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deluxewhump · 5 months ago

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Pride of Princes

A story in the Blackmuir Reign verse

3. Roan and Aedric - then you shall have it

CW: fantasy whump, imprisonment, burning, torture, fantasy religious persecution, fantasy politics, royal caretaker, arranged marriage, manhandling, trust building

There were only two days remaining until his trial. Roan knew the outcome would not be good, but he did hope it would be swift. His execution, he'd heard, would not be. Cleric Aflonsus had promised him the same thing the prince had warned him of.

He’d prefer a beheading, or hanging even, to the stake. He tried not to think about it. He thought of his home, of the woodsmoke and the morning bird calls, of Thraxanthe and Arvid, and of his cat, Rooka. Yellow fields bent heavy with snowfall, birch trees against a slate sky. Rooka was alright, at least. One of his servants would have collected her by now, or Athelsted. His father’s men had taken him so swiftly that morning, an offering to King Blackmuir’s eldest son, he hadn’t had time to think of poor Rooka.

They came again to hurt him yesterday, but he didn’t worry about breaking, now. He didn’t fear recanting, or denouncing. He’d found another place to put that in his mind, where it would not slip inadvertently out of his mouth in between screams. A few times he’d begged a particular soldier or a stony-eyed knight, pleading with him for mercy, but never a cleric. And he’d never uttered a word of surrender, even then. The white robes visited him in his dreams. Particularly Alfonsus, with eyes like a frozen stream, his pale beard like a wooden puppet-mouth that moved up and down when he spoke.

Now he was certain when he did die, he’d be reunited with the forests and marshes of his home. Maybe the faces of the gods would, for the first time since he was a small child, be clear again.

The bolt sliding on his cell door made him jump. He’d been dreaming awake again, eyes open but unseeing. With the jolt of fear came the reminders of his worst physical pain, which was now the burnt soles of his feet. It was not a cleric in the doorway, or a soldier. It was the Blackmuir prince.

Aedric had been unexpectedly kind to him, despite his refusal to accept the Tercet on the king’s command. He’d brought a healer every day, along with food from the kitchens, fresh water, and clean blankets. Roan couldn’t quite understand why. They had never met, never even corresponded. The first time he’d laid eyes on him was in the Oath Hall of castle Blackmuir, and he was already a traitor and a heretic. And yet Aedric had tried to argue his imprisonment. Still, it was hard to imagine he did not have an ulterior motive. Roan had just been too exhausted, too hurt to figure out what it might be. He was acutely aware of the prince in his cell whenever the healer was, pacing slowly back and forth and stopping to watch whenever he’d whimper or cry out at the healer’s hands cleaning his wounds or treating a particularly deep bruise.

Now the prince came alone. Roan sat up painfully, using his hands to scoot himself back against the wall of the cell. He didn’t want the red and weeping soles of his feet to touch the stones. The prince did not seem to notice his trepidation, or his hurt feet. He came close, sinking to his knees in front of him. Roan stiffened in heart-pounding fear at the sudden proximity, despite the fact that this man had never hurt him.

“I’ve gotten it postponed,” said the prince. “Your trial. Another month.”

Roan blinked at him as if he were an apparition. “It’s in two days.”

“Not now. A month. And,” he said, giving Roan something of a cautious smile, “I am in charge of your care until that date. I convinced him. My father.”

Roan blinked, uncomprehending.

The prince’s brow furrowed. “That’s a good thing. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

He could’ve, once. Recently, even. Now his head swam, and his limbs felt heavy all the time. That last session had taken something vital from him. Even this felt like a dream, now that his initial fear had faded from hearing the bolt on the door.

“You can come out of here,” the prince was saying softly. He had a gentle way about him sometimes, but so did the cleric. “I’m not keeping you down here. Come with me. Let’s go.”

But he couldn’t walk. The prince tried to take his arm and he snatched it away. “No,” he whispered.

“No? You want to stay here?”

Yes. He could stay in his corner and await his fate. He’d adjusted to that. He could handle that. Moving meant uncertainty, and he didn’t think he could take uncertainty anymore. Not with the bottoms of his feet on fire and his head so heavy. He rested it against the cool wall of his cell, and tears wet his cheeks. He hadn’t meant to cry. Not in front of the prince. He hated the Blackmuirs, and the Muirlands, though at the moment he couldn’t remember how to articulate why.

Prince Aedric sat down beside him, on his left, with his back pressed against the same wall. He was quiet for a long time. Roan found the strength to lift his wrist to his face and wipe away the wetness. “My feet,” he said, when it occurred to him that the prince had always helped his wounds, thus far, not given him more.

“What’s wrong?”

“They burned them. Yesterday.” Though he would regret sharing the detail later, he pressed on now. “A taste of what will come if I don’t give them what they want.”

Again, the Blackmuir prince was silent. Roan fell asleep, or perhaps passed out. When he woke, two guards were lifting him, each grabbing him under one arm. They wore the Blackmuir crest on their chests. He protested weakly. He knew what was next. It had only been a day. He couldn’t do it again, so soon. Fear roused him enough to struggle. “Please,” he sobbed.

“Roan.”

It was Prince Aedric.

“They’re with me. They’re not here to hurt you. Don’t fight them.”

They picked him up so he wouldn’t have to put any weight on his feet, and carried him out of the cells.

Aedric had Roan Barrowfen taken to the same physician that treated him during his imprisonment. Roan was awake, but largely unresponsive to both words and touch. Only when the healer worked on his burned feet did he grit his teeth tight and moan.

Aedric went to his side, thinking maybe it would be appropriate to offer a hand to squeeze, or some words of encouragement. Roan Barrowfen did not take his offered hand, and closed his eyes tightly against anything he said.

He slept a long time in the infirmary in a low straw cot. The following day, when he had bathed himself (he would not consent to be helped, not by Aedric or a healer or even a servant, which Aedric offered), Aedric took him to his own rooms.

Before all of this, he’d imagined spending a night or two alone with him, getting to know one another. He’d assumed they would want to sleep together, or at least try a kiss, a touch. He’d imagined himself as the one who would initiate, if it seemed appropriate, and who would do his best to make his new peaceweaver feel welcome, in every sense of the word.

He had not imagined it would all go as awry as this.

Roan looked about his chambers, a suite with a bedroom and an adjacent sitting room. The anteroom alone consisted of two stone hearths. In the second room was a large bed with a canopy for both warmth and privacy, a basin of water, and white pine coffers above which hung an ornate mirror of smooth southerly glass. Nearby was a heavy oak table cluttered with documents and inkwells beneath a tall, narrow window.

“Are you accustomed to finer?” he teased.

“No,” Roan answered seriously. “Our keep is similar in style. We are northern, too, though you call us easterly here. But our keep is smaller, and our mirror glass is not so fine as that.”

“Your feet must pain you. Please, get off of them. They need to heal.”

Roan didn’t argue, and limped gingerly to the table under the window on a set of crutches given to him by the healer. He was pale, and shaking slightly from the effort of coming here himself, which he’d insisted on. Aedric thought he just couldn’t bear the idea of being handled by Blackmuir guards any more. He seemed much more present than he had the day before, at least. Fully lucid, for better or worse.

“May I ask you something?” he said after Roan had seated himself and laid the crutches aside.

Roan looked up at him as he approached, rings of exhaustion under his eyes. His coal dark hair, which had been filthy from the cells and the mistreatment was now shining and soft from the bath.

“Did you and I exchange a letter?” Aedric asked.

Roan frowned in puzzlement. “No.”

Aedric sat in the nearest chair facing him across a corner of the table. “I was afraid of that.”

“Someone sent a letter to you? As me?”

Aedric rifled through a stack of documents until he found it, and slid it over the table to him.

Roan picked it up and skimmed it, his look of confusion turning into annoyance. “This isn’t mine. That’s not even my signature.”

“Whose, then?” Aedric saw a look of alarm, bordering on fear, cross Roan’s face and hurried to add, “I believe you. I’m not challenging you. I just wonder if you know who might have written it.”

“Some scribe,” Roan answered, and slid the letter back to him. “On the instructions of my father.”

“Did you even agree to come here?”

Roan looked at him carefully, no doubt wondering if he should be candid. “No,” he said after a moment's deliberation. “I did not.”

“Your father arranged it without your knowledge, then?”

“I’m sure. You heard the king. He wrote in that letter that if I would not capitulate, you had his blessing to use me as an example. He is displeased with my refusal to convert. As displeased as everyone else, it seems.” He thought for a moment, tilting his pretty head. His voice took the slightest inflection of a question. “Everyone but you?”

“It’s of very little concern to me.”

Roan narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

He shrugged out of his black-and-silver cloak, holding it aloft to offer it to Roan in case he was cold. Roan stiffened and shook his head, so Aedric laid it across the nearest empty chair. “There’s a dozen religions, and subsects of them, from here to Aepoli,” he said. “Perhaps a dozen more to the west.”

He wanted to tell him that Miline was southerly, and in their ten years of marriage still observed her traditions of star-reading, and their holidays of solstice. But since the Tercet had gained popularity, this sort of information was suddenly quite sensitive, and could be used against her if someone ever wished. She no longer left evidence of this practice lying around, even where her own handmaids might see. Aedric certainly wasn’t going to tell Roan, even if it might help his argument. “I don’t have any preference on what gods you claim. Which is why I didn’t ask in my letter, which I now realize you never read. I didn’t think it had any bearing on the success of the arrangement.”

“The king clearly does.”

He is bold, Aedrick thought. Bold and direct, even after being shown what that could earn him in the Muirlands. Aedric placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward. He tried to gentle his voice. “If you had not made such an adamant declaration, it would have gone unnoticed.”

“You would have me lie?”

“I would have you live. I would have advised you to be subtle.”

“The Tercet is the official religion of the kingdom now, is it not? Of your family’s reign?”

“Not quite.”

“But it’s heading in that direction?”

“Yes. For now.”

“For now? What does that mean?”

“It means I am not so sure it’s a good idea. The clerics… they have a concerning amount of power already, and if it becomes officiated, they will ask for even more. Or quietly take it. Cleric Afonsus is a cunning man. I’m sure you’ve become acquainted with him, by now?”

Roan tried not to flinch at the name, but Aedric saw his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “Yes.”

“I thought so. My father suffered an illness this spring. He’s not been entirely himself since. Please don’t repeat this, but there is a widening gap of power. I believe the Tercet leaders are after an inordinate amount of that power. My father can’t see it now, but by tying the Tercet to the reign, they will achieve this.”

“Does it not serve your interests? Does it not make you god-kings?”

“God-appointed kings,” Aedric corrected. “As appealing as that sounds, I fear it will turn them into kingmakers.”

“So you would oppose the officiation?”

“I would deny them outright.”

“Then alas that you are not our king.”

He ignored the treasonous tone of that remark. He didn’t want to discourage Roan’s candidness with him, even for his own safety. And having been tortured, Aedric thought he was allowed an off-color comment or two, as long as it was in the privacy of his chambers.

“No, I’m not. That’s why I want you and I to say our vows. If that is official, I have more control over what happens to you.”

“Control,” Roan said darkly. “Is that something I should want from you?”

Aedric faltered. Yes, he thought. Since I laid eyes on you, I have only tried to help you. “I can’t tell you that,” he said instead. “You have to arrive at that conclusion yourself.”

“In a month.”

Ideally sooner than that.

Aedric gathered a stack of papers and straightened them. The sun was setting, and soon a servant would come to build fires in the hearths. “What can I do to put you at ease now?” he asked. “Tonight.”

Roan watched him move papers across the table. He lifted his eyes to Aedric’s. “There is one thing.”

It was an object. Small, carved, wooden. It was in the cells, hidden in the rushes in the northwestern corner, he said, so they wouldn’t find it on him and take it. Aedric went down alone, and told the guard at the door to stay put as he entered the small stone room, only a foot between his head and the low, damp ceiling. After a moment of sifting he found a smooth piece of boxwood the size of an egg, and returned to his chambers with it.

He held it out to Roan, who took it reverently from his outstretched hand. “Thank you.”

“What is it?”

Roan found a hidden seam with his thumbnail and opened it on a hinge like an oyster, revealing two halves of an intricately carved, hollowed interior, with a depiction of a fertile woodland inside. In the center was a horned owl, small as a walnut and painstakingly detailed. “Arvid,” he said, which Aedric assumed was the name of a god. “In the Oath Hall, you asked me why my gods did not help me.”

“I know. I meant it in jest.”

“I see that now. But that’s not how it works. We don’t seek favor from the gods. Favor is… more chance than design.”

“Is there a god of chance then?”

Roan gave him a fleeting, indulgent smile. It was the first of its kind he’d been given.

“What does it do?” he asked, nodding at the carving in Roan’s hand.

“Nothing.” He closed it with a soft click. “It comforts me.”

“Oh,” said Prince Aedric. “Then you shall have it.”

#the blackmuir reign #pride of princes #fantasy whump #torture #fantasy religion #fantasy politics #royal caretaker #defiant whumpee #defiant in a certain way

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3-2-whump · 1 month ago

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Khaled’s Backstory, Part 1: The Way Things Were

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This backstory begins approximately two years (maybe give or take a few months) before the Eternal story actually begins. Thanks goes out once again to my amazing beta readers @whumped-by-glitter and @generic-whumperz

TW/CW: none, I think, but please let me know if I missed any.

Language Note: The Urdu and Dari words I used were learned through reading multiple language-learning blogs, culture blogs, Reddit, and of course, the ol' reliable Google Translate. If I misrepresented any of the expressions (which is extremely likely) please let me know as civilly as possible, because I'd rather know than not know.

“A 32% in Urdu, a 29% in Social Studies, and a 25% in English?” a muffled voice sounded through the thick apartment door. The latch to the door clicked open and the door knob turned as a pair of four-year-old identical twins rushed through the meager opening. A ten-year-old girl soon followed them into the apartment, with her twelve-year-old brother right behind as he kicked off his shoes at the entrance. Their eldest brother, the thirteen-year-old, was still detained by their disappointed parents.

“But, I passed Math, and Science, and Islamic Studies-” the boy defended.

“Barely!” his father snorted. “How did you fail Urdu, of all things? The language you speak every damn day?!”

“Ammi, come on,” he whined, trying to gain sympathy from his mother, “don’t you remember the part where Mr. Khan said I was ‘the friendliest, most outgoing boy in the class’?”

“School is not a social club, Khaled!” A crashing sound outside their living room redirected her attention. “Haye Allah, that cat is back,” she sighed then marched quickly to the door that led to their balcony. The stray that knocked over her plants merely blinked at her as Khaled’s mum gave it a scolding to match the intensity of the one he received on the way home.

That left the rest of the tongue-lashing to Khaled’s dad. “You are the eldest brother, beta; you’re supposed to be setting an example for your siblings! What kind of example are you setting for them if you struggle to pass your classes?”

“An example they can easily exceed?” The flat glare from underneath his father’s bushy eyebrows made Khaled backtrack from his wise remark. “But Abba,” he tried, “You never had to learn this stuff and you turned out alright, didn’t you? You got a job that provides-”

“I ‘turned out’ alright?” Abba interrupted, voice raising on the precipice of his signature lecture. “I got ‘turned out’ of my home and my country, along with the rest of my family, because the beghairat koskhol Russians razed our farm to the ground!”

Ammi poked her head back in from where she was sweeping up potting soil and ceramic shards. “Abdul! What did I tell you about swearing in front of the kids?!”

“Zainab, they don’t understand me, it’s fine!” Dad yelled back.

Yes, we do, Khaled thought. Most of what he knew of his father’s language was nearly entirely expletives. He listened through the rest of his father’s lecture before accepting his punishment with all the dignity a thirteen-year-old could summon. Grounded for two weeks, no football with his friends, only study and sleep? Harsh, but it could be worse, Khaled reasoned.

“Bhai! Bhai!” the twins squealed at him, snapping him out of his thoughts. He looked down to see his little sisters Besma and Zara tugging at his shirt. “Come play with us!”

“They want to play newscaster, and they insist on having an anchorman,” Ayesha said with a smile. She was the third sister, and the middle child of the family.

“Well, what about Yusuf?” Khaled asked, referring to his little brother and the second eldest child. “You heard Abba, I need to study!”

“I’m the weather man, obviously,” Yusuf announced.

“He can’t be the anchor man and the weather man!” Zara said.

“Come on, bhai,” Ayesha coaxed him, steering him towards the living room/impromptu play area. “Your grades aren’t going to get any worse if you miss one study night!”

“Well…fair enough,” Khaled laughed.

After dinner, Khaled hung around outside the apartment building, watching his dad fix up the old motorcycle and occasionally handing him the tools he’d need.

“I’m sorry about my grades, Abba,” he muttered.

“I know, beta.” His father reached out a hand behind him, holding a wrench out to Khaled. Khaled wordlessly took it and put it back with the other instruments in the tool kit.

“I’ll try harder, I promise,” he vowed.

“You do that.” Abba unfurled from his crouching position in front of the motorcycle and sighed, a contented little smile on his face as he wiped his brow. “Now, do you want to take this thing out for a test ride? Make sure I fixed it up properly?” he suggested.

Khaled raised a skeptical brow up at him. “But Abba, you and Ammi said I’m grounded, remember?”

“Yeah, but as the man of the house, I unground you, just for tonight, okay?” He swung his leg over the seat of the motorcycle and kicked up the kickstand. “Come on,” he said invitingly, patting the seat behind him.

Khaled beamed ear to ear as he climbed up onto the motorcycle and held onto his father’s waist. He buried his face in the man’s broad back and melted into the smell of sweat, motor oil, and cologne. The motorcycle started up, revving to life under Abba’s hands. He couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled out of him as they peeled out into the street.

They whizzed down the fluorescent city streets, glowing every color of the rainbow under the dark velvet of the moonless sky. Khaled waved to drivers and fellow motorcyclists as his dad weaved in and out and around and through them.

They eventually ended up at their usual destination for late-night father-son outings: at Port Grand, sitting on a bench looking out at the waters, each one with a skewered kebab in hand. The shadows of cranes loomed over the horizon, marking the dock yard where Khaled’s father worked during the day. But at night, the port –no, the world –was theirs.

“What if I can’t do it?” Khaled asked.

Abba had just polished off his kebab, and now had a mouthful of meat to chew. Khaled looked down at his own bare wooden skewer and began fidgeting with it. “I mean, what if I still fail next term?” he elaborated. “I am trying, really, but what comes easily to Tariq or Muhammad or Imran does not come easily to me. What if I end up failing no matter how hard I try? Then what’s the point?” he asked.

That monologue gave his dad enough time to chew and swallow his mouthful. He wiped the grease from his lips and his beard with the back of his hand, then collected Khaled’s empty stick from his hands. “Khaled, you can do so much more than you think you can,” he started. Sincere, deep, dark brown eyes met the boy’s own. “You are my son, and we Bakhsh men are tough, yeah? You can do it, and you will do it, because Bakhsh men always do it.”

The way he said it so confidently and certainly, like he believed in him, made Khaled want to believe in himself too. “Yeah,” he murmured, smiling warmly.

Abba mirrored the smile back as he rose from the bench. “Now, don’t tell Ammi we went out for these, or she’ll have my ass,” he said, waving the kebab sticks around before he threw them away.

Khaled giggled, but gave his dad the thumbs up. Their father-son time would stay between themselves, just like Abba’s father-son time with Yusuf last week, or his father-daughter time with Ayesha the week before. As they rode back home and returned to the apartment at far too late at night, Khaled never realized that this would be the last father-son time he’d have.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz @bamber344 @there-will-always-be-blood @morning-star-whump @a-la-whump @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @defire @phoenixpromptsandstuff @scumashling

#whump writing #my ocs <3 #oc backstory #nice normal childhood you got there #be a shame if something were to happen to it #leaving off on a semi-supsnseful ending

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sarahsmi13s · 1 year ago

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The Family I Chose

whumptober day 7: disowned by family

pairing: natasha 'phoenix' trace x bestie!reader

characters: natasha trace, fem!reader, oliver trace, the dagger squad, nat's family (tess, elijah, mason, and brody)

warnings: 18+ MDNI, language, teen pregnancy, mentions of abortion, abusive parents, disowned by family, standing up to family, crying, please let me know what i'm missing

a/n: this is for whumptober! please please please proceed with caution and use discretion, protect your peace

also if you are on the whump taglist but are not familiar with a character, you can skip it will not hurt my feelings!

also also, i do want to apologize for getting this up late got distracted while writing it so i finished it later than i had hoped

whumptober 2023 masterlist

summary: the quote "blood is thicker than water" is often misused. the full quote is "the blood of the convenent is thicker than the water of the womb". meaning, the connections you choose to make are stronger than the ones you're forced to have

Natasha held her cheek, tears in her eyes as she looked at her mother.

“How could you?!” Tessa, Natasha’s mother, screamed in her face, holding the positive pregnancy test up. “You slut, can’t keep your legs closed around that boyfriend of yours. And look where that got you, pregnant at seventeen. I can’t believe you could be so reckless!”

The plastic stick was shoved into Nat’s chest. “Mason brought that to me after Brody found it, at least one of my daughters has the decency to be honest with me!”

Natasha looked from the test to her mom. “I-I swear I was going to tell you, but-”

“‘But’ what, Natasha Jordan?” Elijah, her father, asked, stepping in. His arms were crossed over his chest as he glared at his eldest child. “I don’t think that you were gonna tell us, because if you were then you wouldn’t have left your test in the trash!” He yanked the test out of her hand and broke it before throwing at her feet.

“I didn’t know how to tell you! I was scared, I didn’t know how you were gonna react! And clearly I was right to worry. Because parents are supposed-”

Smack

Natasha held her cheek again, wide-eyed at her parents who stood there with their faces contorted in anger and embarrassment almost. But love? Compassion? Sympathy? None of that was present.

“Terminate it or pack your shit and leave,” Elijah said coldly, face unchanging.

Natasha felt sick to her stomach at her father’s heartless words. The ultimatum proving her fears right.

Despite the things she wanted to scream and shout at them, she just nodded curtly and left. Not even bothering to get in her car as she left to go to her best friend’s house.

“Tasha? Hey, Nat are you okay?”

Phoenix blinked and shook herself out of her thoughts before smiling at you.

You were the best friend she ran to that day eleven years ago. The best friend that caught her when she launched herself at you as she sobbed, words fumbling out of her mouth as she tried to recount the horrible things that her parents had said to her. The best friend that helped her pack up her bedroom, leaving it looking like Natasha never lived there and considering you found a box of every photo of Natasha that no longer hung on the walls in the basement – you had made the right choice, even taking the box with you when you left.

You were the best friend that helped her through the pregnancy, considering Jasper left the moment he learned Nat was pregnant. The best friend that threw her a baby shower and helped her stay on track with school as she got into those final months. The best friend that held her hand in the delivery room when she gave birth to little baby Oliver. The best friend that held her when she learned that Oliver was deaf and would never hear her voice.

You were her rock then, and you were her rock now.

“I’m just nervous…” Nat admitted, playing with her hands as she looked up and over at the group of pilots playing with her son. “It’s been eleven years since they abandoned me… gave me a horrible ultimatum. Now they want to come here and be grandparents? I don’t trust it.”

You nodded, “And you have every right to be hesitant. They were supposed to be your parents and they turned their back on you. You have every right to set whatever boundaries you want. If they don’t like it, they can fuck off and go back to North Carolina with their shitty attitudes.”

She smiled at you, “Thank you Y/N, for everything. I don’t think I could have done all of this without you.” You hugged her tightly. “I’m always gonna be here for you, and that little rascal over there. You and Ollie deserve the fuckin’ world.”

Nat sniffled and pulled back to wipe her eyes, “Thank you.” “Of course Tash.”

You both smiled at each other before a nerf arrow flew between you two. You look over to see Oliver on Fanboy’s shoulders with his new nerf bow and arrow that Bob had got him.

“Someone wanted his mama!” Mickey put Oliver down and sat next to you on the beach chair.

Nat smiled at her son, “Did you say thank you to Uncle Bob?” Oliver nodded, sending her a capped tooth grin, “Yes, I’m like Hawkeye now!”

You smiled and tickled Oliver’s sides to get his attention, “Hey Ollie, why don’t we get you a target and Uncle Jake can train you to hit the bullseye.” He nodded and turned to Nat, signing ‘please’ over and over, making her laugh. “Okay baby, we’ll get you a target.”

You smiled at them and Oliver ran over to Jake, letting the pilot pick him up.

Hearing footsteps approach, you turned your head, and your smile dropped immediately.

“Nat,” you said, the seriousness in your tone catching her attention. “What is it?” You nodded in the direction, “Your parents are here…”

She tensed but nodded and stood up.

“Do you want Ollie?” Jake asked. But Nat shook her head, “I want to talk to them first, alone.”

That word ‘alone’ was directed more at you and you nodded but gave her hand a gentle squeeze to let her know you were there if she needed you. She gave you a smile and squeezed your hand back before going to her parents and younger siblings.

“Natasha,” Tessa greeted curtly, clearly trying to peek around her at Oliver. “Mom, Dad,” Nat said, crossing her arms as she looked at them both.

“I’m gonna be honest, I’m surprised you agreed to meet with us,” Elijah said, looking from Nat to the group behind her, playing with Oliver. She shrugged, “It’s been eleven years, I’m willing to give you a chance.”

Mason stepped out from behind Tessa and Elijah, “Hi, Nat…” Nat smiled gently at her sister, “Hi Mason.” “I’ve missed you.” “I’ve missed you too.”

“So, when do we get to meet our grandson?” Tess asked impatiently. Nat rose an eyebrow, “Your grandson? You think you just get to call him that? After what you did?”

“Look, Natty,” Elijah tried but Nat held up a hand. “No, you don’t get to call me that. Before I ever let you anywhere near him, I’m laying down ground rules.”

Both of her parents groaned, “Really? You think you can lay down ‘rules’ for us to see our grandson?” She nodded, arms still crossed, “Yes, I do, because he is my son.” “Fine.”

Nat’s temper was rising but she wasn’t going to freak out, because she knew that would get her nowhere. And even though Ollie couldn’t hear her, he could see her and it could scare him, and the last thing she wanted to do.

“First, you will never be alone with him.” Tessa looked offended, her hand over her heart as she gasped, “Do you not trust us?” Phoenix arched her brow again, “Honestly? No I don’t. But that’s not it. My son is deaf, none of you know sign language and I doubt you would learn.”

“Deaf? Did you not get him cochlear implants?” Elijah asked, almost disgusted.

“No, because he is perfect the way he is. And don’t act like that after what you said.”

Nat was already at the end of her rope, it had barely been five minutes. She doesn’t know why she thought it was a good idea. Maybe she wanted to fix that scared teenager, the one that sat in the bathroom with her best friend speechless as she stared at the two lines.

“That was eleven years ago Natasha,” Tessa sighed, acting like they hadn’t pulled the rug from under her when she needed them most.

“He told me that if I wanted to stay at home, I had to get an abortion. And now you both want to come here and act like you give a shit?! Seriously?!”

Nat tongued her lip and shook her head. “This was a mistake…”

“Daddy?”

Nat’s head whipped up to see her brother holding a two year old girl.

“Yeah, princess?”

Nat saw red.

Her brother, her nineteen year old brother, had a two year old daughter? And their parents let him stay?

What the actual fuck?

“Oh, so Brody could have a kid in high school, but I was told to either terminate my son or get kicked out? That’s fucking rich. Tessa, Elijah, go fuck yourselves.”

Both gawked, “Excuse us?”

“You fucking heard me.”

“Look, if Brody had just left Lainey it would have ruined our reputation. Just like you being pregnant.”

Natasha laughed, “Right, right, because it’s all about the reputation or the company. Fuck you and fuck your reputation.”

Elijah stepped forward, “But you’ve helped our reputation, have you not? With you joining the Navy and then graduating Top Gun. Being the best of the best?”

She shook her head, “I did this for me, my son, and my best friend. This reputation I’ve built is mine and mine alone. The people who disowned me aren’t allowed to enjoy my accomplishments.”

“We didn’t disown you.”

“Really? Because when Y/N and I went to pack up my stuff, Y/N found my photos in a damn box. Then out in public you ignored me. You didn’t come to my graduation after I worked my ass off! I still work my ass off!”

She turned and looked at the squad, you and Oliver.

“You aren’t my family.”

Natasha pointed at the group with tears in her eyes, “They… They are my family. The family that I chose… The family that chose me.”

She let the tears fall, “They actually love me and they love my son. They learned sign language when they didn’t have to because they love my son that much. They have supported me, sure things were bumpy in the beginning, but we came out stronger on the other side. Because we care about each other. You two care about nothing other than yourselves and I will be damned if I put my son through that.”

Tessa and Elijah were speechless, and behind them Brody and Mason had smiles on their faces – proud of Natasha for doing what they were too scared to do.

“Take your entitled asses back to North Carolina and never contact me again.”

All her parents could do was gawk and make unintelligible noises, but they didn’t move to leave.

Then you approached and they were huffing and leaving, “C’mon Brody, Mason, we’re leaving.”

Nat held her composure until her parents were gone and she just ran into the Hard Deck.

“Tasha! Nat!” You called after her. But it was no use, she was inside the building. You sighed and hung your head, she needed time.

After talking with Mason and Brody for a few minutes, you walked down to the group.

“Hey, I need Ollie,” you said to Bradley as you got closer. He nodded and got Javy to get his attention.

When you saw him looking at you, you spoke and signed, “Mama needs you bubba.” He nodded and ran over and grabbed your hand. You smiled and led him to the Hard Deck.

“Hey Penny, where-” “My office.”

“Thank you.”

You and Oliver went to Penny’s office and opened it to find Nat sobbing on the floor.

Oliver immediately got in her lap and hugged her. Nat wrapped her arms around him, hugging him close as she cried.

You get on your knees beside her, rest back on your heels as you rub her leg. She looked up at you and you smiled softly at her. You reached up and wiped her tears gently.

“I think she’s healed now…” Nat croaked out, scratching Oliver’s head. “That scared, hurt teenager… she’s got some of her dignity back. Finally let it out…”

You smiled and kept her cheek in your palm, “I’m so proud of you, Tasha.”

More tears filled Nat’s eyes and she started crying again as she nuzzled your hand, “Thank you, Y/N… for everything. I couldn’t have asked for a better best friend.” You nodded, smiling at her still, “Neither could I.”

taglist: @bradleybeachbabe @mayhemmanaged @kmc1989 @lovinglyeternal @horseshoegirl @cassiemitchell @fanboyswhore9 @nightowlalltheway @86laura11 @els-marvelvsp @valmare @startrekfangirl2233

hi, if you're seeing this and are currently not on the taglist and would like to be please fill out the taglist form -> whumptober taglist

i can not stress this enough, but whumptober can have some very serious and heavy topics and i want to make sure i am doing my part as an author to prepare my readers for what they are about to experience and that includes not only warnings above but my taglists as well

so if you want to be added check out the masterlist and read that carefully and fill out the form -> whumptober 2023

#vinny's whumptober #vinny's rainy day records #whumptober 2023 #ailesswhumptober2023 #whumptober day 7 #top gun maverick #natasha phoenix trace #natasha trace x reader #natasha phoenix trace x reader #phoenix top gun #monica barbaro #whump #angst #sarahsmi13s

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pigeonwhumps · 4 months ago

Text

Guilt

Immortal Cannon Fodder masterlist

Taglist: @extrabitterbrain @wolfeyedwitch @fuckcapitalismasshole @ghost-whump @whump-tr0pes

@rainbowsandwhumperflies @painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds @a-funeral-romance @rainydaywhump

@augustofwhump

August of Whump bonus prompt: guilt

Aaron is refused permission to join the search for Phoenix when they're crucified, and they're declared dead. This is the next six months for Aaron.

First scene is canon, everything after that is set in the Gemma saves Phoenix AU, where Gemma saves Phoenix after they've been crucified continuously for 6 months.

2k words

CWs: immortal whumpee, presumed dead, guilt, grief, transphobia, ableism (both very brief), low self-worth

"I'm joining the search party for Phoenix Costello."

"No, you're not."

Aaron blinks and balls his fists. "What? They're on my team, they're my responsibility!"

Their boss, the head of the medical bay, sighs. "You're needed here. The rest of their team are capable of searching, and if they need a medic they'll bring them back here or you can join them in the field then. There's no use you being on the other side of the city when they're found."

There's multiple flaws there, and he catches the implications of the 'if'. They might be dead. They might be gone. They might just have left, although Aaron doesn't believe that at all. If they were just leaving they wouldn't have taken their tracker.

That's not important though.

"There's a gang of serial killers out there!" he yells, voice cracking.

"That's exactly why I need you to stay here. We're overloaded as it is, and I can't lose you. You're one of our best."

"But–"

"Look. They're immortal, right?" Aaron nods stiffly. "Chances are, they're just trapped. The rest of the team will find them, and they'll be back in no time, traumatised and injured possibly but alive. Let them search and do your job, okay?" He nods again, unsure what else he can do now, and his boss smiles wearily. "Thank you. Now, is there anything else I can do for you?"

Aaron shakes their head. They don't know what else to do.

One week passes.

Two weeks.

A month.

Two.

Three months with no sign. No-one on the medical staff has had so much as a chance to breathe in that time. Due to how high the rate of injuries and deaths has been, and the presence of The Chosen Ones still out there, Phoenix is declared dead.

Probably dead.

Aaron is numb. He... he barely even knew Phoenix (he should have, he should have gotten to know them better), but they were his responsibility, on his team, the few times he has seen them... and he just can't believe that they're dead.

They're 18. Still a child, really.

Maybe they're not. It's always possible. Sure, nobody knows how their immortality works, if they really will resurrect forever, but again: nobody knows how their immortality works.

He does his duties as he should, but he can't feel anything. They're dead. His boss tries to give him time off but it doesn't work, he has to do something.

He just... how did he let it all go so wrong?

Phoenix's family's house is a terraced house on a quiet street. Three bedrooms at a guess. Nice, neat front lawn, nice neat painting. Boring. Not Phoenix.

Aaron glances at Aisling, who gestures for him to head down the path first. He needs to tell Phoenix's family about their death. Apparent death. He volunteered, and is very grateful that Aisling agreed to come with him because no-one else on Phoenix's team would.

They didn't seem very upset either.

Will Phoenix's parents be? Joseph told him of the campaign group they're in charge of, but he's not sure how extreme their views are. Whether they extend to their eldest child.

He rings the shiny doorbell. A few seconds, and then a teenager answers. They look very like Phoenix, although with shorter, curlier hair, and with a sinking sensation Aaron realises this is probably their sister.

"Are you Alicia?" She nods. "I'm Aaron, and this is Aisling. We're from HAL, and we need to talk to you about Phoenix. Can we come in?"

Alicia nods, leading them to the front room and gesturing for them to sit, before she holds up a finger and dashes upstairs. Aaron looks around. The place looks more like a showroom than anything. You'd never know a teenager lived here, and the only sign of children once having been here is the posed photo on the mantelpiece. Aaron isn't an expert, but he's pretty sure Alicia's smile is forced. There's no sign of Phoenix ever having existed.

Alicia returns with a tablet in hand and sits down on the sofa opposite, typing. "Sorry. What about Phoenix? Are they okay?"

Aaron swallows. "I– Phoenix– Alicia, I'm so sorry."

She shakes her head. "No."

"They were– it was–" They had a whole speech planned about what probably happened but they can't get it out. Not with Alicia watching them, eyes begging, pleading, for him not to say it. "We didn't find a body. But with the serial killers out there and deaths piling up, we don't think..."

Alicia's shaking her head fiercely now, and she drops her tablet, starting to rock. And she wails.

Aaron isn't sure what to do. He's not leaving, not now, he wouldn't even if he didn't need to wait for her parents. But he doesn't know what he can do except let her process.

"I'm sorry," Aisling whispers. "I'm so sorry."

Alicia covers her ears and continues to wail.

After a time, the lock rattles on the front door and it opens.

"Stop making that awful noise, Alicia," says a woman sharply. "I've told you before, if you can't stop– oh." She stops in the entrance to the living room. "Who do you think you are, sitting in our house and upsetting our daughter like this?"

They both stand, Aisling holding out a hand.

"Hello. I'm Aisling O'Connor, and this is Aaron Thomas, from HAL. We have some sad news about your child, Phoenix."

A man enters the room, raising an eyebrow. This must be Mr Costello. They're both very standoffish, which Aaron supposes is fair.

"Fiona? She's still going by that foolishness? What has she done now?"

So, they're transphobic as well as running a hate campaign.

"I'm afraid they're dead, Mr Costello. We believe they were killed by members of The Chosen Ones. I'm so sorry for your loss."

"Yes. Well. Thank you." Both of the older Costellos look stunned, and Aaron could almost feel satisfied about that. Almost. In other circumstances. "We will, of course, inform your organisation of the funeral arrangements if you would like to send representatives. Will you leave us to grieve in private?"

"Of course." They both rise, and Aaron slips the piece of paper he's been scribbling on with both his and Aisling's phone numbers into Alicia's hand. Just in case she needs someone. "Apologies again for your loss."

And he walks out the door. He has, at least, resisted the urge to punch either member of the couple, so at least that's something.

He wonders if he'll be allowed to attend the funeral. He hopes so.

The funeral is held the next week. Thankfully there's no open casket with no body, but it's still a bit strange to him. Phoenix's parents are clearly very religious, where he never has been so much, and it makes him uncomfortable.

Not to mention the consistent misgendering. Even in death, Phoenix's parents won't respect them.

Aaron's never felt so grateful for their own family.

There's so many dry eyes here today. So much performance. Aaron gets the feeling that Abbie, Indigo and Segun didn't really care about Phoenix at all, and it makes them regret their lack of knowing Phoenix all the more.

Except Alicia's speech. That's beautiful, and heartbreaking, and she doesn't misgender her sibling once. She's been moving her belongings into Aisling's flat gradually for weeks, and Aaron can see that what she feared will likely come true – despite the shining eyes and crying throughout the audience, Alicia's father's face is turning puce.

(She explains, later, that it's not just the speech, or the respect for Phoenix, but the use of her AAC app at all, and Aaron has to use all of his strength not to turn around and murder her parents for that.)

"I hear you're thinking of quitting," is how Joseph announces himself at the table in the diner.

Aaron saw him coming, of course, they wouldn't sit with their back to the door, but they didn't register it. He sets the pizzas down on the table – one spicy vegetable, one sausage and pepperoni, and a little tub of mozzarella sticks to share.

"How do you know that?"

Joseph sighs. "You texted me last night. Drunk, I think. You don't usually drink and you're the last person I'd expect to quit. What's going on? Is this about Phoenix?"

Aaron nods, taking a large bite of pizza to hide their emotions. "What's the point of being a hero if I'm just going to obey orders that get people killed?"

"You didn't kill Phoenix."

Aaron shakes their head. "If I'd searched too, I might have found them, they might still be alive."

"Aaron. Listen to me. You didn't kill them. Or get them killed, for that matter. You saved people. You told me your boss didn't let you go because you're one of his best medics. It's true. Please, Aaron, think about this. Don't quit."

"I still got them killed. Heroes don't do that."

Joseph reaches across and squeezes their arm. "Nobody can be perfect all the time. It was their murderers who killed them, not you. You do so much good, and I, for one, would be devastated if you left because you made one mistake that might not even have led to anything."

"But they're still dead."

That's the crux of the matter. They're dead, they were on his team, and it's his fault. And he had to sit through a whole funeral service of them being misgendered, and he can't help thinking he should've gotten to know them, should've given them someone else who cared. God knows no-one else seems to.

If he'd known them, if he'd searched, would they still be alive? But instead he just followed orders and let them die.

He sobs.

Joseph comes around the table and pulls them into his arms.

"Give yourself a few months, 'kay? Don't make this decision on the spur of the moment, when you're so emotional. Wait until you can think again."

Aaron nods into Joseph's warm, soft arms. He can try.

Aaron is fetching a plate of biscuits from the kitchen when Gemma enters the flat.

He always feels a little uncomfortable with this team on his own. It's not his team, or his flat, he's intruding. It wasn't their idea to invite him. Sometimes Alicia comes too but not today, she doesn't feel up to meeting this new person that Gemma's saved and he doesn't blame her.

He's happy for them. Really. But Aaron can't help wishing he had done the same for Phoenix.

"Hi Gemma! And this must be Phoenix."

No. No, he must've misheard Kai, he must've... is this why they've all been giving him weird looks since he arrived? It has to be a different Phoenix, surely.

They step out of the kitchen, hands trembling, and feel the blood drain from their face. There's a shattering sound beneath their feet but they barely register it.

There, wringing their hands together, looking a little older and more traumatised but still recognisably them, is Phoenix.

"Phoenix? You're alive?"

Phoenix turns to look at them, the same shock mirrored on their face.

"Aaron?"

"I'm sorry," they whisper, "I'm sorry. They wouldn't let me on the search and rescue mission but I should have anyway, I'm so sorry. How did you– why are you–"

At some point they've moved forward, and Phoenix is within touching distance, looking startled, tears in their eyes.

"Can I give you a hug?"

Phoenix nods, almost falling into their arms. He hugs them tightly.

"I'm so, so fucking sorry."

"'s okay. I didn't deserve to be rescued anyway."

He squeezes them tighter. "That's bullshit, kid." Phoenix shakes their head. "Your sister misses you desperately."

"She, um, she does? Why?"

"Because she loves you."

"Oh."

Aaron has learned various things over the past six months about how they've been treated over their life, and their rock-bottom self-esteem shouldn't shock him but it does.

"People care about you, Phoenix. Don't ever forget that."

#augustofwhump2024 #augustofwhump #whump #whump writing #immortal cannon fodder #aaron oc #phoenix oc #aisling oc #alicia oc #joseph not my oc #hero whump #hero whumpee #hero caretaker #whumpee and caretaker

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howtowhumpyourhiccup · 3 months ago

Text

Rift

Summary: Httyd Whump Week Day 4. Sequel to 'The Family Curse.' Years after his first miscarriage, the Dragon Riders have finally welcomed a living child of Hiccup's, but his troubles aren't over yet and Ruffnut finds herself punished for them.

Warnings: Mentions of infant loss

Rating: Mature

Dead Dove: No

Words: 798

Prompts: Ruffnut

Fandom: How to Train Your Dragon

Characters: Hiccup, Ruffnut, Toothless

Pairing: Ruffcup (OT6)

Author's Notes: Had a reeeeeaaaally rough time coming up with an idea for this one, but eventually, I found one. :')

Enjoy!

-XOXOX-

Hiccup was someone Ruffnut thought she could always come to for whatever and whenever. Even if the reason was a little bit crazy, he could sigh, he could roll his eyes, but he would do it. Whatever was troubling her, whatever thought came to mind, she could always share it.

Nowadays, they can’t even be in the same room together without there being an icy cold tension between them.

It’s not just her, he’s giving Astrid the cold shoulder as well, but she has a much easier time shaking it off. She just gives him a sigh, an empathetic squeeze on his shoulder that almost makes him cry every single time and then she moves on.

But Ruffnut? She just can’t do that. Even hated by him together, she can’t swallow it.

They’re sitting in the living room together on opposites sides of the dinner table, each on one end. Hiccup has his arms crossed with a scowl on his face that they’re slowly getting used to. Toothless sits in front of him, tries to purr at him comfortingly, but he’s not listening.

And only a month after giving birth, they can’t blame him. Because he’s not the one sitting here and nursing his child; Ruffnut is.

Astrid has as well. Neither have recently had a child, but they’ve each given birth at least once already, Ruffnut has a set of twins. So even when a child of theirs cries that they haven’t personally given birth to, they’re close enough that their bodies will provide. They love this child, this little boy, he’s just as much theirs as he’s Hiccup’s. And yet, watching Ruffnut sit there and nurse the son he carried from conception to birth hurts, because they are doing what he can’t. For some reason, he’s not producing enough milk.

Eventually, their son, aptly named Vigi, has had enough and Ruffnut settles him over her shoulder to burp him. She tries to ignore how Hiccup is staring at the wall on his other side just so he won’t catch even a single glimpse of her in the corner of his eyes. He’s resenting both her as well as Astrid, putting a strain on their once loving relationship and she feels guilty.

This son is Hiccup’s third, but his first to survive.

Back when their marriage was new, he was the first to express the desire to have a baby and soon after they started trying, but they didn’t get him pregnant once, not until both Astrid as well as Ruffnut had their children first. Their eldest daughter was four by the time Hiccup had his first.

That child came about a month too early, he was stillborn.

He was devastated, heart and soul both broken, but he only allowed himself a few months to recover before he insisted that they try again. He got pregnant almost immediately that time, only to give birth even a month earlier to a girl that he held for an hour before she, too, passed. She was so small she fit in both his hands.

Another five years passed, Astrid has given birth to a healthy baby boy in the time it took them to get him pregnant for the third and, hopefully, final time. He loves all of their children so much that it hurts. When he even thinks something might be wrong, it becomes hard for him to breathe. And in Astrid’s second pregnancy, he projected all of his fears onto her.If this one hadn’t worked out, he would’ve just called it quits.

He doesn’t even enjoy sex with his partners anymore, it’s a chore for him now. Only done because one of his loves asked him. When things get heated anywhere and they don’t immediately involve him, he leaves before they can.

But Vigi was born when he needed to, he’s healthy and when he first held him, Hiccup promised him that he would do everything in his power to protect him.

Only to immediately find out that he can’t even feed him and now he resents those who can. And his resentment hurts.

Vigi burps and Hiccup visibly tenses up. Ruffnut can feel the guilt eating away at her even as she holds their son in her arms and sees his happy little face. Maybe she can do something about the tension by returning him his son. She’s desperate to shatter it.

“Hiccup, I’m done, so you can-” he doesn’t give her the chance to make it right, shooting up from the chair and leaving the house with surprising speed for someone who had a baby only a month ago.

Toothless tries to stop him, but he’s out of the house soon enough, leaving the three of them behind to watch the front door slam closed.

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thebabblingbrookenook · 2 years ago

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His First Muse

Pairings: Violet Bridgerton & Benedict Bridgerton, Violet Bridgerton & Anthony Bridgerton, Violet Bridgerton & Eloise Bridgerton

Summary: A brief insight through the years of Violet’s relationship with her children.

Warnings: Angst, Whump, Mentions of character death

Word Count: 5.3K

Author’s Note: Thank you so much @bridgertontess for this awesome edit. It goes perfectly with this fic. And thank you again to @colettebronte for always keeping me from going off the rails with commas.

________________________________________________

“Come and paint with me, Mama!” Benedict’s sweet, small voice pleaded as he pulled lightly on his mother’s arm.

Violet laughed affectionately at her son’s impatience. “Benedict dear, give your Mama just a moment. Getting up isn’t an easy feat these days,” she said while cradling her swollen, pregnant belly. She loved each of her three sons beyond measure, but her heart was secretly hoping for a beautiful little girl with her father’s eyes.

The light that positively radiated out of her second-born son was one of her greatest joys in life. She wasn’t sure what ignited that spark, but she prayed it would never be extinguished. The world desperately needed more of it, and so did she.

From the moment he blinked open those observant eyes, a swaddled infant in her arms, she knew he would see the world for all its beauty. But she feared he would also be privy to all its pain. It was impossible to understand the depths of one without the other, and her son’s eyes were fathomless.

As his tiny body grew, so did the capacity of his heart. He was a sensitive soul, always searching for understanding in others, but rarely finding what he was looking for. Even though he followed his older brother around with ardent admiration in his eyes, Violet knew they were two very different little boys.

Her eldest, Anthony, was an unstoppable force, commanding life to bend to his will. His willingness to try new things with a baffling confidence was mesmerizing to her. Even while learning to walk, his determination was unparalleled. Of all her children thus far, he conquered the challenge of his first steps three full months before the rest. He was dangerously charming, with glimmers of mischief that made him impossible to resist. People were drawn to his magnetism, thrusting him into the position of a natural born leader.

A wide-eyed Benedict was no exception to the rule. Everything Anthony did, Benedict was right there behind him, striving to match the strides of his brother - the hero. But Anthony was older, and things came to him with a frustrating ease. When he failed, he outwardly raged and tried again until he got it right. Benedict handled defeat differently. He absorbed it, folding in on himself instead of releasing his anger to the rest of the world.

Each time it happened, Violet watched his wonder-filled eyes dim a little darker. He held his weariness until there was no more room, and then burst at the seams with the magnitude of his rage. It was jarring to witness in contrast with his usual gentle demeanor. She came to realize that the patience and understanding that he reserved for others was not so easily extended to himself. It was unbearable to watch her child’s face crease with exhaustion as he tried to process himself. She had never known a fury so strong as the one she assigned to the shame that dared trespass on the soul of her beautiful baby boy, cloaking him in its shadow of comparison.

It was her privilege and responsibility as his mother, to teach him how to vanquish his foes. One day after a particularly dark episode, she scooped a deflated Benedict into her arms and carried him to what she hoped would be his sanctuary. She had enlisted Edmund’s help with converting a small room overlooking the back grounds of Aubrey Hall into a realm of endless possibilities and creativity. It was a place just for him. A quiet retreat for his mind to settle and his heart to translate the contents of his soul for the rest of the world to consume. She filled it with paints and papers, canvas and clay, strings and all the other little things that he might need.

Tears welled in her eyes as she witnessed the moment when her child came to know himself and recognized the beauty there. It just clicked. The room filled with a sure stillness that will never leave her memory. He didn’t need to be shown what to do, somehow he just innately knew. From that moment forward, he never stopped capturing his world. It was as if he had been wading through life with so much to say but had been rendered mute, and now he had discovered language. It wasn’t long before he was fluent.

Today, like so many other days, he pulled his mother down the hall with a heartfelt plea that she would never deny. “Come and paint with me, Mama!” And she would. The stories he told through shapes and colors moved her to tears of laughter. A princess and her trusty steed. A dragon with a biscuit addiction. Whatever his little mind could conjure made it to the page in vivid detail. He would hand her the finished work, beaming with pride, awaiting her affirmations.

Much to her delight, the purpose he discovered never faded. As he aged it took on new forms. Staggering new heights and impossible depths. Creations that once had her cackling with joy, now stunned her into silence with their beauty. And he would still come to her, his voice deeper now, and say, “Mother, come and paint with me.” And of course, she would. It pained her slightly when he had shifted from calling her Mama, but he was almost a man now. He had outgrown the endearment but quickly assured her that he could never outgrow her.

When her beloved Edmund was taken from them, she lost her way. She tried to worry for her children, focusing on anything other than her own despair, but she was overtaken by the weight of her grief. The presence of her two eldest sons was the only reason the night didn’t carry her away. The man that Anthony had grown into was a staggering thing to behold, and even though it was negligently unfair, she knew he would take care of the household while she couldn’t. His honor and his sense of duty would move Heaven and Earth for the ones he loved. The part of his life that was untouched by loss withered away, and she added that loss to her mountain of grief while she watched the 9th Viscount Bridgerton forming before her puffy, cried out eyes.

Benedict covered her in a type of comfort all his own. He sat with her, reading her the same childhood stories she used to read to him, letting the familiar words lull her sleep. And when her eyes drifted closed, he’d kiss her temple and promise, “I’ll see you when you wake.”

From time to time, the words he chose would be new to her ears, forcing her to focus on nothing but the sound of his voice. She knew now that they had been his own words. His own feelings laid bare as an offering before her. Extending a part of himself in vulnerability in hopes that it might make her feel less alone. Not just her, but himself too. She would slip her hand silently into his with a gentle squeeze and pray he understood she was still there somewhere, just buried beneath the wreckage.

On the nights when the crying found no end, he would sneak into her room, scoop her from her bed and invite her once again. “Come now, Mother. Come and paint with me.” And she would. She would sit in the stillness he cultivated and calm herself to sleep. She always woke the next morning safely in her bed, with a Benedict Bridgerton masterpiece resting on her bedside table. That was the first time she could remember what it felt like to smile again…

~~~~~~~~~

A lot had changed in the ten years since Edmund had passed. Her children grew and stepped into their lives. Anthony opened his heart to love, giving her glimpses of the vibrant boy she used to know. He and his lovely Viscountess, Kate, started a family of their own. From all the years filling the void left by Edmund’s absence, Anthony stepped effortlessly into the role of fatherhood. Benedict chased his heart wherever he could follow. He had outgrown their tiny room of solitude at Aubrey hall and now had a space where his imagination could roam free. His paintings not only hung in Bridgerton drawing rooms, but in Royal museums where the rest of the world could now bear witness to his talent. Colin explored the Earth as fast as the wind would take him, and Daphne blossomed into the most doting mother that put even Violet to shame. Eloise, in all her splendor, challenged the minds and tempers of everyone she met. Violet swelled with admiration every time she looked at her strong-willed daughter. Eloise would make a way for herself in this world, Violet was sure of it. Francesca, as she always did, took a path that moved her differently from the rest of her family. She was a complex, gorgeous enigma with a mind that rivaled her sister’s. She was fearless in her endeavors, and Violet found herself wishing to be more like the girl she had raised. Little Gregory and Hyacinth still had some growing up to do, but Violet no doubt had her hands entirely full with those two.

Despite moving forward without her love, Violet’s life was filled beyond measure. She hummed to herself happily around Aubrey Hall as she prepared the flowers for the arrival of tomorrow’s guests. Anthony and Kate had insisted upon throwing her a birthday soiree. She agreed under the conditions that no one discuss her advanced years. She was looking forward to having all of her children back together under one roof. And she could use some well spent time with good friends.

She smiled brightly when her eldest son approached to greet her with a kiss. “Kate and I are taking Franny and Hyacinth into town. Apparently there is some sort of ribbon crisis that needs attending. Would you like to join us, mother?”

“You’ve volunteered to go ribbon shopping?” she raised her brow skeptically.

“Hardly,” Anthony huffed. “I’m going to meet my old friend Mr. Dorset. He’s just returned from his medical studies in India and I invited him to stay with us for the week. You remember him, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Violet chided. “How could I forget your swimming partner? The two of you made quite the splash. The ladies of the ton talked about it for weeks.”

If she wasn’t mistaken, she thought she could actually hear the sound of her son’s eyes rolling. “I wish we would all try to forget that. It wasn’t one of my proudest moments.”

“Oh, Anthony,” she patted his cheek lovingly. “Lighten up. I’m sure Kate enjoyed it immensely.” She moved around him to reach for more flowers on the other side of the table. “Where is Eloise? Are you not taking her with you as well?”

“She insists that she wants to remain here to await Colin’s arrival. I left her with Benedict and his doodling. She should be fine for a while.” He shrugged unconcerned. “What about you, mother? Would you like to join us?”

“No,” she answered softly. “ I think I’ll stay and enjoy the silence before the chaos begins. But you have fun, dear. And tell Hyacinth to mind herself. You know how excitable she is with her ribbons.”

“Ugh,” he groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

He kissed her one last time before making his exit, leaving her to her flower arrangements. She shook her head in amusement, replaying their conversation. He was a terrible grump with a secret heart of gold. One well-timed flutter of his little sister’s lashes and he melted into a puddle of affection. Why he insisted on maintaining his gruff outer shell, she would never understand. She suspected it was out of habit now.

The day went on smoothly with hardly a peep from the rest of her children. Daphne and Simon had sent word that they would be arriving in the morning with Gregory in tow from Eton, and no one knew when Colin would make his appearance. He took his nomadic duties very seriously these days. But no matter, it was always a joyous reunion when he came bounding in, requesting hugs and sandwiches.

The sun lowered in the sky as Violet confirmed the final details of the next evening’s menu with Cook. She thought she might retire for the evening when she heard the unmistakable sound of a hunting rifle echoing in the distance.

Alarm pulled her to the back gardens, seeking an explanation. No one should be on the grounds yet. Dread prickled her skin as she searched the horizon, but all she found there was stillness.

Her feet carried her habitually through the halls of their summer home in search of her children. “Benedict!” she yelled, searching the usual spots.

“Eloise?!” No reply. Where had they gone off to?

Familiar noises drew her to the front door, swinging it open to find Anthony returned with the girls and his guest. “Anthony!” she cried, barely containing the panic in her voice. “Have you seen your brother? I can’t find him anywhere. Or your sister for that matter.”

The sudden severity of her question startled him and he looked up to see his mother’s pekid expression willing him to have the answer she needed. “I’ve only just gotten here, so I’m afraid I don’t know. If you give me a moment I can help you search.” He walked up the stairs to close the distance between them. Taking her hand in his, he tried to reassure her. “I’m sure all is well. You know Benedict wouldn’t let anything happen to Eloise. They are probably just lost in their daydreams somewhere. You know how those creative types can be.”

Violet forced herself to smile at her son’s attempt to ease her nerves with the loving mockery of his siblings. “Of course, darling. I’m sure you’re right. It’s just that…”

“What is it, mother?” he prodded, trouble now creasing his brow.

“A moment ago I could have sworn I heard a hunting rifle being fired…” her eyes flitted back and forth over Anthony’s shoulder scanning the vast grounds of their estate. “But I must have been mistaken. You’ve arranged a hunt for the weekend. It’s much too early for those preparations.”

“Oh,” Anthony’s shoulders visibly relaxed. “Mystery solved. I asked Benedict if he might attend to a few of our spare firearms for guests. Knowing Eloise, she berated him to within an inch of his life until he agreed to take her with him.” His head tilted up to observe the sky. “We’re losing the sun. I imagine they will be back any time now.”

Before Violet had a moment to consider, Eloise’s piercing cries stopped her heart entirely. “MAMA! PLEASE MAMA, COME QUICK!”

All sense of time ceased to exist. Violet wanted desperately to place her eyes on her daughter, but her legs suddenly felt as if they’d been filled with sand, weighing her down and slowing her efforts.

It was Anthony’s authoritative voice that quickened her resolve and directed her aimless desperation. “She’s coming from around the house. Cutting through the servant’s entrance is the quickest way to her.” His hand went to the small of Violet’s back as he gently guided her footsteps. “Kate, take the children inside and keep them there. And Dorset… I think you’d better come with us.”

They were through the house and bursting into the back gardens within seconds. Eloise was making her way towards them at breakneck speed, eyes wild and covered in… blood.

“Mama!” her quivering, spent body lurched forward into the safety of her mother’s arms.

“Eloise!” Violet gasped in relief to be holding her child. “Darling, are you hurt? What’s happened?!”

A horrified whisper clawed its way past Eloise’s lips. “It’s not my blood.”

Terrifying realization gripped at Violet’s heart, threatening to squeeze until the organ turned to dust. “Eloise… where’s your brother?”

“It was an accident,” her frail voice croaked. “It just… it just went off, Mama. It just went off.”

“Eloise!” Anthony shook her gently to release her from the chokehold of her shock. “Where is Benedict?!”

Peering into the eyes of her eldest brother was enough to break the dam of tears she’d managed to suppress. “The pond. We were at the treeline by the pond.”

Anthony didn’t hesitate for a second. “Dorset, with me!”

Violet watched helplessly as the two men sprinted towards the location Eloise had named. Towards her injured son. Her mind tortured her with the possibilities of what they would find when they arrived. She wanted desperately to run to him as fast as her legs would carry her, but abandoning her now hyperventilating daughter was out of the question. Her soul felt as if it were being torn in two.

“Breathe, darling,” she soothed. “Slowly… slowly. Let’s just take a moment to compose.” Looking down, her gaze lingered on the deep crimson coloring the pale blue fabric of Eloise’s dress. “We should get you out of these clothes.”

Eloise pinned her mother with a look of panic. “No! We have to go to him. I swore I’d come back. A broken promise can’t be the last thing…”

The last thing… Those three little words solidified Violet’s worst fears. “Take us to him, Eloise. We must make haste!”

The closer they got, the louder she could hear her son’s agonizing screams. Fear churned in her belly, rising bile up her throat. She was not prepared for the scene in front of her.

Benedict was writhing in pain, desperately trying to escape the ministrations of Mr. Dorset’s trained hands. Anthony clutched to him beseechingly, attempting to calm him and accept the life preserving measures. “Benedict! Please brother, I know it hurts but you must try to remain still. Let us help you.” His pleas fell on deaf ears. Benedict could not see beyond the suffering that had engulfed him.

Violet tried with every fiber of her being to avert her eyes from the wound spilling her son’s life onto the ground, but the evidence of its existence could not be avoided. It touched the entire atmosphere with its presence. The air was thick with heat from the fresh blood, and the smell permeated the taste buds, leaving a distinct metallic taste on the tongue.

She found herself petrified in place beside Eloise until a particularly harsh wail ripped through Benedict’s chest only to be followed by… silence. She was at his side immediately, lowering herself to the ground and nudging Anthony gently aside.

Violet knew her children and recognized the precipice on which Anthony was currently teetering. His demeanor was collected and frigid with control, but his eyes betrayed him. This was one failure that he would never let himself recover from, so she took the blame from his hands and assigned him a new purpose to tether him.

“Anthony,” she whispered, prying his hands away from his brother’s motionless frame. “Your sister… Don’t let her witness this. Go to her please.” When he looked up into her face he was six years old again, looking to his mother to make it all better. Her hand came to cup his cheek in comfort. “It’s alright Anthony. Go… I’ll be with him, and Mr. Dorset seems to have capable hands.”

Anthony took his permission to leave with gratitude and went to collect his sister. Eloise’s shouts of protest became muffled background noise when Violet’s focus was drawn back by the small whimper below her.

Truly taking in Benedict’s face for the first time sent a white-hot searing poker through her heart. His eyes were not open but they danced restlessly behind his lids. His skin was clammy and almost entirely void of color aside from the slight blue that tinged his lips. He looked so like his father. She was being transported ten years into the past, holding her beloved Edmund as he died in her embrace. This day could not end with the same fate.

“Mr Dorset,” she queried, somehow fitting a thousand questions into his name.

“Lady Bridgerton,” his voice was steady and she found that reassuring. “I promise that I will do everything in my power to help him, but I must tell you…His injury is severe. Without the proper tools there will be limitations with what I can do.”

“I understand. Please,” she begged. “Just try.”

“When I remove this pressure dressing to examine the wound he will start to bleed again, and he will most likely be in pain. I need you to keep him as still as you possibly can. Do you think you can do that for me?” She nodded her affirmation and he took her at her word. “Good. Are you ready?”

Even if she wasn’t ready, she had to be for Benedict’s sake. Time was not a luxury they could afford.

Right on cue, Benedict jerked with a gasp at Mr. Dorset’s touch. His eyes were wild but unseeing as he searched for the source of his torment. Violet was surprised by the amount of strength still left in his tired body. It was a genuine effort to hold him in place. “Benedict!” she called out to him. “Benedict, dear, it’s okay. I’m right here. I know it hurts but it’s okay. Just be still. I’m right here.”

Recognition fluttered across his features at the sound of her voice. “Mother?” he questioned, testing the accuracy of his reality. When she confirmed her presence he squeezed her hand so tightly it almost hurt. “Mother, what’s happening? It hurts. It really hurts.”

“There’s been an accident and you were injured but all will be well soon. Anthony has brought a surgeon to help. You just keep your eyes on me and try to stay calm.”

At the exact moment of her request, Mr. Dorset must have come in contact with a particularly tender spot because Benedict cried out in pain and tried the flench away. His chest heaved with the efforts of his labored breathing. Seeing him this way was destroying her, one agonizing second at a time.

“I’m scared, mother. Where are we? I don’t understand.” His voice was shaky and weak.

“We’re outside by the pond at Aubrey Hall. You and your brother brought me here to celebrate my birthday. Do you remember?” Keeping him talking seemed the best course of action.

“Outside at Aubrey Hall… You said we couldn’t talk about your age. Outside by the pond. By the pond.” His exhausted mind fought to put all the pieces together. Traces of memory sent a surge through him. “I was with Eloise! Eloise, where is Eloise?!”

“Ssshh, ssshhh,” Violet calmed him. “Anthony has her. She’s perfectly safe. She’s very worried about you though, so just hold on tight Benedict. Then we can go and tell her you’re alright.”

“She’s alright?” he asked again.

“Yes, darling. I promise.”

“And we’re outside,” he was talking more to himself than he was to her.

A new wave of pain swept over him but his screams had taken on the form of silent tears rolling down the ever-paling skin of his cheeks. Violet wanted desperately to take him away from here. To bring him to a place where he could find his stillness. And there was only one place she knew could do that.

“Yes, we’re outside. Look how beautiful the sunset is tonight. It holds all your favorite colors. The oranges are so vibrant.” The pain released him and his face softened as he took in his surroundings. This is how she would do it, keep his torment at bay. “Benedict, dear, come and paint with me. Tell me how you’d capture the sky. What colors would you need?”

He closed his eyes and a slow, small smile raised one corner of his mouth. “I’d need lots of oranges and yellows. But we can’t forget the pinks and purples that would streak the sky with richness. And of course, a lovely blue.”

“Blue?” she queried, wanting to understand the picture in his mind.

“Mmmhmm,” he hummed. His eyes fluttered open and peered into her own. His cold fingertips brushed lightly over her freckled cheek. “But not like your eyes. They’re so beautiful, but much too light for our painting mother. We need a blue so deep that it whispers the promise of the upcoming darkness. And we mustn't forget black and white to add shadows and light.”

“Of course,” she smiled. “That would just be silly of us. What else?”

His answers were still clear but they were taking longer to come. She prayed it was because he was lost in his reverie and not the exhaustion pulling him under. “Green. I’d like to include the trees along the water’s edge. The large ones that shade us in the summer. The ones you never used to let us climb.”

“You mean the trees I always found you at the top of regardless of my wishes?” she asked with humor in her voice.

“The very ones,” he grinned. “What about you mother, what would you like to add to our painting?” It always made her heart smile when he referred to his work as “ours.”

“How about the water itself? How would you do that?”

Another long pause filled the air. Violet looked over at the laboring Mr. Dorset whose face was scrunched in concentration. He showed no signs of admitting defeat and her hope was spurred on.

Benedict’s voice reached her ears, breathy and gentle. “The water would be textured in some parts, to show the life within it. But other parts would be still, perfectly reflecting the scene from above.”

She sat in silent admiration, tears dripping onto their clasped hands, and watched her son’s heart create. If she closed her eyes she could see it clearly, and it was brilliant.

Sounds of frustration pulled her attention back to the man working diligently to save her son’s life. “There’s nothing more I can do here. We need to get him to a cleaner environment. There are teas we can mix to help ease the pain and reduce fever. It’s just a matter of getting him transported safely. I’ll need help.”

“Of course. Whatever you need, Mr. Dorset, I will assure it is at your disposal. I am forever grateful to you for this.” If she wasn’t clutching onto Benedict for dear life, she would have stood to hug the man before her.

A weariness crossed his face that made Violet’s stomach sink like a stone. “I’m not sure if I am deserving of your gratitude just yet. But as I have said, I will do my best Lady Bridgerton.” He paused for a moment, contemplating his next course of action. “Will you be alright here with him alone for a few moments while I retrieve Lord Bridgerton, or would you prefer me to stay with your son and you relay the message for assistance?”

The thought of leaving Benedict now was utterly excruciating. “You may go. I should like to stay right where I am. But please, do hurry.”

She watched his retreating form disappear over the hill and reminded herself that his absence was only temporary. He would return with Anthony and whoever else they might find to help. He had a plan. A next step. And that was all she needed right now. The next step, one moment at a time.

Benedict’s grip loosened around her fingers and her eyes shot back to his face. He looked slightly more at peace, as if the pain had left him. Shaking gently she tried to rouse him. “Benedict… Benedict, open your eyes. We haven’t finished our picture. What else would you paint?”

Heavy lids blinked open languidly only to close again moments later. Her ears strained to hear him when he answered. “Nothing. I think we’ve finished, Mama. It’s darker now. Night is almost here. Do you like it?”

The ominous nature of his words froze the blood right in her veins. Taking a deep, stilling breath, she forced herself to respond. “It is my favorite one yet, darling.”

“Mmm,” came his spent response. “I’m so tired, Mama…”

She was openly weeping now. She had no more energy left to give to maintain the facade of a kempt composure. “I know sweetheart. Just a little while longer.”

She knew she was asking him for more than he could give. Clutching him to her chest, she kissed the side of his lulling head and wept. Her heart reached out to Edmund for strength as she listened to the muted sounds of Benedict’s shallow breathing. The only thing left she had to offer was prayer. “I beg of you, please don’t take my child. I’ll willingly offer my life in exchange. Please, not my baby…”

Because that is what he would always be. Even as she held him now, twice her size and fully grown, she still cradled her precious baby boy. A child with the most breathtaking heart and unparalleled capacity for compassion. A child with an inner light that this world desperately needs.

Violet didn’t know how long she sat there rocking him back and forth. It was only when she felt Anthony’s warm hands pull her from the ground and into an embrace that she remembered that there were still other people in the world.

There was nothing left to do. She was helpless to the will of fate. Forced to sit. Forced to wait…

~~~~~~~~~~

One Year Later

Violet stood alone in a crowded hallway of Somerset House. The sun cascaded in through the domed glass ceiling, covering the patrons and the art in its warmth. She was fixated on the image in front of her, studying the brush strokes and committing every rich color to her memory. It brought her a peace that she hadn’t known in a very long time. It was familiar and warm, reminding her deeply of someone she loved.

She could have stared at it for hours. It had a way of silencing the rest of the world and bringing her to a place of stillness. It granted her privacy to be in solitude but she never felt alone. One day, she would request permission to purchase the piece from Somerset so that she could place it in her home, but for now it needed to be here for the rest of London to see.

She had been so immersed in her own little world that she hadn’t noticed the person settle in beside her. His deep voice startled her awake. “It’s much too cold. Where’s any sense of the subject’s spirit? And the light! Given the quality, I do wonder why the piece was not skyed with the other daubs.”

Looking up into his handsome, cheeky face, she smiled as far as her face would stretch. “Benedict, dear…”

He took her arm and tucked it securely around his own. “I knew I’d find you here. Wouldn’t you like to see some of the other artists? I’m sure you get quite bored of all my scribblings.”

She shook her head assertively. “I still maintain that this one is my favorite yet. When it is no longer on loan to Somerset House, I would like to have it for myself.”

“Anything you want, mother. I’d paint you the world if you asked.” he promised sweetly, kissing her on the cheek. “Come along, now. Anthony is looking for you.”

She took one last look at the painting and traced her fingers over the gold plate that held the title.

Outside by the Pond with Mother

Mr. Benedict Bridgerton

_________________________________________________

@bridgertontess @colettebronte @faye-tale @eleanor-bradstreet @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @angels17324 @musicismyoxygen84

#Bridgerton fanfiction #Violet Bridgerton #Anthony bridgerton #Benedict Bridgerton #Eloise Bridgerton #Violet Bridgerton fanfiction #Anthony Bridgerton fanfiction #Benedict Bridgerton fanfiction #Benedict Bridgerton whump #angst #whump

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whump-ghoul · 2 years ago

Text

Whump Month #12: Panic

For @cirrus-ghoulette’s Whump Month!

Summary: Young Giovanni comes down with a case of the chicken pox, and Antonio is worried. (I rushed this a little, but wanted to look into Copia and Primo’s relationship when they were young. Twig is also here.)

WC: 1458

Tags: Original names for the Emeritus brothers. Primo: Antonio, Secondo: Valentino. Terzo: Dante, Copia: Giovanni. / No definitive ages, though Primo is much older than Secondo and Terzo. / Original Ghoul Character

Maybe Twig was jaded from his time in the Pit, but the concept of infirmary visitors had him perplexed. Why would the healthy wish to wait with the sick and themselves and the patient vulnerable to further illness? Maybe it was jealousy, or maybe it was logic, but Twig often thought about it during his long infirmary shifts.

Outside of the tall windows shrouded by white curtains, a steady rain thrummed against the panes, drowning the outside world in the autumnal downpour. He sighed, reclining back into his chair as the potted plant next to him wilted at his aura. He pouted and poked the plant, finding distraction in healing the leaves as well as pulling a stick from his pocket. Biting into the soft flesh of the wood did little to better his mood however, as his most recent patient began to cry. His ears pressed back as a terrible wailing crossed the room, grating on his sensitive ears and waking the slumbering visitor. Sighing, Twig swung his legs from where they were propped on the desk, and paced the length of the ward. Two hours, two hours of quiet was all the patient had managed.

The visitor, a Cardinal, was quick to hush the patient, his hands grasping the sheets in a white-knuckled panic as the shrill cries of the patient set Twigs teeth on edge. He bit harder into the wood as he approached, beelining towards the nearby table where he kept his supplies.

Upon the bed was a small child, just over a year old and quite small for his age. He had short, auburn curls and long eyelashes that brushed against his fever-blotched cheeks that were covered in red spots, as was his entire body. Upon the small boy's arrival to the ministry, having traveled a distance with one of Nihil's many partners, he contracted a nasty case of chickenpox; treatable but unpleasant.

***

Twig was happily sitting at the desk, frowning over a crossword from a topside newspaper when the doors to the infirmary flew open, causing him to spit out the bark he had been chewing on. Immediately, the earth ghoul recognised the eldest Emeritus brother - Antonio - as he charged through the doors, a wild look in his eyes and a screaming bundle in his arms.

“The child.” He gasped. “Something’s wrong.”

Twig tried to take the bundle of blankets from his arms to assess the patient, but Antonio refused, instead he led him to the bed where he sat, balancing the child on his lap to give better access to the ghoul.

Twig produced a questioning trill towards the Emeritus brother, and began pulling the blankets aside, frowning at the intense fever radiating from pale, clammy skin.

“His fever is so high and he’s come out in red spots. He won't keep anything down - please, he’s so young.”

Chicken pox. Twig had seen it before, often in siblings that had never been exposed to it as a child. The boy was going to be just fine, the earth ghoul had already began pulling the large tub of homemade salve from the medicine cabinet, as well as a fresh washcloth for the fever. He paused as he looked at the vial of medicine, wary of giving it to a child so young.

“He’s been fussy for a couple of days, itchy too. Imperator told me that he was fine before she left for her business trip, but something’s just not right. He was refusing to eat and overnight he appears to have developed these spots-”

“‘Tonio?” A different voice, younger, called from the door. They were by the bed in a flash, the two youngest Emeritus brothers crooning over the screaming child in the blankets.

“We got your note.” Valentino said, watching as Antonio bounced the child on his knee, which helped somewhat.

“What's wrong with him? He looks weird” Dante, the youngest of the brothers, said. He gingerly stepped back behind Valentino, the older teen towering over his short frame. Hm. From all of Twigs reading on human anatomy he was sure Dante should’ve hit some sort of growth spurt by this age.

“Ghoul?” Valentino pressed.

“His name is Twig, Valentino.” Cardinal Antonio reminded him. Twig nodded his thanks, then gestured for the child to be laid down on the bed. Reluctantly, Antonio obliged, the brothers still hovering close as Twig removed the swaddle and onesie with gentle hands. Much to his annoyance, he’d had to clip his nails short lest he harm someone accidentally. He then unscrewed the lid to his pot of cool ointment and collected it on his fingers. The child initially jolted when the cool cream hit his exposed, feverish skin, and the ghoul could practically feel the brothers close in, and if they were of ghoul descent, he was sure they would’ve growled at him.

Miraculously, the child's whimpering began to die down, and even giggled when Twig applied the cream to his ticklish feet and sides.

“Chicken pox.” Twig grunted as he was finishing, a little perturbed to see the brothers begin to take up residence around the bed. After all, he didn’t want the boys to get sick with something so easily avoidable.

“How long until he gets better?” Dante was already impatient from his spot at the foot of the bed.

Twig shrugged. “Week. Maybe two”

“Thank you, Twig.” Antonio looked aged; old before his time as his parents overworking him as well as the rearing of three younger children evidently had an effect on him. He made an internal note to supply some herbal teas, or maybe even introduce him to a hobby such as helping out in the greenhouse to ease his stress. In that moment, Twig felt a strange twinge of guilt for the baby, as surely he was destined for the same fate as his brothers.

***

“What’s wrong?” The Cardinal gasped, scrubbing sleep from his tired eyes. It had been four days already.

“Same.” Twig hummed, preparing a fresh, damp cloth as well as the next dose of medicine. Before he replaced the compress to the child’s chest, he felt his skin for a fever and became satisfied that it was receding. He placed the cloth and moved to measure the next dose of medicine, now modified to be safe for toddlers. He then reached for the tub of cream, already admiring how quickly the itchy spots were receding. He’d hate to admit it, but Dante’s idea of putting the child's socks on his hands aided in stopping him scratching the spots, and the frequent visits surely had the child feeling better in spirit.

“He is responding well.” He elaborated, when he felt the Cardinals eyes on his back. He could almost feel the Cardinals sigh of relief as he relayed the information.

“Good. That’s good.” He huffed, tucking the blankets up to the boy's chest; gentle but sure of his movements. Practiced, Twig supposed. The Cardinal hadn’t left the boy's side, deciding that his work was best completed at his bedside since they entered just days before, and the ghoul supposed that he only got away with it since Imperator was away. Small victories and all, as Twig knew no more than how to shake a toy in front of the infant's face when they started to cry on him. The Siblings of Sin found it hilarious, Twig just found it stressful. Leaving the Cardinal to sleepily look over his charge, Twig moved to the nearby kettle and began the ritual of preparing tea, one of his favourite topside luxuries since his discovery of the cheeseburger.

Once the two cups were prepared, he returned to Antonio, and offered the drink. The man took it gratefully and placed it aside to cool. Twig pressed his mouth together. He hadn’t taken the hint.

“Rest.” Twig said.

Antonio's head shot up at the instruction, a little taken aback but welcoming of a subordinate looking out for him.

“When he’s better.” He sighed, weary and bloodshot eyes scared to leave the child.

“Your brothers.” Twig pressed, but the man declined again.

“Dante, he’s too young to have to look after a child. Valentino too. I cannot place that burden upon them as they are already busy with their studies.”

They weren’t too young, Twig knew this for a fact, but left it nevertheless. The man needed quiet; time away from his ministry duties, and who was Twig to deny him such?

“I should say that they have offered to help, but because of the child's questionable parentage, they are wary of getting so attached.”

There was a pause.

“I think I will remain here, with Giovanni, if you don’t mind.”

The earth ghoul shrugged his indifference, a newfound respect for the man as he skulked back to his desk, crossword waiting for him.

#the band ghost #ghost bc #whump month #ghost bc whump month #panic #chicken pox #family dynamic #?#sort of #Ghoul OC #papa emeritus i #papa emeritus iv #papa emeritus iii #papa emeritus ii #copia #terzo #secondo #primo #imperator (mentioned)

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turvuren · 6 months ago

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cAN I CAN I CANICANICANIIIII

CAN I ASK YOU TO WRITE SOMETHING #WHUMP ABOUT MOON!PHOSPHOPHYLLITE/LITTLE VERS!PHOSPHOPHYLLITE????

and at the same time I’ll share my thoughts on this topic, like, you can ignore them but I just wanted to share so yeah

Maybe Moon / Phos M/F uhoh

I think Phos barely knows Moon...Like, she saw him a couple of times but that was all🤔

Moon is damn tall. Imean...5'8-5'9"??????? And Phos, on the contrary, is a rather short huh, small cute and fragile >:з

I think they would have a small age difference, about a year..

In general, that's all I would like to say, lol, bro. You don’t have to include thoughts in general in the post if you do write something, but it would be great if they were in the post :0

lol i usually write rutile centric stuff 😭😭 I'm pretty indifferent towards phos but I'll try OK SO ive had this idea for a while... sibling phoses. i couldnt think of a way to write them with diff names without it sounding corny in eng, i liked genki phos anyways. like imagine his literal name being winter or moon... or by god, joy. lol

name should be self explanatory. genki - happy, so its the og phos. tsuki - winter. winter phos. tsuki - moon. thats it

cw incest sorry not sorry.

"What the hell is that fucker's problem?..." "What?" Phos shakes her head, gesturing at the man with the weird bucket hair and that weird prosthetic eye. Because no way in hell there's anyone with a natural white iris, right? And heterochromia doesn't work that way. Never does. Her roommate, some weird girl Phos doesn't even bother remembering the name of, just shrugs. "That's just how he usually acts. I think he's a third year." "Still a goddamn weirdo." Phos is messing with the vending machine when he comes across her again, and she just about screams in shock - until she gets a nice, long look at that stupid face. "...brother..?" "Hiya. Long time no see?"

There are 3 Phos's - at least in this small little town. The youngest, Genki, the middle child, Fuyuki, and the eldest half brother to Genki and Fuyuki - Tsuki.

See, Tsuki was a little bit of a brat. And a troublemaker. Genki had never met him, only told stories of him - don't ever turn out like your brother, yadayada, he had been a little bit more than just a handful after - "You're a murderer," Genki says, getting a bit scared now. "How...? Aren't you supposed to be in prison?" Tsuki laughs. "Parole, kid. Anyways, never really seen you in person. What's your name again...? Gen...?" "Genki. You're..." "Tsuki. Your beloved big brother-" "Hell no!" Genki backs away. "Look. Get the hell away from me. I've seen you, watching me these past few... everything! What do you want?" Tsuki laughs again, grating, grating sound against her ears. "What? Can't even look at my own little sister?" "Absolutely not. Go fuck yourself." "What? We just met and you're telling me off?" Genki shakes her head. "You're a damn criminal. I will NOT associate myself with the likes of you - now if you'll excuse me, I have CLASS-" He grabs her by the shoulder and presses his lips against hers. For a moment, Genki is a stunned, unable to react, but as her thoughts return she pushes him away. "What the fuck-?" "I'll make this quick," Tsuki cuts her off. "I'm single. Lonely. You don't wanna see your big brother-" "Cut it out with that big brother crap! You're not my brother, I only have one, and that's-" "Fuyuki? Oh, he's much more pliant compared to you, isn't he? But that's what makes me... endear you. You're so much more feisty, more personality." "I-" "Back to the point. Nobody likes me around here." "And what makes you think I do?!" "Well? We're family. You share my blood. My dirty, murderer blood." "That's not true. We're not even-" "Fully related? That's true. I guess you're only half murderer." "Cut it out!" "No." Genki grits her teeth. What an infuriating bastard. Not even anyone else comes close to this level of... of... "Look, Gen," Tsuki sighs. "I just want someone to spend time with little ol me. Don't you pity me?" Genki narrows her eyes. Maybe... maybe. He's... kind of making her feel bad. "Fine. What do you want?" Oh, but how wrong a decision that is.

Genki buries her face in her hands as Tsuki pulls away, cigarette smoke filling the hotel room. Bite marks over her exposed shoulders where the covers can't hide her shame. "Well? That wasn't so bad, was it?" Dirty. So dirty. This murderer ... and her. "You did a great job there, sis. Don't mope about it. Poison isn't so bad. At least he died quickly. Painlessly." "Painlessly? Really?" They're not so different, are they?

#hnk #houseki no kuni #lotl #whump #cw incest #hnk phos #phoscest #asks #writing requests

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clickerflight · 2 years ago

Text

Struggle for Aldoria: Part 1

Storm the Castle

My new story!

Content: Human whumpees, bloody nose, face slam, kingdom takeover, dragged by the hair. This one is chill, the next part won't be so chill >:3

Overlord Post (all whump)

............................................

There were so many people at the cookout that Toruk had to force his way through the crowd to reach his mother, who was manning the food table.

“There you are!” Halia called when she saw her son, still wearing his palace armband as he approached. “I was just starting to get worried about you.”

Toruk laughed, pushing through a cluster of his aunts to reach his mother as he said, “What do you mean? I’m right on time. I didn’t think everyone would be here already.”

“Oh, you know how your father is,” Halia said. “He just couldn’t wait to start, and you know how hard it is to stop him.”

Toruk snorted, remembering many times as a kind being woken up at the crack of dawn for something that wouldn’t start until noon. “That I do.”

Halia snorted and said, “Now get changed and go see if he needs help in the kitchen. He’ll be glad to see you made it.”

“Thanks, maman,” Toruk said, untying his armband and putting it in his bag as he headed into the house. His father looked up from where he was ladeling the sauce over the pheasant one more time before bringing it out and he cheered when he saw his eldest child, throwing open his free arm so Toruk could come in for a side hug.

“There you are, Tory,” Jallie said with a huge grin. “How was work?”

“Pretty good,” Toruk said, getting a hug in and then stepping back to pull off his long vest, setting it on the table before grabbing a platter of fruit to take outside. “We had a situation in the south storeroom today, though. Someone left one of the outer doors open overnight so we spent all day trying to chase the mice out because no one knew where the minks or their trainer were. I personally think the trainer was out drinking. He’s really been slacking since his wife left him.”

“Trainer? Kortin of the Red house?”

“That’s the one.”

Jallie clicked his tongue. “I heard about that one. Well, you’re here now and you can forget about it all and stuff yourself silly.”

“That is certainly what I intend to do,” Toruk said as the two stepped out into the evening air and put the food down for his cousins to set upon like a pack of starving wolves.

“Now, now!” Halia called over. “Let’s say a proper thanks.”

The cousins, through completely full mouths, managed an approximation of the thankful song for the forest spirits that helped grow the food they were eating before they grabbed even more.

Jallie rolled his eyes at his nieces and nephews before loading himself a plate alongside Toruk.

“So, I heard there’s been some unrest at the palace. Is it true?” he asked carefully, and though he was quiet, Toruk could sense some of his aunties staring into their backs, listening in.

Toruk bit his lip, thinking. “Well, it is only a rumor, but I think something is going on.”

“So it’s true,” Auntie Kirsty said, leaning in across the table from where she had been loading a plate for the youngest of her set of kids.

“I don’t know the extent of it,” Toruk said with a shrug. “But we have been stocking the storerooms as full as we can, and I caught sight of the Prince today. He looked worried. Really worried.”

“I’m sure it will be fine,” Jallie said soothingly. “They haven’t made any announcements yet so it couldn’t be too awful, whatever it is. Just keep doing your part, Toruk.”

Toruk nodded. “I will. And I’ll let you all know if I hear anything else.”

Auntie Kirsty reached over and patted his arm and said, “That truely is appreciated, Tory.”

The three, now finished with loading their plates, sang the thankfulness prayer, holding up their plates to their foreheads as was proper, Auntie Kirsty’s youngest chirping along to words that she still couldn’t really mimic yet.

…………………….

Toruk opened his eyes, glowering at the inside of his blanket as he heard the loud chimes in the streets. The morning chimes that were set up to help people make it to work with plenty of time to spare, and it’s a good thing too. He definitely would have slept in if his headache had anything to say about it. He overdid it on the wine the night before as darkness spread and stories were told around the family bonfire. He slowly sat up, rubbing his eyes before standing and locating his clothing. He slipped on his tunic and trousers, finding the golden rope that would tie around his waist and proclaim him to be a worker in the castle.

There was a soft knock on his door as he tore his bed apart looking for his vest and the door opened.

“Hello, Tory,” Halia said, his vest folded in her arms.

“Oh, thank you, maman,” he said, coming over and pressing a kiss to her forehead.

She hummed at him and said, “Would you like something for your head?”

“Yeah,” he said with a sheepish smile, pulling his vest on as she pulled out some fresh sprigs of herbs for him to chew on.

“Have a good day at the castle today, my seedling,” she said, pulled him into a hug.

“I will. Good luck in the forests,” he replied, stepping back and grabbing his bag.

She waved as he headed out the door and down the cobbled paths through the great city of Aldoria. The palace sprawled at the highest point of the city, only visible because of the elevation in the landscape as it was not built to be tall. There was a bit more foot traffic than usual, and Toruk was surprised by the amount of unfamiliar faces, but he shook it off. That wasn’t too unusual. There was a holiday coming up and he assumed a lot of people from the villages spread through the forests were coming to the city to visit or to buy supplies for their own celebrations.

Toruk made it to the front doors of the castle and lifted the tassel of his gold colored belt to the guard, who made sure that he did have the right belt before letting him through.

From there, it was just another day, albeit a tense one.

Toruk went to the southern storeroom, looking at the damage that had occurred the day before, his board in hand to mark down what would need to be bought to replace the goods. This part was going to take him at least two hours so he tried not to think about how behind that would put him in resorting the green storeroom after the last apprentice he’d tried out had messed it up so completely. Now he had to fix it all again. Besides, why was everyone trying to give him an apprentice? He had helpers that knew what they were doing and he could handle all of the storerooms himself, and it wasn’t like he was even old enough to be in danger of getting sick that often, never mind dying straight up.

He finished figuring how much they would need to buy to replace what had been spoiled by the mice, not much after all had been told. The damage was mostly caused by someone chasing a mouse around and falling into a pile of earthen jars of jams which soaked into some of the root flour bags near them.

He recounted the marks on his board and nodded, coming out of the storeroom to find his helpers so they could help clean the room up a little and reorder a couple of things that had been knocked down. He looked up in time to see the prince rushing down another hall, looking almost panicked compared to the worry that had been on his face the day before.

Toruk blinked, wondering if he had imagined it since the prince had been moving so quickly. He shook his head and kept on working. They needed to finish preparations for the rainy season which was set to start any day now, so he didn’t have time to worry about such things.

Later, after finishing cleaning up in the southern room and starting in the green room, Kata wandered in. Toruk looked over at the helper, who stretched a little before putting her hands on her hips.

“Good morning, Kata,” Toruk said, a little surprised. “Did you just get here? I didn’t see you earlier.”

“Yes, I did,” she said with a shrug. “I had something I had to do before I could come to work today.”

“Oh, is everything alright then?”

She shrugged again. “It’s fine,” she said rather stiffly. “What do you need help with in here?”

“Well, I’m forming a plan right now but you can start by pulling the wax blocks over to the corner while I finish.”

“Alright,” she said, stepping over to do so.

Toruk hummed to himself as he counted up some waxed cloths when Kata cleared her throat uncomfortably and said, “Uh, Toruk, on the way here I heard that you father got injured a little earlier.”

Toruk looked over surprised considering that she lived on the other edge of the city from where he lived. “Who did you hear that from?”

“One of the maids who comes from your part of the city,” Kata replied. “She said that he’s been really hurt. If you want to go check on him after you make the plan, I will cover for you until you get back.”

Toruk bit his lip nervously. “Did you hear what kind of injury?”

“I think she said it was a broken leg.”

Jallie was a forest harvester. A broken leg would keep him from traveling the paths and gathering food to sell at the end of the day or to use for the family. Still, leaving his job to check on him would not make the situation easier for his family. He could support them from his wages until his father was back on his feet.

“No, thank you. I appreciate that, Kata, but I need to stay and work if that is the case. I wouldn’t want to do anything to risk my place here if my family needs my support while my father heals.”

Kata nodded, though she almost seemed displeased by his response.

“As you wish.”

It was so final sounding that it startled Toruk speechless and she left before he could ask her what she meant by that. He decided to find her and ask her what that was all about. It was not wise to act recklessly in the palace, and that was strange enough that Toruk didn’t trust what was going through her mind at all.

He went out and looked down the hallway, catching a glimpse of her as she disappeared around a corner. He tucked his board into his belt and jogged to catch up. This really had been a strange day, and Toruk did get the feeling something was not right.

Toruk heard a noise behind him, sensed that he was falling, and then there was only confusion. People were moving in the halls around him, screaming and yelling nonsensical words, and there was blood running out of his nose and across his lips. He gasped as someone shouted in his ear and he brought his hands up to where they had a firm grip in his hair, tearing the beads out of his braids.

“WHERE IS THE PRINCE!!!” the words screamed, finally making sense through the heavy accent.

He gasped and winced at the sound. “I don’t know,” he said as loud and clearly as he could, even with his bloodied nose. “Please!”

“You’re coming with me, then,” the voice growled, and Toruk was dragged across the ground, scrambling to find his sense of balance through the myriad of pains in his head.

@wolfeyedwitch

Let me know if you want to be tagged in future installments. I have a whole outline and a schedule to write it, so if I don't write more of it this weekend, there will be more around this time next week. Thank you!!

#writing #whump #bloody nose #human whumpee #kingdom takeover #prince whump

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