#// but also them meeting again on the battle field felt most likely

[maudlxne]

Perhaps it was just their dumb luck that they found themselves in this situation. Or rather the Black orders bad luck. It's not like the order was rather keen on airing out its dirty laundry. To hide its shame and failed experiments. Especially when somebody dead isn't as deceased as they claimed he was. One can only try to hide the truth for so long before it comes spilling to the surface eventually.

Heavy breaths escaped the injured exorcist as blue hues turned upwards at the stranger's back. His hands planted firmly on the ground with his own weapon laying a few feet away from him. A few moments later he would have been a goner. Sure - he would have regenerated eventually but it's not exactly the preferred route.

Alma's back hit the crumbling wall behind them, just taking a moment to catch his breath. Who would have thought the Akuma would have set up such an elaborate trap, eh? Making it seem like Innocence was in the area to hunt down exorcists. Then again - it was probably the Noah family as well.

❝ Aaaah! I was almost a goner! Hey, hey! Thanks for your help. . . um I don't remember hearing about other exorcists being in the area. ❞

A smile spread across his lips, canting his head to the side in delight.

@changeandmovingon

[legalmente-loca]

An Angel In His Eyes

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Angel!Reader

Summary: Dean sees you as pure and himself as dirty. But you crave him and you must show him that there is nothing wrong with him.

Word Count: 3,115

A/N: This idea came from this image.

Tags/ Warnings: 18+, smut, fingering, oral (f. receiving), dirty talk, lost of virginity

You are perfect in his eyes. A real angel who fills his insides with grace. Anyone who saw you would say you were normal, just another girl looking for her way. But he knew the truth. Created centuries ago, your name too strange not to be given nicknames, heavenly gaze…

You were an angel.

A divine angel, a soldier of God, a warrior of heavenly battles.

And you were perfect for him.

You could see it in his eyes. Maybe you are not used to people's feelings, but you know how to read them. They are very easy to read. And Dean longed for you, in a way that made you feel unique. Being an angel of God was already something unique, but somehow, Dean made you feel more special.

But he also saw something in you that he could not shake off. Your innocence. What innocence? You are a warrior, you had blood on your hands, you had seen your brothers die and you had sought revenge for them. You had observed humans, their pleasures, their ailments, their perfections and imperfections. And likewise, Dean was the human who shined out from all the others. A soldier for his own father, like you. But a man nonetheless who longed for forgiveness. There was too much guilt inside him and as you got to know him better, you could see that he was even drowning in it.

And, of course you, as an angel, wanted to save him.

But he didn't want to be saved, he didn't see himself as someone worth saving.

That’s why he ignored you most of the time. Whenever you tried to get close to him, Dean would pull away. He would even start arguments with you just to have an excuse to get out of the room.

You see, Dean was fighting the lust he felt towards you. How could he not feel lust towards a sweet angel like you? After all, you were perfect. People interested you to a point where you wanted to gain knowledge about how they thought just to feel empathy.

He didn’t want to ruin that. To ruin something so perfect with his dirtiness, because he was dirty. He really was compared to you.

That’s why, when you walked into the motel room, he grabbed his jacket and got ready to leave for a bar where he would meet another woman. But you stopped him with your melodious voice.

“Wait. I want to talk to you.”

He turned around to look at you.

“About what?”

“Why do you seem scared of me?” You asked with clear confusion, tilting your head.

He shook his head in amusement and took off his jacket again.

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“And why do you run away every time you see me? You don’t even want to talk to me. You know, I was one of the angels who dragged you back from doom.”

“I know, Cas told me.”

“So where does this fear I feel radiating from you come from?” You walked over to him.

He sighed. The war that was in his head downstairs was now in his head upstairs. He wondered if it would be a good idea to tell you how he felt about you. But he also thought that you wouldn’t understand, that he would have to explain it to you. How do you explain something that even you didn’t fully understand?

“Look, sweetheart…” He ran a hand across his forehead. “It’s complicated.”

“I’m hundreds of years old, my knowledge goes beyond that of any human.”

“Not in this field.”

You looked at him curiously. You knew about history, both human and celestial. You knew about plants and the other gods. You had watched how the different creations of humanity were created. What could he be referring to?

He noticed that you wouldn’t give up, so he decided to give in and tell you.

“I feel… Things for you.”

“What kind of things?”

“Well… Things like…” He laughed nervously and scratched the back of his neck. “Like lust.”

“Lust…”

You had known Lust, even fought they. You knew who they were and what they did, how they rented people out. Was that the whole big deal?

“That’s all?”

He frowned.

“All? Sweethearth, I just confessed something big to you.”

“Not really.” You shook your head. “You say you feel lust, that’s normal. You’re human, my vessel too. The attraction you feel towards this body is normal.”

“You don’t understand…”

He looked away towards the window. It was starting to rain, a strong wind had been present since the afternoon.

“I feel lust towards you, not just your body.” He returned his gaze to you. “I feel lust when I think about your gaze, not your eyes. When I think about the way you move, not your legs. When I think about the tone you use to speak…” His gaze ran from bottom to top until it reached your eyes. “I feel lust towards you, angel.”

You were speechless. This human didn’t feel things for your vessel, but for you… For you and only you.

You swallowed, the emotions were confusing inside you. And what do you feel for him? You wondered. And you remembered his laugh, his jokes, the way his green eyes looked in the light, and also in his darker form; when he hunted and killed without a second thought, without mercy.

You placed your hand on his chest, right over his heart.

“I have feelings for you too.” You murmured.

Dean gulped, clearly nervous. But no, this wasn’t something he could ruin.

He placed his hand on yours and gently pushed it away.

“I’m not good for you, angel.”

You tilted your head in confusion. A human no good for you? Well, yes, it was against all the rules. The fruit of your union would be cosmic chaos on its own. But you sensed he meant something else.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… I’m a killer. My job is to kill. I’ve seen more blood than I have in my body and you… You’re an angel. I could never corrupt you like that.”

You held his hand. So that was it. Self-hatred.

“I’ve seen wars made up of bloodthirsty men,” You said. “Destruction of all kinds and cruelty throughout the centuries. I’m not afraid of you and your darkness, Dean. Because I know it really isn’t as bad as you think.”

He sighed and brought your hand to his cheek.

“You’re something from another world… You’re an angel.” He whispered.

You took another step forward and your gaze dropped to his lips. You ran your thumb over them before bringing your own lips closer and kissing them softly. But Dean pulled away from the kiss, at least at first. After a few seconds of looking into your eyes, searching for some sign of regret that he couldn’t find, he kissed you again. He moved his hands up your arms, moving up to your cheeks, where he caressed your skin with his thumbs.

It was your first kiss. You had never kissed anyone in any form, so you weren’t quite sure what to do. Dean seemed to notice this, as he guided you with his lips slowly and gently, taking his time to savor the moment and your mouth. You slowly walked back until your legs touched the edge of your bed, causing you to sit up. Dean stared at you, his thumb tugging at your bottom lip.

You opened your mouth and licked his finger without taking your gaze off of him. He groaned and closed his eyes for a few moments, trying to hold back. But you didn’t want him to hold back. You brought your hands to his belt and undid it before unzipping his jeans. But he stopped you, placing his other hand over yours.

“Are you sure?” He asked softly.

And you could only nod. Your angelic voice was lost in your throat. It was enough for him and he let you continue.

Dean let you pull his jeans down and you looked at the bulge between his legs, causing you to clench your legs together. He noticed this movement and smiled.

“You look so cute right now.” He looked down at himself and placed his thumbs inside his boxers, pulling them down until his cock sprang free.

You gave a small gasp at the sight. The red tip, glistening with precum, eager for you.

You reached up and touched him gently, running your slender fingers along his skin. He couldn’t stop the small moan that came from the back of his throat and he grabbed your wrist.

“Don’t do that or it will be over sooner than we both want.”

You nodded and moved back on the bed until you were sitting on your knees. You held the hem of your shirt and pulled it over your head. You looked at him waiting for a reaction, your bra in full view.

“You are beautiful.” He murmured, looking at you in awe.

You smiled and shook your head.

“This is not my real form, Dean.”

“Yes, it is.” He said without hesitation. “Because it’s as beautiful as you.”

You tilted your head, but you didn’t have time to think about it too much as he took off his shirt and climbed onto the bed. He brushed your hair out of your eyes and kissed you softly again. His hands traveled down your body until they reached your bra, which he unclasped.

Your breasts popped free and a shiver ran down your spine. No matter how many moments you had lived, the sensations of now were unique.

Dean pulled away from the kiss and looked at your chest, his lips parted as he whispered something you couldn't quite make out, but you suspected it was almost the same thing he said before.

His hand ran along the edge of one of your breasts and you bit your bottom lip, feeling more moisture between your legs. Dean gently pushed you down to lay down, which you did.

You rested your head on the pillows and looked up at him. The light made him look like a God. Different from the ones you knew, but a God somehow.

He parted your legs and positioned himself between them before placing a kiss on your forehead.

“Your body needs to be worshipped.” He murmured as he placed another kiss on your nose. “And that’s just what I’m going to do.”

He trailed his kisses down to your neck, where he licked and nibbled, causing you to let out small gasps from your pretty mouth. He continued down until he reached one of your breasts. He watched you intently as he took your nipple into his mouth and played with it with his tongue. Your breathing changed, your chest rising and falling faster as Dean continued to worship you. He bit down softly and pulled away slightly, tugging at your nipple until he released it from between his teeth until he moved to the other, giving it equal attention until both breasts were wet with his saliva and red from his bites.

He continued his way down your body, scattering kisses across your skin until he reached your waist, where he paused to look at you.

He wanted to know if you were still on the same page as him and you nodded.

“Good girl.” That comment made your legs shake. “Oh, you liked that, huh?” He chuckled softly and pulled your pants down.

Your panties were seen by him and he licked his lips. He could already feel your sting on the tip of his tongue, even before he leaned down and ran his tongue along your core over your panties.

You let out a moan and buried your head into the pillow. Your desire finally being satisfied, even though it was just beginning.

He continued to lick until he noticed your panties getting wetter and wetter, leaving a wet spot. He bit the fabric and pulled it down, patting your hips to signal you to lift them up. He slid your panties down your legs slowly, teasing you, and tossed them to the floor above his jeans.

He didn't beat around the bush and buried his face between your legs, licking and nibbling slowly at first, then faster. He licked like he was thirsty, like your grace was leaking out from between your legs and he wanted to collect it all.

You moaned and held the sheets beneath you firmly as you felt his tongue running over your purest place.

Then he gently inserted a finger, watching your expressions intently. He slowly slid it in and out of you, your walls squeezing him and he couldn't help but imagine his cock instead of his finger. That drew a whimper from him and he rubbed his face against your thigh before giving it a small bite.

He licked your clit as he pushed another finger into you and your eyes rolled back.

“Oh God…”

The name of your creator fell from between your lips as you felt a wave of pleasure rush through you from head to toe, making you shiver and tense your body, closing your thighs around his head as your back arched and your eyes turned blue making you believe that maybe you had teleported to heaven once again.

Dean moaned against your core as he licked up the last of your nectar. He pulled away and licked his lips as he watched your chest rise and fall in gasps with complete lust. He crawled up your body until he was close to your face and kissed you with more fervor than before. You moaned into his mouth, tasting yourself on your tongue.

“You were a very good girl.” He murmured against your lips. “And now you must continue like this, understand?”

You nodded, but that wasn’t enough for him. He let out a growl.

“Use your words.”

“Yes, Dean…” You whispered.

“That’s my girl.” He placed a kiss on your nose.

He moved his body until he was more comfortably positioned between your legs. He held his member in one hand while resting the other on the mattress beside your head.

“Tell me how much you want this.” He rubbed his lips against your cheek while rubbing his cock against your folds. “C’mon, tell me.”

“I want it so bad. Please, Dean, give it to me…”

He placed one last kiss against your lips and slowly pushed the tip of his member into you. You moaned louder, the sensation taking you by surprise. You held onto his arms tightly.

“That’s it…” He murmured, his breath against your face as he went a little deeper. “You’re doing so well.” He scattered kisses all over your face to relax you.

You felt a sting, at first. More of an annoyance than pain, but that faded as he pushed another few inches in. You felt a trail of your grace run through your body.

“Dean…”

“That’s it, baby.” He kissed your lips, to which you responded gladly.

He reached the bottom and you felt him touch your cervix. He stilled, cursing, waiting for you to give him permission to continue. And you did, nodding and holding him tightly, your foreheads together.

He pulled out of you slowly, leaving just the tip inside before he entered again. You moaned and frowned, your breathing quickening as you felt him part your inner walls. He started to have a steady rhythm, your juices staining your thighs and his pelvis. The rain getting stronger outside.

“You feel so good, baby. Like heaven itself.” He rested his elbows on the sides of your head as he kept up his pace.

“Faster.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, please.”

He nodded and placed a kiss on your cheek before going faster. You moaned louder and your eyes rolled back.

“Oh, fuck.” Dean cursed. “You’re so tight I can barely get out. You don’t want to let me go, do you?” He exhaled a laugh. “Don’t worry, I won’t move away.”

His movements turned into thrusts, the bed beginning to rock and hit the wall.

You turned your face and noticed the cross that was on a wall beginning to bounce.

“Oh, God, Dean.” You whimpered.

“Yeah, that’s it, baby.”

He took your chin in one hand, guiding your face to his again, kissing you passionately as he continued to pound into you.

You felt that trail run through your entire body again, and your eyes lit up. Dean watched in fascination as your eyes turned blue. That trail surrounded your body, and this time, Dean could admire it.

You arched your back and pressed yourself around him, causing him to moan and swear he saw the shadow of your wings expanding across the bed.

“T-that’s my good girl. C’mon, cum for me.”

You moaned his name, and your angel power exploded, the trail becoming too bright for Dean’s mortal eyes. He had to close them, but his movements didn’t stop, though it’s not like he could move too much since you were practically squeezing him tightly.

Dean came shortly after you did, his cum filling you, staining your walls and spreading out.

He dropped down beside you so he wouldn’t crush you, both of your breaths panting as you tried to get back to normal. He looked you up and down and leaned in close to you.

“You okay?” he murmured, running his hand through your hair.

You looked up at him and smiled tiredly.

“I’m doing great…”

He laughed and pulled your body closer to him, your head on the side of his neck, and you breathed in his scent.

“Was this okay? No regrets?”

You shook your head as you traced lines across his chest.

“None. And you?” You looked up at him.

Dean smirked and wrapped his arm around your shoulders.

“Nah.”

You laughed and snuggled into his body. Dean grabbed the sheet and covered both of your bodies.

“So… now what?” You asked.

“Now what?”

You shrugged.

“So… How does this go? Did it just happen this time, will it happen again or… Will it turn into something more?”

He looked down at you.

“Oh, this will definitely turn into something more.”

He hugged you tighter and placed a kiss on your hair.

You smiled and closed your eyes. Being an angel might give you a lot of knowledge in many things and innocence in others. Having a relationship with a human would go against the rules of heaven and The other angels would probably talk behind your back. But you didn’t care. You had Dean.

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[blueberrypancakesworld]

The fathers of Rome

Marcus/Geta/Caracalla x wife!reader

warning : fluff, comfort, crying, kissing a bit emotional, birth, family issues, written before the movie came out characters may be different

Summary : Two Emperors and the general of the army all had important duties and responsibilities but by the grace of the gods and with devotion of love the three most influential men find themselves with the news of a pregnant wife. Each of them has a slightly different approach to taking care of his pregnant wife and the birth, because a birth could always go wrong and the gods were rarely merciful.

info : I wanted to write something sweet for the three of them and I know that they could be good fathers (if you romanticize a little bit) now have fun reading and have a nice day.

masterlist

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

Marcus Acacius

It was thought that the battlefield was his home and the sword was his wife but few knew that in a vast field of olive trees and wheat fields stood a large villa in which a woman lived with a small household and prayed between her altars to the gods that her beloved husband would return home safely.

A story of a leader of the army of Rome and his wife a former oracle who met him, foretold him his future yet his eyes, his voice and his being would not depart from her own prophecies.

An initial love of safety in times of peace, she appreciated his protective nature in a world that belonged almost entirely to Rome, danger still lurked everywhere. He, in turn, was captured by her grace and care, this devotion to those in need or to himself when she waited on him to heal his wounds and the two felt safe and complete together.

A husband who rushed home on horseback so fast he rode to her from the support posts when the emperors called him back the sleep was won she saw the shadow on the horizon from the balcony and even mounted her horse to meet him, ,,My heart" he embraced her each time still seeing the dirt and emaciation on him after being away for months sometimes years.

His hands closed around her, an embrace, a heartfelt kiss, tears in her eyes when she finally saw him again before they rode back to the villa together, she helped him bathe and wash her before he pulled her into the water himself, not wanting to leave her side and unable to do so for too long, he had missed her, not only her lovely eyes, her voice that he loved to listen to, her hair that he ran through and her hands that he clasped every time he wanted to be close to her but couldn't in public.

But with such intimacy comes love and with love comes desire, desire for each other, desire for each other's bodies and this desire was pursued many nights and on some bright days they were also close until he had to leave again, for the next raid not knowing that only two months after he was gone he received a letter with scrawled writing full of excitement.

A letter that moved him to tears when he read it for the first time, ,,I'm going…to be a father" he mumbled to himself in his tent above and above he realized that love for each other would grow into a life, a little baby that would look like both of them and a big smile stayed on his lips as he hurriedly wrote back to her expressing his joy and his heart, how excited he was himself, how proud he was of her and how much he loved her and praying to the gods that the battle would be won quickly.

The letters changed from weekly to daily as her pregnancy progressed and he received drawings of what she looked like, along with dried flowers she was growing that were made into tea and tinctures to help her body.

The couple were happy with words, kisses seemed to spread across the infinity and she was sent a piece of clothing by Marcus and remembered that he would return to her and their child.

Everything went well until he received the letter that she would go into labor in the next few days, the war took longer than expected, but it was the first and only time he gave his sergeant the lead and started the journey back on his own responsibility, which would take several days, but he had to go to her the fear and worry that something could go wrong that he would lose her or that the child was not healthy.

Fear and worry clutched at his heart as he drove his horse faster and faster as fast as he could back home where he burst through the front door and heard the screams of pain that scared him to death calling her name, he hurried up the stairs to the shared bedroom where he found her crouching by the bed, apparently lying down would lead to complications.

,,Love I'm-I'm here everything will be fine" he murmured hastily pressing kisses on her hand which she immediately grasped painfully and screamed again as she tried to get their child out of her, he could still see the love for him in her tear-stained eyes on her sweat-smeared body they were both covered in blood from the death of the battlefield and the birth of new life as she continued to push and the midwife helped her too.

She screamed out his name her pain and Marcus became more and more afraid of losing her with every pain she had as she continued to hold her giving her courage and hope when his own hands trembled as he heard the ,,I can see the head my lady keep pushing" from the midwife who did everything she could to make the birth as easy as possible.

,,You can do it my heart I'm here push again" he whispered to her as she looked at him in pain he saw the fear and yet the deniability that he was with her before she let out one last scream and he heard a bright scream next to blood splattering on the floor, a bright scream that echoed and seemed never to stop.

,,Congratulations, a healthy baby boy!" the older woman announced, dabbing the newborn baby lightly before wrapping him in linen so he could be held better, while Marcus helped his wife back onto the bed, covering her lightly and giving her a long kiss, ,,I am so very proud my darling," he whispered placing a kiss on her head, before taking his son in his arms, those light, dark hairs on the delicate head belonging to him but the pretty eyes were hers.

His eyes filled with tears of pride and reassurance as he stroked his son and gave her the little bundle she clutched, ,,A piece of love from both of us," she uttered, crying with happiness as she looked into her son's curious face and he chuckled at her as the two parents spent the next few hours together on the bed with pure happiness as the little baby went from laughing with gurgling laughter, to crying and finally falling asleep exhausted in the equally exhausted arms of his parents.

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

Emperor Geta

The younger but stronger emperor of Rome, the warrior and leader who did not subordinate himself and enjoyed the Coloseum. A young man whose golden lure was not the only thing that seemed to be gold, he bought and made whatever he wanted, be it new armor, a sword, an army or even slaves that he could kill or do anything else with.

But in his life, his only blood besides his older brother Caracalla, there was only one marriage predestined by his father that he should marry her.

Pretty, coming from wealth and power but not a woman he had chosen, it was like fate, his father had decided like a god on the life of his son but it had been like that for some time now and as much as the couple was celebrated in public, the false smiles and hand-holding of the inner circle was seen through, they were both torn.

As much as they tried to understand each other and she appreciated his gift of attention to Rome, as much as he thought she was pretty and appreciated her patience as a true virtue, they never seemed to be in the same mood. There never seemed to have been a thread of fate.

,,Can love ever arise from a loveless duty?" she had once asked him when he wanted to retire in the evenings, avoiding her to occupy himself with his important things that his older brother wasn't interested in and always finding an excuse to avoid her.

She saw the guilt disappear from his eyes in the blink of an eye, saw him straighten the rings on his fingers before he replied with a ,,Love comes from the heart… a duty from the words of others" before he left her room and avoided her for another night, a night that followed one after the other until one day they attended his brother's wedding, Caracalla also married a highborn woman and gave the Roman Empire its first heir, as it should be - it was all just a matter of time.

A fact that Geta also knew, even if with a smile his bright eyes wished nothing but death for his sister-in-law, a plague that she and his brother would have to endure,

,,I want to see you in my chamber after the feast and that is not a question" he murmured to his wife who looked at him with an uneasy look, she had seen the looks, knew what was going on in her husband and yet in a horrible fate she felt the duty in her heart she had to bear him an heir.

The festivities dragged on for a long time, but with wine that overwhelmed her senses she distracted herself from what was going to happen, what he was going to do just because his place in the order of precedence would be changed, she followed his words, made a simple excuse and retired to her husband's room.

She had also heard the wine on his lips as that night began with a kiss, senses dazed by wine and yet there was still a kind of tenderness in his touch despite his hatred, she still held him close to her heart, something she clung to as hope.

A hope and love a lust she would not have expected from him overcame the nights of nights she saw for the first time his jealousy coupled with love,.

,,I know you are trying my love" he told her again and again his hand placed on her tree day after day she seemed to realize if she was pregnant until the day one of the midwives and his healer confirmed she was pregnant and a few tests brought the uncertainty to an end.

She still couldn't believe it was true, she felt his arms around her body and words of praise but double-edged words coming at her as Geta looked at her with a look that told her he had never felt more love for her than now, ,,My Empress pregnant with my heir" he murmured and immediately let the news spread everywhere rubbing it straight into the face of his brother and especially his sister-in-law who was not yet pregnant.

The time after that was filled with happiness and yet paranoia, he was only more attached to her, paying attention to everything and having the room for the child decorated with her taste, choosing the furniture and the colors, ,,The room of the future emperor," he announced to her as she leaned on him and saw the room with pictures of heroic deeds and old legends showing victories.

,,A truly impressive room," she admitted and felt her hands relax on her now round belly as time passed, the moons and suns came quickly and her pregnancy increased, the closer she got to the birth the more excited Geta seemed to become, insisting on being present the whole time…an insistence she kept, only a few moons later her contractions came and the palace was filled with screams and weeping.

Geta shouted at the midwives and healers to kill them all or he would kill them personally while he supported his wife with words and did not flinch when her bloodied hand reached for him, ,,You are doing very well I am with you dear, with our son you will make it" he told her again and again kissing her forehead and giving her hopeful kisses until he shouted more death threats until the news came that it was almost done.

The last screams were full of pain and she clung to him even more, the pain increasing with the thought that had plagued her for months and her heart stopped when she heard the voice of the midwife saying ,,My emperor it's a…girl" and the room slowly fell silent, only the shrill cry of the baby could be heard, a baby without the right sex, a girl no heir.

Her heavy breathing and the tears rolling down her cheeks as he pulled away from her with a jerk, she was supported by her midwives who helped her onto the bed and took care of her as best they could while she watched Geta take her daughter in his arms and turn his back on her, not seeing how he looked with this "disappointing" birth.

,,Everyone out now!" he shouted making the little baby cry again and yet everyone complied, ,,Geta I'm-I'm sorry" she started trying to get to him when she heard a sniffle and paused, at first she thought it was the baby but it giggled and a clearing of the throat was heard before he turned to her.

Her worry vanished when she saw his expression it was pride, it was appreciation it was happiness, ,,The future of the empire an empress from the love of her parents…she will become a goddess" he murmured and came to his wife in bed put the baby in her arms and gave the little girl a kiss on the head while he held his wife's hand and gently stroked it.

He was not disappointed he had gotten something so much better, he had gotten love and a wife who was everything to him a family of his own the only imperial family of ancient Rome.

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

Emperor Caracalla

The elder son, the first emperor to rule with his younger but much more suitable brother, a pair of brothers who ruled together and brought Rome to the top of the world with its army and its strength, but above all a young man with a woman at his side.

A woman, the Empress of Rome, beautiful, handsome and caring, popular with the people and not underestimated in politics because of her own country of origin and family…but a young woman without children.

A woman without children from an age when she would not be empress she would take other jobs nor have a choice but an empress was not a politician, a warrior or even a farmer an empress was and should always be a mother first so it has always been but not with her.

The wedding was moons ago and even if it was a little difficult at first their hearts were close she loved her playful husband who was always loving to her and had a penchant for entertainment of any kind.

As long as Carcalla wasn't bored, he knew that his brother was concerned with everything else, including politics, for which he had little taste when it wasn't a matter of attack or execution, she could only entertain him by acting, playing or playing in the arena, and as much as they both enjoyed it, she became more unhappy.

,,Your smile is fading, don't you like it? I can hire a new actor or buy new slaves right away," the blonde immediately offered and waved the troupe out so he could talk to his wife who had been laughing all evening, her hand detached from her belly and handed him the parchment he had skimmed over in the morning.

A parchment with the emperor's seal, a message from his brother that Geta had taken a wife of his own on a state visit, ,,The betrothal and wedding, what's with that, starlet?" he asked, tossing the paper carelessly aside before rising and going to the table of fruit and helping himself to the grapes.

He didn't understand the seriousness, the worry or even what it meant for the future, not that they hadn't slept together often, the wedding night had been consummated and they had often shared the bed but it had never led to anything, she rose from her chair and went to him, taking his hand and seeking his gaze.

,,Cara. ..you're still the older one, a duty is on me and I don't know if I can ever give you…an heir" she said the lump in her throat almost cutting off her voice hoping he would understand.

She saw the humor fade from his face and he considered before he gave an almost stunned expression and grabbed both her hands hastily, squeezing them and locking them in a hasty kiss over and over until she broke away to catch her breath, ,,Please I-it may well be me…all this he may be the politician but I am the elder, the first and you do your duty every day you are with me.

,,I leave no room for doubt, do you understand?" he demanded and she found his hopefulness, confidence and euphoria truly inspiring that a small smile crept onto her lips before he took her in his arms the imperial couple found themselves together again that night, taking help from potions, tinctures and many other forbidden practices that they hardly left the bedchamber together for the next few days.

It was clear to everyone what was happening behind the closed doors but after trying and trying this hope was to pay off with her first discomfort and the first change, ,,Congratulations my Emperor you are finally pregnant" the healer announced as he listened to the results of the test and her report, her tears wetting the tunic of her husband who hugged her and twirled around and was all the more pleased.

The news also pleased the people and even when she saw the looks on Geta's face and his wife she knew she had done her duty she would give Rome an heir, she had not disappointed Caracalla, ,,You can never let me down everything will go well the gods are with us" he told her reading she put up stowage in the child's room and her own for the next moons so that she was protected and the child inside her.

The protection seemed to help Geta until a point, and everything seemed to go well until the day of the birth, when blood and tears covered the floor, ,,What's wrong with my wife?" Caracalla who was holding her hand on the bed but the dagger at his side seemed to slaughter anyone who did anything wrong.

He kissed her hands and fingers, tried to cool her forehead with cool cloths and tell her again that she was doing well, ,,It seems that the Empress is pregnant with twins," said one of the midwives who had already brought out the size of the belly and the prolonged birth.

It was news she needed to cry out and Caracalla was filled with joy which he only showed when she continued to scream and push with the help of Caracalla who got into a kneeling position and the moments of pain merged until the first child was pushed out, ,,A boy!" the midwife shouted and took care of the little creature while the younger one continued to hold on to her husband.

The blonde gave her a proud kiss on the head, ,,Do you hear that? Our son love you can do it I am here" he murmured over and over until another cry from her side and a second bright cry told them that it was done that night a boy and his sister were born, Caracalla proudly and happily held the little babies and immediately spoke to them while praising them over and over.

The little family was not only complete but was now a little conversation of their own for each other, they had brought themselves together through love and received two sweet little gifts because they believed that their love was stronger than anything else.

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

@morallyinept

@parvanovel -> I konw pregnancy is one thing but it's fluff so have fun :)

@sweetpascal

[bots-and-cons]

Just saw that your requests are open and would like to request an angst/no comfort scenario for Megatron.

Imagine his romantic partner defected to the autobots because of the violent behavior of the cons and was presumed MIA. Once both fractions are on earth, the s/o shows up and both meet each other again after a long time during a fight.

I hope everything is understandable. (Sorry for grammar mistakes, english is not my main languages)

A/N: Oh boy, I love writing angst and the little sprinkle of “no comfort” is just great lol. I also have this scenario which I wrote like years ago, but it’s also total angst with Megatron. I also got an idea for a part 2. Idk if I’ll ever get around to it, but we’ll see

He couldn’t believe his optics. It was you, it was really you. The video from his troops' first battle on this puny planet was playing on the screen and you were right there. You were fighting against the decepticons you had once been a part of, alongside the autobots and that damned Prime.

“Turn it off” Megatron growled at Starscream.

“That traitor, I’ll have them disassembled for this” Starscream hissed as he paused the feed.

“You will do no such thing! Now leave me!” Megatron raised his voice, not even glancing at the seeker.

His optics were fixed on the screen. It couldn’t be anyone else, he knew that frame as well as he did his own, or at least he did in the past. How many more scars had you acquired during your time away from him? How much had you changed? How much had the autobots managed to brainwash you for you to fight alongside them?

Back when you had joined the autobots, you had been lost. You couldn’t stand the decepticons and their cruelty anymore, but above all you couldn’t watch what Megatron was becoming. He wasn’t the same mech you had fallen in love with so long ago. You had tried to reason with him so many times, but it always seemed to fall on deaf ears. Even the way he looked at you wasn’t the same as it had been. There was something dark about it, something wrong. You weren’t even sure if there was love in his optics anymore when he looked at you. It was such a drastic contrast to the warm, loving gaze the two of you once shared. So you left, you left behind all your friends, everyone you knew and your whole life. You hoped that maybe you could make up for some of the pain you had caused by joining the autobots.

You had a reputation among the autobots of course. The partner of Megatron, the mech that was the root of all evil. The one who had stood by the most terrible warlord the galaxy had ever seen, while he had destroyed your home planet and slaughtered countless of your fellow cybertronians. You knew you had a responsibility to try to balance the scales. You just wished you’d realized it sooner.

Megatron needed to find you, he needed to know why and how you disappeared. The thought of you leaving him of your own free will had never really even crossed his mind. He had been sure you’d been captured by the autobots, that you hadn’t just left him, but now his faith in that was wavering. He needed to know the truth, and he needed to hear it from you.

Megatron was on earth. That certainly explained the uneasy sense of dread you’d been feeling, but when you heard Ratchet say the words, it didn’t make you feel better. If anything, you felt even worse. You had never wanted to see him again, but now he was here. You were on the same planet as him again, and you didn’t know what to do or how to feel. You would have to face him eventually, probably in the field of battle, and you didn’t know if you could handle it. You didn’t give him an explanation, you just left during one mission and never went back. You would never go back. The autobots, even during war, had shown you a world of empathy, kindness and true friendship. They were your family. Something you never really had with the decepticons.

Even though you wanted to, you didn’t hate him. Somewhere deep inside, you might’ve still even loved him, but you had pushed those feelings aside long ago. When the time came, you would be willing to pay for your sins with your life if that’s what was needed. If it would save others, you would give your life to save your allies from the one you once called the love of your life. If someone had to die by his hand, you’d rather it be you than anyone else.

It took weeks, but when Megatron finally got word that you had appeared at an energon mine with a couple of autobots, he rushed there, not wasting a second. When he finally saw you on the battlefield, you looked the same as you did the day he lost you. The two of you looked at each other, and for just a second, it was like there was no one else there. For a moment, it was just the two of you, and for a moment Megatron was convinced things could be like they had once been. Then it happened, you turned your blaster towards him and the look in your optics was one he’d never seen before.

You hesitated, just for a split second, but that was enough for him to dodge your shot. You could see his expression change as you fired. He looked like he couldn’t believe what you’d done. That you would turn your weapon against him. Then it came, that look of rage and that the burning hatred you’d seen him aim at so many others. There was a time you’d been sure he’d never look at you like that, but here you were. You were aiming to kill the one you used to love more than anything, and you almost couldn’t bear it.

Megatron couldn’t believe that it had come to this. The one he had loved and still loved was attempting to kill him. He had given you everything, and you were trying to take his life. This must have been the work of the autobots. There was no other option, you would never try to hurt him of your own free will. He looked around frantically with a crazed look in his optics and pinpointed the Prime in the middle of the battle.

You could see Megatron looking at Optimus and you knew what he was thinking. You moved before you could even really think. Megatron was so laser focused on Optimus, that you managed to tackle him and make him fall off the cliff behind him. You fell with him.

Megatron didn’t even realize what he’d done before his back hit the ground. The fall wasn’t long, so it didn’t really affect him, but when he noticed he had wrapped his arms around you in a protective manner to shield you from the fall, he didn’t know what to think. The anger that had just been burning in his chest was gone, and all he could think about was having you in his arms again.

“Let me go” you said quietly as he kept holding onto you, while laying on the ground on his back.

He couldn’t help but ask. He had to know, he had to hear it from you.

“What happened to you?” Megatron asked, still holding you so you couldn’t get away. Your arms were pinned to your sides, and you were laying on his chest, facing him.

You couldn’t look at him. You were afraid that if you did, you would throw away everything you had built with the autobots just because he looked at you lovingly again. You were afraid you would give in and go back to him. You didn’t want that. You would never be treated like that again. You wouldn’t be treated like an object, or a trophy he could parade around.

“Let me go” you repeated, forcing the words out of your mouth.

Megatron hesitated for a moment, but he decided to let you go. He wanted an explanation, but no matter what it was, he was going to take you with him. 

You got some distance between him and yourself, but you still didn’t look at him. Not in the optics anyway. He looked the same he had the day you left, but there was a different, more destructive air about him.

“What happened to you?” he repeated.

You weren’t going to answer, and you didn’t owe him an explanation, but you still opened your mouth, but before you could say anything, a nearby explosion interrupted you.

“Come on (Name), we have to go!” Arcee yelled from on top of the cliff.

You looked up at Arcee and then glanced at Megatron, who took a step towards you. You could guess what he was thinking. He surely wanted to take you with him, but you couldn’t allow that to happen. You swiftly started climbing back to the top of the cliff.

Megatron took another step forward, but froze as he noticed a few of the autobots standing on top of the cliff, pointing their blasters at him. He considered his options for a moment, and no matter how much he wanted to drag you back to the Nemesis with him, it wasn’t worth a potentially serious injury. All he could do was watch as you climbed up and got to the top of the cliff. You were going to slip away again. You were going to be taken away from him again.

You were about to leave, but you finally gave into the desire to look back at Megatron. This time you met his gaze, and you could feel yourself growing confused as soon as you met his optics. You weren’t sure what to make of his expression. For a second, just a second, you thought you could see the old him. The one before the war started, the one you’d fallen in love with so long ago, but that thought faded as his optics grew colder and his expression hardened. Now all you could see was that same jealousy and possessiveness you’d seen before you left him. He looked at you like a possession, something he owned, something that he thought had been stolen from him and something that he would tear through anything to get back. That thought terrified you.

He would get you back, and he would do anything to make that happen. He would rip apart the autobots to get to you and make sure you could never be taken from him again. You were his, and he would get you back and never let you go again.

[spicychaister]

When it was announced that U.A. would be acquiring a new pro-hero teacher, Aizawa Shouta didn’t expect much, if anything to change. But when you walked through the conference room door with your hands fidgeting with your outfit, he couldn’t help but fan a spark of interest that ignited in his chest. Most teachers at U.A. had an abundance of confidence, bordering on arrogance. Rightfully so, considering they were working at the top Pro Hero Academy School in the World.

Yet, when you walked in with the confidence of a mouse surrounded by cats, he wondered if Nezu had lost his mind.

Shouta thought you were exactly what meets the eye, a nervous wreck, insecure about everything from your appearance to your abilities. The tired teacher was certain you wouldn’t last a full year teaching, succumbing to the pressures of being both a Pro Hero and a teacher at the same time.

So imagine his surprise when he heard you chewed out several of his students for making mistakes during a mock battle. From what his students relayed to him, you were downright terrifying, forcing them to fight again, and again until they succeeded without making any mistakes. Shouta was shocked. From what he deduced, you didn’t have the balls to even speak your mind during conference meetings, let alone lecture students. It also didn’t help that whenever he saw you, you looked happy just to be alive.

When he saw you idly chatting with Snipe in the teacher’s lounge with a bright smile on your face, his irritation grew. He couldn’t figure you out…and it was irksome, to say the least.

The instant Snipe walked away, presumably to his desk, Shouta walked up to you, hands shoved in his pocket while his face remained apathetic, and greeted you with a grunt that sounded a lot like your name.You subtly tensed at his sudden presence.

“Eraserhead.” You greeted all the same, a hint of a smile on your face although it looked more nervous than welcoming. His eyes roamed your face, taking note of every twitch in an attempt to solve what was going on through your mind.

“Heard you berated a few of my students,” The words came out of his mouth, cold and covered in discontentment. His eyes glanced towards the couch that called his name. “Wanna explain why?”

You’re timid nature almost melted off of you like wax from a wick, and was replaced by cool composure, “You want an explanation…?” There was something judgmental in your tone, the whisper of a smile on your face grew into a grin. “For my teaching methods?” As you narrowed your head and narrowed your enticing eyes, Shouta felt more puzzled than ever.

The tired teacher regretted confronting you the second you tilted your head. The sight was annoyingly endearing, even though he had a sneaking suspicion that it was a trick. A trap that he walked right into, and had no other option than to see it through. He nodded in confirmation to your clarification, lips lightly pursed as your phrasing made him realize how he sounded like a complete dick.

“They were sloppy,” You elaborated after a beat, a bored look in your eyes as they glanced to the side before making their way back to his tall form. “And lacked technique. If they fought on the field like they did today, they’d be dead within minutes.” The words were pointed at Shouta, holding an irritated edge to them as you clenched your jaw. Your hands tapped against your cup of coffee to an unknown rhythm.

The man standing opposite of you has a stern glare on his face at your criticism but he didn’t say anything. He knew you were right, they were sloppy and their technique wasn’t structured. That didn’t mean he liked how easily you saw their faults, and consequently his.

From the way you wordlessly started to wander away from him, it was apparent that you were done talking. His eyes followed you, noting how your hair bounced slightly with every movement. His mind worked overtime trying to decipher how you suddenly seemed so self-assured that it made him question if he read you all wrong.

Almost as if to taunt him, you turned around to face him once more, “And I would appreciate it if next time,” You slowly walked backward and took a sip of your coffee before continuing. “You bring your concerns to me in private.” You gave him a tight-lipped smile and walked further into the teacher’s lounge, leaving him alone to ponder why in the hell you’re so intriguing to him.

[lets-try-some-writing]

I've eaten up all your feral!Orion content and it's SO GOOD!! Do you...have any thoughts on feral!Orion and Megatronus???

I do love me some feral Orion. So of course here is some more for you dear anon!

Previous part here.

The Terror of the Pits

Megatronus met Orion in a rather simple way. Orion Pax came down from the upper echelons of Iacon to ask him some questions about his ideals and beliefs. While not normally something he would entertain, Orion had a look in his optics that Megatron knew well, the gaze of a hunter. Thus, intrigued with the archivist, he allowed an audience... then two... then three... and before long he was having bi deca-cycle meetings with the head archivist.

Orion was well educated in all manners and knew far more than he likely should have about anatomy, methods of making mecha "disappear", and how to get out of arrests and assault charges. Not only that, but Megatronus noted nearly immediately the fanged denta the archivist had and the slightly clawed digits that he sported. At first he thought them mods or upgrades made for appearances sake, but upon meeting Ratchet around the time Orion began associating with him regularly, those thoughts went out the window.

He watched on in total bewilderment as Orion went from normal mech™ to possessive nightmare fuel straight from the deepest pits of Cybertron in under a Klik whenever Ratchet turned up. Orion did not play games when it came to his medic and Megatronus was quick to stay the frag away from any action that Orion saw as a threat. He was there to observe the archivist nearly shred a gladiator after the mech in question made an inappropriate comment toward Ratchet and since that cycle he never again judged Orion based off his appearance and kept himself in line.

Ratchet was off limits and that was fine in Megatronus's book. Orion was a good companion and grew to be an excellent aid in his efforts. Thus he could easily overlook a little hyper aggression on the archivist's part. He was content to merely observe Orion's little habits and keep himself out of them, however he should have known that as his and Orion's friendship grew stronger, so would Orion's tendency to act out of the norm.

It was small things at first, a simple lingering touch here, a slight growl there, and the odd instance of Orion stepping in front of him almost protectively. That was it for a while and despite being odd, it was nothing worthy of much note. They were friends and gladiators tended to behave similarly when they felt the need to make a point. Of course then Orion seemed to get bolder and those small things evolved into something more.

Next thing Megatronus knew, Orion followed him fragging everywhere when he was in the pits visiting. The archivist was not as tall as him, but Primus his field made up for the lost height easily. Orion took no slag and made himself to be Megatronus's personal guard even though it was completely unneeded. The younger mech was not afraid to size up gladiators nearly double his size nor did he hesitate to begin growling and making a show of himself with flared plating when he felt Megatronus was in any sort of danger.

It was odd, very much so. However when asked Ratchet simply shrugged and offered the truth like it wasn't the strangest thing of the century.

Megatronus: Why is he like this? Is he perhaps malfunctioning?

Ratchet: No, not at all. He's just got active base coding.

Megatronus: Orion Pax? The archivist? Who hurt him badly enough to have him acting on base coding?

Ratchet: No one. According to Alpha Trion he came straight from the wilds and the coding has just stuck.

Megatronus: Then all this-?

Ratchet: Its a sign that he cares. You get used to it.

It was worrisome at first, but Megatronus let it be. Orion could be as wild as he wished so long as he didn't cause any wars or civil unrest. Thus Megatronus also overlooked the scratches that were most decidedly not from battle that he found carved onto his back almost as boldly as a "kick me" sign. He got a bit of mockery for it from his fellows, but that mockery quickly evaporated like smoke when his archivist threw himself into the arena during a particularly tense fight and practically mauled Megatronus's opponent.

Orion was downright feral as he latched on and dug into his enemy with enough strength to have Megatronus considering weather or not Orion was a civilian or not. Of course what terrified him most was how Orion's mouth seemed to open far larger than it should have as he bit down on the other gladiator's neck all while his optics widened so impossibly that it was frightening. It took three separate mecha to get Orion off Megatronus's opponent and even then it also took Ratchet to calm Orion down enough to peel him off where he had practically welded himself to Megatronus's side.

Orion Pax was from then on known as a terror in the pits not to be trifled with. Not a spark dared go anywhere near Megatronus with anything but pure intent when Orion was around simply because there were also a few incidents reported to him by Soundwave of Orion hunting certain mecha down to leave ominous dead things on their porches.

It just kept escalating as their friendship grew and eventually Megatronus grew to appreciate the little things Orion did. He liked the way Orion wrapped his field around him and he greatly enjoyed the random gifts Orion brought. They were always a tad ridiculous, but he was proud to weave the bits of plating Orion collected from his foes into a charm that he wore when he wanted to make a statement. And while a little more irritating, it was rather humorous to have Orion go out of his way to bring Megatronus his energon for him and only after checking for contamination.

It was almost like he had his own attack dog, but Orion was far too clever to be awarded such a pathetic title. No, with the way he would hunt down those he thought wronged Megatronus with a vengeance? He deserved the title of Terror of the Pits.

In the end Megatronus took great pride in painting Orion's armor a few vorns after their meeting and proclaiming him an honorary gladiator with how often he somehow managed to kick the afts of his fellows during spars. Orion was a challenge the gladiators liked to face and Orion was always calmer after getting down on all fours and going wild against the heavily armored gladiators who could take a great deal more of a beating than the soft little city mecha.

Good times.

Megatronus never forgot those simple days and had a great deal of fun making bets with Ratchet regarding who Orion would fight and who would win. Ratchet usually won, but Megatronus told himself it was because Ratchet had known Orion longer.

[erzherzog-von-edelstein]

Hi, just wanted to say, I love your writing!

Also a qq, are you taking prompts? I saw york reblogged this awesome prompt list with different categories. If you by any change are open for requests, 7 an 17 from angst section with roderich and gilbert. I just like to see Austria suffering

Austria groaned and put a hand to his side as he settled into a chair. His face was pale and his eyebrows were knit in an unmistakable grimace.

Prussia’s first instinct was to look for some sort of injury. He had not seen anything happen in battle recently, but in the carnage, it was possible that he had missed something. He looked closely at where Austria’s hand was on his side. There wasn’t any blood, at least not that he could see.

He had to ask, “Are you injured?”

As he waited for an answer, it struck him that the world sounded too quiet without the sound of guns ringing in the background. Prussia had becomes far more used to the sounds of the Eastern front in recent years. There was something uncanny in the silence.

He let his mind wander until Austria answered the question, “Not precisely.”

He shifted uncomfortably and took his hand away from his side. As Prussia expected, it came away clean. So, he had not been shot, and that was some relief. It did, however, leave Prussia at a loss for why he looked so pained.

Since he had no time to be coy, he said directly, “But you are in pain. I can see that.” Austria attempted to smirk, but it looked unconvincing with the strain on his face, “How perceptive of you.”

Prussia did not appreciate the cutting sarcasm in the slightest. He was trying to be helpful, and not say the words that came most directly to mind: You will be of no help on the battlefield like this. Even if you were not much help before.

He knew he would get nowhere being too sharp; he would just get the same sarcasm back. It was Austria’s way. He tried again, making a concerted effort to soften his edges, “Roderich, you can tell me-“

Austria cut him off, “It’s the empire. I can feel it straining at all the seams.” He balled up one hand until the knuckles turned white and let out a breath through his nose like he was bracing himself before he said, “There is so much conflict.”

Prussia could hear the way that he was speaking through clenched teeth. He tried to be comforting, though it was certainly not his strength, “I can give you something to dull the pain and get you on a train back to Vienna tomorrow. I don’t need the help here, and you should rest.”

He felt like he was coming across as perfectly practical, and he knew that on a military level he could do just as well without Austria. The personal level was considerably more complicated. He had enjoyed the close quarters together. He added, “You have my leave to go get some beauty rest. I’ll win this war and you’ll feel better.” He threw in a wink, “Let me do what I’m good at.”

Austria was slowly shaking his head as he slowly tilted his face up so that he could meet his eyes. He looked agonized and Prussia was puzzled at what he had said wrong. Austria sounded exasperated, “Gilbert, be realistic. Even you cannot win this war.”

Prussia raised an incredulous eyebrow at him, and spoke from pure wounded pride, “Have some faith in me.” Austria gave another shake of his head, “It’s not a matter of faith. It’s all too far gone. I do not feel like going back to Vienna to watch Karl fail.”

Prussia rolled his eyes, “Nonsense. You are in pain, and it is making you pessimistic.” He opened a small medic’s pack that he kept on his belt and pulled out a small bottle of pills. He poured a couple into his hand before pressing them firmly into Austria’s extended hand. He spoke with the authority of a field medic, “Take those.”

Austria wrinkled his nose at him like a child but did as he was told. Prussia decided that it must simply be that Austria was failing to understand the military situation, and he would feel less dour when he did.

He started his lecture as he tucked the bottle back into his medical bag, “It is not as bad as it was a year ago. Ivan has surrendered.”

He tried not to choke on the words or to remember how Russia had looked at Brest-Litovsk. So wan and pale.

He forced his train of thought back on track, “That leaves us only Romania and Italy on this side. You could take Feli on your own. And I can handle Vladimir easily. Then we turn West.”

Austria ran his hand over his side like he was trying to comfort an angry invisible wound, “I am sure that is what you tell Ludwig when you send him letters. And I do not blame you for softening the edges for him. He’s a boy still drunk on ideas of glory. But do not treat me like I am naïve.”

Prussia was about to argue with him again, but Austria put up a hand to stop him. Austria took the quiet as an opportunity to continue, “I can tell you what will happen: We will lose this war. And then-“ he swallowed hard like the next words were physically painful, “then I will die. You win, happy?”

Prussia could not believe what he had just heard, and said on instinct, “What? No, I am not happy.”

He had no idea what leap of logic had led Austria to the conclusion that he was in mortal danger. He had lost wars before and been completely fine. He was even more offended by the concept that he would be happy if loss had been fatal.

Austria leaned back in his chair and fixed Prussia with a stern gaze, “It does not surprise me that you have not thought about it. But it has not left my mind since the emperor’s death. I am nothing without the empire.”

Prussia scoffed, unimpressed with the idea that losing the empire was that detrimental. It was just Austria's ego talking. But Austria continued before he could speak, “Listen to me, for once. I have no kingdom without the Reich, nothing that I represent. If the crown fails, there will be no Crownlands. And I need not remind you what happened to Holy Rome when what he was dissolved in pieces. That is the fate that is waiting for me.”

No, Prussia did not need to reminder. He knew the secret he had kept for over a century about the boy he had found nearly dead during the Napoleonic wars. He could have said that he knew it was possible to survive a collapse, but then he would have to admit to the lie he told about Germany for years. He would have to admit that to the person who had carried profound guilt about Holy Rome's death. He decided against it. The middle of a war did not seem like the right moment to have a reasonable conversation about something so delicate.

Instead, he kneeled and took both of Austria’s hands in his own and said, “Even if we lose, I am not going to let anything happen to you. You can marry me and come live with Ludwig. I would do it because I love you.”

He reached up to stroke his hair, but Austria leaned away, “No, you don’t. You love yourself first and foremost. There was never room for me in that.”

He stood up, and winced at the sudden movement, but managed to right himself. He announced, tersely, “I am going to bed.”

Prussia watched him go and made a mental note to give him a half an hour to calm down and to let the pain medication take effect, and then he could try to join him in bed.

[cortosis-ct]

So, yeah. Hi.

I would like a wholesome Rex, Cody, Fives, and Echo headcon.

Just a suggestion. I MISS FIVES

Let me think, might get a little angsty (I'm also interally happy-screaming about getting a request)...

After Rishi Moon Fives and Echo were devastated about their loss. A few hours after getting back to the ship Cody approached Rex with the suggestion to take the last two Dominoes under their wing and into one of their battalions so they won't be reassigned to some other random battalion and to make sure they won't be separated and assigned to different units.

The two officers went to medical but couldn't find either of the boys. Kix told them he had cleared them for duty hours ago and they had left.

Rex found them, eventually, hidden in a storage closet and huddled together. Cody came and brought blankets. Echo and Fives cried a lot that night but Rex hugged them a lot and Cody gave them some of the sweets he got from his last time on Coruscant. The young troopers were showered with reassurances and sweet words to make sure they would be okay. They eventually fell asleep, all cuddled together. Trauma bonding does weird things to people but that's how they felt the most save.

Echo and Fives had some trouble deciding but eventually chose the 501st as their new unit.

After the ceremony with Anakin and Obi-Wan they meet up again at midday meal and Cody made sure they got enough food down. Echo and Fives still felt like they failed their brothers and they missed them so so much. They didn't ever want to forget Droidbait and Cutup and want to honor Hevy's sacrifice. It was Cody's idea to paint their names on the boy's armor. For Hevy. Together they all worked on the new paintjobs until the 212th departed for the next mission and Cody had to leave.

They met again a few weeks later when the battalions worked on a joint mission again. Together they sat on the floor of the big hangar and helped cleaning each other's armor to show Cody the finished paintjob. It became a tradition after that, a post battle routine. The troopers of 501st and 212th sit together and take care of their armor, laugh, cry and tell stories. Rex, Cody, Echo and Fives sit together to share hopes and memories.

When the war is getting closer to an end and Rex is hearing an Echo on Anaxes, Cody finds him in the field barracks looking at one of the many holos they took with the Domino boys. Rex is talking about Echo, Fives and Hevy. They'll be together again one day, Cody is sure about that. He's right.

(There's Echo, close enough that they can almost grasp him. The war is coming to an end, slowly but surely. The Sith they're all looking for will die and when they're searching through Palpatine's living quarters and hidden rooms they find a cryo chamber with a sleeping trooper who has a raging scar on his chest and a little 5 tattooed on his forehead.)

[originalwinnercheesecake]

Hearing about the Hunger games continuation and thinking about all the Story continuations/prologues I wish we could get for The Underland Chronicles

Gregor's dad

I want To know what Gregor's dad (Who I want a name for... Steve, Lee, Heidi... What is his name? ) first trip to the underland was like. How was he found and brought to Regalia? We know he met Vikus and Luxa's Parents, SO what did he think of them? The Books say he stayed in Regila for two weeks (During which time he was very worried about his pregnant wife, children, and mother) and that he took a BB gun from the Museum. So I am guessing he knew about the war with the rats, but his family was in hell and he felt he had to get back soon. What happened during his capture.

I don't really want to know about his torturous time with the rats, but I would like some on how he was able to keep both hope and his humanity, the interesting relationship he is hinted to have had with Ripred in book 3 (He says Ripred used to feed him sometimes. He also was not scared of Ripred, Even though he was a rat and was "pretending" to attack his son). And lastly I want to know what coming home felt like for him and why, unlike his wife, the experiences did not make him fear or hate the underland.

Ripred

Speeking of Ripred I want All of his backstory, being a pup and growing up with his litter mates. Going into battle and finding out he is a Rager. How this made him famous all around the Underland, but also made him hated by enemies, and feared by allies, unless they needed him. What was going on when He tried to "Take over the fount with an army of Lobsters"? Seriously the Rat's don't even want The Fount. It is surrounded by rapids and sea monsters! What did was your interest Buddy?

Also I want to see his Mate, their family, and how their loss first broke him then made him change his stance on the war. Him building his relationship with the human side. Going up to the Overland to visit Libraries. His view of his relationships with Gregor and Lizzie and how it feels to him to being taking care of kids again after so long.

Hamnet

Up Next is Hamnet. Solovet and Vikus son, the beloved twin brother to the wife of the King/Queen, Brother in Law to the King (recently reread has me thinking they had more of a business relationship than a familiar one), the Regalian Army's most skilled soldier, and for a long time he was Solovet's heir to becoming captain of the Army, because everyone thought he was just like his mother. This is what everyone thought, but they thought wrong. Unlike Solovet Hamnet felt guilt. Guilt that drove him to speak against his mother in a war meeting to which she locked him in the dungeon for a month. When he was finally let out he went back to being obedient to her and buried his grief down, let it eat away at him, until one last horrible act (As a solider) destroyed him.

But give me Hamnet's complete story. Show him being a ruthless soldier and a fearsome killer on the field of battle, then coming home to be a loyal son, good friend, loving brother, and doting Uncle; becasue that is how many soldiers have to be. Show me him not being Okay but doing his best to hide that because that is all he could do. Then show me when everything went to far, and when he decided to leave Regalia, everything he knew and loved and run to a place that he and all his allies feared, for good reasons. Show me him missing his former friends and family. But also show me him meeting Frill and her deciding to take a chance and help him, him also taking chance and letting her (The books generally imply he wanted to leave his old life but did not expect to make anew one). Give me him learning about life in the jungle. How the animals there do not attack each other and instead employ a method of survival where first you hide, then you try to give a warning, then run. fight last. Show me him finding an overland women lost in the jungle and helping her. With the pair eventually forming a relationship and going on to have a child. Why did she never return to the Overland? Hamnet is a good father to Hazard, but you cannot tell me that he wasn't terrified during the entire pregnancy. Anything about Hamnet has to end where he ended. Having to once again fight in a pointless battle on behalf of Reglia, that the city once again brought on itself and got nothing out of. Our tragic beauty

Ares

Speaking again of Tragic Beauties I want Ares to. What kind of Stuff did he get up to to earn the reputation of a reckless, rule breaking, ...thrill seeker?...strength tester? To where he bonded with Henry to be able to get away with more. What were things like in the time HE and Henry were together. I don't think it was all bad. The Books clearly state that what hurt Luxa, Ares, Aurora, Nerissa the most was that they had loved Henry and could remember good things about him. Things that no longer felt the same after he betrayed them, and things they struggled with only becoming memories in the wake of his death. But the also show me his side of his and Gregor's bond, of him coming to love Gregor like he once loved Henry, and how their friendship helped him move on from the Trauma Henry put him through.

Nerrisa

This last one will never happen because its not really Susanna Collins style, but since none of this will happen, I want more Nerissa. What is it like for her loving her family and people so much, but knowing with her frailty and the Kingdom consistently being on the brink of war she cannot protect them. Show me what her visions are like for her. Note whatever we learned about Sandwhich I do believe Nerissa is an actual visionary. Her Visions of a bad and mysterious fate happening to Henry, Hamnet living for 10 years and building a diverse family, and Gregor being secretly being hidden away in the dungeon by Solovet...all came through.

Knowing that I have another question: Did she know suspect that Sandwhich was a fraud? Nerissa spends more time in the Prophecy room, analysis them than any other character. Many of the "misunderstood translations" are later "explained" by Nerissa. She got Gregor and the other questors off death row by replacing Boots with the Bane as the aforementioned "Baby" in the prohpecy and telling everyone: "they actually did complete the prophecy, you are are safe from the imaginary threats Sandwhich illueded to. Let them go and let's get back what's actually going wrong." When Greogor sobs about not understanding what the point of the journey to the jungle was (It had no point) and how him fulfilling the prophecy did not make everything better, Nerissa twist the prophecy to being about a war for the cure and reminds Gregor that because of what they discovered in the Jungle the council was forced to give the Gnawers the cure instead. Lastly she loves the one Prophecy that suggest hope for peace, even though its title is the only suggestion of it. On the day of the surrender she knowing her cousin will want to make the wrong choice about how to end this. So when she see's Ripred marked himself with an X (If Gregor and Luxa knew he did it himself there was no way Nerissa did not, she was always smarter than the pair of then) she decided to lend him a hand in getting everyone to believe he is the peacemaker, and they need to have peace. I really love the theory that Nerissa had realized what Sandwhich and the prophecies were and spent the books studying them, so she could try and mitigate the damages they caused.

[crispy-bonnie]

Headcanon catch up — CAPTAIN WINTERS

@thelocalbozo has to deal with me being down bad for winters on stream , and now he has to deal with me being down bad for him elsewhere !! yipee !!!

all headcanons that were done for the fbi units will be written up here [with a few exceptions] . i’ll be doing chains and bain catch-ups soon !

First meeting

Rather than being recruited as a medic, you managed to snag a spot as one of Captain Winters’s shield assistants

The two of you first met upon your arrival to the PD, having met up with him in his office

Things went relatively smoothly. He told you the ropes, gave you a warning or two, then dismissed you. Nothing special.

At least not to you.

The second you left his office, mf nearly doubled over and had a HEART ATTACK over how precious you were

Like- how??? Why are you so fucking scrunkly????

He had no clue how to handle the feeling, but he managed to conceal this fact from others

The fact wouldn’t be hidden for long though…

How you’re treated

Like the way he does with the rest of shield-failings, he treats you rather harshly, both in and out of battle

It was understandable why he was so harsh when on the field. After all, it was straight death that all of you were jumping into

Outside of battle is what confused you most. Like, none of you were in any particular danger so why be so cruel?

Some of the rumors that commonly circulated around the PD had crossed you. Some of them suggested that he’s had a rough life, others suggested that he’s just an asshole

Regardless, you didn’t want to prod him about it. As curious as you were, he’d probably kick your ass if you tried

So you just minded your business, and he somewhat minded his own

They fall in love with you

Winters has been in love before, so he’s not new to the sensation. However, he had never felt like this to such a high degree before

Every time you passed by him, he struggled to not just lock up and start sputtering nonsense, both in and out of combat. So what did he do to prevent embarrassment?

He treated you worse of course

He was a lot more protective about you on the field, him often yelling at you and even physically tugging you towards him as a means of making sure you’d be okay

Winters would also deny anything regarding his lovey dovey behavior. If you point out that he’s blushing your shaking, he’ll tell you that you’re just being crazy and might even threaten you with the risk of losing your job

However, all of these harsh statements are empty. He could never do something like that to you

But at some point, it starts to take a toll on you…

You love to sing

Winters was passing through the halls and making sure that nobody was causing a ruckus when he heard your singing around the corner

Mf was ready to tell you to shut up and get back to work, but he stopped when he registered that it was you singing

Once he managed to process that, he nearly melted

He listened closely and realized how lovely you sounded, especially while singing

It wasn’t long before you had taken notice of his stillness, in which he was quick to deny as he told you to shut it and do something productive

He wouldn’t try to get you to quiet yourself in case he happened to be around while you were singing again. He wants to encourage you singing but he also has a bit of an image he wants to keep up

Confessions

Winters didn’t want the confession to be obvious, especially since he knew that the other units would get on his nerves about it.

So he just calls you to his office to have a little ‘chat’

Due to his harsh behavior prior to the confession, you end up nearly crying as you accuse him of lying to you

Cue the absolute fuckinf PANIC

He’s quick to try and console you, attempting to reassure you that he just wanted to protect you

It was only when he took you by the hands and looked you in the eye, his voice stern as he once more tried to get his message across

“Listen. I know I seem harsh, but all I want to do is protect you. I’m worried that you might get hurt while we’re on the field, and I just want to make sure that you’re okay. I love you too much to lose you. Do you understand?”

Once you give him a small nod, he gets out of his seat to offer you a hug. If you don’t let him, he respects that boundary and just gives you a small smile

Later on, you go back to his office, having calmed down as you tell him that you reciprocated his feelings

Winters wasn’t too giddy about it, but he was definitely happy to hear that you felt the same way

First kiss

So Winters got really fuckin hurt once during battle

You weren’t there at the time, but when you saw him come back into his office you were just like “oh god oh fuck what happened”

He refused to go to the medical ward, so instead you grabbed some supplies [courtesy of the medics] and patched him up while he was doing paperwork in his office

You let Winters rant on to you abt what happened while you patched him up

Just as you finished, you gave him a small peck on the lips as you told him that it would be okay

He realized what you did and gave you a smirk bc like- damn you wastin your first kiss w/ me a situation like this

He wasted no time pulling you in for another kiss lol

You reject them

Okay so same thing as the confession right?

The only difference is that you don’t go up to him and tell him anything

You kinda just leave him hanging

He panics initially, unsure of whether or not to interact with you aside from work things bc he didn’t want to provoke or pry

But then he ends up putting two and two together and realized that you probably don’t love him back

He softens up a little with the battlefield treatment, still protective, but he does his best not to be too harsh

Winters tries his best to treat it like nothing happened, but when he gets home he’s poundin all the fuckin whiskey

Worst hangovers ever while at work, and the other units take notice but don’t do anything bc they don’t want their ass kicked by a drunken or hungover Winters of all things

So to summarize: he just develops an alcohol addiction lol

[savage-rhi]

Mending Shadows // Chapter 2

Summary:

Y/N was a simple Scavenger of Lucis, until meeting a deadly blow at the hands of an infected creature. At the crossroads of death, they are found by Niflheim’s cryptic Chancellor with his own agenda. Now bonded to Ardyn Izunia, and tossed into the world of Niflheim, Y/N struggles to cope with their new life as an Imperial Icon all the while battling their feelings toward their fate and that of Ardyn’s.

Click here to read on AO3

A thrumming shiver traveled down Y/N’s exposed foot. Instinctively, they pulled the limb into the warmth of Ardyn’s jacket. A continuous stream of memories poured through Y/N’s subconscious and invaded what dreamless rest they had. It felt so real, that Y/N could smell the dry earth beneath their feet. The sky was warm, and the sound of cars grew distant with each passing step. The rattling sound of tools in their backpack soothed their boredom during the long trek. They were back home. Back in the field.

The cave systems near Keycatrich offered shelter from the harsh heat of the Leide region. It was also a place where several Hunters got lost. Many had perished in the area alone, never to be heard from again. Y/N liked sticking with easier jobs and yet felt temptation take control of reason. Adventure was a powerful drug that pulled them toward the desolate lands.

Scavenging for parts to trade and sell was Y/N’s specialty in Lucis. Y/N enjoyed the work because they didn’t have to adhere to a set schedule. It made every day an interesting one. Hunters commonly joked that Y/N had it rough, but Y/N begged to differ. Time crunches were not something Y/N liked putting themself through, and Hunters, unfortunately, endured the brunt of that. Jobs in the Leide region weren’t too fun. Most people would break before their first month, but being a Scavenger was the right fit for Y/N. They got just enough gil to keep pursuing it.

When Takka--the head chef of the Hammerhead Pit Stop--put out word he was looking for rare material on behalf of Cid the mechanic, Y/N saw a rare opportunity. Y/N figured if they could get in good with Cid, they could extend their Scavenging services further South with the points added to their reputation. More jobs equaled more gil, and more gil would apply to a house. That was a dream. To have a piece of something to call their own. Now, it was a distant thought.

Y/N ventured deeper into the caves than intended. Though instinct told them to be alert, they came across remnants of a turbocharger and immediately zeroed in on the object. The car piece had seen better days, but most of the integral parts looked decent enough. Y/N started adjusting the charger, breaking it down into smaller chunks to put in their backpack when a snarling sound echoed throughout the mouth of the cave. As soon as Y/N looked up in the direction of the noise, it was too late.

The goblin emerged from the shadows and grabbed a hold of Y/N’s right arm. Its teeth sunk deeply into Y/N’s flesh, thrashing about like a shark that swam up on unsuspecting prey. Dark eyes rolled into the back of its head. The inhuman screeches that oozed past its feral maw bounced against the walls of the cave, like crackling thunder.

Violent growls intermingled with Y/N’s screams. Somehow during the altercation, Y/N grabbed the charger and began beating the goblin’s skull in until the creature was nothing but a bloody pulp. Panting heavily, Y/N tore their arm away from the goblin’s mouth. Horror fell upon their gaze while looking at their arm, seeing bloody muscle and tendons pulsate with every breath they took.

A series of nervous ticks and jolts emitted from the corpse, and the goblin disappeared into a cloud of dark particles. Before Y/N could cover their wound, much less their mouth and nose, the miasma immediately went to the closest living thing it could latch onto.

For several seconds, Y/N couldn’t breathe. Their lungs constricted as if a hand had reached into the cavity of their chest and crushed their ribs. Blood rushed to their head and they fell over gagging. Y/N’s coughs were so heavy that bile pushed through their throat. Huge chunks of food material they had yet to digest were ejected from their mouth. It lasted for several seconds before Y/N passed out.

When Y/N came to, the morning sky had long passed. Y/N weakly crawled onto their knees, feeling their vision fading in and out of time before pausing. A dull ache settled all throughout their nerves, akin to the constriction of the common cold before a full-blown fever would make its debut.

The first thing Y/N looked at was their arm, observing how mangled it was. Pockets of blood oozed from the puncture marks whenever Y/N flexed, causing them to grimace. At this point, the turbocharger didn’t matter. Nothing did but to get the hell out of this place before more creatures caught a whiff of them.

Y/N normally wasn’t one to cry, but while they traversed through the cave region the tears never ceased. They had been through physical and mental hardship like most folks, yet this was another level Y/N wasn’t used to. There was something incredibly wrong with their body. As if a passenger latched onto them. Though the being didn’t have control of the car, it was in the backseat reminding the driver--this case, reminding Y/N--that it was there. Watching Y/N’s every move and calculating the next. The sensations were visceral and terrifying.

“Hey!” Y/N shouted upon seeing the headlights of a car come into view. They were relieved to see the main road, and that people were still traveling in the area.

“Stop! Please!” Y/N pleaded, waving their arms up over their head. The strain of the bite felt as if someone took a hammer to the spot and Y/N yelped out. They immediately retreated the injured limb, waving the other that was intact.

Y/N observed the car pull over and out came two men and a woman. From their attire, two of them appeared to be Hunters. The woman looked like a Glaive due to the black-colored clothes they donned. It was difficult to be certain unless she said otherwise.

“Are you alright?” One of the men hollered as the trio sprinted to Y/N.

“Who’s hurt? What do you need?!” The woman joined in.

“I’ve been attacked! I need he--”  A sharp pain overtook the entire right side of Y/N's body. They fell onto their knees, no longer able to keep themself afloat. The noise of their own heartbeat began to pulse in their eardrums. It was so loud that Y/N couldn’t hear the voices of the Glaive and Hunters as they drew closer. Then there was a terrible sensation. A crawling feel worked its way from Y/N’s abdomen across every nerve, and at the precipice, explosions went off inside them.

One by one, Y/N felt their entire nervous system erupt with pain so unfathomable, that no words could hold a torch. No sounds even dared left Y/N for they were paralyzed by immense suffering. To add insult to injury, Y/N sensed there was something in their head. Another voice. Inhuman and full of whisperings. Y/N couldn’t understand a single word but knew that something awful was going to happen.

“H-Help me!” Y/N snarled while their body convulsed. They began to lose consciousness while black veins sprouted from the bite on their arm, and Y/N's eyes began to turn a muddy black. Their vision blurred, and the world stretched until there was nothing left but darkness, the sound of their heartbeat, and a powerful instinct telling them to hunt. Y/N was no longer in control. They were somewhere else, having no clue as to what their body was performing on its own behalf.

By the time the Glaive and Hunters approached and saw what was happening, they summoned their weapons. However, it wasn’t quick enough. Bestial screeches ripped through Y/N’s throat and their body launched itself at the trio. Yells tore through the Leide region. The sound of weapons meeting claws and flesh permeated the atmosphere until eventually all fell to silence.

Hours later, Y/N gasped and their eyes shot open. Their mouth was parched and they started to cough. Somehow they weakly rolled onto their side and heaved, throwing up dark black bile that tasted awfully sweet. Y/N choked on a scream and scrambled backward on all fours, only to bump into something soft yet cold. Y/N’s skin trembled and they looked downward. The shock was indescribable as they looked into the lifeless eyes of one of the Hunters. The body had been ravaged beyond compare.

“Gods--!” Y/N exclaimed, scrambling once again only to meet another body. Then the other.

On their knees, Y/N slowly brought their hands up to their face, seeing a dark shade of red covering both limbs. The terror in Y/N’s eyes was unfathomable and so was the shocking revelation: they had killed these people. These random folks who had tried to help them; who had done nothing wrong but simply arrived at the wrong place at the wrong time.

Penitence didn’t come close to the immense shame that transcended Y/N’s being as a fellow human. Never in their life did they take pleasure in hurting things. Not even the damned goblin from before. It wasn’t something Y/N had ever felt an inclination toward. Self-defense was one thing, they themself had to do that before in life, but killing was another game. And gods be damned, Y/N didn’t want to become a pawn on that board. Yet here they were. Dawning on the realization that from head to toe, they were covered in blood, having snatched away the lives of people who had families and loved ones who’d never see them again. Heavy sobs began to leave Y/N’s body. Their tears never ceased once guilt had fully awakened.

“Oh no…no, no, no, no, no!” Y/N shook their head rapidly and their heart began to race upon seeing the markings of the scourge travel down both sides of their wrists. Y/N needed to run. They needed to calm their mind and do something other than sit among the dead. The contrast of black against red made them more fearful as they struggled to stand. Y/N collapsed several times in their panic, not realizing that they had been considerably wounded by the trio during the attack.

“Over here!” A deep masculine voice suddenly brought Y/N’s attention elsewhere. Y/N immediately turned around, only to be blinded by a powerful light. Their pupils constricted, and their skin began to burn. Out of instinct they yelled and brought their right arm up to shield their eyes, and then more voices began to encroach upon the scene. Y/N couldn’t tell how many there were, for five pairs of feet sounded like a thousand in the midst of their confusion.

“Oh, gods!” Another exclaimed.

“T-they’re dead?”

“We were too late!”

“I knew we should’ve patched in as soon as we got the distress call!”

“Damn it!”

Though blinded by the light, Y/N dragged themself closer to the group in an attempt to receive aid. Through the shadows and brightness, Y/N could scarcely make out that these people were part of the royal guard. The uniforms bore striking resemblance to the woman Y/N had slain, the Glaive. However, there was something amiss. Y/N wasn’t accustomed to meeting officials, but they did know that the dark uniforms normally didn’t have red patches on the right shoulder. These people had to have been part of a different faction.

“P-please…!” Y/N pleaded through hoarse breath and sobs. “I didn’t mean for this to happen! Please help me! H-help them…! T-they can’t all be dead!”

“Shut it! Sir, the infected is still alive. How should we proceed?”

Y/N’s heart thundered powerfully in their chest, pulse bobbing into their throat at the sound of footsteps drawing near. The damned light hurt so bad, they couldn’t see who was coming. As sensory overload began to take control, the fear they had been enduring began to grow tenfold.

“Daemonification must’ve been recent. The bite marks on their arm look fresh.” The man sighed morosely. Whether it was because he felt pity towards Y/N or the dead was anybody’s guess. Perhaps both.

“You know the drill, call up MedZin. I’m sure having another person to study will help them find a cure for the scourge outbreak.”

“Study?” Y/N muttered to themself. There was nothing sinister to the man’s tone of voice, but the word triggered a primal instinct within them to be weary.

“Are you sure it’s worth the trouble?” One of the female soldiers inquired, making eye contact with her commander and fellow troops before gesturing to the bodies. “Considering the circumstances, it might be too risky turning this person over to MedZin.”

“If they were too far gone, there’d be no hesitation: a bullet between the eyes.” The leader bitterly stated. He looked upon Y/N’s quaking body and shook his head while continuing to speak to his comrade. “The outbreak in Lucis is getting worse. We need to keep it contained, yes, but if we are to survive this plague we need knowledge. That is why King Regis put our unit together in the first place. We stand at the frontlines of a bigger war than the one with Niflheim, and the only way our scientists stand a chance of curing this thing is if they have fresh bodies.”

The last of his words sent Y/N’s mind into a frenzy. Flashes of grotesque images sprang forth of themself being carved up and dissected; locked away in the dark somewhere with no one knowing what had become of them. The faces of their friends and loved ones invaded soon after, followed by the looks of horror the trio had before they were slain. Logically, the punishment did fit the crime and then some, but if Y/N were going to perish, it couldn’t be like this. No. Not when they knew it wasn’t their fault entirely.

Y/N attempted to make a run for it. Their injured legs could only carry them so far. It didn’t take long before two of the men caught up. One grabbed hold of Y/N’s scalp so tight and yanked backward that Y/N screamed and fell. While crying out due to a gash in their leg being ripped further apart, Y/N’s voice hitched and they felt themself being dragged away.

“I-I didn’t mean to hurt them! Don’t do this!” Y/N bellowed, finding it difficult to breathe through their nose. “I’m a Lucian citizen! I’m one of you! P-please, don’t! Please help them back there! T-they can’t be dead! They can’t!”

“Quiet!” One of the men commanded. “MedZin will ensure you’ll live out your days without pain. There’s nothing we can do for someone infected with the scourge.”

“Y-you can’t treat me like this!” Y/N sobbed, finding it difficult to speak because of how scratchy their voice had become. “I didn’t want to hurt them! I need help! S--something bit me! I’m not a monster! That wasn’t me! I’m not a monster!”

A strong weight hit the back of Y/N’s head, then another, and another. They tried to hold onto consciousness; fearing that the dark passenger inside of their body would take over again. It was of no use. The last thing Y/N registered was one of the guards muttering a response to their question:

“Unfortunately, you’re one now…”

Y/N suddenly jolted awake. A loud noise echoed throughout their ears in a rhythmic pulse while the upper half of their body rose from the couch. They blinked and rubbed their eyes, taking in a deep breath.

“Well, well, well,” Ardyn’s amused tone tore through Y/N’s ears. “I was about to wake you. Luckily, this is convenient for us both.”

Even with Ardyn's words, Y/N was still comprehending they were not in the cave nor under the mercy of crownsguard. Y/N looked around for a moment, processing where they were then planted their feet on the floor. Ardyn’s jacket slipped down their body, bundling up around their waist.  They tilted their head and observed Ardyn. He was pacing around what looked to be a hotel room. The area smelled pristine, but it wasn’t foul. Unlike the hospital residency at MedZin which was so sterile in the scent that it was nauseating.

“You mumble in your sleep. It’s a wonder I got any rest myself with how obnoxious you were.” Ardyn sighed and smiled. It wasn’t a friendly one. The smile was akin to an unpleasant smugness that grew when he noticed Y/N ignore his remark.

“Gods, how long was I out for?” Y/N grimaced, rubbing their forehead.

“Two days at most,” Ardyn said as a matter of fact. He finished buttoning up his vest, smoothing out the material against his abdomen then turned his attention to Y/N. “For what it’s worth, you didn’t miss out on much.”

“I’m sure whatever you experienced without me was riveting,” Y/N muttered with sarcasm, secretly hoping his ears wouldn’t catch onto their words.

“I assure you, it wasn’t.”

“At the very least it must’ve been nice having a break from someone arguing with you all the time.”

Ardyn snorted and rolled down one of the sleeves of his white shirt. “On the contrary, I was rather bored.”

“I thought my presence was an inconvenience to you.” Y/N stretched their arms.

“I never said it wasn’t,” Ardyn countered. He briefly looked up at Y/N and then continued to roll down the opposite sleeve. “You’d do well to remember not to pry where you don’t belong, regarding my thought or concern. ”

“That a threat?” Y/N’s body tensed seeing Ardyn smirk. His golden eyes scanned over their form with a predatory glimmer that was mischievous, and Y/N reminded themself that this was no ordinary man they settled their lot with.

“I’ll leave that to your imagination, my dear,” Ardyn chuckled.

Y/N turned their head away, not wanting to look him in the eye. They could feel Ardyn still lingering until his attention went elsewhere. The rhythmic buzz from his cell phone tore him away for now.

While Ardyn tended to his personal affairs via texting, Y/N got up from the couch and headed to where they assumed the bathroom was.

“Make a left,” Ardyn said bluntly then gestured with his right hand while he texted with the other, keeping his eyes intently focused on the screen.

Y/N sighed through their nose and followed his direction. Sure enough, the bathroom was where he said. They limped inside the small room. A mirror was above the sink, and Y/N carefully examined themself. Their color was present. No longer the murky pale they had been greeted to during the night Ardyn and they escaped the MedZin facility. Y/N made a note to themself to ask Ardyn what happened. Everything past the explosion was a blur.

Y/N pulled down the collar of their shirt, revealing spiderweb patches of purples and blacks snaking across their flesh. Their nostrils flared from the peculiar sweet smell that emitted from their skin. It was similar to nectarines being left to rot. Y/N shook their head in disappointment. The scourge wasn’t going to give up easily. The pain wasn’t so terrible today, but they ached everywhere.

“How are you fairing?”

Y/N turned their head, surprised to see Ardyn’s body in the frame of the entrance. A look of worry was etched on his features. For a moment, Y/N thought he may have been legitimately concerned for them. They knew better though. If Ardyn had any care toward them, Y/N knew it was similar to one making sure their food was cooked thoroughly before consumption.

“I don’t feel as awful,” Y/N said truthfully. “The scourge patches are pretty bad on my chest though.”

“Here,” Ardyn stepped toward them. His hand reached out, grabbing their collar. “Let me have a look.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea--”

“I must insist.”

Before Y/N could counter Ardyn’s movement, in a swift motion his hand pulled downward on the material. Y/N could feel the fabric scratch against their skin. A tired hiss left Y/N’s mouth and they made a face.

“Do you really have to do this?” Y/N murmured under their breath. They rested their eyes on a random landscape photo hanging in the bathroom while Ardyn inspected them.

“Yes.” Ardyn was curt. With his right hand, he tilted Y/N’s neck back to inspect further. His gaze was poised like a bird, intently watching its mark high above the world. “I can’t well leave you unattended in such a sorry state, not when I can make the most of it.”

Y/N felt the fine hairs on their arms stand at his words and remained silent.

Before they became infected, if anyone had manhandled them, Y/N wouldn’t have stood for it. Not now. Not with Ardyn. Not with how dangerous he was. It was better to go with the flow of his mannerisms, no matter how peculiar, for the sake of keeping the peace. They both had something the other wanted, and Y/N knew it would be unwise to push Ardyn in such a way that he’d fulfill his end of the bargain much sooner than agreed upon.

Y/N felt Ardyn’s calloused hand stroke against their flesh. He tenderly pressed at some of the spider-webbing veins that protruded from Y/N’s skin. Amber eyes analyzed the grotesque patches like a fine arts connoisseur, admiring a beautiful yet controversial piece of work that belonged to him and him alone. Something that carried his signature.

“This scourge vein looks absolutely marvelous,” Ardyn muttered tilting his head with fascination. He was talking to himself, ignoring the double take Y/N made in response to his indelicate statement. His right index finger and thumb gently brushed at the scourge spot in question. A smile hung on his lips as he saw the stringy structures underneath Y/N’s first layer of skin move around like a fungus growth responding to a foreign object: both rejecting and wanting to embrace a similar species.

“Right at the base of your pulse. I can feel it hum beneath my touch.”

“Ardyn don’t,” Y/N blurted without thinking. They watched Ardyn tilt his head up, his gaze burrowing into theirs. To say he looked unamused was an understatement. Taking a breath, Y/N closed their eyes briefly before they continued.

“I’m not denying what you can and cannot take from me.” Y/N paused, making sure their words registered with Ardyn in full. “I don’t have the strength right now. Not after everything we both went through. Please. Give me some time, Ardyn.”

Though Ardyn’s stare was venomous and filled with contempt at being denied something he greatly desired, Y/N could sense a conflict that brewed beneath the golden rings of his hues. The microscopic movements betrayed other layers of feelings Ardyn enjoyed hiding from the world. It wasn’t long before Y/N could tell he was debating with himself, seemingly on the losing side of a mental argument.

“Very well,” Ardyn withdrew from Y/N, taking a step back. He breathed out through his nose. Hand rubbing the back of his neck to soothe his frustration.

“The first stop we make on our little trip, I will feed. Where we are going, there’s danger. I can’t very well protect either of us if I’m running on fumes.”

“We’re still going to Galdin Quay, right?”

The expression Ardyn made at the sudden question told Y/N everything, and he didn’t have to say a word. The answer was a blunt no . Nevertheless, Ardyn wasn’t one to leave somebody on a cliffhanger. Unless of course, he had a damned good reason. Be it to his benefit for something important, or he was feeling particularly conniving.

“I’m afraid there has been a change of plans,” Ardyn began. He held up his right hand, catching Y/N just before they were about to protest. “Don’t bother tempting me to redirect the circumstance. I did what I could within my influence.”

“This wasn’t part of our deal,” Y/N protested. They took a step toward him. “How am I supposed to get my affairs in order if I can’t go back to where I once lived?”

“Now, now, there’s no need to get theatrical,” Ardyn waved off Y/N’s concerns with his left hand. His smile seemed to grow while his gaze hardened. Purposefully sending mixed messages to Y/N regarding his emotional state.

“I am a man of my word: you will get your chance to sort through whatever is left of your old life.”

Y/N let out a sigh of relief, closing their eyes momentarily. “So what’s the new plan?”

“I thought you wouldn’t ask,” Ardyn chuckled. “There’s a port on our detour. I can drop you off there. I estimate from the port to Galdin Quay will take a half-day walk. You may arrive sooner if you can achieve another mode of transportation, and not tip anybody off that you’re infected.”

“You’re not going to drop me off at the Quay yourself?”

“I’m afraid not,” Ardyn sighed. "It's essential I stay out of sight and therefore out of mind for the rest of my stay in Lucis."

“You’re taking the risk of letting your goods fall into the wrong hands, I hope you’re aware.”

“I’m well aware,” Ardyn’s left eye twitched at Y/N’s remark. “I have good faith you wouldn’t let such an event transpire."

“How do you know I won’t just take off for good and leave you hanging?”

“Nothing outruns me. Besides,” Ardyn stepped forward, grabbing hold of Y/N’s chin. The sudden touch caused them to gasp, and on instinct, Ardyn’s grip tightened to further emphasize his point. “I trust you wouldn’t be so foolish to test my patience. After all, you of all people know what I am capable of.”

Y/N couldn’t argue with him there. Not when their mind flashed with a memory of the night the MedZin facility had been destroyed. Head to toe, Ardyn was covered in blood and bile. He lingered over a corpse, flayed beyond recognition. The ink-like black in his eyes, contrasting with his honey irises looked like dying embers: clutching onto whatever life was left by consuming all around it to keep the flame lit.

Y/N knew they would die by Ardyn’s hand, but not like that. Anything, but that.  

“You made your point,” Y/N breathed out through their nose, keeping their eyes locked on his. “Let me go.”

“Of course,” Ardyn smiled warmly and retreated his hand away, acting as if he wasn’t sinister just moments ago. “Best be fixing yourself up now. We’re leaving shortly.”

Y/N felt their heart drop into their stomach when Ardyn left the bathroom and closed the door. The panic they held within their body finally unleashed itself. Deep inhales and exhales softly echoed throughout the small room. There was so much going on, and so little time to process it all.

While they attempted to compose themself, Y/N stared directly at the tub and shower ahead. They could feel the pull of frustration in the creases of their forehead while trying to recall what happened at the MedZin outpost. Patches of memories scattered about Y/N’s mind. It was as if they had thousands of puzzle pieces, and were desperately trying to fit them all together to see the bigger picture. Sighing, Y/N realized now wasn’t the time to dip their toes into that mess. They needed to get ready.

Y/N stripped down and quickly got into the shower after turning on the faucet. While they bathed, Y/N contemplated their next moves. As soon as they were done saying their goodbye’s in Galdin Quay, Ardyn would kill them. Though it was scary, a peaceful thought began to lull Y/N into acceptance. They would rest knowing that no one else would get hurt because of them.

Ardyn had his back pressed to the bathroom door. His head tilted hearing Y/N turn on the water to the shower. A sigh escaped his nostrils and he crossed both his arms and legs. A heaviness fell upon Ardyn’s features. His fingertips dug into his shirt, feeling anxiety begin to travel through his nerves. It was so sudden that Ardyn was taken aback. He never got nervous.

As quickly as it came, the sensation was gone, but the emotional residue could be felt. That feeling didn’t belong to him. It belonged to another. He swallowed, wondering just how far he shot himself in the foot by helping Y/N in the first place.

[tryst-art-archive]

March 2012: Dead Ten Years (Draft 1)

This is both a nonfiction personal essay about me, my creative process, and my stepping away from art in 2009, and a Khra-nicles prequel/side story about Unge. It was done for a fiction class, but I'd already established a habit of telling true stories about me while pretending they were fiction.

I'll talk about this a little more in one of the upcoming posts, but in March 2012 I briefly returned to dA and tried to resume drawing and creating as I had done when I was a teen. It would not last.

------Text Follows------>

            I have always sat down for tea with my characters, sipping away in the café of my mind where we chat about their lives and their futures and their thoughts and their dreams. Before I decided I was too terrible an artist to wield a pencil, I entered these teatime meetings by drawing my characters endlessly: profile, three-quarters view, face-forward  stare, hands and arms and legs and feet and limbs, limbs, limbs, and a raging expression here or a joyous one there or an image of melancholy or remorse or fear or shock or thrill, and then the most important scenes from each of their lives until finally I went back and did the whole thing over again, pages of history notes sacrificed to the characters’ forms, their lines obfuscating the words.

            For a time, starting around 2009, I ceased drawing any of them at all, convinced that the only worthy endeavor was to create new characters, explore new realms, run away from the world I’d been building since 2005 and the pantheon of characters Mare and I had birthed in the primordial soup of our friendship, all to attain a kind of writing I didn’t particularly enjoy. Somehow, every character following that so thoroughly drawn tribe fell flat, pancakes on a cold griddle. Proportionally, my sense of frustration grew, and I slowly became convinced I wasn’t good for much but long strings of actions, play-by-plays of capture the flag, and roaming introspections that blended Eastern and Western in a way that my peers did not like.

            And then, in a fit of desperation, unable to conceive of a single new plot or personality, I wrote about Arren, andI felt reborn. It seemed to me then that my mistake all along had been to deny the characters I’d had tea with everyday of my life for four years. Quietly, I began to draw.

            Unge S. Chickt stood at her window overlooking the city of P’tak from its opulent heart. Xev had been dead for ten years.

            It was 0 A.K., the age-turning year following the death of the Demon Kifer, and Unge could hardly get used to the ideaJust the fact that the Demon was dead was nigh-impossible to adjust to after his reign of terror—thousands of years of civilization burning under his sanguine gaze ending all at once, demarcated by a change in calendar. Only the Elementals who were as old as Khra itself remembered a time before the Demon.

            It had also been a year since Unge had met the hero who had slain Kifer: Arren Minetelle, a petite Fox Raeth with ice blue eyes wrapped in the blood crimson of a Ranger’s cloak. At the time, the girl had pep, a raging fire in her spirit that did not compromise, and a conviction that hers was the right path, the just one. She appeared, determined to slay Kifer, armed with knowledge from Rhawen, and prepared to risk it all. Unge sent her to Nassab in search of an artifact the girl had called the Demon’s Eye and did not see her again until the Battle at the Elemental Fields. There, Unge had joined her forces—IMDP—with the Elementals’ and the Rangers’ in order to defeat Kifer and his army. Arren appeared amidst the fray, her left eye gone, replaced with a desiccated, angry orb. Unge had naught to do but watch as the girl grappled with Kifer, tearing out the massive, glowing red stone that occupied his left socket. The Demon had screamed, his voice reaching an unearthly pitch of terror, and from Arren’s eye the desiccated thing leapt out with an angry hiss, falling into Kifer’s now empty socket. All at once, the Demon exploded into dust.

          �� After the battle, Arren was nowhere to be found, and the Ranger’s Head was dead. Though Raeth celebrated Kifer’s death—such celebration Unge had never before seen—terror seized the Rangers’ ranks, chickens without heads. And then Arren returned, slogging out of the northern forests and stumbling westward to the Rangers’ Headquarters. The Rangers, the country’s populace, even the Elementals, demanded that she be the new Head, this woman who had killed the world’s great evil. Yet she stood before them, her left socket still a ragged hole, the edges of the bone cracked, the skin scarring, and she said no.

            Garron Baylinthe became the Head, and Unge should have been happy about that. The man was a native of P’tak, born and bred in the city’s love for technology, though woefully filled with its distrust of magic, too. Still, this should have been fortuitous for Unge, placing her and her city in a less precarious position with the rest of the nation. All the same, the moment filled her with an odd foreboding, and before long she found herself contacting Arren, asking one thing: Watch the Rangers. Become a double agent.

            Miraculously, the hero had agreed.

            In some sense, I suppose, you could almost frame my understanding of my characters as a psychosis. As I was, by and large, depressed and suicidal between the ages of ten and nineteen, I developed a habit of consulting my characters. I would sit in the shower—I would have been fourteen or fifteen at the time—and, feeling thoroughly sorry for myself for no good reason, I would conjure up an image of Kriamiss or Pain, and I would imagine them embracing me, lending me their strength through simple contact.

            This evolved, as such things do, such that, in the middle of high school, I would walk through the halls feeling them behind me—imaginary friends though it only occurs to me now to name it so—and it would be a simple matter to draw strength from them in that way. And, again, the whole affair evolved, as the fact of being single began to chafe, such that the characters became ideals, promising that, oh, if only they were real, they’d certainly love me because clearly no one else would.

            There’s something shameful in that memory, an embarrassment lurking around the roots of the heart, and yet when I think how, after I’d abandoned them all, I brushed closer to death than I ever had before, I can’t help but wonder if perhaps the trade-off was fair.

            Unge had never trusted the Rangers. They were, to her mind, a dangerous lot. Their Head was also Raeth’s Head, and while he was elected by the Raethian populace at large, Unge couldn’t help but wonder if the system could be rigged. Even when she was younger, breasts barely formed and yet already yearning for a greater purpose, the fact that the Rangers were Raeth’s only police force, its only military filled her with dread, fear, and something acid like bile. Where was the safety on that gun? Suppose, just suppose, that the Rangers ever went astray? Just suppose that they lost sight of their purpose, lost sight of their limits, lost sight of Raeth’s needs. What then? Who would be there to stop them? The Elementals didn’t bother themselves about Raethian business. The Mages were a scattered group of farmers’ helpers and wandering midwives. There was no one else.

            For a long time, Unge struggled with that thought. Even when she set out from Nitemaer, determined to see the country in full, that sense of Ranger Danger followed her, with no feasible solution in tow. None, until Xev.

            Twenty years ago, Xev said, “You’re right about this Ranger thing. We gotta do something ‘bout it.” Xev was from N’zik, a small city surrounded by desert to one side and jungle to the other, previously the capital of an ancient Dragonfolk civilization, and now just one of the four Raethian settlements that could be properly called cities, one for each point of the compass. Unge was not terribly impressed with the southern city, though the use of sandstone was lovely.

            “I know, but what’s there to do?” Unge was perhaps twenty at the time, a traveler for only two years who’d nonetheless done away with the decadent fabrics and elaborate constructions of Nitemaer’s garb in favor of the simple leather and cotton to be found in most Raethian villages. “I’ve been thinking about this for years, and still I don’t know.”

            “No ideas?” Xev, a Dog Raeth all of sleek Labrador blacks and dewy brown eyes, melted over the arm of his chair. He seemed impossibly long, arms trailing across the floor, toes delicately brushing the ground, and yet he was still, somehow, in proportion.

            “Well.” She paused, turning the thoughts over in her mind. “If you’ve got one organization in charge of everything, that’s a problem. But what if you had two?”

            He raised an eyebrow. “Two?”

            “Say you’ve got the Rangers, just as they are, but then you make, like, a second Rangers— ‘cept call them something else obviously—“

            “Obviously.”

            “—Well then you task the second group with not only defending the peace and all that stuff, but also with keeping an eye on the Rangers. Then you go to the Rangers and say, ‘Hey, keep an eye on the new guys.’ So now you’d have double the police force and both would be making sure the other one didn’t slip up and go evil on us all.”

            Xev smiled and reached out to touch Unge’s tawny hair. “Well why not do that then?”

            Unge blinked, and one of her canine ears twitched. “Well, I mean, that’s not something I can do.”

            Xev merely shook his head and offered her his hand.

            Within a year the foundations of IMDP had been laid, and the year after that, they began recruiting. Five years after that conversation, IMDP was complete with secret agents, a business front to hide behind, and the cooperation of P’tak’s local government. The time had not seemed prudent to reveal themselves to the Rangers—much more effective to merely spy on them for now, until IMDP was of equal strength at least—and so the organization remained in shadow, its business front slowly elevating it until its letters stood atop a skyscraper right at the heart of P’tak, among the richest of the rich.

            And then Xev died.

            Here is something else about the characters and me. Nearly all of them are some part of myself, magnified over and over until perhaps you couldn’t tell they were ever me at all. Yet the fact remains that they are magnifications, and if you really, truly wanted, you could trace back their lineage. Kriamiss was a wish fulfillment fantasy on steroids, and forever and again, in the present, it is always a struggle to determine how to reduce an angsty enchanter-healer-angel-thing back into a person without upsetting the tender chronology of his entire story arc, of which Unge S. Chickt is but a small part. And so you have to look again and see what else they stole from you. By which I mean, from me. For Kriamiss it is the angst. Specifically, the angst that flies in the face of all the talent, all the ability, all the good fortune, and all the love that has ever and will ever be showered upon his foolish, morose head. His is a suburban ennui in a place that has no suburbs—though obviously I have suburbs, roiling in my blood the way a tar pit might bubble. Arren Minetelle, great savior of not only Raeth but all of Khra—the world’s hero, defeating its personification of evil—has what in common with a girl from [town], Massachusetts who can barely handle a stubbed toe, never mind ripping her own eye out— twice? For that you should look to Arren’s motives. Here is a woman whose cause is so just and so righteous that surely she must be the hero, surely she has saved us all, and yet she hunts down Kifer not because it is the right thing to do—so many had tried and failed over the thousands of years of his life—but because he killed the man she loved, a Ranger called Rusek who believed in due process. Arren enters in on a quest for revenge first—an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind—and on a quest for justice second, and therefore Arren is a cross-section of should and is, and if I don’t have that in common with her, then I don’t know myself.

            But perhaps you don’t know these people, though now you must know Unge, and I’ve mentioned Xev, but as he is borne of M[...]’s consciousness, not my own, I cannot tell you about him. I can tell you about Unge, but I think you will find it anticlimactic.

            Unge is among the oldest of the bunch. I drew her before anime styling crept, poorly, into my artist’s hand. I drew her before there was a Khra or a Kriamiss or an Arren, at a time when M[...] and I were only just acquaintances who shared a school bus. Unge came out of Neopets.com, out of a time when anthropomorphic animals were new and exciting to me so that I took to drawing gelerts—strange, dog-like things—in skirts with big, lavender eyes—a terrible sight to behold. When I “adopted” a gelert someone had named Ungeschickt, the name disappointed me. I therefore had to make Ungeschickt – quickly shortened to Unge for all intents, dues, and purposes – into the most badass of motherfuckers. And so, the first picture of Unge, ever, presented her as a femme fatale in a pink miniskirt and pearls, thoughtfully gesturing with her bloodied dagger. In this way, Unge was born of my love of 007, only to transmogrify, upon her entry into Khra, into a desire for a better world.

            A knock, followed by Tarrin Carithelle, Rien Carithelle, and Arren Minetelle, all but Rien looking stoic. Unge turned, forty years of espionage squeezed into a business suit, forty years of aggressive gaiety etched into her face. “Hello, my darlings.”

            Tarrin and Arren sketched stiff salutes, each in their own style, and Tarrin pretended that she was not awed by Raeth’s Very Own Hero. Rien beamed, unfazed by the world’s goings ons, mind still tangling with gears and levers and electricity.

            “What did Rhawen say?” Unge asked, settling into the plush chair behind her desk and gesturing for the trio to settle themselves where they saw fit.

            Tarrin snorted, mouth opening to snarl about the peculiar woman, but Rien cut her off. “She doesn’t want to see anyone besides Arren right now.” The tiny girl adjusted her glasses. “Though she did like the things we brought her. Especially the mechanical pencils. Completely taken with them.”

            Unge rolled a pen on her desk. “But we don’t get to know where to find her?”

            “No,” Arren said, a stone slab dropping. Her youth frightened Unge, sometimes. The ghastly eye socket, the runs in her face, deep-set, that made her look like marble, the ice blue of her remaining eye—just ice now—her hand never straying far from her sword’s pommel (a sword only allowed by P’tak’s strict ban on selling guns outside the city and the centuries-long lack of trade between Raeth and Nassab, though that wouldn’t last much longer if Unge had anything to do with it).

            “No?” The pen rolled off of Unge’s desk.

            Tarrin grumbled but held her tongue.

            “Rhawen is not in a position to be as helpful as she’d like, and to that end it is better for her if as few people know her location as possible.” Arren allowed herself a sigh and continued, “I had thought that enabling you to go to her directly might not be asking too much, but Rhawen is adamant on this point. She is…”

            “Yes, what is she?” Unge snapped, frustration surprising both her and the three women before her.

            “Unge?” Rien squeaked. Unge shook her head.

            One of the lines in Arren’s brow softened. “Rhawen is something of the world. Old. She has her reasons.”

            “Well I’d feel a lot fuckin’ better about it if she’d just give us straight goddamn answers,” Tarrin growled.

            The brow line reasserted itself. “Perhaps you should just get better at riddles then,” Arren said.

            Unge pondered for a moment. She’d been working with Rhawen before Arren had killed Kifer, but the woman had never opened up to Unge the way she had to Arren, and even that was a chilly connection.

            A wave of fatigue washed over her, and she missed Xev.

            “Well thank you for trying, my lovelies,” Unge said, feeling herself sink onto her desk. “I suppose we’ll just do things the way we always have. We’ll wait.” Xev wouldn’t have tolerated this waiting. He’d have been tracking right up to Rhawen’s house and demanding answers, all with a pleasant smile.

            One of the oddities of the internet is that every individual’s idea of it is discrete, separate from every other individual’s idea of it. My internet is different from yours is different from Steve’s is different from your little cousin’s even though we all can and do talk about the internet as if it were one thing—one place—when, in fact, it is a thousand tiny microcosms. My internet was a place for outsiders to hide and feel less alone. I spent time on Neopets, constructing, building, proposing characters and web pages and drawings and later yammering on to deviantArt and then role playing with M[...] on AIM—all day, every day, talking around the character’s conversations as if we were at some sort of party—and on and on and on, until between M[...] and I, we had produced an entire world filled with faces I knew and loved in a way I could not know or love the people around me because reality would never be anything but disappointing. (And so there it is.)

            But what is odd is that when we left that world, all the other fictions out there were never enough for me either. So it was disappointing reality, disappointing fiction, and then before you know it, you’re what feels like a lifetime away from those socially reclusive days, and you find yourself starting to submerge yourself in all those old habits right back over again. And what’s more, M[...] is too, though the methods are slightly different. Why, after abandoning deviantArt four years ago, have we returned to it, just as she graduates from [college]? Why, four years after I set aside Khra, the KriamBook, the Pupcat Riley Story, the Asher Concept, and Arren’s Tale, have I found myself inexorably drawn towards them, fed up and disgusted with everything else that droops out of my pen, just when I’m meant to be serious about my work, my career, my life, and the future? What has caused us to come full circle, and why am I the only one of us twain questioning it?

            Xev died on a mission of first contact.

            Unge harbored two great dreams. The first: fix the Raethian judicial and political system to better prevent corruption. The second: re-establish diplomatic ties with Nassab and undo the political damage caused by the Great War, a thousand or so years ago. The trouble with this latter goal was, first and foremost, that a Human of Nassab would always kill and Raethian on sight, and most Raethians wouldn’t behave a whole lot more nobly. Oh, naturally, illegal trading had always occurred between the two continents—P’tak’s technological wealth was drawn directly from that fact—but Unge desired open trade. Raethian society was ruled by magic—the fact of the Elementals on the continent ensured that—and Nassab, left without easy access to magic, had turned to technology. And Unge wanted both. Nitemaer was one of the few places that mixed them, and that mentality ran deep in Unge.

            It was only natural that—observing the black market ships sailing between Bollen on Nassab and P’tak on Raeth—Unge determined that IMDP would certainly engage in some trading of its own and once begun, found their dealings with Bollen went well. Unge then thought to expand. To that end, she sent Xev to northern Nassab, and when he returned, he was merely a head in a box, a note pinned to the outside: “No Dogs.”

            Unge shook the cobwebs from her mind. Tarrin and Rien had left, returning to their respective departments. Arren remained, sipping water and looking over Unge’s view of P’tak. Unge, at her side, pointed out through the city’s haze to where the ocean was just barely visible. “One of these days, that’s gonna be all boats all the time.” She smirked. “You won’t be the only Raethian to scoot around Nassab.”

            Arren nodded, remaining eye closed. “Rhawen asked a favor of me.”

            “Oh?”

            From a pouch on her hip, Arren removed a small letter, some tiny object weighing down one of the envelope’s corners. It was sealed with orange wax—an odd choice—the imprint of what looked to be a dragon in flight squashed into the pumpkin color. An extinct animal for an ancient woman who didn’t look a day over twenty-five, apparently knew everything there was to know, and then refused to tell you. Why not dragons?

            Unge took it to the desk and broke the seal. Alongside the letter, Rhawen had inserted a pendant matching the seal impressed into the wax—one of those extinct dragons in flight. Unge ran her thumb over it, unsure of its connotation, though remembering that Rhawen wore one such pendant. She glanced at Arren, a question in her eyes, but Arren did not meet her gaze, sipping her glass of water instead.

            Unge settled into her chair and read the letter.

            Allow me just one more moment of your time, before you read Rhawen’s letter, before you decide if all this time spent poring over a day in Unge’s life and the musings of her author—her technical, real author, not Rhawen, the Narrator, who is the voice who tells these stories—was wasted.

            Purpose applies to all of these situations. I don’t know what your life was like in 2001 or 2002, but I know what mine was like, and for all the material fortune in the world, I was nonetheless struck with a deep-seated misery that I couldn’t explain, and really I still can’t, at least not in a way that feels authentic. I was filled with guilt over this feeling—“There are children starving in Africa!”—and  yet the feeling persisted until I became jealous of the starving children because at least they knew why they were miserable. It’s no surprise then that the characters I birthed were universally sad, universally restless, and universally struck with tepid misfortunes which, in theory, should be world-shattering, and yet in application remained ineffective. Kriamiss’s mother dies when he is fifteen, and he flees his home, finds the father that abandoned them and that man dies too, and then when he finds someone to love in the world, she kills him, and it isn’t until he’s been dead five hundred years that he has a second chance—to save the world, to become whole. My inability to feel anything at a degree less than acutely became his saga of misfortunes—too many to be useful, narrative-wise, but just enough to try to justify feeling the way I did.

            So why feel so acutely? It’s hard to say. Do you blame a chemical imbalance; do you blame a spoiled upbringing; do you blame an inherent, genetic sensitivity, or do you perhaps put it down to some sort of flaw, a lack of the “right stuff”? I’m not sure; it’s all too far away to say anything concrete about. The memory is unreliable, the heart is unreliable, the mind is unreliable, even the evidence of the eyes is unreliable, because all is perception. In the present time, however, let us put it all down to purpose. There was purpose when we created, there was a loss of purpose when we stopped, and now we seek out purpose again—and so the whole world, the whole array of characters, have returned, because they cannot exist without us.

            And how about Kriamiss or Unge? Why is it that every character I create is alone, at the end of the day, always by themselves, contained within the space of their own bodies, isolated? I am alone when I am with people; I am alone when I am not. Solitude, then purpose. We—the characters and me—travel alone and look for something to do. Something meaningful. Save the world, that’s always good, or maybe just improving it will do. Always with the epic narrative, always with the complete saga, and always with the search for purpose and the inescapable solitude.

            I reiterate: the characters are me.

Unge—

            Some twenty years ago, I sat on a café veranda in N’zik, and I watched a young Dog Raeth with tawny hair and a full bosom chitter and laugh with another young Dog Raeth, this one a sea of blacks and browns constructed into a long, lithe, lingering body. They laughed with one another, at one another, at themselves, caught in what I shall call puppy love. I saw, at that time, their histories and their present, and while I have never been known to predict the future, everything I could sense about them suggested that they were bound for greater things. When, ten years ago, one of the two passed from this world on to Ahrk, I knew of this too, and I thought for a long time about how to make things right.

            What answer can I give you? Arren sought out her own, and I supported her, and now, even with all the knowledge a mortal can be allowed, I find myself regretting. There lies Kifer, dead, and is not one girl’s youth worth the safety of thousands? But still the regret persists.

            I digress.

            You have a dream.

            The Dragonfolk are waning, but their presence is still felt and revered in the northern climes of Nassab. Southern Nassab is, generally, filled with hatred for their once-oppressors, but in the north the sentiment is less present, the sins more forgiven, and so a Dragonfolk token can go a long way. Therefore, please find enclosed the symbol of the Dragonfolk; may it earn you passage to those places closed off to all but the eldest. I will only ask that you do not use it to go to the Verde Isles.

            With these thoughts in mind, I wish you well and tell you now that Xev died wishing for you.

Rhawen E. Fox

            Unge choked and found, through her sobs, that Arren stood at her shoulder, merely holding it. The younger woman maintained that spot, one worn hand acknowledging Unge’s pain for the half hour it took the older woman to regain herself, her gaiety washed away by a ten-year-old memory of a dead man.

            When Unge had subsided, Arren took herself to the other side of the desk and sat down. She folded her arms on the black, sanitized wood, her posture suddenly more like the girl she should have been. Eyes hard on Unge, she said, “I’ve known tears like that.”

            Unge nodded. “Xev was—he made this. All of this. Just by saying it was possible. Just ‘You can do it, Unge.’ This can be done. And then it was. That was all it took. He said I could do it, so I did.” Her breath rattled. “How do you come back from that? How do you answer for that death?”

            Arren took her hand and gave it a squeeze. Unge could feel every crease, every callous in the hero’s hand. Here was where her sword had worn itself a home and here at the finger tips the place for her bow. These tiny cuts for every hour of traveling from one Raethian coast to the other and these weathered folds for every night spent alone beneath the stars forming a web to catch demons. Arren’s nails were dirty, but in spite of the usage written across her hands, Unge could see where once the delicate shape of a genteel woman’s glove may have fit, and Unge’s own palm felt suddenly fat and chubby in the grasp of one so conflictingly worked.

            Arren withdrew, her whole self drawn back up into the raw eye socket, sucked behind a glacial mask. She stood, saying, “The Rangers will miss me momentarily. Baylinthe’s put his son and Brue Nadir as his top officers. Most of the men are terrified of Brue, which leaves me and the boy to see that morale stays up.”

            Unge closed her eyes, nodding her understanding, but found Arren leaning in when she’d opened them again.

            “The boy. Maroc Baylinthe. He might be trouble.”

            There seemed something more she wanted to say, and Unge prompted her—“How so?”—but Arren shook her head and stepped away. “It may just be me. The men love him.” A tightness around her mouth suggested a deeper trouble, but Arren shook it off. “No, it is nothing. He is a Ranger, after all.” With that, Arren saluted, said her farewells, and whisked out of the room, just a red cloak disappearing behind metal doors.

            Unge considered the disappearing cloak and fingered the pendant. She laughed. “Dragonfolk symbols and the great hero feels compassion? Oh dear.” She’d have to have someone look deeper into these Baylinthes. Arren wasn’t the most intuitive of ladies, but Unge wasn’t about to dismiss her discomfit out of hand. The Rangers had completely failed to exhibit corruption, these past ten years. Perhaps now was the time?

            Unge left her chair, pendant still in hand, and returned to her favorite spot, staring out over the city—her city—where she contemplated reconciling the half-animal Raethians to their long-lost cousins, the Humans of Nassab.

[emcads]

So if you’re in the mood to talk about tpof (again!), I was thinking it’s a real crime that we didn’t get to know how Esme felt about anything since the battle with Borya to meeting Amenirdis. Like what was she thinking specially about the magical princess aboard Jack’s ship who definitely had something for him? Was she jealous like she’d been with Tia Dalma (although I still think it might’ve been just Jack thinking that)? Curious?

oh, you know me, anon. i’m always in the mood to talk about tpof.

this got unexpectedly long so i’m popping it below a cut <3

i think this is an interesting one bc esme’s jealousy itself is not very straightforward.  she tries very very dearly not to be jealous,  and not to let jack’s other relationships bother her: she wouldn’t be with the man if she remotely thought to expect fidelity,  and deciding to continue to be with him is just the choice that she makes.  but at the end of the day esmeralda is only human:  of course it’s going to bother her to some extent / make her jealous,  even if she’s deciding to deal with that herself rather than take that jealousy out on him. for the most part, it’s fine, jack is off gallivanting with sex workers,  that’s how he is,  and that’s how she’s always known pirates to be –– whether or not they’re in a committed relationship. what distinguishes  tia dalma  / amendiris  as meriting legitimate jealousy in her eyes is the fact that she knows that there’s more to it than just a casual sex / purchased sex kind of thing. they’re both powerful, competent women who command not only jack’s affection but his respect ( much like herself ),  possibly even his love in the case of amenirdis,  though esmeralda can only make guesses on that count.  probably her most immature line in the whole book is her little “is she pretty?” about tia dalma, but to me ...  idk, that’s also one of her most honest moments,  where’s she’s just genuine about the jealousy she’s feeling, about wanting to impress jack and wanting him, period.

and knowing, too, that she’s getting older, she’s not in her 20′s anymore as jack is. far be it from me to say she’s lost any amount of beauty, but she worries about it. physical appearance has been one of her practical tools in her field as well as access to romance.

anyway, i wouldn’t really call it a matter of competition,  and honestly,  she’s so frank and open and giving towards amenirdis that i just don’t see her as the type of girl that would ever let a man cause infighting and discord between herself and another woman.  part of the reason she knows jack’s attachment so well is because she respects the hell out of these women too  ––  of course he’d fall for them,  who wouldn’t ?   but at the same time, she knows that she won’t ever really “measure up” to these women,  in terms of power,  or ability to captivate jack’s attention,  or even to help him when he needs it,  and I think that’s what really bothers her more so than the actual sex  ( though on that count, she is human, so she’s thinking about that too even if she isn’t saying it ).  esmeralda is already fighting a losing battle with his love for the pearl / captaincy with the eitc,  so it’s ...  a little distressing to know that he’s already very much being captivated by someone else.  she doesn’t really stop to consider that he might not actually be romantically / sexually engaged with amenirdis the very moment she finds out she’s actually super hot, it’s practically a given knowing jack.  but it’s also one more thing –– a very visibly, beautiful reminder –– that the man she’s in love with doesn’t think about her all that much,  so that does hurt. ( especially when you consider she’s just dropped everything to save his entire ship and crew post-battle, not something he has done or would ever do for her )  and she handles it with grace, i think, especially meeting amenirdis where she’s at and treating her as an individual rather than in connection to jack.

i think ...  her desire to meet ayisha/amenirdis is somewhat honest, and somewhat not. there’s definitely a petty part of her that wants to meet jack’s new love interest for herself and size her up, because of fucking course jack sparrow can’t leave port with an ugly woman without her being smoking hot by midvoyage.  but what she says about wanting to meet her out of genuine admiration, and wanting to help her, is also true.  she highly, highly respects women in positions of power, even those who were born into it, because she’s lived that life herself and knows how it can be,  and tbh the opportunity to meet an actual royal isn’t one she’s about to pass up. her place of generosity also sort of ... comes from a place of knowing jack and his sartorial habits, and how content he is with the grime and ... other things,  and making an educated guess that he hasn’t made her comfort a priority in that regard.  so she’s able to relate to her,  distantly, in the idea of being a well-born woman among pirates,  who also desperately wants to bone jack.

edit:  just to add that she’s certain they’re involved once she realizes amenirdis wants to be involved with him.  jack will pretty much sleep with anyone willing,  but that’s a non-negotiable point.

[meditating-dog-lover]

Autistic

Recently I've been battling pretty awful anxiety, which caused my entire skin to flare and turn red (I'm going to be honest and say that I've also been using a cleanser that has been drying and irritating and my face is red and peeling and I'm sure it made my hand eczema worse as well, but I'm not sure). I had a breakdown in front of my mom and sister. They are both in the psych field so they were trying to help me out and understand my behavior which has been so debilitating to me. They believe I might be autistic. And I believe it too. I'm not a psychologist, but I always knew something was psychologically "off" in me. For instance, I don't have much motivation to socialize and find hobbies, am always scrolling on my phone, am obsessed with having a strict schedule/routine and hate sudden surprises, panic over things other people would think are trivial, and cannot engage in activities that require a calm and relaxed mind because mine is always racing (meditation, mindfulness, affirmations, or reading).

I'm almost 30 and everything just clicked for me. I would have never suspected I was autistic. But again it is a spectrum and not a small set of characteristics. I have never been diagnosed and girls are less likely to be diagnosed with autism than boys. I went through a checklist of autism traits in women and I felt like a lot of them applied to me. My mom and sister also agreed. I've done a few self-assessment quizzes and did receive scores that categorize me as autistic.

I'm going to meet with a psychiatrist to do a screening. Because if I do turn out to be autistic, then it all makes sense. Every behavior I had and still have that I could not explain would start to make sense. The missing puzzle piece. I'm sure both the condition and masking behavior cause a lot of anxiety. Knowing something is "unconventional" but not knowing how to fit in and why it's "unconventional" makes me so frustrated and hopeless. I get anxiety outbursts and don't know what is causing them. So I'm left feeling not only anxious, but also confused which fuels even more anxiety. It is hell and I'm sure this is contributing to my eczema.

Stress/anxiety cause increased levels of cortisol and histamine. Cortisol levels peak in the morning, which explains why I had days where I would wake up first thing in the morning and would be the itchiest all day. My stress/anxiety are so passive also, I would even experience a flareup when I speak to someone and I become energetic and my heart rate goes up, from getting up and walking after sitting down for a long time, surprises, etc... This can all cause me to feel an itch coming. It's easy to blame flareups on allergies (some allergies absolutely do cause flareups), but it's most definitely also a stress response which does increase histamine levels in the body, mimicking an allergic reaction.

My mom says the only way my skin will clear is by reducing my stress/anxiety. Because that's what helped her 20 years ago. Something as simple as Reiki. I know not everyone's eczema is caused by anxiety, but it most certainly is for my mom and I. She spent years on steroids and allergy shots, and the thing that really helped her is stress and anxiety relief. I swear the medical industry wants us to be sick and rely on medication when they fail to explore things like diet, stress, and sleep. Because all of these can cause inflammatory conditions! Obviously relaxation won't cure cancer or an infection or an allergic reaction or any other condition that requires immediate medical attention. But it can be so ant-inflammatory and can help reduce the symptoms of chronic inflammatory conditions.

It all makes sense now, the autism, the anxiety. Everything. Growing up being neurodivergent with PTSD and a narcissistic and abusive dad was so stressful and was hell. I'm not surprised why I got eczema. I feel like I healed most of my PTSD (just working on health and social anxiety, the latter being a challenge if I actually am autistic). But despite that I still feel like something is "off" with me till now, especially with all the anxiety. And I doubt it's the PTSD. So it's likely the autism. I'm going to meet with a psychiatrist to perform a screening.

I'm surprised my old therapist (who really was an idiot) could not notice these signs. When she told me I should do socialize and me not wanting to and her asking "why not? you should try". I got so defensive and said no. I'm surprised it flew over her head. But again she wasn't that good of a psychologist.

I'm glad I dedicated time learning about this. I know this will help me heal a lot. Especially physically and mentally.

[gothmiqote]

yk as interesting as it might be to have varha meet azem i actually this it would end up doing a Number on her self esteem lmao

like the idea she has of herself is like,,, Yes she's strong yes she's the "chosen one" butshe also doesn't know for sure she's got a ton going on outside of that. before she was the warrior of light she really was Just Some Guy who had her uses on the field, there's no denying from her that she's a good shot or handy with a glaive. but also those skills don't really roll over into other areas of her life. she still thinks she lacks in a lot of the softer skills--social things largely, but not just those. before she was the warrior of light, she really truly did Not have anyone else in her life (unless you count her one estranged brother who also survived the calamity. she, personally, would not) & couldn't sort out how to properly maintain relationships past a casual depth. it wasn't that she couldn't get along at all, she just never found herself being anyone's first choice. like, she will fully admit to being an attention-seeing kid. to be fair, it makes sense with as many siblings as she had that there would be a need to stand out, she's just never felt like she actually managed to do so.

intellectually speaking, she knows sh's far from stupid & that again, most of her talents really shine in the heat of battle. but like 90% of her friends are basically doctors, & she's aware she would probably have killed the world a long time ago if all the strategizing was left up to her. she'll contribute to these discussions because she's expected to, despite being really goddamn aware she wouldn't be invited to the table without the Very specific circumstances they all find themselves in.

speaking of those friends, it's not lost on her that she wouldn't have them if she wasn't hydaelyn's chosen. maybe they might have crossed paths loosely at some point, but there'd have been no reason to keep her around. having a title like that has its downsides & can definitely be more of a burden than a blessing, but on the whole? she's a bit relieved that she's been able to benefit from it in some more selfish ways (in her opinion). it's a nice change, people having expectations of her & being somewhat interested in her, even if a lot of that interest is directed towards the warrior of light instead of just her as a person. that bit of distance is weirdly comfortable at times. she's not the most emotionally graceful person, usually being too-direct or at a loss for word or reading a situation entirely incorrectly. she's impatient and forceful & is unsurprisingly bad when it comes to navigating environments like sharlayan. the only thing that saves her is the fact that she's Really good at looking confident & making her mistakes appear intentional. having a reputation helps too.

but azem? arsinoë? it's So clear within minutes of meeting her that she doesn't have these same issues. she's the type of person who draws others in without even trying. she's intelligent and witty and doesn't trip over her words (or struggle to find them in the first place). she's able to hold her own just fine in intellectual circles--hell, other people would almost certainly find her intimidating, if she didn't also radiate the type of energy that puts people at ease. there's nothing fake or exaggerated about the confidence she walks around with, and nothing seems to get in her head the same way it does varha. it's the type of inner-security she can only dream of.

i think at first she would want to meet her, just for the novelty of meeting the originator of her soul. i don't think it would cross her mind until it was too late that she actually didn't enjoy doing too much self-examination, and this would be a weird externalized version of that. and of course azem is interested in her--she's interested in a lot of things, but a shard of her own soul from a distant future would be especially fascinating. but varha would start to pick up on just how comfortable she was in her own skin quickly, and it would eat it her. people flock to azem in a way they never did to her Until she had a hero's reputation, until she offered something that was more than she could be on her own. that was when they were willing to look past her short comings. did azem even have those? probably not.

& varha's never been so sick with envy in her entire life, but she's not hateful about it. one, it doesn't make sense & two, she's Also been sucked into that vortex. azem's presence is... a lot, actually. it's domineering in any room--not unkindly, but she's impossible to ignore. she's also just a naturally charming person; there's nothing to hate. but the more varha watches her and searches for similarities, the more she starts to conclude that she seems to have inherited the more negative traits of azem. she's got the same intensity, gets tunnel-visioned about problems, & will Immediately lose her cool if you push her buttons correctly. all of that would be fine if she also got a sliver of that intangible thing arsinoë has that gives her a gravitational pull. she's like the sun, & varha would find herself starting to burn if she stays around too long.

part of her wonders maybe if venat had a hand in making sure the chips fell where they did. somehow she suspects if she were more like azem, she might have some stronger feelings about life or death situations; she might decide there was too much to live for to take certain risks. but if she felt like she was constantly falling short? or like she could have been a stand-in for anyone else? maybe it made her work just that much harder to prove something.

she's not surprised the present hades has such disdain for her. aside from the whole 'going mad from grief' thing, of course. she carries some of the least-loved parts of azem without her same light. standing next to her exposes failures of her personality that she never even knew to look for. varha doesn't dwell on hades' accusations of being a non-person; it's a waste of her time, especially when she knows otherwise. but she definitely feels like a cheap copy when faced with the original. of course, the general disinterest she'd dealt with from people her entire life made sense now. seeing what could have been--what was---makes her immediately understand. even if none of them had Met azem, they would have reacted if she'd resembled her in any way. she could get how losing someone like that would make you want to tear the world up in their name. and varha has people she loves now & who care about her in return, who would definitely mourn her if she were gone, but that type of reaction? nah, nope. they'd get over it in time; the death would be ordinary, as would the grief. which is fine by her, because she actually never Wants to see that level of destruction created for her sake, but still. she gets it.

[frodothefair]

꧁ The Flowers of Mordor ꧂

Chapter 9 - Meet Me Halfway

READ ALL ON AO3

SUMMARY : Sam knows he cannot tear himself in two, but Frodo's struggles after the quest are worsening. Marigold Gamgee gets a job at Bag End, and grows close to its enigmatic master. J. R. R. Tolkien meets Jane Austen meets Tess of the D'Urbervilles. CHAPTER SUMMARY : For a veteran like Frodo, even going on a walk can be a battle. Marigold, as always, lends a hand. PAIRING : Frodo/Marigold Gamgee, Frodo/Sam secondary GENRES : hurt/comfort, angst, slow burn romance, slice of life, girl next door WARNINGS : PTSD, depression, panic attacks, eating disorder, eventual spicy scenes RATING : M

PREVIEW:

“Hoy! Hullo, there, Mr. Baggins!”

Frodo froze in his tracks.

So close. He could nearly see the gate of Bag End. He did not see who had hailed him, but he did not need to. It was old Mr. Proudfoot, who, at a hundred-and-some, had been parked by his family on the bench outside their home, and, for a good decade now, had little else to occupy his time besides smoking his pipe, petting his cat (a flat-faced, orange beast of vesuvian proportions and phlegmatic temper), and shouting at his grandchildren.

But no grandchildren were present, just then. Only Frodo.

Frodo tipped his hat, but did not take it off.

After that day, Sam spent even more time at Bag End, and would give Frodo daily rub-downs. The two of them had shared their agreement with Marigold: that if Frodo felt poorly, he would try not to disappear, and instead had things to do to try and keep the ill-feelings at bay. Marigold had been delighted – not the least because Frodo’s disappearances were less shrouded in mystery now – and began to make tinctures for their massages: she experimented with lavender, rock rose, and even skullcap. They also discovered that Frodo liked to lie under heavy blankets – it calmed him – and they orchestrated this for him whenever they could, and whenever it was not too hot. 

August ripened into September, and the fields were gilded with rye and corn, while the garden of Bag-End yielded bright parti-colored carrots, fat parsnips, proud leeks, ballooning cauliflower, and rich, wine-colored eggplants. The larder began to fill with Marigold’s round, matter-of-fact jars, preserving summer’s boons: a half-dozen types of pickles, a crop of Bilbo’s prize-winning tomatoes (the strain preserved by Sam and Gaffer over the years), along with peppers, cabbage, and beets. 

Undeterred by his first, rather too eventful foray, Frodo still ventured outside every afternoon in his wide brimmed hat, and sat either reading or watching Sam work until the sun got too strong for him. Sam had apologized profusely for bringing up the lembas, and swore he would never bring his attempts at replicating it to Bag End again, to which Frodo had said that there was nothing to forgive, but Sam nonetheless resolved not to bring up the past for a time, unless Frodo should speak about it first.

The sun of September was more gentle than the billows of summer – most days it was a closer sun, more intimate and more golden. There was no chill in the air just yet, and the leaves on the trees would not be turning for some time, but it would soon be Frodo’s birthday. Frodo did not like to think of his birthday, not anymore, and he only hoped the other hobbits would not make a fuss – though a visit from Merry and Pippin and, correspondingly, libations, were to be expected. 

Sam and Marigold didn’t make a fuss, but in time Frodo realized that a certain fuss ought to have been made by him, for as a hobbit and, whatever people may have whispered about him, a prominent member of society, it was indeed incumbent upon him to give gifts, even perfunctory ones, to all of his friends, neighbors, relations, and even tenants.

And Frodo did not suppose that most of his friends, relations, neighbors and even tenants would much enjoy the eclectic riches (eclectic to the tastes of hobbits, at any rate), an embarrassing amount of which he had been forced to accept as thanks and rewards in Gondor. Of course, for Sam he had his eye on a wrought silver pipe stand, and for Marigold a jade inkwell, both souvenirs from Minas Tirith, where swordsmiths, armorers and catapultists were now returning to more civilian crafts. But all in all, he was forced to breathe a disaffected sigh and start making a list of more acceptable gifts – the likes of cufflinks, next year’s almanacs, hats, umbrellas, picture frames, and kitchenware – all perfectly boring, pedestrian, respectable items, and to go with them, a series of perfectly boring, pedestrian, respectable notes with all manner of well-wishes.

The gifts, of course, would need to be bought – Frodo thought dejectedly as he stood looking down the path one early afternoon, leaning over the gate. Sam was off for the day. The Proudfoots’ garden was a riot of late-blooming azaleas, and the greenery was busting, almost indecently, over and through their lattice fence. Marigold came out of Bag End, her bag slung mostly empty over her shoulder.

“Well, I’m off to the market,” she said, pausing at the gate, her apple-cheeks and her almond-eyes smiling. “Maybe I can get us a nice chicken today. To roast and to make broth.”

“Roast chicken and broth?” Frodo closed his eyes, momentarily. Roast chicken held salt very well, and he rather liked salt, these days. It made him feel less faint. “That sounds quite good, Marigold,” he said. “I’d like that very much.”

He looked down the path again. It felt excruciatingly hard, the prospect of going to the market and the shops. And not just to walk, but to see others and to hear them, to risk being bumped into, the chaos that inexplicably made his chest feel tight. He had been particularly glad when Marigold had shown up and taken over the shopping.

But if he asked her to do the boring gift shopping soon, she would have even more to carry – and she already came back every time with her bag stuffed full and two more in each hand.

Marigold looked at him watching the road, and leaned against the gate as well.

“You know, Mr. Frodo,” she said, “Do you think you might try a bit of walking, now that you like bein’ outside more?”

Frodo looked away from the road, and at her.

And Marigold looked back.

In truth, she had been plotting how and when to have this exact conversation for some time now. Ever since Frodo had been drawn firmly out of his hobbit hole – by the beauty of summer, she presumed, and by the warmth of the sun and the smell of the good, tilled earth – things no hobbit could be immune to – and ever since he took to disappearing into his room less, she had been thinking of what heights they could climb next. But she could not simply ask Frodo to go for a walk, because one single hobbit asking another single hobbit of the opposite sex to go for a walk could mean only one thing. Nor could she tell him that for the good of his health he ought to be taking regular exercise – because that would make her no different from the matrons who sat discussing everyone’s business across their fences all day. And besides, this was Mr. Frodo, who had once explained to her and Sam the difference between simply walking and “tramping” for a good five minutes – so if “taking some exercise for the good of his health” had been so easy, he would have done it a long time ago.

Frodo blinked a few times, and pushed back the brim of his hat.

The healer-speak again – of course. 

But she was right, and he did not particularly hate healer-speak. It was diplomatic, and diplomacy was in short supply in the Shire. And tired though he was, he knew there was no use in sitting still all the time – it would only make his bones turn to dust. And Sam’s massages were good, but each time he went outside, he had visions of encountering more – the feeling of new grass and gravel under his toes, the wind coming down fragrantly over the lush hills near Tookland, and the sight of new growth in Northfarthing Woods, dappling the road with its brocade of leaves.

He sighed, and the Proudfoots’ azaleas seemed to sigh back. Whether she knew if or not, Marigold knew how to entertain an idle imagination.

“I suppose I might try that, Mari.” He nodded. “I do feel tired often, but walking might do me some good.”

And Marigold beamed, clasping her hands to her chest.

“Alright, then, I have an idea.”

Frodo half-smiled, indulgently. 

Whatever her other virtues, holding her cards close to her chest when she was both enthused and unafraid was not one of them. He might even have asked her what’s your idea, Mari, but was quite certain that she would tell him whether or no – and unlike Sam with the mallorn (which he still had not been to see), she was far too proactive to accept “maybe” for an answer.

Marigold dropped her voice, conspiratorially. 

“Well you see, your birthday’s coming up soon – so you’ll need to get gifts, no?”

“Indeed.”

“Well then, I’ll have more to carry when I walk back from town, won’t I?”

“Oh – well…” Frodo bit his lip and looked down. “In that case maybe you shouldn’t – I certainly wouldn’t want you to –”

“Oh, no, no, no, I’m happy to do it! But may I ask for just one thing?” 

She put a foot on the bottom rail of the gate, and launched herself up, the other foot out and pointy-toed, leaning slightly toward him, a winsome smile on her lips. With the boost from the rail, they were nearly eye to eye. 

“Maybe you could meet me halfway and help me carry things back? Part of the way, part of the load. And every day a little farther. Won’t that be nice? It’ll be helpful for you, and it’ll be helpful for me.”

Frodo cocked his head.

“It certainly sounds nice. That is a fine idea.”

He unlatched the gate, and walked it open – and Marigold rode with it, leg still slightly extended, like a dancing figurine under glass he had seen in a dwarvish curiosity shop in Minas Tirith.

It was a wonder she wasn’t married – hadn’t married as soon as law and propriety allowed. She was known for being shy, but had a number of admirers (Sam often muttered how they were all lousy good-for-nothings), and apparently could play a man’s heartstrings with the best of them. Smart, pretty, and certainly a woman – almost enough to wake the part of him that might have said, Oh, you want to play fun little games? Alright, then let’s play fun little games, you pretty, you sweet, you adorable little darling. (1)

But he could not say this, of course – no one in their right mind would, unless it was a particularly rowdy night at the Green Dragon.

So he extended a hand – his right, which he realized entirely too late – and she took it, hopping down from the railing.

Did he linger?

He could not be sure – and he opened and closed his hand, nervously, at his side – but the feeling of the light calluses on her fingers certainly did. And as she looked up at him, smoothing her skirt and readjusting her bag, he could see in her bearing the traces of a lass trying to look pretty – a hand on the hair, the shoulders thrown back, a softness in her movements.

His muscles ached, but in a way that made him want to stretch them, to run helter-skelter down the hill, the greenery blurring past, the cool breeze catching him in its embrace.

“Let’s start today,” he said, suddenly resolute. “How far do you think we should go?”

Their first time, they only walked about five hundred paces to a fork in the road, and parted ways agreeing to meet at the same place in two hours’ time. But Frodo still stood at the crossroads for a long while, watching her back disappear down the path toward the center of Hobbiton. He couldn’t think why he was doing so at first – for all the world like a fretful mother seeing her child off on their first errand – but then he turned around and realized exactly why. It was because he now had to go back. Alone. 

Sitting at home and doing next to nothing had done him little kindness. Not only did his bones feel heavy and his muscles weak, but the world was even less comforting than he remembered it. The late-summer sun was lacking in benevolence: though less strong that it had been even a month ago, it still peered from the heavens like a great, watchful eye, and it was preposterous to think, but even the Chubbs’ pear tree, its plumes verdant and heavy with fruit, was now seemingly hiding something, its branches sending long, dark shadows down the lane.

He felt chilled and uneasy, and anxious to get home. He began to walk, hoping that in the sun hat no one would recognize him. It covered his face fairly well, and narrowed his world, much like a pair of blinders did for a horse – but unlike a horse, he was not so sure if it was a comfort. A part of him might have liked to see more around him: not because he had any notion that a Nazgul might actually come swooping down, no, that much was absurd – but then again, if it was so absurd, why exactly had he just imagined it, in his mind’s eye, and why had it felt so… 

“Hoy! Hullo, there, Mr. Baggins!”

Frodo froze in his tracks.

So close. He could nearly see the gate of Bag End. He did not see who had hailed him, but he did not need to. It was old Mr. Proudfoot, who, at a hundred-and-some, had been parked by his family on the bench outside their home, and, for a good decade now, had little else to occupy his time besides smoking his pipe, petting his cat (a flat-faced, orange beast of vesuvian proportions and phlegmatic temper), and shouting at his grandchildren.

But no grandchildren were present, just then. Only Frodo.

Frodo tipped his hat, but did not take it off.

“Lovely weather we’re having, young Mr. Baggins. Unseasonably warm. Perfect for pears,” the old hobbit remarked.

“Indeed.”

“Come to think of it, we’ve not seen you in some time. I was just saying to my boy, Olo, that if I didn’t know any better, I’d have thought you had gone off to meet your forebears, if you get my meaning.” Mr. Proudfoot chuckled, and patted his ample stomach. The cat jumped from the bench, apparently having despaired in plying his own master for food, and padded toward Frodo. 

“It doesn’t do to be so reclusive,” the old hobbit went on, emptying his pipe on the ground before him. “It’s good for a body to be out in society. Keeps one young.” He looked significantly up and down the road. “I can’t think why you resigned as mayor. You weren’t a bad one, by any stretch.”

“Well, Mayor Whitfoot did recover,” Frodo replied matter-of-factly. “And I only became mayor as his deputy, as you recall. Besides, I haven’t been feeling quite myself.”

“Not feeling yourself! That won’t do either!” Mr. Proudfoot rocked himself onto his feet, packing a pinch of leaf into his pipe. “What’s ailing you? Have you seen Dr. Boffin?”

“With respect, Mr. Proudfoot – and I do appreciate your concern,” Frodo replied. “But my health is my own affair – and it is, er, rather complicated” – he added quickly, catching sight of the other’s furrowed brow.

Despite his heft, the cat leaped onto the barrel-shaped mailbox and Frodo petted his head.

“And in any case, I’m on the mend,” he went on. “I’ve been walking more, as you can see, for my health… I’m sorry, Red, I’ve no food to give you. Maybe next time.” 

The cat gave a purr-row, but did not cease to rub his head on Frodo’s hand. 

Mr. Proudfoot harrumphed and poured himself onto his bench again, fumbling through his pockets for a match. The birds creaked like the wheels of a slow-moving cart, and Frodo felt just at the edge of faint, so he took to examining the Proudfoots’ over-upholestered flower beds.

“Walking’s a fine thing, yes.” Mr. Proudfoot found his match and lit it. He regarded Frodo appraisingly, from the brim of his hat that hung nearly to his shoulders to the bottoms of his overalls, which fit a might looser than the last time Mr. Proudfoot had seen them. “So long as it’s done in one’s own back yard, I say. Adventuring far from home has never done anyone a lick of good. I’ll wager it’s what made you ill. Dreadful things, adventures. Bad for the constitution.”

Frodo remained silent.

The old hobbit took a long, unhurried draw from his pipe, and closed his eyes. 

“Dreadful things,” he repeated, the ease from the pipe melting over his face. “And all for what? You get a few riches, and a few folks singing your praises. But if more people valued home and a good meal over gold and undue excitement, the world would be a much happier place.”

Frodo blinked.

The door of the Proudfoots’ looked very far away. His legs were growing weak and his skin was prickling. And it was hot – but he felt increasingly cold.

Mr. Proudfoot droned on, as best Frodo could tell about a third cousin of his who had gone on an adventure, but soon his ears began to feel like he was underwater, and the sound rippled in and out.

And his vision, too… Mr. Proudfoot’s face, as he pontificated, began to sink into shadow. Soon, all he could see was the jiggling of two jowls as the sentences rolled one into the next. Frodo felt like he might really go blind – like he would topple, but just as everything was about to go black, his eyes fell upon the azaleas.

Pink azaleas. 

There was a whole riot of them covering the lawn.

And what do azaleas mean, Mr. Frodo? – he heard Sam in his mind’s ear.

Azaleas mean temperance, Sam – he heard his own voice reply.

Though in the case of pink ones, they also meant kindness. 

Kindness? Hah!

An unkindness of azaleas was more like it, considering who owned them. Much like an unkindness of ravens.

But the Sam in his mind ignored his wit. 

And what else is there, Mr. Frodo? – he insisted. What else, in this here garden? I’ve always thought it rather too much, to tell you the truth – meanin’ no disrespect to Mr. and Mrs. Proudfoot of course, but it’ll have to do, for now…

What else? 

Well. 

There were the sprays of airy goldenrods – they meant caution – and zinnias, in vibrant coral – thoughts of an absent friend, and purple crocus, like a field of eyes gazing up at the one in the sky – they meant youth and gladness.

And marigolds. Large orange and red ones, their heads curly and joyful – their brilliant blooms outflaming even the azaleas.

And what do marigolds mean, Mr. Frodo?

The marigold, come to think of it, had a few disparate meanings. 

It was the flower of the sun, and so symbolized all things bright, passionate and golden. But he had also seen them at funerals, and some people wore them when they were in mourning.

But more than that, they were a guileless smile, an inquisitive mind, blonde curls and dresses faded from too many washes. And they were a busy, lightly calloused hand that came to rest in his over a gate.

The cat’s cottony forehead pushed, insistently, against Frodo’s hand. Frodo drew his fingers across it. Red had some knots in his fur that needed working out. His fingers settled in the cat’s thick coat – rather like that of a sheep, and he felt a rumble roll through the creature’s body.

“And that’s why I say, bah-humbug to adventures!” Mr. Proudfoot loudly concluded his sermon. “To come back and die at sixty a broken man. No, thank you!”

Frodo blinked his eyes.

“That’s… a very interesting notion, in its own way, Mr. Proudfoot,” (2) he said mechanically. “I will be sure to give it some thought.” 

“See that you do! No one else listens to me, the ingrates –”

“But I really ought to get going, Mr. Proudfoot” – Frodo groped for his customary, pleasantly detached tone. “I thank you for your advice, but I do have a few things to do before I pick up Marigold from the market.”

He drew a sigh. Lying, albeit in a way resembling the truth, was a tried and true part of his arsenal in dealing with inquisitive neighbors. He figured, too, that if Mr. Proudfoot was going to see them coming and going in any case, it was best to get ahead of any rumors.

Mr. Proudfoot harrumphed a second time, and Red jumped from the mailbox and made for the bushes.

“Well, by all means, don’t leave the girl waiting!” the centenarian exclaimed. “And if I were you, I’d get a move on, in any case. You can’t expect a girl like her to be free forever.”

Oh, sticklebacks. You try to make it better, and it turns out as always, as Bilbo had been fond of saying.

Frodo let his eyelids droop, and gave a roll of the eyes that the other would surely notice.

“It’s not like that, Mr. Proudfoot,” he replied flatly. “I am a confirmed bachelor and content to remain so. And at any rate, she’s far too spirited for me.”

Mr. Proudfoot raised his caterpillar eyebrows.

“Is that so? Well–well! That may be so, that may be so,” he ho-hummed, pulling on his pipe. “More’s the pity, though. She’s a fine lass. I tell you, if I was 35 again...”

He wiggled his brows and shook his head with a lusty alacrity, as if he was recalling the taste of a particularly good pie.

Frodo’s face assumed a stony expression, and the corners of his mouth curled downward. Red had emerged from the bushes looking disappointed, and a chorus of song birds started up again in a nearby tree. The air was heavy with languor like only the air of a Shire afternoon could be.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Proudfoot,” he said, forcing a listless smile. “Give my best to Olo and Sancho and the rest. But I really do have to get on.”

He turned his steps toward Bag End, and if the older hobbit called out after him, he did not stay long enough to hear it.

At home, Frodo passed the time by taking a long, lukewarm, unnecessary bath, and by trying to read, but he felt as though his world was the hull of some pitching boat. Balanced above the thin blanket of suds, the letters in the book refused to coalesce into words, and the words into sentences, and so, disconcerted in the extreme, he snapped the book shut and watched the clock until it was time to go. For a long time, it was all he could do to steady his breathing.

Mr. Proudfoot was, thankfully, no longer on his bench when Frodo went out – he was probably taking his tea – and Marigold met him at the crossroads-stone, all smiles and laden with packages, for on their walk earlier, Frodo had enumerated some of the necessary gifts from memory. He felt his heart smile for the first time since he had left her, and as they walked back he carried more than just his share. Predictably, he now thought less of swooping Nazgul and soldiers running reconnaissance in the bushes, but as they passed the Proudfoots’ home, he did still usher her to the other side of the path, and made sure to question her loudly on which herbs she would use to make the chicken that day.

At home, he said he needed a rest and went to his room. He left the door open a crack as they had agreed, to signal that he was planning to be decent and did not mind her checking in on him.

An hour later, Marigold gave her perfunctory knock on the door, and when Frodo did not answer, she tiptoed in.

Frodo was lying on his side, turned away, under a small, piecework quilt that barely covered his frame. He looked to be hugging a pillow.

“Mr. Frodo? Are you asleep? I have some nice blackberries.”

When he did not answer, she tiptoed closer. And then she realized why he was not speaking. 

He was crying.

Softly, almost soundlessly, with the dignified restraint of everything he did, but crying all the same. His knees were pulled up to the pillow, and his frame was not wracked with sobs, but shook ever so slightly, like a sapling in the breeze.

For a few moments, she stood rooted to the spot.

Should she leave him be? Should she run and get Sam?

And yet, unlike the other time, it did not feel like something she should not have witnessed.

“Mr. Frodo… My dear Mr. Frodo…” 

Her words were barely above a breath. Her voice caught in her throat.

And she might have imagined it, but as she uttered his name, the rise and fall of his chest grew slower, and suddenly, oxen and wain-ropes could not have dragged her from that room.

She seized the chair from the dressing-table and brought it to the side of the bed. Frodo was shivering now – and still weeping; his curly mop of brown hair was all she could see. So she put down the chair and rushed to the clothing-press, pulled out another quilt, and threw it on top of him.

She then sat down by his side, and thought what to do.

There was something she dearly wanted to do, and it made sense to do it. 

There had been many accidental touches and near-touches over the weeks and months – when they reached into the same trunk, or when she handed him a plate or a cup, or when they sat together shoulder to shoulder over their books. She had even – the very thought! – flirted with him that same day and held his hand, however briefly. And even though it had been a perfectly orchestrated maneuver on her part to entice him to do a very specific thing “for his health,” and even though they both had known it, it still had made her press her fist into her smiling lips all the way to the market.

But now?

What stopped her? She was no Sam, but surely she would do.

“Mr. Frodo, I’m going to rub your back.” She drew back the two blankets. “Let me know if you don’t want me to. Just shake your head no.”

When no objection came, she began to rub – tentatively at first – her hands pressing slow, soft soothing circles through his shirt. He shifted into her touch, and his sobbing grew louder as his shoulders quaked more. 

There, Mr. Frodo. There. Cry it out. Crying is good. (If only she could take her own advice, here!)

His frame was thin – thinner, even than it had seemed, for the billowy shirts he wore made him look stouter. His back had precious little flesh, and she could even feel a few ribs through the fabric. Her heart hurt – for all her efforts, he was still so frail that a gust of wind might have carried him away. 

Frodo cried and cried. 

He longed to disappear. To be gone, away from the broken failure that his life had become. To cease to see all that he might have done, all that he might have been, all that might have been his, slowly slipping away from him. If only he could have been pulled into the fiery abyss with Gollum and the Ring and had been done…

But her hands said no. 

Her hands, at once so gentle and so steady. Gamgee hands. Hands that had held children taking their first breaths, and surely massaged them just the same way when they were reluctant to make their acquaintance with the world. Hands that had folded meat into pies, and stirred kindness and lavender into perfectly warmed, perfectly measured cups of milk.

The hands insisted. They urged. They pleaded. They might have gone to bargain with Sauron on his behalf. In another life, he might have resented them for it. But in this life they cried “live!” – and his tears, as powerful as the Anduin, rose up and swelled until he could no longer lay on his side, stiffly hugging the pillow, but was splayed with his arms akimbo over the bedspread and his quilts thrown to the side, the cloth beneath his face disgracefully soaked – yet still she rubbed, patient and thoughtful and quiet as a goddess, and the world around him turned steadily darker, until everything was a deep and noiseless, solemn black.

This is a line adapted from the TV show Swingers, though again, Frodo would not know this.

Frodo unknowingly quoted Kyouya Ootori from Ouran High School Host Club. He seems to unknowingly quote a lot of things.