#MAYBE sheryl x Chief x Lesser

[chiefweasel]

OKAY HERES MY CHIEF X LESSER SNEAKPEAK

Weather or not I'm adding an x Sheryl to this, I really don't know yet. I started writing this before I got in the relationship I'm in now, but since I am Chief in the production that I am doing and my boyfriend does happen to be Lesser, there's a big possibility that some will wooder fics I wrote will be of the three of them and some will just be Chief x Lesser. Maybe I'll write a bit of something else too! For this fic though, only time will tell

Also note that I believe my script may refer to me as "Hannibal" at some point but I hate that name, and I saw on Tumblr that someone called him Benji and I liked that a lot better, so my version of Chief's name is Benji Hannibal Weasel. I do not know what the Fandom calls Lesser, but on account of my boyfriend naming him Les, that's what I'm calling him, and my script uses Sheryl instead of Cheryl so that is the variable of that that I will be using

Okay enough of my rambling, onto the little preview

It was all because of some stupid promise.

Had he not said something as a child, the chances may have been slim, but he did say something as a child, and if he was anything, Chief Weasel was a Weasel of his word. When it came to important things, at least. 

The Chief was a part of a generation known typically as the ‘Awkward Generation’ born in a time before the Wild Wood, old enough, back then, to understand the discrimination against them, but not old enough to understand why the change happened. The Awkward Generation was the most psychologically affected, thus gaining that nickname. Chief Weasel could still remember well what his school days were like.

In Cheif Weasel’s early years, the years before the Wild Wood, he wasn’t the same Weasel you’d expect. But who was when they were young? Before the Wood, Chief Weasel went to school. He went to school with all sorts of animals. Squirrels and Moles and Rabbits and Stoats, Mice and Foxes and Otters. He could remember all too well the things the animals would say and do to him. Taunting, teasing, it wasn’t rare for the weasel pup to come home with a black eye or a bloodied lip. Sometimes worse. And they said weasels had nasty habits, weasels couldn’t be trusted. In his youngest years, the pup’s mother would help to patch him up. Only in his youngest years though, for his father was not good at such things and when his mother was gone, she was gone. 

It wasn’t long before the bullied animals, the foxes, weasels, and stoats (as well as some squirrels and rabbits that didn’t receive the same treatment, but were kind enough to befriend the poor animals) had banded together both in school and outside of it. 

There was one day when following the sound of muffled sniffles led the weasel pup to find a friend of his, hiding in a hollowed tree. He held a hand over his mouth, but the scent of iron was strong.

“What’d they do to you?” the pup asked, ducking to crawl into the hollows of the tree. The smaller weasel pup looked up at the one invading on his private crying space with wide eyes, still covering his mouth.

“Wh-what?”

“Move your hand.”

The pups stared at each other until, defeated, the smaller moved his hand from his mouth. The smell of iron became much stronger, seeming now to assault the pup’s nose. There was a puddle of blood seeming to pool in his hand. There was a small piece of a tooth in the middle of the pool. The larger pup furrowed his eyebrows, leaning forward.

“Let me see.”

The smaller hesitated but quietly opened his mouth, his tongue pointed to his upper front tooth, the gum in the area was still bleeding heavily and the weasel quickly snapped his mouth shut. His bloodied hand quickly returned to his face. 

“Who did it to you.”

“One of the rats..” He admitted quietly, looking up at him, giving what almost seemed to be weasel-pup eyes. 

The larger pup understood what the other was asking, and began trying to comfort him. “Well, I overheard my dad talking to Sheryl’s mum.” The smaller weasel perked up as he heard the other begin to speak. Benji was always rather charismatic, and when it was known he was about to say something important, foxes, weasels, and the others in the area had to listen. It was something he’d gotten from his dad. Benji told the smaller weasel of the plans the animals had to go to a better place. Somewhere where they could be themselves and no one would bother them. The smaller’s eyes lit up as the weasel pup spoke. “And one day,” he said as his speech was coming to an end, “I’ll take charge! And when I’m in charge, I’ll make life better for all of us, and you’ll be my right-hand man!”

----

It was the day.

Chief Weasel was dead.

The young weasel cub who had once had such a hard time adjusting to life in the Wild Wood, probably the hardest. One of the psychologically damaged of the Awkward Generation, maybe the most damaged. The son of the late Chief Weasel that had attempted twice to run back to the riverbank after learning of the lack of food and hygienic materials. Benji was the new Chief Weasel. And he had to pick a right-hand man

(We are outgunned

Outmanned

Out numbered, outplanned

Cough- I mean uh what)

It was on that day that Chief Weasel took his title and officially graduated from pup to man. It was on that day that Chief Weasel felt more like a pup than he’d ever in his life. How unprepared to take leadership he was, how he wished more than ever his dad could give him one more talk, one more bit of advice, one more piece of motivation, one more day with him.

The day had started normally as any, Benji had been out doing what he always did. Chatting with the animals, helping to scrounge for food. It was in the middle of such scrounging that a fox ran to the weasel, telling him something had happened and he needed to come quick.

He’d died peacefully, at least, the same couldn’t be said for Benji- For the new Cheif-’s mother. He was already gone when the weasel arrived. He said nothing. He only took off his hat and bowed his head. Sniffles and silent sobs filled the den they were in. Sheryl stood at Benji’s- at Cheif’s side and held his hand firmly. She’d never known her dad, but her own mum had passed on very recently in an accident. She knew the pain. To his right was another weasel. His best friend. The two had been friends since they were young and though he was smaller and barely ever stood up for himself, the two had always been close. This weasel had always been on his own, both parents having passed on since long before that day with the tooth, but he still knew the pain. The new Chief felt very alone that day, but with the two by his side, he didn’t feel as if he was on his own. He put his hat back on his head and turned to the fox who had brought him. In a voice very unlike the high and flunctiatious voice he was known for, he spoke, “Go dig him a hole.” Sheryl squeezed his hand tighter and the fox scurried out to carry out the task.

“Benji…” The Cheif glared at the weasel who began to speak before correcting him.

“Chief.”

“What?”

“Its Chief now. If thats what the Wild Wooders need, thats what I’ll be.” His voice was still monotone, and his two companions worried that he would never return to the way he was. Was this what becoming a man entailed? Would they never see their best friend the way he was again?