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gaasaku-fanfests · 4 years ago

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Broken Hearts (Empty Grave)

Title: Broken Hearts (Empty Grave) Author: ofhealinglove Rating: T Word Count: 2,940 words Summary: Haruno Sakura was killed in action fighting Akasuna no Sasori. While Konoha grieves the loss of a beloved shinobi and friend, Gaara is keeping her safe and secreted away until she falls in love with him. He's the one who saved her. He's the one who brought her back from the brink of death. Konoha couldn't keep her safe, so he will. Forever. Trope: Yandere.

Gaara attends the memorial for Haruno Sakura.

He, his siblings, and several council members who want to suck up to the grieving Hokage (they didn’t even know Sakura) travel the two days it takes to get to Konoha and stay for three days: one to rest and settle in, one for the memorial, and one for politicians to politick and Gaara to spend with Naruto, and then leave that evening.

The memorial is enormous; most of Konoha is in attendance. In her work at the hospital, Sakura had saved countless lives and it seems like there isn’t one family or friend her healing hadn’t affected in some way. The flowers come in all shapes and sizes; the mourners are genuine in their grief. ANBU, jounin, chuunin, genin—all of them have something to thank her for.

But it is the Konoha 11 that grieve the hardest. Some stoic, some with tears streaking down their faces, some still standing shell-shocked, like they can’t believe she’s really gone. These are the two blonds of the group, both with blue eyes: one is a Yamanaka kunoichi Sakura’s age, and the other is Naruto.

Gaara watches Naruto closely, a small part of his heart guilty for what’s happened. After all, it’s because of him that this memorial is taking place; if he had been strong enough to defend against the Akatsuki by himself, Sakura would never had fought Akasuna no Sasori—a criminal from his own village, at that—and been injured as she was.

There are other reasons why he feels guilty, but with a clan that has a mind-reading kekkei genkai in attendance, Gaara doesn’t dare to think of them.

The Godaime is one of the stoic ones, but there is more than that: she is furious. Gaara thinks, looking upon her face from his seat in the delegates box, that she has lost one person too many, and knows it when she announces all-out war against Sakura’s murderers.

Sakura’s death could have been prevented. Chiyo had been old and Sakura not ready to fight an Akatsuki with just a retired jounin at her side. They should have had back-up and they shouldn’t have been left alone, no matter what Chiyo said. When the old woman had crawled out of the wreckage of the fight, Sakura’s body lost to the cave-in and Sasori dead (by Sakura’s hand, Chiyo had solemnly emphasized with her head bowed, “I wouldn’t be alive without her,” and “She sacrificed herself for me”), Gaara heard that Hatake Kakashi, her team lead and jounin sensei, had just about killed her on the spot. It was only with the restraint of Maito Gai that Chiyo had been alive to revive Gaara, and Hatake still hasn’t recovered.

Naruto had told Gaara on the day of their arrival that “Kakashi-sensei” was on a two-month-long suspension and had mandated weekly appointments with a Yamanaka psychologist after he had attempted suicide, but Gaara had to keep it a secret.

(Gaara doesn’t feel guilt for that, not like he does for Naruto.)

After the memorial is over, everyone leaves except for the Suna shinobi and council, Konoha 11, and the Hokage and her assistant. They meet in a room in Hokage tower and drink and reminisce. Gaara doesn’t partake and doesn’t say anything. This isn’t a sad occasion for him, it’s a victory. While everyone else grieves over Haruno Sakura, Gaara doesn’t.

He knows she isn’t dead. She’s recovering in a secret room beneath the Kazekage manse, well enough that he was able to leave her alone for a few days.

Temari had said that Konoha deserved to know. Kankuro disapproved of what Gaara had done. But they’re both his brother and sister as well as shinobi of Sunagakure, loyal to him before all, and by the time they’d figured out what was going on, it would endanger the alliance to reveal the secret.

Now that the memorial is over and Haruno Sakura officially declared dead after weeks of excavating the rubble trying to find her body (long gone), there will be war if Sakura is ever discovered.

She won’t be, though. All the world needs to know is that she died a hero killing Akasuna no Sasori.

And Gaara is going to keep it that way if it kills him.

When Gaara first noticed Haruno Sakura, she had been doing her best to defend Uchiha Sasuke and was going to pay for that with her life. She hadn’t been strong or particularly useful, either; just cannon fodder, likely as her council had intended. She squirmed and fought under his crushing sand but didn’t give up until she passed out from lack of air, but even in her unconsciousness, he had noticed that she still twitched against death like she was fighting to survive even when her mind was gone.

This had intrigued Shukaku and Gaara had hesitated, and then Naruto saved her life and changed his.

Shukaku had seen something in her, something he liked, and that was why Sakura had survived. Gaara had been fast enough even then to end her before Naruto arrived—it was Shukaku’s order to stop that had spared her.

Even moving forward on a different path to a different destiny, Shukaku kept going back to the pink-haired girl and Gaara found his interest piqued, as well. It started with wondering why Shukaku had hesitated, then soon enough, he was following the bijuu down the rabbit hole.

What led such a weak kunoichi to fight for her life like that? As soon as his sand was upon her, she had to know that it was over, and yet she struggled even near death. For a shinobi of some caliber, that was to be expected. To a pathetic little genin who hadn’t even made it past the preliminaries? It made no sense.

Naruto talked about her in his letters, and while Gaara did his best to be circumspect, he learned much about the kunoichi he’d grown so interested in. Shukaku praised every tidbit of information—except for the fact that she was in love with Uchiha Sasuke.

But he was kidnapped and she was killed in action.

After he was revived and Sasori defeated—they had found his body, or at least the splinters left of it—he thought he’d never see her again. Shukaku was gone but the obsession was not, and he had spent his time off during the rebuilding venting his fury deep in the desert.

That was how he found her.

Sakura had not, in fact, been killed by Sasori’s poison.

When Gaara had found her, deep in the desert between Iwa and Suna going vaguely north, she had been grievously injured by the cave’s collapse, traces of poison flowing through her veins, fever, severe dehydration, and on death’s doorstep.

His first thought was that he was seeing a mirage but he went to her side anyways. Later, he found out she had kept herself alive through complex ninjutsu that she had subconsciously invented purely to survive just that much longer; her Will of Fire, but more importantly her will to live, had kept her going this long, delirious and confused and injured but alive.

She would have died within the day if he hadn’t found her.

Without hesitation, he hurried her back to Suna, but with hesitation, he didn’t take her to the hospital. He took her into the bunker beneath the Kazekage mansion and brought a traveling doctor in to care for her, supplying all his needs with the best money could buy. He hadn’t known what it was he was doing until the next morning when he woke up and realized that he should have immediately sent for Konoha to bring their med-nin to care for their kunoichi before bringing her back home, but…

She was alive—because he found her. She was going to recover—because of the money out of his own coffers. She had been found—because he grieved her.

Didn’t that make her his? And why should he send her back when it was her own team lead’s neglect of her that had gotten her declared KIA in the first place?

So he didn’t say anything, and killed the doctor (quietly, discreetly, no sand coffins or blood splatters) as soon as she was stable and Gaara knew how to care for her.

No witnesses.

He remembers the moment she first opened her eyes. She still looked sickly and burnt from the sun, but they had opened with clarity and she had looked around quickly, assessing her situation even as her hands and feet flexed and twitched against the restraints holding her down.

She saw him and whispered in a croaky voice, “…Kazekage-sama…?”

He’d hurried help her sit up and drink a glass of water to wet her throat. She drank greedily but not too fast, not needing his advice to not make herself sick. A prodigious med-nin, to be sure.

Once he’d pulled the cup away, she’d blinked and asked in a clearer but still thready voice, “…Where am I? Why… why am I restrained?”

“Safety precautions, Haruno-san,” he’d told her. He would stay polite, even if he wanted to be able to speak the caress of her name on this lips and tongue. He would stay distant for now. He didn’t want to scare her.

“Where… am I…?” she asked again, eyes roving over the interior of the bunker’s main room.

“Safe,” he said.

She seemed wary of him but was too out of it to be outright suspicious, and once he let her drink a second glass over water, she fell back asleep. He laid her down carefully, determined for her to never feel any pain ever again.

It was Konoha’s fault she had almost died.

He didn’t want her to die.

She was better off safe down here in his bunker where he could protect her. He would never let any harm come to her.

Ever.

It didn’t take her long after her first awakening to start asking questions. Her memory of recent events was spotty at first, but once she started remembering healing Kankuro, going to save him, bits and pieces of her fight with Sasori before her injury and ‘death,’ their relationship became strained.

He told her what he could, and most of it had to be lies. He truthfully told her that she had killed Sasori in the end and Chiyo had been a casualty of the fight. Gaara had had Shukaku taken from him, but he’d survived. She had been searched for, but only for a few days before her team headed back home. Naruto was going to try to come back for her body, but they all assumed she was dead and he heavily implied they didn’t care.

(Hatake didn’t, sending her in unprotected like that.)

Some of the lies she believed, some she didn’t. It took time and constant repetition to get it to sink in that Konoha hadn’t really cared about her. She fought against the lies about Naruto and Tsunade the hardest; she’d been suspicious of being restrained.

And then she found out she didn’t have chakra anymore because of Sasori’s poison, just enough to survive with civilian levels, and she’d just about broken.

He’d been sad to see it, but it was necessary. It was, in fact, a seal he’d discovered deep in the family’s library, used for subduing dangerous criminals for execution. Archaic and brutal, he’d gotten a sealmaster to bastardize it into being temporary. He was no Uzumaki, but he said the seal should hold. Gaara didn’t want Sakura in the bunker forever. Once he felt she could be trusted, she would ‘regain’ enough chakra to defend herself. Maybe one day, she’d ‘miraculously’ get all of it back.

But that would be after they were married, after they had children, once they were older and there was no chance of her defection. He had to keep her safe.

He made sure to repeat that to her. She was safe, he was always going to keep her safe. Konoha hadn’t kept her safe, and they didn’t care what happened once she wasn’t. She’d been left behind, by her team, by her village. No one was coming for her; no one cared enough.

That was apparently her worst fear and what started breaking down the fastest.

He brought her meals, took her to the bathroom, brought her knowledge and entertainment. He was her only source of social interaction, the only person she relied on for all her basic needs, by design. He needed her, so she had to need him.

It was basic conditioning. He was sad he had to use it on her, but there was no other way to make sure she’d willingly stay by his side. The first time he had touched her, she’d flinched. The day he’d left for the memorial, she had initiated a hug goodbye.

(He knew she would fall for him eventually, just like he’d fallen for her.)

Telling her about his three days away for her memorial service had been very, very difficult. Of course, she hadn’t known it was her memorial service, but she had still cried and pleaded for him to stay. She didn’t want to be without him, she said. What would she do, all alone? What if the food ran out? What if something happened to him?

It was hard to leave her, but he did.

He’s eager to get back to her more than anything else, but he doesn’t show it. He worries that if he’s away for too long, some of her conditioning will start to wear off and she’ll regress. If she thinks too long, she might untangle some of his lies; after all, he knows she’s extremely intelligent and it’s only been a little under a month. There’s a large margin for error here, leaving so soon, but it would have been more suspicious if he hadn’t come. She’d killed one of his village’s own missing-nin in the conflict to save his life. If he’s not there, barring an emergency, it’s a blow to the alliance.

Gaara needs this alliance, but he might not always. If Sakura were to surface back from the dead in, say, five years or so, Konoha’s reaction might not matter.

(She won’t want to go back anyways. He’ll have made sure of it by then.)

When he comes back to the bunker, Sakura is pacing the room. It doesn’t look like she’s tried to escape and there’s no damage speaking of any fits of pique or defiant anxiety, which is somewhat surprising.

“Gaara-sama!” she calls with a smile once he’s sealed the door behind him.

“Sakura-san,” he replies, finally able to call her by her given name, a small smile quirking his lips. He doesn’t necessarily expect her to run up and hug him, but it’s nice anyways.

His sand doesn’t even try to keep her from him. He thinks it’s a sign.

(A sign that they’re meant to be. He’s doing the right thing, keeping her here.)

“Don’t leave me like that again, okay?” she demands. She’s still got a temper, which is something that is so integral to who she is that he’s glad it’s not completely conditioned out. Still, she hadn’t destroyed anything. It’s a sign of progress. And the desperation with which she’d run up to him…

Maybe he should leave her alone more often, but his heart says otherwise.

(He has to keep her safe. He loves her, he loves her, he loves her.)

“I’ll do my best,” he says. He’s always been a man of few words.

“Did you bring any food?” she asks. “I’m pretty hungry—I ran out this morning.”

No, Gaara had not brought food. He’d been too excited to come see her.

“I’ll go get some for you,” he tells her, and turns for the door. Sakura steps back to give him space—she always does—and he unseals the exit.

He doesn’t see her coming from behind him and his sand doesn’t react when she hugs him again; she doesn’t mean to harm him, if the sand isn’t reacting. “Don’t take too long, okay? I’ve missed you.”

“Stand back, Sakura-san,” he orders her quietly, warmed by the fact that she’s so desperate to touch him, feel him, hold him.

Sakura nods against his back. “Okay…”

In a move he hadn’t expected and therefore was unprepared for, Sakura’s hands snake up under him and grab his throat.

He chokes on her inhuman strength. She shouldn’t have chakra! What is going on?

“Next time you put a seal on someone, you should make sure you know it’ll hold,” she snarls, and her hands clench brutally.

When Gaara wakes up, it’s three days later in the hospital. Sakura had crushed his windpipe, but Temari found him in time to get medical treatment and survive.

He grieves that Sakura got away, but he swears he’ll find her. She can’t have gotten back to Konoha yet and therefore he still has time to find her and bring her back. He’ll leave her in isolation for much longer this time, a punishment. He’d hoped to never have to do that to her, but Sakura has a strong will (Naruto had emphasized that so often and Gaara had seen it firsthand when she fought against his sand coffin) and it needs to be broken down more… thoroughly this time.

“I’ll find her soon enough,” he tells Temari.

And then Kankuro rushes in with a crumpled missive with the Hokage seal in his hand, announcing with worried eyes that Konoha has declared war.

#GaaSaku #gaasaku-fanfests #2020 GaaSaku Free-for-All #2020 GaaSaku Free-for-All Fanfest #fanfic #ofhealinglove

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oasis888 · 4 years ago

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Scarlet Roses Surround Nightmares.

Both Ayame and Belphie are tired. One of Satan's books ends up in the attic, spiralling things out of control when Belphie's sleep is once again interrupted.

Tw: a little bit of blood, nothing much.

Rating: Sfw.

Ayame always loved teasing her friends. It meant she was comfortable enough to be herself without being scared of pushing them away.

Stealing was something she familiar with. Almost, too familiar. Belph's cow printed pillow always caught her attention, for the sole reason he always held it as close as he did.

16 year old Ayame would see that as something she could potentially abuse if she played her cards right.

20 year old Ayame, on the other hand, found it cute. A demon, most likely over 1000 years old, had a cow pillow he took everywhere.

The perfect item to steal, and the perfect item to snuggle when the raging storm outside felt like cold claws tearing you apart.

The Avatar of Sloth was in a pretty bad mood today. First, some lesser demon ruined his already shitty day by bumping into him roughly in the RAD hallway. Then, his nap was interrupted by Asmo's shouting at some random demon chick that gave him the wrong compliment on his new shoes or whatever.

The walk back to the House of Lamentation flashed by in the blink of an eye. He couldn't even remember passing the dark, steel gate.

He made his way up the endless stairs, absentmindedly looking at the countless faceless portraits helplessly hanging on the walls all around him. After some time, he opened the door, and walked into the attic.

It was a place he went to when he needed to spend some time alone. Either because he was angry, or extremely tired. Usually, it was the latter.

Belphie and Ayame always spent time together in the attic, so much so, the hushed yet sweet smell of caramel always managed to linger in the cold air.

After some time, he let her come up whenever she wanted and hang out. Most of the time, she was on her D.D.D sending cursed pictures to Mammon as they talked about their day, or what they wanted to do later. Many movie nights and pillow fights took place in that room. Judging shitty tropes and character arcs all night only to lead into a pillow fight in the most ungodly(ha) hours of the morning thanks to lack of sleep.

Ayame came back to the House later than she expected. Levi wanted to show her a new game that just got released a few days before, only for her to spend the next couple of hours walking around the mall and looking at all the video games Levi pointed out; which was most, if not all of them.

By the time she walked through the front door, she was already exhausted as hell. Her shoulders ached from having to carry her heavy bag for so long and her honey brown eyes seemed dull, as the sleep deprivation was finally catching up to her.

Wanting nothing more than to nap away the blurriness that wrapped itself around her eyes like heavy mist, Ayame dragged herself up the stairs to her room. Nonexistent eyes tracking her every move, their angry stares judging her.

She threw her bag on her chair, and finally took off the RAD uniform she was begging to dislike more and more by the day. Wearing her more casual outfit, she looked to her bed only to see a bunch of clothes, shoes and accessories on it.

Right...

She totally forgot about how she spent all night trying to convince Asmo to let her wear her own clothes and not some outfit he bought that barely covered her body. She couldn't even remember why she accepted going with him to a party later that week, but if it had good alcohol, Ayame didn't really care that much.

With a heavy sigh, she tore her eyes away from her bed and back to her door, trying to decide what to do next.

She only had one other option left, the attic. Of course, she could just tidy up her room and sleep in her own, comfy bed, but that was too much work for someone who was barely even awake at this point.

She struggled to open the heavy wooden door, her tired arms barely obeying her. Soft footsteps echoed in the silent room, the fading, familiar scent trailing behind her like a voiceless compliment. As she looked at the bed, she saw that Belphie was already sleeping. His favourite pillow held tightly in his arms, as if it would scare away the nightmares that patiently waited at the edge of his blissfully unaware, dreamless sleep. Almost as if waiting for an opportunity to attack with horrid pictures of death and gore he'd rather keep forgotten.

Ayame knew better than to wake him up. She could tell from the cold aura that was suffocating her. It felt like freezing thorns were snaking around her throat-

He wasn't in a good mood.

Less than four hours of sleep was not doing the pinknette any favours. She slowly got used to the numbness spreading all over her body like a wildfire, claiming more senses as each second passed by.

Her surroundings suddenly stopped moving, a hint of panic became visible behind her eyes. A thick, royal purple tome with elegant golden letters on the front cover was lying on the ground. She was sure she'd seen it somewhere before, probably Satan's room.

She stumbled, losing her balance and falling directly onto the sleeping demon, making him groan in annoyance, as he was suddenly woken up.

He shot up, anger clear on his face as his sleep was once again cut short. Without realising, he transformed into his demon form and in one swift motion, threw the girl off of him, shouting threats in his sleep delirious state at whoever it was.

A dresser caught her, the sharp corner of the dull, grey polished wood sliced a deep wound in her side thanks to the force she was sent flying back by.

In a desperate attempt, she swiftly tried to press a shaking hand on her side, clutching it for dear life. She could feel the wet stain on her shirt slowly growing larger, and larger. Red like roses, it blossomed and bloomed.

Belphie was angry; no, he was fuming. Who dared to wake him up like that? Did they have a death wish?

His magenta eyes immediately softened when he saw who it actually was. Shock and confusion took over not a second later.

Her head was spinning. There was a stabbing pain she'd rather do without. A sharp breath escaped her lips as she applied more pressure in a feeble attempt to stop the bleeding.

Crimson drops silently fell to the ground, small crowns of regret and guilt formed beneath her shadow as she tried to keep her ragged breathing stable. The last thing she saw before she was pulled to a breathless void, was a very scared and panicked Belphegor rushing towards her.

He caught her as she slumped forward from where she was sitting against the wall. Her light pink hair silently fell in front of her pale features when she lost consciousness. Her body went limp against his. Kept in a weak yet gentle embrace, in the deepest part of the swirling thunderstorm that was her mind, she surprisingly felt safe.

#Ayame is my MC #obey me! shall we date?#obey me!#obey me shall we date #obey me #om! belphegor #belphegor obey me #idk i just felt like writing something

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smol-and-grumpy · 5 years ago

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Dear Dean (Chapter 15)

Re-post

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC (Jamie Blum)

WC: 4.6k

Summary: After taking Saint Lo, by sheer dumb luck, Lieutenant Dean Winchester from the 29th Infantry Division, Baker Company, received a truckload of replacements for his platoon that was falling apart. Little did he know, that one recruit would change his life forever.

Chapter Warnings: Whole lotta angst, description of PoW’s in WWII, loss of hope

SERIES MASTERLIST

October 13th, 1944

They marched toward Aachen in the middle of the night. The drumming of firearms could be heard, and it was astonishing how quickly an army can collapse. Baker went from being part of a well-armed, highly mechanized force to being lost in the open field.

Dean found himself with Harvelle and private Barnes running up against a hill that provided at least a little cover. The shells rained on them, and there was simply nothing they could have done other than run. Dean heard a crack and a sharp pain tore through his shin and the next thing he knew, he was lying on the ground in the damp autumn leaves.

“Fuck.”

“Sir, you ok?” Harvelle was beside him, his hand fisted in Dean’s webbing and he pulled Dean up.

“Shit, yeah. I just… ah!” Dean tried to balance his weight on both his legs but one of them would give out. “I think I broke my shin bone.”

“Shit, sir.” Barnes was on the other side of Dean, and then he ran away, returning with a branch. “Here,” Barnes worked swiftly, taking out the first aid kit from his webbing and secured the branch around Dean’s leg to support it. “Until we get to an aid station, sir.”

“Thank you, private.” Dean bit through his pain and surprisingly, it worked. He could keep going, although painfully and slow, but he could keep walking.

They lost track of their platoon and their whole company, hell, their whole infantry. Apart from a map and a compass, Dean had nothing on him. His rifle was long abandoned since he ran out of ammunition, and so were Harvelle and Barnes.

“Let’s rest here for the night.” Harvelle suggested when they came to an evergreen tree with low hanging branches. “It should keep us hidden for the night. We’ll go find the others in the morning.”

Dean had never been more thankful to have Harvelle around, because he couldn’t think straight anymore. There were so many thoughts in his head, and they kept screaming at him. He had trouble sorting them.

“You ok, Lieutenant?” Barnes asked, fishing out his canteen from his webbing and handing it to Dean.

“You look out for yourself, alright, Barnes. I’m good. Thanks.”

They huddled together for the night, with Dean in the middle. He didn’t know how he deserved to have such great friends who took care of him even though he wasn’t always the best friend to them. He knew that he’d been an asshole at times.

“If we ever get out I’m getting myself some damn pie.” Dean chuckled to himself, trying to humor the men and they laughed with him.

“I want to see Lisa.” Harvelle said.

“So you two, huh?” Dean raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah. I’d like to think that.” Harvelle mumbled and Dean was sure that if there would be light, he would see Harvelle blushing.

Barnes said that he’d like to see his high school sweetheart again. She sent him a Dear John letter when he was still in Basic.

“What’s the name of your girl, Lieutenant?” Barnes asked, and the question caught Dean off guard.

Dean nibbled on his bottom lip, deciding if he should tell them or not. He figured that getting out alive wasn’t guaranteed, and if they did their bond would be beyond anything superficial. He knew that he trusted them to keep it to themselves.

“Jamie.” He answered.

“Jamie?” Harvelle raised an eyebrow in question.

“Yeah, Jamie.” Dean repeated again.

“As in Jamie Blum?” Barnes asked.

“Yeah.”

“What? You queer Lieutenant?” Barnes was confused, and Harvelle laughed at that.

“No, I’m not.” Dean couldn’t hide his grin.

“No shit sir, I knew that Jamie wasn’t what he said he was, but I didn’t want to say anything because he did a freaking good job.”

“She did a good job, yes.” Dean said, his voice low. “I wanna go home to her.”

“Well shit sir, we gonna haul your ass back, that’s for sure. At least one of us should have a happy ending. You fought for it, you damn well deserve it.”

“Barnes,” Dean chuckled. “Stop crawling up my ass.”

“Yes, sir.”

***

October 14th, 1944

Dean couldn’t sleep. So he volunteered to keep watch while the other two were asleep beside him. It was dawn when he heard the snap of fallen branches being stepped on.

Shit.

He could sense that the Germans were closing in on them.

There was only one way out. Dean hated to admit it, but it was better than being shot at. He woke up Harvelle and Barnes to talk them through his plan. He would go out alone to give them a chance to get away. It was the only route they could take, but they wouldn’t hear it. They wouldn’t abandon him. “No shit sir, we’re in this together. We’re not leaving you behind.”

Harvelle took off his white undershirt and secured the shirt to a branch that they found.

There were four German soldiers with rifles. “Halt! Hände nach oben wo wir sie sehen können!”

Dean didn’t need to have a German degree to know that it meant that they should show their hands.

Dean had a broken leg, and Harvelle was waving a white flag. They all had their hands in the air while the German pointed their rifles at them, and all Dean could think was please don’t shoot, please don’t fucking shoot.

The Germans marched them to a barn and although it hurt like hell, Dean sucked it up. He couldn’t show that he was vulnerable. He knew that if they thought that Dean wasn’t well enough to be moved, he would be shot - point blank - and left behind.

They were holed up in a small room until a German officer arrived. He pointed for Dean to come with him. That’s it. That’s how I’m going to die. That was Dean’s only thought, and it was on repeat in his echoing mind.

The officer asked him questions. His English was broken and Dean’s German was non-existence. When the officer knew that he couldn’t understand a word Dean said anyway, he let Dean go, probably deciding that Dean needed to be interrogated by someone else. Nonetheless they thought that Dean would maybe be valuable to them since he was an officer and had intel. They were determined to keep him alive. He returned to Harvelle and Barnes with a loaf of bread and some kind of stinking German sausage.

***

October 16th, 1944

They rounded Dean up with the rest of the POW they captured in the last couple of days and Dean was glad that he didn’t see any familiar faces. Just someone he thought was from Gabriel’s unit, but he couldn’t be sure because the soldier had a bandage that covered his face.

Dean’s leg was giving him troubles. It was swollen, it hurt less though, so there was that. Dean needed to keep biting on his lips and keep going.

They started marching. Hundreds of them and even though Harvelle and Barnes tried to help Dean, he wouldn’t let them. There was no need to show them that he was weak and plus, he didn’t want to pull Harvelle and Barnes down with him.

***

October 18th, 1944

Finally after more than a day, they reached a railroad. The train was a line of boxcars, maybe even the same one they used to transport people to the concentration camps. They pushed the prisoners inside and locked it up. Dean was thirsty, but there were people around him that were dying so he guessed that being thirsty was the least of his problems at that moment.

They spent days in that carriage, without food or water, and two steel helmets became a latrine for over 80 men. It was terrible.

The train halted every so often on the way, and there were prisoners getting on and off but never Dean or his friends.

Finally they arrived at Stalag IV-B. It was near an eastern town called Mühlberg. They lined him, and the others in front of barracks. He waited until it was his turn to enter the building.

There were about five desks lined up and they were occupied with 5 men who were sitting there, waiting to interrogate the prisoners. Dean could see that they wore British officers uniform and they spoke in an English accent. It didn’t make much sense that the British were at German camps, but again, Dean hadn’t eaten or drank anything in days, he was delirious, and it could have well been German officers who spoke perfect English. He didn’t know anymore.

Dean could hear the questions being asked to the men in front of him, and they were revealing too much. In training, Dean was told that the only information he should supply was his name, rank, and serial number. Nothing more, nothing less.

It was Dean’s turn now.

“What’s your name?”

“Dean Winchester.”

“What’s your rank?”

“Lieutenant.”

“What’s your serial number?”

Dean had trouble remembering for a moment before it came to him and he rattled it to the interrogator.

The questions didn’t stop, though. What’s your outfit? Where were you captured? Where are you from? Parent’s name? Religion?

Dean answered them with “Sorry, sir.”

“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”

“Probably a couple of days, sir.”

“Lieutenant, I will ask these questions one more time. If you don’t answer, you won’t eat for another two weeks!”

Not answering them would be suicide, because two weeks could turn into a month, a month could turn into two; until Dean would be withering away. So he answered, because he made a promise. He wanted to go home.

After the questioning they let him walk, out and he was assigned to a barrack. They took him to the infirmary, too. It turned out that his bones began to grow back together, although funnily. They didn’t have surgeon’s there that could correct it, and so Dean was given pain killers to endure it until it got better.

However, Barnes wasn’t that lucky. They rounded them up one time and selected out the Jewish prisoners to be transferred. Dean didn’t know where they have taken Barnes, but he hoped that it wouldn’t be a freaking concentration camp.

***

October 23rd, 1944

Dean could move around freely in the camp, at least as good as his leg allowed. He was a commissioned officer so, according to the Geneva Convention on Prisoners of War, he was not required to work. He would see Harvelle who was a NCO working outside sometimes, but the NCO’s only had supervisory roles. It was just his luck to not have to see his friend suffer. Apart from Barnes, that is. Dean hoped that he was ok.

Every now and then, Dean would take a walk out. He still had a limp, but it got better every day. He knew that the duty of a POW was to escape when possible, even if there was no real hope of getting home. The reason for this was because every escaped prisoner took the efforts of thousands of enemy soldiers to search for them, soldiers who would otherwise be able to fight at the front. Even getting away for a few hours was a help in tying up the enemy.

Dean would have maybe tried it if his legs wouldn’t have been fucked up or if he had nothing to look forward to at home. But he made a promise. He was going to fucking get back to Bambi, even if it meant that he would probably lose a leg. A leg was still better than his life.

The only thing that kept Dean alive were the letters he wrote to Jamie. Her address had been stripped off of him, as well as her note. The only thing he had was the photographs he kept in his helmet. The letters couldn’t be sent out to her because he wasn’t allowed to write a lot. They were strict, only allowing them to write letters that were two sides of notepaper. The only thing that kept Dean going was the letters he wrote that he intended to give to her whenever he got out. He just hoped that he’d live to see the day.

Dear Bambi,

I wasn’t so lucky. Harvelle, Barnes, and me were separated from the whole company. Some Krauts found us, and brought us back to camp. I broke my shin bone. Don’t worry, it started to grow back, apparently. I’m just limping. I hope you won’t be appalled by that. Yeah, you’re right, I’m talking bullshit. Of course you wouldn’t.

Fuck, Jamie, they asked me so many things, and I told them everything I knew. I try to keep myself alive and you know why? Because I made you a promise, and I want to go back. Back home to you.

Barnes was rounded up and collected for transport. He’s Jewish, did you know that? I didn’t. Which is another thing that angers me. What does it matter if someone is Jewish or not? We fight the same war, we breathe the same air, hell, we’re all humans. Well, now I really can’t send out this letter, because it would probably get me killed. Not that I could because they took all my belongings, including your address and shit, Jamie, all I have is your photograph. I’m so fucking thankful for that.

You told me in your last letter that you wrote to Sam. I’m sorry that I couldn’t answer your letter. There simply was no time to pen a letter out before I got captured. Jamie, Sammy.. Sam, he.. shit. I even have trouble writing it. He got killed. Stood too close to an explosive. I was devastated. I had no reason to live anymore until I remembered that there’s still something worth living for. It’s you, Bambi.

Sam would have wanted that. Sam would kick my ass if I gave you up. Sammy would haunt me in my dreams if I let the opportunity of something good slip out of my grip. Hold on, alright, I’m coming home. Soon-ish. Hopefully.

Shit, you’re probably worried about why I didn’t write you back. Why your letters won’t be sent back or answered. I don’t even know if the Red Cross has gotten the information that I’m here. So far no care packages have been distributed. Hell, I don’t even know if Cas knows that I’m here.

Harvelle is doing good. He’s been working a little, but I’m off work for good. The war is over, Bambi. At least for us.

I’ll be moved to another camp soon, though. They are making arrangements and word is that it’s even better than this one. Maybe I’ll get to sleep somewhere warm? It’s freaking cold during the night and while I’m used to being out in the cold, I feel like I’ve never been this cold before. Maybe I’ll even get someone to look at my fucked up leg. Who knows. But yeah, somewhere warm would be nice. There are prisoners dying of pneumonia here and that’s the last thing I want to be. Dead, I mean. I’ve come this far.

Harvelle and Barnes told me that I deserve to go back and be happy with you, you know. Yeah, you’d probably punch me, but I told them about you. Harvelle knew it already. He said that it was weird that you never had to shave and that your legs weren’t hairy. He said he didn’t really know that you were a girl, but he thought that you maybe a very feminine guy. Guess he was a little disappointed that I’m not queer. I think he has a crush on me. But also I’m a fucking dreamboat, so can’t blame him for trying.

I wish I could send this out. Let you know that I’m fine. That you shouldn’t worry. I’m also curious to know about your big news and god, I wish I could see you in that dress.

I’ll see you soon, alright? Sit tight, sweetheart.

Yours,

Dean

December 24th, 1944

Dear Jamie,

We’ve marched over 200 miles through mud and snow. I’m still limping. So there’s that. But I survived. I saw men collapsing in front of me. They were shot at, and transported to a place where they put the dead bodies onto a pile. It was terrible.

I’ve been in Oflag XIII-B for a couple of days now. I was transferred through other camps on the way though. They have trouble rearranging the prisoners because they caught so many. I hope we’re still winning. Are we winning?

It’s even colder here than the first camp I’ve been. I don’t think it’s over 20°F at night. I’m freezing my ass off, Bambi. Wish you could be here to keep me warm. No, wait, if I gotta wish for something, I’d wish for me to be there with you, where it’s warm. In your arms. Or you in mine. I’m not particularly picky at the moment. You can bury your face right into the crook of my neck like you always did. I’d love that.

I lost sight of Harvelle. Shit, I hope he’s ok. We went through the first two camps together, and then we got separated.

I think the Red Cross had forgotten about us. I haven’t received a single letter or care package from them since I’ve been imprisoned, but there are a couple of officers from Serbia and they share. They’re good people, you know. We talk a lot, at least we try to but the language barrier is a bitch. Nonetheless they seem to understand what I was saying and vice versa. We’re all humans, we communicate with hands and feet and we laugh and cry together. It’s good, Jamie. Not as good as being home. Way worse than being with you, but I’m getting there. I’m working to get there.

I keep your picture with me all the time. I don’t dare to leave it laying around. Who knows? Maybe they’d take it away from me, or one of the Serbian officers needs to jack off to the picture, and I can’t let that happen. If someone is going to jack off to the photograph, I think it’s my fucking right that that someone should be me, don’t you think? Who knows, I maybe did a couple of times. Don’t shame me, alright. I’m lonely and there’s nothing but men and a couple of nurses that look like they could end me if I say the wrong thing so yeah. You and me, we both know that I’m not queer. And besides, even if I was, I wouldn’t stray. I have you to look forward to.

No, but seriously, I keep it with me all the time because it’s the last thing I have that feels like home.

I bet your hair’s longer now, and I can picture you sitting in your warm home, in your sundress (I know it’s cold, but I can dream, right?) and smiling. I hope you smile, Bambi. I hope you’re not sad that I stopped sending letters to you. Maybe you did hear from the others, maybe Tran - if he’s still alive, that I’m MIA? I hope the news reached you so at least you’d have closure. I’m not MIA. I’m very well still here, I know where I am, but I don’t know if everyone knows. I hope that Tran can send you a letter, saying what happened. He doesn’t know about Sam though, so that’s going to be a surprise for you.

I’m sorry that I can’t be there for you, writing you letters that would reach you. I’m sad that you can’t be here for me, too. You can’t even imagine what I would give to hear from you.

I’m not allowed to send letters to my old company. In fact, I’m not allowed to send letters to the regiment at all. It should go via Red Cross, but I guess the Red Cross is not really giving a shit about me right now. Maybe they do, but they’re busy because god, I saw how many of us there were. Marching through snow and cold and there were new faces every day.

I guess being POW is still better than dying. At least for me. So that’s also good. But what do I know? I’m a commissioned officer, I don’t have to do anything else than exist. There are others who go through hard labor every day. I feel for them. I wish I could help but I’m just one in a million, and I have a fucked up leg.

The reason for this letter was only to wish you a Merry Christmas, but I guess I went slightly off the rails.

So, Merry Christmas, sweetheart.

I hope you are having a good one and you are warm.

Shit, I miss you so fucking much.

Yours,

Dean

February 14th, 1945

Dear Jamie,

The situation has not changed. I’ve scribbled out notes to you, but there was just nothing happening around here. I guess that it must be boring for you to hear about my daily life which consists of doing next to nothing.

I walk around a lot, though. Trying to keep me going and keep my strength. I can now run a little too, and I do regular exercise. Still limping, but hey, I get used to it. I try to keep myself in shape for when I go back to you. So that you’d still know me when you see me and not, like, being only skin and bones.

We don’t have enough food around though, so I lost a lot of weight. Thanks to the Serbian officers, we still have enough to keep us going. They share their Red Cross packages on a daily basis. I always get the raisins though. I used to hate raisins but now it’s just like, whatever I can fit in my belly, I do. Guess being starved does things to you.

Your picture is slowly fading, but I still keep it in my pocket. I just have to limit the amount of time I take it out because that way, it’ll stay longer. I still jack off to it, though, so there’s that. Benjamin, a Serbian officer walked in on me doing it and asked if he could borrow the picture. It nearly ended in a fist fight, but we’re best friends now. And no, I didn’t let him borrow the picture, don’t worry. Told him to stay well in his lane.

I had a dream about you, Bambi. We were back at Brest. I don’t know what I said or did, but you were so fucking mad at me. You practically spit your words in my face. I told you not to walk away, but you still did. I spent the day making it up to you. I kept trying until you were talking to me again. It started as a nightmare and god, I don’t wanna relive it again. If I should ever do something that angers you, please don’t just walk away. Alright? I hate that. I.. fuck, and I was so scared that you’d leave. Jamie, you’re the only thing that keeps me going. That keeps me the fuck alive. I don’t wanna lose that. If I lose you, I have nothing left. I might as well go on hunger strike and wither away or maybe find a rifle and blow my head with it. I don’t know.. I’m sorry I’m being all pessimistic, but..shit..Bambi I’ve been here for so long and there’s no sign of getting out. I’m so fucking scared that I won’t get to see your face again, and that’s all I want. Seeing you. Seeing you smile at me.

I don’t even know if you’re romantic. I guess we all have a little romance in us, but the reason for this letter was to wish you Happy Valentine’s Day. I wish I could show you how much you mean to me.

Hold on, alright? Because I am.

I love you so fucking much, and I’m afraid that I’ll smother you with it. Sorry.

Yours,

Dean

March 27th, 1945

There were shouts of Americans and Germans, and the shells and mortars were raining over his head. Dean found a place to hide, because there was no way he was going into combat with a fucked up leg and especially without a freaking weapon on him.

He heard Germans running to defend the gates, and there were Americans shouting for them to give up.

They’ve come. They have come to free them.

It was a disaster, though. The mission was a failure and when everything was over. Dean walked out of his barracks to the bodies of several hundred American soldiers. Some buildings were destroyed, but none of the prisoners could escape.

March 31st, 1945

Dear Jamie,

I don’t even know when your birthday is. So if it’s today, Happy Birthday sweetheart.

Other than that, I’ve been transferred to another camp. Oflag XIII-B had been destroyed in an attempt to liberate the prisoners. There were destroyed Tanks and corpses everywhere, Jamie.

I had hope that they would succeed, that I could walk out of there alive. Well, I mean, I am still alive, but I’m also still a prisoner. They evacuated us and marched us another 100 miles to another camp. I’m now at Stalag-VII-A, and maybe one of the reasons the Red Cross don’t know about me is because I’ve been moved so many freaking times.

Jamie, I wanted to tell you that I have given up a little hope. Don’t get me wrong, I still wanna get out of here. I still have your picture in my pocket - now I’m even more careful about it because this camp is much bigger, and I would not want to lose your picture - but I think it was unfair of me to make you wait for me. Thank god you didn’t get the letters that I begged you to wait for me. I mean, I hope that you would, but I get it. I wouldn’t be mad if you didn’t. It has been what? 5 months? You deserve happiness, Bambi, and if I could make you happy, believe me, I would. There’s no question about it. I’m here, still breathing and talking shit, but I’m not with you. It’s not my place to tell you to wait. I hope you can find happiness Jamie. I hope you can find a good man who would be there for you, take care of you, and give you everything you want and need. I wish I could be that man, but I’m not.

One day, if I get out of here, I will come see you anyway. I will find your address and I will turn up at your door. I will give you all the letters and notes that I’ve been scribbling down since my capture. I just want to give it to you, nothing more. I’ll be out of your hair if you don’t want me to stay, but if you do, I’d be happy to.

I just want you to know that I have never forgotten you. You’re the first thing on my mind when I wake up in my sorry excuse for a bed. You’re the last thing on my mind before I count sheep and try to fall asleep and dream of you.

I hope you find peace, Bambi and most of all, I hope that you’re happy.

I’m not telling you to hold on. I love you, is all.

Yours,

Dean

CHAPTER 16

#dear dean #dean winchester #dean winchester x oc #dean x oc #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fan fic #dean winchester fan fiction #spn fic #spn au fic #nathalie writes

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wolfpawn · 6 years ago

Text

When Ghosts Come For Us

Chapter 50

NOTE This is based on the movie Crimson Peak, so if any of the subject matter in that was uncomfortable for you, you will find this similar. I will *NOT* be describing incest in this, it will only be implied, same as the movie.

As I have stated already, my laptop is broken at present so please excuse grammar mistakes and the lack of GIFs and pics.

Also, I do not own any image or gif used in this story.

HERE is the link to Chapter 1 on Ao3

Rating - Mature

“I’m fine.” “Lady Sharpe...” “Mrs Matthews, I said I am fine, please, my letters and some writing material,” Charlotte ordered before shifting slightly. “Perhaps a blanket behind my back?” Margaret immediately complied, recalling when Charlotte was on forced bedrest carrying Thomas Jr and liked to sit up in the bed. “Thank you.” It had been over two weeks since she had caught pneumonia and had been forced to fight for her life. She was grateful at least that she was so delirious with fever, she had not felt her body be forced to cease making milk. According to one of the nursemaids, that was horrid and meant burning and painful breasts. “Little graces” Charlotte had called it. She was still weak, her voice was barely more than a whisper as her throat was still recovering and she was only about to drink liquidised meals and most of which seemed to be chicken soup, but she was fine with it. She did not mind the meal and she could feel her body strengthen with every bowl.

She demanded that Thomas be brought in twice a day to her again. She knew she was too weak to even hold him, but she wanted to see him and have him see her. She was terrified that he would forget her in their time apart and that would hurt her more than any beating her parents ever inflicted on her. She had decided to write to her brother and her husband.

As Thomas suspected, as soon as she was over the fever stage, she was adamant she would defeat her illness and under no circumstance was he to engineer a situation where Mr Brown would gain from them any more than they had to bribe him with. Her first order when given a piece of paper to write with in her weakened state was to telegram Thomas and tell him to stay in Allerdale Hall and ready everything. She knew as well as Thomas that Mr Brown would see that the mines were more profitable than even they had thought it would be and with the local police station being the first of many new and local contracts they had been asked for, there was high chance that if he would not go for Charlotte’s fortune but that he would focus on the mine’s deeds and she could not allow that. That was her son’s future, his guarantee of wealth after she left this world and there was no way she would risk it. If she were to die, she would still die with or without Thomas being in Pembrokeshire.

Dearest Edward,

I miss you terribly. I know that were you here, you would have my head hurting from the lectures of what was I thinking. I can even hear your voice as you say it, that little vein in your forehead only fit to pop because of the frustration my actions have caused you. I am so sorry, big brother. I am sorry for the stress and concern I have thrust upon you. I am fine, tired, worn and more than a little cold, but fine, nonetheless.

I have done nothing but eat chicken soup these past two weeks, I fear if I eat much more, I will begin to grow feathers!

I finally seem to be able to wiggle my toes again. I was worried for a time, they seemed reluctant to even work, all I felt there was coldness, it was not pleasant. I had to be bought workmen’s socks, several pairs. I look ridiculous, I think you would find it funny also.

I love you, Edward, so very much. While I was ill, I thought of you. I dreamt that you and Joanne wed and that you had a little girl with the most beautiful auburn hair. I do not know why I saw her with that particular colour hair, you are blonde haired and Joanne is brown, but if you saw her, I wanted to cuddle her so tight, she was the most beautiful little thing. She looked a lot like you. I hope it comes to pass. It brought me joy in my sickness.

Tell Joanne I think of her too, and Mrs Davies, of course. I hope to embarrass you many times more with her come spring. I think when I return to Cumbria, I will make more time to visit her and you too, I suppose (I jest). I realise here how alone I am, even in Allerdale Hall. It is unhealthy and I will have to rectify that.

I fear I must rest now. I did not think writing would exhaust me so, yet I find myself fighting sleep now.

I love you, Edward.

Please look out for Thomas if you see him.

Charlotte.

She forced herself to stay awake long enough to write the address and seal the letter. “Margaret?” “Yes Ma’am?” her ever faithful maid was to her side a moment later.

“Keep these together. I have written to Dr Thompson of what was said of my condition, I will write to my husband when I wake.” “Of course, Ma’am. I will not have Dr Thompson’s posted until you write to Sir Thomas,” Margaret swore as she took the small tray Charlotte had been using to write on away. “Thank you. I just need a small rest.” With that, she lay her head on the pillow and closed her eyes.

Used to her routine from when she had served Charlotte on bedrest, Margaret removed the extra blanket behind Charlotte and placed it to the side, knowing it caused her back to arch too much as she slept before going and informing Mrs Matthews of such.

“What was she like in Cumbria?” Jane, the maid who shared with Margaret asked.

“She is so lovely, she always smiles and is kind. She makes sure Mrs Phillips and I bring home extra food if we’re hungry.” “Don’t you live at the house?” “No, it’s too old and parts of it are falling down. I mean, Lady Sharpe is ‘avin’ it fixed in all, but that ‘ouse is only fit to be knocked. It’s sinking into the clay.” “She really is foolish if she is wasting money doing that.” Margaret frowned. She didn’t like how people dismissed Charlotte as a silly woman with little thoughts of substance. She knew that Charlotte was well read and always seemed to know all the odd and complex things Sir Sharpe’s machines did. She didn’t seem as silly as people thought her to be. “I dunno. She seems to know some stuff.” “She went out in the rain and nearly got killed. She fed her baby herself. I don’t think she is smart enough to be left with so much money. It’s a good thing she married a businessman, according to Mrs Matthews, they are worth even more now.” Margaret said nothing. She walked into Thomas’s workshop more than once with his tea to see her employers discussing business decisions together. One time, she heard Sir Thomas state very clearly that Charlotte’s idea had made them a small fortune. Even if she was not the smartest woman, recalling her leaving the house a few days after Master Thomas was born in anger and postnatal hormones, she clearly was not without some mind. “I dunno but what I do know is, if I ever marry, I want to be like ‘er and Sir Sharpe.” “They love each other?” “It’s more than love. D’you know when people talk about soulmates, ‘ow they say they just know each other and are like dance partners, perfectly matched?” Jane nodded. “That’s them. They always seem so ‘appy to just sit with each other and read some book. I see ‘ow Sir Sharpe looks at her, like she is some sort of rare thing, y’know, som-ing not everyone sees and ‘e is like, amazed by it. He loves ‘er so much and the way she smiles at ‘im.” “Wow, I don’t think we’ll ever see that.” Jane was envious at the fairytale-like manner her employers seem to love one another.

“What, not wiv John the gardener?” Margaret jested, referencing the man of forty years of age that seemed to salute the maids as though there were any chance teenage girls would find him attractive. Both girls snorted in laughter at that.

“The only way I would marry an older man is if he was like Mr Hamilton, God rest him.” “What d’you mean?” “Well, before Lady Sharpe was Lady Sharpe, she was Lady Hamilton, did you know that?” Margaret nodded, Mrs Phillips had told her such when she went to Allerdale Hall. “Well, he was fifteen years Lady Sharpe’s senior. Apparently, as nice as they were to one another, and Mr Hamilton was fond of her, she was here to give him children and that alone, hence him choosing a young bride.”

“Oh.” “Yeah, apparently he took her from marrying some young man and paid his fees for him to become a doctor as a way of buying her off him.”

Margaret’s mind immediately went to Dr Thompson and the fact that Lady Sharpe had written him before writing to her husband. “Really?” “Yeah, that’s why I heard anyway.” Jane shrugged.

“According to Mrs Phillips, she is a cousin of that doctor.” “Why would you push for your husband to pay for some cousin to become a doctor?” “I ‘eard his father died when he was young and she wanted to ‘elp ‘im.” “No one helps like that.” “Lady Charlotte does. She went and found him a suitable courtship too, wiv a lovely girl from our town. She genuinely cares for people.” “If she cared that much, she’d pay us more.”

Margaret silenced, she could see no matter what, Jane thought little of Lady Charlotte, a woman she cared for as an employer. She always checked on her wellbeing in Allerdale Hall and her kindness to care for her wellbeing in Foxgrove also came to the fore.

Thomas looked around warily. The shadows were becoming more and more frequent, as were the cries. When Mrs Phillips left each night, he became all the more skittish. What scared him even more was that Blake seemed aware of said shadows also. Since Charlotte sent a letter to him explaining she was feeling better and that she wished for the work to end soon so that she could see him again, the art room seemed to be far warmer again and Blake seemed to cease his pining in there from the day before the telegram came, in fact, it ceased the day the telegram was dated from as the date that Charlotte had written it. Instead, Thomas noticed that Blake seemed to have taken on a new role; He was now acting as Thomas’s guardian. When Thomas thought he saw shadows or felt a presence near him in the empty house, Blake was by his side, ready to attack, growling and baring his teeth if required at the direction of the shadows. He would not be parted from Thomas now, he clearly felt it his duty to protect his master, even from the unknown.

Tags @whovianwookie86-captainxev @ilovekingt @sigridlaufeyson @lokiloveheart @lokilover9 @texmexdarling @perpetual-fangirl @wolfsmom1

#thomas sharpe #lucille sharpe #when ghosts come for us #chapter 50 #crimson peak story #crimson peak

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