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anaiswriterr · 4 years ago

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The Dragon Kings Queen

Pairing: Dragon King!Bakugou x Queen!Reader

Rating: M

Warning: This is part four, I’d like to point out be aware: 𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝗼𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝗺𝐞𝐬, 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐠𝐮𝐞, 𝐠𝗼𝐫𝐞, 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐭𝐜. Please don’t read if you are not comfortable with it, and if you’re under the age of 18+ I will give a warning when it becomes NSFW but at the moment it’s SFW. Todays chapter does include gore, death, killing, hunting, sickness, etc.

Synopsis: ➪ When the word marriage crossed your mind, you believed you’d marry someone you loved. Not this brute of a King. So here you are standing at the end on an alter, pushing away the urge to run and fight. Possibly start a new life, instead of being dragged into a loveless marriage. But for the sake of your people.. They say he’s not what rumors make him out to be, but how can you believe that when his eyes burn into yours; just as fiery as before. How could you, ever love someone as barbaric as him…

- chapter five: the blood a trickster spills -

•

You grab onto a tree branch, grunting as you pull yourself up. It has been an hour since you've been aimlessly walking through the enchanted forest, your feet already burn in exhaustion. You managed a to find a stream, the land was smooth - perfect for a fire in the morning but right now your main priority:

Is to somehow climb this tree without breaking a leg.

You grumble incoherent words to yourself, enraged by the stubborn bark your hand could not grasp. You opted for another tree branch, pulling yourself up to a reasonably thicker branch - which you deemed was thick enough to wait the night out. Though sleep was definitely out of the question for you, a fall from this height was enough to put you out of commission and paint you dead.

You wrap your arms carefully around the trees trunk taking deep breathes in attempt to sooth your beating heart, "don't look down.. don't look down." you chant, the words stitching together like a prayer. But your eyes glance down - for only one second. One second and suddenly your breath hitches and fear burrows into your stomach. One slip and it was over. Your hands grasp hard onto the trees bark, imprinting your hand with small indents of patterns.

Your eyes grow heavy with sleep, exhausted from climbing. You mentally curse yourself for not taking advantage of the time you had in the carriage ride.

From beneath you, bushes rustle and heavy footsteps emerge.

Yet, you don't dare look down to peep what roams the dark night; growling and far away howls creep up your skin as you shiver. You were in a long night - a cold grueling night.

***

You shiver against the bark, as rain pours down from above soaking your boots and clothing. The rain clouds cover up the moon - as if the night couldn't get worse - you feel small rain drops drizzle down from the skyline. Tapping your nose and cheeks, falling hard onto the ground after a few seconds. You roll your eyes in annoyance, tightening you grip against the tree bark as the rain soaks you from head to toe. In this case you were going to get sick if you didn't dry up soon - and sickness in the kingdom was a true tragedy. Your grip is slippery, chunks of bark peels off the tree and onto the ground below. Startling the animals that roamed below - one snarls as it's hit on the head with one piece. Tightening your legs and arms you realize if you fall now, in this darkness, at this moment..

You would never see another night again.

Determined to survive you travel even further up top into the tree line, it wasn't the smartest idea, staying put in the position you were in and waiting the rain out seemed like a logical solution.

But you needed to get to the tree line.

The sky could tell exactly what time it was, where the rain was coming from, and when it would end. It was better visually, other than waiting for you to fall.

But that also was a thought, what if your foot slipped when you were trying to get further on top, surely by that height you wouldn't have to worry about getting eaten alive by creatures of the night - you'd simply die just by hitting the ground. In all actuality, you didn't wanna think about it, but each time your damned eyes just peered down you saw death. This entire forest reeked and felt like death, or was it a curse, a game? A game to see which Queen can be the most traumatized?

If so, you were pretty sure by the end of this you'd have to see the royal therapist. If there even was one in this kingdom you served.

Grunting you pull yourself up, cheering yourself on internally. You're just nearly there, one more step and the sky line would be clear!

Rain droplets splatter your face, gliding across your cheeks and drenching your hair. Just a few more branches, a few more pulls. The dark clouds peer through leaves above, and you can already see the rain clouds gathered together. You sigh in relief, the rain would stop soon, you estimated the rain would most likely stop in approximately five minutes. And the moon would shine down again. the clouds were just passing by.

You breath in the fresh air, ignoring the pelting rain.

You just simply needed to breath, tears run down your face as you stare off into the Kingdoms silhouette - staring angrily at the sky refusing to place your fate in another persons hands. Clutching onto your dagger your carve into the tree branch.

"I will not accept the fate you place me under, you scoundrel pieces of shit!" You say quietly under your breath, a promise you will get to retell to your future children when the time came.

***

Birds chirp all around you, it's officially the first day.

The beating sun scorned your skin, but the cough in your throat is enough to pull your attention away from the scorching heat. You are developing a cold.

Your throat tickles and your nose feels stopped up, your hand shoots up to cover the suns beating rays off your face. It was early, if you had to estimate most likely seven in the morning. The sun came down behind the kingdom at exactly seven thirty, (you made sure to observe), which only meant you had had twelve hours and thirty minutes to find food, make a fire, track down a goblin, and lastly if you were lucky enough to stumble upon safe herbs to create a tea that would soothe the pending cold.

If an infection didn't kill you, it'd be a cold that would have a final say, but the cold was the least of your worries.

You had a goblin to track down, and those tricksters could kill you faster than any fever.

You slowly move down the tree, checking your surrounds.

You found yourself a loose rabbit wandering off into its borough, noting your next meal for the day was only a few feet away. Your boots crunch onto the dried leaves and wet dirt, you search for dried logs that survived the rain fall, along with rocks that you could create a pit with. You set up directly in the sun in hopes to dry out a few damp logs. In the meantime you went to the rabbits borough - it had two entrances and from what you learned from Kirishima it would attempt to escape from the back. You stealthily placed a large heavy rock at the back entrance blocking its way.

Intricately you back away, you weren't so immune to dead animals. Your father went on annual hunting trips all the time, but, this would be the first time you are hunting out of survival.

The entirety of the "game" was survival.

You check up on your logs, noticing they are now dry from the suns heat. You grab your sticks rubbing your hands up and down to create a spark - fire blazes in front of you. Normally you'd say it was to hot to start a fire, but at night you rather face the cold than a grueling hungry Ogre. Of all things you had to deal with in life at this moment, a bitch ass Ogre was not one of the problems you had the proper strength and patience to deal with.

You grab an end of a stick, lighting the other half on fire. Waving it as a torch, your meal for the day would be served.

You rush over to the borough, lightly throwing the stick into the hole before closing it off with the boulder. Running over to the other end you hold your dagger.

You felt bad for the poor thing.

But a girls got to eat.

***

You have no idea where to start.

When one thinks of a goblin one would refer to the story books that claimed they lived under bridges - shunned away from society maybe even deep into forests. But those were simply just stories, if you had to think like a goblin you'd live far away from the kingdom in fear of being killed.

Nobody prepared you for the hunt, only survival.

You decide you should move, being stuck in the same place wouldn't get you very far. The herbs you were in search for in the meantime for your throat weren't found so you inevitability gave up on the luxury of a warm leaf of tea. You cough into your arm, sniffling your nose from running. The heat rose your temperature to the point you had to stop your travels to lie down, mentally cursing yourself for wasting time.

Heaving, you look up towards the sky, noticing the sun has moved positions. Only a few hours away of setting and you have yet found a single clue where you could find a goblin. You crouch down beside a creak, cupping your hands and drinking away the water from your palms. Splashing your face with it as well to cool the rising fever you felt approaching. You only had three days and if you were gonna make it back to start on time by the third day the heart must be in your possession. Your feet ache, and your calves muscles cramp. The lower part of your back is sore and the sun is burning the sides of your feet - you were in complete misery.

Black dots appear in your line of sight, you stumble onto your feet holding back the urge to vomit what little food you had left in your system.

Your hand quietly slaps over your mouth, clamping it shut.

"Well well well... what do we have here?"

Before you can even answer your sight goes dark, and you feel your head hit the ground. It falls silent.

***

Humming.

The sound of a cackling fire.

And the warm rich scent smell of hazelnut soup.

You slowly open your eyes, "What the-" your heart rate rises in fear, where were you? Who's here? Why are you here, how are you here? You search for the dagger but are left bewildered when the sharp blade is nowhere to be found. You shuffle backwards, your hands running over the wooden floorboards - splinters penetrate your skin. But you could careless, you remember passing out from the heat - or was it from a fever? You didn't know, footsteps approach you.

"Oh well it seems like you're awake!" A females voice cheers, you scan her body, taking in her frame. She was tall, and very beautiful, her striking long brown hair and dark green eyes, a dark red gown adorned her body. Narrowing your eyes in suspicion, you bark at the woman, "Who are you-"

"Now, that isn't a way to speak to a woman who saved your life your Majesty."

"How do you know who I am-"

The woman chuckles, "Well I hear everything! The forest, it speaks to me. And not to mention the witches that live here love to gossip!" You stare at her, blinking your tired eyes. It still didn't make much sense, yes technically you ruled this land as well but it's so far away. You can feel your pounding headache even worsen, "So you're a witch?" You ask, pulling your feet in.

"Ha! You think I'm one of those people! How rude. See I'm just a modern lady sitting in a cottage, I don't suppose you would know that kind of lifestyle." The woman shrugs, sipping her cup of tea.

You nod, "I'm afraid.. I don't actually." All your life you were surrounded by jewels and gold's, fed the most expensive meats and the most tasty fruits. Living a fast paced life of "don't say that." "don't touch that." "sit like this." and "who told you to speak." Speaking to Mina about eventually running away from marriage, even planning to take her too.

"Well it seems to me you are part taking in those heinous games the Dragons throw women into. What a shame, you are beautiful too."

You arch a brow in curiosity at her, "What do you mean?"

"I mean this isn't going to end well for you. I mean, look at you! You look like you couldn't hurt and fly, I wonder what King Bakugou must be up to? You wouldn't stand a chance against a goblin!" The woman laughs manically placing her cup of tea onto the table, she steps towards you. "I managed to survive one night alone-"

"Oh please, If I didn't take you in the wolves would've had a feast. You should be thanking me." You roll your eyes in annoyance, "Now dear," she grins, "you look parched. How about some tea."

Tea.

Your body is practically begging for a warm remedy to sooth your raw sore throat, oh.. you realized that you're actually growing sick. The headache on the sides of your temples is beating - pounding against your brain. Your vision is cloudy. How could you not of realized. You were so distracted by where you were you barley remember you couldn't find the herbs you searched for.

The lady wags an empty cup in your face.

"Come on. Your cheeks are burning red, and whether that's just a sun burn or fever I'm sure you need a sip. You're burning up a storm."

A part of you wonders her name, but was it truly important? Could she possibly show you were you could find a goblin? You look over your shoulder out of the window realizing the sun was just barley going down.

"H-How long was I out?" You shakily ask, pulling your hands into your chest.

The woman arches a brow, "You know for a Queen you surely do stutter a lot. You've been out since noon."

Lord if you didn't have strength to be patient you probably would've thrown a wooden slab at her by now, you breath in heavily through your stopped up nose; coughing in despair. Blowing out a few pieces of hair from your face. "Well, then do you want the tea or no - your royal highness?" She asks in a taunting matter.

"No. I'm fine." You huff.

"More for me then-"

"What's your name?" You interrupt, "Id love to know the name of the woman who saved me after all." You grin tilting your head to the side. The lady clears her throat, "Marigold. My name is Marigold." You nod, finally knowing her name. "Well Marigold, do you know where I can find a goblin?"

The word seems to stop Marigold in her tracks. Her face grows pale for a second before returning back to her natural nonchalant expression. Blowing a raspberry she proceeds to laugh, "Well honey, that's a days trip. They live deep into the forest. You wouldn't make it there in time."

Hmm, you nod suspiciously. Recalling the last conversation you had with Kirishima.

"What do goblins look like? I've only ever read about them." You asked, moving beside him following him into the horse stall. He combs out the mane of his horse, "Well that's a tricky question my Queen. They are real tricky and can spew lies just to get you where they want... they promise you things. You have to be real smart to not fall for it - I've encountered one in my youth. It didn't look anything like those storybooks."

Your eyes wander her body; she looked normal. But to trust her would be a stretch, one that could kill you. Her voice sound normal. You watch her closely, "Where's my stuff?" You ask. Marigold arches a brow and shrugs her shoulders; "What stuff?"

You bark, "My dagger! My holster for it! Where is it?"

"Oh those things.. why do you need them?"

"I need to leave-"

"It's dark out, you wouldn't want yourself to increase your fever now would you. I promise this tea will sooth all your pains away. Even the ones deep in your heart."

You arch a brow, narrowing your gaze. Even the ones deep in your heart. Your brush her off as a bluff, "You don't know what you're talking about." You push yourself up from the floor, stumbling from the sudden wave of nausea. Sweat beats run down your forehead as you attempt to stand up straight. Marigold clicks her tongue, her long fingers run through her long brown locks. "No. No. It seems that... I do know what I'm talking about. A Queen who's too good for her new kingdom, thrown, stuck and forced into a loveless marriage; suddenly thrown into the enchanted forest to find a heart that she will be forced to eat? Poor unfortunate girl, you were better off dead."

Her words cut deeply, anyone could figure that out though. She didn't know you, how could she possibly think she had your life figured out. You were a Princess made into a Queen; it wasn't that hard to understand. To create peace between your kingdoms you had to marry Bakugou.

"Darling... you are unhappy." She takes small sips of her tea, "I can help you escape.. you don't love him you don't even know him. Come with me, and I can help nourish you back to health. You won't even have to return, I'm quite lonely myself. Now, have some tea. Your cheeks are practically scarlet." Marigolds grin is sinister, she taps her nails slowly against the table; that's when you realize:

Her fingers and nails are sharp, green, and coated with old blood.

Her green eye sharpen with each passing second - her pupils are almost snake like. You gulp down the fear that rose in you, ignoring the raging pound against your chest. What do you do? You can tell she's growing impatient, if you run out now with no weapon you could kiss your life away. If you stayed... no. You needed a knife, your dagger, anything even a wooden stake would do fine. "I don't bite, sit down." Marigold says menacingly, your feet scuff the floor as you make your way to her. This is the time where you're supposed be strong, you guess.

Marigold lifts up her tea kettle, you notice her teeth for the first time.. how sharp they were.. separated and long.. how could she disguise herself as someone so beautiful?

"Remember.. they are tricksters. They are going to tell you things you wanna hear, they can be anyone and anything." Kirishima's words rang through your head, "Well wouldn't that make them a shape shifter? I've heard those are a thing too, how can I be certain?" You pout, how would you know. The creatures of the Enchanted Forest were so complex. He crosses his arm, "You'll know when they begin to turn.. back into the creature they were originally. Don't catch yourself entertaining, they'll slice your throat in a second."

Your breathing grows heavy, she's a goblin. She's what you've been looking for, her name wasn't Marigold - Marigold was a the woman who the face, the body belonged too. This thing... is morphing. You choose your words carefully, slowly reaching out for an empty tea cup and quietly asking her to fill it. If you could just lead her into the kitchen somehow you could possibly get a knife, "Well now that's the spirit my Queen. I promise this tea with sooth everything away, melting all the overwhelming emotions you may be feeling." The woman mutters before pulling back a hot tea kettle.

Hot.

Tea.

Kettle.

Boiling water is in there. Your heart prancing in joy, you have a chance. You had an opening, quickly, you stop her with your hand. "Actually, may I poor it? I-I sometimes like mines a little more full than usual." You smile nervously, "Oh why of course, here. Have as much as you'd like - it came right off the cauldron."

You nod, taking the handle away from her and carefully pouring the boiling tea into your cup. You make note of her wandering eyes, you've got to make this quick. You finish pouring, opening the kettle lid you ask aloud, "What kind of tea is this? It smells wonderful." You needed a distraction, a reason to open the lid.

"Lavender green tea with a speck of rose water-"

Your throw the boiling water over her head, her screams erupt in the as dining room; as her skin bubbles up. You throw the kettle at her head and knock back your chair, running towards the kitchen. "You wretched! Horrid- I'll slice your throat!" The Goblin screeches, you search the drawers and cabinets for something, anything! But to no avail you didn't find a single thing. Now you were completely done for.

Heavy footsteps and angered huffs make their way towards the kitchen - it's now or never. Throwing pots and pans you make sure to strike the goblin in the face, "After I saved your life! This is the thanks I get?" You hear, bending down to hide underneath the counter your eyes lock with a shining blade.

Your dagger!

Hidden behind the cauldron, you just needed a way to get back there. You needed a way to grab it, the goblins footsteps grow heavy. You silence your breathing with your palms, "I could've helped you, I could've been your escape. You greedy rat!" You hear tables being flipped over, cabinets being thrown open violently, "Wait till I get my hands on you.. I'll cut you open and gut you like a fish."

You attempt to keep calm, either way you were a goner if you hadn't left in that moment. When you hear the goblins footsteps move away in distance you shuffle onto your feet and zoom towards the cauldron. The crackling fire and boil contents bring you an idea. You hurry for the dagger, flipping it between your hands.

"There you are.." you hear a snarl from across the room, readying your blade to attack, you throw your hands up, "Thank you for the hospitality, but it looks like you have something I need." You point towards the goblins chest, the heart. A viable beating heart, only feet away. In mere seconds the goblin launches at you, reaching out to tackle you. You swiftly move out of the way throwing yourself to the ground, your palms throb in pain from the splinters lodged deep into your flesh - but that's the least of your worries. You scurry to your feet and push over the boiling cauldron over the goblin and stab your dagger deep into its head. Blood splatters your face in small droplets, staining your face and clothes.

You've never killed a "person" before.

Never did you think you could actually do it, but the small sigh of relief escaping your throat tells you that you are finally safe.

You proved what you had to prove. And for the night you had sanctuary.

Your mind races in adrenaline, you're alive.

Yet you had to kill in the process, does that make you one of them? No, you did what you had to do. It was a matter of kill or be killed. You pull your dagger away, out of its head, you didn't kill an innocent women. You killed a beast. Small gurgles and a moan fall from its mouth, the sound of death. You wipe away the blood on your forehead with your forearm and roll the dead corpse to the side.

The heart...

A token for the kingdom.

***

Blood stains your chest; dried up to the color brown as you stumble through the forest. Your eye lids feel heavy with every step you take yet you fight off the urge to fall to your knees and succumb to the dark black dots in your vision. It's tempting, yet you are so close to the finish.. you walked the full second day. With no breaks and no source of water on the way, your fever had returned full force as the sun blazed down your body.

You cough into your arm as your second hand clutches onto the heart you were meant to return. Fresh blood coats your hands from the animals you had to fight off for the heart, the trip back was just as worse, your eye lids flutter, opening and closing with each step you nearly fall to the floor.

You look like a dead girl walking.

Your feet shuffle and kick at the ground below.

Your back is sore and your throat feels dry from the cold of the night - the forest was ruthless. You can hear the tribal drums from afar, the sound edging closer and closer, increasing its volume with each step. You stumble to the ground, exhausted, thirsty, and sick. You consider staying down, to tired to even pull yourself up. You hear voices, they sound so close.

"I told you already, she'll be here."

Bakugou?

The king, your husband.

"Give her some more time."

It must be near afternoon then, you push yourself up when you heard Kirishima's voice agree with your husband. Providing you some more time to make it to the finish line - you assume the politicians want to speed up the process. You swore they must have something against you.

Your body feels sticky from the old, dried blood on your chest. Fingers still freshly coated in blood and dirt you push yourself off from a nearby tree - edging closer to the entrance of the Enchanted Forest. The setting suns sunlight peers through the small branches and leaves of the trees above, kissing your exposed shoulders, reddened from the sunburns that littered your skin. You wipe the sweat off your forehead; smearing a combination of dried and fresh blood all over your face. But you don't care, you just had a few more step till sanctuary.

The entrance is clear, open to the trail you followed.

You can see Kirishima from a distance, his rough shoulders tense in worry. Beside him, Bakugou stands with his arms crossed over his shoulders. An expression you couldn't make out contours his face.

You know you've finally made it out when a wave of heat smacks your face even harder - the setting sun beating on your body you stumble over to the King.

A smirk on your face as you hold up the heart, his eyes widen in surprise, taken aback you watch his lips move. But no sound comes out, it's all muffled around you. Black spots collect in your vision, "I-I did it.." you mumble, falling into his chest his hand reaches out to touch your forehead.

You lie passed out in his arms as he calls out to his guards, Kirishima collects the heart from your hand just before it could fall. "What do we do?" The dragon frantically says, Bakugou looks out for the Counsel men, his eyes fall onto the President. Glaring he announces, "We're taking her back to the Palace now!"

"You will do no such thing, your Majesty! She will be brought to the plaza hall, your people are waiting! Handmaidens, guards, take Queen Y/N, preserve the heart and bathe it in pigs blood. We are continuing the ceremony."

Your fever rose with each passing minute, and the exhaustion you'd expedited already was enough to kill. Bakugou breathes in heavily knowing he had no say in the ceremony. There was no way he could just simply override the parliament. Arms wrap around your body as the guards and handmaidens assist in take you.

They rip you away from Bakugou's arms.

"We'll take care of her after the ceremony-"

Kirishima interrupts the Counsel man, bearing his sharp teeth he growls, "I believe you will. I don't necessarily like the taste of humans." He threatens as they user you off. Bakugou stares in annoyance at the carriage that rushed you off to the plaza. Nightfall was close, and he could already feel the rumbling of ceremonial drums beneath his feet. A hand comes to pat his shoulder, the Counsels president, Hagoku Tekona, smiles. "You should probably head back to the plaza.. she might wanna see you as soon as we wake her up."

"You're just gonna wake her up?"

"We'll just drench her in pigs blood to wake her, she'll anyways have to. The tradition calls for the Queen to bathe in pigs blood as she intakes the heart to be fully part of the dragon clan-"

Bakugou, walks away, reaching out for Kirishima he taps his back.

"Make sure... they don't throw her around too much."

Nodding in agreement Kirishima fetches their horses, "I'll take care of her. Make sure she's conscious." The two jump onto their horses settling into the saddle, Bakugou mutters to himself, incoherent words bungled all in one sentence, he pulls back on his horse. Kirishima arches a brow in worry, eyeing his friend he doesn't know what to say neither what to do, the dragon mutters, "You seem surprised. Did you think she wasn't going to make it?"

Nodding Bakugou turns to face Kirishima, with notable surprise written on his face. "I thought I was going to have to find another wife..."

Chuckling Kirishima shakes his head before taking off with his horse, "Depending on how well tonight's ceremony goes.. it appears Bakugou that you have a wife beside your side."

"It appears.. so."

AUTHORS NOTES: Yooooooo! How are you guys, sorry for taking to long. This chapter was longer than the others so I’m happy with where this is going. I have been going through a few things, remember guys I’m just a teenager so it can be hard to fit things in on time. I just got a job, just waiting for the orientation, I have school work and I’m glad I have all A’s! Anyways I hope you liked it!!

TAGLIST: @loxbbg @urmomsshousee @samkysnks @mikithekiki @aegeanblues @mykuronekome @lowkey-a-faerie-in-disguise @orange-aesthetic-yay @katsukibabe @bnhaficswriter @vvanills @katiekat300 @utterlyconfused-tm @learningasigo @bigkoalafications @bnhaficswriter @sugarandsoft @aegeanblues @tspice283 @simpforeveryone @crackhead1-800 @poetryandhoetry01 @bakasbitch18 @riceballsandanime @franko-pop @lostmarimoismyhubby @junniev8 @thirsthourdemon @cowward @the2ndl @reaperintheroses @bakugousmrs @maemi324 @beautifulparisiangirl @commandertorinshepard @velosrantipole @kirishimaisthatbitch @soft-levi-girl-blog @chims-kookies @smtmusic @jokerloverparis @polpoes-blog @sunaswife @lordexplosion-murder20 @lostmarimoismyhubby @awkward-bard @jazzylove @katsukibabe @whalerus @misssugarless @hikaru-mikazuki @greenchild @bubbzibubbles @the-fluffy-emo @anon-weeb-030 @cottonccandyxx @meri-soni-meri-tamanna @avocados-and-lemons @lucyheartfilias-wife @alisonhappy @wthrae @karitamaki @mydads2ndmistress @asemerose @chwlogy @foreverdebbie @bakugosbabie @bakuinred @thatkoicat @kkitakenma @bnhafan101 @meliapis @thecaoswitch @liviwivi1 @angie-1306 @theinfamoushotdog @minibobabottle @honeylemondragonemperor @iloveitblackbnha @yokesmam @annepamgkrth

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samstree · 4 years ago

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You are too well tangled in my soul (2/4)

Inspired by The Time-Traveler's Wife.

Pairing: Geralt x Jaskier

Geralt is a time-traveler, and Jaskier falls in love in a slightly misplaced order.

Warnings: referenced child abuse and mentions of chronic pain

Read on AO3

Calling the Witcher ‘old friend’ at the tavern was probably a mistake. The Geralt walking in front of Jaskier looks exactly the same as he remembers: golden eyes and rugged jawline. And yet, this is the furthest Jaskier has ever felt from him ever since the first sunset at the lake.

There is no warmth to greet him, no knowing smile or softness, only indifference that bleeds into annoyance. The gut-punch is as loud a declaration as it gets. This Geralt is the youngest Jaskier has ever seen him, hardened with weary travels and open night skies, and yet seasoned enough to have settled into distrust and isolation.

As they trudge through Dol Blathanna, the notebook filled with their encounters sits in Jaskier’s pocket, every date recorded with the utmost carefulness, burning a hole onto his mind. How does he explain it? How does he explain that he’s been friends with the Witcher for eight years while he only glares at Jaskier with derision? No, that is too unfair.

Besides, even if he dumps it all out, Geralt is unlikely to just…transform into the person in Jaskier’s memory. This Witcher is not the ever-present friend of Jaskier’s childhood, not yet. He knows better than most that you can’t force people into becoming someone they are not.

Jaskier leaves the notebook at the bottom of his pack.

At the edge of the world, he witnesses the heartbreaks of an elf king. The second-hand stories he knows by heart now pale in comparison. A taste of the real world, of the real pain humans have been ignoring is all it takes for Jaskier to be sure of his path. He is a storyteller. Destiny has decided that when it brought the amber eyes into his life at the age of eleven, so he tells the story. He writes the song.

Jaskier starts following Geralt.

They settle into a routine: monsters, songs, and nothing more. There are no mythical powers that can bring his best friend to him anymore, only the newly acquainted Wolf Witcher who now tolerates him with glowers.

It shouldn’t sting when Jaskier sings their adventures at taverns and Geralt only grunts as feedback. It shouldn’t sting when his chatter is only answered with silence or an absent-minded hum. It shouldn’t sting when Geralt flinches upon hearing Jaskier refer to him as friend while begging to see the hunt himself.

“We are not friends, Jaskier.”

It shouldn’t because it is where their story begins, properly this time. And yet it does.

Seasons pass. Jaskier cannot stop searching for recognition in those amber eyes. Nothing comes up. Still, he searches.

Geralt notices.

Of course. As subtle as Jaskier would like to believe he is, his companion is too perceptive. We can tell by the heartbeat when someone is lying or hiding something. He learned this long ago by the lakeside, when Geralt indulged his curiosity by debunking all the Witcher myths. No, Julian. We cannot read minds.

His excitement that day reflected in the Witcher’s eyes that were amused by a child’s wonderment.

Can he tell what Jaskier is hiding now?

Jaskier stares long at his form on Roach when a throw-away comment from the Witcher brings him right back to the lake, all the words stuck at his throat.

“You’ve been quiet, bard.”

“What? Miss my lovely voice?”

“Glad for the silence.” Geralt drops it, but his gaze lingers for a moment.

At night, Jaskier helps the Witcher remove his armours, a newly formed habit as their travels settle into a familiar rhythm. His fingers untie the complicated knots. Geralt’s breaths brush by his ear.

A warm hand comes up to steady Jaskier by the elbow, the thumb drawing small circles on his chemise. It’s a comfort that he has received so many times before, a reassurance that he can trace by heart. And yet, Geralt is unaware.

Jaskier’s breath hitches in his chest, his heartbeat suddenly rabbiting.

“Alright?”

He cannot acknowledge the concern, scared that more will be revealed. Muttering something about being late, he fumbles away to his bedroll and burrows deep. As the churning in his mind subsides, Jaskier falls asleep hoping that it never comes up again.

It comes up again.

They sit by the glowing campfire, Geralt having just returned from a hunt in the forest. Despite the Witcher’s reluctance, Jaskier nudges him to spill the details and takes them down for new songs. The scratching of his quill fills Geralt’s contemplative pauses.

“This is all very good, Geralt. It’d make a great song. But what was the wyvern like? Come on, help me paint the picture.”

“It was…big, and green.”

Jaskier chuckles, his quill hovering mid-air. So many times before has Geralt only described a monster as ‘big’ or ‘fast’, even the older, more mature Witcher he met in his teenage years sometimes struggled with more adjectives. Being the curious child he was, Jaskier pestered incessantly for more during their short encounters. At night, he would lie in bed, playing out the scene in his head, clashes of magic and steel lulling him into sleep. Now, almost a decade later, he sits in the exact same spot in front of the Witcher, desperate to learn anything from a quest, just to be stunted by Geralt’s inability to form words.

“Some things never change.”

Jaskier smiles to himself and continues to fill in the blanks with more theatrical touches. A song does not become the greatest hit on the Continent just with plain facts and verbs. Chewing on the quill, he barely notices that Geralt’s posture has stiffened.

“Why do you say that?”

“What?” Still distracted with composing a melody for the words, Jaskier looks up at Geralt, whose expression now full of alert.

“What never changes?”

“Um…Just you?” Jaskier stammers, “Stingy on the details, as usual.”

“It’s not just today.” Geralt scowls and stands, pacing around camp irritated. “You talk as if… as if you know me a great deal, Jaskier. You look at me as if you see an old friend. You were familiar with me from the very first day. You didn’t run away in fear like so many others.”

Oh well, subtlety is not exactly Jaskier’s forte.

“You know me,” He tries to gloss it over. “the ever so friendly bard.”

Geralt considers him skeptically. Under the intense scrutiny, Jaskier swallows a lump in his throat. The Witcher finally relents.

“Whatever you see in me, bard,” Geralt lets out a resigned sigh, “it’s not there. So stop looking.”

It’s too late for that, Jaskier thinks. Or too early.

“I mean, why can’t I just tell you everything?”

Geralt walks beside Jaskier, his hair in a simple pony. A long scar runs down his left eye, barely missing it.

That one’s new.

It’s so jarring that Jaskier cannot stop staring at it from time to time. Added with the well-trimmed beard, framing his rugged face, Jaskier is almost looking at someone else. Witchers don’t age like the rest of them do, but the years are clearly showing on Geralt’s face, giving him more gravitas. The White Wolf, indeed.

He has a slight limp in one of his legs, also something new. The breastplate of his armour is worn and beat after what looks like decades of use.

A strange sight. Jaskier has only witnessed the man’s younger counterpart buy the same plate a week ago at a market in Cidaris, brand new and shiny. It was right before Jaskier decided to stay and perform at the local court and Geralt traveled on by himself.

The small garden behind the main hall is where he has found the older Witcher, who embraced Jaskier immediately without a beat. It is when Jaskier breathes in the familiar pine and leather that he realizes how much he’s missed his old friend, even though he’s been traveling with the same person for the past year.

Keeping the secret has taken a toll on Jaskier, as he only notices now that he is completely relaxed. He desperately wishes to unload it.

“You are going to know anyway. When you inevitably end up in Lettenhove, pimpled teenage me in front of you.”

“Jask,” The endearment comes out of the older Witcher so naturally, his voice deep and rich as wine. “You have seen me in my younger days. I was quite…let’s say, untrusting. I was determined to be alone. Telling me that destiny has bound me to a bard with no self-preservation instincts would only send me running away screaming.”

Jaskier teases, “Now that’s something I’d like to see. The mighty Witcher running and screaming because of a bard.”

“Hmm,” Geralt smiles in return, “There are things that we have to experience for ourselves. Just wait a bit longer. I’m unlikely to be pulled away when we are together. It’ll have to be when we part ways. As I said, it’s like a homing beacon.”

An anchor.

“And now, you are only here when Geralt is gone. I mean, you. The younger you.” Jaskier muses, “Destiny has a way of keeping you from running into yourself. Hah! Probably a good idea. Imagine the brooding doubled.”

Geralt stays oddly silent and guides them both to sit on one of the benches, his knee stiff and slow to bend. It slipped Jaskier’s notice that now there is a sheen of sweat on Geralt’s forehead, his brows furrowing in pain. He starts rubbing at the knee with a wince, breathing through the discomfort. His right elbow also creaks like an old ship, followed by a pained gasp.

With the fast healing, it must be a particularly bad injury for it to affect Geralt this much. Jaskier rubs his hands together to warm them up and places them on the Witcher’s elbow, slowly massaging it to ease out the tension. He’s quite unsure of his touches but judging from Geralt’s gradually relaxing posture, it is working nonetheless.

“What kind of beast hurt you like this? Can I warn you when the day comes?” Jaskier’s worry clenches in his chest. After a moment, Geralt places his larger hand on top of Jaskier’s, an unvoiced thanks. So Jaskier lets go.

They are sitting too closely together. Jaskier can see the tiny scars on Geralt’s face, thin lines that disappear into the thick beard. Leather and pine, the most reassuring scents in the world, overwhelm his senses and draw him closer.

“I wish we could take away all the hurt that will happen.” Geralt says with regret, “But no, Jask, I’d rather not. Some things need to happen for us both to be here today. Not to mentions many others.”

“I can just warn you about this one thing.”

Geralt’s gaze meets Jaskier’s, the long scar prominent. “Some things are too important to risk. I now have people who are dear to me. They – they’ve all come a long way. I wouldn’t change it for the world if it means they are safe. Even if I have to go through this.” He rubs at his knee again.

The wight behind the words settles in Jaskier’s chest.

The Geralt he has been traveling with is so determined on isolation and detachment, rejecting even simple friendship. He cares, in his own silent, brooding way. Jaskier sees it when he refuses payment from people who are struggling to make ends meet. He sees it when he buys Jaskier new boots when a pair has worn out. And He sees it when Roach’s coat is always kept pristine when the Witcher cannot afford new clothing for himself.

But the man in front of Jaskier speaks of people in his life with love and openness, all his rough edges softened and smoothed. Whatever happened in the years in between, Jaskier is eager to learn.

“You are a self-sacrificing idiot as usual.” He jokes.

The adoration in Jaskier’s heart unfurls into something more, something he does not dare to name. The same something, he realizes, is the gravity behind Geralt’s golden eyes that he’s been unable to name.

Jaskier is twenty-four when Geralt finds out.

He has just spent a winter at Oxenfurt after being offered a teaching post while Geralt returned to Kaer Morhen as usual. The job is exciting and the students cannot be more pleasant. Adding the occasional visits from Essi and Shani, Jaskier doesn’t have many complaints.

And if he lingers too long in the greenhouse, standing wishfully for something to happen, that’s no one else’s business.

Usually Jaskier waits until the ground begins to thaw before departing for Kaedwen, where he will continue to roam and perform in major cities and possibly run into Geralt. Their shared journeys are never planned and they never agreed upon any meeting places, but somehow the bard can always find the Witcher in the springtime, so that they may resume their on-and-off travels.

This spring, however, an unexpected cold spell hits Oxenfurt after buds have sprouted from bald branches. A blanket of snow covers the cobblestone streets overnight, driving students and staff alike indoors with sniffles and shudders.

Jaskier is intending to retreat into his bedroom with a cup of steaming ginger tea, when he hears of two professors talking about the famous White Wolf being stopped at the city gate. Perplexed, he puts on a heavy coat and walks across town, blowing at his frozen fingers to desperately warm them up.

Geralt never seeks him out when the season turns, despite Jaskier’s attempt at hinting at his wintering plans multiple times every fall. If the Witcher is here this early in the spring, he must have left the Blue Mountains when the howling wind of winter was still raging. Traveling across the continent in the cold cannot be easy even for the Witcher, especially when contracts are still scarce.

Jaskier’s boots crunch the snow beneath them, his vision filled with the clear, grey sky and snowflakes scatted in the air. Outside the city gate, a tall, cloaked figure is being told off by a guard. A chestnut mare waits loyally in the distance.

Geralt is right there, snowflakes peppering his dark cloak. His complexion is sour as ever.

Gods, Jaskier has missed him.

“Geralt! What brings you here?” Jaskier shouts to get his attention and jogs on the slippery road to embrace the Witcher. The hug is brief and impersonal, and when he steps back the misery is still present.

“Aren’t you happy to see your best friend? After all, you’re the one who traveled in this sodding weather just to see me.”

Jaskier expects a rebuttal of the claim ‘best friend’, but it never comes. The Witcher’s comprehension is mixed with travel-weary, souring him even further.

“I have something of great importance to discuss with you, Jaskier.” Geralt gestures to the guard. “But this man won’t let me into the city.”

Jaskier turns to the guard and explains that the Witcher is an esteemed guest of the university, before they are both let in with Roach in tow.

The walk to Jaskier’s lodging is silent with a tension in the air. The Witcher looks tired, disheveled from the wind and cold. Jaskier will warm them both up with a fire and ginger tea then.

“So,” Jaskier tries to make conversation, “Before we discuss the thing of ‘great importance’, how was Kaer Morhen? You know, the mythical Witcher keep nobody knows anything about.”

“It was…fine.”

“Masterful conversationalist as ever.” Jaskier takes in the curt response and fills the silence with stories of his winter at the university. He chuckles at the funny bits himself when Geralt seems deep in thoughts the entire time.

Once they have put Roach in the university’s stable and entered Jaskier’s warm bedroom, the tension can be cut by a knife. An inexplicable nervousness bobbles up in Jaskier’s throat as Geralt puts down his pack by the door and begins to speak.

“Jaskier –”

“Before you say anything,” he interrupts, pulling out a bottle of wine and two glasses. It seems that ginger tea might not be enough to get him through this conversation. “We should warm up a little. Can you believe the weather!”

He puts one glass on the table near Geralt and downs the other in one go.

“Jaskier,” Geralt reasserts himself, the golden eyes determined. “Why didn’t you tell me you’ve met me before?”

Jaskier studies his glass as if it is the most interesting thing in the world. The Witcher continues.

“There was a lake, in the woods. You were young, and you…you greeted me by name. You knew me.” Geralt’s brows scrunch up in confusion. “You knew me before we met.”

“Um…yes?” Jaskier grimaces.

“Why haven’t you told me before? Damn it, Jaskier. You knew this whole time that I –”

“That you can magically time travel to my childhood?” Jaskier puts down his empty glass next to Geralt’s untouched one. “What was I supposed to say back then, Geralt? ‘Hello, you don’t know me but I know everything about you. And that includes your secret power because I’ve met you twenty times before –’”

“Twenty times?”

“Well I haven’t counted in a while so I could be off.”

Geralt sighs, palming his face. They both look away. The weighted silence in the room is only interrupted by the occasional crackling in the fireplace.

“Twenty times.” Geralt mutters to himself. “How – why?”

Jaskier tries, “You told me yourself. Your powers have this…pull. It’s like –”

“Gravity.”

“It pulls you to certain places or certain people.” Jaskier vaguely gestures around himself.

Realization dawns on Geralt’s face.

“That’s why you followed me. That’s why you weren’t scared of me, why you look at me…” He trails off. “Because destiny already forced me into your life.”

Geralt’s features morph into a stoic resignation, something Jaskier is too familiar with. It’s what Geralt looks like when someone chases him out of an inn or throws things at him, or when mothers yell at their children to get away from him.

No. Jaskier won’t allow it now.

“No,” His voice is desperate, “It was because you were my best friend. You are my best friend. You were there for me by the lake when no one else was. I followed you because you are kind and brave –”

“Because destiny already decided for you.”

“No –”

“Gods, Jaskier. You were so young. You shouldn’t be bound to me by something I cannot even control.”

Jaskier takes in a shuddering breath. “It’s too late for that.”

He doesn’t know how to convince Geralt, who looks so guilty through Jaskier’s blurred vision. He feels weak and hollow.

The conversation continues but Jaskier pays no attention. Geralt says something about traveling separately for a while and begins to leave. Golden eyes meet Jaskier one last time before the door clicks shut.

Running away while screaming indeed.

Sagging into a chair, Jaskier remembers the worn-out notebook sitting on the shelf, untouched.

Once again, Jaskier is left alone, his best friend disappearing right in front of his eyes.

Jaskier tries to find Geralt but always falls a step behind.

He travels and plays, pleasing tavern audiences so he may get a place to sleep. He asks about the white-haired Witcher everywhere he goes, hoping he can catch up with him just like so many other times. But the Witcher is gone whenever Jaskier sets foot into a town, as if sensing his presence.

“Isn’t that your Witcher? The one from your songs?”

Jaskier tries not to wince.

“He was here days ago, but I heard he left for Novigrad.” The innkeeper says in confusion, “Why aren’t you with him?”

Putting on a bright smile, Jaskier answers, “Even the most talented artist cannot stay with his muse at all times. Lest the creativity runs dry too soon.”

He sets out for Novigrad, but never reaches it.

Jaskier does not see the bandits coming, nor is he capable of fending off all five of them. The dagger he hides in his boot and the sword fighting lessons that tutors once forced upon him can only do so much against these fully armed men.

After stabbing one of them in the shoulder, causing the man to yell and cuss, Jaskier is knocked out from behind.

Jaskier wakes up flung across the back of a dark horse. The pain at the back of his head throbs with every step it takes, the moving ground makes bile rise in his throat. The men talk about ransom from the Count de Lettenhove for his only son.

Oh, dear.

There is no way to tell how they learned, since Jaskier is gagged and tied to a tree when they set camp. He doubts his kidnappers are willing to indulge his curiosity anyway. A growl comes from his stomach. The fire and roasted dinner warm in the distance but clearly these men are not the sharing type.

Frustrated, Jaskier dozes off as night falls, listening to their constant chatter about how to spend the ransom. Too bad for them, Jaskier thinks half-asleep, they are not getting any money. Father will probably thank them for stopping the family embarrassment from tarnishing the Pankratz name any further.

Jaskier wakes up again, to the sound of yelling and weapons clash.

Bodies are flung across the campsite; his captors scream in pain and scatter. The startles horses gallop away with some of them on top. A flash of black and silver moves with an elegance that can inspire songs after songs.

A hand comes to remove the gag in Jaskier’s mouth and continues to undo the ropes around his wrists. Concern sparks in the gold, the softness overlapping with Jaskier’s distant memories. He should greet an old friend, or it’ll seem rude –

“Julian,” Geralt says, “That’s a terrible name for you.”

Jaskier blinks. Now Geralt is reaching to untie the knot behind Jaskier, their breaths only inches away. No scar. These are the same eyes that left him in Oxenfurt months ago, with the click of a door.

Not an old friend, then.

“That’s why I changed it.” The rope burns on Jaskier’s wrists sting when he tries to flex them. He states the obvious, “I see my Witcher in shining armor has come back to save me, again.”

“It’s like you are looking for trouble, bard.”

“Not like it was my fault.” Well, only a little bit his fault.

“Hmm.”

“I was looking for you.”

“I know.”

Of course, he was avoiding Jaskier on purpose.

“Why did you have a change of heart then? Missed my charming personalities?” Jaskier intends a joke, but the old name reminds him. “Wait. You were at the lake again?”

Geralt hums as Jaskier gets up to rummage through what his kidnappers left. Thank the gods they thought his lute and bags might be worth something and didn’t chuck them in a ditch.

Neither the lute case nor the instrument inside received much damage, to Jaskier’s relief. He should check for his bags as well –

“You kept asking when I would be back.”

Jaskier pauses. “And you couldn’t answer.”

“You asked me not to leave. You cried.”

Yes, he desperately grasped for any semblance of certainty as a child, and when he couldn’t get it young Julian spiraled into a panic, begging the Witcher not to leave. He remembers trying to hold back the tears but it came out with snot and hiccups. The embarrassment is still fresh after a decade.

“Well, there’s no need to remind me.”

“No, I –” Geralt struggles with words, “You said you kept records for me. I don’t want to disappoint you again, if I go back there. When I go back.”

The leather-bound notebook is still sitting at the bottom of Jaskier’s bag. He can feel the shape of it through the fabric. It is what Geralt came back for, just so he can have an answer for that child, so he will not disappoint him next time.

“That’s sweet.”

“Jaskier. I would never choose to entangle your life with mine, a Witcher’s. It’s –” Geralt breathes, “You were so young.”

So he said, months ago. Jaskier digs into the bag and retrieves the notebook, walks up to Geralt, and presses it on his chest. Geralt catches it, his gaze never leaving Jaskier’s.

“I wrote down the dates after each of your visits. All you need should be in there.” Jaskier suddenly notices how tired and hungry he is, the headache flaring up once he’s upright. He sways as a clink of metal hits the ground and Geralt’s strong hand steadies him at the elbow. “Oh, thanks.”

Geralt only hums, but his amber eyes keep studying Jaskier.

“You said you didn’t want me bound to your life.” Jaskier tries again, “But Geralt, you were the best part of my childhood. You were the reason I could leave that wretched place. You were the only person who saw me when no one paid any attention. I – I cannot imagine my life if you weren’t in it, if you hadn’t shown up by that lake in Lettenhove. So please…don’t turn away from me.”

He’s begging again, just like ten years ago. He’s begging for the little boy waiting by the water. He’s begging for himself now. It doesn’t matter that it’s embarrassing because after a beat, Geralt nods.

“Okay.”

“What?”

“I said okay,” Geralt’s expression sags with softness. “I – You were so excited to see me. You asked about my hunts. And Jaskier, you were so unhappy in your own home, but my stories – There was a spark in your eyes when you listened to them.”

Jaskier’s breath hitches. He looks into the sunlight gold boring into his with warmth.

“Does that mean you’ll stop running from me?”

“I would never want to snuff it out. That spark.” Geralt sounds apologetic, “I see now that you decided this life by yourself. Travelling and adventures. They suit you well, Jaskier. So yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Because there is a boy in Lettenhove, and he really, really looks forward to seeing you. In fact, he is counting the days right now, for your next return.”

Geralt chuckles, “That’s not how this works.”

“You know what I mean.”

Jaskier grins in return, patting the Witcher on the arm. Geralt looks at the notebook in his hand and says solemnly, “I won’t disappoint him again.”

The door of their shared inn room creaks open and it sounds like a bag of coin is dropped on the table.

“Ah. I see you collected payment for the Griffin.” Jaskier looks up from the music sheets spread out on the bed.

“I was at the lake with you.”

Jaskier feels a big grin spread across his face.

“You made me tell you about the hunt.” Geralt says.

“Yes, I remember. And I composed my very first Witcher song two days later. Well, only in my head and it lacked a bit polish, but you know, I was eleven.”

“Does that mean I’m spared now?”

“Yes, my dear. You may be spared of recounting your mighty battles for now. I still remember it quite vividly. Did you tell me you bit feathers off its wing and choked?”

“Fuck off, bard.”

Jaskier chuckles and gets back to his composing. It might be time to revisit an old song yet.

“I was at the lake with you.”

“When?”

“Last month, when we were apart.”

“No, when for me?”

Geralt looks down at Jaskier, who is lying in the meadow of wildflowers next to the Witcher’s crossed legs, trying and failing to braid a flower crown of dandelions. The afternoon heat is relentless, drenching them both in sweat before they have to take a break.

Tall shrubs cast down a cool shade where they are sitting, shielding away the scorch. Roach is nibbling at some flowers in the distance, the same flowers that Jaskier cannot seem to bend into shape without crushing.

“You were…older.” Geralt says after considering, “You braided flowers into my hair.”

“Oh yeah. That day. Can I do it now?”

“You are not a child anymore.”

“No, but this is not working.” Jaskier throws away the dandelions that are now in pieces, pouting. He lies back on the grass, inhaling the fresh smell of grass and letting the breeze cool him down a little. Above him, Geralt looks refreshed after a short meditation.

“You were getting restless. In your own home, about your own future. You kept asking me if you were going to leave Lettenhove.”

“And you distracted me by letting me braid your hair. I totally forgot about pestering you for the rest of the day.”

“It worked.”

“Hmm.” Jaskier is almost impressed.

Geralt pauses for a moment. “You were so unhappy, Jaskier. You couldn’t see a future for yourself.”

“Well, that’s why I left. It’s all fine now. I’m living my best life with my favorite time traveler. Don’t worry, dear.” With his forearm placed on his eyes, Jaskier is completely relaxed.

“Should I have told you, just so you had an idea?”

Sometimes Jaskier still thinks about his childhood in Lettenhove, how miserable he was under all the expectations that he was never going to meet. No, he couldn’t see a future for himself as the Viscount, neither did his father, as the falling of canes and sticks proved. Sometimes Jaskier still wakes up from nightmares rehashing those beatings.

Would it have been better if his younger self had known what the future had in store?

“No,” He says, “Don’t tell me anything. What I went through put me here. It made me what I am. Telling me the future might change things, and I would never take that risk.”

“Hmm.” Geralt sounds apprehensive. “I’ll have to keep you in the dark.”

Sitting up, Jaskier places a hand on Geralt’s knee, the one that’s going to retain an injury that doesn’t heal well, the one that’s going to creak and spasm on a rainy day. Geralt from the future is willing to endure the hurt just to make sure everything goes right, young Julian will have to as well.

“I wish there’s another way. Believe me, I do. But…it’s too much at risk.” He squeezes, hoping it’s reassuring. “I know you don’t like this, Geralt. But time is too tricky, you can’t tell me anything about my future. That’s the rule.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

“It might be the first rule anyone’s had about time travels.”

“Right,” Jaskier smiles tightly, “The very first one.”

They go back to cooling off in a companionable silence before moving on again. Geralt rides on Roach’s back while Jaskier strums his lute on the ground, playing a song in Elder absent-mindedly.

For what it is worth, Jaskier’s past is already too well tangled with this beautiful Witcher in front of him. There is no changing his fate now.

A comforting weight unfurls in his heart whenever Geralt is near, regardless of which version of him it is. It unfurls even further with each step they take together over the years. In the blazing afternoon sun, it blooms into something else.

Oh.

He loves him.

He loves him with all he is, was, and ever will be.

No matter. Their days ahead will be just as entwined as the past.

Jaskier strums his lute again, the song turns into something bawdy. The amber looks back at him with mirth and a mirrored smile.

#geraskier #oxenfurt #not oxford #the witcher #time travel #geralt x jaskier #the time traveler's wife au #my fic #jaskier #geralt #hurt jaskier #hurt geralt #chronic pain #jaskier whump

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anexplanationofunfortunateevents · 4 years ago

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this is an alarmist post

This post might sound alarmist because I don’t know the respectable, non-alarmist way to put this. He’s going full final-days-in-the-Fuhrerbunker. I want to be alarmist. We need to be alarmed.

On one level, I’m pretty sure you know this. You can probably see a vague reference to “what happened in Portland” and know exactly what the writer means. Unidentified little green men in military-style fatigues deployed against peaceful protesters. Protesters kidnapped off the streets in “proactive arrests.” ordered by someone illegally acting as the head of DHS. Journalists attacked. Middle-aged women beaten and tear-gassed. The mayor of Portland tear-gassed. It was, of course, worse than it looked, and only the most telegenic of concurrent power grabs.

But it’s really hard to stay at the appropriate level of alarm for even three hours – and we need to stay there for the next three months. It’s exhausting no matter what, and nearly all of our current information environment makes it even more difficult than it needs to be.

Most of what the mainstream media has to say about the election isn’t reporting so much as it is fanfiction. Characters with familiar names and recognizable faces feature in an alternative universe where “normal” political forces (which were defunct ten years ago) apply. Sniping about “messaging,” pathologically boring lectures about “enthusiasm” – it would be annoying anti-Democratic concern-trolling in a world where a free and fair election could be taken for granted. In the real world of powerful and accelerating anti-democratic threats, it is both dangerous and bizarre, like dumping a fifth of vodka into a Super Soaker and trying to use it to put out a brush fire.

The mainstream conversation is so disorienting that it’s understandable why there are also a fair amount of influential progressive commentators who have burrowed themselves into the reverse narrative. It doesn’t matter what we do, Trump is just going to steal the election anyway; it doesn’t matter if he loses, he’s going to refuse to leave anyway. A subset of these fatalists swing all the way around to conventional Pundit Brain: Trump has already blown up all the rules of democratic politics because Democrats aren’t using the One Weird Trick that would make them good at democratic politics!*

Before jumping down the rabbit hole of whether these narratives are true, it’s important to emphasize that they are not constructive. We are in a crisis. In a crisis, you need to help people understand that something abnormal is happening AND that there is something they can do to make things better. Communicating to people that things are fine, as the mainstream horserace normal politics model does, isn’t helpful, because it helps people rationalize the false but comforting belief that everything is fine. Communicating to people that things are hopeless, as the doom-mongering counternarrative does, is even less helpful. If you’re acting normal about something abnormal, there’s at least the off-chance you’ll get lucky and unwittingly bluff your way through the short- and medium-term. But if you’re constantly getting the message that you’re screwed no matter what, it’s human nature to either a) go into denial and double down on an unproductive response, which is irrational but understandable or b) get cynical and give up, which is an entirely rational response to a situation that actually is hopeless.

Trump is already trying to steal the 2020 election. He has help from the henchmen he has put in charge of important federal agencies and from the white-shoe lifers in the Republican legal establishment. Anything you can imagine he might do, you should assume he has at least considered it. He will consider things that would never even occur to you.

He hasn’t succeeded yet. He can be stopped with overwhelming turnout. We know this because of the 2018 midterms. Autocrats who are successfully smothering a democracy do not allow the opposition party to win partial or full control in regional governments, take over half the federal legislature, and gain a foothold in the presidential line of succession. That’s not how autocracy works. If you come across a commentator who is under the impression that a burgeoning dictatorship just gives away that kind of power for the lulz, consider taking that person’s opinions on the subject with a grain of salt.

Thanks to the 2018 midterms, House Democrats have been able to foil some of Trump’s schemes and warn the public about others. Even with Individual 1’s desperate thrashing at the intelligence agencies, we’re getting a lot more specific information about Russian attacks on the election than we were this time in 2016 from the Obama administration.

One more important thing we learned in 2018: just because Trump would do something, doesn’t mean he will. Here’s the Once and Future Speaker a few weeks after reclaiming her title:

At least Trump “didn’t declare the election illegal,” Pelosi said. “We had a plan for that” — though really, she acknowledged, the only workable plan was “to win big. Had it been four or five seats, he would’ve tried to dismantle it.” In his news conference the day after the midterms, Trump spoke respectfully of Pelosi….

The Spectacularly Failed New York Times buried the lead as usual, but there are a few really important points packed in here. Democrats did, in fact, have a plan for that, which you’re going to need to remind yourself if you try to follow political commentary in the next few months. For whatever reason, a surprising number of supposedly anti-Trump writers are eager to undermine Trump’s opposition with false claims that Democrats are bumbling naifs who in 2020 still haven’t realized that Trump might not respect the results of an election.** This demoralizing premise is, as you can tell from the Wayback Machine link, not true, but for some reason it remains a popular lie, so it’s worth debunking.

More importantly, we didn’t know about the plan until afterward because they didn’t need it. Trump has blinked before, so there’s no reason to assume he won’t blink again. We shouldn’t assume he will do the same thing in 2020 that he did in 2018, because it’s a different situation! Just that people who have assumed Donald Trump will act in a completely different way than he has in the past usually end up with egg on their faces.

My two cents – AND THIS IS JUST MY OPINION SO YOU CAN SKIP IT – is that any kind of post-election autocratic power grab would probably need decisive action from Trump within days, maybe even hours, of polls closing. That, in turn, would require Trump to absorb the narcissistic injury of a loss immediately, which he has been psychologically incapable of doing for the first 74 years of his life. Remember, he didn’t have to come to terms with the curb-stomping he received in the midterms right away. At first he could tell himself that Republicans holding onto the Senate (by the skin of their teeth when they should by all rights have swamped it, but whatever) represented a “split decision” and even a moral victory for him, so he could afford to go into, like, con man autopilot mode and try to charm “Nancy.” Everyone else adjusted to the Democratic victory the next day, and the next night, people got into the streets warning him not to try any bullshit. It was only after bigger districts finished counting and mail-in ballots were counted that it sunk in for him how badly he had lost and what the consequences would be. Then he soothed himself by shutting down the government indefinitely, which he seemed to feel was a display of his power – until “Nancy” pantsed and dog-walked him so he had to slink off and pretend it never happened.

If an election which was more or less as legitimate as the 2016 election (questionable but not Belarus) were held today, I think the most likely result would be a scenario a lot like the midterms: East Coast states make it clear which way the wind is blowing to most people, but Trump goes to bed at 3 AM thinking he’s close enough to fight it out in court. Over the next couple of weeks the mail-in ballots get opened, Miami and Philadelphia finish counting, and the real numbers start penetrating even his toxic bubble. Eventually someone reminds him that his armed Secret Service detail can escort him off the premises no matter what he does, so he loses what little nerve he has and skips Biden’s inauguration to go golfing at Mar a Lago. Or maybe Sochi.

But again, that is not a guarantee or even a prediction. The FACT is that anything can happen in the next three months, and Trump and his goons are putting a lot of effort into ensuring that everyone does happen. I spelled out my opinion of what seems most likely at the moment because it can get really easy to dwell on the worst-case scenario, which leads to fatalism and inaction. The least-bad scenario is actually more plausible than it’s been for the last few years, if we motivate ourselves to get it done. We can’t waste all our time and energy thinking about what he’s going to do, because we need to think about what we’re going to do. Voting is the core issue as always, but it helps to be more concrete.

If your state has early in-person voting, and if you can do so safely, vote in-person as soon as you can. Every state’s vote by mail infrastructure was going to be strained this year before these dirtbags decided to sabotage the postal service. If you can cast your vote early, you can help make the lines a little shorter on Election Day while leaving vote by mail resources for people who need them.

If you are a person who needs vote by mail resources for whatever reason, use them! Request your ballot now. Fill it out and return it as soon as you get it. You might not have to mail it back – your county may have drop boxes, or maybe someone can bring it to the local elections office for you. If that’s a safe option for you, please take advantage of it. If it’s not a safe option, mail your ballot back as soon as possible. You’re not helping anyone from the ICU.

If you and the people you live with are relatively low risk, or if you’ve survived COVID and your health care provider thinks you have immunity for the next few months, consider volunteering as a poll worker. Usually a lot of poll workers are retirees, who are by definition in a high-risk group. If enough of them decide to sit this year out – and that’s the smart, responsible choice – then polling places end up closing, which helps Republican voter suppression by making the lines longer. The more volunteers your area has, the more polls they’ll have open, which makes it that much easier to let people vote quickly and at a safe distance from each other.

This last one isn’t directly about voting, but it’s still pretty important: get used to pushing back on bullshit. There already is another effort to drive down turnout by inundating voters with disinformation. Last time we weren’t ready; this time, we have no excuse.

*Avoiding sources because this stuff is toxic. If you think I’m making this up because you haven’t seen it anywhere, good.

**Look, nobody*** is more sympathetic to The Men and their psychological frailties than me, but seriously, guys, some of you need to log the hell off for a few days.

***For certain non-traditional values of “nobody.”

#democracy #2020 election #authoritarianism

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elyreywrites · 4 years ago

Text

do you know who you are?

a fic written for Pride Month 2020!! (yes, i know pride month is over, but i posted this on AO3 on June 30th so.) this is a projection fic. it’s not an exact projection of my experience, nor is it meant to be a generalized representation. this isn’t everyone’s experience.

warnings: slight mention of Jack and Janet Drake potentially being homophobic, and discussion of compulsory heterosexuality

thank you to my betas in the Capes & Coffee Discord - Bumpkin, ZulieTheProgrammer, and Oceans!!

title is from Moana’s “I am Moana”!

please REBLOG - DO NOT REPOST

AO3 Link

Teen 1,678 words Bart Allen & Tim Drake & Kon-El | Conner Kent slight one-sided Tim Drake/Jason Todd - as in, tiny-Tim has a crush on Robin-Jason

Summary:

He’s twelve and watching Robin fight. He’s seventeen and staring up at the ceiling. He’s nineteen and text-spamming his best friends.

Tim’s growing up and finding himself, and he would really appreciate if the Realizations didn’t happen when he’s trying to sleep. Kon and Bart would probably appreciate that as well.

- - - - -

It starts as he’s watching the second Robin knock out some muggers. It’s not the first time Tim has seen Jason’s Robin take down a group of criminals, but it’s the first time that he nearly gives himself away as he squeaks.

Jason’s so strong, and cool, and pretty, and – oh. Ah. Okay.

He calls it a night at that, bright red from the questions that are swimming around in his head. He spends most of the trip home lost in thought. When he’s sitting on his bed, one of his best pictures of Jason’s Robin sitting in front of him, he gives them a voice. Talking usually helps him get his thoughts in order. “Okay,” he whispers, “do I like boys?” He doesn’t dislike them – not at all. But does he like them? Maybe, but… how is he supposed to know? “Is that too big of a topic?” he wonders aloud to the picture. “Let’s start with this: Do I like Robin? Jason-Robin.”

That doesn’t turn his brain into a jumbled mess like the previous question did. Of course he likes Jason-Robin. He’s absolutely amazing, protecting people and checking on the working girls and kicking criminal ass! He’s only a couple years older than Tim is, but he does so much more! And he’s real in a way Dick isn’t.

Jason’s just a kid like Tim, though they have such different backgrounds. Dick was a trained acrobat, with skills Tim never really believed he could learn. Jason seemed closer. He was still more amazing than Tim could ever hope to be, but it wasn’t an entirely impossible stretch like it was with Dick.

“And he’s so passionate, especially when it’s a kid that’s in danger. And every time he smiles, it just makes me so happy that I kind of want to giggle and—” Tim stops babbling. He doesn’t need to anymore, after basically answering his own question. Yes, he does like Jason Todd, the current Robin. As in, he has a crush on him. Tim falls back on his bed to stare up at the ceiling.

“Well,” he says, “that explains the weird, squirmy feeling I get in my stomach every time I imagine talking to him.” That feeling is always accompanied by a fierce blush and Tim hiding his face for a good two minutes. He thinks he probably should have caught on sooner. Deciding that was enough Realizing Things for the night, Tim quickly locks the picture of Robin up with the rest and collapses on his bed to sleep.

The next day – a Saturday, which is Mrs. Mac’s day off – Tim hops on the computer and starts researching. He has a crush on one boy, but Tim still thinks girls can be cool. Batgirl is pretty awesome, after all! After a few hours and a lot of new information, he settles back on his bed again. He’s bisexual, and sexuality can apparently be really fluid. In all honesty, it didn’t take him hours to find the term, he just fell into a rabbit hole of researching sexual orientation and gender identities. Tim’s fairly secure in his gender, but he’s glad to have learned. It’s something to keep in mind about other people – to not assume anything based on appearances.

He’s bisexual, with a crush on a boy, and his parents will still expect him to only date girls. At least the boy was Robin and completely unattainable.

- - -

Years later, Tim is laying on his bed, staring at the ceiling once again. It’s a different bed by now, in his own apartment at seventeen. The thing is, he’s pretty sure he has no interest in romance. And now his brain was mixing everything up in a tangle of thoughts and feelings again.

“Holding hands is nice,” he admits. “I like cuddling. That was fine.” He hasn’t gone further than making out with anyone, so that’s about the limit of his physical experience. It’s the implication of emotions that makes him want to skitter away. Specifically, emotions of the romantic variety. Now Tim’s reassessing every romantic relationship he’s had, though he’s only ever dated women.

At the time, he had thought he was happy while in each relationship, but… it’s becoming much more likely that it’s because he was previously starved for affection. He suddenly got that affection while dating someone. That thought makes him want to hide from everyone he’s ever dated. Stephanie is the only one he really still has to see, and that has him burrowing under his blankets.

It sounds awful, honestly. Like he was using the relationship to get the affection he so desperately wanted. Logically, he might be overthinking this. He just wishes his dumb brain would tell that to his anxiety and the ingrained societal expectations. “I didn’t mean to,” he mumbled into the blankets.

Romance, dating, being happy in a relationship? He has no other experiences to reference! He didn’t know that something wasn’t right.

Hell, he’s only having this Realization because a woman was flirting with him at a gala and asked if he would like to get dinner together sometime. A romantic dinner date with a woman he wasn’t close to. The entire scenario would be romance with no physical affection, and that didn’t sound pleasant in the slightest. It did, however, make him realize that he might need to think things through again.

So, here he is. Thinking things through. No romance – if he’s remembering his research correctly, the term is ‘aromantic’, similar to ‘asexual’. Asexuality was something he’d heard more about over the years, but he rarely heard of aromanticism. It had just stuck out because while the terms were similar, their meanings were pretty different.

Now he’s glad it stuck in his mind. It gives him less reason to panic about being confused. So, he was bisexual and aromantic. That’s fine! He’s a vigilante, romantic relationships would be difficult anyway.

- - -

A year and a half later, Tim’s fingers fly across the screen of his phone, sending text after text without waiting for a response. Either his friends would wake up or they wouldn’t. Hopefully they would.

Tim: Oh my god. Guys, wake up, I’m an idiot. Bart, Kon, please. I’m so dumb. How the hell am I this oblivious? I’m not bi-aro at all. I’m just fucking gay. It’s 5 am and I can’t sleep, and I just want a boyfriend. I want to do couple things, like cuddle up while watching movies.

Clone Trooper: dude, it’s the middle of the night. why do you do this to us?

Tim feels no sympathy for his friends – he’s been running on less than six hours of sleep for years. Sometimes less than four hours. High school and vigilantism don’t mix well. Anyway, they can deal with waking up to deal with his Realization.

Sonic: bro we cuddle up when we watch movies are we not good enough for you anymore

Tim: Yeah, but that’s platonic, Bart. And yes, I’m aware of the time. I’d like to be asleep too, but I’m lonely and sad and having Realizations! Suffer with me.

Clone Trooper: … suffer how? are you expecting us to have an existential crisis too, or is this just suffering by being awake?

Tim: Being awake. It’s not an existential crisis, it’s just a Realization.

Sonic: its the middle of the night i think it can be deemed an existential crisis

Tim: But seriously, someone please tell me how I jumped passed the logical conclusion I should have come to of “I’m just not attracted to women” and directly to “I have no interest in romance at all”? How did that make sense to me?

Sonic: society conditioned u to like women

Tim blinks at his screen. Bart isn’t wrong, but Tim has absolutely no idea where he’s going with that. He already had the Realization about societal conditioning, thanks.

Tim: Okay? I’m aware, but I’m not sure how that translates to how I didn’t think of the logical conclusion.

Sonic: dude. for years it was a fact – since you were a kid u were so conditioned that u should like women it was just a fact

Clone Trooper: think of it like this, tim: as far as you knew, you liked women. later, you figured out you like guys, but you still think you like women too.

Tim: We’ve established, yeah.

Clone Trooper: so, suddenly something is weird. the only really new thing is that there is romance involved. so that’s clearly gotta be the issue.

Oh. He stares so long the screen goes dark. He drops his phone on the bed and stares up at the ceiling, turning that over in his head. So. He jumped to not wanting romance because it was so deeply ingrained that he was supposed to like women? His exhausted brain seems to accept this explanation enough to calm the edge of self-recriminations.

Tim: That. Makes sense, I guess. But still, it really seems like I should’ve realized a while ago. Also, I’m kind of surprised that you aren’t teasing me for being oblivious.

Sonic: oh thats coming but teasing is saved for when u arent having a crisis

Clone Trooper: later, we’ll absolutely laugh about that jump in logic. but right now it’s too early and you’re already having A Time.

He’s not sure if he has wonderful friends or terrible friends. Tim suspects that he’s still going to hear about this in a few years. It’s the kind of thing they won’t let die for a while.

Tim: Fair enough.

Clone Trooper: great, glad we got that cleared up! now tim...

Tim: What?

Clone Trooper: please. GO THE FUCK TO SLEEP.

Snickering, Tim plugs his phone in and smothers his face in the pillow. He’s still lonely and he still wants to analyze every missed evidence over the years, but he’s also exhausted. The chat with his friends did get his brain to shut up enough that he might actually be able to sleep. He can rethink his entire life again after he wakes up.

#fanfiction #elyrey writes things #tim drake #kon-el #conner kent #bart allen #friendship #lgbtq themes #lgbtq character #self-discovery #coming out #pride month 2020 #dcu

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iamalivenow · 5 years ago

Text

“Nervous?” Beau leans on the railing of the balcony.

“Why would I be nervous?” It's Caduceus, so obviously he trusts him more than anything. There's a pit in his chest about everything else, sure, about the whole entire process and the god stuff and he'd be lying if he didn't feel like he was on the verge of throwing up for the past two days since Caduceus brought it up because what if the Wild Mother didn't actually want him- but that's- that's whatever.

“I mean, you know.” She waves a hand and stares down at where Caduceus was slowly digging. “I'd be freaked all the way out.”

“It's Caduceus.” Even if he- mm- even if he dies, Caduceus can just bring him back. “I'll be fine. Why wouldn't I be?”

Beau shrugs.

The trip from the Dust's to back to Caduceus' forest was a took a little while, but he didn't mind. Okay if it was anyone else, maybe he'd be more annoyed with it, but Caduceus pulled him over while they were sleeping in Caleb's bubble and mentioned something about it being for him.

Fjord was maybe a little hazy on the details because Caduceus was whispering and his lips were maybe two inches from his ear, but that's unimportant. They just got a lot of dirt, and his bag was weighed down with it while Caleb teleported them back to Xhorhas. Now, after a few days of letting it all incorporate with volcanic ash, they were also lugging around, and the dirt Caduceus had been working with since they got here, it was finally ready for Fjord to-

“Sure you're not stressed?”

“Mmhm, yeah, Beau, sure I'm not stressed.” He was starting to look like The Gentleman with all of the sweating he's been doing lately. “How Dairon?” “Yeah okay.” She frowns, and when Fjord raises an eyebrow, she flips him off and walks back inside.

Caduceus waves at him and Fjord waves back.

“Need any help?”

“What?” Caduceus looks around, eyes settling on the shovel he's holding. “Oh-” He chuckles and its like honey. “No, I've got it, thank you.” His smile is like honey too.

Fjord keeps watching, Caduceus keeps digging.

Caleb is off at Essik's house, Beau is going to do spy shit with Dairon, and Jester and Nott are back in Nikodranos for the weekend. It's going to be just them for the night. Just them alone.

There's an undercurrent of excitement of course, that he's finally shedding Uk'otoa and all of its awful influence, and there's also an undercurrent of excitement about being all along with Caduceus for the first time, and an undercurrent of excitement about the Wild Mother really well and truly embracing him.

Focus on the positives Fjord.

Focus on spending an entire night alone with Caduceus, who's been so patient and understanding and kind. His new sword hangs on his belt, heavy and grand and so real. There's really nothing at all to worry about. It's Caduceus.

Of course, Caduceus will take care of him.

And he believes it, of course, he does.

It's Caduceus.

And besides, Fjord agreed to it, so if anything goes wrong, it's really on him.

Sure maybe he was a little slap-happy when he agreed to it, new sword, newfound confidence, newfound respect, and kindness. This is good for him. It's good for him. He's fine. He's got it. Caduceus will take care of him, and so will the Wild Mother and there is nothing wrong that could even happen, really. He's got the best cleric he knows at his side.

Plenty of people have been buried alive before, right?

…

He stands in his small clothes and stares down at the Grave Caduceus has dug for him.

The Grave he's about to get into.

“Think of it as a baptism. If that sort of thing helps.”

“Not really, no.”

“Yeah.” Caduceus stands by his side, leaning on the shovel a little bit. “Didn't think it would- but you never know.”

“Anything uh-” Fjord rubs the back of his neck nervously. “Anything I should know, beforehand?”

“It's going to be scary,” Caduceus says, and lays the shovel down on the ground before starting to light the incense that he set up around them. One by one, and he takes his time. Maybe for Fjord's benefit, maybe because that's what you're supposed to do when burying someone alive. “You're going to try and convince yourself it's not, but don't. Returning to the earth before your time is always scary.”

“Great.”

“If you try and fight it-” Caduceus looks up from where he's leaning, at the foot of The Grave. “Try and push the dirt away, or burrow deeper, it'll only make it worse, I mean.”

“Even better.”

“You'll do just fine, Mr. Fjord.” Caduceus stands back up again, stretching slowly. “If I could do it, so can you.”

“That was-” Fjord swallows. “Advice from experience?”

“Oh mmhm. Everyone in my family's done it.”

“And no one died doing it right?” Caduceus just smiles and pats his shoulder. His tail curls around Fjord's leg for a few moments and Fjord shivers in the cold night air. “Does it hurt?”

“Well.” Caduceus looks at him for a while. “You can hold your breath for a while. I suppose when you run out of air, it might burn a little.”

“You're really not reassuring me here.”

“Good.” Now it's Fjord's turn to stare. “My mother tried to reassure me that it wouldn't hurt at all. That it would just be the Mother giving me a tight hug. I- I ate a lot of dirt.” Fjord laughs, and there's that smile again. His chest is warm with it, right where he shoved his old sword through.

The smell of the incense was starting to make him dizzy.

The incense.

And not. Not anything else at all. This was a serious religious ceremony. He was about to be embraced by a real god, in a way that he wanted, in a way that was going to fix so many of his problems. He wouldn't be getting light-headed because his friend smiled at him. That would be. So ridiculous. Very silly.

“So eating the dirt, that's- that's ill-advised?”

“You can eat the dirt if it makes you feel better.” Fjord laughs again. “It'll be dark. Cold and warm at the same time. Really tight, in your chest.”

“It's like I'm already there.”

“That's the spirit.”

The earthy smell is unavoidable now, with the smoke so thick around them. It's like they're in those mists again. There is no light in the sky. Their house is empty and silent, just like the streets. It really does feel like they're the only two people alive in the entire world.

“And after?” He asks a tremor in his voice he didn't think would surface.

“After I'll take care of you Fjord. Clean you up, feed you, get you to bed. Teach you how to pray to the Mother. You'll be just fine.”

“Right.”

Caduceus picks up the shovel again.

He steps out of his small clothes quickly, shivers again, naked in the night air, grateful that his friend is all but blind in the dark and the blush on his cheeks, the blush that blooms over his chest and neck are unseen, and gets into the hole.

“This is going to be wonderful,” Caduceus says, and drops the first shovel-full of dirt on his legs. It's just as unpleasant as he imagined it would be. Fjord doesn't say anything. Just tries to get as comfortable as he can. More and more dirt packs on to him until Caduceus has no choice but to cover his face. “You're going to be wonderful.”

The dark is as pervasive as he expected. He hears the thud of dirt above him and an occasional noise of exertion from Caduceus, but otherwise, it's just him and the blood already pounding in his ears. His mind keeps dragging to the ocean, to the thought of crushing water and darkness so pervasive he couldn't see his hand an inch from his eyes, but he fights against it.

Focus on the differences. Focus on the smell and the texture and the weight. He curls his fingers into fists, feeling dirt slip through his fingers.

It gets harder to breathe eventually, when he thinks there is no dirt being thrown on top of him anymore, but he can't tell. He keeps his eyes closed, his mouth closed. More differences. The salt of the ocean never bothered him. The dirt is- here. Very really. Very here.

There's nothing but the smell of incense in his mind now, even stronger than the dirt that is everywhere, everywhere, everywhere.

He thinks he feels someone touch his hand, and that makes him kick, legs jamming against tightly packed space. A quiet shush in his ear until he realizes it's the Mother, or Caduceus maybe. He can't tell them apart. One dream is not enough to build a frame of reference from.

His lungs are burning now.

“Breathe.” The voice whispers, soft and so kind it might suffocate him alone. “We have you. You're safe.”

Hard to believe, but he'll grant her, him, them, whatever, the voice does help somewhat.

There's just nothing to breathe with, really, is the thing.

His chest is really unspeakably tight.

It's different from the pressure of the ocean. It's solid weight, on his chest, on his legs, on his arms, on his face. It doesn't feel dirty, or clingy, just heavy.

So heavy.

“Breathe.” The voice again, honey warm and kind. Hands, four, he thinks he counts, running over his back, over his chest, up and down his legs and arms. “We have you. We have you Fjord. We'll take care of you.”

He sees the world, forests and fields, sees birds and rabbits and small streams against smooth rocks. Snow and rain, people. In caves and in houses, elves, humans, orcs, halflings, tieflings firbolgs. The ocean crashing against obsidian beaches, gems growing out of veins in mountains. The sky rushes overhead, clouds light and wispy painting patterns in the sky. Iridescent beetles crawling along bark older then any city. Spires and spirals and things he doesn't understand but can feel porous and rough against his skin.

He can see Caduceus, smiling, talking to someone, her, must be her, over his Grave.

He can see Her, talking to Caduceus, large and beautiful, hair sweeping in the night breeze.

He can see himself, lying in the dirt, in the earth, eyes closed and hair splayed, fists clenched and brow furrowed.

“Breathe.” They say together. “We have you.” They say together. “You're safe.” They say together.

He opens his mouth and lets his lungs rest.

He feels it pour inside of him.

He breathes.

…

Fjord wakes to the sound of gemstones turnings to dust.

“Slowly.” Caduceus says, a hand already on his back, helping him sit up. “Nice and easy.”

“I saw you.” Fjord mumbles but who knows what it comes out as because he swallowed just, so much dirt. He coughs, and Caduceus claps him on the back until his airways are clear again. “I saw you.” He says again, slower this time.

His head hurts.

“I know.” Caduceus moves in front of him and offers him a large jug of water. The first mouth full he just uses to clean, spitting it to the side, the rest he drains greedily.

“Did you see me?” He asks.

Caduceus nods.

Fjord leans forward and kisses him. Caduceus smiles, Fjord can feel it against his lips, and kisses back.

“You're wonderful,” Caduceus says once they pull away from each other. “Come inside.”

Fjord shakes his head and reaches to kiss him again.

It's the absence of that weight and the heat of Caduceus' body against his that makes him cry, he thinks. The tears make his throat burn more then the dirt did, and the leave messy streaks down his face. There's a hand grasping at the back of his neck, holding him up right, and Fjord leans into it.

Caduceus holds him tightly while he kisses him, and Fjord can't stop crying.

Caduceus kisses him until he's warm again, and his hands and feet stop tingling, and the loss of the weight doesn't sting as much anymore. Caduceus picks him up, still pressed tight and carries him to the hot tub in their basement.

“Did this come with the house?: He mumbles, face shoved firmly into Caduceus' neck, so close he can feel his heartbeat.

“Nah.”

The water is fresh and it roils against his body and some sense of well, sense comes back to him.

“How long was I-”

“Don't dwell on that.” He says and Fjord looks up to realize he's getting in the water with him. Caduceus kisses him again. His lips are soft. All of him is soft. He settles onto Fjord's lap, arms around his shoulders and kisses him again. And again. And again.

Fjord ruts against his legs and Caduceus pets his hair and tells him how much of a marvel he is, how fantastic, how brave and strong and smart he is, until Fjord spills into the water like a teenager and Caduceus runs his lips along his temples.

“You didn't have to.” He says eventually.

“I wanted to. You deserve it. To know how special you are.” One last long lingering kiss before Caduceus leaves the bath. “I'll make you dinner. Come find me when you're up for it.”

Dinner is simple but delicious, he eats all of it with out any hesitation because he's never felt this hungry, and Caduceus sits next to him and pets his shoulder and his leg and his back.

They head up to his room and Caduceus lays him to bed.

“Stay?” He asks and gets that honey smile in return.

“What you did was astonishing.” He says and gets in beside him. “How did it feel?”

“Tight. Like you said.”

“You ate a lot of dirt too.”

“Yeah. I sure did.”

The sound of their laughter is the only thing in the house.

The only thing in the world.

#cr #critical role #critrole #cr2 #fjorclay #fjord #caduceus clay #im still going to write it as jon #full fic

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ty-talks-comics · 5 years ago

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Best of Marvel: Week of August 7th, 2019

Best of this Week: Absolute Carnage #1 - Donny Cates, Ryan Stegman, JP Mayer, Frank Martin and Clayton Cowles

God is Here.

The seeds have been sown all over the Marvel Universe for the re-emergence of Carnage in a big way for months. He’s had single back-up pages in The Avengers, Black Cat, Captain Marvel, Immortal Hulk and many others portending his arrival and the sheer amount of people and creatures that are now within his thrall. Everything is coming to a head and it is absolutely terrifying.

The book begins with Eddie Brock recalling the events of everything Donny Cates has written since he took over the character.and other past events that have ultimately shaped what will soon happen. Eddie tells his son Dylan, who doesn’t know that Eddie is his father, about Knull, the God of the Symbiotes, and how he’s being kept asleep by the planet of symbiotes surrounding him. The only way for Knull to be woken up is if someone collected enough symbiote pieces and DNA to reconnect to the hive mind and if Knull is reawakened, he will begin spreading a new age of darkness across the cosmos.

Eddie references the fights against the Dragon of Knull in the beginning of his run, but also talks about the other people who have held the Symbiote or symbiotes. He pulls so much history out in so few sentences, along with a stellar double page spread by Stegman that one might be convinced to check out other great stories just to see how deep the rabbit hole goes. Characters from Maximum Carnage are shown, heroes that may have been changed during Venomized and of course Captain America, The Thing and Wolverine from the amazing Carnage USA.

After Eddie recounts the danger that the two are in, they see that Eddie is a wanted man after killing many inmates at Ryker’s Island. Of course Eddie was never there and after suspecting that they’re being followed, Eddie tells Dylan that they need to make a break for it and they run away from their tail into the subway. Unfortunately for them, Cletus Kasady was lying in wait and pushes them onto the tracks, only for them to be saved by their tail; Venom.

Eddie re-bonds with the symbiote after derailing the train and a new and terrifying Carnage confronts them. Stegman wastes not a single stroke in making Carnage look like a menacing force of pure psychotic evil. His teeth are jagged, his limbs are gangly with “skin” that looks like it’s constantly dripping with blood an his ribcage and spine are exposed, but covered in the same material. He could almost be considered skeletal if not for the pumping veins all around him. This is a Monster Carnage, even more terrifying than 2015’s Carnage series and many times more powerful.

Carnage, like most children of other symbiotes, has always been stronger than Venom. Though, with enough force and maybe some help, Carnage has always been defeated one way or another, but not this time. Kasady beats the ever living hell out of Venom, smacking him in the face and smashing him into the ground. He gets right on the cusp of killing him before Eddie grabs the third rail of the subway line and electrocutes the both of them, a temporary victory so that he and Dylan can escape. The symbiote puts Eddie into something of a coma while he heals the body and takes them to the one person that can help.

In a little diner where they think it’s safe, Eddie, Dylan and Spider-Man talk about what’s been going on. Spider-Man is taken aback and annoyingly jokes to Eddie about all of this being out of his league before a news report is shown depicting a mass grave of people that have had their spines ripped out, likely for the Symbiote DNA or Codices (plural for Codex) as Eddie calls them. After some chumps try to rob the diner, Spider-Man takes them out handedly while formulating a plan with Eddie, saying that Reed Richards could have made a machine to help remove the Codex from anyone that has ever been attached to a symbiote, but he would have needed to start long ago.

We then cut to The Maker, the Reed Richards from the Ultimate Universe that has taken up residence in the 616 Universe, as he’s actually been working on such a machine for use on Flash Thompson. The Maker’s goals and those of his employers are unknown and that makes for horrifying implications because there is no way that he is up to any sort of good at all and makes it clear that he too is trying to reunite the symbiotes.

Spider-Man shows up with Normie Osborn as the first possible test subject, but doesn’t want it to be used until he knows that it’s safe. Maker moans that if he has to be so sure, then he should find someone else with a codex, someone dangerous that Carnage may in fact go after next. Peter and Eddie get the same thought: Norman Osborn.

Norman had used the Carnage symbiote to become the Red Goblin not too long ago and after his defeat at the hands of Spider-Man, lost his mind and gained the memories and personality of Cletus Kasady. Things go to hell in a handbasket very quickly as John Jameson, the guard who let them into Ravencroft also known as the Man-Wolf, reveals himself as another of Carnage’s infected puppets.

Mayer then coats the book in an intense and overbearing red hue, signaling nothing but danger as Carnage throws pieces of himself into each cell. There are elements of body horror as he pulls these tiny bits of himself out of his chest and they burrow into the victims. Kasady’s mouth and eyes also seem to drip with his symbiote form as he and the other barrel down on Venom and Spider-Man. A giant and beautiful brawl ensues with the infected ripping and tearing at the pair. The mass of bodies overwhelm and Eddie almost begins to kill before being reigned in by Spider-Man. Unfortunately Spider-Man gets caught by Carnage.

It was around here that I had the realization that Pete and Cletus haven’t actually clashed in YEARS. Maybe as far back as 2011’s Carnage USA was the last time the two fought, so to see Pete finally see him again with half of his mask gone, there’s a small bit of fear in his body language. This is doubled as Carnage throws Spider-Man into Norman’s cell door, breaking it open to reveal a deranged Norman who appears to have been slicing himself with a piece of glass in his cell. With the combination of the bright red of his blood juxtaposed against the darkness of his cell, Norman stands out, not as the cunning genius that we knew him, but as another victim of Carnage and he smiles with mad glee.

Absolute Carnage #1 absolutely lives up to the hype that has been built for it. This story can expand so far and with the tie-ins that have been announced, I’m actually very excited. Carnage has been scary, but this is on a whole new level for him. You never quite know who is one of his thralls! Hell, John Jamson appeared to be completely normal until the trigger was pulled in him and turned him into another monster. Carnage has always been a problem for the larger Marvel universe whenever people have had to fight him individually. Deadpool had a hard time fighting him. Captain America, Wolverine, Hawkeye and the Thing almost died fighting him. Even when he was temporarily a good guy during AXIS, he was still horrifically dangerous.

With new god-like abilities, lack of weaknesses and unimaginable unpredictability, what can anyone do?

Ryan Stegman’s art needs to be absolutely praised as well. His lines are crisp and heavy in an almost perfect way. He manages to give things a darkness and depth to them that makes everything feel absolutely brutal, disgusting and weighty. He can capture faces of absolute terror, rage and every wonderful expression that Venom makes. Personally I love how emotive he makes Spider-Man’s mask with the eyes widening and shrinking with his surprise or incredulity. He also has a talent for spreads as there are about three really good ones that really shows his skill for depth of field. Venom and Spider-Man also look incredibly strong. We all know that I love muscular art and all of their muscles are accentuated through their costumes. Spider-Man has his lithe and athletic body and Venom is nothing but raw strength and I love it.

Absolute Carnage hit every correct note. There was violence, horror and even a little bit of family drama. The stakes are very high and while not on the same scale as War of the Realms, the sheer amount of murders caused and their horrifying nature is more than enough to be concerned about. Donny Cates looks like he’s going to do it again with his first big Marvel event (I think, I don’t really remember) and bring us all to another level of badass storytelling.

High recommend.

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

I have never been more interested in Moira MacTaggert than I am right now.

Runner Up: House of X #2 - Jonathan Hickman, Pepe Larraz, Marte Garcia and Clayton Cowles

I've always seen Moira as just another supporter of mutants that tragically had their life ended because of The Brotherhood's evil schemes. I loved that she supported Charles dreams and wanted to help mutants, but never actually knew that she herself was a mutant. She's always had something of a tumultuous history and this issue of House of X expands on that in the most amazing way and shows how important she truly has been in the advancement of the lives of mutant kind this entire time.

In her first life, Moira MacTaggert lived a fairly normal existence. She went to school, married, had kids and died at the rope old age of 78. Soon after, she woke in her mother's womb, capable of remembering everything that she had done in the past life. It was strange and she couldn't let on what she knew, but she knew that she was special somehow. It wasn't until she saw Charles Xavier on the news that it all clicked for her. When he said the word mutant, everything changed for her. She went to try and meet him, only for her plane to crash, ending that life.

In her third life, she dedicated herself to biology and sought out a cure for the X-Gene, achieving as much only for it to go horribly wrong when Mystique and Destiny, a character who died in Fall of the Mutants (1988) and was last seen in Necrosha (2010), appear and murder all of her fellow scientists. Destiny tells Moira that she knows what her abilities are and that if she continues down a path that could lead to the extinction of mutants, Destiny will always be there to stop her. She tells her that the only path to stop this cycle of reincarnation is to do whatever she can to help mutant kind.

As a reminder, Destiny has Pyro slowly burn Moira alive so that she never forgets what it will be like to die at her hands.

From here, Moira becomes a radical, leading lives that take her away from Xavier's dream and push her further into darkness. Everything becomes a lesson in repeating the past, however. At first she lives the normal life and history that we already know. Forming a school for gifted youth, the schism between Magneto and Charles, The X-Men and eventually Charles' and mutantkind's death at the hands of Sentinels.

In the life after that, she shows Charles her past lives and turns him into a radical, managing to take over America before Sentinels kill them again. The next sees her kill the Trask family line, only for someone else to design Sentinels instead. She aligns with Magneto or Apocalypse in different lives, all reaching similar or even worse endings.

Eventually, she realizes that there's only one path that she hasn't truly tried: Embracing the dream and making it real. This is the House of X timeline.

We've seen Moira passively protect mutants, but never engaged with Charles in a way that could truly help him. With knowledge of past events, the two can find a path forward that would not only save mutants, but propel their evolution farther. I believe that's why Charles has sought to UNITE everyone. Apocalypse, Magneto, Mystique, Mister Sinister, all of mutantkind under one banner to make the lives of all better. It's certainly a dream, but Moira MacTaggert is the linchpin that makes that dream a reality.

She's always been one of the X-Men's smartest and loyal friends. With her help, her genius behind Charles' vision there's no way that the House of X can fall. It's very telling that every path that utilizes violence or tries to eradicate one side has always lead to ruin. It's even more telling that even the peaceful path requires some bit of strong arming, but if that's what it takes to get humans to stop killing mutants, then it really doesn't matter. Charles will have peace between the two sides and Moira is more than willing to embrace this beautiful new path.

#comics #marvel #marvel comics #absolute carnage #carnage #venom #eddie brock #cletus kasady #spider man #donny cates #ryan stegman #jp meyer #house of x #x men #moira mactaggert #charles xavier #jonathan hickman #pepe larraz #marte gracia

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shireness-says · 7 years ago

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Killian Jones and the Lost Boy

Summary: Killian Jones' entire life changes when he meets a boy living on the streets. ~12K.

A/N: This was supposed to be 5K. It was not. What it is is 12K of Killian being adorable with tiny Henry. Be aware: this is mostly a Captain Cobra fic with Captain Swan as a bonus. Contains swearing, vague mention of pirate deaths, and a painful amount of cute.

Many thanks to @awkwardnessandbaseball who took up the editing mantle when I couldn’t look at this anymore! Thanks a million, you da best.

Also on AO3.

Enjoy!

There’s a port, off in a nearly forgotten corner of the map at the furthest edge of Misthaven, that Killian Jones and the rest of the Jolly Roger’s crew like to dock at.

It’s nothing much; a tiny hamlet, really, not worthy of much interest to mapmakers, let alone anyone else. But the merchants are fair, the women are friendly, and the drinks are cheap, so the Jolly and her crew keep coming back. Scarlet’s even found himself a sweetheart in town – the pretty florist’s daughter, who loves when he brings her texts from far-off lands. So they make port every 4-6 weeks to restock.

It’s the kind of routine Killian’s life needs right now. Five bloody years spent searching the realm from one end to another for a way to finally kill the Dark One, to exact his revenge for his Milah and for his hand, and when he finally comes back with a poison that can kill the Crocodile once and for all, it’s only to discover that the demon had procured a magic bean at last and used it to reunite with his son in the Land Without Magic – a land Killian has no desire to ever set foot in. Killian’s entire life had centered around revenge for so long, first for his brother and then for his love; with his former monarch deposed after the war and the Crocodile long gone, he’s no longer quite sure what to do with himself. Piracy had been a means to an end, and without that goal to reach, he’s aimless, fruitlessly searching for some way to bring meaning back to his life. It’s been two years of this, him and the crew of the Jolly drifting along from port to port, like a ship without a rudder, just as when they first heard of the Dark One’s departure. So he makes a point of returning to this particular town regularly, in a feeble attempt to return some semblance of normalcy to all their lives.

Truly, it’s the least remarkable town imaginable. Killian isn’t even sure it has a name; there’s nothing listed on his maps, and the townspeople tend to just refer to their little hamlet as “here” or the only slightly more dignified “In Town”. It’s the kind of place where people keep saying they’ll leave one day, but rarely do, finding themselves staying behind and doing whatever their father had done before them and making a family and wishing they had just done more with their lives. But that’s of no concern to Killian and the rest of the crew; their comparatively worldly presence and status as a new face makes them welcomed guests in a town desperate for new tales of the world, even if they are pirates.

Really, the only distinguishing factor about the town is that it’s nearly overrun by a group of street children that Scarlet dubs the Lost Boys (over-dramatic git that he is). From what Killian understands, a sickness swept the next town over a few years back, leaving many children orphaned. No one quite knows how the children came to be in this hamlet instead, but the fact of the matter is they’re here, and clearly have no intention of leaving. Kilian never has problems with them; one of the bolder children tried to pick his pocket once, but that effort was quickly shut down. He may not hold with chopping off the hands of thieves, especially after losing a limb himself, but a threatening glare is more than permissible, and has so far worked wonders.

(Whale has a problem with the pick-pockets, but Whale is also an idiot, so Killian understands why the ship’s doctor has become such a target.)

There is one boy Killian worries about, who can’t be more than four and struggles to keep up with the others. He’s just so small, clearly years younger than even the next youngest boy. With his short legs and childlike tendency towards distraction, Killian is worried about the possibility of the lad getting separated and left behind. Unfortunately, the truth is that this may be a better solution than whatever the boy escaped from. Killian is more than familiar with local orphanages, having been a ward of one in that period between Mama’s death and Father’s retrieval (and later abandonment); he remembers the poor conditions, the children sleeping four to a bed, the insufficient amount of food that was always only a small step away from having gone bad. Slavery was far worse, but Killian’s memories of the orphanage are far from rosy, and in fact pitch closer to awful. He can’t blame the boys for wanting to strike out on their own in their ragtag group, and suspects what coins the little one can beg and the older ones can earn on odd jobs (combined, of course, with outright thievery) can provide much better sustenance than orphanage meals deal, combined with that wonderful feeling of independence and determining one’s own fate. Killian resolves to pay closer attention come winter when the temperatures drop to make sure the lad isn’t in danger of hypothermia, but for the moment, he’s happy to leave well enough alone.

------

For such a small town, it’s somewhat surprising that it can boast two taverns, but that’s the truth of the matter. The Jolly’s crew tends to patronize the less reputable of the two, a dark and slimy-feeling joint called the Rabbit Hole that’s not too far from the docks. Most of the town chooses the Red Wolf Inn, but Killian’s grown quite fond of this hole in the wall, where the traffic is less respectable and the owner (Jefferson, he thinks the name is) is more than happy to accept their money.

It’s been a night for the ages; Mulan had taken everything Smee had to offer in a game of dice, Whale somehow managed to piss off not one, not two, but three women in a two hour period, and whatever batch of rum Jefferson is serving them tonight is particularly strong. The entire crew is three sheets to the wind and Killian’s seen more than a few of his men slip off to dark corners with female companionship.

Killian had planned to find some company of his own that evening when they had all set out, but he’s thinking better of it now. Despite his intentions, he’s veering towards the kind of drunk where he’s likely to pass out immediately after sex and find his cabin missing a few valuables in the morning, and he’d honestly like to avoid that if at all possible. So as the night winds down, Killian slips out the door to walk back to the Jolly by himself. He absent-mindedly tries to plot a course for the rest of his evening: get back to the ship, set aside his vest to mend that missing button later, find some damn water to drink, maybe crawl into bed and read a bit more of that new collection of adventures he picked up at the market in Agrabah...

That’s when he hears the sniffle.

It’s a quiet noise, really; he’s not sure at first that he heard anything at all. But the noise comes again, from the alley to his left, and Killian can’t help but go and investigate. He expects a puppy, maybe, something insignificant to be sure, expects to be on his way in a moment.

Instead, he finds a little boy. No, he finds the boy, the little boy he tries not to worry about, huddled in a corner of the alley in the October night’s chill, all alone. And that discovery sobers Killian up quicker than he could have imagined.

The lad spots him coming as Killian steps closer, and fearfully tries to curl up tighter and scoot away, his bottom lip visibly trembling. Smart lad – already knows not to trust the benevolence of strangers. It’s working against Killian’s good intentions in this instance, but smart lad, all the same.

“It’s alright,” he say as gently as he can, “I’m not going to hurt you.”But the boy is still eyeing him warily – especially his hook, Killian realizes – so he unlocks the appendage from its brace, offering it to him in a goodwill gesture. The lad takes it somewhat tentatively, but seems reassured by the fact that he now has control over the sharp instrument.

“See? Nothing to worry about.” Killian offers his best smile, one he hopes will put the young boy at ease. “My name’s Killian. Or Hook, if you like that better.”

The lad frowns a little, tripping over the name. “Kill-an?”

“Aye, that’s right, Killian. What’s your name, lad?”

The boy still looks nervous, but he does mumble out “Henry.” So that’s progress.

“Henry? Oh, I like that. A good, strong, dashing name for a growing boy.” The next part is trickier – finding out exactly how little Henry came to be huddled in this corner. Killian has never seen the lost boys out late at night, for all that they’re underfoot during the day, so he assumes they’ve got some sort of shelter or tents set up.

“Henry, can you tell me where your friends are?”

Henry’s been a little misty ever since Killian walked up, but this question proves to be the straw that breaks the camel’s back, as the little boy bursts into tears.

Somehow, Killian ends up sprawled on the ground with a sobbing child in his arms, trying to soothe the poor thing and failing miserably. If this reaction is anything to go by, the rest of the boys are gone; thinking back, he realizes that the town had been abnormally quiet this time at port. They must have moved on to a new town and left poor Henry behind, whether by accident or on purpose. The boy’s tears finally start to calm, but the experience seems to have eliminated his hesitance as he clutches Killian’s jacket and tries to burrow his little face into the juncture of Killian’s neck and shoulder.

He rocks and shushes the little boy for a few minutes longer as he tries to formulate a plan. Henry is far too young to be on his own – honestly, it’s a wonder he’s made it this far with only a collection of other children looking after him. In the morning, he’ll have to see about maybe finding a family to take Henry in, but for the moment, there’s really only one option.

“Henry, would you like to sleep on my ship tonight?”

------

To say Will Scarlet is surprised when Killian shows up back at the Jolly Roger with a small child hanging onto his hook is an understatement.

“Uh… something you’d like to share with us, Captain?”

Henry’s getting nervous again, trying to hide behind Killian’s legs, so he shoots Scarlet a look he hopes says be gentle. “It’s alright, little one,” he cajoles, convincing Henry to peep out again, if only to look up to meet his eyes. “Henry, this is my friend Will Scarlet, and Scarlet, this is my friend Henry. Can you say hello to Mister Will?”

“Hello, Misser Will,” comes the little voice, somehow instantly melting his sarcastic second mate into a man who softly smiles as he crouches down to the little boy’s level.

“Well hello there, master Henry,” Will says, offering his hand for what must be the most adorable handshake Killian has ever witnessed. “How old are you?”

Henry proudly holds up five fingers, much to both men’s amusement. “Oh, you’re five?” Scarlet asks, only to receive a frown in return. Re-examining his fingers, Henry folds his pinky down before presenting the hand again. “Four then?” At least that receives an excited nod. Henry is clearly very proud to be an entire four years old.

“Young Henry is going to be staying with us tonight, isn’t that right, lad?”

Henry nods, but still looks up at Killian’s face nervously, like he’s afraid they’re going to take that privilege away from him at any moment. Killian tries to put as reassuring a smile on his face as he can, but it’s more than a little heartbreaking to see how Henry doesn’t trust this good fortune he’s receiving.

“Well that sounds like fun, little mate. Do you want something to snack on?” asks Will. “I know I get hungry right before I go to bed.”

The boy practically lights up at the mention of food, and Killian feels a stab of guilt cut through his heart. Gods, he was so worried about Henry having a safe place to stay for the night that he forgot that the lad probably hadn’t had a decent meal in possibly a very long while. So he nods at Scarlet to go rustle something up for the boy and offers his hook, once again, to the lad. He’d tried to offer the hand earlier, but Henry has taken some odd comfort from the hook, and it does have the added bonus of leaving Killian free to handle other things with his other hand (his only hand).

He’s already decided that Henry will sleep in his cabin. It’s not that Killian doesn’t trust his crew, it’s just that he doesn’t want to take any chances with the lad, and there’s probably the fewest chances for Henry to get into something and accidentally hurt himself in the captain’s quarters. Plus, he thinks Henry will be less scared in a room with him than with a bunch of strange men and women. So Killian carefully helps the boy down the ladder - he insists on doing it himself, very determinedly declaring “I can do it!”, even as Killian still makes sure to keep his hand and hook at the boy’s sides just in case he slips - and settles him in one of the chairs. The little lad is happy enough to sit at the table and look at all of the maps currently laid out, so Killian sets off to find the lad a cot and a blanket - maybe even a spare pillow, if one exists - just as Will is about to walk in with a hunk of bread for Henry to nibble on. As he walks away, he can just hear Henry’s excited chatter to the other man, a noise that makes him smile. But for the moment, he’s got more important things to take care of.

As he lugs the thin pallet down the narrow corridor - the best he can find, but probably still better than little Henry is used to, sadly enough - he runs into Will Scarlet again, seemingly making his way back to his own bunk in one of the former officer’s cabins. “Is the lad alright?” he tries not to ask too urgently.

But Will just nods genially. “Yep, happy as a clam. Practically inhaled that bit of bread, thought I’d go see if I had any sweets hidden to give him. How long is he staying with us, Captain?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, actually. You’re down in the village proper a hell of a lot more than any of the rest of us; have you heard of any families that might be willing to take him in?”

The crewman screws his brow in thought. “I… no, I don’t. But you might try going down to the other tavern tomorrow - the Red Wolf Inn. Most of the town wanders through, and lord knows that the lady who runs it, Granny Lucas, has an ear for the gossip. If anyone knows of family who’s willing, it’ll be her.”

That seems like a solid enough plan. He’ll head down with the boy tomorrow, sort the matter out, and then the Jolly Roger can be back out of port as soon as their stores are replenished. Easy. “Excellent. We’ll go in the morning.” And with a nod of thanks to the other man, Killian manages to reopen the door to the captain’s quarters and slip through with the pallet.

Only to find the four year old boy already asleep at the table and clutching the last scrap of bread like it’s his salvation.

As quietly as he can, Killian makes up the pallet, making a quick note in his head to get the boy a bath and a change of clothes in the morning. The little lad barely stirs when Killian carefully scoops him up to carry him to the makeshift bed, except to try and burrow in a little closer to the warmth of Killian’s chest. It makes his heart warm, that little bit, to see how this tiny human inexplicably seems to trust him, even unconsciously. He hasn’t thought about kids in a long time, not since Milah had told him she didn’t want any more, and he can’t help but wonder if this is what fatherhood could feel like; like a tiny body in his arms and an unassailable trust.

But Henry isn’t his. Henry, Killian tries to remind himself, won’t be staying on the Jolly for very long, will have a family of his own who can properly take care of him as soon as can be arranged. There’s no point in getting attached. So he sets the little boy down and tucks him in, carefully extricating the hunk of bread from tiny hands.

He allows himself to brush the dark hair out of Henry’s eyes before turning to attend to his own bedtime rituals, but that’s it.

------

When Killian wakes up with the sun the next morning, his little houseguest - or cabin-guest, he supposes, as the case may be - is still fast asleep. That’s fine; good, actually. It means he has a chance to get down to the local market to procure for Henry a set of clothes that isn’t quite so dirty and torn. Will is more than willing to keep an eye on the little guy; they seem to have formed an attachment in their short time together that Killian doesn’t see any reason to discourage. Will’s a big kid at heart, which the four year old must love.

His purchases are easy enough to locate; the only thing Killian ends up not buying is a pair of shoes for the lad, since he realizes he doesn’t have any clue what size Henry might need, and that’s something they’d need to be a bit more specific about. If the pants or shirt are too big, it’ll be fine, but shoes should really be a proper size, plus just a little bit of room to grow.

The shirt and pants should be the end of his purchases, besides maybe picking up just a bit of cheese on his way back to the ship, but a tiny, tucked away booth catches his eye instead. There’s an old woman making all sorts of knitted goods, fingers flying almost faster than his eyes can process: hats and socks and gloves, in every color imaginable. None of those are what catch his attention, however. Tucked away behind everything else is a bright flash of color - a multi-colored, patchwork blanket, the perfect size for a child. He doesn’t need to buy it, truly; he’s sure Henry will be more than happy with just the new clothes.

He buys it anyway.

------

To say Henry is thrilled is an understatement.

Killian walks back into his quarters to find Scarlet grinning at the table as a giggling Henry concocts some wild story and acts it out, practically bouncing off the walls. Still, he happily rushes over when Killian walks back in, laden down with packages.

“I missed you, Killy!” he chirps, trying to pry parcels out of his grasp.

Killy. He hasn’t been called Killy in years.

(He might like being Killy, even if Scarlet looks like he’ll give him all kinds of shit about it.)

Henry’s looking at him expectantly, so Killian’s probably been lost in his thoughts for too long. “Well I missed you too, little mate!” he smiles. “But I had to go pick up a few things for you.”

The clothes go over well - or at least as well as clothes ever go over with children when presented as a gift. But the blanket…

Henry loves the blanket.

He gasps dramatically when he tears the paper off, looking between the soft yarn and Killian’s face with a sort of soft awe before abruptly standing and crashing into Killian’s legs in a massive hug, muttering something into his thigh that Killian thinks must be “thank you”. It’s hard to know how to react to such a display, but he does as best he can, patting the boy’s back.

“Well, you’re very welcome lad.” Retrieving the blanket from it’s packaging on the floor, he clumsily drapes it over the boy’s shoulders with hand and hook. “Nice and cozy, yeah?”

Henry nods, still clinging to a leg.

“Now, what do you say we have some breakfast and get you washed up, then go see some of Mister Will’s friends?”

------

All washed up and practically skipping down the street, Henry looks like any other boy.

They’d told him, briefly, about the plan - how they’re going to go see a friend of Mister Will’s who going to find Henry a real home. The boy is a little confused, but enthusiastic all the same. It shouldn’t be too hard to find Henry a proper family, Killian thinks; the lad is just so damn happy, and loving, even after everything he’s been through.

Even at 11:30 in the morning on a weekday, the Red Wolf Inn is packed. Will was certainly right; the bustling room appears to be the social center of this tiny hamlet. They attract more than a few suspicious looks, but Will’s presence seems to calm the masses a bit, thankfully - something that must be a first, he wants to joke. The man himself is scanning the room with furrowed brow, seemingly not finding the face he’s looking for. In the meantime, a fierce blonde is quickly approaching with a scowl on her face that causes Henry to hide behind his leg. Killian can’t blame the lad; frankly he’d prefer to hide himself.

“What do you think you’re doing with him?” she demands, gesturing at Henry. Killian quickly realizes she’s more worried about the little lad than anything, which helps temper his trepidation in dealing with her, even as Henry grows even more nervous of her tone and clutches tighter to his trousers.

“Actually, Miss - ” he begins, but she cuts him off in fiery indignation. It’s a good look on her, actually; he might even like her, if she wasn’t actively working against him.

“Now listen here, you prick, you may be some fancy pirate and he’s just a street kid but that is no excuse. If you think I’m going to let you do awful things to him on this property -”

“Killy’s a good pirate!” Henry’s little voice pipes through, just as indignant as the blonde’s. “He bought me a blanket,” he adds, like that settles everything.

The barmaid still looks wary, but softens somewhat at Henry’s protestations. He has a way of doing that, Killian is starting to realize. “I’m just trying to look out for you, kid,” she finally says.

But Henry is a perpetual ray of sunshine. “He saw I was cold outside last night, and let me stay on his ship!” he chirps. “And he says he’s going to help me find a family! He’s a very good pirate.”

That even gets a smile out of the woman. “Well, he sounds like a very good friend.” She still sounds a little suspicious, but at least she’s no longer engaged in outright one-sided combat.

Henry just nods sagely. “He’s my Hook.” Like that’s a logical explanation of their relationship, in the same lines as ‘uncle’ or ‘brother’ or ‘father’. Hook.

(Who knows, maybe it is, what with the irrational, absurd comfort Henry draws from clinging to the damn thing.)

Killian shakes himself back to awareness before his thoughts can travel too far down any such rabbit holes. “That’s what we’re here about, actually, Miss. My mate Scarlet here told me the proprietress, Mrs. Lucas, might know of a family who could take young Henry in? It’s awfully cold for tiny fingers to be out on their own.”

He tries to grin charmingly, but the barmaid only looks uncomfortable. “Well…” she begins, clearly bothered by something, and Killian feels himself tense up in anticipation. “Granny isn’t here, you see. Left to spend the day by herself and gave me instructions not to bother her unless the place is on fire.”

Oh. Well, that’s an easy enough problem to work around. “That’s fine, lass. Do you know when she expects to come back?”

“The day after tomorrow. If you’re still in port you could come back then, I’m sure she’ll be more than happy to talk with you. And in the meantime, I could probably keep an ear out. Let you know if I hear of anyone who’d be willing.”

He opens his mouth to reply, but before he can even utter a single syllable, he’s interrupted by an awful gurgling, moaning noise - Henry’s stomach. The little lad can certainly tuck a lot away. Killian lets loose a chuckle at Henry’s guilty look, before turning back to the woman. “I think that should work. Now, in the meantime, I don’t suppose you have anything we could eat? It seems young Henry here is hungry again. Growing boy and all that.” Looking down at the boy in question, he sees Henry trying to give his own charming smile, and has to stifle a chuckle before turning back to the barmaid, catching her holding back her own laugh.

“I believe we have some stew in the back I could spoon up, if you like. How many servings?”

Killian turns to ask Scarlet if he’d like a bowl, but the man’s wandered off again, likely to try and woo his lady. Or maybe just avoid the blonde’s wrath. Either way, it’s an answer to his question.

“Two, please, Miss…?” he ends in a questioning tone. It would be helpful to know who to ask for in two days’ time (and that’s the only reason, truly, he swears).

“Emma. Emma Swan.”

------

Henry absolutely wolfs down his stew, and Killian makes a note to make sure they pick up some sort of bedtime snack for the boy tonight. The least they can do while the lad is on the Jolly Roger is make sure he’s well-fed.

Swan has noticeably softened by the time they’re ready to depart, a fact for which Killian is grateful - he’s not sure he has any more arguments to counter any insistence that Henry not stay on the Jolly. So they make their farewells - Henry more enthusiastically than Killian.

(“Bye, Miss Emma!” he calls, practically flapping his entire hand in a wave as the woman in question chuckles and good-naturedly waggles her fingers right back.)

The next days pass quickly, waiting for news from Miss Swan or from Mrs. Lucas. Killian does try going back to the tavern to see the proprietress on the day she’s expected back, and she is present, but so is the rest of the entire tiny village (or at least so it seems), so Miss Swan waves him away and promises they’ll come down to the ship when there’s news.

As much as the crew has welcomed their young guest, the fact of the matter is that they’ve been in port for almost a week. They’re a ship full of wanderers; while short sojourns to restock their stores and enjoy the local bars (and women) are welcomed, they all itch to get back on the open sea before too long, and a week is stretching their patience. So it’s with no small relief that he sees Miss Swan walking up the gangplank at last - at least, until he sees the look on her face.

“We’re trying to find him a good family - ” she starts, and Killilan can already see where this is going.

“But haven’t yet,” he interrupts. “I take it that’s what you’re here to tell me?”

She nods guiltily. Fantastic.

Honestly, he doesn’t know what the next step is. It hadn’t even crossed his mind that they’d have trouble finding a home for Henry. The boy is such a cheerful, bubbly delight; any family would be so lucky to have him. But the fact of the matter is that he needs to be casting off in the next day or so, or risk losing his crew to other ships. He trusts his men, a feeling that goes both ways, but this is their livelihood, and if the Jolly isn’t out pillaging and plundering, they’ll have to leave and find another ship to work on. He simply can’t afford to wait around until they find Henry a proper home, as much as he’d like to.

“I hate to ask, lass, but the crew and I need to be casting off. I don’t suppose there’s any way you can look after Henry until - ”

But that only earns another guilty shake of her head. Killian has to admit, he doesn’t much like that look on the lady’s face. “My room is barely big enough for me. I can’t keep Henry cooped up in there when I barely want to go back at night.”

There’s a whole host of questions he wants to ask about that, about why Miss Swan has to put up with such subpar lodgings and what he can do to help, but he’s distracted by the sudden awareness of Henry’s little body around his legs. Looking down he sees the worry no four year old should have to be carrying, and that’s it. The decision is made.

“What do you say, lad? Want to spend a little time on the ocean waves with us?”

------

Henry takes to life at sea like a fish to water, so to speak, and the crew takes to him like one of their own. Henry spends his days running from bow to stern and back again, seemingly without any complaints of unsteady legs or seasickness. Somewhere along the line, the crew - Killian suspects led by Scarlet, but he can’t prove anything - begins calling the boy “Little Mate”, which he loves (and Killian finds pretty cute too, even if he has to pretend to be stern and disapproving). As such, the days are now filled with calls of “C’mere, Little Mate, I want to show you something” and offers to teach the boy various things.

Scarlet - or ‘Misser Will’, as he’s becoming known - has an extra special bond with the little boy, but everyone really takes well to his presence on board. Smee is slowly showing Henry all the best hiding places (a particular hit with a curious little boy), and Mulan has been trying to teach him some basic defense with the help of a couple of wooden sticks for swords. At his age, lessons in actual sword-fighting are a little bit useless due to his size and attention span, but he still loves playing at being a knight (or perhaps a dashing pirate captain…) and Mulan’s insistence on decent form can only be an asset if he chooses to pursue the art as he grows older. Killian especially appreciates how she tries to teach their ward some basic weaponless maneuvers even little Henry can execute, like kicking and punching at knees and ankles and advising him to bite and scratch and scream. Henry is still more interested in charging wildly at Mulan’s legs, but Killian still feels better, knowing the boy will have these lessons in the back of his mind and a little bit of muscle memory of how to protect himself. Will, of course, will probably always occupy the top spot in Henry’s book of favorites, especially now that he’s trying to rig up a harness so the lad can safely climb up to the crow’s nest, but the rest of the crew seem ok with that. Even Whale seems to like having Henry around, even if he doesn’t know quite what to do with a small child.

The one little bump is the nightmares. Henry is shockingly good about going to bed when asked - much better than Killian ever remembers being about the matter, though the bedtime stories he receives as a reward for his cooperation certainly must help the process. The lad is even good enough to fall asleep quickly after hearing tales of pirates and princesses and mermaids. But unfortunately, good sleep is not always to be had for poor Henry. Killian is growing used to waking up to the lad’s thrashing and whimpering, and it truly breaks his heart all over again. There’s not much to do for it; the best Killian can do is try to calm the boy down with gentle shushing and strokes to his hair and face. Eventually, Henry will calm down, and usually falls back to sleep after being carefully tucked into his blanket, tight and snug.

(The whole endeavor is feeling more and more like parenthood, and Killian isn’t sure he dislikes it.)

(But Henry will be gone within the month, off to his own family, so he tries not to get too attached.)

------

Emma - Miss Swan, that is - is already waiting anxiously on the docks the next time the Jolly Roger makes port, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet in impatience. Henry makes a beeline straight for her legs as soon the gangplank is down with no notice at all for the various calls to “be careful, Little Mate!” Instead, he plows into her her with a mighty “oomph!” that Emma has, thankfully, already braced herself for.

As Killian makes his more sedate way down to the dock, he can already hear Henry chattering away, seemingly determined to tell Miss Emma every single thing that’s happened the last month.

“... and I saw dolphins, Miss Emma! Have you ever seen dolphins?”

She smiles indulgently, and Killian swears he feels his heart stutter at the sight of this woman being so good to the little lad. He’s so lost in that smile and the way she holds Henry’s hand like she might break it that he entirely misses her response, whatever it might be. Honestly, he’s not even sure how long he stands, smiling like a fool, before he notices Miss Swan jerking her head to the side like she has something she wants to tell him, privately.

And boy, does she ever have something to tell him.

“We think we found a family that will take Henry,” she says, and Killian feels his heart jump - whether in anticipation and excitement or in sadness that his time with Henry will soon be ending, it’s hard to say. The two are irrevocably tied together at this juncture.

Somehow, he forces words past his mouth. “You did?”

She nods. “Yeah. I mean, you and Henry will have the final say, but yeah, Granny and I think we have a candidate. I just wanted to talk to you about how you wanted to do this. Should we speak with them first, make sure they’ll be a good fit, before we let them meet Henry? You’re his de facto guardian at the moment, so I figured you might want to talk to the couple before making any decisions about his care.”

That… is a sound idea. He feels a little guilty admitting it, but Miss Emma is right. He just got so caught up in the idea of simply finding Henry a family that would take him in that he forgot to consider whether they’d be the right family, which is even more important. Emma is waiting expectantly, so he quickly pulls his thoughts together.

“Aye, that sounds like a good idea. Shall meet them at the Red Wolf in, say, two days time? Have a little bit of an interview?”

So it’s settled. Killian will meet Emma and the couple in two evening’s time to find out if they’re the right family for Henry.

------

They’re not the right family for Henry.

The wife is nice enough, a sweet woman on the upper end of middle age whose own two children are already gone, making names for themselves in the Queen’s Navy. She seems like the kind of woman you’d want for a loving aunt, who’d pull you into a loving hug and try to fatten you up a little.

Unfortunately, Killian can’t say the same about the husband. He’s a shoemaker by trade, which isn’t a problem, per se, but he seems detached from the whole thing, not excited by the prospect of a child like his wife is, and Killian gets the idea that he’s mostly agreeing to this as a way to get some help in his shop without formally having to take on an apprentice. Frankly, Killian’s a little afraid that Henry would get taken advantage of as another working body by this man, and he’s not at all confident that the wife, lovely though she may be, would have the spine to prevent it. So he expresses his thanks to their faces, and privately resolves that no, Henry will not be going home with these two.

The lad takes the news surprisingly well, especially considering how excited he had been at the prospect of a real proper home. But when Henry is told the bad news, he just shrugs and turns back to whatever wrestling match he and Scarlet had been in the middle of. Killian is just so relieved to not have to handle any tears that he’s willing to take the boy’s reaction at face value and not dig any deeper.

Emma agrees with him about the couple, thankfully. As it turns out, all of Granny’s interactions had been with the wife, and she shares his trepidations about the husband’s attitude and motivations. So they share a couple mugs of ale and resolve to continue searching for the perfect family to take in Henry - someplace where he won’t just be housed and fed, but truly happy. It’s the night Killian learns about Emma’s motivations for doing all this - that she herself grew up in a series of orphanages, overlooked and unloved. She’ll do anything to keep Henry from growing up like that.

(It’s also the night Killian learns how much he likes the way Emma snorts instead of laughs, but that’s entirely irrelevant to the matter at hand.)

Henry is still on board the ship when they cast off again, but Killian feels better about it, knowing that they still need to find the perfect fit for the little lad.

------

The second month with Little Mate goes more or less smoothly. This whole period of time seems to be defined by efforts to grant Henry little gifts. Mr. Smee, at one port, purchases a skein of the most obnoxiously green yarn Killian has ever seen and knits Henry a little hat to match his own. Henry, of course, insists on wearing the bloody thing almost all the time, so he’s become a tiny fluorescent beacon bobbing up and down the ship. Meanwhile, the ship’s carpenter has taken a liking to Henry that has resulted in a series of toys the boy patently Does Not Need, from a collection of building blocks that always seem to be right in the way of Killian’s bare feet at night to a carved wooden sword with intricate patterns on its hilt. Henry loves them all - really, this must be some sort of heaven for a little boy growing up with not nearly enough - but Killian’s favorite is the little step stool Mr. Hollis fashions for the lad so he can man the helm with the captain. Killian has been slowly trying to teach Henry about port and starboard and the basics of steering the Jolly, and while Little Mate is catching on admirably, he’s really more concerned with pretending to be the captain and giving the crew ridiculous orders. It’s very cute, and Killian tends to give the crew permission to follow Henry’s commands when it doesn’t interfere with other work because it makes the boy giggle, and it’s a sound Killian dearly loves to hear.

Even Whale has developed something of a friendship with Henry, despite still not really knowing how to interact with children. Granted, the entire friendship centers around Henry insisting that the good doctor examine his various minor scrapes and bruises, but still, it’s an odd comradery, of a sort. Whale is slowly figuring out how to talk to Henry, so that’s progress, at the very least.

Where they’re not making progress, unfortunately, is with Henry’s nightmares. Killian tries all he can think of to make it better, but to no avail, and there’s finally a night where even tucking the lad in snugly doesn’t help allay the terror. Killian’s already climbed back into bed to try and get back to sleep, but he can still hear the way Henry’s breath is faster than it ought to be and catches at every stray noise. The poor lad is still scared, there’s no two ways around it. And that’s unacceptable. Desperate times call for desperate measures, so he tries a last-ditch ploy he remembers Liam offering when he was young and scared.

“Lad? Do you want to crawl up here with me?”

By the end of the month, even on nights where he hasn’t had a nightmare, Henry still sometimes likes to crawl into Killian’s bunk, his precious blanket in hand, and starfish himself over Killian’s torso like a weighted blanket. It takes some getting used to on Killian’s end, but it helps the boy, and that’s really all he wants.

------

Emma’s second candidates are actually genuinely lovely - the both of them. He’s a baker in the next town over and she’s a dedicated homemaker, the kind of young and cheerful folks Killian would love to send Henry home with for good.

The only problem is that they already have seven children of their own. Seven. Seven children ranging from fifteen to almost two. Their heart is so clearly in the right place, and Killian appreciates their willingness to step up, but he’s not sure he wants Henry to be just one of a crowd.

He and Emma share another drink or two (or four, on his part...if anyone is counting) after the meeting with the rejected couple concludes. Killian keeps feeling like he has to apologize and justify his decision, which only gets worse the more he drinks. It’s especially stupid because Emma isn’t arguing with him.

“I just want what’s best for him,” he tipsily insists once again, before Emma has had enough.

“Would you stop it?” she demands. “I don’t disagree with you! I was just like Henry, once, just a kid who got forgotten and left by the wayside, and I know there’s a big difference between a roof over your head and a home. And that difference is the people.” She softens her tone as she sees his shock at her outburst. “I don’t blame you for being picky about a family for Henry, not for a moment. In fact, I think it’s nice that he has someone in his corner. It’s a lot more than I ever got.”

Killian wants to say more, wants to reach over and cover her hand with his and tell her all about a father who sold his sons for the sake of his own skin (the first time he’s told anyone since Milah), but the look on Emma’s face screams caution, and he knows that if he pushes too much, this could all go sideways. He can’t afford that for Henry’s sake.

So he nods and finishes his drink and tries not to think the words “kindred spirits”, instead steering the conversation to lighter topics, like the latest gossip in town and the places he and Henry have visited together.

Milah had always craved tales of adventure when trapped in her small town, as do many of the ladies he’s entertained at various ports, so it’s a surprise to hear that, while Emma enjoys hearing about how Henry had reacted to exotic sights, she doesn’t have much any particular desire to travel herself. It’s the strangest thing, as she’s fiery and full of life and energy in all other ways, but is still perfectly content in her corner of the world. When he explicitly asks about her lack of desire to see the world, she shrugs, having to take a moment to collect her thoughts.

“I guess… well, I guess I was always searching for a home as a kid. And while I may hate my actual rooms, this town, Granny and Ruby and all of my regulars… they’re the closest thing I’ve found to home. I don’t really want to give that up.”

It makes sense to him in that way he thinks only orphans understand. Killian has lived on the Jolly for years, but before that, nothing was stable in his life except for Liam. But he never truly felt lost, because Liam was his home. And then, later, Milah was his home. It was only the in between moments that he felt lost, homeless.

(He thinks that Henry, and maybe even Emma, could give him back that feeling of home.)

(But Emma and Henry need roots, roots he’s not in a position to provide, so he pushes the thought away once again.)

------

Month three with Henry on the Jolly Roger brings its ups and downs.

The particular high point, for Killian at least, is teaching Henry about the stars, just like Liam did for him. As Henry has gotten more confident in his stay on the Jolly Roger, he’s gotten more squirrelly about his bedtime, and on the nights where the boy is far too awake and very insistent that he won’t go to sleep, Killian has taken to spreading a blanket on the deck for them both to lay on and stare at the stars.

“You see that one there?” he says, pointing at the sky and guiding the boy’s tiny hand. “That’s the pegasus. Do you know what a pegasus is, Henry?”

Henry shakes his head and looks up expectantly in that way that never fails to make Killian’s heart melt.

“A pegasus is a flying horse. They’ve got these lovely, big wings all covered in feathers. No one has seen one in years, but they’re supposed to be absolutely beautiful.” He chances a glance at Henry, who watches him tell the stories with rapt attention. It’s that innocent attention that encourages him to keep talking, address a subject he usually avoids. “Did you know I had a brother, lad?” Henry shakes his head, eyes wide and curious. “Well, I did. His name was Liam, and he was the captain of this ship.”

“But you’re the captain, Killy!” the lad’s little voice pipes up, and it’s enough to make him chuckle.

“Well yes, Little Mate, but I wasn’t always. Liam was in charge first. And once, when he was still captain, we were given the use of a sail covered in pegasus feathers. And do you know what it did, Henry?”The boy shakes his head frantically, and despite the difficult memories the sight of Henry on the edge of his proverbial seat brings a smile back to Killian’s face. “I could scarcely believe it, but it made the entire ship fly - lifted us right out of the water and carried us through the clouds to another land!”

“Can we fly now?” Henry cuts in excitedly, and Killian feels a little knife of guilt over having to deny the boy a single thing.

“Sadly, no, but we can still go any place you want. Just say the word, my boy, and we’ll chart a path, any place you like to go.” It’s the best he can offer, under the circumstances, but Henry is a good enough lad that he readily accepts it and only snuggles in closer. They lay there in a peaceful silence for several minutes before Henry’s voice cuts once again through the night.

“Will you tell me another one, Killy?”

“Of course, lad.” He searches the sky for something else Henry might like, before settling on a small group of stars. There’s not so much a story involved, but he thinks the boy will like it all the same.

“See this one, Henry?” he says, tracing a cross shape with the boy’s pointed finger. “That one is called Cygnus. Do you know what cygnus means?”

He feels more than sees the shaggy head shake against his shoulder. The boy will have to have a haircut soon, but that’s a matter for another day.

“Well, cygnus is the Latin name for a swan.”

Looking down, he can see Henry’s little face light up. “Like Miss Emma?” he asks excitedly.

“Like Miss Emma,” he agrees, and it’s true. Emma is beautiful and slightly dangerous, someone not so make sudden movements around, just like her namesake. He’d hoped that telling Henry about Emma’s star would bring a smile to both of their faces, and it’s worked even better than he had hoped.

There are other good moments, too - it’s wonderful, seeing new places through Henry’s eyes and the wonder he expresses at each new day. It doesn’t hurt that Henry still introduces Killian as “He’s my Hook!” anytime anyone asks, bringing a soft smile Killian hadn’t known he was capable of to his face each time. But all the same, those quiet moments under the stars where Killian has to carry Henry down to bed at the end of the night are his favorites.

Unfortunately, month three also brings the worst moments imaginable when the Jolly Roger is cornered into an unavoidable fight with Henry hidden in the captain’s cabin. It’s not that the ship has become some sort of pleasure cruise since the boy has taken residence; they’re still pirates, and the way a pirate makes their living is by attacking and ransacking other ships. But Killian’s been more careful about his targets in the last months, not wanting to put Henry in undue danger. Primarily, they’ve been attacking ships that are already sitting ducks - somehow crippled, or small, or obviously poorly kept up; ships that won’t take too much effort or danger to subdue. But they’re in the middle of the ocean and some damned child of a pirate captain wants to make a name for himself by taking down the Jolly and her crew, and before Killian knows it, they’re prepping for battle.

He never wanted Henry to be in the middle of this. Of course, there’s plans in his head for if this happens while Henry is on board, but he never wanted any of them to need to be implemented. The battle will be bloody and scary and possibly deadly and gods, he never wanted Henry to hear any of the noises he’s about to hear.

Killian somehow manages to snag Scarlet as he’s running around prepping cannons and making sure the boarding equipment is where it needs to be. That’s stage one of the plan: keep Henry with Will. He could really use Scarlet up on deck in case this gets ugly, as he’s one of the better swordsmen, but at the same time, he is one of the better swordsmen, perhaps the best after Mulan, and he wants only the best looking after the lad. Plus, Henry loves Will. Having the big idiot keep the lad safe is the best option for Henry and for Killian’s frayed nerves.

“Come with me,” he manages to command the other man, practically dragging him below decks to where Henry is building some sort of tower on Killian’s desk. Bless Scarlet, he understands immediately upon seeing the boy, and nods as reassuringly as he can.

Killian walks over to where Henry is slowly looking more and more nervous and crouches down so they can talk eye to eye. It’s very important that he phrase this correctly so as not to panic the lad any further.

“Now Henry, you might hear some loud, scary noises in a little bit, but it’ll be alright, aye? Mister Will’s going to protect you, there’s absolutely nothing to worry about.”

Henry’s lip has started to tremble, but Will does his best to smile cheerfully. “We’re going to have our own little party, Little Mate, and make everyone jealous of the fun we’re having. Nothing to worry about.”

Still, Killian wraps his arm around the boy’s shoulders to calm him down. “But you��ll be good for Mister Will and make sure you do everything he says, right?”

“Aye, Killy,” Henry mumbles into his shirt, and Killian manages a chuckle despite the fear.

“That’s a lad. Now you be good and I’ll see you soon, ok?” he says, standing up and allowing the boy to crash into his legs in a fierce hug.

He pulls Scarlet aside on the way out for a final word. “There’s a secret compartment that should be large enough for him underneath the table.”

Scarlet nods solemnly in response, understanding the words as instructions for the worst-case scenario. Killian is only able to return to his duties as captain by reminding himself, repeatedly, that Scarlet will do everything in his power to keep Henry safe, should it come to that.

It doesn’t come to that, thankfully, but the battle is still everything Killian never wanted the boy to hear. There’s no casualties on their side, thank the gods - Killian does not relish the thought of having to explain to Henry why any of the crew won’t be coming back - but their opponent isn’t nearly so lucky. The cocky captain is ultimately spared, but he does lose several crew members and most of the wealth he’s carrying before the ship is effectively crippled and set adrift. Killian’s almost certain he won’t last long at the hands of his own crew, thanks to their anger over their losses, but at least he won’t have to have that particular blood his hands.

He leaves Smee to direct the clean-up as he rushes back down the ladder, stopping only at the sight of the literal blood on his hands. Killian wants so badly to rush right in and gather Henry back into his arms, give him a big hug he’s sure they both need, but there’s no way he can face the boy like this, still covered in the crimson evidence of battle. He’s had worse, especially in his most aimless days, but there’s enough that he’s sure would terrify a small boy. There’s nothing to be done about the shirt, unfortunately, but at the very least he can duck into one of the officer cabins to borrow a washbowl.

It feels like far too long before he finally deems himself clean enough to handle Henry. It’s just in time too, because when Killian opens his door, the boy is on the verge of a complete meltdown, even as Scarlet gently rocks him back and forth on the bed. As Killian enters, the boy bursts into tears and wiggles out of Will’s grip to run into his arms.

“I thought you weren’t coming back!” Henry sobs, and Killian collapses to the floor right in the doorway so as to hold the hysterical child better.

“Of course I came back, lad, I couldn’t leave my best mate, now could I?” he tries to cajole, but to no avail.

“Misser Will said you’d be back once it was quiet again, but the noises stopped and you still didn’t come…” but the sobs are nearly overtaking him now, and the rest of the sentence is lost in the tears. There’s not much to do for it anymore, so he just rocks the lad back and forth and tries to assure him that he won’t ever leave Henry alone, not if he can help it.

He doesn’t even pretend to put Henry to bed that night, just lets the lad sprawl all over him, for both their sakes and peace of mind.

------

Emma must sense the desperation when they pull back into port a week later, because she cuts right to the chase. There’s another family, and she thinks they’ll both really like them.

And Killian does. They’re a well-to-do family who’s just passing through, but they’re kind, if a little proper and uptight. It’d be a good life for Henry. So after the initial interview - which has somewhat changed into a quasi-interrogation over the past few months, but oh well - Killian agrees to bring Henry by the next day and see how they get on.

Henry, however, does not take to them. It’s not that he’s rude, or mean, he’s just quiet - not the Henry Killian has grown used to seeing these past months. They’re very kind and generous to offer, but it’s just not a good fit for the lad. Killian hates it, but he feels relief, knowing that it means Henry will spend another month in his care.

He haltingly puts that feeling into words on his ship that night, laying on a blanket with Emma and a sleeping Henry after an outing of stargazing.

(“Did you know you have a star, Miss Emma?” Henry had demanded excitedly, and had insisted she come learn the constellations when she had replied in the negative.)

(But then again, the lad had also insisted they buy Miss Emma a flower he proceeded to tell Emma was only from Killian, so Henry may have ulterior motives.)

(Not that Killian particularly minds those motives - he and Emma have grown unexpectedly close in their quest to find a family for the little boy that has brought them together. But there’s something especially blush-worthy about a four year old trying to orchestrate your love life.)

“It’s just going to be so quiet here, without him,” he whispers in the dark. “I know a pirate ship isn’t exactly a silent place, but I swear, he’s wormed himself into every corner.” He pauses. “Is is bad, that I’m happy the family didn’t work out? That I’ll get another month with him?”

He can just feel her fingers brush his where his arm cradles Henry, and it sets a whole different variety of butterflies fluttering in his stomach. “I think it just means that you care for him,” she responds softly. “And there’s nothing wrong with that. Henry could use a whole stable of people in his life who care for him.”

He can hear the faint sadness in her voice, the longing for something she never got, and it causes a pang in his heart in the same area that Henry’s gratefulness for the simplest things he should be used to does. It’s a little tricky with a sleeping four year old on his arm, but his reaches over to tangle his fingers with Emma’s as best he can.

(It’s moments like this that he wants to carefully store to look back on after Henry leaves, after Emma comes to her senses about associating with an aimless pirate, but he knows there’s no chance of his memory ever exactly capturing this feeling.)

------

Henry’s fourth month on the ship just feels like borrowed time.

The suggested families for Henry have gotten better, more suitable, and Killian fully suspects it’s because Emma’s taken over the search. It’s only a matter of time before she finds the perfect family, and Henry won’t be in his life any longer. So he tries to savor each moment as they come and make sure the lad only has the best of memories of their time together, short as it may be.

The best of memories, unfortunately, is complicated and compromised by Henry’s continued nightmares. They’ve gotten worse since the skirmish, the little boy waking up shaking in terror and crying out. Much as Killian might wish to keep Henry with them forever, the dreams only cement in his mind that a pirate ship is no place for a small child.

Calming Henry down from these dreams is bad enough, but what’s worse is how he’s begun calling for a father who’s not there. Each cry of “Papa!” sends a little shot of pain through his heart because he is not Papa which means that no matter what he does to soothe the boy, it won’t be precisely what he needs.

But Killian tries his hardest all the same, cradling Henry’s small body to his chest and carrying him from his small cot to the marginally larger bunk, whispering all the while that “it’s going to be alright, I’ve got you, Killy’s got you”.

Those nights they eventually both fall back to sleep with the remnants of tears on their faces with a death grip on one another.

------

Emma’s practically bouncing with excitement the next time they dock, and Killian’s heart sinks a little, knowing it means she’s finally found the right family for Henry.

“I think you’ll really like them,” she tells him. “They’re the kind of parents I wanted as a kid.”

And she’s right, of course - he really likes them, despite the corner of his soul that’s desperate to find a fault so he can keep Henry by his side for just a little while longer. They’re actually a pair of locals - a farmer and his wife, but they live further into the country and rarely come into the tavern, so Emma hadn’t even considered them until recently. The wife is a petite little woman who cries when she talks about how their own child had died in the sickness and they’d never been able to have another, her sturdy husband holding and stroking her hand through the sorrowful tale. It’s so easy to tell that they’d love Henry, regardless of blood, that Killian’s concerns are easily wiped away. The only thing left to do is introduce them to the boy himself.

Henry, by some miracle, takes to them immediately. There’s still some of the nerves at first, with the boy looking back at Killian for reassurance, but he’s quickly won over by the couple’s tales from the farm of their pair of sheepdogs and the small apple orchard and their stubborn cow who insists on going where she pleases, regardless of any prodding in various directions. Henry is so clearly enchanted by their descriptions of a proper home, and Killian’s heart beats a little easier through the lingering sadness, knowing this precious, happy boy will be absolutely cherished.

It’s bittersweet, walking back to the Jolly with a small hand within his own, knowing this will be the last time they do so together. Henry is somewhat subdued himself - has been all afternoon, come to think of it, despite his excitement about his new parents - so Killian thinks he can’t be alone in the sentiment. He’s trying to drown the sorrow in lists of things to do, things to pack (the storybook Will bought the lad in Glowerhaven, the pair of pants with the hole in them he hasn’t had a chance to fix…), but it’s not quite working, and most of the walk is spent in a sorrowful silence.

The rest of the day seems normal. Henry wanders off to tell Scarlet all about the “nice man and lady” and Killian sheds several tears while bundling all the lad’s things together - Gods, he has so much stuff now compared to when he arrived - but none of that is unexpected.

Things only take a turn for the unusual after dark. Killian had hoped to maybe spend one more evening under the stars with Henry, but the lad is downright lethargic, and ready for bed. That should have been Killian’s first clue, but it’s only later that he realizes something is really wrong.

No, the real first clue is when Henry wakes up not even three hours later with his teeth chattering.

“Papa?” he mumbles. “I don’t feel good.”

(Killian’s far too concerned to even worry about the fact that Henry is trying to call him Papa.)

And sure enough, when Killian goes to check, brows furrowed in concern, Henry is burning up, far warmer than little boys should ever be, and his eyes are all dull and glassy. Something is obviously wrong, something Killian can only imagine Henry picked up in a distant port.

There’s no time for speculation, though. Henry is sick, and Killian doesn’t know what to do. His first thought is Whale - the doctor should be able to fix this or at least help the poor mite - but Whale is off god knows where trying to get under some girl’s skirt, and not to be found. But Killian’s panicking and Henry needs something now and he doesn’t know how to fix it and somehow, they’re standing outside of the Red Wolf, Henry bundled into his beloved blanket in his arms and sweating buckets, without any memory of how they got here.

He somehow manages to find Emma, and it’s probably it’s own kind of miracle that he’s able to convey to her what the problem is despite the rising panic in his eyes and voice. She offers her own frown upon feeling his feverish head, and before he knows it, he and Henry have been ushered upstairs to one of the rooms in the inn.

“Do you know where he caught it?” Emma asks, failing to mask her own urgency.

Killian shakes his head in return. “It could be any number of ports…” he trails off. They’ve been to so many places in the last month alone; there’s no telling what Henry may have picked up.

“I think it’s just the flu,” Emma cuts in quietly, interrupting the blur of his thoughts. “But even that can be dangerous. I need you to go downstairs and tell Granny we need some broth and her chest salve. I want to try and make sure his chest doesn’t get too clogged up.”

Killian nods in relief; this is something he can do, fetch materials for the people who actually know what they’re doing, but Henry’s panicked cry stops him in his tracks.

“Papa!”

And there’s no question, Emma will have to get the things she asked for because Killian is not leaving the little lad. He may be a pirate and he may not be Henry’s father but when the lad calls for his papa, it is still Killian’s job to comfort him.

He gently holds Henry’s sweaty hand as he collapses into the chair next to the bed. “Papa?” the lad pipes again, but softer this time, calmer.

“It’s Killian, lad. Killy - your Hook.”

But Henry just sighs in relief and nods, like the matter is settled. “Papa.”

Oh.

He shouldn’t be surprised, with the massive role he’s played in the boy’s life these past four months, but it still takes his breath away to hear that title falling from Henry’s lips in relation to him. It’s with no small lump in his throat that he’s finally able to reply.

“Yes, lad, Papa’s here. I’m going to take real good care of you, aye? Papa’s not going anywhere.”

------

A pirate ship is no place for a young boy.

But that just means Killian gives up on the whole pirate lark and goes straight once more, changing the Jolly’s name to the Swan’s Song and going into business fetching whatever the townspeople might need from far off corners of the land.

It doesn’t happen overnight, of course; it’s a process, starting with addressing his decision to permanently take Henry in himself. The couple who are supposed to take Henry are gracious about the change of plans when Killian comes down the next day, exhausted and with hair shooting every which way, to tell them that Henry won’t be coming with them after all, that he’s going to assume care of the lad for good. Apparently, they had suspected as much, and are even kind enough to offer to let the two come visit if Henry ever wants to see the farm animals.

Next comes settling matters with his crew. Most have been there for years, and while Killian has never doubted their loyalty, switching to a life lived on the right side of the law is not what most of them signed up for. He can’t say for certain that they’ll follow him into this new endeavor. But he underestimates their faithfulness to himself and Henry; to a man, everyone decides to stay and embrace a new way of life, as long as Killian is still the captain.

(He does not cry over that, but it’s close. Clearly, Henry has made him go soft, though he can’t say he’d change a thing.)

He tries to wait to start something with Emma until all the other matters are settled, but he’s ultimately too impatient. His ducks are mostly in a row, having tearfully informed Henry that he’s not going anywhere, effectively retiring from piracy and informing the crew as such, but he would have liked to have purchased a proper home first - a way to give Emma the roots she so deserves. But Henry keeps needling him in his four year old way, and there’s really no denying that the very mention of Emma’s name makes Killian smile like some lovestruck schoolboy, so patience be damned. He may stroll confidently down to the Red Wolf Inn, but it’s still an incredible relief when Emma accepts his invitation for a night on the water, just the two of them, with a wide smile.

The house comes later. It’s not much - a small cottage on the coast a short walk from the town proper - but he can smell the sea wafting through the rooms and there’s room for flowerbeds on either side. Henry is enamored by the lofted area up by the rafters, and Killian’s already making plans to turn it into a bedroom for the boy before he even truly realizes he’s made the decision to buy the place. Money isn’t an issue after years of piracy, and the place is officially theirs sooner than he would have thought possible.

There’s not even a moment of questioning whether he’ll invite Emma to live with them. It’s only been a month since that first date, but Killian knows he’s in this for the long haul. He’s seen her rooms - they’re just as tiny as described, perhaps even more so. It may look like a whirlwind romance to others, but he already knows this is meant to be a home for all three of them - him and Emma and Henry. It wouldn’t be right to have one of those pieces missing. So Emma gathers up her belongings, and Killian swears that the main room seems brighter the moment she steps inside for good, just by thanks of her presence.

It’s truly nice, being able to settle into a more stable life, something he and the crew frankly all need as they get older. Many of the men are still living on the ship, but there’s a not insignificant portion who have decided to put down their own roots. Will even takes the opportunity to finally marry the lovely Miss French, an occasion they all celebrate. Some days, Killian thinks they’re all on their way to becoming sedentary old men and women.

(He can’t truly bring himself to complain.)

The transition isn’t entirely smooth, of course. Henry is devastated the first time he has to stay behind on land, and Killian is a little devastated to leave him, but Emma will be there in the neat little house to watch over him, so it’s not as bad as they both act. Emma will watch over him with all the love in her heart, and they’ll both be waiting whenever he steps back on land. Some days, he misses the feel of the ocean waves rocking him to sleep, but his heart hadn’t really been in piracy for a while; he’d been wandering the oceans aimlessly, until Henry had come along to give him a new purpose.

Lately, Henry’s been hinting about a wedding, but neither Killian nor Emma are in any rush. They may be living together and raising a child together, but they’re in no hurry to get married. He’s a reformed pirate and she’s a stubborn barmaid; tradition has already been thrown to the wind, so there’s no real need to do things just because anyone says they should.

Killian still plans to ask, one day, some indeterminate time when the sun is shining and they’re all incandescently happy and it’s right (because if there’s anything he’s learned from this journey, it’s the importance of the right fit, the right moment). But there’s no real urgency - he’s got all the time in the world.

After all, with a former lost boy and lost girl by his side, how could he ever need anything else?

#my writing #cs ff #Killian Jones and the Lost Boy #captain cobra #captain swan #too cute

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letsallcheck · 5 years ago

Text

3 Ways To Make People Curious About You

Have you ever wondered how you'll make your conversations with people more interesting?

What’s, needless to say, is one half the conversation is going to be dominated by the person you’re lecture when you’re asking questions and going to know them. But how does one get them to require to find out more about you?

Here are some communication angles you'll use:

Skip your introduction.

Very simple within the way it works.

Let say you’re at a celebration right. The ambiance is social and you happen to urge into a conversation with someone:

“Hey, I’m Jason, Sophia’s friend!” ” Hey, I’m Frank. So how did you guys meet?”

Essentially, you’re holding some critical piece of data back. It’s usually some information that they, for his or her part, have given you. Like, say their name, function, the reason for being here or whatever it'd be counting on the context.

What you're doing is withholding equivalent information. Usually, they're going to be very curious to seek out out the longer you allow it unsaid. It’s like someone telling you their secret and you not reciprocating together with your secret.

Share personal stories with flair.

It’s not knowing mention yourself an excessive amount of during a conversation. However, if it's some time to talk and mention what you wish to try to, it’s always good to try to to it an enticing way.

You want the person ahead of you to feel what you are feeling to determine the connection. Once there's a connection, there's potential for a relationship (of any kind).

So don’t be afraid to speak passionately or maybe reveal a touch of your humor!

I once met a woman who happened to be during a managing position at an outsized mercantile establishment. I asked her about her day-to-day therein position. She got so aroused talking about it that at one point, she was stood up from the table we were sitting at. She started role-playing a number of the conversation she was having together with her co-workers!

It was a true treat. you'll see she was hooked into her job and her little act just made me even more interested in her job and who she was.

I mean, what quite a person does such a thing?

She did everything so well that it opened all types of questions. Did she take acting classes? Did she like comedy movies? Had she seen this or that other movie?

Sharing personal stories with flair communicates such a lot quite just what you're saying. It’s a symbol of a fun, confident, and truly charming person.

Drop hooks.

What I call “hooks” are little bits of data or stories that IMPLY other things.

As a complex citizenry, we are all “rabbit holes”. you'll attend endless depths exploring somebody’s life.

A “hook” is sort of a glimpse of how deep the rabbit burrow goes for you.

“In the military, they taught us…”

That’s a hook right there, particularly if you never mentioned you had been within the military. the main target of your phrase isn't even that you simply were within the military. It’s actually what the military taught you. the very fact that you simply mentioned the military adds another level of depth to your person.

“Oh, you learned all those things. So you joined the military huh?”

And now, you'll mention what lead you thereto decision and other experiences concerning that if they appear interested. You’re not forcing it on them in the least. If they bite, good. If they don’t, you'll simply advance.

But albeit they don’t devour thereon, you'll make certain it'll make them curious.

This girl I discussed also casually happened to reference her pole dancing hobby at one point within the conversation.

Now, there’s nothing wrong with pole dancing. most of the people only realize what goes down in strip clubs, but the reality is it’s much richer than that. There’s an art to pole dancing and it’s also very classy within the sporting scene.

I didn’t take her abreast of it at that moment but as you'll see, I did remember. It made me very interested in a bunch of various things.

So, there you've got it.

You might have noticed of these paths require 1 major ingredient:

To have a stimulating life.

I still think doing cool things together with your life is that the best thanks to making friends. the remainder is simply a matter of communication.

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desnayy · 8 years ago

Text

I finally finished the template for my limeblood. Well, there are some things that are unfinished, but that’s because there’s nothing to but on those parts just yet. I’m going to put the info below this under a readmore as I’m on a computer for once.

Basics

Name: Seshat Lepori

Pronunciation: Sesh-hat Le-pori

Namesake: Seshat is an Egyptian goddess of knowledge and wisdom. Lepori is shortened from leporidae, the family rabbits are in.

Trolltag: bookishCuniculus (BC)

Tag Explanation: Bookish means devoted to reading and studying rather than worldly interests. Cuniculus means a small conduit or burrow, as an underground drain or rabbit hole.

Age: 8 sweeps (6 sweeps if in canon)

Wriggling Day: May 28th

Gender: Female

Blood: Lime (#658200)

Symbol: Lepus (image accompanying chapter)

Height: 5'

Build: Lithe, almost childlike

Appearance: Seshat has the average gray skin and black hair as most other trolls. She has shoulder length hair and her eyes are slightly filled in with her blood color (unless in canon, than her eyes have the plain dark gray irises of young trolls). Her horns look a bit like short rabbit ears with rounded edges. She wears a black long sleeve with her symbol on the front in lime, dark lime capris, and black boots with lime laces. Whenever she reads, she wears a pair of frameless oval glasses.

Theme: Books and rabbits

Specibus: mirrorkind (Originally equipped with a shard of a broken mirror, but equipped late game with a knife that has a sharp mirror blade)

Power: Strong telekinesis

Fetch Modus: Book Modus (Every item you've ever captchalogued with the modus receives a page in a book provided by the modus.The book itself can be captchalogued, which is probably a good idea if it's getting more on the thick side. To uncaptchalogue something, just go to the item page and say the item name out loud. There is pretty much an unlimited amount of items that can be put in this modus, though it's recommended to keep the amount small so the book doesn't get too thick.)

Hive: An underground hive almost like a rabbit warren, with many rooms and tunnels, and completely full of books, both in bookshelves and on any other available surface, including the floor and the staircase leading to the hive entrance. The entrance is hidden among the roots of a large tree in a forest of large trees; almost impossible to find unless Seshat or her lusus lead the way. Seshat's respiteblock is actually one of the most book filled room, with her recuperacoon tucked into a corner and large piles of books around the rest of the room as well bookshelves. There is a mini library that is the second most book filled room that has a desk with her computer on it somewhere near the back and a maze of bookshelves. It can be a bit difficult to navigate the hive without knocking over any book stacks. By the entrance on the upper floor is a room with a nestbed for Hopmom. Under the staircase is a small hidden sitting area with a pile of pillows to lay or sit on and stacks of books around the pile, which can also be used any possible jam sessions with a future moirail.

Personality

Seshat is empathetic, sincere, and warm-hearted. She is friendly, generous, and self-sacrificing, but can also be sentimental, flattering, and people-pleasing. She is well-meaning and driven to be close to others, but can slip into doing things for others in order to be needed. She typically has problems with acknowledging her own needs and accidentally isolating herself. Though she is quite friendly, Seshat seems to enjoy more time being on her own with her many books rather than around others.

Interests: Books, small spaces, the idea of the one true matesprit, day-daydreaming, peace and quiet, tea

Dislikes: Surprises, loud noises, large or threatening individuals, mistreatment of books, coffee, large open spaces

Fears: Pyrophobia (fear of fire), the inevitability of becoming a slave, being abandoned

Strengths: Random bits of knowledge of most things, rather good at jumping

Weaknesses: Often runs from conflict, distracted due to day-dreaming constantly

Odd Habits: Somehow gets into small hidden spaces that others either can't find or get into

Self-Esteem: Actually has pretty high self-esteem

Perception: Optimistic dreamer

Hemoloyalty: Seshat is extremely loyal to the Hemospectrum, as that way is less likely to lead to being culled. Often nervous around highbloods.

Quirk

Capitalization: Normal and names of others and places

Punctuation: Ends of sentences

Prefix/Suffix: [Sentence.]

Replacements: H with |-|, at with @, and with &, I/i with !

Emotes: ^×^ when happy, °×° when shocked or scared, ;×; when sad, >×< when mad, ^///^ when embarrassed or flustered

Laughter: Heehee

Emphasis: N/A

Nicknames For Others: Usually last names unless she's friends with the person, then first names. Uses custom nicknames for any quadrant mates.

Other: Occasionally makes rabbit puns and quotes/references books

Game Related

Title: Maid of Light

Planet: Land of Books and Stars (A land completely covered with bookshelves with lanterns dotted around and little consort villages where the buildings are made of books. It is eternal night in this land, only the stars are barely lit because of the denizen. There is no moon.)

Quest: Find the book that has the info for how to brighten the stars

Moon: Prospit

Kernelsprite Prototypes: Hopmom + ??? = Hopsprite

Consorts: Light green coatis

Totem Creature: Fireflies

Cruxite Artifact: A dusty book (clean it off)

Associated Item: Moonstone

Denizen: Astraeus

Client: TBA whenever I come up with other characters

Server: ^^^

Exile: Creative Drifter ( She uses a feather in her hood to draw on anything that doesn't have a picture of some kind already on it)

Relationships

Romantic & Sexual Orientation: Demisexual demiromantic

Lusus: A medium sized rabbit with four sets of legs (Hopmom)

Lusus Relationship: Hopmom is basically her best friend. Seshat loves her and cares about her more than she cares about any troll including her friends and future quadrant mates. Seshat was devastated when Hopmom died but was happy when the kernelsprite brought her back as a sprite.

Ancestor: The Scrivener (A limeblood slave under the ownership of a purple blood, who was a forced scribe for the purple blood religion)

Dancestor: Nidaba Lepori

Beforan self: The Bibliophile (A limeblood who had a mass collection of books, nearly rivaling that of the Imperial Library)

Quadrants: TBA whenever I come up with other characters (in canon, she has a red crush on Equius, and a small pale crush on Eridan)

Close Friends

^^^ (in canon, likes to think she's friends with everyone)

Platonic Enemies

^^^ (in canon, doesn't really notice any negative emotions to anyone)

Music

Piano Aquieu by Stars of the Lid (land theme)

The Daughters of Quiet Minds by Stars of the Lid (theme song 1)

Lullaby by Snail's House (God Tier ascension song)

Everything's Alright cover by Adriana Figueroa (theme song 2)

Trivia

Basically the living embodiment of the 'The Bibliomaniac' tag on museinspo

Often makes herself as small as possible when in the presence of high bloods

Does her best to be lawful as possible, as she doesn't want to be culled or forced into slavery early

Spent most of her early life either reading or practicing her telekinesis, and has very good control over it

Quotes

BC : [!n truth, !'m a b!t hoppy Altern!a was destroyed. Ma!nly because now ! don't have to worry about becom!ng a slave!]

"Well, I know we have only known each other a short time, but I like to think you are my friend."

)(So, this character is set in an alternate version of canon Alternia where the limebloods aren’t hunted down, and instead are constantly monitored throughout their lives. Upon reaching maturity [about 10 or 11 sweeps], they’ll be taken away from their lusus and quadrant mates to be bought as slaves by the highbloods. Character template from peppertrolls.)(

#homestuck #fantroll #long post

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topworldhistory · 5 years ago

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The explorers not only produced maps from their 1804-1806 expedition to the American West, they also recorded some 122 animals new to science, including the grizzly bear, coyote, prairie dog and pronghorn sheep.

Meriwether Lewis and William Clark are known as trailblazing explorers of the American West, not pioneering scientists. But during their 8,000-mile journey from Missouri to the Pacific Ocean and back between 1804-1806, Lewis and Clark discovered 122 plant and animal species, including iconic American animals like the grizzly bear, coyote, prairie dog and pronghorn sheep.

When President Thomas Jefferson first charged his assistant Lewis with the mission of finding a passable river route to the Pacific, he included an assignment to “[observe] the animals of the country generally, & especially those not known in the U.S. the remains and accounts of any which may [be] deemed rare or extinct.”

Jefferson was especially enticed by fossils recovered of mastodons and a type of giant land sloth he dubbed the megalonyx (“big claw”). Unsure of what species the men would encounter in the wilds beyond Missouri, Lewis took crash courses in botany, zoology and specimen collection and preservation from the best scientific minds in Philadelphia.

Clark Describes a 'Village of Small Animals'

Lewis and Clark came upon prairie dogs in 1804 and described them as "little animals" that "make a whistling noise."

One of the most remarkable periods of the expedition (zoologically speaking) occurred between September 4 and September 24, 1804 during a 263-mile trek from the Niobrara River in Nebraska to the Teton River in modern-day Pierre, South Dakota. In a span of just over two weeks, Lewis and Clark encountered four classic Western animals for the first time: the prairie dog, pronghorn, coyote and the jack rabbit.

READ MORE: 10 Little-Known Facts About the Lewis and Clark Expedition

In his September 7, 1804 journal entry, Clark describes a “Village of Small animals” discovered in Boyd County, Nebraska. The men found a sloping hillside containing “great numbers of holes on top of which these little animals Set erect make a Whistling noise and whin alarmed Step into their hole.”

Anxious to capture a live specimen, the men tried digging down into the burrows, but after reaching a depth of six feet, they switched tactics and attempted to flush the critters out.

“They spent an entire day hauling buckets of water up from the Missouri River and dumping them down the holes,” says Jay Buckley, a history professor at Brigham Young University and author of several books on Lewis and Clark, and Western exploration. “Eventually they flushed one out, put it in a cage and sent it to Jefferson. Incredibly, it made the trip alive.

There was some disagreement over what to name the curious creatures. Lewis called them “barking squirrels” while Clark referred to them as “ground rats” or “burrowing squirrels.” It was Sergeant John Ordway, an Army volunteer, who first called them prairie dogs.

Lewis Marvels at a 'Jackass Rabbit'

A Blacktail jackrabbit. Lewis noted the rabbit with remarkable ears could leap 18 to 20 feet in a single bound.

On September 14, 1804, near Chamberlain, South Dakota, one of the men killed a large white hare whose long, donkey-like ears inspired the name “jackass rabbit,” later shortened to jack rabbit. In his journal, Lewis marveled at the jack rabbit’s flexible ears, which the animal could “dilate and throw… forward, or contract and fold... back at pleasure.” He observed the jack rabbit could leap 18 to 20 feet in a single bound.

On the very same day near the mouth of Ball Creek in South Dakota, Clark shot a “Buck Goat” of an intriguing species of deer. In his journal, Lewis described the striking animal as having forked horns or “prongs” and its “brains of the back of his head.” Consulting his eight-volume A New and Complete Dictionary of Arts and Sciences, published in 1764 by W. Owen, Lewis concluded that “he is more like the Antilope or Gazelle of Africa than any other Species of Goat.”

In fact, the pronghorn is neither goat, antelope or deer, and belongs to its own family, Antilocapridae. The pronghorn is also the fastest four-legged species in North America, reaching top sprinting speeds of 60 mph. Lewis and Clark stuffed two pronghorn, one male and one female, and shipped them back East to Jefferson.

The mournful wails and yelps of coyotes followed Lewis and Clark to the Pacific and back, but the team shot and identified the first of this new species on September 18, 1804 near Chamberlain, South Dakota, and Clark called it a “Prairie Wolff.”

“I killed a Prairie Wolff, about the size of a gray fox, bushy tail head and ears like a Wolf, Some fur burrows in the ground and barks like a Small Dog,” wrote Clark.

Grizzlies, Rattlesnakes, Bison Nearly Killed the Explorers

An illustration from Lewis and Clark's journal of the Corps of Discovery, 'American having struck a Bear but not killed him escapes into a tree.'

Not all of Lewis and Clark’s animal encounters were so calm and collected.

“One of my favorite moments is when Lewis is all alone at the Great Falls in Montana,” says Buckley. “In a 24-hour period, he’s nearly bitten by a rattlesnake, attacked by a wolverine, charged by a bison and eaten by a grizzly bear. That night, in his journal he says, ‘The entire animal kingdom has conspired against me!’”

As for grizzlies, Lewis and Clark were skeptical at first of the native Mandan and Hidatsa’s accounts of “white bears” weighing over 1,000 pounds, and the explorers scoffed at the war paint and other “supersticious rights” the Indians performed before setting out to hunt the mythical beasts.

But later, while traversing Montana, Lewis and Clark became believers. In his trademark creative spelling, Lewis described “a most tremendious looking anamal, and extreemly hard to kill notwithstanding he had five balls through his lungs and five others in various parts… and made the most tremendous roaring from the moment he was shot.”

When Lewis had his close call with a grizzly in Great Falls, he described a massive bear chasing him “open mouthed and full speed” into the river. With nowhere to run, Lewis spun around to face the grizzly armed only with his spear-headed “espontoon.” To his great relief, the animal retreated.

“So it was, and I feelt myself not a little gratifyed that he had declined the combat,” wrote Lewis.

Despite the great care taken by Lewis and Clark to collect specimens and include detailed descriptions and measurements of plants and animals in their journals, the men never achieved scientific fame in their lifetimes. After their triumphant return in 1806, Lewis planned to write a three-volume account of their expedition with an entire volume dedicated “exclusively to scientific research, and principally to the natural history of those hitherto unknown regions.”

But Lewis, overburdened in his new post as governor of Louisiana, died suddenly in 1809, and when the expedition journals were finally published in 1814, the editors left out almost all of the zoological and scientific reports. It wasn’t until 1893 that a new edition of the journals was published by naturalist Elliott Coues, who correctly credited Lewis and Clark as scientific trailblazers as well as daring American explorers.

from Stories - HISTORY https://ift.tt/2s89CB2 January 07, 2020 at 11:55PM

#Worldhistory

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gaiatheorist · 6 years ago

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Delusions of good-enough.

Last week’s ‘Jagged Little Pill’-is-bad blog didn’t happen, I’d started retrospectively analysing the lyrics that resonated ‘then’, from a perspective of ‘now’. ‘Jagged Little HRT-patch’ if you will, reflecting that the words haven’t changed, we have, in the 20+ years since the album. (For what it’s worth, I think it’s a good album, there’s still a bit of the flailing-stomping-non-mainstream about me.)

@samdylanfinch was re-tweeted into my Twitter timeline, and another piece of the jigsaw-that-is-me almost, but not quite fitted into position. (It’s a million piece jigsaw, it’s all sky, I’m trying to complete it in the dark, during a hurricane, and I’m wearing boxing gloves... I’m on a waiting list for therapy.) I’ve accepted for a very long time that I have a tendency to push people away, and always assumed it was a protective mechanism. The faux-bravado, styling myself as a heartless bitch who just doesn’t ‘need’ friends, or relationships is entrenched. I joke about my reverse-Midas touch being why I don’t engage with very many people. I deliberately distance, I deliberately disturb and disgust, to keep most-people at arms length. I don’t ‘get’ people, a lot of ‘me’ was very atypical even before the brain injuries, always-outsider, never quite ‘fitting’, so I just stopped trying after a while.

I need to watch myself not to go off on the “Am I Frankenstein, or the creature?” slant again, whatever I am, I just ‘am’, potentially some of it can be unpicked and re-learned, some of it I might just have to live with, and work around.

I’m ‘doing it’ now, one of my behaviours, my superiority complex. I read the whole thread, about some damaged-people running from relationships, and I identified heavily with that. Then Little Miss Twist decided to show her hand, and I had a brief, but intense period of “No, I don’t, I’m better than that!” in relation to the ‘pleasing’ element. There is no ‘better’ here, it’s just a shade of different, I don’t approval-seek in the same way as ‘most’ people, and I can be very prickly about the ways some-people do it. That’s unkind, so I try to ‘catch myself’ before I start arguments. You wouldn’t believe how much of my waking hours are spent distracting and deflecting myself from starting arguments about things that happened decades ago. (Seriously, I’ve had one bubbling up for weeks about a family member who didn’t vaccinate her kids against MMR, twenty years ago.) I’m not withholding that argument to avoid upsetting her, I’m sitting on it because there’s no need for it, it would achieve nothing.

The adorable counsellor, who saw me for 16 sessions, when he was only supposed to allocate six, periodically asked me “Are you a bit of a people-pleaser?”, and it made me bristle. I can see his logic now, in light of the Twitter thread, but then, I misconstrued the phrase as ‘door-mat’, and absolutely denied it. I had been a door-mat, for far too long, with the ex, and to some extent with my last job. With the ex, it was path-of-least-resistance, the things he’d tantrum-smash were always mine, it was a preservation-behaviour. With work, I continued to absorb more and more workload, refining systems and processes to make them more effective, thinking I’d matter-more. I was approval-seeking right up until the last minute, making sure everything was as in-order as it could be before I left, because I didn’t want colleagues to think badly of me. That’s my ‘different’ door-mat behaviour I don’t sulk for weeks if nobody notices my new hair-do, and, while I do have intense periods of over-thinking whether I might have upset some-people, I’m not overly-concerned about being ‘liked.’ My people-pleasing is generally trying to help more than I harm, and usually dumping myself at the bottom of the priority-list in the process.

It’s a learned behaviour, some of it is useful, some of it less-so. My Adverse Childhood Experiences led to me developing some entirely understandable hyper-vigilance and risk-mapping analytical behaviours. In the last mental health assessment, I referred to myself as ‘a machine’, ‘a robot’ and ‘a computer’, and I’m snort-laughing at myself for being ridiculous, I’m a human being, it’s just difficult to articulate the tangential-triage processes of my brain. ‘Over-thinking’ doesn’t even touch on it, I don’t feel safe unless I’ve considered every possible outcome (usually some improbable ones, too) to a decision, which is bizarre, given my tendency to make incredibly unwise decisions when I’m less-lucid.

That’s the foundation of it, for me, the disordered thinking is rooted in not being safe, so building in these weird coping strategies, to make me feel ‘safer’, more ‘in control.’ Also to ‘please’ people, with my “I’ve already done it.” and “I’ve made it better.” behaviours. Back to being a show-off, and a try-hard, neither of which are particularly admirable behaviours. I don’t want to be ‘pretty’ or ‘feminine’, those signal-danger for me, so I don’t seek vanity-validation, and I do allow myself to become far too annoyed when I see other people doing it. I don’t want to be perceived as weak, or vulnerable, and I scare the shit out of people ‘proving myself’. (There are two text conversations on my phone, my son very gently telling me that if I wait until he’s home from Uni he’ll help me erect my poly-tunnel, and a jokey one from a friend suggesting I might not have thought to secure the cover, in case of high winds ‘because you’re a woman’. The poly-tunnel is up, very well secured, and I ‘beat’ the average time to build it quoted on the reviews. Show-off.) That’s knowing that I am both weak and vulnerable, entrenched by being conditioned-female, never-quite-enough, and then over-layered with 20+ years of the ex, and Father-in-law telling me what I couldn’t-do. I’m never going to be ‘pretty’ or ‘strong’, so I chose to be ‘intelligent’ instead. Then I had a brain haemorrhage, which has significantly impacted on some of my cognitive functioning.

I have two simultaneous ear-worms, the ‘Daddy never came to my ball games’ at the end of Tim Minchin’s ‘Dark Side’, and snatches of Alanis Morissette’s ‘Perfect.’ My ‘Historical and Complicating Factors’ are rooted in dysfunctional early attachment, over-layered with significant abuse. My parents were profoundly unstable people, both prone to outbursts of violence, there is no ‘safe place’ when you’re never sure which one of them is going to hit you next, but bruises fade in time. The emotional aspects of that, and various other elements of my childhood are more difficult to overcome. There was no trust, ever, the people who were supposed to keep me safe didn’t, and compounded that by continually reminding me that I wasn’t good enough. If I scored 9/10 on a test, Dad would ask me what I’d gotten wrong, rather than congratulate me for trying. Mum would fly into physically abusive rages, and blame-shift that *everything* was my fault. (Yes, I did throw out “I didn’t ASK to be born!” a few times, then I just stopped reacting when she hit me, useless talent number-whatever, both in terms of taking showers of punches without flinching, and being able to split up bar-fights, bruises fade in time.)

It was predictable, coming from that background, that I’d be vulnerable to further abuse-of-power relationships, the boyfriend-before-the-ex was a very damaged creature, who became physically abusive. The first time he hit me, I accepted the apology and reassurances that it would never happen again, the second time, I broke his nose. The ex wasn’t physically abusive, he was coercive, controlling, and of the opinion that the ring on my finger meant he could put his penis wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted. I had ‘nowhere to go’, so I went into myself, physically present, but not emotionally, for most of the 20 years we were together, I was living a half-life. (Whoa on the blame-shift, there, I’m down-shifting his behaviours against how ‘unkind’ I was in withdrawing my attention and affection, knowing how needy he was.)

That ‘going into myself’ distancing behaviour is part of the over-arching issue. I ‘know’ that most people don’t intend to harm me, but what’s the point in taking the risk that they might? I don’t engage with people very much, I’m ‘stuck’ as that tiny little girl who wasn’t invited to parties because she wet herself, or that lanky teenager who was too intelligent to be in the gangs of the local kids, and too dirty-poor to be invited to the houses of the kids she was in classes with. Outsider-alien, I never quite grew out of the “I MUST be adopted, I can’t possibly belong here!” phase. It’s probably more than ten years since I realised that it’s not just the ‘not engaging’, I also actively push people away. Not quite as extreme as an abused child deliberately soiling themselves as a distancing tactic, but I can be pretty disgusting at times. It’s a tolerance-test, I say or do some pretty horrendous things to encourage ‘natural attrition’ of people, sometimes I just ‘drop off’, because I don’t have the emotional capacity to respond appropriately.

At the very bottom of this rabbit-hole, I need to unpick the historical messages that I wasn’t good-enough from the fabric of now. I need to accept that what I have now has to be the foundation for whatever comes next, I can’t change the past, I can only shape my future reactions. I need to ease myself out of burrowing-behaviours, to stop running away from my emotions, and potentially engage-more, cut-off less. There are a very small number of people in my life who are very important to me, I need to rid myself of the notion that I’m too-cling, too-demanding, too-’me’, and accept that people who choose to engage with me do it of their own volition. I’m never going to be Ms Popular, and I don’t want to be, I’ll settle for good-enough. I’m damaged, I’m not broken, I’ll never be perfect, but no-one really is. I need to stop the old behaviour of ‘getting the first punch in’, and pushing people to reject me, it isn’t inevitable that they will. Keeping the whole world at arms length is incredibly draining, the bitch-armour is heavy, I need to learn to accept that I’m not ‘stealing’ attention or affection if it is freely given, that I might just deserve it.

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josephkitchen0 · 6 years ago

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Weasels Killing Chickens is Common, but Preventable

By Cheryl K. Smith, Oregon – Shortly after I moved to my homesteading land 15 years ago, I found a desiccated weasel in the barn. It was a long-tailed weasel (Mustela frenata), about 10 inches long from nose to tail tip, and brown in color — which indicated that it had died between spring and fall (they turn white in the winter). New to the country, I thought it looked cute and was sorry I didn’t see a live one. Little did I know weasels killing chickens is all too common.

My next encounter with a weasel occurred 10 years later and didn’t involve actually seeing one — dead or alive, but waking up to find half my chickens dead. Yup, a case of a weasel killing chickens from my coop. They had been dragged to all corners of the chicken coop — not eaten, but nearly decapitated. (Naturally, hens and not roosters.) Unable to determine where a critter could have gotten in and repair or block it, I experienced the same horror the next morning. I knew I had to do something — making weasel traps was possibly the answer.

I had designed the coop myself, believing that it was invulnerable to opossums and raccoons killing chickens as well as more obvious chicken predators. (That cute little dried-up weasel was but a distant memory.) I noticed only in hindsight that the multitude of rats that were digging under the chicken house had gradually disappeared.

The word “weasel” conjures up visions of a sneaky, devious person, or a vicious little mammal that attacks poultry just for the thrill of the kill. Think of the thieving gang of weasels portrayed in the children’s book Wind in the Willows.

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Weasel words are those that are twisted or misleading, used to benefit the individual uttering them. This is believed to have come from the idea that weasels suck eggs; so weasel words are those in which the meaning is sucked out. But in fact, weasels do not have the necessary jaw muscles to suck eggs (or blood from a chicken’s neck).

When I started researching these animals, my frame of reference grew out of all of these misconceptions. I believed that my chickens had their necks chewed through because the weasel was just interested in sucking blood. My explanation for the multiple dead bodies in the corners of the chicken coop was that the weasel was on a killing spree.

These ideas are all wrong, though. As it turns out, weasels are usually more beneficial than harmful. In fact, I probably have weasels on the property right now and am not even aware of them.

Weasels in North America

The Mustelidae (weasel family) is quite large, consisting of not only weasels but minks, ferrets, martens, badgers, and otters. The subgroup Mustela (true weasels) consists of up to 16 species. The long-tailed weasel (Mustela frenata) is the most widely distributed weasel and is found in most of the United States. Other common weasels in this area are the least weasel and the short-tailed weasel or ermine.

Long-tailed weasels range from 11 to 16 inches in size, including the tail, with the males larger than the females. They are normally light brown, with a white belly and black-tipped tail. Some varieties molt their brown coat and become white in the winter. They are long-necked and short-legged creatures, a helpful adaption for getting into small places. Their voice is said to be a high-pitched shriek.

Reproduction and Lifestyle

Long-tailed weasels have only one litter each spring, regardless of food supply — unlike least and short-tailed weasels, which can have a second litter in late summer. The actual gestation period is from 205 to 337 days; however, the mating occurs in the spring and then the ball of cells called a blastocyst floats feely in the uterus for nine to 10 months before implanting and developing into a kit.

Three to 10 babies are in each litter; the babies are called kits. Once kits are born and the mother starts lactating, she does not go into heat for another 65 to 104 days. She can also protect herself and her kits from interested males by choosing or making a den with entrances too small for them to enter.

Kits are born with fine white hair covering their bodies. They get their razor-sharp milk teeth in three or four weeks but do not open their eyes for another week or so. They can start eating meat after about a month — in their blind condition — but may not be weaned until they are up to three months old. They finally reach full size at six months of age but are sexually mature several months before then.

Weasels are mostly nocturnal and solitary, living in dens that are constructed under rocks or logs in a hole, usually near a water source. The den is dry and padded with leaves and even fur from some of their prey. Weasels are also known to move into the previously used den of another ground dweller such as a prairie dog, rabbit or gopher.

Their range is normally 30–40 acres. They spend most of their time on the ground, but also sometimes climb trees.

Males live separate from the females and kits. This leaves the burden of feeding the kits entirely to the female. According to biologists, males will occasionally bring a dead mammal to the female’s den, but such generosity is linked to their desire for sexual activity rather than feeding the young.

Weasels on the Farm

Weasels are actually more beneficial than detrimental on the farm — most of the time. They eat rodents, fish, birds, and frogs, as well as eggs. They are excellent helpers around the chicken house, as long as the rodent population is thriving because they normally prey on a species that is regularly available. Only when they are running out of food — especially when they have young to feed — do they turn to chickens as a food source.

Because weasels eat other small animals such as mice, shrews, voles and rabbits, they can also help protect the vegetable garden. The lanky-bodied weasel even has the ability to pursue these critters down into their burrows.

Weasels also provide food for foxes, coyotes, hawks and owls. So their presence may help the chickens in another way — redirecting the predators to another food source.

Understanding Why Weasels Killing Chickens Happens in Sprees

When prey is in short supply, weasels will often kill more than they and their kits can immediately eat. The females with kits need to ensure that they will survive, so they take what they can get. This is how the idea that they are thrill-killers arose.

Their killing instinct is also triggered by movement — which is why “freezing” by small rodents may protect them. In a chicken coop, the weasel is unable to stop itself from killing.

First, the wild, squawking and flapping movement of the chickens triggers the instinct, causing the weasel killing chickens to go on killing until it perceives there is nothing left to kill. Second, it will want to kill as many prey as possible, with plans to save the extras for future meals. This is why my chickens were dragged down behind the feed cans into corners. The weasel was trying to hide them, most likely with plans to return later.

The method that weasels use to kill their prey is to bite the back of the neck of the animal. The long teeth penetrate the neck with only two bites. This signature method of killing led to the myth of blood-sucking.

Preventing Weasels in the Chicken Coop

Despite their helpful attributes, it is wise to try to prevent weasels from ever getting inside a chicken coop. The best time to do this is when you are constructing it. Do not build the coop directly on the ground; put a floor in it or make sure it is raised up in some way. This was my mistake. I paid attention to trying to prevent holes in the top and sides, while the rats were digging holes underneath. When that food ran out, a weasel used those very holes as a way to get in and get chickens.

Another essential to keeping weasels out of the chicken coop and other buildings is to make sure that there are no openings larger than one inch — or even less if you want to be extra sure. (The common saying is that weasels can get in through a hole the size of a quarter, which is 7/8-inch across.) The best method is to use 1/2-inch hardware cloth or a similar material in areas where you want ventilation. Make sure the coop is completely enclosed.

As time goes by, rodents will start to gnaw holes in the wood. Be aware of these and repair them quickly. Pieces of metal, even flattened tin cans work well to cover such hole.

If a weasel has already caused chicken losses, consider a live trap. Havahart has an extra small live trap that will work for weasels, for only about $24. Make sure it is set so as not to harm other animals. Although the damage is done by the time you determine a weasel is killing chickens, you can still try to trap it to prevent future losses. You will need to live somewhere that you can release it far from its range so as not to create a nuisance for others.

Because weasels are fur-bearing animals, check with your state Fish and Wildlife Department regulations before trapping with a trap that kills weasels.

Like in most affairs, the best advice is to be proactive. Make sure your coop is secure and be aware of the rise and fall of various wildlife populations, such as rabbits and rats.

What are strategies for preventing a weasel killing chickens on your farm or in your backyard?

Names for a group of weasels: Boogle, Gang, Pack, Confusion

Cheryl K. Smith raises chickens and Oberian dairy goats in the coast range of Oregon. She is a freelance writer and the author of Goat Health Care and Raising Goats for Dummies.

Originally published in the September/October 2014 issue of Countryside & Small Stock Journal and regularly vetted for accuracy.

Weasels Killing Chickens is Common, but Preventable was originally posted by All About Chickens

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ionecoffman · 7 years ago

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The Citizen Science of Skin Care

In the skin-care aisle at the CVS pharmacy closest to my office, there are 106 different products for acne. I lurked in the store for an hour last week tallying anything with the words “acne,” “blemish,” or “blackhead” on the packaging. I did not include products labeled “pore refining,” because that seems fake.

There are 101 antiaging products on the shelves. This includes anything that claims to fight wrinkles, or that is labeled “antiaging” or “age defying.” I did not count the following terms: “age perfect,” “lifting,” “for sagging skin,” or “for mature skin,” even though those were clearly meant to evoke antiaging effects without explicitly saying so.

There were 155 types of body lotion and 177 types of face lotion, although in certain cases it was hard to tell which category a particular product would fall under. I included anything called a “lotion,” “moisturizer,” “cream,” “gel,” “gel-cream,” “cream-gel,” “moisturizing oil,” “salve,” “hydrating mist,” “intense-hydration concentrate,” and in one case—may God have mercy on my soul— “daily liquid care.” I did not tally “cream cleansers,” “serums,” “treatments,” “fillers,” or “elixirs.”

These are just some of the over-the-counter skin-care products available at one drugstore. We haven’t even gotten into cleansers, let alone masks or scrubs or toners. Suffice it to say, figuring out what skin-care products to use can be daunting.

The skin-care industry uniquely straddles the line between health and aesthetics, between drugs and cosmetics. Acne and other skin conditions often require medical treatment and prescription drugs, yet it’s possible to treat some breakouts, or dryness, or redness, at home. Sometimes there may be nothing wrong, per se, but one’s skin could always be a little more even, a little softer, a little glowier, couldn’t it? There’s also a certain amount of care needed to maintain the status quo—to stay clean, moisturized, and protected from the sun.

All of these pursuits fall under the umbrella of “skin care.” The industry does little to help anyone make sense of it. In fact, it is often deliberately confusing.

A few common skin-care ingredients are regulated as drugs. These include those in sunscreen; salicylic acid and benzoyl peroxide, which are used to treat acne; and adapalene, the main ingredient in the newly over-the-counter product Differin. Many more are not. The Food and Drug Administration defines “drugs” as:

Articles intended for use in the diagnosis, cure, mitigation, treatment, or prevention of disease. ... [And] articles (other than food) intended to affect the structure or any function of the body of man or other animals.

It defines “cosmetics” as:

Articles intended to be rubbed, poured, sprinkled, or sprayed on, introduced into, or otherwise applied to the human body ... for cleansing, beautifying, promoting attractiveness, or altering the appearance.

When does “altering the appearance” cross over into “affecting the structure or function of the body?” Skin-care companies are very careful in their phrasing to stay on the less burdensome cosmetic side of that line. Many of the antiaging products on the CVS shelves claim to “diminish the look of fine lines and wrinkles” (emphasis mine). Commercials throw out statistics like 90 percent of women saw improvements in the skin after just one use of product X, Y, or Z. But “wrinkles do look better when you hydrate the skin,” says Tiffany Cukrowski, a dermatologist at the Midwest Center for Dermatology and Cosmetic Surgery. “So it has a moisturizing effect, not a true antiaging effect.”

Cosmetics are innocent until proven guilty. Their ingredients don’t have to be proven safe, or effective. Even if a particular ingredient has some evidence behind it, cosmetic manufacturers aren’t required to prove that the ingredient works in that product’s specific formulation, or at that particular concentration. Often, the only way to figure out if something works is to try it.

The skin-care landscape is vast, overwhelming, and shimmering with mirages. But more and more people are trying to navigate it. The skin-care market is projected only to keep growing in the next couple years, according to data from Euromonitor, a market-research provider. “Everybody’s obsessed with skin care right now,” Ashley Weatherford writes in the The Cut.

In The Outline, Krithika Varagur writes that “perfect skin has become the thinking woman’s quest.” She goes on to say that skin care is a consumerist scam, but she’s touched on something with her emphasis on “thinking.” Confronted with the multitudinous choices and absent good information about the efficacy of different products, many skin-care fans have become citizen scientists—educating themselves and each other about what works and experimenting on their own faces.

“For most of my life I wasn’t too serious about skin care. I’d use random drugstore products that I was drawn to on a purely superficial level,” the beauty writer Rio Viera-Newton told me in an email. “Only after college, when, for various medical reasons, I went off birth control and started having really aggressive, painful breakouts, did I decide I wanted to create a routine for myself. I was initially really overwhelmed by all the information and advice out there on the internet. I read just about every article on hormonal acne and would binge-watch ‘How I Cured My Hormonal Acne’ YouTube videos for hours.”

Viera-Newton eventually got it figured out—partly by consulting a dermatologist, and partly by narrowing down her online searches to recommendations from people who shared her dry, sensitive skin type. She built up a routine, and is now dispensing skin-care advice for The Strategist. A post she wrote in the summer of 2017, “The Google Doc I Send to People Who Ask About My Skin,” details her elaborate skin regimen. It was so widely shared that one of the autocorrect options when I Google her name is “Rio Viera-Newton google doc.”

Framing the article as Viera-Newton’s advice to her friends was savvy. Because there are so many products out there, and because there are so many good reasons to be skeptical of brands’ claims about them, word of mouth often feels like the most trustworthy resource for information on over-the-counter skin care. People often turn to their friends—or their favorite beauty bloggers—to find out what really works. (Dermatologists, of course, are the best resource, but if you don’t have a medical reason to see one, you’re not likely to pop in and ask if you should be using Noxzema or Neutrogena face wash.)

My own skin-care routine is cobbled together with prescriptions from my dermatologist alongside recommendations from coworkers at bars, from the beauty writer Arabelle Sicardi, from the private makeup and skin-care Slack channel I share with my friends (called “People With Faces”), and from the subreddit r/SkincareAddiction.

This forum is the most visible repository of the apparently growing interest in the science of skin care. It has more than 450,000 readers, and the growth curve of its subscriber base has notably steepened since mid-2017. Its posts are a mix of memes, users seeking advice, product reviews, before-and-after skin selfies, and “shelfies”—pictures of users’ bathroom shelves crowded with products. But it also has an exceptionally well-organized reference section, summarizing the conclusions of the hive mind on ingredients, the identification and treatment of certain skin conditions, the best products, and how to build an effective routine with them. Many posts refer to scientific papers in their explanations.

The core of the subreddit’s advice boils down to a routine of two to five steps: Cleansing and moisturizing, with the “optional” additions of exfoliating (chemical exfoliators are preferable to scrubs), spot-treating blemishes, and sunscreen (“optional but highly recommended”). It has product recommendations for each of those categories (the community crowdsources its “Holy Grail” recommendations), and there are further rabbit holes to burrow into if you want to get into antiaging or specialty serums or whatnot.

“The advice was definitely decent,” Cukrowski, the dermatologist, says of the subreddit. “Especially the part where they talked about whether you need a toner or not. I always tell my patients you don’t need a toner unless you’re really oily.”

Michelle Wong is a moderator at r/SkincareAddiction, and a high-school science teacher in Sydney, Australia, with a chemistry Ph.D. She says that “on the whole, [r/SkincareAddiction] is probably one of the most scientifically accurate sources. Where they get it wrong is mostly in the details and the really nitty-gritty. But if you follow the advice on there, it will be maybe 90 percent the same as a completely accurate regime.”

Wong also runs the popular blog Lab Muffin, where she writes about the science of skin care—explaining how the molecules in micellar water remove makeup, or why hyaluronic acid is such a good moisturizer. Her Instagram, where she often debunks beauty myths, has more than 32,000 followers.

“When I started my blog I didn’t think I would get any sort of audience, but it’s gotten quite big,” she says. “A lot of people tell me, ‘I hated science, but this is really interesting. If it’d been taught like this in school, I would’ve been really interested in chemistry.’ So people are getting more educated about how things work.”

Dana Sachs, a dermatologist at the University of Michigan, says she’s seen her patients “come in and ask more pointed questions about different products than they used to.”

Some skin-care brands are catching on to this savvy consumer base. In late 2016, the beauty company DECEIM launched its brand The Ordinary, a line of simply packaged serums labeled with just their active ingredients and concentrations. You can buy “Retinol 0.2 percent in Squalane,” or “Magnesium Ascorbyl Phosphate 10 percent,” or “Niacinimide 10 percent + Zinc 1 percent”—not exactly the catchiest-sounding products. But according to DECEIM’s former co-CEO, Nicola Kilner (who has left the company under bizarre circumstances since our interview), The Ordinary is the company’s biggest brand, and sold 8 million units in its first year. She attributes this to the brand being “led by consumers.”

The Ordinary started listing the pH of its products as a result of customers clamoring for that information, Kilner says. And in the closed Facebook group “The Ordinary and DECEIM Chat Room,” which has nearly 32,000 members, she says the discussions can get pretty scientific, with users sharing spreadsheets of their routines and talking about ingredient interactions.

“We’re led by the fact that they do have this appetite,” Kilner says. “They do want to learn. They no longer want to just believe in hocus-pocus potions. They want to actually understand what ingredients they’re using at what percentage.”

Unfortunately, this desire for understanding can quickly run up against a wall. Academic studies are often inaccessible to the public. And even though there is some good research on skin care out there, it’s understandably skewed toward prescription drugs and the treatment of medical skin conditions like acne and eczema.

“My background is in medicinal chemistry, so I’m used to saying if [a study] is under 100 subjects, then it’s not worth looking at,” Wong says. “But in skin care, if it has more than 10 subjects, it’s amazing, because there’s just not funding. Because it’s not regulated as drugs.”

For ingredients that do have evidence behind them, there are often caveats and unknowns that remain.

Take the chemical compounds known as retinoids. “There is really good evidence behind topical retinoids exerting a positive antiaging benefit in skin,” Sachs says. They increase skin’s collagen production, and can combat hyperpigmentation.” Prescription retinoids like tretinoin are a mainstay of dermatological antiaging treatment. But the form found in over-the-counter products—retinol—is what is known as a prodrug, meaning it doesn’t convert into the active form of retinoic acid until it’s in the body. Some studies have found retinol to be an effective antiaging treatment, though far less potent than tretinoin (and less irritating). But retinol is “extremely unstable and easily gets degraded to biologically inactive forms on exposure to light and air,” as one meta-analysis put it.

With an over-the-counter product, “you don’t necessarily know how much of it you’re getting, or how active the ingredient is,” Sachs says. “Not that we know what the right concentration is.” Even the most dogged amateur skin-care scientist won’t be able to figure out what research doesn’t yet know, or what information is hidden by manufacturers.

Another issue with many topical skin products, Sachs says, is that “they have to penetrate the very strong stratum corneum, which is the top layer of the skin.” The skin is a barrier, after all, designed to keep things out. With cosmetics that aren’t tested, there’s no way to know if the molecules penetrate deep enough into the skin to have any effect.

One popular group of ingredients that Sachs and Cukrowski are both skeptical of is peptides. Peptides are chains of amino acids, often included in antiaging serums and creams, with the thought that they might stimulate collagen production. “But one of the issues with peptides—that I don’t know the answer to—is they tend to be huge molecules that don’t necessarily penetrate into the skin,” Sachs says.

“The peptides are a big scam,” Cukrowski says.

Indeed, skin care, like any trend, has seen its share of backlash. In her Outline article, “The Skincare Con,” Varagur questioned the purpose of the entire industry: “All of this is a scam. It has to be. ... Most skin care is really just a waste of money.” There certainly are ample opportunities to waste one’s money on insanely pricey serums and lotions.

But just because there are some dubious claims floating around doesn’t mean we should throw our baby-smooth skin out with the bathwater. There are also things like sunscreen, and acne medication, and moisturizer, that are uncontroversially effective.

“As we get older, skin gets thinner, it gets drier,” Sachs says. “The barrier is not as good as it used to be. Whenever there are breaks in the barrier, that’s when you are more prone to infection, that can lead to inflammation in the skin. Moisturizing the skin is really key to keeping it in good shape. Now does the type of moisturizer matter? I don’t know the answer to that.”

What that leaves you with, in many cases, is anecdotal evidence, and trial and error-ing products on your own face.

“Obviously the problem with that is you have one face, so it’s like an n=1 trial,” Wong says. “You don’t know if the product works or if it was sunny that week, so you got more sun, or you started exercising that week as well.”

There’s an element of trial and error in medical dermatology, too. People have different skin types, and some are more irritated by certain ingredients than others. “It’s not like shooting in the dark,” Sachs says. But “that’s the art of medicine. It’s not going to be a one-size-fits-all for every person who comes in, otherwise, we wouldn’t spend as long training as we do. There are not cookbook recommendations for all the things out there.”

Of course, any would-be citizen skin-care scientists should practice lab safety. It’s possible to overdo it and injure yourself with harsh scrubs or exfoliating acids, or to have a bad reaction to an ingredient that you didn’t patch test before rubbing it all over your face. And despite the popularity of 10-step Korean skin-care regimens, there’s also a threshold past which adding more products to your routine isn’t likely to yield additional results.

“You really just need a sunscreen, a cleanser, and a moisturizer,” Wong says. “On top of that, if your skin isn’t already quite good, then you might need an antiaging or anti-acne product. But once you have the right products, a lot of it is just fiddling, [getting] decreasing marginal returns.”

The skin-care craze is sometimes derided as just another unattainable beauty standard—now women are supposed to look flawless without makeup?—to which others respond that it’s a form of self-care. A ritual, a devotional. It can be all of those things. But it’s also an at-home science project, one with results you can see in the mirror.

Article source here:The Atlantic

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