered down the glittery water.

“Listen, if you really feel that bad then you should probably go lie down and try to catch some shut eye; ya can’t be bothered by the rocking if you aren’t aware o’ it.”

Hana let out a few incoherent grumbles, and before Jesse could ask her to repeat herself, the girl suppressed a gag. McCree went to her aid, taking a knee as he gripped her shoulder, “Up and at ‘em,” He heaved the Korean gamer to her feet. She wobbled.

“Steady now.”

Jesse couldn’t help the tiny grin forming on his face. Sure, he felt guilty for not taking note of her discomfort earlier (even though that was impossible, as she hadn’t shown any symptoms until now) but he also thought the display was a little adorable. Just a little.

“Hey Lúcio!” Jesse hollered as he helped the girl down the steps. There sat the Brazilian man, bobbing his head to the sound of the music that was playing in his headphones. The two young adults had asked Jesse for his assistance in managing the boat, as it seemed he knew a lot more about how to care for the engine as well as how to steer. While Lúcio had been insistent that a simply explanation would suffice, the kind Southern man wouldn’t allow them anywhere near a boat without him. So, it was decided that the beach blonde would be keeping an eye on the youngsters. Seeing the ripples of the waves proved to engaging.. for the first thirty minutes. After a while, the musician grew bored with the repetitive view and decided to reside in the aft cabin until his mood changed.

“Yeah?” Lúcio removed his headphones, placing them around his neck in order to give the lifeguard his full attention, but as he caught glimpse of the woozy girl that was practically limping towards him, he was quick to realize the situation. “The waves aren’t even rough, Hana,” his laughter was soft as he helped her to lie down on one of the beds. She gave a low whine in response, which only earned a toothy grin from the latino. His gaze shifted over to Jesse, “I’ll see what sort beats I can make to make her feel better.”

Jesse nodded in agreement as Lúcio quickly made his way to the equipment he brought, the beach blonde lifted the brim of the straw hat with his index finger, “You do that. I’ll be up there try'na turn this boat ‘round, so give me a shout if you need anything.” The Brazilian gave a nod in response as he began concentration on creating something that would soothe Hana’s sea sickness.

As the gunslinger made his way back to the deck and directed the boat back on track to shore, his sharp brown eyes were quick to notice the iridescent shine of a (t/c) tail at the end of the boat. He watched how it lifted up in the air before presumably going back into the water - the end of the boat cutting off his view of what he thought was a rather giant fish. The sound of the splashing definitely indicated that whatever was submerging itself into the sea was larger than a regular pond fish. Curious, Jesse made his way to the edge of the boat and leaned against the warm metal railing. He searched for the creature that seemed startled by the sudden movement of the boat, but there seemed to be nothing.

Jesse’s eyes narrowed as he caught sight of a humanoid figure approaching, their (s/c) skin becoming more apparent as they grew closer. You poked your head out of the water, (h/l) (h/c) absolutely drenched. A few droplets of water returned back to the sea beneath you, as you stared with curious (e/c) at the beach blonde man in front of you. You tilted your head; his rugged appearance rather intriguing, if you did say so yourself. McCree, however, was not as calm as you seemed to be. His brown eyes were wide with confusion; how were you this far away from shore? Did you need help? You didn’t seem like you were drowning but the distance from the beach was definitely great. As he parted his lips to offer you a ride back to shore, a playful grin curved on your (l/c) lips.

Diving back into the water, you made sure to raise your tail and splash as much water on the man in front of you. Jesse quickly spit out as much water as he caught in his mouth, instinctively shutting his eyes as he wiped the salt water off of his face.

“What in the hell?!”

When he opened his eyes, you were gone. He peered over the railing once more but there was nothing beneath the water. Splashing could be heard behind him, meaning that you must have swam beneath the boat to reach the other side.

“Guys,” Jesse called out as he slowly crept to the other side of the boat, “You should come up here and see this; there’s a mermaid 'round here!” McCree could faintly make out the sound of Hana groaning. Hell, he could even picture her rolling her eyes at him.

“That’s nice, but I think we’re a little busy,” Lúcio responded back, the level of concentration he was putting in to help the girl evident in the tone of his voice.

As Jesse lunged the remaining few feet to reach the metal handles, he found you there, smiling cheekily up at him. Grasping the railing, you lifted yourself slightly and raised your (t/c) tail, booping him on the head with your fin. You must have miscalculated your strength - after all, the sea was heavier than the open air - because Jesse let out a hiss of pain as he pressed his hand over his scalp. Frightened by your actions, you were quick to dive back into the water. Presumably to the opposite side of the boat again.

“God damn it, I’m not lyin’ 'bout this!”

Of course, it was Jesse’s fault for crying wolf on so many other occasions. Besides knowing how to run a boat, he knew how to trick people into believing the craziest stories; his charisma and confidence made them all the more believable. However, after being fooled enough times, Lúcio and Hana were weary now when it came to Jesse’s claims.

There was silence in response to his annoyed outburst. He clicked his tongue, muttering out a curse as he made his way to the other side of the boat again. He sat on the deck, flash grenade in hand as he patiently waited for his target. Chewing on the wooden popsicle stick in his mouth (he finished the cherry flavored treat around half an hour ago), he rolled the device between his fingers, only straightening up his posture when the sound of moving water became more erratic.

There was a pause, a few more splashes following afterward as you tried to catch the American’s attention once more. He wasn’t falling for any of it this time, though. Wondering what he could possibly be preoccupied with, you lift yourself onto the boat, your slick scales pushing you further onto the deck. When you caught sight of the burly man, your face lit up and you let out a pleased sound.

Since the two of you were level with each other, he was able to examine your features more thoroughly.

“We’ll I’ll be damned. You’re quite the looker, for being half a fish.”

You tilted your head, clearly unaware of what his words meant. Never breaking his gaze with you, he tilted his head slightly to the direction of the aft cabin, “Hey guys, come on up here for a second!”

Your (e/c) widened. While you didn’t understand what he was saying, his body language was enough for you to piece together what he was planning to do. Using your arms to back away, he threw the flash bang at you. The device immediately left you frozen in place, pupils dilated from the bright light and ears ringing.

This was great, Jesse was going to prove that there really was a mermaid and that he wasn’t lying to them for the sake of a prank.

“What’s up?” Lúcio asked from the room below, allowing an eager Jesse to part his lips.

“Just come up he-” In his excitement, he failed to realized the fearful look on your face. Suddenly, he realized how selfishly he was acting and the guilt washed over him like heavy waves.

Creatures like you were supposed to be a myth; something that people could dream about. While he was confident that’s Lúcio would be content just seeing you, Hana might not have been so considerate. Her life revolved around image and social media, meaning she would flash a selfie with you one way or another. Not wanting to show any favoritism, he let out a sigh of defeat.

“Never mind.”

The bronze man placed his hands under your armpits, lifting you up. Your tail seemed determined to remain on the ground, so he used his leg to raise it, awkwardly moving about until it was over the railing. Slowly, he lowered you to the water until your hips were submerged. The effects of the flash bang hadn’t seemed to have worn off yet, so he held you as he waited patiently.

“Sorry 'bout that; wasn’t very kind of me,” He murmured, despite the fact you didn’t grasp any of it.

“This lil’ game off tag here was fun but I gotta get these kids back to shore,” his tone was soft, almost melancholy and you found yourself tilting your head once more; curious as to why there was a tinge of sorrow in his voice.

A honey-coated chuckle filled the air, “Looks like you got the feelin’ of your body back. Good,” as he slowly pulled his hands back to let you return to sea, you gripped the edge of the boat to keep yourself at his height. Before Jesse could express his confusion, you placed a gentle kiss on his sunburnt nose. With that, you pushed yourself away from the boat and returned back into the seawater.

Jesse gave out a low whistle, “Hm, what a little minx.” With that he returned back to his post.

After a few minutes, Hana emerged from the aft cabin, sporting a few fly-always as she grumbled about feeling a little better. Lúcio followed soon after, asking how much longer it would take to reach shore.

“I reckon it shouldn’t be more than 20 min-”

“Who’s that?”

“Who?” The Brazil inquired. Jesse, being a nosy man, turned his head to look at the Korean girl. She pointed at the (s/c) skinned figure that was further in the sea, staring at the boat.

(e/c) eyes met brown ones, a soft grin forming on Jesse’s expression. You must have caught it, as you were quick to mirror him and add a little wave of your hand in a final goodbye, diving back into the deep sea - but not before flashing your tail once more.

“O.M.G! Did you see that?!”

“Hey, weren’t you talking about a mermaid earlier..?”

“Yep,” Jesse hummed smugly as he returned his gaze back to the direction of shore.

“You weren’t lying this time?!”

“Nope,” The gunslinger made sure to really pop the 'p’.

“Hana, I think they’re gone,” Lúcio laughed as the girl frantically took out her smartphone.

“Maybe they’ll pop up again!”

“Don’t think they will, darlin’.”

Hana let out a frustrated screech, the sound making the two men laugh.

Maybe Jesse would come back later. He needed to pay you back for the kiss, no?

#Overwatch #Jesse McCree #Reader insert #reader #Reader x McCree #reader x Overwatch #Lifeguard McCree #Overwatch drabble

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con-ka · 7 years

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Gaster Theory Response

These are questions that popped into my head as i sat contimplating the things i heard in those three videos. and i will humbly attempt to discuss them..

1. How is flowey connected? He didn't explain the Hyper Goner and how flowey got it. After all, flowey is the product of alphys experiment, not Gaster. The shape of the hyper goner is Gaster's signature, NOT a result from too much determination.

2. How is monster kid goner connected? Monster kid Goner is not one of the G-Followers, he doesn't mention gaster, and his existence literally makes no sense since monster souls CAN'T persist after death. Not to mention, his behaviour and knowledge is too mature and knowledgeable unlike our alive monster kid. How does he know these things? Gaster is related, but how?

3. How can "you two" refer to Sans and Alphys if Sans was the result of his shattering, which means he didn't exist prior to the experiment?

4. How can something "Shatter" in equal amounts of left and right? Shattering is random and unequal. Cutting into two is SLICING not shattering.

5. How can the shattering be "across time and space" if it only created Sans and Papyrus?

6. If "you two" referred to Sans and Alphys, and Papyrus is also a part of Gaster who knows of his existence, why didn't Gaster refer to Papyrus too by saying "you three"?

7. (nobody mentioned this but I noticed it) wHaT ABOUT CHARA? is he related? because let’s be real his story makes no sense. Why did he get sick, what's with his irrational love for evil and hate for humanity? human souls can persist after death, but how can his soul FESTER in other people who let him? How can he be aware of resets and erasing and stuff when he's just a child and he died before he knew these things?

8. what about the determination? if it was in excessive amounts, where did it all go? assuming it’s a drug or a force, and not a "feeling", it’s a substance that was created. if too much went to sans and papyrus, they'd melt like the other monsters. what about the rest? did it all JUST go to sans and papyrus? how can any of this be equal if sans is obviously WAY stronger than papyrus

1, 2, 4, 5, 7 and 8 can all be answered via the following hypothesis:

First of all, answering 4, 5 and 8. According to the G-Followers, Gaster shattered across time and space. Therefore, like Mat said, different pieces of him now exist in time and space, and that should include the excessive amount of determination that caused the shattering. However, the shattering did not merely produce Papyrus and Sans, but also fell in places in different timelines, and affected others besides them as well. Meaning, Sans and Papyrus together are NOT the whole of Gaster, but other pieces of him also exist elsewhere.

I think Lab entry 17 wasn’t made as Matpat suggests as Gaster was breaking apart, how would he even manage that? It also speaks in the future tense.

ENTRY NUMBER 17

*DARK, DARKER YET DARKER.

*THE DARKNESS KEEPS GROWING

*THE SHADOWS CUTTING DEEPER

*PHOTON READINGS NEGATIVE

*THIS NEXT EXPERIMENT

*SEEMS

*VERY

*INTERESTING

*WHAT DO YOU TWO THINK?

(credited to the wonderful peeps at reddit, so’re all the lab entries referenced in this shit.)

See there, the experiment hadn’t happened at that point. What does he mean then? Well, A Photon is a particle representing a quantum of light or other electromagnetic radiation. So, when the Photon readings are “negative,” and that it’s getting “darker” and cutting “deeper,” he literally means recreating the power of determination requires A LOT of radiation, ones that are anti-light, in the undertale universe. They don’t seem to exist in our reality, but apparently they were measured by Gaster, who in turn let it get darker and more negative until he reached a value that destroyed him with the amount of whatever this energy is. He used this form of radiation to create the determination extractor.

This is a pretty large claim in term of the other question so I’ll explain myself:

I think it’s quite logical to assume that not all “shards” or parts of Gaster that were broken are in Sans and Papyrus, but where did they go? To answer questions 1, 2 and 8 we must consider what we know about Flowey, Monster Kid Goner and Chara. I’ll do so for each separately.

Flowey: Flowey possesses the Hyper Goner, which is an attack that has Gaster’s signature design on it. That could be explained by how a piece of Gaster had fallen into the flower Alphys had experimented on. While the chances of that happening are slim, as Sherlock Holmes would say, if you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbably, must be the truth. This is all very dodgy I realize that, but if it were true, it would make sense how flowey after getting injected with determination has the Hyper Goner, not to mention it means the amount of determination in the ‘shard’ remaining from Gaster’s experiment enabled flowey to be stronger than usual. Because if you think about it, flowey didn’t break into pieces which means Alphys didn’t put a lot of Determination in the flower. And while Sans is aware and can sense time shifts, unlike flowey, he cannot actually manipulate time. So on top of the determination remaining from Gaster that Flowey already got (and let’s not forget whatever remained from Asriel’s soul after he died), Alphys made it so much worse by injecting it with more, thus creating a creature lacking of empathy. But hey, what about Asriel you ask? Fair question. Flowey IS supposedly Asriel without a soul. Well, the answer is in Entry no. 8

ENTRY NUMBER 8 :)

*I’ve chosen a candidate.

*I haven’t told ASGORE yet, because I want to surprise him with it…

*In the center of his garden, there’s something special.

*The first golden flower, that grew before all the other ones.

*The flower from the outside world.

*It appeared just before the queen left.

*I wonder…

*What happens when something without a SOUL gains the will to live?

As you can probably guess from that, this flower she chose was not a random flower. It was seemingly a special flower, from the outside world nonetheless. Who died in a bed of golden flowers outside of the underground? That’s right, Asriel. His soul then is a little stronger than other monsters, it survived briefly in the form of a flower. How did it survive? Well, wouldn’t it make sense that this is Gaster’s shard’s fault? Some of his soul power or Determination (whatever you call it, it’s the same thing) went into the remaining soul lasting it longer. So because the soul was deteriorating, when Alphys injected Flowey, Asriel did not return. Flowey became alive, but didn’t have the soul to feel. Just a fuck load of determination, the will to survive, and a fragment of Asriel that remained in the shadows ever since. Like I said up there, improbable, but quite an interesting idea.

Monster Kid Goner (Or I’ll call him Goner Kid): Unlike Flowey, Goner Kid is straight out a normal monster that we know called Monster Kid. And even though the Gaster Followers are pre-existing characters as well, unlike Goner Kid they speak of Gaster very directly. I’m not sure whether they’re influenced by Gaster’s scattered shards or determination, allowing them to exist in this timeline after being wiped clean, so I’ll leave them at that. On the other hand, Goner Kid is a completely different story.

If you don’t save Monster Kid and Undyne saves him, he says “Undyne . . . You saved me . . .? Yo, I thought I was a goner, haha . . .”

Coincidence?

NO.

If you think about the FUN value and Multiple timelines theory (the one where Matpat explained. U know, if you chose something in a certain timeline another timeline is created for the other option) you’ll realize just as there is a reality where Monster Kid survived, there must be another where his life ended. And that, I believe, is who Goner Kid is. He is Monster Kid from another timeline, from the one he died in. But if he died, how did his soul survive, let alone travel to a different timeline? Since Gaster’s shards traveled across space, and TIME, it’s quite possible one of the shards connected with Goner Kid before/after/during his death. Whichever way it happened, it explains how his soul lasted, how he can travel from timeline to timeline (if he got some determination from the scattered bits as well) so that us players can perceive him in multiple ones (timelines 90 and higher on the FUN value) and it also explains what he says.

Because let’s be real, Monster Kid is just a kid, he’s stupid. Or rather he’s not knowledgeable. Even if his soul survives JUST by the determination, that doesn’t explain how cognitively functional he seems to be when he’s in the form of Goner Kid. In fact, he talks about different universes as Matpat mentioned, but he doesn’t just talk about them, he UNDERSTANDS the weight of them and can conclude that the thought terrifies him. How would monster kid know that, if he hadn’t got that knowledge from having a part of Gaster in him? The fear of being erased, dead, non-existent somewhere else is scary to him. We don’t see that in sans despite sans knowing that. Actually, San’s okay with it, he tells you to say hello to other Sanses out there, albeit tensely in battle. And Papyrus may know about timelines, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it. It’s quite possible he didn’t consider what those things mean. Goner Kid embodies Gaster’s fears, worries and doubt about his experiment. He has the part that, after the shattering, is uneasy for the most part, and that translated into Goner Kids’ mind. So, my conclusion is that one of Gaters’ parts also fused with Goner Kid.

Chara: Doesn’t it strike you as strange that Chara, the first human CHILD (keyword being CHILD), hated humanity to the point of wanting to murder them? Like, not in an edgy way, but in a psychopathic way?

Psychopaths, by the way, are shown to have evidence of being unable to physically empathize/feels certain emotions since birth. Such as guilt and remorse. They end up being very problematic children, you can look it up. Chara wasn’t normal to begin with, he was both a human with determination, and probably a psychopath. Psychopaths are also categorized as cunningly manipulative and charming, could explain why the Dreamurr family took him as their own and loved him, he probably just acted. So when how did he get sick, die and survive enough to even inhibit Frisk? With this question we must refer to this, to answer the question as to how Chara was able to possess Frisk, we must remember

ENTRY NUMBER 7

*We’ll need a vessel to wield the monster SOULs when the time comes.

*After all, a monster cannot absorb the SOULs of other monsters.

*Just as a human cannot absorb a human SOUL…

*So then…

*What about something that’s neither human nor monster?

Why would toby go out of his way to mention that in Alphy’s entry? (yes, it’s alphy’s, see proper grammar) It’s seemingly unrelated since she’s talking about the monsters and the bodies, this simile was uncalled for. Unless he’s telling us something about Chara.

What Chara did was not possible for a human.

How did he do it then, if it was not possible just by determination? This also answers the question of how Chara KNOWS what to do with the power of determination, and how to erase the world. Another Shard fell into him as well at some point, which gave him powers and knowledge quite abnormal. Allowing him to seep into Frisk the same way the shard seeped into him and Goner Kid.

Finally, answering questions 3 and 6:

The issues in the questions themselves indicate that

1) “You two” cannot have been referring to Sans.

2) If it was, why didn’t it also refer to Papyrus?

In my opinion, it actually doesn’t make sense that Gaster would do that. If sans is trying so hard to get Gaster back, and Gaster knows Sans exists, wouldn’t that stop him from performing the experiment in the first place? Wouldn’t that be a time paradox? More importantly, wouldn’t Sans himself stop him?

No, I think it’s unlikely they existed. And if they didn’t, how would Gaster know they exist? Because there’s no proof he was aware of other timelines. And if he knew his body would shatter across time and space he wouldn’t do it, seeing as Sans is so PASSIONATE about wanting to go back that life elsewhere seems pointless to him.

I think Gaster didn’t know he’d shatter, it was a bizarre experiment and he took his chances. Since the persons he was talking to in entry 17 weren’t Sans and Alphys, that leaves me with two options (they may be more I hadn’t considered but this’ll do for now):

1. Alphys and Asgore. Why you ask? Well, the obvious answer is that he’s the royal scientist, isn’t he? His job requires him to report to the king new findings regarding to research that has to do with freeing people from the underground. Obviously, he documented it in an entry for purpose of reporting the progress.

2. Alphys and HIMSELF. No, not Sans or Papyrus or anyone, his future self. It is possible it was just a sarcastic joke for his future self to reflect on when he goes through the experiment. Since he’s not aware of the shattering business, if he survives he’ll be able to perceive the results either as a good or a bad thing. During the time he wrote the entry, the experiment was interesting to him, that may yet change depending on the result. So just like someone who writes a message to their older self, asking what they do and how they’re doing, it’s quite possible Gaster was sending a message to himself as well in the future in case he survives.

Important note:

Back to the skele bros, the shattered business is not possible with a right-left brain hypothesis. Because human physiology is sorta useless when it comes to monsters. What proof do we have that their brains are anything like ours, or are devided like ours? Seemingly every part of the skele bros has no muscle and is very dodgy looking. A human brain does A LOT of things besides thinking, it also administers reflexes, breathing, visceral contractions, muscle contractions, hormones and a shit load of sensory stuff. All of which do not apply to the skele bros, except the fact that they bleed. In fact, weirdly enough, we don’t know if Sans resembles Papyrus in the abdomen area. Is he fully skeleton? In the genocide route he’s cut across and the blood is shown through the entire length of his torso and stomach. That’s a weird wound for someone who’s a skeleton completely. So you see, biology isn’t really relevant here, so it’s stupid to say sans happened to have the left brain and papyrus happened to have the right brain, we don’t even know if Gaster had a brain like ours.

Other problems are that despite sans being the left brain, he demonstrates lower frequencies of using higher language (and ends up using casual language constantly) whereas papyrus constantly uses over-the-top fancy words when he speaks. He sounds VERY posh. That doesn’t AT ALL fit with the brain theory. Not to mention, Matpat got it wrong. The game Sans finds difficult isn’t word search, it’s CROSSWORDS. Which is both language AND culture based. Something that needs actual knowledge of random crap, which is why everyone finds it hard. Papyrus ALSO has trouble with it, since he just fills them with Z and never solves them. So that part is kind of false.

HOWEVER, and I will conclude with this, there is truth in this theory. Granted they didn’t purely take one side over the other, but the shattering did favour certain aspects of Gaster’s personality in Sans than Papyrus. Sans got most of the determination, the strength, knowledge, but he lacks thinks Papyrus has which are emotional motivation, caring for others, a sense of justice (lemme remind you Gaster did the experiment to free the people from the underground, no? that sounds pretty self-righteous to anybody. Sans isn’t as thoughtful; he only really gives a shit if it was Papyrus or to an extent Toriel.) and a tendency to use fancy ass words (entry 17 sounds Posh at any rate). Sans knows the scientific terms, but when he talks, he’s awfully casual.

But, they also share many things. They both have the ability to TALK and walk and eat (somewhat, idk how that works but hey I ain’t shaming) they both ADORE puns, though papyrus is less appreciative of it, and they get irrationally obsessed with one thing like Spaghetti, freedom or friends or in san’s case humans.

one question that i couldn’t answer is the following: If the entries 1-16 were written after gaster died by alphys and sans using his blue prints... when did gaster write entry 17, and why is it number 17, and why did sans (the author of all entries after 17) skip the number 17 unless he knew about it...

Disclaimer, i wrote this 1am it’s probably bs and i’ll hate myself later so heh

#matpat #the game theorists #undertale #gaster #sans #papyrus

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princessmovieticket · 7 years

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Interveiw- Living with Chronic Illness

● When did you first notice/realized you had an illness and what/how did you notice first about the illness?

It was subltle. I watched myself decline through high school. I didn't know it was illness, I thought I was merely physically inept. You come up with explanations like this for yourself in these situations. The problem was I was not educated enough on the body to know that my issues were way out of the norm.

I would feel faint when standing for long periods of time, which seemed normal enough for a 110Lbs 17 year old girl. But then I began to have these episodes of extreme insomnia, which while also seemed normal enough, lead to episodes of the craziest hypersomnia you'd find in sleep speacialist's patients. (During my first appointment with a sleep specialist in 2015, he was CONVINCED I had narcolepsy).

I missed an average of 30 days of high school per year, mostly due to days where it was literally impossible for me to wake up no matter what I did. I got worn out easily. Gym class was the worse. I had a lead role in a school play and was very often to tired to make it to rehearsal even though I wanted to badly. (I have social anxiety, which I talk about later, but a musical is one thing I'm willing to lock it away for).

I felt guilt all of the time, maybe my best wasn't good enough? Maybe everyone else felt this way and I needed to push myself? Slowly I started to guess that something was off, at some point I could tell this was a condition specific to me. Sadly I just assumed it was something I could try to control on my own by making healthy choices.

● How did you manage the symptoms before professionals became involved? At what point did you get professionals involved?

I started to let myself rest. In college I'd sit down in class when we were suppose to be standing for a demo. I tried not to guilt myself for all the (expensive) Ringling Classes I missed. Sophomore year I focused on going at my own pace, eating as best as I could, drinking TONS of fluid, working in my dorm room. I adjusted my sleep schedule to a strict 7-8pm bed time so I wouldn't over sleep, putting my phone on the opposite side of the room, an alarm clock app with math puzzles I had to solve to wake up to.

The problem was as I did this I continued to grow more fatigued. By the end of my Sophmore year at Ringling I only managed to get to each class once a week, if at all. Sometimes I woke up barely being able to move, I'd often spend 2-3days in my dorm room in bed before resurfacing. Even my roomates were way to busy to notice.

Once I left, my family spent the summer moving to Illinois. I was determined to fix this. For some reason, I thought all the fatigue was from Depression and that the symptoms of my (unknown) Hyperadreangic Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia was an anxiety disorder.

So I immediately got into one of the best psychiatrist in Peoria. By Novemeber 2013 I became totally bedridden, which opened the door to a lot of depression, and my uneducated self assumed depression was the problem rather than a result of other things. After about 5 months, they told me they we're not going to prescribed anymore meds because they were convinced this was something physical. They sent me on my way to an Endocrinologist and that's when the ball got rolling.

● What did you think your symptoms meant? What were your first thoughts?

Somehow, in the back of my head, my instincts anticipated for a long time where this was headed. I had asthma as a kid, and I apparently had pneumonia 33 times. Countless episodes of strep in highschool, along with stomach issues. So I figured my body was very sensitive to getting sick and becoming upset over anything it was able to respond negatively too. And as I said before, I have struggled with depression for a long time, early high school, so I assumed fatigue was an extension of that.

(An important fact, one of the first symptoms of autoimmune issues and other chronic illnesses like Multiple Sclerosis or Lupus, is Depression).

Once Psychiatric causes were off the table the causes of the chronic fatigue was a wild card. EVERY PATIENT with chronic fatigue knows it's basically the wildest card there is. It can be caused by a slew of things. I read about Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and it made a lot of sense. That's when I started to take things seriously and began researching and going down paths beyond it. Becoming educated is also how I was finally able to give myself a break.

● How was it talking to your family about your initial symptoms and the illness itself? How does it feel when you talk to people about it outside of your family?

Family is the number one reason I went so long without a diagnosis. As I look back I can see how absurd my life was due to my health complications, it's incredibly obvious. My dad would hound me on how “It's a choice, Rachel! Everyone struggles, you have to just push through it.” (That's the polite version of his words). My whole life was centered around going above and beyond just to do normal things, and often do them in an exceptional way to compensate for being rather unreliable.

Once the door was opened to the fact this was physical, I panicked to find every answer I could, not so much as to fix it, but so I wouldn't be constantly beat down by the incredible guilt that came with thinking this was my fault and that I wasn't trying hard enough.

Once I came up with solid answers, I'd tell my parents, I'd explain things to them, show them articles, so I wouldn't have to risk being eaten alive by criticism. This was a major turning point for me in my life because having answers, knowing it wasn't my fault, gave me my power back.

Telling others is a mixed thing, usually I am very happy to inform them, illness symptoms and what causes them is a very relateable conversation for almost everyone. I have made good friends who met me after I became bedridden, who know to embrace it. One friend who was turned away by doctors who I told to go back because he had narcolepsy, and that week he was diagnosed with narcolepsy. Friends who had had trouble with their medications, friends who were struggling but didn't know how to approach doctors with their issues. There have been far more positive interacts from people I tell than negative. There's always going to be those who try to compare their situation and don't grasp the levity of what you're explaining, but you know you've found a new friend when you see them take a step back and suddenly re-evaluate how they are seeing you. You're suddenly in a much more personal and encouraging conversation, and those conversations go a long way.

● How did your family react? Did your immediate family react differently than your extended family? ● Who did you perceive to be helpful or not and why?

My mom has many of the same issues I do but less severe. Before me, she didn't know what to call them, and she didn't pay them a lot of attention, she didn't have to. My dad was slow to accept. It was several months of walking him through everything and always fully explaining myself to get him use to everything. My extended family was a little tricky, my mom's side understood very well. (My mother has...nine? Sisters? She's one of eleven children). I remember one time when visiting my Dad's Parents, and his brother, wife, and daughter were there. After a few hours I went to a bedroom to lay down and take a break and my uncle picked a fight with my dad claiming he was letting me get away with being lazy and destroying my life, to which my dad told him he didn't understand and began to explain P.O.Ts. This was the one time I've seen my dad stand up for me. My uncle was shocked because he was not expecting cardiac involvement, he himself has struggled with severe heart problems the past couple years. He realized this conversation was over his head and kind of just shut up after that.

I perceived my family as more on the unhelpful side. With the exception of my mom. Truthfully, everyone has let me down 97% of the time. Everything that has been diagnosed or treated has been from my persistence. No one tries to involve themselves, I spend months alone in the basement. My family member s don't come down to “talk”. For the past few years I have not been bitter or too upset over it, but during the past 8 months, specifically the past 3, I've gotten visibly worse. I developed brain damage and began to struggle with speech, planning, flexible thinking, unable to multitask, sydenham Chorea, a form of shaking, in my hands, and tics. Because of the brain damage, it took me a while to realize what was going on, because I couldn't processes exploring the symptoms. I was blocking out doing so out because it took extra energy so I wanted to focus on other things. Hadn't I done enough analyzing of symptoms in the past? I couldn't analyze like I could a year ago, and I didn't understand that yet. I didn't realize it was the biggest road block.

Eventually, as it got totally debilitating, I was the one to figure it out and I wish to God that I wasn't. I wish that someone else would have gone “okay, something's different. Something's really wrong with Rachel.” but that's not what happened. I couldn't really be there for myself and no one that was supposed to be showed. It is a fresh wound and I am still royally pissed. I wish someone else was here for me in they way I've had to be here for myself.

The most helpful people have been my friends. My friends genuinely care even though lately I haven't seen much of them. They have an empathy that I just don't think runs in my family, unlike the health issues.

● How does your illness affect relationships with others including family, friends, and strangers?

Illness leaves me incredibly isolated. There's not a lot of people to interact with in my bedroom. I barely get to see friends anymore due to their busy schedules and my living situation. As my illness has gotten worse over the past year I've started hiding away more. Conversations and interactions can be very over stimulating, even ones online. Prior to get sick I was rather introverted with social anxiety, a social anxiety I have even in my own home that only goes away for a tiny handful of people. (When it does it's like night and day, full of passionate monologues and musical numbers, I kid you not). When someone messages me online nowadays, I get an adrenaline rush I can't curb. My body turns that into an anxiety that completely freezes me up and wears me out for the next several days. If a family member comes down during a time when I'm not feeling well that sudden adrenaline starts, I may become a little catatonic, and my speech problems will start to show. The stutter/dysaphsia due to neurological/brain damage tends to become more apparent when I'm stressed, flaring up, or have been talking to long. It can make communicating difficult and awkward.

Strangely enough, it's easier to handle it when it happens with strangers. They tend to be more inclined to listen when this happens, and not take it as personally as my family and my recent boyfriend have. But all these things have left me hesitant to communicate with people as it is one of the most exhausting things I've faced so far.

● What messages did/do you receive from the larger society about your illness?

It depends on what part of society were talking about. In the real world, the message can suck. Mostly because it's either “suck it up” or worse, it's non-exsistent. A passive, non communicative society is dangerous. It leaves the door open for things to becomes worse, for millions of others in my position to go disregarded. We are in need of your attention, of your advocacy, and a chance to represent ourselves. Whatever you do, don't become Chronically Ill or Disabled in a Capitalistic society. Unless of course, you plan on not being so chronically ill or disabled that you can monopolize on your life by writing books or creating a website filled with health tips and allergy safe recipes. Even then, that can be a soul-draining endeavor, so I don't recommend it.

Online, it is a world of empathy where others who experience similar issues continuously try to support each other. Where spreading information is a major positive. You are allowed to be sick online. I don't think I would have made it this far without the internet. So many others say the same thing. The internet has allowed so many people with Chronic Illness and disability to find ways to cope, regain a sense of community, and continue living a life. A life that is still worth living, that keeps them hanging on.

● How does your illness affect your daily life?

Illness likes to plan my days for me. It's the perfect custom prison. How long I spend on a activity is usually up to my illness, and what activity is pretty much up to my illness. For instance, pretty much everyday when I wake up, I will need to use the bathroom. But my body will be so difficult to move it will be 1-3 hours before that happens.

I can't drive anymore, I can't take walks (believe me, when Pokemon Go came out I tried), and I exclusively leave the house for medical related things.

Let's say I want to shower today, and I'm kinda feeling up to it (Yay!). But my muscles are stuck, my brain keeps freezing and I'm having trouble processing the steps to gather clothes for after the shower and walking myself to the bathroom. It can be several hours before I finally get there. Maybe I'd like to draw. After 15 minutes I'm becoming catatonic, the lights are to bright, and my brain becomes inflexible, I suddenly can't processes how to continue on the drawing and my entire being is frozen. I still want to draw, but my everything can't figure it out.

I've made a rule when planning a day, that I only have 3 task to do. For example, shower, important phone call, and ordering something I need online. This has worked really well for me.

● What is your perceived quality of life?

This past year has been rough. I don't have an actual bedroom, and having no walls or doors messes with a person's head. I developed brain damage and no one took notice. I got worse and we still don't have very solid medical explanations. I shower once every four days. And I can't clean up my guinea pig's environment as much as I like.

Everything is exposed, interactions are shallow, my body's terms are unknown, everything's a mess, and life is rather out of control despite my quiet but continuous drive to take care of all I can. It's hard to get my head outside of feeling these things.

I can't continue living like this. I'm currently doing everything I can to fix what I can and get out into a new environment.

● What are your hopes for the future?

Currently my friend Victoria and I are looking for a place to move into together. Which is a enormous step, but it's a start. It's my hope that this will be an environment where I can feel more relaxed and have friends over to visit, and that I'll be able to rebuild skills around my independence.

My hopes are very controlled by my expectations. I want to be able to find some sort of groove, find a way to manage illness and be able to do something.

I hope that medical research will advance, that information will become as popular to share in everyday life as it can be online. That people like me will be advocated for, represented, and not forgotten and hidden away.

I hope there will be more in my life than what there is now. A significant other, my own home filled with plants and large windows.

I hope that my life will be something that makes waking up and feeling like I was Daredevil-style fighting crime in my sleep, everyday, a little less crappy.

● What role does your illness play in your expectations?

It's funny you asked that, one of my most popular Tumblr post was

“People: You shouldn't give up on your dreams just because of Chronic Illness!!!*~*~*~*

Me: The only dream I have now is to recover or reach a point of slightly functional stability”

(1,153 notes, hahaha).

It's true, I had to let go of all my dreams. When you can only shower every 4 days you don't have a choice. At that point you can't even dream that big. All your day dreams become more realistic and there's no way to stop it. But ultimately, being able to establish some form of independence is a big goal of mine.

A good “expectation killer” example: I started singing again back in August on a Karaoke app called Smule Sing!. It took all my energy to just do a couple songs a day, but I was invited to an elite group on the app and got a couple hundred followers pretty fast. Singing on there was the most consistent activity I've been able to do since getting sick. Most days I had to take Lorazepam to avoid catatonia and muscle stiffness, some days I couldn't find the energy. I did well until I took the antibiotic Flagyl and developed the neurological/brain damage. It was unexpected and sudden. I've gotten some skill back, but it's so much harder now, and truthfully I don't know if this issue will ever reverse itself or improve fully.

As much as I would like to, I can't spending everyday writing or drawing, or creating some kind of job that would generate an income for myself, or even just create fulfillment for myself.

I have no idea what my future's going to be like and I'm not really planning for it, not at this moment anyway. There's too much up in the air medically to tell how I might be....heck, 2 years from now. Remember, I'm still adjusting to this past year of becoming worse. So many things are beyond my own control, and I just want to hone into the things that are so I can have somewhat of a secure footing through it all.

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demarogue · 7 years

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Lethologica, Chapter 5

Cullen's beginning to feel the effects of quitting Lyrium. Alethea gets herself a Bull.

Trigger warnings for descriptions of withdrawal, and some violence.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2+3 | Chapter 4

Lethologica on AO3

The door to his chambers rattled the frame as it slammed behind him, so unexpectedly loud that Cullen flinched. Then, silence...or something like silence. Behind the heavy wood and stone, Cullen could just make out the Herald's voice, calling after him – she must not have expected him to retreat so completely, or perhaps she did not know that he had assigned quarters beyond the tent where he usually slept – but inside this room, everything was still, and stale, and dead. He allowed himself to slump against the door, head tilting back until his skull thumped against the wood. The Herald's voice drifted into nothing.

How determined would she be, to find him? Would she look for him on the training yard, in the smithy, among the soldiers' tents? Would she think to ask where his chambers were? Would she come back here, and find him...like this? Cullen brought up a hand to scrub at his face, found that it was trembling. That both were trembling. He held them out before him, fingers splayed, then clenched and unclenched his fists. When they did not still, he removed his gloves one finger at a time, painstakingly. A distraction.

In a drawer of the simple desk, he could hear the lyrium's song. Faint, like the Herald's voice as she walked through the Chantry, muddled by the locked door between them.

Cullen tried not to stare at the drawer, or the desk, or that side of the room; he studied every other part, instead. There was a threadbare tapestry on one wall, so faded and tattered it was impossible to make out the original design. The rug on the floor was in even worse shape, though any carpet seemed a luxury to him, having grown up in a farmhouse. His bed had been made, he noticed, sheets changed and quilt dusted, despite his never having spent a night within these walls. There were fresh candles on the bedside table, and a water pitcher that glittered with a garland of sweat not unlike the one rapidly beading over his brow. A waste of resources – he'd have to take it up with the staff, when this episode passed. If it passed. He didn't think he'd ever experienced a headache more piercing, or a sense of urgency so...

No. It wasn't urgency, he reminded himself. It was stress – it was weakness. It was his body wanting so badly to fall back on what it knew, on the familiar bone-deep certainty of the lyrium, the murmur of its lullaby in his blood. He did not need it now. He could not need it now. Not even with the heat rising in his throat, and the chill spreading down his spine. It might have slaked the desperate thirst he felt, but at too great a cost. He had to prove that it was possible, for all the Templar's sakes. It was the only way he could save them.

If there were any left to save.

Cullen staggered into the room, vertigo sweeping over him with each step, and collapsed onto that perfectly tended bed. The room was spinning; his thoughts were caught up in that maelstrom. The Herald was a mage – it should not have surprised him that she'd callously abandon his brothers to be torn apart by a madman. But he'd thought she might be different...thought she might see through her prejudice, that she might make an unbiased choice. And the rest of the council had sided with her! How could they? And how could they expect him to fall in line? To accept the sacrifice of his family, as he had always been expected to do, even now that things were supposed to be different? No! He would not bow beneath that expectation! He would not take orders from this naive woman, who had seen so little of the world, of war! Why did they look to her for guidance – she, the least experienced of them all? A tool to be used, not a leader...

His mouth was half-forming words, sweat pooling on the pillow beneath him, when Cassandra finally unlocked the door, and sent it swinging. One look at him, and she closed it again behind her.

"Cullen," she stated.

He winced, closed his eyes. His fingers tightened reflexively on the blanket beneath him. What was that infernal noise? It was like a hot iron, pressing into his brain. He could not afford to be distracted, not now, with his plan forming just beyond consciousness–

"Cullen," Cassandra repeated, more softly, but to him it was like a deafening gong heard underwater, both close and far away. He did not hear her stride across the rug toward him, barely felt her bare, cool palm against his cheek. "Shit," she muttered, and smoothed away the hair clinging to his temples. "You foolish man. What have you done?”

Everything went dark.

For several hours, Cullen drifted in and out of consciousness. When the world again resolved into sense, he found himself sweat-slicked beneath the quilt in sticky underclothes, blinking against the candlelight that seemed as bright and piercing as the noonday sun. He groaned, turned, met Cassandra's stern gaze. Swallowed.

"How long have–"

"It is past sundown," the Seeker answered frankly, filling a cup from the pitcher. She handed it to him with an expectant look, and Cullen drank it, his mouth so dry the water burned wherever it touched. He coughed, croaked something like "thank you" against the lip of the cup. Cassandra nodded, barely. It was difficult to hold her gaze, when she was looking at him that way. Like she was waiting for an explanation. Judging by the array of rags and water basins and flasks on the table and the floor, she certainly deserved one. His eyes snagged on the small wooden box on her lap. He winced.

"I'm sorry. I wish you hadn't seen me like this."

"You stopped taking lyrium." Her fingers drummed on the box.

"Yes."

"May I ask why?" Her voice was thin, incredulous. She made an impatient gesture at the state of the room. "Or at least, why you decided to do it like this? Without telling anyone? Without telling me?" Cullen closed his eyes, frowning. He would have preferred her rage to the concern in her voice.

"I needed to...break free from the Order. Completely. I didn't want to involve anyone else."

"You failed," she growled, "I'm involved."

"I'm sorry," he repeated softly. Cassandra reached across him to refill the cup. "Are you...did you tell anyone?"

"No." If she was offended by the question, she gave no sign. Replacing the pitcher – and the lyrium kit – on the table, she sat back in the chair she'd pulled up beside him, folded her hands on her lap.

"Where did you get all of this...?"

"I requisitioned the supplies from Adan. The Herald provided a formula for headache and fever. She offered to come herself, but I told her it was unnecessary."

The Herald. Guilt spiked through his chest; he ground his teeth. "I thought you didn't tell anyone?"

"I told her you were ill, and that it would be best to keep that between us. Nothing more." After a moment spent staring at him with an expression somewhere between consternation and empathy, she added: "You should tell her, however."

"Maker, I...no! " Cullen was breathless with disbelief. "Why would I do that?"

"She is a very skilled healer. Arguably more skilled than Adan. And we depend on her, completely. She should be able to trust us. For that, we must trust her..." Cassandra paused, leaning forward. "Even when we do not agree with her." His snort made her frown. He frowned back. "Don't do anything rash, Cullen."

"You mean, besides quitting lyrium without telling you?" He gave her a wry smile, despite himself.

"Yes. Besides that." She punched him affectionately, and he grunted, shaking his head. "Really, you should not have done this alone. You do not have to do everything alone. You think you are protecting people, but it is reckless. And arrogant."

"I know," he sighed, "I know. I didn't think it would be this bad. Or, I did know it would be bad, of course I've heard that it is terrible but I thought...I assumed I could endure it."

"It is going to get worse," Cassandra pointed out, but her voice was uncharacteristically gentle. He took a deep breath.

"It is. But I must see it through. If it...if I am compromised, I expect you will do your duty." His expression hardened at her surprise. "You'll relieve me of command, if it comes to that. Promise me."

The Seeker was quiet a moment, studying his face. Then she took his hand. Squeezed it.

"I promise," she said. "But you must promise me that you will seek help when you need it, and you will come to me when you are struggling. Trust, Cullen." she patted the hand she held with her other hand, resting her elbows on the bed. "You must learn to trust us."

"I do. Trust you."

"Maybe," Cassandra confirmed, releasing him, "but not enough."

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

How a man like that could just vanish without a trace, Alethea could not imagine. The Commander had stormed out of the war room like a summer squall, footsteps echoing over the flagstones, and in moments – poof! Perhaps he had secretly learned how to Fade step, after seeing her do it in the woods.

She was sure she'd find him on the field, bludgeoning a training dummy like Cassandra sometimes did to alleviate her frustration, but he was not, and his men had not seen him. Their men, she reminded herself. It was not just Cullen's Inquisition; it was Cassandra's, and Leliana's, and Josephine's. But was it hers? Did she have any right to assert herself as she had in the war council, barely giving the Commander a chance to speak?

He was not there. He didn't see the Lord Seeker's eyes, or the eyes of the men following him. Her jaw clenched at the memory.

Still, she had to tell him something. What that would be, she couldn't be sure, but she trusted she'd come up with it once she found him. Some kind of apology was in order, a few carefully placed words to soothe his wounded pride. Alethea was good with such words. Or at least, she used to be.

But she didn't find him, and the right words did not surface from the muddy pool of her thoughts.

Instead, she found a mercenary.

Alethea blinked at him, struck by how much he resembled a templar from her circle. The Templar. Strange, to go looking for Cullen and find a memory instead. But Krem was not that man, and the invitation he bore was to the Storm Coast, not the past. She agreed to set off with him in the morning, deposited him in the tavern, and then went looking for her warrior. Oddly, she found Cassandra among the mage's huts, moving in the direction of the apothecary.

"Cassandra," she greeted. The seeker startled, color rising in her cheeks. "Looks like we're needed on the Storm Coast. I'd like to look for this Grey Warden Leliana mentioned on our way there. We leave at first light. Have you seen the Commander? I'd really like to–"

"He is indisposed," she said, firmly. Alethea's eyebrows lifted.

"That's...an interesting choice of words. Is he ill?"

"Yes." Alethea had not seen Cassandra look at her this way since she dragged her out of the dungeons, weeks ago. Somehow it was the same look, even though the seeker would not meet her eyes.

"May I assist?" she asked carefully, inclining her head. "I often served at our clinic, in Ostwick." Cassandra swore under her breath in Nevarran.

"No...Yes. Maker. It would be...inadvisable if the troops knew their Commander was unwell."

"I can be discreet," Alethea said softly, taking her by the elbow and steering her behind the apothecary's hut. "What are his symptoms?" Cassandra looked askance at her, ringing her hands. It was alarming to see the ordinarily unflappable warrior so acutely flapped. Something was clearly amiss...

"Headache, fever," the seeker began, keeping her voice barely above a whisper. "Sweating, trembling...and..." She shook her head.

"And?"

"No. That's all, I think. Perhaps it is merely fatigue, or poor eating. He does work too hard."

"...Perhaps," Alethea said simply, finally meeting Cassandra's gaze. The look they shared confirmed her suspicion that something more complicated was going on, but she was not about to risk the seeker's wrath by prying. "I don't suppose you'll allow me to tend to him?" She hazarded a smile, but Cassandra's answering scowl was plenty to deter her. "Then I'll write down some instructions. I can't be sure what to do without seeing him, of course, but hopefully one of my decoctions will help to make him more comfortable." She started to move toward the front of the hut, then stopped, turned. "Out of curiosity...what were you going to tell Adan?"

"I was going to ask him for elfroot tinctures," Cassandra muttered, clearly exasperated. Alethea's lips thinned.

"Then it is a good thing I found you."

They walked together into Adan's hut, both wearing their usual masks – Alethea's pleasant and disarming one, and Cassandra's sharp-eyed frown. The former borrowed a sheet of the apothecary's paper and inscribed a detailed recipe, which included several ingredients the seeker would never have guessed. She smiled as she collected a few empty flasks for Cassandra to take, then set about making the first batch, herself. Adan was too charmed by her to question a thing. Cassandra's dark eyes followed her every move.

When they were done, Alethea walked Cassandra to the chantry. They paused at the doors, flung open despite the cold. The midday light was as brittle as the frost clinging to the stones. When Cassandra did not immediately go inside, Alethea turned to her.

"Maybe it would be best if you stayed behind, tomorrow."

Cassandra looked dubious. "I would not leave you undefended..."

"Between Varric, Solas and Vivienne, nobody will get within a league of me. Besides, I may end up meeting with a Grey Warden and hiring a mercenary outfit. I'll find some swords. But the ones here might need you, if the Commander is too ill to train them."

"Ugh," the seeker groaned, "I am a terrible teacher."

"Then let us hope he recovers quickly," she smiled, handing over the flask of murky liquid. "And if he does, you can meet us on the road. I'll be moving at a pace of about sixty elfroot per day." Cassandra groaned again, shaking her head at Alethea's exaggerated wink.

"You have an unhealthy obsession with weeds," she called over her shoulder, as she disappeared into the darkened hall.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

"Lovely place."

Rain dripped from Warden Blackwall's beard as he spoke, catching on his words and spraying forth like spittle. It would have been amusing, if Alethea were not so sodden, herself. She groaned instead of laughing, and wiped the water away from her eyes, ineffectually. Everything creaked, and squeaked, and squelched. Blackwall turned a critical eye on Krem, who smirked at him.

"I hope your company is worth its weight in...all this mud."

"Mud, gold, dragonbone, whatever you like," Krem answered wryly, winking in Alethea's direction. Blackwall scowled, strode toward the tents muttering something that was lost beneath a rolling thunderclap. "They're down on the beach, from the sound of it. Mind if I run ahead?"

Alethea made a be-my-guest gesture. "How can you hear anything, in all this?"

"The sound of swords clashing is familiar as someone calling my name, lady Herald," Krem answered, shrugging. "In a few more months, you'll be able to pick it out, too."

She did not find that reassuring, but wished him luck all the same, promising they would catch up in time to see the Chargers ambush the ships from Tevinter. Nevermind the question of what, in the name of the Maker, these Tevinter ships were doing here in the first place. Alethea hoped the mercenaries would have the sense to leave one alive for questioning. She suspected they did not. Krem had been an asset on their journey – he was extremely gifted with a blade, killing with an efficiency that Alethea found, frankly, chilling – but he did not make decisions that were tactical in the broader sense. He was not interested in finding out the how, or the why. He was caught up in cutting down. Blackwall had already remarked that the man's blasé demeanor on the field bordered on unsettling.

Then again, Blackwall appeared to have ulterior motivation to distrust the Tevinter warrior: they had both been flirting with her, relentlessly, since they joined her party.

It was a refreshing change, if Alethea were being honest with herself; a return to the familiar. In that life she'd led before joining the Inquisition and becoming the peoples' Herald, she'd been considered a beautiful woman. It had been a nuisance, then, but now she found she preferred being seen as a woman, to being held up as a parable. And really, she could not have chosen better men to flirt with. Besides bearing such an uncanny resemblance to a man she'd once cared for, Alethea admired Krem's frankness and appreciated his tavern humor. And Blackwall had a kind of courtly manner that was very charming, if a bit absurd.

Of course, not everyone shared her tastes.

"These men are not suitable matches, my dear," Vivienne had pronounced the previous evening, but Alethea had only laughed.

"It's harmless," she'd said. And meant it. There was no possibility that she would return their affections, if the idle banter...evolved. Alethea supposed she was too caught up in the absolute chaos and fear for her life to be interested in a roll in the hay. Not that this seemed to be stopping anyone else.

"My, my," Scout Harding whistled at Krem's retreating back, when Alethea came to stand beside her. They shared a grin.

"Thought I'd improve your view."

"Thanks. We need it." Harding indicated their dreary, drippy surroundings with a wave. "It is a wonder any place can be so soggy." The scout helped her to a tent, and gave her a report while she changed behind a dressing screen. An ultimately futile gesture, she knew, but with any luck these dry leathers would repel the rain long enough for her to meet with "the Iron Bull." Harding had spoken with him, apparently, but the company had been too busy with preparations for her to get much of a feel for the Qunari. Just a long look at the broad expanse of his chest, towering above her. "Like a mountain."

By the time Alethea and her entourage were striding for the cliffs, the battle had already begun.

Varric whistled in a way so similar to Scout Harding, Alethea had to laugh. But it was high, wild laughter – a little startled, a little panicked. The Tevinter incursion was nothing like those roving bands of rebel Templars she'd encountered in the Hinterlands. These were trained troops, organized, their mages paired with melee fighters in a demonstration of what could be accomplished if the two groups worked together.

And the Iron Bull...

The warrior leading the Chargers made Krem's battlefield demeanor seem serene. The Iron Bull roared as he swung his greataxe in wide arcs, hewing a path through the Tevinter swarm like a thresher through wheat. Beside him, his men fought in various styles – mismatched, but so comfortable with one another that their differences became a kind of dance. Alethea watched in wonder and horror as they cleared the field, allying themselves with chaos. The tide ran red. Her field of vision darkened around the edges, narrowing down to an otherworldly focus on the carnage spread out before her. A demonstration, she recalled. Meant to give her a taste of the merchandise, and to entertain. She did not know whether she felt more impressed, or sick.

As she'd predicted, there was nobody left alive for questioning.

In the end, the Iron Bull looked up at her, blood streaming down his arms. Alethea could see the challenge in those eyes, even from this distance. She held his stare until he looked away, his attention snagged by a dragon soaring low over the beach, no doubt drawn by the scent of so much blood. The warrior whooped, picked up a spear from the sand, hurled it into the sky. The dragon roared back, so loud the ground shook beneath their feet. The Chargers cheered.

There was no choice to be made, she realized. Every skirmish she’d seen, every scuffle in the Hinterlands, was nothing compared to what might come. And if it came, she needed someone who would shout down a dragon.

#lethologica #Cullen/Trevelyan #cullen #fanfiction #fanfic #new fanfic #dragon age #dragonage #da:i #withdrawal

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