#enough time elapsed such that i felt it was necessary

[arcynist]

art done for 12/31/2022

[kinkandkreep]

Connor Encounters Poison

A/N: Hey hey y’all! Sooooo….I had this strange urge to see a scenario where Connor encounters poison out on the Frontier and, while incapacitated, has to fend off predators and simultaneously tend to his illness. I only plan for the poison to cause nausea and vomiting and maaaaaybe have some hallucinogenic effects coupled with a little gastrointestinal distress, so if any of that triggers or grosses you out, please refrain from reading this. Otherwise, I hope you all enjoy, and please feel free to send in any Connor related asks or requests! 😁

 ‘Ok. Perhaps I should have heeded Achilles’ warning.’

Connor sighed as he stumbled along the unbeaten path, grumbling irritably beneath his breath. 

Earlier, as he’d been tracking a wolf back to its den, Connor had unfortunately come into contact with what he believed was some sort of poison. 

Its effects were not immediate, and he could only tell that something was wrong once he began to feel woozy. 

Trying his best to keep from startling the wolf, who he’d learned was a mother of 3 pups, Connor, as quickly as possible, turned on his heel and made for home.

Initially the symptoms weren’t so terrible, just the beginnings of some mild nausea and a dizzying effect every few steps or so. 

However, the further he traveled, the worse his symptoms became.

Now that he was about 2 and a half quarters of the way home, he was experiencing full blown nausea, such that he needed to repeatedly vomit, and dizziness so bad he was forced to take a seat on the ground beneath the shade of a large tree to steady himself. 

Nighttime was nearing, and though Connor was confident he could still defend himself if absolutely necessary, he would really rather not given his current circumstance. 

Taking some deep breaths, Connor shut his eyes momentarily, trying to combat the dizziness and somewhat settle his, now upset, stomach. 

He considered calling for a horse, but he knew that he was too nauseous currently to withstand the constant up and down motion of a horse’s gallop. 

Instead, he reached for the waterskin he’d brought along with him and took several small sips, being careful not to drink too much at one time. 

Only about an hour had elapsed since Connor encountered whatever poison was rapidly making its way through his system, and though he couldn’t be sure just yet, he got the feeling that he still had a long way to go before it was completely flushed out. 

The water had helped a small amount, and the dizziness that had once caused the world to be spinning rapidly had devolved only slightly into that same image now spinning slower, enough that it was somewhat manageable. 

Connor’s stomach however, was still roiling and grumbling angrily, enough that he groaned in audible discomfort. 

Struggling to his feet, he braced himself on the tree behind him, quickly inhaling deep, slightly shaky breaths. 

He sat like that for a few minutes more, before slowly, carefully taking a few tentative steps forward to gauge how the dizziness would affect his walking. 

The dizziness had dissipated some, enough that he could walk, albeit at a much slower pace than normal. Connor’s stomach, however, became more and more unhappy the further he traveled. 

Eventually, he needed to rest again, so he took a seat on a tree stump in his path and tried to pace himself. 

He didn’t feel like he needed to use the restroom, it honestly felt more like his lunch from earlier was going to reappear soon.

And given the sour taste creeping up the back of his throat and the sudden bout of dry heaving, he figured that it would definitely be sooner rather than later. 

Connor managed to hold it down for a few minutes more, until the contents of his stomach emptied themselves out onto the ground in front of him. 

Connor hated vomiting, and though it wasn’t something he did often by any stretch, he could remember the few times he had vividly. And it was always a very unpleasant experience. 

Luckily, after expelling whatever small bit of sick was left and rinsing his mouth out with some water, Connor had to admit that he felt a heck of a lot better. 

The dizziness had mostly ceased and the nausea had all but disappeared. 

He took a few minutes more to gather his bearings before standing and making for the manor. 

It was mostly dark by now, and Connor could hear the wolves off in the distance howling toward the moon. The stars were out this night, shining and twinkling brightly. 

Against what instinct told him to hurry home, Connor took a moment to admire the night sky, taking a deep breath and shutting his eyes momentarily. 

They stayed shut, until he heard a muffled growl sound from his left. 

Eyes snapping open, Connor dodged just as the wolf lunged at him. The quick movement unfortunately created a dizzying effect, and Connor knew then that he wasn’t entirely out of the poison woods yet. 

The wolf in front of him ducked low and snarled, tail swishing slowly as it prepared to pounce. 

Unsheathing his hidden blade, Connor prepared to put the wolf down. 

The creature lunged forward, and Connor quickly slid out of its way with practiced ease, sinking his blade into its neck and carefully laying its now limp body to rest on the ground. 

The ordeal had left Connor a little more winded than usual, which he chalked up to some of the poison still being in his system. 

Despite this, he kneeled down, uttering a typical quiet, appreciative “niá:wen” before beginning the process of skinning the felled wolf. 

Once that was finished, the night had fully settled in, and Connor could see lights in the distance. 

He hurried his pace, desperate to get home, brush his teeth and bathe and hopefully sleep off the rest of this poison. 

By the time he arrived, Achilles was already asleep, and Connor frankly didn’t have the energy to hold conversation anyway.  ‘I’ll regale him with the tale tomorrow,’ he thought to himself, before making his way to the washbasin.

[kuraikyu]

@adsevel : " Don't tell me 'stop'. You know you want it. That you need it. " [ geto <3 :) ]

ㅤ𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐔𝐃𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐔𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐘 ill-timed and warned of approaching crisis. These two ... they mattered to him. Suddenly a retrospective image flashed through his mind-scape; Mimiko and Nanako clinging happily to him and calling his name. Where first instinctively tightened expression distortedly soured ... no. ' Hey you two, the air is getting bad here. You should go back inside and keep your eyes peeled as you go. ' Jinta and Ururu looked at him in confusion first, then at one another, but without second ados, they would listen in the end and haste safely within the walls of the shop.

---

Second.

Second special grade and 57 other semi-grades ranked 2 and bellow ... all in one day. That was it for him, limit trespassed. To ease dreadfulness of the situation and summarize it humorously - he felt like sh*t. Geto knew very well one more exorcism over his limit will leave a mark, that's why this whole time he profoundly ignored another curse tailing after him across the city until its new target was supposed to become Jinta and Ururu. He shouldn't have been here at all and certainly should not have done that, especially, when he knows what it does to him but -- [ ... ] Tendrils of discomfort shot through his throat and scalp in order to obey necessary contumacy charged down the slope and pause. A fit of tremble, like delirium tremens, upsets the composure of confidence and throws off balance a blissful wish for feigned distress. His throat muscles tightened in compulsive terror, aware of what should / has to happen next.

Bit by bit ... with back pressed against the outdoor wall he slouched down behind the shop. Focused diligence failed to redress genuine grievances where the very walls of psyche have been damaged by some otherwordly mighty force. A minute. He needs just one full minute to re-collect his scattered sentience ... In spasm-like convulsions, orb pressed against quivering lip-line debilitating his continual imaginary all tiresome and hollow. There was another presence, but at this point, Geto was hardly perceptive enough to pay heed 'ward adamant bravado of benevolent wisdom coming nearer in distance of time.

Just when lips reluctantly parted between elapsing seconds to take in and absorb, something else replaced cold, glassy surface, something softer, sweeter ... a whiff of fresh air with resonance of strange energy ... plucking him from the suffocating embrace of nothingness. The cultist's hand was stopped by another. Rot waned away, and his senses were re-filled with taste of spring. Reassurances laid upon Hades' pedestal enkindled bewilderment behind disciplined cages of facial expressions. Someone did not let him swallow the shimmering black-gold. There was no space for grandiloquence or to be surprised but be he in better shape, he definitely would be. Black pearls now full of abyssal void bared in no anticipation, yet in a fluttering blink.

? '' ... '' Mutter falls lightly in mutual orbit. In accordion responding to what beckoned him with weak yet, firm low voiced semi-growl, " stop. " How dare you be soft to me like that. The ridge fell sheer, in steep crags and a distraction of the day couldn't dilute vastness of kaleidoscopic strobe.

" Don't tell me 'stop'. You know you want it. That you need it. "

He felt shiver whispering through him, jovial voice heavy in his mind. But these words did not stop hovering restlessly inches away from his face, so the manipulator's breathing grew shallow. Kisuke's contributory to silken purple of virulent vices left no demand to linger, instead lengths of low timbre's subtlety tried to soothe heft of his state.

ㅤ

'' You don't understand ... , '' he finally utters after a short pause until a self-derisive chuckle sails mistly from his lips, '' you should not be near me when I am in a state like that. ''

ㅤ

This wasn't even a matter of pride or wounded ego anymore but dangers of what he could do while unhinged. Locked for hours indulging in grandeur of destructive enormities until the feeling passes away - that's what should happen, not this. The merchant had no idea what is he fueling right now ... but it seemed like it did not matter to any of them anymore. He was just trying to help; with anything anyhow, but it was nearly impossible. No one could help him, except for himself and time. Still, it was a gesture of utmost kindness ... Mindless nebula taking over him once again. A drop of invisible scarcely latent, crimson thread carefully woven in a trice of giggles and controlled by feminine hands that unleashed anchor into dark waters not to embed stay but puncture sternum and pull closer one coronary artery to another; until grand collision happens in all its foul magnificence but till full reparation. Stirring astounding unreasoning and adrenaline surging through rattling bones and loose heart shaking feverishly in ribcage, such promising resolve hankers after electrifying intimacy as if it is the only salvation but alas! by the skin of one's teeth - solely a grinder for naked knife.

Digits intertwin in an acrimonious gesture of incomprehensible language with black haori clothing the Shinigami's shoulder. Instantaneously trying at first to maintain their separation at bay, but the hardness of his unrelenting grip gradually lost its dexterity and softened.

Lava rooted to the spot without binding nor fighting.

When adequate time occurs he will proceed with greed; for he still planned to swallow the special grade cocooned in his palm. Geto just needed a minute, but at the same time he understood the other would not let him have it, not yet, not now. Not until he's ready for it.

In the wake of resounding enormity of his own desire and faltering momentum of self-perception, masonry to provide continuity between new and old remembrance no longer firmed spinal support and produced space for bad decisions or best. A decision with slight possibility he won't remember a thing if his mind falls victim to blackout. In the loops of perpetual incapacitation, Kisuke reminded him how to breathe again. Perhaps, he might listen to him today ...

He inspires drawing in a full and deliberate inhale. It would give the Sorcerer but one grain of the mountain but he dives back as if in fierce competitiveness with his lungs, pursuing this new catharsis with breathless haste. Joys that were so trifling for one would terminate continual fainting for another.

But until again he is out of oxygen Geto decided to give in to the trickery just as endless. Until the hand holding orb lowered and was no longer a priority within his scope of attention.

[slumberingchaos]

It had taken him weeks to find a way to repurpose Hojo’s security card - the damnable man had an unnecessarily meticulousness about him that made it hard for anyone to take something he deemed useful. And then another three days to compile all of the information from the Turk’s field reports in order to find exactly what he needed - or rather who he needed. Genesis had been careful, covering every lead or trail that could trace back to him but despite his efforts a too clean of a trail was just as much of a give away.

Sephiroth had been quick to act, he wouldn’t let the trail turn cold. Not when he knew several Turks had already been sent to Under Junon, their mission clearly outlined on his abandoned computer screen.

Find and Eliminate Target: Genesis Rhapsodos, Former Soldier First class. Location: Shack, Under Junon. 25.345 x 32.567y. Targets remains are to be returned to Professor Hojo upon elimination. Mission is to be completed by any means necessary. Casualties from civilians granted. Target is assumed to be armed and extremely dangerous.

There was little time to waste. He didn’t know how much time had elapsed since the Turks had left Shinra headquarters in their own helicopter, but he would be damned if he would allow them to take his friend from him. Not without Genesis giving him answers.

Time passed almost too slowly, though perhaps that was his impatience talking. Boot clad feet tapped incessantly, echoing within the otherwise silent cockpit. Ten minutes till they would be landing in upper Junon. Turning his gaze towards the horizon, the black clad soldier watched as the sun slowly crept up chasing away the shadows of the night. A heavy sigh escaped his parted lips, gaze drifting from the ocean sunrise to the craggy land below them. His fist pressed against his cheek as he surveyed the land, pausing only when a shock of red and a spark of a gunshot caught his eye.

A feeling of panic rose within his chest, reacting now without a moments hesitation. Grasping the hilt of his sword, the silverette stood, throwing open the large door to the helicopter despite the protests he could just barely hear from the pilot. Kneeling down he waited, timing his movements precisely before jumping out of the chopper.

The next few moments were nothing if not a blur, instinct leading his movements as he landed just in front of his friend. His blade was fast, cutting through the hail of bullets launched at him but not fast enough for all of them. The sting of pain sang within his body, though he kept his stance eyes never leaving the three turks stood before him. Not until he felt the supple red leather brushing against his skin in a way he had sorely missed. How long had it been since Genesis left? How long had he been denied a friendly touch to his shoulder, or felt his impassioned friend glide his hands through his silver locks while forcing him to another Loveless recital?

Cat like eyes met Genesis’ own, the murderous intent lessening at the protective words hissed out from pale lips. His mouth parted, about to say something anything really, before the sounds of their guns reloading filled the air. His free hand moved, pressing Genesis closer to his front holding Masamune protectively before them. “I’m fine.” His voice was low, the edge to his voice belying the pain that he felt from the carelessly taken bullets. “I can hold them here till you’re safely away.” His hold on the frailer man was enough to say he truly didn’t wish for him to go anywhere. Not when he finally found him again after all this time.

Slowly his eyes broke away from Genesis’ staring down the men taking aim on them now. He knew these three - young and arrogant members of Human Resources. They were gifted, though. More so than most other grunts not infused with Mako energy. “Go.”

Reluctantly he released the ex-soldier’s waist stepping in front of him again in an act of defiance his sword raising up and eye level with himself. Blood steadily dripped down onto the deadened grass as he waited patiently for someone to make a move expecting the redhead to heed his words. He wasn’t armed. There wasn’t anyway Genesis could stay and fight.

By any means necessary he would protect him.

@slumberingchaos asked: one muse takes a blow meant for the other // to Genesis from Seph

The degradation was getting worse and worse with every day and slowly but surely it started to become a real issue. The pain of the non-healing cut in his shoulder was now spreading down his arm and back and his body started to feel heavier with every passing day, making it more and more difficult to get out of bed and continue his fight for vengeance. And his search for a cure. On top of that there was Hollander who was telling him day in and out that he was so close to finding a cure, sweet talking Genesis with promises he most likely would not be able to keep. But the crimson poet was growing desperate.

Genesis stood in the bathroom of the little house in Under Junon he and Hollander were currently occupying to hide away from Shinra, and a look in the mirror was showing him just how grave things were going for him. There was another strand of white decorating his former fiery auburn hair, it was another proof of how he was slowly running out of time, every passing day leaving him weaker. The former SOLDIER sighs, washing his face before the sound of breaking glass caught his attention.

“Hollander?”, he calls out for his unpleasant companion, rolling his eyes at his uselessness. The scientist probably broke another glass. When he didn’t get a reply he noticed how eerily quiet it was, usually Hollander would curse and complain, but there was no sound in the house. Something was wrong. And then it happened. Genesis saw movement of a person dressed in black out of the corner of his eyes and he barely managed to dodge the bullet aiming for his head.

“Fuck!”, he cursed under his breath and he barely had enough time to think about it. Before his attacker, who was very obviously a Turk, could attack him again Genesis threw himself out of the bathroom window to escape. It was still early morning, so there weren’t any people on Under Junon’s streets, but Genesis saw the three other Turks waiting for him, of course they were expecting him to flee.

Genesis could feel his wing sprout from his shoulder, but he was too weakened to fly without the medicine Hollander usually was providing him with in the morning, so all he could do was run. And the Turks followed. It was a rather short and uneventful chase, with them shooting at him without Genesis having the chance to escape or fight back. His body was too weak to fly or cast magic, his red rapier abandoned in his bedroom and when he found himself cornered, back against a wall Genesis could only growl.

The crimson poet forced a smile on his face as he stared at the guns pointed at him, knowing that the bullets would pierce his body and end his life any moment now. How did they even find him here? He had been so careful to not leave any traces, but he knew the Turks were even better than their reputation. If only he had been able to convince some of them to join his cause instead..

Genesis squeezed his eyes shut, rage and bitterness burning in his stomach. Oh, how he hated them. How he hated that they abused him and turned him into a monster, he hated how they would get away with killing him, how they would celebrate defeating him. He wanted them dead, all of them!

When he heard the gunshots he prepared himself for pain, pain that wouldn’t come. And when he opened his eyes again his chest ached with a mixture of longing and disappointment. Genesis stared at the familiar back, at the long silver mane, at the long and elegant sword in his hand that he had used to block the bullets. Sephiroth. But what was he doing here? Why was he protecting him?

“Sephiroth”, Genesis whispered breathlessly, his voice almost leaking with reverence. Despite everything that happened, he had never lost his admiration for the fine silver general, but seeing him again only reminded him how badly he had wanted his old friend to turn his back on Shinra, with him. And how he had been denied.

“What are you doing here?”, he added, now trying to put the old venom back in his voice, he couldn’t allow Sephiroth to see him weak and defenseless, and he already wanted to shove him to the side, when he noticed the blood covering the silver SOLDIER’s shoulder and stomach. He had deflected the bullets, but not all of them. He got hurt. Because of Genesis.

“You are bleeding..”

Ignoring the Turks before them he slightly pulled Sephiroth behind him, turning so he could face him, his fingers taking a hold of the silver one’s chin so he could look into his eyes. The old rage now burning fiercely inside his chest once more.

“I am going to kill them.” With his bare hands if he had to.

[quindolyn]

Midnight Walks Part 2 || James Potter

Pairing: James Potter x Reader

Word Count: 3020

Note: I finally finished part 2, this is horrible, just completely plotless and a lot of fluff but it was stuck in my head and I wanted to get it out before I started working on something else (what will that be? You know what that’s an excellent question). It’s a bit shorter than part 1 but also much longer than necessary. I hope you all enjoy it or at least don’t hate it, constructive criticism is always welcomed and appreciated.

Warnings: Nonsexual nudity, hair washing, fluff, comma abuse, the Addams Family (I watched it all the time with my dad when I was like 7), lots of fluff, barely proof read and done so at 11:36 pm my time so

Masterlist

Part 1

What you and James hadn’t counted on was for it to start pouring down on you as the two of you laid, splayed out along the playground structure, metal of the bars cutting into your backs. After the kiss in the rain James insisted on having the two of you had stumbled home, wrapped up in each other’s arms, smearing sloppy kisses on any exposed skin you could get your lips on. It probably took you guys a solid 20 minutes longer than it should’ve to get home, you must’ve looked ridiculous meandering down the residential street trying to swallow each other’s tongues, drenched in rain. Eventually you made it home, managing to fall through the front door without breaking anything in the house, yourselves included though there were admittedly a few close calls. “You want a bath doll?” James asked you, cupping your face in his rough, calloused hands, fingertips dripping with rain brushing small, soft circles on your cheekbones. Lifting one of his hands off your face you cradled it in both of yours, tracing a healing callus that sort of looked like a flower, with some very wonky petals, but a flower nonetheless, “Yeah, that sounds good. You’ll take it with me?” Pressing a kiss to your nose he spoke, “Of course, not gonna run a bath for my pretty girl and not take it with her. M’Not an idiot my love.” “Guess not,” You shrugged, a smirk playing at your lips, earning you a playful push against your shoulder. Lifting you into his arms bridal style he carried down the hall to your room where we placed you down on your bed, still being clad in his varsity jacket, you pulled it tightly around yourself to conserve any heat you may’ve had while trying not to shiver from the water that still soaked you. You could feel the comforter beneath you getting wet. “Damn you’re pretty in my clothes baby doll.” He simpered pulling your arms parallel to the floor so he could see how much longer the sleeves of the jacket were than your arms. “They just swallow you whole,” He commented, really more to himself than to you. “Be right back m’love.” He promised before he traipsed out of the room and across the hall to where your bathroom was. You leaned back on your bed as you listened as the water started running when James turned the faucet on, the thrumming sound quickly lulling you to sleep. You awoke in Jamie’s arms but 15 or so minutes later as he carried you into the bathroom once the giant claw foot tub had finally filled to his satisfaction. You smiled dreamily as the sweet scent of your favorite bubble bath flooded your nostrils, you blinked your bleary eyes to see the breathtakingly handsome face of your boyfriend. “Bath ready?” You mewled, your voice weaker than you would’ve thought after such an inconsequential amount of sleep. “Yeah, nice and hot (Y/N/N), just how you like it.” “Great,” Pushing the heel of your hand into your eyes you tried to wipe away the sleep that had so quickly overtaken you. James placed you on the bathroom counter with ridiculous care, as though you were the single most precious thing in the world, handling you with such gentleness you were almost afraid about getting used to it, knowing if you were ever treated with anything less you may just break. “Let’s get this off you.” As he pushed the jacket off your shoulders and down your arms, seeing an opportunity James took it, kissing the delicate skin of your shoulder. “That tickles Jamsie,” You scolded completely unconvincingly as his light, barely there stubble grazed your skin. “Sorry darling,” The shit eating grin on his face said otherwise, “Just couldn’t help myself.” As you reached around to undo your bra James pulled his shirt over his head, leaving it to rest on the closed lid of the toilet, once his pants were pooling on the floor along with his boxers he moved to you, still perched where he first set you in your shorts. You lifted your hips so he could pull down your shorts, still soaking from a mixture of fountain and rain water. Once he sliped them and your panties off your legs his hands were back on you, caressing the your sides as he stared into your eyes, a dazed look you usually equate with post sex washes over his face. “What are you thinking about J?” You asked, tangling your hands in the hair at the nape of his neck. “You,” He responded simply, leaning forward so that the two of your foreheads are melded together, his nose bumping yours, “And how much I adore you.” If you didn’t love him as much as you did you probably would’ve complained about how your face hurt from all the smiling you did around him, you knew smile lines were in your distant future but you couldn’t find it within yourself to care. Because everytime you looked in the mirror you would be reminded of him, almost as if you got to carry around a piece of him with you forever. “I love you too but I’m cold, can we get into the bath?” He nodded, pulling you to the edge of the counter, moving so your legs were linked together at the small of his back, hands clasping together at the back of his neck. “Let’s go, little koala,” He chuckled, one arm on your back, the other supporting your bum, a stray finger stroking your bare skin. You closed your eyes at the nickname, savoring the vibrations of his chest as he spoke and laughed. When the both of you were settled into the tub, him behind you, hands rubbing up and down your arms, his chin rested on your shoulder so that your faces were pressed together, cheek to cheek. “Did you like the walk bub?” “I did!” You smiled, turning to that your nose was prodding against the side of his face, “I don’t think I’ve thanked you-” “You don’t have to,” He shook his head, “You don’t have to thank me for spending time with you, I want to be here for you, you don’t need to pay me in ‘thank you’s’. I’m just glad I was able to help you.” “I still want to say thank you,” You murmured, reaching down into the soapy bubbles fishing around for his hand for a moment before he caught on to what you were doing and moved his hand to yours. You smiled gratefully when you felt his much larger fingers brush the back of your hand. His hum tickled your back forcing you to stop yourself from wiggling around so that the nearly overflowing water wouldn’t splash out the sides of the tub. “Can I wash your hair Jamsie?” You asked him, twisting around so that your chest was pressed to his, faces mere inches from each other. “You want to angel?” He let out a small chuckle when you enthusiastically nodded your head, your eyes going wide as you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth, excitedly gnawing at it. “Okay sure darling, how are we going to do this?

After you both had abandoned any pretense of keeping all of the bath water inside the bath, maneuvering was a lot easier. As you sidled up behind him you ran your hands down his muscled back, relishing in the feeling of his skin against your palms. “So pretty,” You murmured, leaning to gently kiss in between his shoulder blades. “Uh, Jamie?” You asked shyly. “Yeah?” “Could I wash your back once I’m done with your hair?” You asked nervously, as though he wasn’t already sitting in between your legs, the both of you stark naked. “I’d love that (Y/N),” He leaned back into your embrace, forgetting that he was much larger than you, but that didn’t stop you from wrapping your arms around his neck, drawing yours and his initials onto the skin of his stomach. Your eyes flitted over to the shelf next to the tub where rows of shampoos and conditioners, body washes and scrubs sat. You plucked a bottle from your collection and flipped off the lid, squeezing the eucalyptus scented shampoo into your hand. “Can you scooch down for me baby?” You asked, tapping his shoulder as he wordlessly complied sliding so that his body was submerged in the bubbles and water up to his nipples. Working the soap into his hair you massaged his scalp drinking up the soft whimpers and groans he let out as you cleaned his hair. “Feels so good baby.” He praised reaching a hand back to pet your wrist. “I’m glad you like it,” Your response came with a kiss to his temple. Once 10 or so minutes, give or take, had elapsed you figured his scalp was clean enough, “Alright baby, dunk for me,” You instructed, dipping your hands into water to clean them. “Don’t want to be done though bubs, felt so nice.” He whined like a petulant toddler, reaching back for your hands trying to get them back on his scalp. “I could conditioner it for you if you’d like.” You offered, feeling benevolent. “Yes please Princess.” As you pulled the conditioner bottle from its place on the shelf James rinsed his hair, quickly moving back between your legs. He hummed as you gently yanked at his tresses, fingering in the conditioner into his hair. “I could get used to this (Y/N),” He purred, closing his eyes as waves of pleasure crested over him. “Yeah?” “Yeah.” He confirmed. “When do you want to get married?” You wondered aloud to him as the thought swept over your consciousness as you continued to massage his scalp. “(Y/N) (L/N), are you proposing to me?” He quickly turned his head, craning his visage to try to meet your gaze. “Hey, stop it,” You scold, moving his head so he’s facing back forward, “Gonna get soap in your eye if you’re not careful.” “You’re avoiding my question (L/N),” James sang, relaxing back into you as you continued your ministrations on his scalp. “Shove it Potter.” “Calm down Mrs. Potter,” He teased you, “Of course I want to get married, one day. I haven’t thought about it too much though, we’re still so young.” “Oh,” You failed at masking your disappointment, “I guess.” “Baby,” He turned around to face you, hair still soapy with bubbles which ebbed at his hairline, “I am going to marry you one day, trust me, if I have any say in it I’m going to put a ring on your finger but I prefer to live in the moment with you, I need to savor every second we have together, can’t spend too much of my time looking to the future. Don’t want to miss what we have now.” HIs explanation brought a gentle smile to your face, “I get it.” You nodded. “But,” He began. “Yes?” “If I did think about us getting married…” He trailed off. You whined, removing your hands from his hair, “Come on just tell me.” “Don’t stop, why’d you stop?” James groaned going limp. “You’re a literal child, you know that Potter? Keep talking and I’ll keep massaging.” “Hmph,” After a minute he relented, “I wanna wait until we’re done with school, and not just high school, college, grad school, law school, I don’t know, whatever we want to do, wherever life takes us.” “You really want to wait that long?” “I want to wait until we’re stable, I don’t want to start our life together without a solid foundation.” “I understand that, it’s smart.” It was smart, James was a smart person and being captain of the football team and thinking through all of those pranks he and his friends were so partial to playing he had an amazing strategic mind, something you both admired and envied. Which is why you didn’t buy that he hadn’t thought about your wedding, even if he wanted to, you knew James, he couldn’t deny himself. “At our wedding I want a sit down dinner, buffet is too tacky.” You were right, he had thought about it. “Yeah?” “Yeah, and I’ve thought about your dress too.” A truly comically large grin spread across your face. “Obviously you should wear whatever you want but I think you’d look breathtaking in a ballgown. Lots of lace and bling.” “Bling?” “Yes, bling, you should look like a princess on our wedding day. But I’m torn,” “You are?” “Yes,” He exclaimed emphatically, as though he was being forced to make the most important decision in his life and both options were equally appealing. “Because you’d also look gorgeous in a simple dress, nothing too flashy, understated but still elegant, because at the same time I don’t want the dress distracting from your beauty. All eyes should be on you that day.” “You’re a sap James Potter, a sap.” Despite your words you felt a fluttering in your chest, James Potter was many things. An idiot, slightly arrogant, a pain in your ass, the sweetest man alive, and a genuinely good person, even if he was a sap. “I think I’m done darling,” He lifted his arm out of the bath, showing you his pruney fingers, “I’m turning into a raisin bub.” “But what about your back?” “Next time?” “Sure darling, next time.”

James’ shirt hung low around your knees, the soft, warm fabric tickling your damp skin, you laid on your back, your head resting against his chest which was steadily rising and falling, his toned arm wrapped around your waist, inching up the fabric of his shirt to get to your bare stomach. “You wanna watch a movie darling?” “Something stupid please.” After much debate the two of you settled on the Addams Family Values, James argued that it wasn’t stupid though you said it was pure “brain candy”, not anything too engaging or something you had to pay any attention to but still enjoyable. About 20 minutes into the movie neither of you had so much as uttered a single word, settling into the comfortable silence of merely being in each other’s embrace. That was until James spoke, abruptly breaking the silence, “Peonies,” Was all he said. “‘M sorry what?” You grumbled, your voice rough from being half asleep when he spoke. “Peonies, for our wedding, my mom has always grown them in her garden, she grows lots of flowers roses, tulips, carnations, aster, sunflowers too, but peonies have always been my favorite. Sirius and I, when we were little would sit in her garden and pick them, weaving them into little flower crowns for the other to wear, we were her Flower Princes.” “I’m a little offended you haven’t made me a flower crown J, You playfully griped, “Swear to God sometimes I think you’re more in love with Sirius than me.” “Never,” His voice was strong, certain, as he tightened his hold on your waist, pulling you closer to him as he flung one of his legs over both of yours, “Love you most (Y/N), for forever I love you most.” His words became slightly garbled as he babbled, sleep starting to over take him. “I know,” You soothed his wounded ego, stroking his arm, “I’m just playing with you Jamsie.” “Don’t want you to ever think I don’t love you.” “I’m not sure how I could,” You started, the events of the past 3 hours rushing through your brain, the phone call, the hug through the window, him tying your shoes for you, the fountain, his jacket, the bath, the Addams Family. You don’t show up for someone like James did for you unless you really love them, which evidently he did. “You, James Potter, are the most wonderful man and I love you beyond comparison.” “I love you too darling, forever and for always.” It didn’t take you long to fall asleep lying in his arms, he pulled up a blanket around both of your shoulders, both of you being too lazy to get under the actual covers. To the metronome of James’ heart beat, and the rhythm of him moving his leg over your you fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Sunday morning you woke up sorely missing the morning prior, waking up in James’ arms was unlike anything you could ever dream of. And instead of sleeping in until 10 like you had with him you were up at the crack of dawn to the sound of the construction going on next door at your neighbor’s house. After much resistance on your part you dragged yourself out of bed and downstairs to fix yourself some breakfast, wishing James was there to make it for the two of you as he had yesterday before going off to work at the local consignment store. Smearing jam over your toast you aimed it for your mouth missing by an inch or two as you were distracted, scrolling through your phone in your opposite hand. Apricot jam smeared across your face in a mess of orange-yellow glory when you jumped at the abrupt sound of the doorbell ringing. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,” You murmured, dropping your toast onto your plate before rushing to get the door, not wanting a second ring to wake the other people in your house. “Hi,” You greeted opening the door to a middle aged woman with a worn face in a pair of khakis and a company shirt you didn’t bother taking too close a look at, “How can I help you?” “Are you (Y/N) (L/N)?” She asked, a pleasant smile gracing her lips. “Yes, I am.” You confirmed, puzzled as to why this woman was at your door so early in the morning.” “Someone ordered flowers to your house for you,” She explained patiently, detecting your befuddlement, “There should be a card in the arrangement.” She said as she handed you an extravagant bouquet of brilliant pink flowers. Peonies.

tagging: @randomoutsiders​

[petri808]

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14

Inukag *warning this chapter might hurt*

Staring out through the windshield of his car, his darkened home was the picture-perfect mirror of the pain settling into his soul. Inuyasha had no idea how he’d even managed to make it home without driving off a cliff or plowing himself into a stone wall, because his body and mind were completely numb.

‘Read’ but not answered…

Was it a good sign that the woman at least looked at it? Inuyasha rested his head against the steering wheel and closed his eyes. He’d fucked up… again— just like the night of the accident. His eyes squeezed tighter shut as the emotional pain of everything slammed him with the force of a freight train. This was bad… bad, bad, bad… “FUCK!!” He roared into the still night air. With Kagome’s memories coming back, she’ll remember everything, and it was over. He’d had this second chance to reverse all the damage and he went and fucked it up again.

Not surprisingly, Kagome didn’t respond to his first text, so he typed out a final message for the night: ‘You’re mad at me. I get that so I’ll give you some space but I just wanna say good night Kagome. I love you -Inu’

‘Read’ but not answered…

It was all he could do for now, his only solace knowing Kagome had her mother to comfort her. Inuyasha sighed, long and deep as he pulled the keys from the ignition and dragged himself into his home. His body felt heavy with exhaustion. A weight crushing him down like a boulder. It took all he had to just drop his keys to the floor beside the entrance and shuffle into the bedroom instead of falling right then and there. He didn’t want to move anymore. He deserved the silent darkness of this tomb-like home along with its judgmental echoes of the life it once held.

The next morning after a restless sleep, Inuyasha called out of work. When would he be back, he couldn’t answer them? Part of him didn’t care anymore. Fire him, it wouldn’t matter to the walking dead. Miroku called in concern for his friend, but Inuyasha let it go to voicemail. He didn’t feel like talking to anybody right now, not when he knew it would have a ring of ‘I told you so,’ mixed in. That wasn’t necessary. Didn’t he feel bad enough?

A good morning text sent… left on Read…

An apology text….

Another apology text…

Voice messages left randomly through the day…

All left on Read and unanswered.

The anxiety filled hours ticked on with Inuyasha left curled up in a ball under his blanket. He’d done a number on his living room to physically release the anger he felt at himself, and now he was just dead to the world. All the drapes were tightly closed to the sunlight outside and he only left his bed to attend to bathroom matters. He didn’t wanna give up all hope, but with his mind in tatters and thoughts only of despair, there was nothing left to cling to.

By nightfall Inuyasha was convinced Kagome had truly given him up and he couldn’t blame her for it. This was all his fault. Him and his stupid big mouth. There was no denying it. He shouldn’t have argued with her. Just like before, instead of using his ears to listen, he responded with ego when he had no right to chastise her over not telling him something. The whole reason he was in this mess is because he never listened to her when it mattered the most— and there in lay the heart of it all. Neither of them had the opportunity to talk about what caused the original fight or process what drove Kagome to leave. Inuyasha thought he’d understood its origins and accepted responsibility for it, but clearly, he was wrong, and this new situation is most certainly what would have taken place if Kagome hadn’t crashed her car— a debilitating depression.

If Kagome didn’t want him anymore, then there wasn’t anything left for him in this world as far as Inuyasha was concerned. His yoki called out for her, wept for her loss, and with it all the energy in his soul to care slipped away. He was simply empty without her. No appetite or desire or thirst, just an ocean of dread, and waves of numbness dulling all his senses.

How much time had elapsed, how many days gone by? The clock ticked away hour by hour like a death knell with Inuyasha simply waiting for a release to come. All the messages left on his phone were from everyone other than the one person who could have brought him out of this funk. But her ringtone never came. It is what is it. Was it day four? Five? Six? Inuyasha couldn’t tell, but feeling his body starting to let go, he decided to send one last message to Miroku before shutting off the phone for good.

At the Hoshii residence, Miroku and Sango were on edge dealing with the crisis. Sango had been doing her best to help Kagome to cope with her pain, but Miroku was growing frantic over Inuyasha’s refusal to answer him. He’d driven by the man’s home and knew the car was there, and that was it. No one answered the door and with all the curtains closed he couldn’t see inside. Finally, on day five while they were visiting with Kagome, Miroku heard his phone ping with a message.

Inuyasha: thanks for being a good friend. Tell her she was the only one I’ve ever loved

“What the hell?” Miroku blurted out as he mulled the message over and over in his head.

Sango rushed over at the concern in her husband’s voice. “What is it?!”

“I think that idiot is planning to kill himself— I better… I better go.”

Hearing the commotion, Mrs. Higurashi also came out of the kitchen. “What’s going on?”

“It’s about a message Inuyasha just sent,” Sango explained as her husband was digging around in his small pouch and grabbing his car keys. “Miroku is gonna check on him.”

“What did it say?” Mrs. Higurashi questioned.

So, Miroku showed the woman his phone. “It doesn’t sound good.”

“Oh, dear!” She reached for a jacket near the front door. “I’m coming too! Sango will you stay?”

“Of course, I’ll be here with Kagome. You two go.”

It was a good thing that Miroku had held onto a spare key to Inuyasha’s home that he’d been given and simply forgotten to return. When he and Mrs. Higurashi walked through the door, chills crawled over his skin. It was evident that the house had been closed-up for several days, no windows opened, or ventilation, just a silent graveyard feeling with a fog of musty air mixed with the scent of rotting kitchen garbage and body odor. It was revolting and only heightened the pairs concern for the occupant.

“Inuyasha?!” Miroku yelled as they made their way through the dark home but received no response. The man wasn’t in the living areas or bathroom, so the logical option was the master bedroom at the far end of the hallway. ‘Please be alive,’ he prayed.

Once inside the room, they could see an unmoving body underneath the blankets and if the buildup of body odor told a story, it was sure to be his friend underneath those covers. “Inu?” Still no response.

Mrs. Higurashi turned on the bedroom light, and the brightness finally caused the blanket to shift ever so slightly. “Oh, thank heavens,” she gasped out in relief as she held a hand to her chest. He was still alive.

Miroku rushed over and yanked the blanket off. “Inuyasha!” Tears instantly gathered in the panicked man’s eyes. The state of his friend was heart breaking. Inuyasha had lost weight. His skin was gaunt and pasty white, hair matted and dirty. “Oh, fuck, we— we should call emergency!”

“No…” Inuyasha croaked out and buried his face deeper under his arm. “Let me die.”

“Fuck no, you idiot! Kagome still needs you!”

“Better… off… without me…”

‘Seriously?!’ It was rare for Miroku to get so upset, but in that moment, the anger that bubbled up to surface took over and his arm flew up ready to strike his friend. “You stupid—!!”

“Don’t!” Mrs. Higurashi yelled at Miroku. “He needs help, not anger right now.”

That seemed to snap Miroku out of his emotions, but the tears broke free. It was hard to see his friend in this position, just so frail— nothing like the tough hanyo that he’s known for years. Even after the death of his mother, Inuyasha didn’t break down this badly. Miroku grit his teeth to his own pain and pushed forward. “You idiot. Dying isn’t gonna help Kagome. So, whether you like it or not, we’re gonna help you.”

Mrs. Higurashi now moved around the bed to where she could sit beside Inuyasha. Her own eyes were clouded too, but the woman pulled on all the strength she could muster to hold it together. She placed a hand on the arm he was using to cover his face. “Inu, Miroku is right. Kagome is hurting just as much as you, and I don’t think you’d want to cause her anymore heart ache by going out this way.”

“But she hates me…” Inuyasha whimpered weakly. “Please just let me go.”

Mrs. Higurashi had to squeeze her eyes shut to hold back her tears. Her heart broke for the man. Gently, she pulled his arm down, her voice shaking as she spoke. “Inuyasha, you’re like a son to me, and I won’t let me son die. We’re gonna figure this out, but you need to live please, for her, for all of us that cares about you.”

Inuyasha’s eyes cracked open just a tad. “I’m so, sorry,” he mumbled. “So… sorry…”

She kept her voice as soothing as possible. “I know, and so does Kagome.” Mrs. Higurashi then turned to Miroku. “Do you think you can get him into the shower and clean him up? I’ll make something for him to eat. He needs something in his stomach immediately.”

“Y-Yeah, I think I can do it.”

It took both of them to help Inuyasha into the bathtub. He was so emaciated and dehydrated, that he had no strength left in his body, just dead weight. While Mrs. Higurashi left them to deal with the kitchen, Miroku stripped his friend of clothing and ran a bath to bathe him. Inuyasha offered no resistance, just a few tears flowing down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” Inuyasha kept repeating.

“Don’t apologize to me. Save it for Kagome. I can’t believe you’d think we’d be okay with you dying! You’re my best fucking friend you asshole! I want my kids to grow up with their uncle!”

“But I keep screwing up.”

“And that’s life. It ain’t the end of the world yet.”

“Feels like it.”

“Whether you believe us if not, Kagome is hurting cause she in love with your stupid ass too. You can still fix this.”

“Don’t know how.”

“And that’s why we’re here.”

“Thank you…”

Inuyasha’s eyes started to roll back, so Miroku slapped him hard in the face. “Oi! Don’t you be dying on me now! So, wake the fuck up!”

“So… tired…”

“Gonna clean you up and momma Higurashi will get your strength back, so hang on just a little longer…”

Now cleaned up and dressed in something comfortable, they prop Inuyasha up in a recliner since he was still struggling to hold up his own body weight. He simply had no reserves left to draw from and under human standards wouldn’t have lasted this long. A hospital was better equipped to deal with this kind of situation. Inuyasha should have been put on IV fluids to hydrate him faster along with special supplements pumped directly into his system because after this long, the organs would have started to shut down, and his stomach would struggle to process anything. But Mrs. Higurashi made due to honor his request, starting with a bland rice water chicken broth of starch, proteins, and vegetable nutrients to re-prime it slowly. She also sent Miroku to the store to purchase drinks with electrolytes given to infants when they are dehydrated. It was a painstaking process to feed Inuyasha spoonful by spoonful.

“I need you to help me fight Inuyasha,” the woman coaxed the weakened hanyo. “So, you can live through this and see Kagome again.”

Tears flooded Inuyasha’s eyes at the mention of Kagome’s name. “After everything, why would you still want me around her?”

“Because you love her, and she loves you, and as long as there’s love it can find a way. Son,” she placed a hand on his, “I know it feels like the end of the world, but it will get better if you want it to. Do you want it to?”

“Yes,” he sobbed.

Her hand now gripped his tightly as her expression grew determined. “Then fight for it!”

It took several bowls of soup before gradually Mrs. Higurashi started giving Inuyasha fish and small pieces of chicken meat to eat. She had to stick to easily digestible foods, but at least his coloring was improving, and he could feed himself now. The sun has already set, by the time Inuyasha could finally stand up on his own.

“You’re lucky you’re a hanyo. That’s what’s probably saved your life.” Miroku expressed to his friend.

“I know.” Inuyasha could feel his demon half working harder to regenerate his physical body. Though while his body was recovering, his heart still felt broken. They kept telling him that Kagome still loved him so there is hope, but a part of him struggled to believe it. He’d already hit such a low point, to suffer rejection now was almost too unbearable to even comprehend.

Miroku continued talking. “Inuyasha, you’re not gonna do this alone. We will be there to support both of you, but it’s time you confront this. You and Kagome need to talk… about everything— even though she may not remember, a lack of communication is exactly what triggered this whole situation.”

“I know…” Inuyasha sighed.

“All couples go through struggles,” Mrs. Higurashi added with a comforting tone in her voice. “A strong relationship doesn’t come from a having a perfect one, Inuyasha. It’s developed through adversity. How well a couple can take the challenges thrown at them and grow from it.”

“You remember what happened with me and Sango, we almost didn’t make it because of my bad behaviors…”

“Your damn womanizing,” Inuyasha cut in.

“Yeah, that,” Miroku grumpily agreed. “She had to give me a harsh ultimatum to wake me up. But I did, and now look at us. This is your harsh moment, and you can choose to wake up, or loose the best thing that’s ever happened to you. It’s your choice.”

“Okay, okay, I get it.” Inuyasha ran a hand down his face. “Of course, I don’t wanna lose her.”

“Then are you ready to see Kagome?” Mrs. Higurashi questioned.

Inuyasha exhaled slowly. “Ready? No…” he was terrified to face the woman. “But I’ve gotta do it.”

[gisellelx]

Hi! Saw you mention Carlisle, Esme, and Rose display signs of PTSD, and Jasper is sociopathic. I agree on Esme, but was stumped by the others. Could you explain what you meant?

So I admit this is mostly coming from that fateful dinner table conversation we see in Midnight Sun. A lot of the Cullen family dynamics get revealed in that conversation. Having read the draft dozens of times years ago, I noticed every single tweak SM made in the final published version. And she brought all of these aspects even more to the fore in the final version than were present in the original.

Mind you, I tend to disregard a lot of this because I read the characters as presented in canon as cardboard. Meyer needed them as props to Edward and Bella's epic love story and so she gave them these very rigid personalities so that they didn't affect the story in ways she didn't want them to. So I tend to assume they are more complex people than they are presented as when I write them. However, the way they are presented is consistent with major issues, and that, too, can be fruitful to think about and explore.

Let's start with sociopathy. First, let me acknowledge that this is not a term that gets applied by psychologists. It's antisocial personality disorder. Sometimes, people who have it are described as not having a conscience. Now, Jasper's gift makes that kind of impossible--by the time we meet him in canon, he's suffering from the weight of the feelings he feels. But we don't get remorse from Jasper. He's not spending a lot of time thinking about what he's done in his lifetime before Alice (directly contrary to how I have written him in the past). His solution to the Bella situation is just...let her not wake up some morning.

Jasper's entire approach, throughout the saga, is pure strategy. Fighting James? Do what is necessary, including splitting everyone else's mate off from them. Fighting the newborns? Train everyone, recruit the wolves at whatever cost to them. And the only reason we don't get his take on His focus is singular: Alice. Whatever the safest outcome is for Alice, that's the one, no matter who else is implicated.

One might think that an empath might approach this all differently--that someone who is forced to suffer the heartbreak of all the other people around him might choose paths which mitigate his own suffering, at least a little. But he never takes this road. Even Carlisle, who by all accounts, seems to be able to sway all the other members of the family, is powerless against Jasper. It's only Alice who can keep him in check.

Psychopathy and sociopathy are sometimes described as being the difference between whether someone has a conscience or not. Sociopaths have a conscience but are theoretically willing to sidestep it when the outcome is favorable. This is canon Jasper to a t, and the fact that he remains this way, after gaining his vampire curse gift, just says all the more about him.

Rosalie, in canon, has mostly disassociated. She is absolutely singular in her pursuit of the only thing that matters to her--making everyone else pay for the fact that Carlisle robbed her of her humanity. The reason I'm willing to armchair psychologist this as PTSD rather than sociopathy like Jasper is that this is not about winning or having a particular outcome. She is acting out of woundedness. We see this in the way she acts at the dinner table--mostly concerned with the effects on her personally, if the Cullens have to move, on the way she handles Bella's humanity, taking until almost a year of elapsed time, even without the New Moon separation, to explain to Bella what what her issues are, and then her hyperfixation on Renesmee, which was not at all about Bella, of course. She responds to the world out of the pain of the worst moment of her existence. Some other PTSD symptoms that Rose exhibits is a general sense of hopelessness, difficulty maintaining close relationships--even with Emmett, we get the impression that their relationship is based on his adoration of her beauty and their wild sex, not on their intimacy. And of course, of all the Cullens, she's the one most prone to angry outbursts, yet another symptom. I happen to think those are usually justified, but they could be read as pathology just as easily.

Ah and Carlisle. This might veer into my headcanon a bit too much, but I'll try to stick to what's on the page. He is constantly, constantly reacting to Edward’s rebellion. I don't think that Rosalie was turned to be Edward's mate. But I do think she was turned because Carlisle was thinking of Edward. He has spent three hundred sixty years running from who he is. There are some theological reasons for this, but there's a perfectly valid worldly explanation for a lot of his behavior in the saga that he's constantly acting out of trauma to keep his family together by hook or by crook. Turning someone into a vampire just because his daughter, who hates him, asked? Drugging a woman by the side of a Phoenix freeway? As a writer, I find several of his actions to be just bad, uninspired writing. But if we take them at face value, you have someone who is constantly trying to patch together things that won't patch. The part where my headcanon comes in is that I read everything that happens after 1931 as a desperate attempt to keep Edward from ever rebelling again. We don't get a sense in canon of exactly how Carlisle felt about that, except for the intense feelings Edward has about Carlisle. If one assumes those feelings are mirrored even a little, Carlisle was undoubtedly traumatized by what Edward did (and, by extension, what that means for his own neediness and loneliness to have turned Edward in the first place), and his every choice after then is about keeping Edward from ever doing that again. Perfectionism, unwillingness to let down one's façade, ineffable optimism--as weird as it seems, these are also very classic trauma responses and Carlisle has them all.

This post is long enough already but there's another layer here in SM's canon that vampires can't change and what that means for the way they respond to trauma. Suffice it to say that I don't think Twipires experience mental health the same way humans do, and that some aspects of what is canon about who they are results in people who must, by definition, be quite effed up.

[a-lil-perspective]

So apparently I wrote a Bad Batch Christmas blurbie thing??? Sort of??

It’s about ‘giving’ lol so let’s just roll with it.

———

“What in Maker’s name are you wearing?”

Tech looked up from his spot sandwiched between couch and datapad, toasted by some rather snazzy insulated garbs. He narrowed his eyes at his silver-haired critic.

“I am wearing what non-military personnel would call ‘thermal pajamas’—”

“I gathered as much.” Crosshair’s lips were pulled in a tight line as he scoped out the checkered red and black dressing his brother. “Why.”

Tech readjusted the position of his goggles and crossed his softly cuffed ankles. “They are to ensure warmth, as the climate has been predictably frigid this time of year—”

“That’s what your blacks are for.”

“—And similarly, these were a gift.”

Crosshair felt himself grow further perturbed. “Gift?” he echoed incredulously. “That’s—”

“Clever, thoughtful, necessary?” You strolled into view from Crosshair’s right, your hands bearing a folded set of clothing similar to Tech’s with only minimal difference in color scheme. “Yes, it is.” You thrusted the pajama pair into Crosshair with a smirk. “You’re welcome.”

The light clothing felt entirely foreign within his grasp.

Crosshair simply blinked as he silently assessed the garments, dumbfounded. He thumbed over the insulated fabric, along the pressed neckline. Beneath the shirt and cradled by his fingertips he could feel the warm pant ankles that showcased a delightful tempt of comfort.

The silence grew suffocating. Your merriness began to recede as you awaited a response—any reaction for that matter—with bated breath. You reverted to those wretched nervous tics of yours as seconds elapsed. He slowly flickered his gaze back and forth between you and clothes. The third time around had you nearly suffocating.

“Just—saw these in the marketplace,” you explained hurriedly, wringing your hands. “Your blacks look like shit and I thought you guys could use something warmer. I’m pretty good at guessing sizes although Wrecker’s I had to special order—”

“Aw relax, pal!” Wrecker clapped a large hand on your back, causing you to nearly lurch into Crosshair. “Cross is just tryin’ to come to terms with bein’ a Commando in pjs!”

Fine, freeze your ass off, then. Oh the bubbling acerbic nearly flew off your tongue. You forced the tempest in you to quiet.

“Interestingly enough,” Tech piped up with his usual opine, “Crosshair radiates an astounding amount of body heat without the aid of thermal material.”

“Well I wouldn’t know that.” Your voice was tight. You didn’t exactly have time to feel the sniper up before your purchase.

“However...” Apparently, Tech was hellbent on advocating for the silent brother in question. “He does possess an obscure cold intolerance, so these will aid him quite well in future endeavors.” Tech finished by inclining his head towards you with a smile, which eased your growing disquiet, if only somewhat.

“I love ‘em!” Wrecker interjected with a splitting grin, backing up and extending his arms out to the side for your appraisal. “So does Sarge! Already gone to take a nap in his.”

A smile found its way to you with ease. “That’s good to hear, big guy. They look good.” You nodded appreciatively at your work, turning back to check in on the state of Crosshair’s... calculation. Your lips pressed into a tight line.

“Look, if you don’t want them I’ll give them to someone who does—”

“No,” he pulled them taut to his chest, causing your brows to arch in amusement. “I do... want them...”

Maker, he sounded like he was choking on the idea of being the recipient.

Of course he was.

You softened in realization, taking a step forward and laying your hand over his, silently taking note of his reflexive twitch. “Crosshair. There’s no strings attached. It’s simply an act of kindness. From me to you. Okay?”

You forewent waiting for a response that time, stripping your pride and craving for approval, and walked away with only warmth in your heart. If you could give these soldiers even a sliver of comfort amid their endless toil, then you’ve done something right.

Crosshair watched you leave with a gratitude crystallized on his tongue that he’d only lave over you in the distant future, tangled cozily in bed with you pressed against the fabric of his very worn thermal pajamas (in which you discover that Crosshair is, in fact, as heat-retentive as they say) as you tease him about the way a replacement is long overdue, and he’ll refute with how sentimental he is—of both his favorite pair of clothing, and the being he received them from.

[lit-in-thy-heart]

hehe im glad you joined us for the hug prompts! I'll ask you for 14 - leaping hug with... mergwaine! hopefully that works for you otherwise second option for a ship would be mercelot!

thank you for the prompt!!! you will notice a theme with the other prompts (and each one that came in made me grin even more, you'll see why throughout this week) and i'll stick this under the cut because it is quite long for a prompt, i'm sorry.

hope that you enjoy it! 💖

feel free to send any other prompts

It was when Merlin’s eyes started to lose the mirth that Gwaine had suggested lightening their load with a game. Merlin had been reluctant, at first, to stray from the task at hand, but Gwaine had pointed out that they were halfway through the army’s boots and that they needed to take some sort of break before their arms cramped up.

Quite how hurling boots across the throne room alleviated the tension in their arms, Merlin wasn’t entirely sure. ‘Only with the ones we haven’t cleaned yet, right?’ he uncertainly asked Gwaine, picking up one particularly muddy boot.

Gwaine, having swung two boots over his shoulders, flicked back his hair. ‘Your choice, Merlin. We can either scuff the clean boots, or have to clean mud off the throne afterwards. Which I see as a rather appropriate metaphor.’

Frowning, Merlin turned over the boot in his hands. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, it’s always the common people cleaning the king’s image, isn’t it? Sanitising it. He’s always idolised by them, when he never deserves it.’

Mouth set in a grim line, Gwaine retreated to the back of the throne room and gripped the shaft of the boot, swinging it around his head and sending mud flying in all directions. As Merlin sheltered his head with one arm, Gwaine let go of the boot and watched with a satisfied smirk as it sailed across the room and landed firmly on the throne. The dim sunlight scattered across his face painted him in a mosaic of stained glass and Merlin’s hand faltered slightly, boot beginning to slip through his grasp.

Sparing Merlin a brief glance, Gwaine removed the second boot from his shoulder and squinted up at the balcony behind him. Merlin, catching his meaning, really did drop the boot as he held out a hand. ‘No. No way. Arthur will string both of us up, now that I’ve put that idea in his head, if you do that.’

With a shrug, Gwaine dutifully turned away. ‘I believe it’s your turn.’

Picking up the boot again, the servant adjusted his grip and moved to stand beside Gwaine and flung it towards the throne. His arms, already weary from cleaning at least fifteen boots, didn’t provide enough power and the boot crashed into the polite queue stretching across the floor, scattering them like birds after a stone had been hurled at them. Gwaine suppressed a snort.

‘In my defence, I’m usually the one getting things thrown at me,’ Merlin muttered, approaching the chaos with a small sigh.

Gwaine’s eyebrows drew together. ‘Who throws things at you?’

‘The townspeople when I’m in the stocks. Arthur. The knights, sometimes. Arthur again—’

‘Why does Arthur throw things at you?’

Merlin, his back still to Gwaine as he rummaged through the footwear to find the boot, shrugged. ‘Because he feels like it, I suppose. It’s fine. I’m used to it.’

‘And I thought you said he was different.’

‘He is different,’ Merlin replied, finding the boot and turning around. ‘It’s just that—Gwaine!’

Gwaine was clinging to the central statue,shaft of the boot between his teeth, his legs wrapped seductively around its waist as he tried to hoist himself up. There was a muffled: ‘What?’ and he twisted his head with an attempt at a grin.

‘You’re going to fall off.’

‘M’not.’

Shimmying up the statue, Gwaine reached up for the wrists of the two angels, hauling up his feet from the shoulders of the statue to the sculpted towers above, lurching unsteadily. Merlin desperately wanted to look away, but couldn’t bring himself to alter the direction of his gaze. He felt his eyes slide down Gwaine’s body and rest on his very prominent arse as he squatted momentarily and, catching himself, Merlin pushed his stare to what seemed to be the safe region of Gwaine’s shoulders.

Then Gwaine moved and the muscles in his shoulders bulged beneath his shirt. Merlin could feel the heat rising in his neck. As Gwaine’s foot slipped, Merlin darted towards the statue, hand outstretched to intervene if necessary. Regaining his footing, Gwaine’s hands caught the railings of the balcony and he tumbled over the top, landing with a muffled thump.

‘Arthur is actually going to kill me.’

Leaning over the balcony, Gwaine removed the boot and spat out flakes of mud with a look of disgust. ‘I’ll protect you, Merlin, don’t worry,’ he said, taking a knife from his boot and throwing it in the air with a grin.

It catapulted through the air and embedded itself in the floorboards only inches from Merlin, who had watched its progress with an ever-increasing sense of doom. ‘You saying that fills me with feelings of safety, Gwaine,’ Merlin drily said, folding his arms. ‘There’s no way that you’re going to be able to get that boot to hit the mark.’

‘Not without you up here for moral support.’

Merlin took one look at him, bathed in sunlight, and sighed heavily. Wordlessly, he pushed through one of the doors leading to a narrow staircase – why Gwaine hadn’t elected that route, Merlin was none the wiser – and ascended them two steps at a time, emerging onto the balcony. When Gwaine turned, his head was haloed by the rich woven threads of his hair, face illuminated by his smile. With a wink, he backed up as much as he could, took three decisive strides, and launched the boot over the railings. It curled in on itself as it sliced through the air in a graceful arc, mud spraying the floor like droplets of water from a salmon leaping upstream. It landed in the centre of the throne with a shudder from the sudden breeze it had created.

When Merlin looked towards Gwaine, his eyes travelled down to the exposed skin of his chest as he leaned over the railings and hastily drew his gaze to Gwaine’s smile. ‘See? Having you near me makes all the difference. Now, your turn.’

Merlin raised his eyebrows. ‘If I couldn’t do it down there, what on earth makes you think I could achieve what you just did?’

Levering himself from the railings, Gwaine stood in front of him, hands firmly on his shoulders. ‘Believe in yourself a little, Merlin. Anyway, being higher up actually makes it easier.’

Still unconvinced, Merlin gripped the shaft of the boot a little tighter. He cast one more look at Gwaine to give him the strength to aim as his friend moved away to give him space. Drawing his arm back, Merlin focused his gaze on the stern throne, pictured Arthur’s face when he’d said about there being no downside to Merlin being strung up, and hurled the shoe with all his remaining energy.

It shot through the air, collided with the top of the throne and dropped down on top of Gwaine’s.

In one smooth motion, Gwaine had launched himself at Merlin, hugging him in the same manner he’d embraced the statue. Merlin, thankful that he was steady on his feet for once, laughed into Gwaine’s neck and put one arm beneath his thighs to support him. There was the faintest scent of pickled eggs buried in the depths of Gwaine’s hair but Merlin didn’t mind it as much as he would have thought. There was a murmured phrase of congratulations breathed into the echoing crevice between his neck and neckerchief and both parties were vaguely aware that the appropriate time had elapsed for physical contact, but neither moved to detach themselves.

As Merlin marvelled at how much lighter Gwaine was than he’d expected, Gwaine was busy wondering if it would be possible to push down Merlin’s trousers with his legs and believably claim it was an accident. He wasn’t quite sure what had possessed him to launch himself at Merlin, though perhaps it had been prompted by the smile of disbelief that had spread across his mouth like the dawn when the boot had hit its target. And if this was the first victory that Merlin had secured in a short while, then Gwaine had thought that it deserved to be honoured properly.

Adjusting his grip so his hands fell to Merlin’s shoulders, Gwaine inhaled the delicate aroma of cinnamon that had folded itself in Merlin’s clothes. Perhaps he could be happy here, in Merlin’s arms. If Merlin didn’t get tired of him, that was. Beneath his body, Merlin shifted, other arm skimming Gwaine’s thighs. His head was still turned towards Gwaine’s neck, their cheeks grazing gently against each other, and Gwaine resisted the urge to nip at the skin covering the top of Merlin’s spine. One collision at a time. He was just about to try and push down Merlin’s trousers – because that wasn’t a collision, that was simply testing the waters – when the door below them crashed open and Merlin dropped his arms, startled.

Gwaine’s legs dropped with them and he slipped down, dangling from Merlin’s neck with his feet several inches above the ground. Tentatively, Merlin leaned forward to peer over the balcony and Gwaine swung with him, eyes moving with a growing sense of dread to the disrupted line of boots. Arthur was stood in the centre of the room, arms folded, with a stony expression sketched across his face.

‘One of you had better have a very good explanation for why exactly you are up there.’

Merlin and Gwaine turned to look at each other, and Gwaine’s witty reply was lost along with his breath as he caught sight of subtle flecks of gilt in Merlin’s eyes. As he grasped for words that he no longer had, Merlin twisted his head to look back at Arthur. ‘I was giving Gwaine a tour.’

‘I’ll be giving you both a tour of the stocks if you don’t get down here instantly,’ Arthur threatened.

As Gwaine detached himself from the servant, he let his hand run discreetly across the back of Merlin’s shirt, smirking at the subtle shiver Merlin emitted. Perhaps if he stuck around, then perhaps he could see just where else Merlin could successfully aim.

[nomadinia]

Chronicles of an unfortunate athlete (part 1)

I waited a long time to write this review because I wanted to make sure I had all the facts. I was originally going to give CareAxis a 1 star rating, but the physiotherapist I met with was beyond amazing, hence the only reason for my 2 star rating. Note, this review is more about my experience as an athlete with one of the doctors running this program than the program itself.

There is so much to say that I don't really know where to begin, but let me start by saying that dealing with the CareAxis neurosurgeon's office was one of the most frustrating medical experiences I have ever had. Since my situation is quite peculiar, I have dealt with my fair share of unhelpful doctors, but this neurosurgeon in particular is the epitome of medical nonchalance in my eyes.

This has been a 5 years odyssey, so I’ll try to be as concise as I can throughout this review.

I am a former competitive varsity athlete and some of my teammates have gone on to become Olympians. Needless to say, my body has endured some grueling training. I trained at a competitive level from the age of 18 to 23, and one thing about grueling training is that it makes one very attuned to their body, so I’ve always known automatically when something was up with mine. I always wanted to continue my competitive career at a professional level, but unfortunately due to debilitating back and shin pain and incontinence (keep that in mind), I had to retire from competitive athletics at 24. Fitness and competitive athletics were everything to me, I had a fitness blog with over 62,000 followers, I was about to start a fitness channel, and I was putting in the hard work towards becoming a professional runner.

My deteriorating physical health took a huge toll on me mentally, but despite my early retirement, I still clung to my dreams of returning to competitive athletics. So for 3 years, I had endless appointments with my family doctor to try to find the cause of my symptoms. However, at 27, I was tired of getting nowhere, so I started pushing for diagnostic tests. I am fortunate to have a family doctor who understands my drive and doesn't mind sending me for diagnostic tests as long as I pay for them.

In June 2020, I had a full body MRI and that's when we discovered that I had moderate to severe congenital lumbar spinal stenosis (L4-L5-S1). Thinking it was the source of my ailments, my doctor and I were ecstatic. I was even more ecstatic knowing that there were still hopes of qualifying for Boston 2022 if I could get surgery in 2020. Since I knew how ridiculously long the wait time for a neurosurgeon is in Quebec, I searched the Internet for private neurosurgeons in Quebec. I was very happy to CareAxis initiative and thought it was really great after reading about it. Besides, because the program included an orthopedic surgeon, I was even more excited, thinking, "let's kill two birds with one stone - we can find a solution to my back pain and also to my shin pain”. All in all, I had so much high hopes.

One thing leading to another, I self-referred myself to the program, met with a physiotherapist (to whom I gave a copy of my MRI report and a flash drive containing the images thinking that would be sent to the neurosurgeon (keep that in mind). I have to commend CareAxis because I was contacted fairly quickly after my assessment with the physiotherapist (2-3 days). Unfortunately, I couldn't make it to the appointment because I live 2 hours away from Montreal and I'm a public servant, so I can't just give a 2 day notice to my manager. I opted for a phone consultation.

Now that's where the whole debacle begins...

1) At our first consultation, the neurosurgeon did not have my MRI report or MRI imaging study. I was baffled because (a) this information had been provided to the physiotherapist, and (b) I distinctly remember leaving a voicemail for one of his receptionists with the information of the clinic where I had my MRI.

I was so excited for our first phone consultation, but it really turned out to be unfruitful. Side note, he is very punctual in terms of his phone consultations. I was very disappointed though since our first consultation lasted less than 15 min if I remember correctly. Although disappointed, I was not mad because it was more of an administrative error. I couldn't really blame the neurosurgeon, but it should have been a red flag call to the many communication flaws in this program. Before ending our phone call, he asked me to send him a copy of the MRI images and the report and I did so promptly.

2) Since the clinic where I had my MRI did not provide me with a CD, as patients have access to an online portal, I downloaded the images onto a flash drive and sent it to the neurosurgeon. On our first phone call, I mentioned this and made sure that sending the flash drive was okay. He confirmed that it was ok. Everything was sent by express mail, so I knew he would receive it within a week.

I waited a whole week and no phone call.... Knowing how busy neurosurgeons are, I let the time pass (a WHOLE month) because I figured he had a lot to do. Besides, no one likes to be seen as a clingy patient... Of course, after a whole month of no response, I finally called his clinic and to my surprise, his secretary informed me that he had not been able to open the USB drive... Internally, I was very annoyed because this meant that if I hadn't called his clinic, no one would have informed me of the problem. Once again, I brushed off the issue and told his secretary that I would contact the Vancouver clinic to have the CD sent to them.

3) I contacted the Vancouver clinic and had the CD sent to the neurosurgeon’s office. I think it was sent to him fairly quickly. Unfortunately, he was once again unable to see my images as his clinic did not have the necessary technology and once again nobody informed me of the problem. Again, I wasn't really mad because the technology used in Vancouver to perform my MRI required a specific type of software (DICOM).

I found it strange though that a hospital could not open a DICOM file given that (a) I was able to see the images on my computer after downloading a DICOM software and (b) other clinics were also able to open the images. Anyhow, I was not too bothered by this problem, what irritated me was once again the lack of communication from neurosurgeon’s office.

4) Since the neurosurgeon could not open my MRI images, he scheduled me for an MRI and, yes, you guessed it, again, no one called to inform me. It was a total shock to me when on Christmas Eve (December 24) I received a letter in the mail informing me of an MRI scheduled for December 26. I live in the National Capital Region, which meant a two-hour drive that I didn't mind, but for God's sake, it was the holidays and people make plans at this time of year. Of course, when I tried to call the radiology division to tell them I couldn't make it, I was greeted with an auto message saying they were closed, so of course I couldn't talk to anyone. That's when I started to get more than a little annoyed.

Fast forward, I ended up getting the MRI he ordered. While I really despise many aspects of his program, I have to give credit where it is due – the MRI rescheduling was done pretty quickly (February 2021). Now we are getting to the part that really was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Because of all the shenanigan going on, it took the neurosurgeon about six months to tell me that it was not my spinal stenosis that was causing my shin pain and incontinence. I don't mind him not knowing what was causing my shin pain and incontinence, but the fact that the whole process took six months is unacceptable!

From the time I referred myself to CareAxis (September 2020) to the time the neurosurgeon was finally able to get an MRI of my spine (February 2021), six months elapsed. For many people, 6 months may not seem like much, but for a high-performance athlete who wants to return to their sport, it's half a year. In the world of sports, especially high performance sports, so much can be accomplished in six months, especially in terms of training or rehabilitation... Keep in mind that since I was out of my sport for such a long period of time, I could have really used some of that time to reacclimate my body to a high and demanding level of physical training. Those six months of shenanigans really could have been cut in half if only there had been ongoing communication with the patient (i.e., myself). I could have been proactive on so many aspects throughout the process.

Since the neurosurgeon was quite baffled by my situation, he decided to make an appointment for an in-person consultation to better evaluate me (in May 2021). However, I remember having a strange feeling during our last phone call - as I explained my symptoms to him, I could sense the disinterest in his voice. At that point, I realized that he is the type of doctor who won't do much to help an athlete get back into their sport.

After our last phone conversation, I fell into a depression because I was disappointed that my spinal stenosis wasn't the cause of my shin pain and incontinence. I was really at my wits end with all the diagnostic tests and medical appointments. Eventually, I picked myself back up and, because I didn't want my judgment to be clouded, I cancelled the in-person consultation with the neurosurgeon and decided it would be best if I did some research on my own. I also asked my doctor at the time to refer me to a sports medicine doctor.

Long story short, after doing extensive research, I felt confident enough to meet with the neurosurgeon. So I called his clinic to make an appointment - his office never returned my call (it's been 7 months now). Dr. Santaguida never sent notes to my doctor either and didn't even try to refer me to anyone else. He simply forgot about me. Fortunately, I was always proactive, and during those 7 months, I had asked my doctor for a referral to another neurosurgeon, but more importantly, I sought recommendations from experts. I contacted a Norwegian MSK rehabilitation and injuries specialist who reviewed my MRI images and recommended the right spine surgery. Furthermore, I obtained a second opinion from Sandford University, Jefferson University, UC San Diego, and the Global neurosciences institute. And we were able to shed some light on the incontinence.

With a proper physical exam and detailed sports history, we could have easily shed light on most of my ailments. Moreover, I could have had the necessary additional tests quickly and been on my way back to a very physical lifestyle. It turned out that in addition to spinal stenosis, I have chronic exertional compartment syndrome – CECS (shin pain) and a sports hernia (Gilmore's groin, athletic pubalgia, whatever you want to call it) in my right groin that causes the urological symptoms (incontinence). And to top it all off, I have PCOS.

Imagine having PCOS along with moderate to severe spinal stenosis, CECS and a sports hernia that irritates the bladder. Life was certainly not joyful... While the chances of the CareAxis neurosurgeon suspecting CECS and athletic pubalgia would have been very slim, he worked with an orthopedic surgeon who could have given him excellent advice on how to manage a former athlete... This neurosurgeon could have even referred me or suggested that I see a sport doctor. I went through many extra hurdles that could have been avoided.

While I can't fault the neurosurgeon for not knowing about CECS and sports hernias, as these are occult sports injuries that only a sports physician or team of experts would suspect, I am definitely irritated that I had to endure unnecessary pain and that proper treatment was delayed.

[neoptolemid]

Middle of the night

This is a story between Helenus and Deidamia, a talk between the two during the night discussing the future but also a lot of the past

It was late at night and the weaving room was lit by only a single candle and the room was lit by a single candle and the sound of a single loom being used. It was Deidamia who sat alone weaving a new piece. The design was simple and more akin to something of a blanket, a piece to be used to warm and comfort a person.

She had been working on this blanket for the past month and she made blankets like this one every year in the same month.

She had long since worked out a pace for herself and hummed to move along the time as she went.

Her hair no longer was kept wrapped and high but she wore it loose and let it fall over her shoulders, her hair had lost some of youthful shine and took on more luster and gray.

She had no care to mind though her life was full, she had loving children and partners to keep from any thoughts of vanity in gray hairs.

She worked her speed and hummed a single tune, something mostly solem.

Work was interrupted with quiet footsteps, and she knew the intruder far before they gave a slight knock on the doorframe and came in.

"Hello deia, what are you doing up so late?" The question and voice belonged to her husband, the priest king of Eprius Helenus. He spoke hushed in the quiet room and walked to her pulling a seat next to her.

He too was aged by time, his hair had grown long and also gray. She remembered from when they had first met and his hair was black and cut short, he had been shorn quickly and roughly with no care put into it but she supposed that was the nature at the time.

When they had come to Skyros all those years ago.

"I couldn't find sleep and I wished to continue my work on this piece, what made you awake also at this hour?"

"I admit I was looking for you, I wanted to speak to you about your trip to Delphi, if I have the dates correct you'll be going in the next few weeks?"

"Yes that is correct"

She knew well enough that this would be the set up to a conversation, she didn't know exactly what the end of the conversation would bring. She knew well enough he was trying to breach a subject that was causing him thoughts, he was always a bit of the type to dance around things. He meant all the bust but he would always start out with making small talk and speaking on all things around him first.

And like she thought he wouldn’t quite get to his point yet “did you intend to take Kassandra with you like you did last year?”

His voice was quite like prior but there was hesitation in his voice now, worry clung to him a bit.

“If she wants to go with me then I will welcome her company, if she doesn’t wish to come with me again then that is fine. I would not push her.”

“Andromache and I wanted to make the request that even if she asks to not bring her.”

This had her stop, this had her turn and finally turn and look helenus in the face.

“Why not, if she wishes to come then I would allow it and she is my daughter she ought to be at my side how I will it to be” Her voice punctures the air, she speaks hard for a moment with him, looking him in the eyes and burying her gaze.

She knew this was coming, this house wishes to put the past to rest and all she wishes to do is give simple remembrances. Her grief swallowed her once and after climbing back she simply wanted to give small tokens and things as remembrances, as small offerings.

She knew the tainted nature of the past in this house, it was not something she could deny or hide, not something she could apologize for and she accepted all that.

Helenus looked somewhat taken aback from how Deidamia came to be, but his offense wasn’t taken so hard that he simply slipped back from her, he couldn’t meet her eyes and his shoulders slumped a bit.

He kept his arms close to himself and softly rubbed the back of his hand with his thumb, seemingly working out words and what he would say.

“Look Deidamia, we simply think it would be best for you not to take her, she is so little and Delphi is not close, it is a journey and for such a small girl”

She didn’t care to hear anything but the reason that had drawn him to seek her out in the middle of the night. “Cut it out. Helenus.”

“You going to Delphi is fine but just don’t take Kassandra”

“Why Helenus?”

Her tone was sharp with him, if he were to continue this charade of answers her tone would do nothing but grow with him.

"Andromache and I simply don't think it's the best, recently kassandra was asking about Neoptolemus and it is not a topic I or Andromache really want to entertain any growing interest in."

She signs, she softens, her shoulders relax and she turns her gaze from him and to her work, "alright, I can understand that, I can be fair, I will not take her."

Silence slinking back in and the only sound to be heard is her making her work, the sound of fabric passing by fabric, but he does not leave.

Something in the silence bothers him and keeps him from leaving just yet, something in the air keeps him where he is, there is more to be said he can simply feel it. He doesn't know yet what must be said but the words will surely fall from him, but while he collects his thoughts he turns to look at her work.

It is a rather simple blanket, the patterning is minimal and the color is teal.

"I'm am sorry if I have upset you Damia, I simply worry for you and for Kassanadra, I do not want this grief to consume you"

The shuttle drops from her hand with a thunk as she turns around to him.

"Consume me! Do I not live here, do I not govern here, do I not raise my daughter here! Do I not love you here! How am I not present, in what way do you need me to be more present. Pray tell me Dear Helenus how I am not present here"

Her voice pitches and it is very nearly a yell, while her mood might have settled had he left, he said what he supposed he was supposed to, he spoke what he believed necessary.

She stands taking his arm. Eyes boring into eyes she speaks and cries to him.

She weeps to him, in that moment she cries and breaks to him "You barely let me grieve alone, I know what my son did, I know he wasn't perfect, I know he did harm, I've seen the harm first hand. But I can't not grieve for him, I can't not, he was my baby! My baby that I raised by my hand"

"Oh, Damia . . ."

"I know his crimes!” her anger breaks to a quiver as she continues “but I can’t stop loving him, he’s my son and I’ve no more sons now, I love Kassandra I truly do but I’ve lost my sons, I’ve lost my last bit of Achilles and Patroclus.”

It falls out like that, and part of that hurts Helenus, he knows that he is forever loved in her arms but such old names still hurt. Years elapsed and still those names sting.

It is unfair that such old names should still sting and hurt him.

Between the two boys Pyrrhus was the image of Deidamia with Achilles’ eyes and while Oneiros was alive he took mostly after Patroclus, it was forever clear the boys did not share a father. It was forever funny that while alive, although Pyrrhus was the elder of the two brothers, Oneiros outgrew him. Who would know that he would be taken from the living age while still young, no one would know how tall he would grow be.

He loved her so much but such words like these acted on old fears that he truly was no one's first choice, he was not wanted ever first.

“I .. . I’m sorry you feel that way Damia, I really am sorry you feel that way” he pulls her close and kneels to the floor with this, he holds her with his person. He folds around her and holds her with all that he can.

If he just truly holds her as tightly as he can then nothing can get to her, nothing can harm her as long as he holds her and hides her within himself. He can go through so much in life, he has seen the hardships of life first hand and none of that is anything that she deserves.

It is her voice that breaks the moment of silence between the two of them.

“He left me,, I let him leave me, I couldn’t keep my baby boy safe and simply keep him at home on skyros. I couldn’t even do that much as his mother! I let him leave me, I let my boys leave me and they died!’

Her breaths come quick as she speaks.

So much of everything she has felt pours forth to him, she wept for her son when he left, she wept for the child she has raised and cared for.

Grief swallowed her when black sails came in the direction of skyros, one could think it was simply the ending of a war and that people might be returned. However the only sails were those of black sails not a single other ship, and this was only trouble, this was only a sign of grief to be had. True to nature these sails came with nothing good, they took what was good to her, they took her peace.

They came with gifts and promises, they came with fortunes.

Nothing but empty things.

They came the same way when Achilles and Patroclus left her.

What's a child to do when they are offered all the things of a king, what is a child to do when they are told of glory to be won and gifts to be given. She remembers distinctly the gifts promised.

She remembers promised arms, surely too big. She remembers the promising of a shield, surely too heavy for her boy. She remembers the promise of a daughter to be a wife, surely he was too young to care for such things.

“I did NOTHING! I did nothing, Helenus, I did nothing but weep, I did nothing but look sad. I was an ideal wife and mother to some known force as I just sat where I was and wept for what I had lost and all I stood to lose. I should have done something, I could have done something I could have and I did nothing!”

Her sorrow rang out and filled the room, it made an effort to swallow both. He felt for her, he felt for her position and the emotion that hung on her back and weighed her down.

[hollenka99]

Not The Boy He Once Knew

Summary: Even if he’s not the best at always showing it, Phil cares about his sons. But when one leaves home and goes down a dark path, all Phil wants is for his little soldier boy to come home safely.

Warnings: Death, stabbing

This is based on Obscuritea’s Little Soldier Boy animatic. You can find them on Twitter at @/0bscuritea.

Phil remembered holding his children for the first time. He could have watched Techno's little snout twitch for as long as his eldest would allow him. Wilbur stared at everything, as if it was mandatory for him to visually absorb as much of the world around him as possible. This included the young pig boy hovering by door, unsure whether he wanted to meet the one who was had made him a big brother. Tommy was a wriggler, that was for sure, always trying to get into a better position within the blanket. Wilbur certainly didn't help things when he clambered onto the sofa in order to push himself through the space under Phil's free arm so he could get a better view of the baby.

Many summer afternoons were spent sitting in the shade of trees, watching his sons play with each other. Sometimes, he'd even be out there strumming on his guitar while doing so. The older Wilbur and Techno got, the more they liked to engage in rough play. More than once, Tommy would be happily sitting on his lap before finding himself caught up in the latest rough and tumble session.

One day while his two eldest are 12 and 9 respectively, Phil is horrified to see them return home from a night time adventure in the nearby woods with blood on their person. It would seem that they'd run into a number of zombies and skeletons. Wilbur had tripped and this had caused Techno to make use of his axe. Most of the blood wasn't even theirs so they argued it wasn't a big deal. As Phil retrieves the bread he has on hand for situations like these, he scolds his boys for being reckless. There wouldn't have even been any mobs about if they'd gone out in the day. Just because death was a three strikes and you're out kind of deal didn't mean they could risk injury or worse for the sake of fun. Now, were there any cuts or scrapes they wanted him to look at? Just the one on Techno's snout? Well alright, best get that sorted then off to bed.

During a week where his attention had been directed perhaps everywhere except towards Wilbur, he notices the light is still on in his room. Good. With a knock, he gets invited in. An apology is issued, after which Phil pulls out some wheat and cocoa beans he had lying around. The boy in his early teens acts as if his eyes don't momentarily light up once it clicks what those ingredients are for. When he makes excuses about being too old to be bribed with cookies as well as pointing out that it was getting late, Phil calls his bluff. Come on, let this be his way of saying sorry tonight then he promises tomorrow morning they can have a guitar session, just the two of them. Wilbur rolls his eyes but heads to the kitchen regardless. Phil's glad he does because that is the first time Wilbur plays an original song he was in the process of creating with him as the audience. It was only a shame that incidences like these were becoming few and far between. He wasn't going to catch every time Wilbur felt ignored, especially if the kid slowly stop attempting to get his attention as often in the first place.

It's an odd feeling when Wilbur says his goodbyes. The years have passed so quickly it's hard to believe his little boy isn't quite so little anymore. However, his second son had been a budding musician for as long as he'd had the dexterity for it. It would be impossible to forget how he had beamed with such intensity upon being gifted his first guitar, so much so that Phil had slightly worried he might injure his mouth or jaw somehow. He'll be fine. Phil had nothing to worry about. Besides, Tommy had already made the journey himself a few weeks ago and it sounded like he was already making friends.

Life carries on with Techno helping out with the farming and the occasional correspondence arriving from the other two. When he hears about drugs in a van, he rolls his eyes. Trust them to do something ridiculous like that. It's less humourous when the word 'war' begins to get thrown around. Then shortly afterwards, Techno is leaving to assist his brothers in their endeavours. This results in an argument as Techno packs. By all means, help Wilbur and Tommy but don't get involved in a war that wasn't his to fight. Phil's anxiety regarding his sons' wellbeing grows due to talk of plans to win back L'Manburg after a failed election resulted in an apparent dictatorship. The more days that passed, the stronger his desire to have all his boys back home safely with him grew.

He sits alone at a table that had once been abundant with life. Once again, Tommy has sent him a letter regarding the situation over there. He was getting scared of his brother's apparent obsession with potentially destroying the nation in a blast. Wilbur had even been heard wondering if Phil would be proud of him. Given the current circumstances, he wasn't so sure how to answer. Tommy had even confessed that both he and Wilbur were on their last lives which petrified Phil more than any of the bad news he'd gotten so far. However, his son was right. Enough was enough.

It was time for Phil to make his way to L'Manburg.

He almost finds it funny how Wilbur's voice immediately morphs into the defensiveness of a child as soon as he realises his father has entered his secret detonation room. It was honestly reminiscent of times such as when he got caught stalking a chicken to gain the egg necessary for a pumpkin pie, said pumpkin being dragged behind him by the stalk. However, his son wasn't 4 anymore. Wilbur was a grown man who had proven himself to maintain less than innocent thoughts and motivations.

But Phil was his father nevertheless. And he would talk him out of this 'blow up L'Manburg' plan like others such as Tommy had previously done. Besides, he knew Wilbur. Deep down, that boy didn't have it in him to cause that much destruction, let alone risk instigating any potential loss of life. All he had to do was calmly talk him down.

L'Manburg had been won back. Even with Wilbur yelling in frustration about the several times he came close to pressing the button, that could be seen as a sign of strength. They could agree to not do anything rash then gradually dismantle the vast quantity of TNT hidden in the walls. The notion that Wilbur would risk triggering the button to see if it was actually rigged is so absurd it makes Phil laugh aloud.

He's certainly not in the mood to laugh within a minute of that moment. By the time thirty or so seconds have elapsed, he is on top of his son, both of them on the ground with only dust and rubble left of what had been the secret underground room. Wilbur had been talking about Eret one second before uttering the infamous line of "it was never meant to be" the next. Phil doesn't think it had truly registered in his mind that the explosives were about to go off when he leapt to protect his son from them.

This couldn't be happening. He knew Wilbur, he knew that he would never be capable of blowing up L'Manburg. Except Wilbur was. He... he had.

It's as Wilbur is screaming into the sky about his unfinished symphony remaining forever unfinished that the reality of his personal mistake makes itself known to Phil. Tommy had warned him that Wilbur was going off the rails. He'd said that Phil shouldn't let his guard be lowered around his brother. The second born of their family was currently not to underestimated.

That grin, that sheer ecstasy upon achieving his goal, the way Wilbur revelled in his 'victory'. Well, what more proof did Phil need to know he'd done the exact things he'd been warned against?

He barely has the chance to acknowledge that before Wilbur is demanding the unimaginable from him. No, perhaps 'demand' isn't the right word. Begging might be more appropriate. A sword is tossed at his feet, an invitation for it to be used. He can't though. Not this. Anything but this. The punishment for reversing countless hours of dedicated hard work should not be a death sentence. That simply does not equate.

"God, you're- You're my son! No matter what you do, no matter what you act like, I can't..."

And it's true. This was the kid who would (along with Tommy most of the time) go on epic adventures to claim treats in chests which were placed high up for the exact purpose of deterring such behaviour. He was the one who'd be found sneaking off to the surrounding caves and mines for the sake of exploration. It was him who practised his rallying speech skills on his brothers and father. More than that, Wilbur was a talented musician who liked writing songs and loved his family. He wasn't some irredeemable criminal who deserved to die to pay for the pain he'd caused.

Phil was not going to give Wilbur what he wanted. At least, he was against it until he realised this was about more than punishment or penitence. This was him asking someone he trusted to free him from the burden of all his wrongdoings. Wilbur wanted peace in his life again. And what kind of father would he be if he couldn't give his son that?

He grabs the sword. If he's going to do this, he'd rather make it as fast as possible. The last thing he wants is the suffering of a loved one. Wilbur tenses as the blade finds its way into his chest then exits. The gasps and stuttered breaths are worse than his son begging for death a minute ago. It's okay, he mutters. Just breathe through it. It'll be alright in a moment. Phil doesn't know whether him stroking Wilbur's hair is helping at all but somehow, it's helping Phil himself so that's good enough. The hand gripping his side begins to lose strength. He lets out a grief-stricken groan as he holds his son as tightly as he can.

"You couldn't just let- you couldn't just win?" There is no response, not even a hint of it.

The walls blown apart, he knows everyone can see him. But what does he care? Wilbur's head rests against his father's chest, arms loosely drooping towards the floor and body slumping alongside it. When he inevitably forces himself to let go, to leave the remains of this godforsaken room and... and bury his son's body back home, he's aware he'll have to face the fact his lap is stained with blood. But that can wait for as long as he can delay it.

For now though, he'll sit here with his eyes closed. Maybe that way he can somehow convince himself he's just holding the little boy who loved finding his way into his father's arms whenever he was drowsy, albeit an enlarged version. It's all he can do to keep the tears and questions of how this could have been prevented at bay.

[elmidol]

Rogue Order - Chapter 3 (of 4)

Summary:  You are a barista in the coffee shop that Armitage Hux goes to every morning. He’s polite, however has never cracked a smile. One day, you decide to try to change that by giving him a little treat. Things wind up going much better than planned.

Read on AO3

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Pairing: Armitage Hux/Reader

Rating: M; This chapter contains nsfw content (oral, female receiving)

for @terry2227​

notes: Modern Day/Coffee Shop AU; outline for fic was written by terry2227

Chapter Three

 You toyed with the edge of the book that you had brought with you for the expected lull after the initial morning rush--one that had been shorter lived than on days when ice was not slick along the pavement. Armitage Hux was within the walls of First Rogue as well. While you wanted to speak with him, to spend time with him at all, you were allowing him some room to get work done. He had brought in quite the assortment of folders along with a laptop computer. His fingers flew along the keys with minimal breaks for the period of nearly five minutes. You stared, impressed with his typing speed.

 Due to his intentions to remain inside the establishment, the coffee that you had served him was in a smaller cup, one of the porcelain mugs to be exact. He had requested that he first be given his regular order to assist in enhancing his concentration. Later he would indulge in one of the mystery flavors that you had written down.

 There had not been many words exchanged between the pair of you just yet. You glanced at Armitage once more for any indication that he was ready for a break. His fingers paused in their movements, the tapping of the keyboard ending almost abruptly. He reached for the coffee, pulling it upwards and taking the sip, and then replaced the mug and resumed his work. His posture was one that doctors would be proud of. He supported his spine where necessary, did not slouch. Yet he was not too rigid in a manner that may have caused muscle cramps.

 You touched the edge of your book again, this time drawing it up into your hands and opening to where you had last left off. Your eyes began to roam along the words. At first you did not soak in what was written; upon your second pass, however, you were drawn into the world painted by the author until the sound of a throat being cleared startled you back into reality. You were unsure just how much time had passed. Time enough for Armitage to rise from his seat and come over.

 Though he did not say so aloud, Armitage found it to be rather endearing that you were able to become absorbed in a book. The expression of contentment that it had encouraged to form on your face had him wondering more about the novel in question. Not that he would have time to read it--not for at least another month; his mind would wander back to work if he attempted to sit down and read. He considered asking if you would be able to sit with him while he worked then changed his mind. That might be awkward for the both of you, in part because it might paint him as being needy or desperate for your attention, and in part because you might not be interested in him beyond casual conversation. He settled instead on another approach, which could potentially span into an avenue that allowed him to invite you to join him.

 “Is there anything light on the menu that you would suggest?” He made a gesture with his hand. “I save lunch for being my heavier meal; it makes it easier when business lunches run longer to have more food. Otherwise the food can be saved as leftovers for the evening.” Armitage found himself enjoying the manner in which you were watching him, your eyes darting between his moving hand and his face as you listened.

 “We have several, yes,” you said, furrowing your brow and resisting the urge to look directly at either the menu or one of the pastry displays. There were small protein packs as well that were available. Allowing just shy of a minute to elapse, you mentally toyed with the options that you could present to him before you rattled them off beginning with two of the protein choices and ending with three pastries that would not be too filling. Between those there were fruits, although you had to dart away to the minifridge to ensure that they were in stock whereupon you noticed that yogurt could be included on the list as well.

 When Armitage stated that he would enjoy a pastry, you asked if he wanted it warmed. Here he did not answer right away, opting to internally debate, and then he nodded and walked back in the direction of his table after handing you the correct amount of change for the food. The moment of silence that had transpired after he had inquired about food caused him to realize that his approach might have been better. It was not as though he was oblivious to the pastries that the coffee shop served. As for the other items, he had never paid them much heed. You had not made a single comment to embarrass him or point out the fact that the pastries were on display; he liked that about you--it was a contrast to Brendol’s tendencies to pick at any perceived flaws, and the individuals that Brendol dated were of a similar nature. He did not have to be on his guard when with you.

 As he sat down in the chair, Armitage began to reorganize the files that he had brought with him. He created two piles, one composed of those he no longer needed for the time being and the second for what he planned to leaf through as he completed the tasks he had assigned to himself for the day. In this manner he was able to clear up sections of the table that would allow room for his food as well as you if you did decide to join him. He ran two fingers along the edge of his laptop, a twitch in his shoulder before he grew more rigid. The food would be heated in a matter of seconds, and you would soon be walking over. Armitage cocked his head enough to listen without, in his own opinion, being too obvious.

 Your footsteps were soft, though remained audible especially as you drew nearer. He caught a glimpse of you in his peripheral mere moments before you placed the plate upon the table a little to his right. After setting down the plate, you did not move away but instead shifted towards another chair and sat down. There were no other customers in First Rogue, and he hoped to take advantage of this before things changed. Armitage reached to tug a small piece off the pastry; this, for him, was a small act of rebellion--Brendol would have chastised him for not using a fork, for dirtying his hands.

 “Do you have a deadline on the project you’ve been working on?” you asked, keeping your gaze trained on him though you nodded in the direction of his laptop. You did not want to appear too nosey. This was a readily available topic to bring up in order to open up a further line of dialogue.

 Armitage had drawn a piece of the pastry into his mouth, keeping him from answering your question immediately. “I have quite a bit of time before the deadline arrives.” The hint of a smile flashed on his features, a kind of muscle twitch that you did not often see from him. “Doing groundwork now will save me hassle later.”

 “I have a few home projects like that,” you commented after a beat, earning a slow blink and a tilt of the head from him. You felt yourself smiling, relaxing. He was interested in what you had to say beyond First Rogue, which was everything that you had hoped for. Or, if not everything, a very good start. “Some of it has to do with organizing and decluttering.” You did not want to potentially bore him with other projects that were ongoing since you were ignorant of what all of his interests were.

 “I still have a box to unpack,” he murmured. You furrowed your brow while considering his words, recalling that he was newer in town. Given his personality, you had always assumed that he was the type to unpack and organize all his belongings the moment he was settled in a new place. It was, in a way, refreshing to learn that you had been wrong.

 Another customer entering First Rogue drew you out of the chair and back towards the counter. More patrons trickled in at that point, which you had expected yet found yourself disappointed--distracted may have been a more appropriate term--in ways that you never had before. Then again, Armitage had not previously remained within the walls of First Rogue until that day. You peeked at him multiple times while ringing up a larger order. The woman delivering it was a regular who came in twice a month due to organized events for her work; she treated her coworkers to some coffee and pastries while they prepared on the days before. 

 Preparing the order busied you enough that you were able to focus on work rather than glance again at Armitage. You rolled through another four orders before looking his way. At that point he was three-quarters the way through his pastry. Most others you knew would have finished it, which proved to you that he was taking his time--but was that because he was waiting for you, or were you flattering yourself? You shook your head, worked to maintain your smile, and handed over the final order that you had taken to the customer, who walked over to one of the other tables and sat down. That eliminated some of the privacy that had previously existed, you thought, chagrined.

 Armitage curled three fingers around the edges of the final pastry portion, breaking some of its flakes off the larger piece. In unison with consuming the food, he had worked more on the project and a side outline for other items to later be completed before the deadline arrived. The weather outdoors appeared to be worsening in terms of temperature. Passersby in the street hugged their coats more tightly around themselves, and many that eyed First Rogue darted instead towards cars to drive away. He very much doubted that several stores he knew of in town would be open for much longer.

 The patron that had walked to a different table drew his gaze as you headed in his direction again. You moved into the same seat as before, and this time Armitage readjusted himself in his chair so that he was better facing you. “Do you have all essentials?” He would need to drop by the store for one or two items in case the weather continued on this path for the next few days. When you replied that you were already prepared, he spoke again, this time more confident. “When the weather is more agreeable, may I take you to lunch?”

 You felt your heart hiccup in your chest, your lips parting in surprise. Doubt crept into your veins; you could not have heard him correctly, could you have? “Come again?” you asked, voice softer than you would have preferred. Armitage repeated his request.

 Lunch was, you reminded yourself, not quite as intimate as dinner. The setting would be more casual, relaxed. If he was pulling your leg, it would be easier to get out of that situation--truthfully, you were beginning to worry that this, your interactions with him, were to cure his boredom. Doubt was a cruel thing indeed.

 “Yes, I would like that.” What offered more hope that this was not some joke was that Armitage gave you his phone first. As you reciprocated, you felt the muscles in your shoulders relaxing. The pair of you agreed to postpone settling on a time or date until after the night’s weather forecast. When you did meet for the lunch date, it would be just that--meeting. You did not want to ask him to pick you up though he did offer to drive the two of you. It was nicer to have a quick getaway if things became miserable.

 Such thoughts nearly made you laugh as you sat across from Armitage midway through the following week. He had allowed you to choose the venue, which you had been only too happy to suggest one of your favorite local restaurants. Falling into a conversation with him there was easy as it had been in First Rogue. You settled for one of your preferred meals at the restaurant while Armitage looked through the menu before making his decision. With the orders sent in, the two of you were left alone, and it was Armitage who first began to speak. Not about coffee or the weather either. That was, perhaps, why it was not difficult to reply.

 “You don’t play any board games?” you repeated, leaning back a little as though the new perspective would change anything. Armitage shook his head whilst offering a flat no that was not rude, however it indicated this was not the first time his revelation had surprised the other party. “Do you just not enjoy games, or…?”

 Armitage refrained from biting the insides of his cheeks as he mulled over your inquiry. The question had been posed by others in his past, and on those occasions he had switched to a new subject. With you, he did not fear judgment. There was a sense of safety that prompted him to shift nearer. He rested his forearms on the table--doing so would have earned him much scrutiny from the others in his life--and swallowed before beginning to speak. “Games were not common in my childhood. There are several that are quite simple to learn, however I am at a disadvantage due to being less familiar with them.”

 “Oh,” you said. You had assumed a similar posture to his, the distance closing though the two of you were separated by the table. His eyes traced the contours of your face, mapping how the muscles in your countenance shifted with each new expression. “If you wanted to, sometime we could find a game neither of us have played. They’re always coming out with new ones anyway. Neither of us would have the advantage that way.”

 Such an offer implied that the pair of you would likely be at a residence instead of in a restaurant or some other public venue while you played. There would be no need for him to become self-conscious. No eyes on the two of you. It would not matter if he struggled; he doubted you would judge him poorly, as you hadn’t done so yet. Armitage replied with his acceptance as the waiter started to walk over with the food that had been ordered. Even while eating, the conversation did not die away. You alternated speaking, sharing information with the other, learning about interests, both those that you shared and several that differed. When the meal ended, neither of you was quick to leave.

 Armitage walked you to your car, moving in for a kiss when your body leaned into his. Your lips were soft, mouth pliant. The two of you broke away only when there was a need for air. “We should do this again sometime.” He felt ridiculous for phrasing things that way, yet could not think of anything else to say. He could think only of your mouth on his, of how your body had felt pressed against his own. How much he wanted you. How comfortable he felt with you.

 “Definitely,” you said, elation coursing through your entire being.

 The dates that followed were never a disappointment, and their venue transformed from casual to more intimate settings. When he asked to take you to a place in the city the first time, you had hesitated--you did enjoy some of the restaurants and shopped in its stores; it was the fact that the city sounded, to you, to be his territory that you did not immediately respond. Armitage was attentive to your mood, and proposed an alternative location, one within town. His willingness to accommodate you in this way eased your mind, and so the two of you had gone into the city. On one of the warmer days--the air remained frosty, only with less of a nip to it and one that was tempered by a warm beverage--the pair of you had gone for a stroll in one of the city’s parks. That particular date had been one of your favorites. Armitage had been more at ease, the wall that hid his emotions shifting aside multiple times as he smiled your way.

 That date had been two weeks previous, and the two of you had agreed on going to his place after enjoying a movie together. You had a game that you would try out, which you handed over to him once he had opened the door for you to enter. You walked into his place first and allowed yourself a chance to look around. You were more than a little curious how he had his place decorated; you knew already that he did not have family photos hanging, as he was not close with his parents. His friends were limited in number, and the majority of them had not been to his house since he had moved into town. Another fact that you knew was that Armitage had a cat named Millicent, who eyed you from behind a scratching post that was set up for her.

 You squatted down, encouraging her to come closer while Armitage set the game on the table. She did not budge, to which you took no insult. You were more distracted by the man you were with. Standing, you found yourself in his arms, which shifted around you. The first kiss had you leaning into him. The second encouraged you to move backwards in the direction of the couch that you had seen.

 His hot mouth sealed over the flesh of your neck, breath and tongue wetting the area. You felt your body responding, your abdominal muscles tightening as you raised your hands to his hair. The locks fell out of place under your touch. They were softer now than on days that he had work meetings, where he often gelled back his hair to keep it out of his face. A low groan escaped Armitage as your fingers danced along his scalp and made their way to his ears, which you knew were one of his more sensitive areas. You grinned, moaning into the kiss that he placed on your lips. That devilish tongue darted out again, this time to toy with yours. You were happy to oblige, working your tongue against his, tasting the hint of mint that lingered.

 “You really like that taste,” you said between kisses, your hands moving even lower, now on his collarbone, his chest.

 Armitage shifted himself and felt the tip of his nose skim along yours. The way your mouth worked around the word taste had him biting back what he truly wanted to suggest. He might, if given more prompting. He did not want you to be under the impression that he had invited you to his apartment with the sole intention of having sex. There was more build up to be had, more verbal foreplay. Armitage allowed himself to smirk at the thought, his eyes narrowing slightly. You responded to his expression by biting your bottom lip and letting your gaze roam along his face. You pressed your hips into his. That was encouragement enough; he placed his hands on your ass, squeezing, kneading the muscles and pulling you in closer, grinding against you.

 “I do like it,” he said, lifting his eyebrows and continuing to smirk. He held his breath for a moment as you touched both of your hands to his chest, running them up and down along his shirt, feeling him through the material. Blood was pooling throughout his body, a faint blush settling on his face and running lower.

 You made a trail with your hands from his chest up to his face, and the pair of you moved in unison so that your mouths met again, hungry, wanting. His tongue explored your mouth, caressing the contours and making you clench. Armitage began to map out your body with hands as well, and you did not stop him, instead pushing more into his touches, grinding against him until he moved you onto the couch, nearly pinning your body with his. He danced his fingers down further and further, parting your thighs with one hand and tracing your slit with two fingers of the other. You moaned again as he moved between your legs, grinding against you, his cock, though still clothed, hard and sliding so close to where you needed and wanted him. You undulated underneath him, hands tugging at his shirt, drawing him in as much as you were able.

 He rolled his hips, thrusting against your body and building friction that you increased with your own movements. Jolts of pleasure shot through you, heat welling into the lower part of your belly. Armitage’s hands were on your breasts then as he continued to explore. Kneading them, pressing them towards one another and bouncing your breasts against his palms. He tugged you, grinding his pelvis into yours, dropping his hand lower so that his fingers could toy with your clit through your clothing.

 “Don’t stop,” you said, grabbing at his wrist long enough to maneuver his hand into a new angle. You began to undo the front of  your clothes until Armitage realized what you were doing.  With a grunt, he assisted you in ridding your body of that first layer. His fingers then hooked into your panties, drawing them aside when once more you nodded. You curled your toes, eyes glued on his mouth.

 Armitage found that he did not require any further encouragement; he knew what you wanted, that it was the same thing he wanted in that moment. He ran his tongue along his lips in anticipation. He kept his fingers hooked into the panties so that they did not slip back into place as he repositioned himself. His other hand pushed at your inner thigh, his mouth moving nearer until his nose brushed along your clit. Glancing up, Armitage met your face and noticed how wide your eyes were, how your chest rose and fell heavily just as it had that day in First Rogue when he had realized how much he wanted you. His cock throbbed.

 He teased your inner lips with his tongue, tasting you, holding in a swear of desire as your tang coated his tongue. You shivered under him, your body trembling. Armitage grazed his teeth along your flesh. Your quivering grew in intensity, a whimper erupting. That whimper turned into a much louder sound, a moan, as he wormed his tongue into you, sliding a finger closer as well. Feeling you begin to move in for more contact, he withdrew.

 “Please,” you groaned, the heat spread throughout your entire body. He obliged almost immediately, almost as though you need not have begged him at all. You swallowed thickly around the saliva that had gathered in your mouth as your eyelashes fluttered. His tongue was shifting inside of you, this time more deeply. It curled, toyed with you. He noisily slurped, the wet sounds making you more slick. “Fuck!”

 You reached down and tangled the fingers of one hand into his hair, rocked against his mouth. Armitage nudged your clit with his nose, swirled his tongue again then flattened it. He pressed his fingers to the side of your outer lips, tracing ghost-like patterns that journeyed to your cunt, where he moved them into you along with his tongue. Then he paused again, and you just knew it was intentional. When you repeated the previous plea of please, Armitage resumed. His fingers began to scissor  you open, his tongue wriggling between them, darting in and out of you.

 The sounds of you whining urged him on. Armitage was aware of the loud, wet sounds that escaped him with every lick, every nip that he delivered. He knew, too, when he found your g-spot--the breathless gasp, the twitch of your thigh muscles, the way you clenched around his fingers--and he stroked you repeatedly. He lapped at you, focusing on your clit as your slick coated his fingers, dripping down along his hand until he licked at the trail and drew it into his mouth. Your body was thrumming, he could feel it. Knew you were enraptured by the intensity of your orgasm, which you rode out, fucking yourself on his fingers, which he never stopped moving. Your cunt clenching, pulsing around his fingers. He slurped at your cum, drawing more and more of it into his mouth until your movements slowed.

 You shifted, feeling simultaneously spent and enlivened. Armitage moved upwards as well, which made it easier for you to kiss him. You felt his hands wandering your body until he was squeezing your breast. Meanwhile you pawed at the front of his pants, feeling his cock twitch. “I think the game can wait until later,” you purred against him. Armitage nodded, his hungry mouth claiming yours again.

[suspicious-pools-of-blood]

Revelations

CW: beating, stabbing, blood, waterboarding (sort of)

15 years earlier:

Elvan was starting to feel uneasy. She hadn’t seen Emir since that morning, which was quite unusual for the boy who normally followed her around like a shadow. But it wasn’t until she saw the group of boys enter, led by Zahmet, that she knew something was wrong. It was the same group that always harassed Emir when they were bored. She strode out to where they had stopped. Zahmet was sitting on a fence and saw her approaching.

“Where is Emir?” Elvan demanded. He grinned at her and started to say something, but before he could get any words out she walked up to him and without hesitation pushed him off his perch backwards, causing him to land flat on his back with a thud. She easily vaulted over the fence and pulled him up by the front of his shirt.

“Where’s my brother, you little bitch?”

Zahmet clearly had not been expecting such an intense reaction, but was trying to act unaffected. “He’s fine, damn. Calm down.”

Elvan pushed him back down but didn’t let go of his shirt, instead holding him down as she pulled his trousers part way down. She drew her knife and pressed the tip of the blade against the inside of his thigh. “Where...is...he?” she repeated through gritted teeth, all the while slowly moving the blade higher up his leg.

His eyes grew wide as the knife got closer. Elvan had broken the skin and the blade was drawing a thin red line along his thigh.

“He’s by the river!” Zahmet finally blurted out. The blade stopped moving but didn’t lift away. “He fell off his horse. But he seemed fine when we left.”

Without another word, Elvan sheathed her knife, got up, and ran off, leaving Zahmet on the ground with his trousers around his knees. The other boys had been watching the whole ordeal and were trying their very best to avoid laughing out loud, but it wasn’t very successful. As Zahmet stood and pulled his trousers back up, they finally lost it, laughing wholeheartedly at their informal leader.

“Shut up,” he snapped. “She’s just freakishly strong.”

Elvan was already out of earshot, having immediately sprinted to where the horses were hitched up. She mounted her steed and galloped out of the gate towards the river. “Fell off his horse,” Zahmet had said. As if she’d believe that. Despite being only seven, Emir rode as though he had been born on horseback. It was second-nature to him. And as far as horses go, Alp was practically impossible to spook. Emir’s pony was the most calm and responsible mount she had ever come across. So he wouldn’t have been bucked off, either. If he did in fact fall off his horse, it’s because he was pushed. After finding Emir, Elvan wanted nothing more than to punch that smug bastard Zahmet square in his face.

The land wasn’t flat, but it wasn’t wooded either, so as she crested a ridge she saw Alp wandering aimlessly around near the bank of the river. Alp was an intelligent and loyal animal and wouldn’t have abandoned Emir, so Elvan rode straight towards the other horse. Sure enough, Emir was lying on the ground not far away. Elvan dismounted and ran over to him. Still breathing. Okay, that was a good start. He didn’t seem conscious, though. She gingerly turned his head and saw an alarming amount of blood. A wound above his left brow indicated he had hit his head on one of the rocks scattered about. She easily scooped up his small frame into her arms and carried him to her horse. He seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness, mumbling something incomprehensible.

“Hey, it’s okay kid, I’m here. We’re gonna get you home.” She laid her brother onto the horse and climbed up into the saddle behind him. Supporting his head against her thigh with one hand, she whistled to Alp and took off at a gallop. Thankfully the pony understood and followed; she would have come back later if not, but there was someone she needed to beat up first.

Elvan rode straight to the healer, sliding off the horse before it had even come to a full stop. She lifted Emir off the horse and carried him inside. Once she had been assured by the healer that Emir would be okay, she turned to go find Zahmet. Just before stepping out, she heard Emir stir behind her. With one hand on the door frame, she looked back at the boy. He gathered all his strength to speak.

“Korum.” My protector. Elvan smiled.

The guard unlocked the cell door and Elvan stepped inside. The prisoner was on his knees in front of a tub that had been filled with seawater, and both the prisoner and the floor around him were wet. A guard on either side held his arms, although his wrists were bound behind his back so it likely wasn’t necessary. A third guard pushed the prisoner’s head under water and held it down. The man’s struggles only succeeded in splashing more water around him.

He finally was pulled back up, coughing up water and gasping for air.

One of the guards jerked his head back by the hair. “Are you ready to talk yet?” Before he could catch his breath, he was shoved back under mid-inhale, causing him to swallow a mouthful of the salty water.

Elvan watched as the man was pushed under several more times. Indicating the door with a tilt of her head, she dismissed the guards. The prisoner stayed where he had been kneeling, still desperately gasping and trying to clear the water from his lungs. He must not have been aware of Elvan’s entrance; when he finally looked up he gave a start upon seeing her leaning against the wall. He was startled, but he didn’t look scared, at least not in the way people typically were when finding themselves suddenly alone before the Regent.

The man’s long hair had previously been tied back into a loose bun when he was brought in, but had long since come undone and was now hanging in front of his face, disheveled and soaked from the preceding ordeal. He eyed her warily from behind his black curls, but with a look almost approaching curiosity.

“Where is she?” the Regent asked in an even, quiet voice.

The prisoner laughed humorlessly. “I’m not telling you that.”

The Regent lifted an eyebrow. “Clearly, my guards haven’t tried hard enough.”

She crossed the cell and crouched down to the level of the prisoner. In one swift movement, her hand was at his throat, pushing him against the wall. He winced as the rough stone pressed against his back where he had been whipped just a few hours earlier.

“Your captain,” the Regent started, her voice low and dangerous, “and her crew, have caused this city quite a bit of inconvenience.” Her grip tightened around his throat as she spoke. “They will be found. But the more you protect them now, the worse it will be later.”

“You can kill me if you want, but I’ll never give them up.”

A moment of stillness elapsed and the prisoner had the air knocked out of him by a punch to the stomach. He doubled over but was immediately shoved back against the wall again.

“Oh, I already intend to,” The Regent snarled. “But I can make your death far more painful if you don’t tell me where your captain is.”

He clenched his teeth but didn’t speak. She backhanded him across the face, the ring on her middle finger tearing a gash in his cheek. He let out a groan at that but otherwise remained silent. The Regent landed another punch, this time to the other side of his face. The force of the blow knocked him onto his side on the floor. Before he could recover, she was already standing, and kicked him in the solar plexus. He curled into a fetal position to try to protect his chest and face as the blows rained down.

The Regent pulled him back up to his knees, then roughly lifted his face. “Still got nothing to say?”

He just smiled at her through his pain, baring blood stained teeth.

“Very well.” The Regent had unsheathed a small knife from her belt, and she now sunk it into his side. The defiant grin slid off his face, replaced by a distorted grimace as he began to scream. She held him against the wall to keep him still as she twisted the blade. “They’ll be cordially invited to your burial.”

She pulled the knife out, wiped the blood off on her pant leg, and resheathed the blade. He slumped back against the wall. The Regent looked down at him for a moment, then said, “I’ll give your captain your regards before she’s executed.” He slid to the floor. She turned to leave.

And then, just before she stepped out of the cell, she heard the prisoner say something. It was a single word, barely audible as he used what little strength he had left to make the sound.

“Korum.”

Time seemed to stop. The air felt thick and hot. Elvan felt as though she was the one who had just been kicked in the stomach. The sound of the blood pounding in her ears was deafening. She gripped the door frame with one hand as if the world would disappear if she let go. Her face twitched but couldn’t seem to settle on which emotion to display. Through gritted teeth she was finally able to get out, “What...did you just say?”

She turned slowly to look at the prisoner. That single word had taken all he had left, and he slipped into unconsciousness. And as he lay on the ground, breathing but only barely, in all his bloody vulnerability, Elvan saw a dead boy. A boy who had been killed in an invasion nearly ten years ago. A boy who had been slaughtered with the rest of her family. A boy she had left in the past, along with all the others who had been violently taken from her. Elvan stared at him for what felt like an eternity, unable to move a muscle. The hurricane of emotions inside of her finally settled enough for her to be able to react.

“Emir?” It was a whisper, barely audible to Elvan herself. She stepped towards him, then fell to her knees. With a shaking hand, she reached out to touch his face. She pushed his long hair away from his forehead, and the breath caught in her throat. Just above his left brow was a scar, faded but still visible if you knew it was there. And Elvan knew it was there. She knew it was there because she had beaten another boy half to death for causing it.

Nothing felt particularly real as Elvan lifted his body into her arms. He was a full grown man now, but she barely noticed the weight. She stood up and carried him out of the room. She was vaguely aware of other people in the hall, but had no idea who they were or what they were saying. It was like they were underwater, a great distance away. She had a single focus -- she didn’t know what that focus was, but she eventually stepped over the healer’s threshold. She laid her brother down on the table and turned to the healer.

“Save this man.” She pulled the healer closer by the front of their shirt. “If he lives....then you’ll live.” The healer understood the threat.

Elvan stood motionless, watching as the healer worked. There wasn’t anywhere else to be, because there wasn’t anyone else to beat up this time. It was just her.

[fangirlyah]

✦ just an arrangement - Draco Malfoy x Reader (part 1)

summary: the return to the school year with the dark mark is hard enough, but now they must fulfill a more intimate request or they expect a happily ever after with an old death eater.

warnings: none

word count: 1,950

a/n: i’m pretty excited about this so i hope u like it. if u wanna be part of my (still non-existent) tag list for this fic, just tell me :)

a starry night full of light illuminated the sky.  very different from the humor y/n was holding. 

she saw herself in the mirror, immersed in constant pain, both physical and emotional. her arm, freshly marked by the dark lord, felt almost on fire, stitches and burns that were almost impossible to hold. thanks to her childhood surrounded by darkness due to the alliances of her families, she herself already knew how to create her own healing potions that sootheed her wounds for at least a while.  

she was only sixteen, but had a higher weight on her back than any teenager. she was not the only one, her classmate, draco malfoy, had and was suffering a life very similar to hers.  but he wasn't very good at hiding it, his thinner body and marked dark circles revealed his stress. but y/n was always a better actress, no one had ever seen the bruises on her arms, nor had she been seen decaying. on the contrary she was known for being one of the sweetest and most positive people with every hogwarts student. thing that put his hair on end, ‘how could she be so calm with everything that was going on?’ she knew a war was coming but he always saw her smiling sweetly at every person who crossed her path. how many times had he smiled that sixth year of hogwarts? maybe not one. 

but as he noticed her big white smiles, she noticed the lack of his. she knew what he was going through, his task was very complicated and terrifying, y/n had been lucky enough to be out of the instant murder of her own headmaster, but she had to be in charge of repairing the vanishing cabinet. 

they were not friends or anything close to the word, they were acquaintanced despite the number of encounters they had during the months, due to the similar connection of their parents. both only children, completely alone on their way to giving their full life to who-must-not-be-named. y/n did not want to be alone, since she was a child, she had tried to approach the blonde and become his friend, but he did not acknowledge receipt. 

"hello, draco! my house elf made pumpkin pie, would you like a piece?" a small y/n took small leaps in her freshly ironed dark blue dress.

"I'd rather die than try something of yours," an eleven-year-old draco disgustingly expressed to the girl who was just looking for his sympathy. 

a sympathy that, despite the passage of the years, she had never found. y/n had stopped trying, had stopped fraternizing with draco in the fourth year, when she had slightly begun to develop a crush on him. and she was, and is, smart enough to know that if her hormonal heart kept hearing his wretched words, she would have an almost irreparable broken heart. but it didn't work, because even though he ignored her, she couldn't get him out of her mind. and seeing him at least twice a month at her home, dressed in his pristine suit and his fine hair combed did not help. 

"y/n since when is your roasted chicken more important than good gossip?" millicent spoke with her mouth full of crushed potatoes, spitting slightly. 

"since always, millie" y/n was not at a time in her life where an adolescent gossip filled all her senses. 

"you're very boring... so, it turns out ginevra weasley is in love with potter!" 

"I'm not at all surprised, weirdos like weirdos" pansy parkinson, despite the years that elapsed, did not seem to forget her hatred of gryffindor and everything related to it, especially the golden trio and its own close ones. 

it was a Friday night and despite the icy weather and sun falling much earlier, the great hall was full of students enjoying their dinners. at the slytherin table there were most students, but there wasn't any sign of draco malfoy... but she spoke very quickly. 

"get up" a big, cold hand, adorned with silver rings and emeralds that stood out on his pale skin, grabbed y/n by the arm and pulled her with intent to lift her out of the seat. 

"sorry?" she looked up to see the blonde with a serious countenance, staring at her. 

"hey, we're talking you can't take her that way!" spoke one of her friends but it was too late, y/n was already standing on draco’s side, who kept holding her arm tightly. 

"shut your mouth, bulstrode" and with that, draco began to walk quickly without looking back, which she thanked as he would not see her in a hurry and almost stepping on her own feet. 

arriving on the seventh floor, finally, a large door suddenly appeared on a white wall, capturing the complete attention of y/n. draco did not hesitate and submerged them both inside the unknown room which turned out to be too small for its immense door. 

'the room of requirement' thought y/n immediately, but why did it appear before them? she wondered. 

it was the first time y/n and draco had crossed word for at least five months, since the first time they both attended a death eaters meeting as official members. she still remembers how her body trembled and as his did too, but the firm hand of lucius on his back almost held him in his place. she also recalls that their seats were facing each other, and that she saw him swallow heavily when, after the meeting, he saw the girl accidentally shed a salty tear. 

"may I ask you what we are doing here?" y/n’s voice sounded shy and calm despite having draco in front of her swinging from one place to the other, regardless of the small space. he did not speak and it had been more than five minutes that they were inside the room and the idea of leaving had crossed y/n’s thoughts, but she knew what he was going through, so she decided to wait. 

"you're my girlfriend now..." draco's body stood violently in front of her, leaving a reasonable distance. he didn't look her in the eye, but she knew he was serious.

"what the-... what?" 

"we have to be together, the dark lord wants it so" 

"since when?..." the confusion took over her body, even though her heart was screaming, 'your crush is telling you to be together, shut up and accept!' but it wasn't that simple. 

"in less than six months we will both be seventeen, your parents and mine were married at that age, and they were all already death eaters..."

"it's our turn" y/n thought out loud.

"we must not marry, just... be together...as a couple or we'll be paired with other death eater who's at least fifteen years older and I think we both know that's not a reasonable choice"

"I understand..." it was something they should do sooner or later, then they could split up and submit to some other arranged marriage. but at the moment they were both the best choice of the other. "let's do it" 

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

the idea of pretending to be a couple began to really settle in y/n’s head a week of the event, when draco rested his hands on her shoulders unexpectedly on a sunday for breakfast time. she wanted to bewitch herself when she felt the butterflies she hated so much flowering. those butterflies provoked by him, which she had sworn to bury years ago and which she had clearly failed to achieve. 

her friends’ faces were transformed to the sudden change in the attitude of the prince of slytherin. they all noticed that they both slipped away from classes and most social situations over the weeks. but, they would never have assumed they were going away to be together, they were right. they used to escape because of the tasks indicated by who-must-not-be-named or because the terror and darkness had suddenly consumed them. 

then the weeks passed and their interactions increased, because they had to increase if they wanted to make it believable. 

the arrangement had begun in august and by that month, their only contact was some rubbing of hands in potions or small glances in the great hall, which however minuscule they were, they both knew that they should be noticed. 

"you're doing it wrong!-emm...I think you're putting more ingredients than the necessary, y/n" sometimes she wanted her fake boyfriend to be a better actor, his voice changes were notorious, but at least that day they were lucky to be sitting with crabbe and goyle so none of them noticed his weird voice changes, and if they did, they wouldn't have the braveness to ask. 

"I've made this potion multiple times, draco. to make it perfect a few drops of agrippa are never too much" the blonde’s ears were still surprised to hear his name, his actual name and not malfoy, come out of y/n’s mouth. despite his attitude towards her, which had not changed since the age of eleven, she continued to treat him delicately. 

"you've done this multiple times? this is the first time we are learning potions to close wounds" the last thing he wanted was to make the cute girl uncomfortable, it wouldn't show a good image for their relationship.

"I'm only curious when it comes to potions" but y/n answered with immediate discomfort, much to the chagrin of draco. 

by september, their hands were already united from class to class and their bodies were sitting together in the great hall for almost every meal, all of this causing a lot of whispers.

"your hand is sweaty" whispered draco in his ear, as they traversed long meadows to hagrid’s hut.

"sorry... is that everyone is looking at us and it's making me nervous" she wasn't used to being the center of attention, unlike him. 

"just... focus on me" draco gave a squeeze to her hand, making y/n think that, finally, the boy had given in to acting cordial in their false relationship. but his phrase wasn't over, "you must do well, I won't let you ruin this."

with that said, y/n focused her thoughts on draco. how he was holding her hand, how she had imagined this so many times and how he seemed unbothered by it. but he wasn't feeling like that.

it was only in october that they first had a meeting alone, only the two of them, with no audience present. 

y/n was on a sofa, very close to a large window pointing to the big forests surrounding hogwarts, in the common room. it was the early hours of the morning so the sun was orange painting the sky as if it were its own canvas, lighting everything around it, including y/n. her hard-covered book was on her lap and she moved it so gently that it seemed that her fingers floated. for draco's eyes it was something new. with semi-swollen eyes, a morning voice but perfectly clothed, he watched her from the other side of the place. he didn't think she was a morning person, so when he received the letter and decided to be the first to come down for breakfast as he couldn't fall asleep again, the last thing he thought was he was going to find her there. with her legs contracted towards her and her bright hair braided in a shedding way, was the first thing draco saw that morning. and for a moment, he thanked merlin for waking up so early. 

"it's time to go" was the only thing the blonde seemed to say, when he approached the couch where she was. y/n just turned around to see him. she knew exactly what he meant. 

[cecilspeaks]

173 - The Hundred Year Play

Quoth the raven: [bird noises] Welcome to Night Vale.

Listeners, some exciting news from the world of theatre! The 100 year play is about to reach its final scene. Yes, this is the play that has been running continuously since 1920. Written by a brilliant playwright Hannah Hershman, designed to take exactly 100 years to perform. And the tireless volunteer of the Night Vale Players Playhouse have been going through those scenes, one after another, for decade upon decade. There’s little time to rehearse, for each hour brings new scenes and each scene will only be performed once the play moves on, in order to keep up with the tight schedule needed to execute the entire script before a century elapses.

It is a monumental work of theatre, but like all work, it must some day cease. Today, specifically. I will be in attendance at that historic moment, when the final scene is performed and the curtain closes on the 100 year play.   More soon, but first the news.

We bring you the latest on the lawsuit “The estate of Franklin Chen vs. the city of Night Vale”. As you know, this case has grown so large and complicated that I’ve not had the time to discuss it in my usual community radio broadcasts. But instead, have started a true crime podcast called “Bloody Laws, Bloody Claws: The Murder of Frank Chen”, in which I strive to get to the truth of just what happened on that fateful night when five-headed dragon Hiram McDaniels met Frank Chen, and then later Frank Chen’s body was found covered in burns and claw marks. It’s a confounding mystery. The Sheriff’s Secret Police announce that it seems really complicated and they’re not even gonna try to solve that sucker. “Oh, what?” a Secret Police spokesman muttered at an earthworm he found in his garden. “You want us to fail? You wanna see us fail? That’s why you want us to investigate this case, to see us fail at it?” The family of Frank Chen say they merely want the appropriate parties, in this case the city of Night Vale, Hiram McDaniels and an omniscient conception of God, to take responsibility for their part in this tragedy. The trial is now in its 10th month, and has included spirited re-enactments of the supposed murder by helpful Players Playhouse performers in between their work on the 100 year play. 3 changes of judge and venue due to “some dragon attacks and constant interruptions from a local audio journalist, who hosts a widely respected true crime podcast”. Still, with all this, we near a verdict. Judge Chaplin has indicated she will issue her ruling soon. “Like in the next year or so?” she said. “Certainly within 5 years. Listen, I don’t owe you a verdict, just because you’re paying me to do a job, you can’t rush me to do it. The verdict will be done when. It’s. Done.” Chaplin then huffed out of the courtroom followed by journalists shouting recommendations for episodes of their podcast to listen to.

I was present, you know, on opening night of the 100 year play. Ah, how the theatre buzzed! Of course this was partly the audience, thrilled to be at the start of such an unprecedented work, but mostly – it was the insects. The Night Vale Players Playhouse had quite a pest problem at the time, and still does. It’s difficult to do pest control when there is a 100 year long play being performed on stage at every hour of every day. The curtain opened those many years ago on a simple set of a studio apartment,  a kitchen, a cot, a window overlooking a brick wall. A man sits in the corner deep in thought. A doorbell rings. “Come in, it’s open,” the man says. A woman enters, flustered. She is holding a newborn. “There’s been a murder!” she says. “The victim was alone in a room, and all the doors and windows were locked. “My god!” the man says and springs up. “Who could have done this, and how?!” the woman tells him: “It turns out to be the gardener, Mr. Spreckle. He served with the victim in the war and never could forgive him for what happened there. He threw a venomous snake through an air vent.” The man sits back down, nodding. “Aah! So the mystery is solved.” As a playwright, Hannah Hershman did not believe in stringing up mysteries a second longer than was necessary. The baby in the woman’s arm stirs. “Shush, shush little one!” the woman says. The man looks out the window where he cannot see the sky. “It might look like rain,” he says. “Who knows?” Thus began a journey of 100 years.

And now a word from our sponsors. Today’s episode is sponsored by the Night Vale Medical Board, which would like to remind you that it is important to drink enough water throughout the day. Drink more water! Your body cannot function without water. Without water, you are just dust made animate. Water forms the squelching mud of sentience. Try to have at least ten big glasses of water. Not over the entire day, right now. See if you can get all ten of them down. Explore the capacity of your stomach. See if you can make it burst. You will either feel so much better, or an organ will explode and you will day painfully. And either one is more interesting than the mundane now. You should drink even more water than that. Wander out of your door, search the Earth for liquids. Find a lake and drain the entire thing, until the bottom feeders flop helplessly on the flatlands. Laugh slushingly as you look upon the destruction you have wrought. The power that you possess now that you are well hydrated. Move on from the lake and come to the shore of an ocean. All oceans are one ocean that we have arbitrarily categorized by language. The sea knows no separation, and neither will you when you lay belly down on the sand, put your lips against the waves and guzzle the ocean. The ocean is salty. It will not be very hydrating, so you’ll need to drink a lot of it. Keep going until the tower tops of Atlantis see sky again for the first time in centuries, until the strange glowing creatures of the deep-deep are exposed, splayed out from their bodies now that they no longer have the immense pressure of the ocean depths to keep their structure intact. And once you have drunk the oceans, turn your eyes to the stars. For there is water out there too, and you must suck dry the universe. This has been a message from the Night Vale Medical Board.

20 years passed without me thinking about the 100 year play. You know how it is. One day you’re an intern at the local radio station doing all the normal errands like getting coffee and painting pentacles upon Station Management doors as part of the ritual of the slumbering ancients. Then 20 years passes and everything is different for you. Your boss is gone and now you are a host of the community radio station, and there are so many new responsibilities and worries and lucid nightmares in which you explore a broken landscape of colossal ruins. So with all of that, I just kind of forgot the 100 year play was happening. But they were toiling away in there, doing scenes around the clock, building and tearing down sets at a frantic pace, trying to keep up with the script that relentlessly went on, page after page. And sometimes one of the people working on the play would wonder: how does this all end? But before they could flip ahead and look, there would be another scene that had to be performed and they wouldn’t have a chance. So no one knew how it ended. No one except Hannah Hershman, the mysterious author of this centennial play.

Soon after becoming radio host, during the reading of a Community Calendar, I was reminded that the play was still going on, and so decided to check in. I put on my best tux, you know it’s the one with the scales and the confetti canon. And then took myself to a night at the theatre. I can’t say what happened in the plot since that first scene, but certainly much had transpired. We were now in a space colony thousands of years from now, and the set was simple, just some sleek chairs and a black backdrop dotted with white stars of paint. A woman was giving a monologue about the distance she felt between the planet she was born on, which I believe was supposed to be Earth, and the planet she now stood on. I understood from what she was saying that the trip she had taken to this planet was one way, and that she would never return to the place she was born. “We… are… all of us… moved… by time,” she whispered in a cracked, hoarse voice. “Not… one of us dies… in the world… we were born into.” Sitting in my seat in that darkened theatre, I knew two facts with certainty. The first was that this woman had been giving a monologue for several days now. She wavered on her feet, speaking the entire four hours that I was there. And I don’t know how much longer she spoke after I left, but it could have been weeks. She was pale and her voice was barely audible, but there was something transfixing about it, and the audience sat in perfect silence, leaning forward to hear her words. The other fact I understood was that this woman was the newborn from the very first scene. Not just the same character, but the same actor. 20 years later, she was still on that stage, still portraying the life to the child we had been introduced to in the opening lines. She was an extraordinary performer, presumably, having had a literal lifetime of practice. And that was the last time I saw the play, until tonight, when I will go to watch the final scene.

But first, let’s have a look at that Community Calendar. Tonight the school board is meeting to discuss the issues of school lunches. It seems that some in power argue that it isn’t enough that for some reason we charge the kids actual money for these lunches. They argue that the students should also be required to give devotion and worship to a great glowing cloud, whose benevolent power will fill their lives with purpose. Due to new privacy rules, we cannot say which member of the school board made this suggestion. The board will be taking public comment in a small flimsy wooden booth out by the highway. Just enter the damp, dark interior and whisper your comment, and it will be heard. Perhaps not by the school board, but certainly by something.

Tuesday morning, Lee Marvin will be offering free acting classes at the rec center. The class is entitled “Acting is just lying. We’ll teach you how acting is just saying things that aren’t true, with emotions you don’t feel, so that you may fool those watching with these mistruths.” Fortunately, Marvin commented: “Most people don’t want to be told the truth and prefer the quiet comfort of a lie well told.” Classes are pay what you want, starting at 10,000 dollars.

Thursday Josh Crayton will be taking the form of a waterfall in Grove Park, so that neighborhood kids may swim in him. There is not a lot of swimming opportunities in a town as dry as Night Vale, and so this is a generous move on Josh’s part. He has promised that he has been working on the form and has added a water slide and a sunbathing deck. He asks that everyone swim safely and please not leave any trash on him.

Friday, the corn field will appear in the middle of town, right where it does each September, as the air turns cooler and the sky in the west takes on a certain shade of green. The corn field emanates a power electric and awful. Please, do not go into the corn field, as we don’t know what lives in there or what it wants. The City Council would like to remind you that the corn field is perfectly safe. It is perfect and it is safe. 

Finally, Saturday never happened. Not if you know what’s good for you. Got it? This has been the Community Calendar.

Oh! Look at the time. Here I am blathering on and the play is about to end. OK, let me grab my new mini recorder that Carlos got me for my birthday. It’s only 35 pounds and the antenna is a highly reasonable 7 feet. And I’ll see you all there.

Ah. What’s the weather like for my commute?

[Shallow Eyes” by Brad Bensko. https://www.bradbenskomusic.com/]

Carlos and I are at the theatre! The audience is a buzz, with excitement yes, but also many of them are the insects that infest this theatre. The bugs became entranced by the story over the years, passing down through brief generation after brief generation, the history of all that happened before. The story of the play became something of a religion to this creepy crawly civilization. And so now the bugs are jittering on the walls, thrilled to be the generation that gets to see the end of this great tale.

The curtain rises on a scene I recognize well. It is the simple set of a studio apartment. A kitchen, a cot, a window overlooking a brick wall. A man sits in the corner deep in thought. A doorbell rings. “Come on, it’s open,” the man calls. A woman enters. She is very old, tottering unsteadily on legs that have carried for her many many years. “Please take my seat,” the man says with genuine concern. “Thank you,” she says, collapsing with relief onto the cushions and then looking out, as if for the first time, noticing the audience. I know this woman. I first saw her as a baby and later as a 20-year-old. It seems she has lived her whole life on this stage, taking part in this play. “My name,” the woman says, “is Hannah Hershman. I was born in this theatre, clutching a script in my arms that was bigger than I was. My twin, in a way. I started acting in that script of mine before I was even aware of the world. I grew up in that script, lived my entire life in the play I had written from infancy to now.” And she rises, and the man reaches out to help, but she waves him away. She speaks, her- her voice is strong, ringing out through the theatre. “The play ends with my death, because the play is my life. It is bounded by the same hours and minutes that I am.” the audience is rapt, many have tears in their eyes. Even the insects weep. “Thank you for these hundred years,” Hannah Hershman says. “This script is complete.” She walks to the window. “It might look like rain,” she says. “Who knows?” The lights dim.

Thunderous applause, cries of acclaim, and Hannah Hershman dies to the best possible sound a person can hear: concrete evidence of the good they have done in the lives of other humans.

Stay tuned next for the second ever Night Vale Players Playhouse production, now that they finally finished this one. They’re going to do “Godspell”. And from the script of a life I have not yet finished performing, Good night, Night Vale, Good night.

Today’s proverb: Many are called, but few are chosen. And fewer still pick up. Because most calls are spam these days.