#he may be diluted but he is the child of the sea still

[puyoupuyou]

but you made him

[scullyverse]

Day 19: Silent In Their Grief

Prompt: Period Sex Pairing: Mulder/Scully Rating: Explicit Words: 1,769 AO3 List || Masterlist

🖤 Content warnings; mulder/scully, smut, angst, hurt/comfort, anger, blood, period sex, rough sex, vaginal sex, shower sex, ivf arc, failed ivf 🖤

A child was one step too far.

Trigger Warnings: - Grief from failed IVF - Depictions of blood - Rough Sex

It hadn’t worked.

It hadn’t fucking worked.

Scully’s last chance of being a mother was rapidly spiraling down the drain, blood diluted in scalding water.

Her period had decided to rip her heart out of her chest — just barely beating in her hand — and wake her up in the middle of the night with cramps and a wet stickiness between her legs.

Of course, she should have known.

A pregnancy was just too much to hope for; too much to pray for. Maybe God had forsaken her. Maybe it’s a horrible cosmic karma for her wavering sense of faith or maybe, simply, after all her battles — she’d used up all her chances.

A child was one step too far.

Scully was glad for the water that pricked at her skin in an attempt to cleanse her body — like washing a pig after its senseless slaughter.

Closing her eyes, she tilts her head back and lets the water wash over her face, erasing her treacherous tears into nothingness.

“Scully…”

She can vaguely hear her name. It sounds so muffled, so far away, like she was hearing it from miles under the sea, water pressure pulsing against her eardrums.

“Scully…”

There it is again, clearer now it’s accompanied by a touch to her elbow. It brings her back to earth suddenly, like a stinging slap to the face.

“Jesus, Scully, the waters’ too hot!” Mulder’s gasps, concern lacing his voice as he quickly adjusts the shower taps.

She both loves and hates him for it.

Opening her eyes, she looks down at the shower floor, her toes gripping onto porcelain. The tinge of red no longer stains the water. Good, she didn’t want to be reminded of it.

“I don’t have another chance,” Scully whispers, repeating her earlier words, just barely audible over the static of the shower. “I’ve got nothing left.”

Mulder stands on the opposite side of the shower — though he may as well be on the other end of the planet. Even as his thumb caresses the soft skin inside her elbow, she can’t feel it. He’s both too close and too far away.

There’s nothing for him to say.

No words of comfort could he give that he hasn’t already struggled to voice. 

Of course, the first thing she’d done when she awoke, stained in her own blood, was call him. He must have broken the law with how quickly he had arrived at her door, where he found her; still in her stained satin pajamas with a negative pregnancy test barely gripped in shaky fingers.

Scully can feel her pain pushing at her throat, clawing viciously and leaving a searing heat in her eyes. Angrily, she swallows down the lump and refuses to let her tears fall.

How could she mourn what she was never allowed to even hope for?

It had been stupid to think she could defy the laws of science. It had been stupid to lean on the side of hopes and prayers.

It had been so stupid. She had been so stupid.

Her gaze falls on Mulder, who stands there, unwavering in her grief; shouldering a burden in his eyes that reflect an image of her own. Suddenly, she needs him. More than she needs to breathe.

She needs to be selfish in her desperation for him to shoulder just a little bit more of burdens…of their burdens.

Even though he’s still dressed, he doesn’t hesitate in getting under the spray when she beckons that of him. Doesn’t hesitate to wrap himself around her as she clings so desperately onto his shirt, burying her head into the rapidly moistening material.

Her shoulders shake as she struggles to wrestle down her tears.

“Dana…” His voice is gentle, ushering her into a comfort that she doesn’t feel she deserves. She doesn’t want to be seen like broken glass — not when she loathes herself for feeling exactly like she could break at any moment.

“Shut up,” Scully snaps, voice lacking all sense of venom — just grappling with getting the words out of her constricted throat. “I don’t want to talk.”

He doesn’t reply, just squeezes her tighter.

The tighter he holds her, the more she feels broken.

The tighter he holds her, the more she hates it.

The more that defiant brat inside her head screams for her to spit in the face of her pain; a caged, petrified animal left with no other alternative.

Her lips are on his before he can even comprehend what’s happening, her fingers shaky as she claws at his leather belt. It’s wrong — there’s a part of her that knows it — but she hungers for something, anything, that can dull her pain…even if it’s only for a brief time.

Mulder barely kisses her back, his fingers tight around her own as he stops her frantic struggles at his jeans.

“Scully,” Mulder’s voice is shaking. “We can’t do this…”

“Why the fuck not?” Scully flares up at him with a boiling anger to her eyes.

Her fury visibly takes his breath away.

Maybe he’s expecting her to be overcome with sadness, crippled wholeheartedly by her grief — but she will fight tooth and nail to protect those vulnerabilities with all the anger she has raging beneath the surface.

All the anger at the men who did this to her. All the anger of her precious, treasured, respected science abandoning her. All her anger at a God who’s denied her.

All the anger at him.

All the anger at herself.

“I don’t know,” Mulder swallows so tightly that she can see the bulge move in his throat.

His pure uncertainty makes her waver; a crumbling in her eyes as she wiggles out of his grip.

“I need you, I don’t-“ Trailing off, Scully feels the sadness welling up in her chest; a compression so severe that’s almost suffocating. “I want you to take it away. I don’t want to feel it anymore.”

She’s never been this candid with him, never allowed herself to be this transparent and when his lips crash against hers, the saltiness of his tears teasing her tongue, she quietens. 

It’s like he’s stopping her grief from over flowering; attempting to block the flood with his own forthcomings.

He knows what she needs. He always knows.

Even if they know it’s wrong — they both know it, it’s a sharp niggle at the back of their brains — who are they to deny each other.

He tries to shoulder her pain.

She tried to bear him a child.

Her fingers are like talons as they dig into his back, his hands working deftly to unbuckle his jeans. They pool on the floor. Pooling amongst the seeping of red that now flows from under his fingers to mingle with the water.

The calloused pads of his fingertips are rough against her clit and the sting of pain soothes.

She needs more.

He’ll tell her later how ashamed he was with how hard he was in her hand as she strokes him. 

Mulder hikes her leg high onto his waist; opening her up for him in a way that’s just as raw as the gaping wound in her chest.

The evidence of her punishment is diluted on her thighs, matted in her pubic hair and he acknowledges it with a hesitation.

No, no, no, no.

Scully’s desperate tongue laps at his own, teeth clashing together as she chokes back a sob.

He understands.

The pain is sharp and breathtaking as he slams into her; her back hitting the wall hard enough for her shampoo bottle to topple off the shelf. She’s incredibly tight around him, lubricated only by her misfortune — but it’s enough.

He grunts heavily into her mouth as his fingers gauge bruises into her ass, hips unrelenting when he thrusts. When he pounds.

Every thrust is painfully exquisite.

Her shower doors rattle in their hinges as he holds her weight against the wall, the leg around his waist swinging helplessly and the other; toes struggling to find purchase on the slippery shower floor.

She doesn’t speak, there’s no need.

The only sounds leaving her lips are gasps; air forcefully ejected from her lungs. Scully buries her head into the solid mass of his shoulder, teeth latching on as her mouth fills with the suffocation of cotton.

He grunts again.

This time she’s sure it’s out of pain as he lets her take her grief out on him, ready to suck her dry of it. Her nails indent his shoulder blades with blunted half moon crescents.

Her climax happens suddenly and without warning.

Like a bullet exploding from a cocked gun, she cries out into his shoulder, eyes unavoidably rolling into the back of her head as she spasms around him, almost painfully. 

Her orgasm isn’t pleasurable. No sparks or tingles…just a pulsing of guilt as she milks him, her bloodied arousal slick on his cock.

He doesn’t slow until she comes again.

A pitiful howl rips from her lips as a more powerful climax overtakes her — rendering her breathless, tears rolling down her cheeks.

She’s sobbing — silently wailing — when he finally comes, thrusting one last time before spilling his own guarded grief into her. He pulses gently through his orgasm as he holds her, sheltering her from her outside world as she shatters.

Silence turns to cries.

In their raw, primal state; his cock spurting inside her as she opens herself to him — she’s utterly helpless to suppress her tears. To suppress the rising level of suffering she feels could drown her in a heartbeat.

She’s helpless in how she still sends up a prayer.

Praying, begging, pleading, that maybe God will forgive her…That maybe this time…

Mulder holds himself inside her with a desperation of his own; burying himself to the hilt, that makes her wonder if he’s praying too.

She struggles to breathe.

Mulder pulls out of her and she wobbles on unsteady legs, watching as he cleans the deep red blood off his cock. She can’t even contemplate touching herself to rid the evidence of their coupling, just steps out of the shower and grabs her towel. Little splashes of water mark her path to the bedroom as she lets the water pool under her feet.

They’re silent as they dry themselves.

They’re silent as Scully re-emerges from the bathroom later with a tampon secured inside  — absorbing her failings.

They’re silent as they get into bed, Scully instinctively reaching for Mulder — who has already wrapped his arms around her to hold her close.

They’re silent in their grief.

Until they’re not.

“I’m sorry, Dana.”

[tokiro07]

evildalek79 replied:

Kuma being a special race is interesting & surprising. I’m gonna wait till the official Viz translation before I start theorising but anything’s possible! (Does that make Bonney a part of that race to then?) Just out of interest, since so much has happened recently, how has it affected your previous theories? Like, Carrot isn’t here anymore, Pudding is looking like she’s coming back, there’s loads of stuff that links to your Grand Monet Theory. So much in such little time!

In short, it’s all going exactly as I expected: I’ve been wrong about basically everything! Not in the precise details, anyway. Vegapunk and Monet didn’t appear at Wano, Carrot didn’t join the crew, Monet wasn’t necessary for finding Vegapunk’s island, no one fell from the sky to mirror Jaya, etc.

Carrot not joining was definitely a surprise, but since a lot of people used that section of my argument as evidence AGAINST Monet, I call this a win! Especially since I had to jump through a lot of hoops to justify the possibility of both of them joining

After Whole Cake Island, it was clear that Pudding wasn’t going to join, at least not anytime soon, so things had to go one of two ways: she’d join later and contribute to my multiple female recruits theory, OR she wouldn’t join and she’d be captured by Blackbeard so her Third Eye would allow him to understand the Poneglyphs. As has been made obvious now, the latter was the case, though honestly the two options aren’t mutually exclusive and saving Pudding could bring her into the crew

I think she’s going to be the catalyst that makes the (likely former) Big Mom Pirates into Straw Hat allies, most likely led by Katakuri

In the broad strokes, I’m feeling pretty good about myself, and by extension about Monet’s chances

The biggest thing in my favor currently, I think, is that Egghead is divided into strata, with the highest EXPLICITLY recreating the cloud sea of Skypiea, suggesting that the arc may in fact find a way to mirror Skypiea like I predicted, just likely not in the way I predicted. That and the fact that we went to Vegapunk’s island in the first place, most people were expecting Elbaf, but I knew better!

For the sake of expediency, I am willing to bet against the crew actually GOING to the moon (though I still desperately want them to, I think that plot point is too good to pass up, but y’know), but the general vibe that I expected is going strong

I was right about Bonney being present, but that one was honestly a gimme in my opinion. I couldn’t have predicted Kuma being part of an unknown race, but I DID predict that the Reptilian race would crop up in previously known characters, so if he’s a Reptilian, then I was right! Whether Bonney is one or not remains to be seen; it’s possible that she was adopted and Kuma is her stepfather, but I’m willing to bet that she’s part-(UnknownRace)ian and simply doesn’t know it because of how diluted her bloodline is (the same way that Chimney didn’t look like a mermaid despite being 1/4 merfolk)

The best thing about this development though is the confirmation that Kaido was NOT from a special race as many people claimed. His statement about Yamato being the “child of ogres” led people to conclude that the final race were the Ogres, who....have exceptional strength...and resilience...

...

No, if Kuma were an Ogre, he’d have horns and Oda wouldn’t be beating around the bush like this

I did see someone on twitter point out that Bonney has some interesting parallels to Big Mom: both are big eaters with pink hair and ties to the unique races of this world. It almost seems like Big Mom could be Bonney’s mother and that the reason she doesn’t have a member of this race is because Kuma stole her away. I think that would have been brought up earlier, or Big Mom’s children stats would be missing one (we’ve seen a complete list of her children and there haven’t been any inconsistencies like that), but since Bonney was introduced before Big Mom’s debut, she herself is a living hint to the connection, so other implications may not have been necessary

Honestly, we’re getting so many new pieces of information so quickly every chapter that I feel like I don’t even have time to speculate. Every time I have a thought it gets addressed pretty much immediately

This is the most emotionally engaged I’ve been in a while, cus I’m way more interested in the questions and the answers than I am in the fights. I loved the Nika reveal, but learning the name “Lunarian” alone was the biggest single talking point I ever had. Forward progress in the lore is the kind of thing I live for, so if things keep up like this and battles are more expedient to make room for story and character progress, I am HERE FOR IT

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I’m not sure if anyone requested this yet, but can you write some sweet headcanons where Malleus, Vil, Riddle, Azul and f!s/o bond with their child? Like they've all graduated from NRC and they're adults and parents now. Thanks Raven!

Curiouser and Curiouser...

As the ruling family of the Valley of Thorns, you are often busy with political and economic affairs. One day, your child will become the next monarch, so they follow you around to important meetings (when they’re not with their royal tutors) and sit in to watch you and father work. This way, they are able to learn while also spending time with their parents.

A beloved family past time is taking a stroll in the palace gardens, hand in hand--your child holding one of yours, and one of dad’s. Malleus knows just what their favorite flower is, and sometimes does little magic tricks to get them to giggle--a shower of petals, or perhaps making all of their favorite flowers bloom in unison.

Sometimes Malleus joins his child for their lessons! It can be boring studying history books or practicing the violin alone, so he might read aloud to them, or take up a string instrument himself to show them the ropes!

Malleus also joins his child for the occasional spar. Of course, he never really goes all-out, but he does try to push them to think quick on their feet. Each battle tends to end with Malleus lying on the floor and pretending he has been “slain”--and when his child cautiously approaches to check on him, Malleus strikes back by tickling them until they’re squealing with laughter.

He knows it can be hard to get a grasp on magic, so when the first sparks start to appear in his child, he makes the time to help them control it. Malleus keeps mint candies in his robes to help cool fiery belches, and he kindly guides his child through shifting from humanoid to dragon and back.

There’s always ice-cream--the king’s favorite treat--on hand! He loves to share it with his child (especially if they’ve expelled a fiery burp earlier). Malleus constructs large and elaborate sundae boats to surprise them after a long day of their studies.

Malleus’s imposing height actually makes him the perfect playground for his child! They love to cling to his back or ride his shoulders, all while reaching up for the sky--which they hope to one day soar through with their father.

His status as an A-list celebrity tends to keep Vil away from home for extended periods of time, but he keeps in touch with his beloved family! That means lots of video calls with you and his child--and it makes all the moments you do spend together all the more meaningful. (Your child has a habit of pointing at magazine covers and the TV screen whenever they see their father on.)

Whenever Vil returns from work, he typically has a gift in hand for his child. It could be merchandise from whatever brand he has partnered with at the moment, a souvenir from abroad, or a plushie, flowers, or candy from his fans. It always brings a smile to his kid’s face--because their dad is thinking of them, even when they aren’t together.

Vil’s his child’s greatest supporter. He believes they can do anything they set their mind to, and he actively encourages them to work hard toward those goals. No matter how busy he is, Vil will show up to every sports game, every dance recital, every awards show his child is in.

He takes his child on lots of outings! The movies, restaurants, parks, spas, stores... anywhere, really! He thinks it is important for his child to see and experience as much of the world as they can--and besides, he loves doing anything and everything with them.

Vil allows his child to dig into his vanity and wardrobe for things to use for playing dress-up! He’ll sit at the kitchen counter and pretend to be a commentator as his child struts out in various outfits and looks they’ve thrown together.

Occasionally, Vil will sit down and let his kid make him “absolutely beautiful” with his own cosmetics. There’s a whole photo album in your phone of your husband in crooked lipstick and liner, or wildly messy eyeshadow, courtesy of your child.

If they have trouble sleeping,  Vil will read a fairy tale to them--and he’ll crack a little smile when his child tells him he’s like the prince in the story. Other times, he’ll sing lullabies to soothe them. When they’ve, at last, settled into sleep, Vil will brush their hair aside and kiss them on the forehead, wishing them sweet dreams.

Riddle is stern, but not emotionally closed off. He has sworn to never be like the tyrant his mother was to him in his youth. Though he may be upset when his child does an oopsie, he takes a deep breath, brings himself down to eye level with them, and calmly explains why it is he feels the way he does. Together, they’ll talk out their feelings and find a compromise that works for both of them.

He plays tea party with his child, even going out of his way to properly address each of their stuffed animals by their full name and title. Riddle sits down in a small plastic chair and pretends to sip his “tea” (cola heavily diluted with water) and eat his “scones and sandwiches” (colored clay cut into lopsided triangles).

They look after the family pets--a pair of hedgehogs--together. Riddle shows hid child where the hedgehogs like to be scratched, and how to properly hold them and bathe them. They love to give the hedgehogs their food, the lie on their bellies and proper their faces up to watch the pets eat.

He sits down with them to help with their homework. If there’s something they don’t understand, Riddle can talk them through it--though he won’t just spout out the answer. He wants his child to be able to think critically for themselves--he’s there to provide a little nudge, if needed.

Riddle and his child often experiment in the kitchen. He’s sure to pick simple, kid-friendly and easy recipes, and makes sure that his kid follows proper safety precautions. They serve you up the dishes they make, from fruit sandwiches to pasta salads to no-bake cheesecakes.

Whenever he’s eating something with strawberries on it, he offers the fruit to his child, since he knows they also enjoy them. They typically banter back and forth a bit before agreeing to split the strawberries in half so both of them can enjoy~

He often takes his child out on strolls through the neighborhood so they can see what life is like outside of the house. If some neighborhood kids want to play with them, Riddle lets his child run freely--he’ll just keep a careful eye on them from a distance.

Like their father, your child is ambitious and intelligent for their age. You can often find them trying to negotiate with their father for various things: later bed times, more allowance for the week, cake for dessert instead of fruit tonight... Azul usually still wins in the end, but he’s a good sport about it and allows the conversations to drag on a little to encourage his kid to put together a coherent argument.

Speaking of allowance, Azul is sure to make sure his child earns that money through various small acts, like doing the dishes or taking out the trash. That’s part of how he shows his love: by instilling values of fairness and working hard into his kid. He also does his part to teach them about the benefits healthy eating and exercise, so his kid can live a long and healthy life!

His child sometimes surprises him at his workplace. Whenever that happens, Azul grants them their own special table in the corner and serves them himself. There’s plenty of free finger foods and endless refills for them, but he’ll gently scold them if they run the risk of overeating or indulging in too many unhealthy foods.

Azul takes his child to the pool or to the beach to swim! He’s notably less enthusiastic about it if he has to do so in his true form, but he’ll do it if his child begs enough. They’re fascinated by his many arms--and to be honest, they come in handy when Azul needs to make a quick rescue or prevent them from drifting too far out on their own. When they’re old enough, Azul holds their hand, and they dive deep to explore the depths.

When the winter comes, Azul personally secures his child in a scarf and several other warm layers before sending them out into the cold. The Coral Sea can get to frigid temperatures during these times of the year, and he tends to worry for his child’s wellbeing and health because of it.

Azul doesn’t give his child gifts often (he wants them to be appreciative for what they already have), but when he does, they are generous ones--a big kitchen playset, a cash register with tons of play money, a lightning-magic powered car they can actually ride in...

Family board game night! Azul has a cabinet full of tabletop card games and board games specifically for these occasions. Monopoly in particular is especially... stiff competition. There’s betrayal and drama around every corner, but you still have tons of fun regardless.

[istumpysk]

I really like your take about the Starks endgame being in the line:

sit on the king’s council. He might raise castles like Brandon the Builder, or sail a ship across the Sunset Sea, or enter your mother’s Faith and become the High Septon ... “You,” Ned said, kissing her lightly on the brow, “will marry a king and rule his castle, and your sons will be knights and princes and lords and, yes, perhaps even a High Septon.”

Obviously the marrying king and ruling his castle is so Sansa and sail a ship across the sunset sea hints at adventurer Arya, but I am a little stuck on the other ones. Who is to sit on a King's Council? Jon? And raising castles like Brandon the Builder is likely Bran. But what I love the most is High Septon Rickon. Damn I want that so bad. Lately I have bitterly resigned myself to him dying, but him becoming High Septon would make me so happy. George you better not kill that poor child 😭

Au contraire, anon! You have it slightly backwards. Let’s take another look.

sit on the king's council -> Bran.

Here’s George R. R. Martin being a little cheeky when hinting Bran may sit on the King’s council. Naturally he’ll be the head of that council... hardy har har. Funny guy.

He might raise castles like Brandon the Builder -> Jon.

Good old Jon the Builder. Anon, it is actually Jon Snow (I) with all the foreshadowing (II) of restoring (III) The Gift and its natural resources (IV), creating and settling new noble houses (V), and raising new castles there (VI).

King Bran Stark will likely be regifting The Gift back to the Starks, who used to hold dominion over it, undoing a Targaryen order of the past. You might call that Brandon’s Gift.

sail a ship across the Sunset Sea -> Arya.

Next up, Captain Stark. Anyone still doubting this is delusional, and we don’t need to expand on it any further.

marry a king and rule his castle, and your sons will be knights and princes and lords and, yes, perhaps even a High Septon -> Sansa.

Who is that Arya? Right, that’s Sansa. Marrying a King, ruling his castle, having his princes, and continuing the line of succession of what must be a very important integral house to the story. Small problem, can anyone think of a spare King that’s lying around? Can’t be Bran, that doesn’t make sense. I guess we’ll have to wait and see how this mystery plays out.

enter your mother's Faith and become the High Septon -> ???

Um, I’m not sure what the hell to make of that, to be honest. The other four are undoubtedly being directly referenced (the Sunset Sea being the dead giveaway), so this is either Rickon or it was added to dilute the foreshadowing a touch. Your guess is as good as mine.

Of course if he does survive the series, travels South to stay close to Bran (aww!), and eventually join his mother’s Faith and become the High Septon in an epilogue, I will scream from the mountains that I’m a genius and predicted it from the very beginning.

And if he dies, I will claim that it was a foregone conclusion. I don’t make the rules, ok?

Anyway, that’s the story of how one conversation between father and daughter, spoiled the whole gosh darn ending in the very first book.

“He was going to be a knight,” Arya was saying now. “A knight of the Kingsguard. Can he still be a knight?”

“No,” Ned said. He saw no use in lying to her. “Yet someday he may be the lord of a great holdfast and sit on the king’s council. He might raise castles like Brandon the Builder, or sail a ship across the Sunset Sea, or enter your mother’s Faith and become the High Septon.” But he will never run beside his wolf again, he thought with a sadness too deep for words, or lie with a woman, or hold his own son in his arms.

Arya cocked her head to one side. “Can I be a king’s councillor and build castles and become the High Septon?”

“You,” Ned said, kissing her lightly on the brow, “will marry a king and rule his castle, and your sons will be knights and princes and lords and, yes, perhaps even a High Septon.”

Arya screwed up her face. “No,” she said, “that’s Sansa.” – Eddard V, AGOT

❤️🐺

[sunnyoldbear]

Luca Headcanons Part 3!

I can’t fucking stop please someone help me

Luca:

All seamonsters have a lot of fish qualities and different sea monsters take on different fish qualities, even within a family.

While Luca isn’t as equipped to handle the deep as his uncle is, his father does have some traits that would help him out. Luca doesn’t know this, but he can survive deeper pressure than most others can. Like, significantly deeper, but not to the point of the Deep. He’s have to get accustomed to it and he might not have even survived.

His species can also echolocate! He also doesn’t know he can do this even though it’s from his mom’s side. He just thinks he clicks and squeaks when he’s happy, he doesn’t know he can also echolocate. Since, again, he hasn’t been to the Deep, the ability is very diluted and he can’t locate things very far but… he can, if he tries hard enough. He won’t, though, cause he just thinks his clicks and squeaks are just that.

He loses his shit when he finds out about dinosaurs. He loves them.

If you even mention a museum he will practically beg to go and he will be in there from opening to closing and still come back for more. He takes in every bit of information he possibly can

He doesn’t flip people off, he just sticks his tongue out

Cloud watches! He thinks it’s cute :)

Is cold blooded. They found this out when he passed out in the middle of class one day during the winter. Winter months are very hard for him at school because of it, so he treasures the break and stays under a bunch of warm blankets.

Talks with his hands a lot

One day when he was swimming to the surface after seeing his family, a fisherman who wasn’t too approving of sea monsters tossed their harpoon at him. It grazed his arm and it hurt like hell, but he still tried to hide it. Of course, since he was clutching his arm and there was blood between his fingers, the Marcovaldos panicked and healed him tot he best of their ability, but Luca simply smiled, turned to Alberto, and said “look, we match now!” (If you see Alberto standing beside Luca so that their scarred arms touch since they’re on opposite arms, no you didn’t)

He finds out about bubble wands and thinks they’re the coolest thing!

Avoids every kid named “Bruno” at school like the plague because he doesn’t want them to think he hates them

Whenever something cool happens he instinctively turns to tell Alberto and his face drops when he doesn’t see him

Definitely the kid to accidentally say “mom” (and)or “I love you” to a teacher and then stare in horror

Grabs Alberto’s arm, wrist, or hand when they’re doing something together if he’s not grabbed first just so they don’t lose each other. It’s just instinct.

Once sobbed for an hour because he saw a dead frog in a pool

Falls asleep if his hair is played with

Still gets made fun of for smelling like fish but due to being a fish he can’t really bathe so Giulia and her mom just spray him with perfume. It makes him feel better.

Forgives Guido and Ciccio with no hesitation, will never forgive Ercole. In fact, he’s terrified of Ercole.

Technically canon, but he is the biggest mama’s boy. She learns from her mistakes and fixes her relationship with him and he becomes super close to her

Only lets those close to him call him “Bubble” like his grandma does

Loses his mind when he sees fireflies

He keeps his hair pretty short

Refuses to eat fish

Is more of a prey fish

That being said, he develops a few survival markings, such as a spot on one of his fins to look like eyes

For some reason I feel like he’d be like clownfish and be able to swim through anemone without getting zapped

Was never good at making friends. The Branzino kid often tried to befriend him but he was too scared of disappointing his parents since Daniela and Mrs. Branzino don’t get along

Wears a seashell anklet

His grandma taught him to read secretly when he was little

Never stops talking. Never.

In class, he’s always the kid raising his hand, even if he doesn’t know the answers, just because of his eagerness

Calls Alberto all the time, more than he calls his family

Carries Alberto’s drawing with him everywhere. Used to be in his pockets and then transferred to his wallet.

Is definitely more of a writer than an artist! With his vivid imagination he can write for days, and Alberto is more than happy to draw them out for him

Lets his hair grow out a bit towards the end of his final school year. The stress of school means he doesn’t quite care for his appearance

Can’t sit still. When he’s at school he’s always fiddling with something but when he’s in Portorosso he just grabs Alberto’s hand and plays with his fingers

Definitely a teacher’s pet

Gets bullied a lot. You can’t expect the world to just be okay with sea monsters overnight. A lot of the world will never accept him. There are kids that make his life a living hell at school.

As much as he loves school, he aches to be free sometimes

Gets super flustered super fast

Sits at Alberto’s side and talks about anything and everything and Alberto will sketch it

His scales are more like a duck’s water-resistant feathers. Water rolls right off.

Loves taking Nerone for walks

Definitely wears skirts and dresses in secret! He just thinks they’re neat :)

Loves romance movies but will never admit it

Literally bites his tongue to hold back from rambling. Giulia and Alberto constantly have to tell him it’s okay and he can talk all he wants, but he’s bullied so often for talking too much that he still holds back if he catches himself

Alberto:

Similar to a Betta Fish! His kind of sea monster aren’t known for bonding well and tend to fight.

When healthy, his scales are long and gorgeous just like a Betta’s! (Giulia is mesmerized by them)

You know how dolphins get high with puffer fish? It’s not just dolphins.

His teeth are a little sharper than most other sea monsters. Yes, he bares them at Ercole every time they see each other. No, he won’t stop

Definitely the “he ask for no pickles” friend

No one knows what he’s talking about half the time except for Luca, Giulia, and (sometimes) Massimo. They just kinda go with it.

Has his own words for everything. Only Luca and Giulia know what he means.

He’s actually super, duper close to Giulia, but they do fight pretty often. They’re siblings.

Likes to put his hat on Luca

Everyone thinks he’d be a bad flirt/get flustered super easily but the opposite is true! He’s a big flirt! He just knows what to say to make others fluster around him! Even if he’s not into you, if your his age or he’s trying to charm you, he’ll flirt up a storm. Living on your own from such a young age means you need to pick up survival tactics, and charm and streetsmarts were the ones he picked up.

Sometimes he faces small boats he sees just for the fun of it

He also sometimes grabs a rope or a net from Massimo’s boat when they’re fishing and just zooms to land to get them there quicker

Loves playing games with the kids when he’s on lifeguard duty, even if it can get him in trouble with his boss

You better bet he makes fun of those school uniforms. He laughs his ass off. He thinks they’re the funniest things.

If he sees or hears even a hint of danger, he is shoving his loved ones behind him and will protect them with his life.

Prefers to be barefoot

Heals surprisingly fast. Something about them fish genes.

When he’s fifteen he jokingly tells Luca he should become a teacher and then Luca’s eyes get all big and excited and Alberto regrets opening his mouth. But he still supports him every step of the way.

Whenever he hears Luca click or chirp, he calls out for him if he’s a distance away or grabs his hand since he recognizes it as echolocation before Luca does

More of a predator fish

Keeps his hair long and growing

I think he’d probably grow a mustache. Giulia hates it so much which is why he keeps it. Okay, he kept it to annoy her, but then he actually started to like it. But when Luca said he liked it, that solidified it

He’s so strong it’s kinda scary. Definitely stronger than the average fisherman, but was stronger even beforehand.

Sometimes just eats fish live and terrifies those around him

He’s super fast! Since he’s based on a tuna or swordfish, he’s pretty quick

Unlike Luca, he’s warm blooded. So when he heard Luca has to keep really warm during winters, he offers most of his clothes

His father abandoning him may seem cruel, but for his kind of sea monsters, it was what had to happen. Still, Alberto is a child and it shouldn’t happen.

Mainly a night eater

Can see further than most of his fishy friends

Good night vision too!

Was taught to read and write as a kid by his father but it’s not perfect so he asks Massimo to do it

Loves playing cards

Fins are sharper than average

Squishes Luca’s cheeks

Sword fights with Giulia except they’re sticks

Whenever Luca falls asleep on him (often), he just stays still and refuses to move

Scoops Luca up sometimes

Grabs Luca’s face and blows raspberries instead of kissing it. (Can be interpreted as platonic or romantic!! Italians kiss on cheeks as greetings)

Protectively wraps his tail around those he loves

Water clings to him a bit more since his built-for-speed scales are less water repellent

Every year he gets scared Luca won’t return

Paints the Hideout to look like Luca’s dream fish-stars after he’s told about it. The ceiling, anyway. Don’t ask how he did it, no one knows.

Changes his last name to Marcovaldo

Thinks pet fish and aquariums are hilarious and will poke fun at the fish (“haha, losers! No freedom!” “Alberto!” “What?!”)

LOVES DINOSAURS

He and Luca share a bed when Luca comes over!

The Vespa poster hangs in his room on his door

Calls Luca’s nightlights “light fish” as a nod to stars

Has Giulia and Luca’s names tattooed onto him because they’re his best friends

Tried to take Caligola and Machiavelli on walks… yeah that goes as well as you think

Giulia:

Is a fast reader

Isn’t a massive poetry fan but does have a few favorites

Also keeps a few drawings from Alberto in her folders

Also scoops Luca up randomly

Can and will bite you

Wears dresses as much as she does shorts

Ties her hair up when serious

Rubs her nose against her family’s as a sign of love. It’s just something she did as a kid, so sometimes she’ll just rub her nose against Alberto’s and he gets really confused

Is low key a little jealous of her brother and best friend being sea monsters

Is a bit of a builder! She makes a bridge from her room to the treehouse

Rarely starts fights with Alberto, but she’ll sure finish them

Half regrets teaching Alberto to swear

Though she seems pretty calm, she’s gotten into her fair share of fights at school. Mainly punches kids who bully her and/or Luca. Also sexists.

Although this is 1950/60s Italy, I imagine she’d be very accepting of homosexuality and not hide it, even if rumors of her being one start spreading and she gets hurt. She has a strong sense of justice and she doesn’t care about consequences.

She’s the only person allowed to make fun of Alberto. No one else is. She’ll quite literally attack anyone who dares.

Her parents were surprised she didn’t take after them in fishing or painting

Honestly I can see her mentoring the kids for the race every summer! Once she hits 18 and is no longer able to compete, she holds practice sessions and loves seeing the kids have fun

She definitely runs the race when she’s older. She moves to Portorosso since her marine biology career is helped by her sea monster brother and the town’s closeness to water

Teaches the boys to make sandcastles

Holds such strong resentment for Alberto’s father and Daniela. Lorenzo and Luca’s grandmother she’s fine with, but Alberto’s biological father abandoning him pisses her off more than she can put into words, and Daniela manipulating her son and sending him away makes her want to break something.

Her “santa (cheese)!” comments slowly change into “Santa (fish)!” exclamations. Like, “Santa Goby!” for example. 

Is more close to Alberto than he wants to let people know. She can read him like a book. He’s honestly her best friend. She tells him everything, they go to each other after nightmares, they share everything, all the fun cute stuff that Alberto would rather die than admit.

Still has no idea what “Silenzio Bruno” and “Piacere, girolamo trombetta” mean and at this point she’s too afraid to ask

Though she loves the Portorosso kids, she’d rather die than be a mother. Her parents understand, but secretly hope she changes her mind so they can spoil a grandbaby. 

Begs Massimo to coverup his sea monster tattoo, which he does

Also a “he ask no pickles” friend!

Is super patient with Luca and Alberto’s adaption to the human world (though she doesn’t like it when Alberto shoves his feet on her-which he loves to do because it pisses her off)

Secretly saves money up for the boys to get a Vespa

While she isn’t the best cook, her pasta meals are pretty damn good! 

Has the trophy from the Cup in her room next to a picture of the three of them on the Vespa

[babbushka]

Everything

Medieval!Kylo x Reader (Set in the All My Stars universe)

2.5k, mentions of pregnancy

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

He watches you from the doorway, late one afternoon.

The birds are chirping quite heavily, a symphony of sounds outside the castle walls. The monks in the monastery chant their hymns as they wander their halls, the tenor of their voices drifting through the wind, diluted to a warm wash of music in the distance.

You hum along, though you care little for the meaning of the words, more enraptured with the melody, the tune, as you fold your kirtles which have come back fresh and clean from the wash. Kylo’s eyes are fond as he watches you, he is relaxed, leaning against the door frame, quiet so as to not disturb you.

You are in nothing but a white smock today, your long hair let down. It is Monday, and you are bound to no obligations, nowhere to be, no one to see. In fact, Kylo isn’t so sure you didn’t just wake up, his own Kingly duties taking him from your enormous canopy bed far too early.

You are somehow even more beautiful like this, rumpled and warm from sleep. Outlined by the light you are, backlit from the window in front of which you stand, folding and refolding your dresses just so, careful to not crease the wool and silks. Your white smock is practically see through, and he cannot hold himself back any longer.

“A Queen does not do her own laundry.” He says, but you are unsurprised to hear him, to see him.

“Oh? And pray tell why not?” You ask as you look over your shoulder, features so dazzling that he nearly forgets how to speak.

He removes himself from the doorway, walks into the royal bedchambers and steps up behind you, slides his arms around your middle.

“Because her King will do it for her.” He says easily, as he takes the kirtle from your hands and kisses your neck, many small kisses pressed and peppered along the exposed skin of your throat.

You grin with all of your pretty teeth as his expert hands put this dress in the pile, as they do so quickly so that they may slide over your stomach. He is not wearing his gloves now, not wearing any of his armor. Instead he is simply in his black trousers and surcoat, fabric breathable and light.

“You’re starting to show.” He says softly, and you beam up at him, your mouth stretched into a smile as you demand his lips.

“I know! Our little prince or princess is growing big and strong, just like their father.” You wind your arms around his neck, press your foreheads together.

Kylo revels in this, this closeness. He takes a deep anxious breath, one that releases in a shaky manner, as his hands bunch up your smock, at the waist, wanting to see you.

“May I?” He asks, heart thrumming when you give him permission to lift the gauzy fabric over your head, pull your arms through it.

He scarcely cannot believe you are real, from the way the line of your shoulders slopes, to the heavy hang of your breasts. But what he cannot believe most of all, is the way your abdomen is beginning to jut out, proof of his heir before his very eyes.

He sinks to the floor so he might be level with the bump, and as his hands caress your warm hips, he rests his ear against your flesh, hoping to ear or feel the baby. It has been twenty weeks, and watching your body shift and change has been both a terrifying and an incredible journey. The midwives say that the heir apparent should be kicking soon, and Kylo prays that he will be there to witness it when it happens.

For the moment however, he cannot hear anything but the birds or the monks, so instead he places a single kiss to your stomach, to your hips, hands smoothing around to playfully squeeze at your ass.

“Come, lie with me.” You chuckle, and he rises from the floor, lets you lead him to the bed as you lay down atop it. He climbs up after you, settles himself next to you on his side, head propped up by his hand as his elbow digs into one of the many soft pillows he has ordered to be made for you. “I see stirrings in your mind, what swims behind those eyes of yours?”

He sighs, both glad that you know him so well and anxious, because the thoughts which have been plaguing him offer nothing but worry.

“When I came to challenge my claim to the throne, never did I imagine to be graced by such a blessing as your beauty.” He says, not able to look you in the eye as he traces patterns on the open palm of your hand where it rests near your face, “I dread the day you part from me.”

“I do not jest when I ask this, what makes you believe such a thing?” You frown, stretch your neck to kiss him softly, “I wish to understand the root of your doubt of my love. Have I not been faithful in every way known to man?”

The pain in your eyes kills him, for this is not what he intended, not what he meant at all. That you should feel you have committed an error has acid burning in the back of his throat.

He shakes his head and kisses you, trying to find the words. You have none of it, and you push him down so he is laying flat on his back, so that your naked body may straddle his hips, your hands guiding his own to your chest so that he may calm himself by touching you the way he always wants to.

“It is not born from anything you have done, please, believe me. The doubt is mine own doing.” He says, mesmerized by your beauty, nearly angry with himself for being so inadequate in comparison. “I am undeserving of you, don’t you see? The moment you realize this is the moment my heart shall tear into two, for when you leave, you will take it with you.”

“I cannot think of anyone more deserving than you.” You frown, and Kylo sighs.

“(Y/N) – ”

“No Kylo, I speak true.” You interrupt him, “Look at this, look at us. I would not have pursued you so, would not have let you take me, keep me, marry me, if I did not believe that you are the most perfectly imperfect man I had ever met.”

Kylo looks at you, and you look back at him, trace your finger down the scar which splits his face. You kiss your finger and trace it once more, sealing the already healed wound with your love in a way that you sometimes did, whenever Kylo was feeling self-conscious.

“I have no delusions about your character, about your temper, about your manner. I love them all, wholeheartedly. I love you, wholeheartedly.” You reassure him, tuck his hair behind those big ears of his which you so adored.

“You must forgive me, it is difficult to rationalize sometimes, what mine mind projects so loudly.” Kylo whispers, and you only nod solemnly. He is forever thankful for your understanding, even if he does not know where it comes from, or why you choose to give it to him.

“Allow me to drown out those words.” You say, and he finds that things are altogether too serious for the moment, so he does his best to keep a straight face when he nods up at you.

“You are quite loud.” He replies, playful, teasingly.

And it is successful, for you are rolling your eyes and biting away a smirk from your lips, a light blush across your cheeks. Kylo sits up then, cannot bare to be away from you even though you are astride his hips, you are still too far away.

“Oh heavens, my lips are so cold.” You hum when he sits upright, when he props his back up with the many goose feather pillows that adorn your shared bed. “If only there were a King worthy enough to bestow a proper smooch upon them.”

Kylo kisses you headily, hands splayed across your body, mapping it out. It is so hot under his hands, like you had been laying in the sun all day, soaking up the sunbeams there, the very ones which he has poured into the ring that graces your finger.

Your noses rub and nudge one another as you exchange thick slides of your tongues, your hands in his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. You moan softly into his embrace, your nipples brushing against the soft fabric of his surcoat, and he is hard in his trousers with you being so intoxicatingly lovely.

His hand roams over your stomach once more.

“I worry, so much about you.” Kylo whispers, figuring that since it is sharing hour, he might as well get everything off of his chest, “About our baby.”

“It will be fine, you must believe that it will be fine.” You shake those anxieties away, give them no mind at all, for if you dwell on such things, you fear they will come true. “We have the best midwives in the whole of Alderaan.”

“If you die – ” Kylo begins, for he cannot stop thinking about it, cannot stop thinking about the way his grandmother, Queen Amidala perished in such a fashion, cannot stop thinking about the way so many women perish from giving birth.

“I won’t.” You say, so it so firmly as if you are telling God herself, telling the universe that this is not something to even toy with. “The baby has been easy so far. I know it is still early, but I have not been sick once. This will be a calm endeavor, I am sure of it, and then Alderaan will have her first true crown prince in many years.”

Kylo is in awe of your strength, of your confidence. He wishes he could wield such a powerful weapon himself, but you have enough for the both of them, you always have.

“You are so radiant, in all ways. Heaven herself has made you, she must have.” Kylo is convinced, absolutely convinced that you were made to make this world a better place, make him a better person.

“If the stars have made me, then the sun has made you, and this child will be the Earth in all its glory.” You smile, glad he has given up on that train of thought for the moment as you kiss him, growing more and more playful as your hand drifts to the ties of his trousers, “And our next one shall be the moon, and the next shall be the sea, and the next shall be the sky…”

“You wish to have so many?” Kylo chuckles against your throat where he laves his tongue across your pulse.

“I wish to have as many as this body can handle, the castle is so devoid of royal children it pains me. Can you not just imagine hearing their bright laughter as they prance through the grounds? Small boys and girls sword fighting with sticks, smelling the flowers in the fields.” You ask, and Kylo hums thoughtfully.

“I cannot. I never dared to.” He replies truthfully, and your smile grows sad. “Never dared to dream I might one day have so much to be thankful for. I have never had anything in all my life, and to suddenly have so much is overwhelming in the least.”

“You have suffered through so much, so much that it pains me. But you need not suffer any longer, for as long as I am here I will tell you how deserving you are of all the love this kingdom has to give you – how much I have to give you.” You reassure him, and he nods, satisfied for now.

“Only if you allow me to give you everything in return.” Kylo replies, because must always swear fealty to you, must always let you know this.

“Oh my darling,” You say, as the birds chirp outside and the monks chant and the baby kicks against Kylo’s hands for the very first time, as you both gasp at one another in elation, as you kiss him kiss him kiss him, you say, “You already have.”

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

Tagging some medieval loving friends! <33  @adamsnackdriver​​​​ @dreamboatdriver​​​​ @kyloxfem​​​​ @autumnlovesadam​​​​ @solotriplets​​​​ @driverficarchive​​​​ @kylo-renne​​​​ @formerly-anonhamster​​​​ @thepilotanon​​​​ @joannapenguin​​​​ @whiskey-bumblebee​​​​ @passengereve​​​​ @venusianmaiden​​​​ @callmehopeless​​​​ @sarcasticallyhateful​​​​ @ilikebritsandbands​​​​ @tinyplanet-explorers​​​​ @kittyofalltrades​​​​ @princessofpow​​​​ @softcrybabykid​​​​ @inkstaineddaughter​​​ @wonderneverland562​​​ @magikevalynn​​ @ellie-emb​

[newandfiguringitout]

May 1st Anchor

So This is my contribution to the May writing Challenge, I hope to do them every day but bear with me. Also the only knowledge of ships and pirates comes from Pirates of the Caribbean so expect wrong terminology. I am also not the best at writing and such so don’t expect much. The keep reading thing is just to shorten it. 

Content Warning: Disassociation, bruises, kidnapped, unconventional restraints, pirates in general, dehydration, swearing

They tied him to the anchor, to the FUCKING anchor, to keep him out of the way after the second time he escaped the pirate’s brig. It had been oh so easy to pick those locks, the cheap kind with only a few tumblers, the one on the door had been even easier than the shackles. After that it had just been a matter of avoiding crew members until somebody decides - hey I'm gonna go check on that prisoner we got locked up - the bright fucker then had raised the alarm and everyone had gone on a manhunt for the stowaway. 

That was how he had ended up here, tied to the anchor, over the side of the Death’s Courage. Pretty name for a ship, especially suitable for a pirate ship.

The edge of the anchor wasn’t sharp, so he had that to be grateful for, but it dug painfully into his back in a way that was slowly driving him to the brink of madness. The whole situation was not made better by the fact that the sun existed. Well, the sun is important to everything, but it’s current presence beating down on him and blinding him, was not exactly a warm and fuzzy feeling. But it was warm and fuzzy. It was so fucking hot, and his head felt like it had been stuffed with an expensive wool. Wool that could be doing anything else, the wool could be some cape for some monarch or it could keep a sheep warm. But no, it was too busy stuffing his head. All that potential wasted on making him miserable. 

Deep down he knew his thoughts were being stupid and made no sense, but he was content to complain into his brain and let his thoughts drift. Silencing the irrational thoughts took too much effort. So he let himself drift and think of funny and stupid ways to put words together. 

Anything to distract him from the figuratively bruising headache and the literal bruising that would form in rings around his wrists and chest. He couldn’t blame the pirates for tying his hands behind the anchor before wrapping him in ropes, but damn it hurt. It wasn’t even the cut and dry hurt of a knife, it was a silent ache that screamed for attention it didn’t deserve but somehow still got.

He winced as the boat rocked and the pressure on his back increased. He’d have bruises there tomorrow, but couldn’t bring himself to care yet. He could care when he turned his brain back on. 

The pirates had the anchor lashed to the side of the ship and it rested on wooden supports where it could be pushed into the water with little effort. He tried not to think about how easy it would be for them to just shove it into the sea. It would go down fast, only stopping when it reaches the very bottom. It would drag him down and down and down until the water pressure alone would kill him.

“Havin’ fun down there?” The prisoner spared a glance up at the pirate, the man had a face, that much he could tell through bleary eyes, so he could only guess at the man’s expression.

He sent a wary glance at the sea before his eyes shot back up at the man, “The time of my life.” He had tried to cast the comment with his usual care-free tone, but had ended up betraying a smidgen of his misery. He was thirsty, hungry, his legs were cramping, headache pounding at his skull, eyes burning not to mention the thousand other pains that came with being tied to an anchor. In short, this was one of the worst brigs he’s ever been in. How long had he been out here, baked by the sun, chilled by the water and overall exhausted to the bone. 

He supposed that was the point of tying someone to an anchor. 

“Captain figured you should be fed, lest ye waste away.” He knew that sounded too good to not have a dagger hiding behind those words. But he couldn’t help the growl of his stomach at the thought of food. When was the last time he had eaten? 

The pirate disappeared behind the railing of the boat, and he had expected for them to free him so he could feed himself. But no movement came from the heavy chain and the pirate didn’t come back

He craned his neck to try and see what they intended to do to him. Just as he began to think they had been toying with him, he saw a flash of movement over the rail.

“Just a moment sir,” a young voice called, very different from the grizzled pirate he’d seen before. A small head peeked over the side of the rail and gave him a cheeky grin. The boy couldn’t have been more than twelve, the child ducked out of sight and began to climb over the rail, down toward the prisoner. A rope had been fastened around his waist and woven between his legs to make a harness of sorts, some slack had been dropped over the side and he lowered himself down using both hands. Hanging from his belt were a couple of flasks and a canteen. 

Surprised and more than a little awed, the young man watched with fascination as the boy lowered himself and tied off the slack at the top of the anchor. Then climbed down to be standing barefoot on one of the three arms of the anchor. The child had ebony skin, short, curly hair and wore a smile bigger than his over-sized tunic. He stood in a ta-da pose with his arms raised above his head and balancing on the metal. 

His expression must have looked funny, because the kid burst out laughing.

He was nearly at a loss for words, but figured he should start the conversation,“I would applaud but,” he nodded at his torso, wrapped in rope, “I’m a little tied up at the moment.”

The truly terrible pun earned him a snort from the kid who moved closer, to a more balanced place on the metal contraption. 

“Name’s Rig.” the kid reached for one of his flasks and carefully undid it from his belt, apparently unbothered by the swaying of the ship. “But you can calls me Riggs or Riggy.”

“Dalton,” the prisoner replied, eyeing the flask in the kid's hand with keen interest. 

“I brought you some water and some porridge. Porridge is more water than porridge though, had to get it to flow out of the flask you see so I put some water in there.”

Dalton tried to swallow, but it was made difficult by the dryness in his throat. The kid kept grinning and let the stopper hang off the neck of the flask, bringing it to the captive’s lips. Dalton drank the lukewarm water greedily, trying to drink away the salty taste in his mouth. Riggy pulled the water away and Dalton tried to follow it with his mouth. 

“Not so fast sir, you’ll get sick,” he said the last half as if sharing a secret, low whisper and wide eyed. The moment only lasted a few brief seconds before the kid, Riggy, broke the stoic silence with a toothy grin. “I got you some porridge too sir,” he stopped the flask and returned it to his belt where he pulled out a slightly smaller one.

“Ole’ Gin makes the best porridge, all thick and creamy, but it doesn’t pour right so I watered it down. More like broth than porridge but it’s still porridge sir.” Riggy looked up at Dalton, (despite having gangly limbs the child was short) his eyes searching for .... approval? 

Dalton glances down at the flask, hunger at the forefront of his mind. “In my books porridge is porridge, and that right there,” he nodded to the flask, “sounds like a truly splendid meal.” 

Rig giggled, a pure and innocent sound, and brought the flask to the captive’s lips. A slightly warm, and significantly diluted, almost bitter tasting sludge flowed smoothly into Dalton’s mouth. He nearly moaned with delight. It was food. Food. Not solid, and definitely not tasty, but it was food. 

Rig fed him the porridge slowly, at Dalton’s request. He didn’t want to put too much in just to have it all come right back out. During the entire time Rig talked. 

“I’m called Rigs because I can climb all over the rigging and ropes over the whole ship. I’ve climbed to the top a the main mast from the poop deck without touching a plank of wood, 14 times. None of the others in the crew can say that cause they’ve never done it. I also know all of the knots Dannon knows and I’m trying to get Jimi Bones to teach me his. The knots he ties don’t come out even in the worst weather and nobody can untie ‘em, or at least figure out how to.” The boy could talk the beak off a parrot that's for sure, it was almost a surprise he wasn’t named Parriot or some equally witty and comical name. 

Dalton didn’t mind though. It was endearing watching the boy’s eyes light up as he described exactly how to get ‘Ole Gin to give the best rations or give descriptions of the sea battles they’d witnessed. 

It was quite good fun to listen to his stories that only needed marginal prompting, and Dalton was exceedingly grateful that he didn’t have to contribute anything to the conversation. The metal still cut into his back, and his eyes still burned from the saltwater, but he had food in him and was now being given water liberally from the flask. The canteen hadn’t been unscrewed and it seemed they were both alright with that, Dalton didn’t care to drink unless it was to get drunk so he was content to listen to Rig’s tales. 

Suddenly Rig goes quiet, he glances around at the open ocean before leaning in close and whispering, “you ever hear of mermaids?” The boy’s dark eyes were wide and completely serious in a way that made it very clear the question was not rhetorical.

“Heard of them? Yes.” Dalton answered slowly, in a far too hushed tone, “But I have never laid eyes on one.” he had purposely left the conversational mermaid door open for Rig to gush about but the lad went disturbingly silent. 

“What have you heard?” The question was so open and almost urgent, that it worried Dalton. 

“Bits and pieces of lore,” he answered carefully, “half of it probably false.” He almost stopped there, but those wide eyes were staring up at him with curiosity so intense he continued. “I’ve heard that they lure men to their deaths with a ghostly song,” Rig’s eyes widened in fear, “but mermaids don’t do that, Sirens do.” the boy seemed to deflate with relief at the assurance.

“What else do you know?”

Dalton paused, this was a very unusual turn of the conversation, but the boy’s intensity slightly frightened him so he continued. “I’ve heard that they are not born half human, but are the souls of women thrown overboard or who died at sea. That they seek revenge against those who had wronged and killed them. I’ve heard that they have the beauty of an angel and that their song is the most lovely ever heard by human ears, and that their kiss will save a man from drowning. But I’ve only heard this, over rumor or myth, I wouldn’t count it to be true but there is no way to be certain what is true and what are the fancies of a bard.” Rig had stayed ghostly silent, listening intently to the words Dalton spoke. 

After a period of silence, Rig asked, “so you believe in them?”

“I would never say they were fable, but I wouldn’t go telling the world about them lest I see one with my own eyes.” He had said it in a way to treat it as a light hearted life lesson, ‘never believe something till you see it yourself’ type of thing, but it came off with far too much foreboding. 

Rig didn’t seem to notice and began speaking quietly, “I’ve heard that Jude Hewitt saw one,” he leaned in closer, “near Remsall Bay. Swimming like a dolphin, inky black hair flowing after her. Jyll Gold said he saw seaweed, until she saw it too. Said she’d never forget the hateful eyes that she swore were filled with the void itself.” Rig nodded all too solemnly before continuing. “They say that you don’t see them first, you hear ‘em, a voice so angelic you think you’ve died. The kind of voice you would follow into hell or a reaf. The kind of voice that kills you. The first thing you see is the hair. It billows around them like seaweed, you just see little tufts of color, floating like oil stains on the sea. Then they say, they bring their heads just above water. All you can see is the face of a goddess with hair flowing around them.” He paused. “That’s when the crew starts going overboard.” A haunted look crosses their face. 

It is gone in a flash of a grin across their dark skin. Dalton couldn’t help but return it with his own toothy smile. Even if the smile felt far too fake.

“I best be off then,” Rig stands from where he had been sitting on one of the arms, “best of luck to ye sir.” He tilts his invisible hat to Dalton, and begins climbing up the ropes with a practiced grace. 

“Just call me Dalton,” he called after him. 

Rig turned back to look at the man, “Will do Sir Dalton.” The captive let out a joyless laugh as the boy disappeared onto the deck. 

Dalton turned back to stare into the sea, Rig’s words stayed with him as his eyes wandered over the rolling waves. Mermaids staying far too long in his mind.

[ask-de-writer]

SEA DRAGON’S GIFT : Part 56 of 83 : World of Sea

Return to the Master Story Index

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SEA DRAGON’S GIFT

Part 56 of 83

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

140406 words

copyright 2020

written 2007

All rights reserved.

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

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Copyright fair use rules for Tumblr users

Users   of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights.  They may   reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information   remains intact.  They may use the characters or original characters in   my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical   compositions.

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

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New to the story?  Read from the beginning.  PART 1 is here

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Chapter 21: Kurin Aboard Grandalor

Willing hands helped Kurin over the rail on to the deck of the Grandalor. She looked about curiously, having never been aboard this ship before.  There was none of the slovenly work or maintenance that she had subconsciously expected.  Forward of where she stood she could see a large machine occupying a good part of the precious deck space between the foremast and the mainmast.  It was hard to see it clearly through the gear and boats stacked about in careful order, everything properly lashed into place.

Plainly the Grandalor used deck space differently than she was used to from the Longin and the few other ships that she had actually been aboard. She stepped around a neat stack of nested rowing boats and got a clear view of the machine.  She stopped, shocked again.  She had seen battle catapults like this before, on the Dark Dragon, but those had been much smaller.

“What do you use that for?” she asked in a small voice, of nobody in particular.

A child’s voice answered anyway.  “We caught some big Hags and a Wing Ray with it.”

Kurin turned toward the speaker and saw little Arnat, still clutching the stuffed toy paddle duck that she had given him.  She was wondering how to tell him that his mother had been gravely wounded when Tanlin came back.

“T’ere ye are, Arnat.  Oi’ve been lookin’ for ye.  We need ye down in sickbay.  Yer mot’er’s been ‘urt.”  She looked at Kurin and asked, “Can ye come t’, Kurin?  Tis goin’ t’ be ‘ard.”

Kurin cocked her head, listening intently.  “I think that I need to.  I can hear an Orca singing,” she said softly.

Tanlin scooped up the child and quickly led the way across the deck and down a companionway.  They entered the sickbay where Darkistry and Gemma lay in bunks awaiting attention.

Doctor Corin was working over a draped woman.  He was carefully stitching her wound closed.  Kurin took a look at the situation and said, “Doctor, I know how to stitch a wound and do dressings.  Can I help?”  As she spoke she felt a change in the heel of the ship and the different rhythm of the waves told her that they were getting underway.

Doctor Corin looked up from his work.  “You know dressings?  Good.  I have some over in that pot, freshly boiled.  If you can finish Lenai, I can get to Darkistry next.”

“With due respect, Doctor, see to your daughter next,” said Darkistry firmly.

With equal firmness, he replied, “If you want that leg for anything but a souvenir in a box, let me see to it.  Gemma’s wounds are showier but yours are far more serious.”

Kurin could hear the plaintive whistling song of the Orca coming quietly through the hull of the ship as she put on a clean mask and scrubbed her hands meticulously.  Doctor Corin watched with approval as Kurin got to work.  Using disinfected tongs, which she dipped into boiling water each time that she finished any part of what she was doing, she fished out sterile sponges to wipe the blood from Lenai’s wound, before dressing it.  

She carefully placed boiled and dried soft bandage over the wound, laid clean parchment over that, and spread soft Glue Fish Glue around it, overlapping onto the parchment a little.  Then she took the freshly boiled and dried bandages and wrapped them snugly around Lenai’s abdomen several layers thick and fastened them with little double ended hooks of bone laid out for the purpose.

Doctor Corin appeared to be concentrating solely on the task of suturing the several cut muscles in Darkistry’s leg.  As Kurin finished, without even looking up, he said, “Very neat indeed.  I had heard much of your talents but I never heard that you were a surgical nurse, too.”

Kurin made a bit of a face, “I’ve never actually done it before with people but I’ve seen it done and read the fleet surgical manuals, and asked a lot of questions.  I got to do practice dressings on fish and did veterinary work on the paddle ducks.”

All that Doctor Corin said to this confession was, “I see.  Put on a fresh mask and then come here.”

“I need you to keep the blood washed out of this wound while I work. Use the lavage syringe and the solution in that narrow necked bottle. Are you familiar with what I am doing here?”

“I think so, Doctor.  This solution has dilute Hag venom in it to relax and numb the muscles as I wash the wound so that you can pull the cut muscle together with the double retractor and stitch it.  The problem is, the ends of the muscle won’t match up properly because the long end twisted about a quarter turn as it pulled back.”

He gave Kurin a sharp look.  “And the consequence of stitching it as it is?”

“She’ll have a limp and it will always ache.”

Pleased, he said, “You are exactly right.  Have you seen that happen before?”

Somewhat sheepishly Kurin admitted, “Yes, I once did just that to a poor innocent paddle duck that had been injured.”

“And you not only learned about ducks, you generalized about what happens when a muscle is twisted improperly when it is repaired.  You have the makings of a good surgeon.”  He was clearly pleased.  

He also gripped the muscle end with a forceps and released one end of the double retractor.  “Do you see that pulsing bulge in the bottom of the wound, Kurin?  That is the femoral artery.  This smooth bluish one is the femoral vein.  If either of these had opened Darkistry would have died almost immediately.”  

He carefully aligned the ends of the muscle that he was working on before he relocked the retractor.  Then he began to stitch, quickly and neatly.  “Her body will absorb this suture material in less than a week.  It will be three to four weeks before she is fully healed.  How would you handle her recovery?”

Kurin thought for a moment.  “The official way is to strap her leg to a straight splint, removing it and carefully exercising it after three to five days, strapping it back to the splint after each exercise session.  This prevents scars from forming between the muscles, locking them together and limiting her use of the leg.”

Doctor Corin noticed her hesitation, “You have a different idea?”

“Wrap her leg in bandages for padding, and make a two part shell of Strong Skin.  It’s easy to make, can be taken apart easily for exercise, and allows for simple dressing changes.  The leg doesn’t need to be held in an unnaturally straight position, either.”

The Doctor turned to Darkistry, who, leg numbed by the venom solution, was watching the operation with interest.  “Your attacker severed two muscles completely and damaged a third.  He missed the femoral artery and vein by fractions of an inch.  If you had torn the wound open just a tiny bit more than you did, you would have been dead in about a minute or a little less.

“Have you followed our discussion?”  He paused and Darkistry nodded her head.  “For the next week, your life hangs by these stitches.  If they pull out and the wound opens, the odds are good that you will die before you can get help.”

Darkistry, all jesting put aside, said, “This is another time that I will follow orders without question.  I’m worried.  This could get to be a habit.”

“Good. Now we will soon need to immobilize your leg.  Kurin has explained the official way very clearly.  She has also explained her own idea which seems to make good sense.  Which way would you like to do it?”

“Let’s try the new way.  It sounds more comfortable.  You had me immobilized after you fixed me up when I came on board.  I didn’t like it.”

The doctor turned to Kurin and said, “This is your area of expertise. I have heard some of what you can do with Strong Skin.  Here dress this wound, while I send someone to get supplies.  What do you need?” Tanlin, who had been listening carefully, motioned to the doctor that she would go.

Kurin was fishing for freshly boiled sponges with newly boiled tongs as she spoke, “Two pieces of Strong Skin about a foot wide and three feet long, one and a half pints of glue, an application roller, a lump of tallow, a rocker knife and a number two concave scraper.  I would also like four buckles, if any are available.  Regular equipment belt buckles will do nicely.”

Leaving Arnat in the corner, Tanlin left.

Kurin applied herself to cleaning and dressing the wound on Darkistry’s leg.  As she worked, she said, “On the way here, the Captain called you her best friend.  I guess that Lenai is Arnat’s mother and Gemma is Doctor Corin’s daughter?”

“You’re right.  I hear that you usually are.” said Darkistry with a wry smile.

“Why would anybody take the kind of risks that you people took?” asked Kurin in puzzlement, as she wound bandage the length of Darkistry’s leg.   “Tanlin said that you had been denied justice.  Why not just surrender to the fleet and ask for a new trial?”

Darkistry answered seriously, “Because, legal or not, they already have condemned my Captain, her husband and others to be drowned on sight. I would be forced to fight this ship to defend their lives.  I might have to sink a ship or more of a fleet that I still call my own, to save them.  I don’t want to do that.”

Kurin was shaken by the fierce loyalty that she could hear in the calm certainty of Darkistry’s words.  She thought carefully as she began laying a thin layer of tallow over the bandages.  She expertly cut the Strong Skin, applied the glue and shaped it to Darkistry’s leg, covering only the underside of it for the first part of the shell. As she applied temporary bindings to hold the shell in it’s shape, she asked the question that had been bothering her so much.

“Why do you have such strong feelings for Barad?  All that I’ve ever heard was not that good, except for his seamanship.”

TO BE CONTINUED

<==PREVIOUS   NEXT==>

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[gofancyninjaworld]

OPM Manga Ch 121 Review: To Break a Superhuman

Folks who’ve been following me a while might have noticed that I’ve been making collections of manga covers as they tell their own parallel story, at least telling us something about characters’  personalities and outlooks. 

I couldn’t help but notice that chapter 121′s cover appears to be a response from Genos to the challenge laid down by Saitama in chapter 104.   Don’t worry about my moving forward to try breaking my limits today: I have no intention of stopping!    The parallels are more than cover deep in that both chapters 104 and 121 cover the disciples and Puri Puri.  Shall we dig in? 

Warning, contains cruelty to heroes. But you knew that already or you’d not be reading!

Installed with six forward gears but no reverse

“This is as far as I go…”

Chapter 104 introduced us to Puri Puri’s bid for greater heights, with the dissipating smoke and his forearms beautifully framing his still-intact sweater.  He’s come so far from the overconfident guy clowning around in front of the Deep Sea King.  Puri Puri will never not be funny in the idiosyncratic way he deals with enemies, but the following chapters showed us just how strong Puri Puri has become.  His incredible ability to evolve his body in response to challenges is truly terrifying (in a good way). 

Then/Now:

The now revived Garou has not only beaten him so savagely that his armour was no good, but is continuing to beat him, leaving him no time at all to recover and even attempt to adapt.   It’s beginning to feel claustrophobic when one of my many weaknesses shows up.  I love that Murata pays nearly as much attention to feet as he does to hands. Feet hold us up, and Superalloy’s are as massive as they need to ground and support his massive frame:

Yes, a much-anticipated fight is coming, but first, let me say something about Garou.  There’s an old Doctor Who story featuring some monsters called the Weeping Angels. They appeared as statues… so long as you looked at them. Every time you looked away, they would inch closer, and closer, and closer still.  Garou, who hasn’t said a single coherent word since reviving, is framed in the same way.  His posture doesn’t change,  but every time the camera pans away, it comes back to find that he’s closer, and closer. And closer.  Until he’s standing in front of Darkshine. 

The cameraman packs up and leaves at this moment, with the two squared off like something out of a Grecian myth: the Titan versus the Olympian.   We’re sure to return some chapter soon, but before that, some more cruelty to superhumans needs to be attended to. 

“This is bad…”

Chapter 104 prominently featured Atomic Samurai’s disciples, Iaian, Okamataichi and Bushidrill. It made Iaian their ambassador, looking at his internal thoughts to explore the pressures they had put on themselves to achieve more when they saw just how incredible Class S heroes were, and the pressure of expectation that Atomic had laid on them. We left them in chapter 104 pushing past the literal tangle they were in, rallying boldly to attack Devil Long Hair and attempt to close some of the gap between them and their Class S seniors. 

As we saw, they succeeded in besting Devil Long Hair wonderfully: the gap may not be closed, but they have taken great strides forward!   Then, they met one monster too many. 

Then/Now:

Child Emperor comes across their prone bodies, and is warned by Iaian, just in time to avoid being skewered by the (to him) unnamed monster and its symbiotic hell fishes. 

Of all the whimsical yet deadly toys Child Emperor has come up with, a lego-themed snowman with flash-freezing abilities is one I simply couldn’t have imagined needing to see.  But I’m very glad to have seen it!   

As we leave the chapter, it seems to be working!  Evil Natural Water is now a pillar of ice and all its mad doctor fish are fish sticks.  

Thus chapter 121 completes what chapter 104 started. As the cover of 104 implied, it was the role of heroes to push themselves beyond what they thought achievable and we saw the disciples and Puri do just that. They're out in chapter 121, with confident new heroes rushing in to take over where valiant ones have fought well but faltered. 

As to what’s going to happen next…

Meta: Everything has its breaking point

I’m very happy to see that ONE removed the lines in the webcomic that had Child Emperor musing how he himself had been able to beat the disciples earlier. It wasn’t very nice of him to run them down, and it was thoroughly unnecessary in the context.

If earlier chapters showing Nyan savaging the support heroes were hard to watch (watch? isn’t this a manga? Watch.), things aren’t about to get easier.  If you’re a webcomic reader, you know what’s going to happen next, but none of your foreknowledge is going to dilute the disbelief and pain that the heroes are going to be facing.  If anything, because the manga is taking the time to show us how much heavier the expectations on the strike force are, and because we’ve been following them longer, it’s going to hurt more. 

Most of the strike team have never tasted defeat, and even in the dire straits all of them are in, most still nurture some spark of hope that they’ll prevail despite everything. This chapter is when it all starts to get dark.

[origcmibird-aa]

AND NOW TO ELABORATE ON KUBO’S SPACE / SRMTHFG AU ( To put it briefly, its a hybrid of his main verse, stray au and royalty au. )

Kubo is the grandson of Raiden, the “Moon King,” who is the ruler of a distant planet. This world possesses technology far more advanced than that of modern day humans, yet still functions as a monarchy. Although the planet seems peaceful, in truth this is mostly due to the fact that Raiden rules over his kingdom with a tyrannical fist, destroying any and all threats and uprisings against his power and keeping his court and subjects in line by waving punishment and death over their heads. The nobles and guard are blissfully unaware due to being high in financial wealth and/or manipulations by the court itself. Raiden’s military force is incredibly strong and loyal. Soldiers who obey are awarded greatly and are constantly fed with propaganda. Any and all who begin to suspect a darker underbelly in the king’s practices are quickly rid of.

In spite of this, there is still an, albeit small, rebel faction that survives. Raiden rules from their home planet’s moon, as part of safety measures. (and perhaps, as a physical metaphor for the dictatorship of his kingdom.) The rebel faction against the monarchy’s manipulative ways survives the planet of Tsuhara’s one of many vast seas.

It was through an attempt to vanquish one of the rebel bases that princess Sariatu, the eldest of Raiden’s daughters, and next in line of the throne, met Hanzo, one of the rebel faction’s primary leaders. Sariatu, along with her two sisters, frequently spearheaded movements to try and destroy their opponents. But in an ironic twist of fate, Sariatu fell in love with Hanzo, fled the palace and her rank, and went into hiding to eventually elope with Hanzo. This was how Kubo was born.

Sariatu spent three years in hiding, and in this time she married Hanzo, helped strengthen the rebel factions, got pregnant, and eventually had their child. By the time she was finally found by affiliates of Raiden’s, Kubo was only six weeks old. Raiden was outraged by Sariatu’s betrayal. He labeled her a traitor, renounced her as next in line for the throne, and made her enemy no. 2, behind her husband. Rather than kill her, Raiden and his two remaining daughters sought to punish her and have her rot with the guilt of her mistakes.

Shortly after Sariatu was discovered, Raiden instigated an attack on the rebel base she and Hanzo were living in, and as soon as possible, as they did not want her to find out and evacuate from their location. He, Washi and Karasu personally attended this attack and fought on the battle grounds while commanding several legions. It was during this instance that Raiden also managed to claw out one of his infant grandson’s eyes. As punishment for Sariatu’s mistake, Raiden, in a fit of rage, attempted to have her child permanently blinded. But he only succeeded in taking Kubo’s left eye.

Luckily Sariatu was able to flee from the battle with Kubo in her arms. Hanzo and his own armies sacrificed themselves in order to give her the opportunity to escape. Using an escape pod, the mother and son fled into the atmosphere, to worlds unknown.

Eventually, the escape pod crash landed on a small, distant world. Sariatu and her infant child narrowly escaped, but the new mother took a massive injury to the head, which rendered her with amnesia, and eventually would lead to dementia and a growing catatonic state. Luckily, the pod had crashed nearby a small village, and the natives there took Sariatu and her child in. The locals possessed lesser technology than that of Tsuhara’s, but they had enough knowledge and experience with space travel to have a ship port nearby and have a few confident pilots. This is where Sariatu raises her child in hiding for the next twelve years.

In the meantime, Raiden, after the heat of battle, calms down and has a slight change of heart. Although he is still bitter towards his daughter and son-in-law, he decides that he has an opportunity to groom his grandson into the future king due to his youth. The king schemes and manipulates his people by painting Sariatu as a villain and a traitor, and dubs Kubo as the young prince and next in line for the throne. Because of this, it is absolutely imperative that he is found and returned to the kingdom. Military and volunteering loyalists begin their search for the young prince. Washi and Karasu spearhead the movement.

Twelve years pass, and Kubo has grown into a fine young boy, and is scraping up money from villagers and travelers to support himself and his mother. His powers have also developed well. However, he has been told never to step out of their home alone at night, and he must always come home when a ship arrives at the port. Sariatu insists this out of the fear that loyalists of her father may one day arrive on this planet in search of them, and either kill or kidnap her son.

Unfortunately, one small mistake flips Kubo’s life upside down, and turns a calm night into one he would regret forever: he stays out past sundown, coincidentally as his aunts arrive at the port by happenstance. They find him, and begin to hunt him down. The village that he grew up in goes into a riot. Warriors and kind adults who knew him rush to protect the boy and fight off the invaders. Unfortunately however, the village is slowly overwhelmed. In a last ditch effort to protect her child, Sariatu gives herself up to buy her son some time. Kubo flees into an escape pod with a warrior and two young pilots who escape his slowly dying village.

The escape ends in tragedy, when the pod is veered off course by shards of the Citadel of Bone, and is pulled into planet Shuggazoom’s gravity. The pod crashes outside of the city, and Kubo emerges as its lone survivor. He vanishes into the streets, alive, but alone, and begins what would turn into several weeks trying to survive in a seemingly hostile metropolis.

His opinions of Shuggazoom, unfortunately, are worse for wear. Though he has heard stories of the Hyperforce from travelers in his hometown, he also knows that the planet is constantly under threat. He wants to escape, but he also knows that he cannot return to his village, nor even the planet of his birth, because his aunts and his grandfather are looking for him. Due to his punitive size however, he is frequently bullied by street kids and other locals he comes across. Dodging trouble left and right, the young prince struggles to adapt. NOTES ABOUT KUBO’S SPECIES ( they’re basically humans but with psi powers )

Physically, Kubo’s species is exactly the same as Earth humans. They grow to be the same height, have the same gestation, eye colors, intelligence, etc. The only two differences are their lifespans and their abilities. Different lines of Tsuhara humans possess psychic powers that vary in strength and in array. In addition, Tsuhara humans with stronger / more powers tend to live a much longer lifespan, adding as many as an extra 200 years. Raiden himself is about 250 years old (he’s in his golden years.)

The classes of Tsuhara Kingdom’s social hierarchy are not only divided in financial wealth, but powers as well. Poorer and Peasant families tend to have little to no psychic abilites / strength at all. Middle class typically have some powers, albeit limited to minor telekinesis / psi. The higher the class, the higher the likelihood that the individual in question has powers. The royal bloodline is the strongest in all the kingdom, possessing practically godlike powers and a vast array of them; Telekinesis, Transformation, Construction, Memory Manipulation, Demon Trapping, and Force Fields to name a few. They make a point to keep these powers within the royal gene pool, and they are only known to be shared within the highest of social classes.

Tsuhara’s army usually makes a point of having its soldiers be comprised of individuals with powers. However, warriors with no powers have proven themselves to be skillful in the practice, and a select few have made their way up to high ranks in history. However, its incredibly rare.

Sariatu, obviously, was a Tsuhara human with royal blood and therefore, incredible psi. Hanzo, on the other hand, possessed weak telepathy. Kubo shows potential in having a diluted, if not equal version to Sariatu’s psychic prowess.

[hipachi]

I made a dirty fucking fic

Ok this is just copied straight from my Ao3 (HERES THE LINK BISH) and the italics have all been destroyed which makes me sad. BIG FAT TRIGGER WARNING FOR RAPE / PAST CHILD ABUSE / INCEST / TORTURE so if this bothers you, just don’t :’)) ‘The Bakugou Protection Squad, huh?’ Katsuki ponders in his mind, feet dragging along the rough dirt of the path before him. His eyes skim over Midoriya’s battered limbs that hang limply from within Shoji’s cascading form. At Tokoyami’s exhausted, slightly catatonic expression. Tsuyu and Ochako are covered in scrapes and scuffs. Katsuki puffs with contempt. ‘More like the Protection from Bakugou Squad. I could take out any one of these nerds and they wouldn’t be able to do shit!’

“Heh.” Muses Katsuki aloud. A wide grin asserts itself upon his cheeks at the thought of his explosions sprinkling blisters among Deku’s freckles.

“Something wrong?” Tokoyami asks from behind, Dark Shadow creeping further from his chest to survey the surrounding woods, his dark aura smudging into the inky sky.

“Nah,” Strops Bakugou, lazily folding scuffed elbows above his head and stretching with a wide yawn, “I’m just wondering when these so-called villains are gonna show up, that’s all. I’m getting bored. If they think they’re so tough, why don’t they come out and fight me! Bakugou, future No.1 hero speaking here!” Katsuki’s bellows chase off into the surrounding forest, Uraraka’s worried glance fuel for his outlandish slur. “Come get my ass, you pussies! I’ll take you all on!”

“Hff~” Shouto’s eyes roll at the comment, obscured by the ever-present war of hot and cold enveloping his crown. Shouto initially harbours no intention of confronting the pent-up Katsuki, who’ll surely ask for a fight at any opportunity. If he can only hear how Shouto’s conscience is dragging his irresponsible actions through the mud. The students don’t have time to fight amongst themselves in this kind of situation, even a blockhead such as Katsuki should have enough brains to figure that out.  

“That’s enough, Kacchan! This is serious.”  

“Don’t Kacchan me, Deku! If anyone here is gonna get their ass beat by a bunch of loser villains, it’ll be you! Useless Deku, always getting himself fucked up by his own quirk!”

“Enough!” Says Tsu, her tone hushed and frantic, but Katsuki waves her off and continues on his rampage.

Shouto’s morals gnaw at his reflexes, tugging him into a backwards walk so his eyes can bore into Katsuki with a silent protest. Shouto presses a single finger against his lips in an attempt to silence the boy’s impulsive roars, met only by a wide grin from Katsuki. The boy seems momentarily satisfied with the attention gleaned from the number two hero’s son. “Don’t take any shit, do you halfie?” Shouto can’t find within himself the energy to respond to the taunts, his usual demeanour of indifference cloaking an irritated mind. Katsuki looks him up and down, ruby red eyes narrowed to challenging slits, fiery and confident above that wild grin of his. Shouto pivots back around with ease, the hunk of Class B meat who’s slung over his back weighing nought atop sturdy shoulders.

Katsuki is still bitter about the sports festival. Bitter at how Shouto found Deku of all people worthy enough to use his fire. But not Katsuki. He'd thrown that damn match and made him look like an utter fool.

“Heh, useless half-assed quirk user.”

Shouto’s upper lip curls and he shoots a controlled glare back at Katsuki. If only he knew what his left side meant to him.

Little does the squad realise, they are being watched, and any hope of escaping their current situation is about to crumble. Fresh ash sprinkled into the nights' breeze. Mister Compress lurks silently, brown eyes tracking Katsuki’s every move from within the canopy above.

Even a reaction speed as lightning fast as Katsuki’s couldn’t have caught more than a whisper of the villains' fleeting presence. The team advance, blind to the traceless ghost pirouetting across the night sky, stealing away their precious Kacchan and rear defender, Tokoyami.  It’s not until the entertainer announces his presence that the Bakagou Protection Squad realise. Their friends have been captured inside two shimmering blue pearls.

*

Time has run itself stagnant from within the icy blue prison of the trickster’s pearl. A blanketing comfort begins setting into Bakagou’s bones, scraping itself a new home from within the catacombs of his marrow. Any notions of resistance are stroked gently into submission by unseen kisses, his head lulling towards the sensation of comfortable nothingness. Nothing but the muffle of disembodied voices manages to echo through the pearl’s surface, carried quietly along the non-existent breeze.

The sounds around Katsuki begin to transpire into a hollow, all-consuming hum, the likes of which similar to when he’d curiously pressed an ear against a seashell at Isshiki Beach when he was small. After a moment, Katsuki imagines himself suspended in fluid. Perhaps roiling within the scorches of an onsens embrace, or the flesh of his body diluting into the chilly white foam belonging to the sea. ‘Who am I?’ Arrives the echo of his distant consciousness, before retreating back home to oblivion. Not hot nor cold. Light nor dark. His thoughts spell whispers of approval, synchronising slowly with the suggestion of sleep spilling from unseen lips. It’s peaceful here. Or at least, it would have been had Katsuki not later found out that said fluid was, in fact, Mister Compress’s saliva.  

An eternity or two… no, maybe mere seconds trickle by, Katsuki can’t quite tell. He feels as though time barely spares him a sideward glance from its unseen plane of existence, carrying on its merry way, leaving only himself. Reality may be readying itself to swallow him whole. At least, that’s what Katsuki imagines will come next. Awareness breaks in through the surface of his midnight ocean, reality dripping like water from his skin and hair. Once again, the familiar soles of Katsuki’s boots greet the balls of his feet. The rude awakening leaves his mind racing to keep up, to piece itself back into the cranium from whence it came as unholy chaos unfolds before his eyes.

That was the strangest thing he’s ever had the pleasure of experiencing. Or… did it even happen?

Before Katsuki’s eyes, blurred and bloody figures are engaging in a dangerous waltz, dancing amidst the slowly rising bubbles that remain burned in his vision. Echoes of the outside world begin to paint themselves in vivid colour, the entire scene set ablaze with an electrifying blue fire. Katsuki feels high.

‘The fuck?’

Without warning, hot fingertips grab at the back of Katsuki’s neck, snapping him back into existence. The lightly calloused digits begin to rake their way through the blonde hairs of his nape, blunt fingernails tracing dull scratches upon his skin before tightening into an iron grip. While instinct narks him to fight, to explode and erupt with rage, something about those hands whispers tales of what a terrible, terrible idea that would be.

Katsuki tenses reflexively, his mind flickering through what quirk this mystery hand could possess. ‘That’s right, the Villain Alliance was after me… that means it could be that bastard Shigaraki!’ Katsuki had imagined Shigaraki’s fingers to be cold and littered with broken skin, so he doubts such immense heat would radiate from his corpse-like palms. Though if these hands did belong to Shigaraki for example, the use of Katsuki’s quirk was sure to lose him his head. Something he’d surely need in order to surpass All Might as the number one hero.

His friends are fighting the villains, trying their hardest not to let these hands steal him away. And he can do nothing.

Katsuki chances a cautious glance to the left, attempting to identify his captor. He manages only a fleeting glimpse of bright turquoise blazing beneath charcoal lashes. Of ashen cobwebs studded by cold halos of surgical steel. And a cold, manic grin.

Captivated, Katsuki barely registers Shouto’s desperate attempt at rescue, the outstretched palm of his friend flying past his periphery. Katsuki hasn’t so much as noticed.

That grin. It’s so… Feral.

“What a shame…” Rolls the smooth, chilling bass of the villain’s voice, “Todoroki Shouto.”  

Katsuki shudders.

The villain wastes no time yanking Katsuki back, leading him into Kurogiri’s fissure. A chill engulfs Katsuki, palpable oblivion forcing the hairs on his arms stand to attention. Of course, fucking Deku’s sobbing face is the last thing he sees before being engulfed.

The villain accompanies Katsuki through the chilly blackness of Kurogiri’s quirk, the pair soon collapsing with a thud onto solid floorboards. The ceiling above Katsuki swirls in little circles and he blinks in confusion, his head still spinning from being inside of that drug-sphere of a pearl.

Katsuki jolts as the same hot hands grab at his wrists, turquoise eyes flashing dangerously in the outer regions of his vision.

‘Oh fuck no.’ There’s no way Katsuki is going to let this asshole of a villain snatch him a second time. No. He’s going to fight, to kill the bastard if it means escaping.

“Get the fuck off me!” He roars. Both bodies wrestle in a knot of arms and legs, back muscles flexing and elbows jabbing all in an attempt to subdue the other. Katsuki supposes escaping might not be such a hard task if they weren’t both crushed under the weight of…

Of Todoroki. That’s fucking Todoroki.

And from that moment forth, Shouto Todoroki is crowned the stupidest person to walk this earth, ripping the crown right from Deku’s mop of seaweed-green hair. In Katsuki’s books, anyway. Those two have to be the only people dim enough to follow his ass through a Villain's quirk, right into the centre of their lair, no less.

A moment of awe passes before Katsuki realises he’s not moving. Shock perhaps, or fatigue, but neither is the villain at his back. In fact, the patchwork man might even look more gobsmacked than Katsuki does.

They have an audience. A room full of spectres, of scarecrows each stuffed full of death threats and torment. 'Villains', Katsuki assumes. The lot of them. Murmurs begin to stir the air, a few hisses and gasps exchanged between this court of shadows.  “Another UA student!” One of them shouts.

“Oh? What a revelation.”

“How fun.”

“It’s the half and half brat!” Hisses the one Katsuki immediately recognises as Tomura Shigaraki, his speech is muffled from beneath the grip of a disembodied hand. “Get him!”

And with that, waves of blades and rampaging quirks come flying into Katsuki’s vision all at once, glitching across the already warped ceiling and making Katsuki’s head spin. There’s barely enough time to react and Shouto misses a knife to his side by a hairsbreadth, narrowly evading a nasty gash.

“Come here, you rascal! No! Stay away!” Exclaims Twice, leaping from behind the bar and over Himiko who wields her pair of combat knives.

“Eeek!” She squeals. “He’d look so much cuter covered in blood!” Somewhere amidst the commotion, a needle has slipped its way under Katsuki’s skin, releasing a chilly fluid to play chase with blood cells through the hallways of his veins. Shouto’s mismatched eyes lock on to Katsuki’s, only momentarily, before shields of ice scale their way over the three of them. Katsuki can only watch Shouto’s daggers of ice flying from crystallised fingertips. His every limb is crushed by the villain’s unrelenting grip, legs locked underneath his ankles and arms pressed to his sides. Katsuki struggles against these arms that have been eaten alive by a past too unspeakable, chewed up and spat back out again so the pieces can be stapled back into the vague shape of a human.

Katsuki kicks and he screams and swears and curses in an untamed rage, and his sparks litter the villain below him but this guy is fixed. Immovable and just. Grinning. And Katsuki is getting weaker, slowly succumbing to the drugs that rampage through his body. Again, Shouto spares him a despairing glance, before hurling more ice out into the surrounding room.

It’s impressive, really. But still half-assed.

Thinking back to the sports festival, this is nothing. Katsuki knows Shouto is restricting himself, defending, careful not to consume his weakened friend in an eternal tomb of ice or fire. If only Katsuki can find the strength to scream at him, to tell Shouto he’s strong and to burn these motherfuckers to ash. Still, his combat skills are articulate even when restrained. He flicks his wrists and arches his back, cutting the air in two with such commandment. Almost as if he’s dancing, and Katsuki wonders why Shouto doesn’t just move like that all the time. Rage camps within Shouto’s very soul, and is betrayed when the left side of his body flickers alive with flames, they flutter as he lunges towards Himiko, poised to incinerate the grin from her crazed face. “I think not!” Booms Kurogiri, quickly summoning an onyx vortex that consumes Todoroki’s upper body before any harm can come to him or Himiko. He constricts the size of his warp gate to hold Shouto’s waist in place. Magne hurriedly steps over Katsuki and the villain beneath him to secure a hold on Shouto, pressing uncomfortably close to the boys behind. Somewhere across the bar, Shouto’s head and upper body are popping out of another warp gate. He gasps in shock, greeted by the outstretched palm of none other than Tomura Shigaraki. Breath catches in Shouto’s lungs, forced back down into the depths of his chest by a hard gulp. The now furious blaze emitted by Shouto’s left side begins to dwindle, threatened into submission by nothing more than a gesture from the leader of the League of Villains. “Dabi...” Spits Shigaraki, annoyance quaking his vocal cords. “Get off the floor, you idiot! You’re the only one here who can melt this brat’s ice and all you did was watch him! I can’t believe you. Useless!”

The usually steady rhythm of Shouto’s heart begins racing out of control, fluttering like a little bird at the sight of Tomura’s fingers ebbing closer, destruction lying mere centimetres from his face. “Calm yourself, Tomura Shigaraki.” Booms Kurogiri’s assertive voice, Shouto’s heart skipping reflexively at the sound. “The mission was a success after all. This boy is merely a by-product of our attack, albeit one that works in the League's favour. We now have two UA students to barter with instead of one.”  

‘Dabi...’ Ponders Katsuki, lips tracing around the remnants of curses he can’t quite remember anymore. The low notes of the warp Villan’s voice turn to slush in Katsuki’s ears, merging with the breaths that escape his lungs, becoming the last sound to mix into the blackness of oblivion. His head flops limply onto Dabi’s chest, who skims over his unconscious face in search of any movement.

“Well.” Huffs Dabi nonchalantly, swatting Katsuki’s limp body onto the floor beside him the way one would brush off a mosquito. “Someone had to inject this kid, and you sure as hell weren’t gonna do it.”

Tomura glares tangible daggers through slitted red eyes, before shooting a glance in Kurogiri’s direction in search of backup. Shouto swears he sees the veins convulse beneath the man’s skin. “Dabi stands correct in this matter, Tomura Shigaraki. I advise we tranquillise our newest guest until our course of action can be agreed upon. Until then, it would be wise to keep the boy unharmed.”

“Hnnnnn!” Shigaraki rages wordlessly, disturbing the dust on the floorboards with a childish stomp of his foot.

“Hey, creep. I wouldn’t go fucking up Endeavour’s son if I were you, he’s much more valuable to us if he still has a face.” Shigaraki contorts underneath Father’s palm, his frustration manifesting in twitching fingers. “Clearly you can’t be trusted with children.”

“I’ll kill you both!”

“Just give him here, ugly.”

‘Don’t get any closer!’ Shouto pleads internally. His heartbeat refusing to slow now that he’s able to count every individual groove that adorns the pads of Tomura’s dry fingertips. “Quiet, brat.” Snaps Tomura, hissing in Dabi’s direction.

“Hey now. I brought you this angsty little shit,” Dabi coaxes with words as smooth as the nod he gives in acknowledgement of the unconscious Katsuki, “It’s only fair I get to hold on to Todoroki’s kid whilst you have fun breaking your new toy.” The young man saunters in their direction, the thunk of his boots resounding in Shouto’s eardrums. His immediate intrigue in Shouto is enough to send a shiver coursing through the boy's spine. Surely such an interest can only invite misery.

“Or you could give him to me instead!” Chimes Himiko, grinning gleefully with canines that glint like polished glass in the dim light. Kurogiri ignores the syrupy voice of Himiko in favour of wiping his misty brow with a neatly folded handkerchief. The man takes up his usual residence behind his fort that is the wood of the bar as if pondering upon his thoughts. “As long as the boy is unharmed until we reach our conclusion, I can see no issue with Dabi taking responsibility. After all, he has just led the Vanguard Action Squad to a swift victory. We have succeeded in retrieving Katsuki Bakugo, so it would be wise to focus on our original goal of recruiting his explosive talent before worrying about Endeavour’s child. The final decision will be yours, Tomura Shigaraki.” For once, Dabi is thankful for Kurogiri’s intervention, his endless drivel can prove useful after all. At least, when he isn’t scalding Dabi for smoking in the bar or disappearing for nights at a time without so much as a whisper of his whereabouts. He watches smugly as Kurogiri’s suggestions wrap around Shigaraki’s body like a boa constricting its prey, conjuring skies of sweet calm above the man’s childish turmoil. Shouto can’t help but let out a sigh of momentary relief as the villain’s shoulders slacken, his hand reluctantly lowering an inch or so. Dabi grins at Shigaraki’s protesting growls, eating up his resentment.

Shouto fidgets under Dabi’s looming shadow, angry at his own inability to do anything but observe. He scours the room, wits on edge, observing how reproach now smudges Shigaraki’s formerly threatening aura. How Himiko turns her interest to the blood collated in the machine around her neck, how Kurogiri polishes his glasses tentatively, the ominous light of a computer screen seeming brighter than his and Katsuki’s future in this wretched place.

“Don’t you worry your ugly mug about it, boss.” Jeers Dabi, now towering over Shouto, “Neither of his quirks compares to the heat of my flames.” This, he says with absolute certainty.

“Yeah?” Spits Shouto, both of the men in front of him turning in subtle surprise, “Get me out of this guy’s quirk so we can find out!”

“So it speaks…” Tomura says, boredom now staining the corners of his voice.

Dabi makes no effort to stop a cold laugh from slipping past his lips, chilling their warm surroundings. The resistance - no, arrogance in Shouto’s eyes ignites a fire he didn’t realise exists within the confines of his soul. Dabi bends down, gaze level with Shouto’s, who’s heart has taken permanent residence in his throat. He hovers for a moment, the seconds drawing out, wearing an expression that Shouto could only compare to hunger. A crooked smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as patchwork hands reach for Shouto’s jaw, jerking his neck up towards his own face.

“So brave. Don’t go getting feisty just because Kurogiri want’s you alive, Shou~to…” His last word makes the hairs on Shouto’s neck prickle in uncomfortable revolt. He feels slimy and disgusting like insects are crawling under his skin. But there’s also something… familiar about this human-shaped manifestation of malevolence. Something unhinged. An omen of death lingering behind turquoise pools and charcoal lashes. Tomura was a pretty intimidating guy to begin with, given his mental instability paired with that god awful quirk of his. Shouto understands why his heart might have skipped a few beats when faced with the threat of the villain’s hand so close to his face. But Dabi… Dabi is a different kind of threatening all together. Something about him makes Shouto’s bones turn in on themselves in an attempt to conceal a nameless shame.

“Get him out of my sight.” Waves Tomura, dumping himself on a bar stool in front of Kurogiri, seemingly in a sulk.

“Ooh!” Cries Himiko, giddiness lighting up her golden irises, “Does this mean Mr Icy-Hot is going in the blood room!?”

“No way, Psycho. You heard the man, no chopping him up.” At Dabi’s words, Himiko exhibits an exaggerated pout, attention then returning to her blood machine. “Yet.”

“Then what will you do with him? Kill him, of course!”

‘What’s with that guy talking to himself?’ Wonders Shouto, curious as Twice hangs tightly onto his mask ‘And who’s touching my ass!?’

“If you must know,” Drawls Dabi, rummaging into his pocket, though the brilliant turquoise of his irises never breaks from Shouto’s heterochromic gaze. “Giran gave me some pretty strong shit in exchange for my... services. Word is the Columbian’s have been developing something pretty gnarly, it’s meant to take you on a real trip at the expense of your quirk. Ichor, they call it. I was going to use it on myself, obviously, but I guess you’ll have to do since your crazy ass friend needed knocking out, and that was the last of my sedatives.” Shouto is presented with three small, red tablets, a skull and crossbones adorning the smooth surface of each capsule. Death pills, maybe. A part of Shouto thinks it’s probably better if they are indeed deadly. “Open wide, princess.”

When Shouto jerks his head away, purses his lips and thrashes in avoidance, Dabi grows impatient fast. A powerful thumb forces itself between Shouto’s lips, wrenching open his jaw, making room for fingers to force the pill into his mouth. Dabi’s fingers are rough at the tips, they’re wide and long and generally too large to be shoved so far down Shouto’s gullet. He winces, suppressing the need to gag around the obstruction in his mouth and a jagged grin splits Dabi’s jaw. He leaves an aftertaste of ash in Shouto’s mouth, and before the pill has a chance to dissolve, Shouto freezes a small area of his tongue, the capsule along with it. He flinches at the sharp chill in an expression Dabi can only assume is caused by the discomfort of swallowing a capsule without water.

“There we go, swallow like a good boy. Kurogiri, make room.” With his word, the gate constricting Shouto’s waist expands. Dabi hurriedly ushers the both of them back through the gate, appearing again at Katsuki’s feet where Magne’s hands are still wandering over Shouto’s butt. “You!” Shouto flinches at the ice in villains voice, though when he looks up, his gaze is instead piercing into Magne. “Back off, tranny. He’s mine.” His next words come as a growl too low for the rest of the League to hear, the vicious exchange hidden behind a pool of black.  

Kurogiri inclines his head in curiosity.

Before long, Shouto allows himself to be whisked through the door by Dabi, hands securely plastered behind his back. The gazes of the League follow them until their point of exit, leaving burning scars where their eyes bored holes into his skin. Through the dank corridors of their hideout, Dabi says nothing, the echo of Shouto’s stumbling footsteps being the only proof the boys actually exist among muggy smells and rusting metal. The ice is fast melting, barely encasing the death pill by the time Dabi thrusts Shouto through a thick, iron door where he lands with a “huff” on crumpled sheets.

Dabi never expected to see fear upon Shouto’s face. He knows all too well that any son of Endeavour would’ve had all weakness ringed form his being at an age all too tender for hatred. Shouto glowers up at the young man through thick lashes, the hint of a smile creeping across closed lips.

“Looks like you’ve got something you wanna say,” Dabi remarks, his lips still split into that cruel, hungry grin. “Spit it out, sugar.”

And spit he does. Right in Dabi's face.

Dabi shakes his head, laughing while wiping the mixture of Shouto’s spit and water from his cheek, the half dissolved pill falling with a light pingonto the floorboards. “Heh… I like me a challenge.” The ferocity at which Shouto lunges for Dabi’s throat, deadly ice dagger bared beneath whitened knuckles, leaves no room to doubt his murderous intent. Dabi juts to the side, dodging the merciless attack with ease. “Gonna kill me, eh, hero?” He taunts. “What happened to throwing my ass in jail, huh? This makes us the same, you know. You’re a villain. Just like me.”

Shouto has long since decided that their exchange is not one of words, but of pure, oozing rivalry. From the moment Dabi announced that his heat could melt through Shouto’s quirks, the challenge was set in stone. The boys battle together, small room alive with blue flames and pillars of ice soon to be melted into steam, an animated corpse dancing with the product of Endeavour’s orchestrated ambitions. It doesn’t last for long, but then again it was never meant to. Dabi grins ferociously through the billowing heat, chest alight with burning anticipation for the moment when Shouto realises: he simply can’t win.

‘There it is.’

Hopelessness.

A tingling sensation webs through Shouto’s hands, then arms and then his head, skewing his world off to the side a little. Dabi positively leers at the expression on Shouto’s face. Disbelief diluting that insolent expression he’d perfected to irk Endeavour. Something is weighing on Shouto, shackling him and making his body hot and Dabi knows it. The feeling is familiar, an oppressive presence similar to the one Endeavour imposes on the boy to make him feel inferior. That coupled with the arrogance emanating from this raven of a man is enough to make his blood seethe.

‘He’s… he’s too strong.’

One last explosive attempt at burning his rival to ash leaves Shouto at his knees, arms charred and shaking, cheeks flushed from Dabi’s inferno. Before him, the villain emerges from within the pillars of smoke, a behemoth who’s stature can’t be ignored, even through eyes as hazy as his own.

As Shouto’s head lolls lazily to the side, Dabi catches him by the hair, graceful fingers entwining in roots of blazing crimson. He ponders over the boy's heat, the ocean of soft locks awakening memories of a mother’s tender touch, of ball games and blue flames, hot baths and freshly burned skin even hotter still.

He is a museum of sadness, a canvas mapped with bygone battles and blistering hostility. He’s an anarchist. A terrorist. But brilliantly free, nonetheless. The kind of bloodstained freedom that might still be open to the boy at his feet.

“You did well.” Mutters Dabi quietly, acknowledging his opponents exhausted puffs before reaching back into his pocket. He admires the boy’s resolve, even at the sight of another death pill, a glare of intense determination never leaves Shouto. “But it’s time to sleep now, little one.”

With this, Dabi slips the pill inside his own mouth, moving in to slide his tongue past the soft boundary of Shouto’s lips and deep into the back of his mouth. Shouto jerks, recoiling against the bed, consumed by the unfamiliarity of the slick tongue exploring the roof of his mouth. The smooth ball bearing of a piercing ushers the pill in further, until it chases any comments of resentment right down his gullet.

Dabi smells like fresh smoke left behind by a dying ember, the bitter taste of cheap cigarettes lingering on whisky tainted lips. “Mmnh!” Shouto protests to the man who’s deaf to any desires other than his own. Only to find his hair fisted and chin jerked back up to connect with Dabi’s, where their tongues remain locked in this dangerous embrace.

After an eternity, Dabi withdraws, a rope of spit lazily bridging the gap between both boys. Shouto breathes hard, fierce eyes wide with confusion, sheer shock keeping the tiredness gnawing at his bones at bay. Dabi draws back to admire the small seed of confusion he’s planted between naive ribs.

“You know why I chose a name that means cremation?” He muses in a cruel lullaby, stroking a lock of red hair gently behind the shell of Shouto’s ear. “So with it, I can purge even the strongest of flames.” He brushes aside Shouto’s exhausted attempt at struggling, smiling wide as the drug welcomes untainted senses with open arms. “It’s a name I’ll keep until my final obstacle has been burned to ash.”

Shouto’s eyes are glassy, the muscles that were tensed in resentment now mellowing beneath Dabi’s palms. The boy lets out a small whimper, brows furrowing as his senses drift atop uncharted Columbian waters, abandoning the island of sanctuary that is his sober mind. His vision is blurry, alive with blazing turquoise oceans and purple soot. The world begins to slur its speech, whispers of distorted impulse skip their way inside his ear, joined soon by the humming bass of Dabi’s voice.

“Sleep.”

Reality simply tilts a little, before melting and slipping out of Shouto's view altogether. The boy’s body droops, head cascading gracefully amongst the torrents of charred bedsheets, an exhibit of intoxication left to lie amongst the ruin of Dabi’s creation. The lightest of touches is all that’s needed to push Shouto’s boat away from the shores of abstinence, leaving him free to roam feverish dreams of death pills and defective parenting.

‘Would he really want to be a hero if he was free to choose his own path?’

Upon seeing the smaller body relax in his grasp, Dabi feels a hot pressure build up within his boxers, throbbing in a plea for attention. If it weren’t for the hungry firestorm swallowing the surrounding room, he might be tempted to wrap Shouto’s loose grip around his cock and chase the temptation of pleasure. But that’s a game for another day, he thinks, scooping the body into his arms and sauntering back down the hallways in search of a fire extinguisher. Not that it’ll do much good at this point, anyway.

[anneblackthornofficial]

Book Preview!

Hello, readers! As the release of my book Daughter of Secrets is only 9 days away, I thought I would give you a glimpse into the first few pages of the book! I have included the prologue and a bit of chapter one so you can get a taste of the story. You can buy Daughter of Secrets on Amazon here!

Prologue:

The power of knowing a secret is often forgotten in the relief of sharing it. That secret becomes an entirely new creature when given to someone else. The new holder of the secret may not keep it, but use it for any imaginable purpose. The secret can transform into a battle-hammer, hefted carelessly to leave destruction in its wake. It can be wielded like a dagger in the dark, slipping between its former keeper’s ribs with silent, deadly accuracy. It can become a brick wall, fear acting as the mortar between each brick in order to keep the world safely sealed away.

My own secret had been a burden for too long, its weight both alarmingly new and wearily familiar. That secret had transformed me. Shaped me from the carefree girl into the wary, withdrawn, sharp young woman I was now. The woman who couldn’t smile at the people in the streets. The woman who hid her face when the royal guards made their rounds. The woman who did not dare to speak her own name, for fear of alerting others to her secret.

For the past four years, I had lived in constant fear of someone recognizing my secret. Anything about me could give it away—it was so deeply ingrained in me, and so thinly veiled, that I was surprised no one had found me out. In the end, my fears were worthless. I was my own undoing.

Part I: Trinity Raffolk of Farmor

       Chapter 1

The day had dawned bright and crisp, the sun glinting on the waves of the Galbine Sea in the distance. The city of Farmor was cheery, bustling with the gossip of the week which I caught in snatches as I walked past. My basket of dried herbs and healing salves pressed with familiarity against the crook of my elbow, my list of addresses tucked between the clinking jars. I tried to make my deliveries early in the day so that those who needed their cures did not wait any longer than they needed to. I went to the docks first, where the elderly Captain Haedras waited on the deck of his ship for me.

“Beautiful day for a sail, lass,” he greeted me, looking at the sky expansively, his hand resting above his brow to shield the sun’s light.

“It is,” I agreed easily, handing over his chamomile and a vial of my mother’s famous ache-curing salve. “Though you’ll have to enjoy the sea for me. I’m staying on land today.”

Captain Haedras laughed at my teasing smile. “We both know the sea’s not your calling, lass, but I like ye anyway.”

I softened my teasing tone with a friendly grin. “Thank you ever so much, Captain. Mother says don’t forget to use the salve twice daily.”

He tipped his grubby hat with a gallantry. “Tell yer mum I’ll not likely forget. I’m not as decrepit as I look.” He winked merrily, and waved goodbye as I left for my next delivery. I found Mrs. Herrim’s home with ease. She was round with child, her cheeks ruddy and her eyes sunken with exhaustion. Her eldest son had been down with a cold for almost a week, and he made no secret of his discomfort.

“Thank you, dear,” she effused as I offered the vial of throat-easing tonic she had ordered. “I’ve not slept a wink since he started coughing, and the girls have been crying almost as often as he has.”

I could see her twin daughters through the open doorway, both red-eyed with recent tears, their dark curls mussed and their clothing dirty. My heart went out to the family, especially their mother. Her husband would be away on a trade ship for another month still, and she plainly had more work than she could do herself. I reached into the basket for the spare mixes of tea I always kept handy. “This should help all of you sleep better. Steep it for a few minutes in hot water, add some honey, and drink it with dinner. You’ll sleep like stones,” I said, wishing I could give her more. “No charge.”

Mrs. Herrim looked close to tears. “That will be a relief, I’m sure. Let me get the coins I owe you.” She disappeared into her home before returning with a handful of silvers. I left her to her children, and wondered as I walked away what it would be like to have siblings. I shook my head at the thought. It was not a new one, but nothing would be solved by the wondering. My mother had never given me siblings, and she had good reasons. I had grown up with the ache for more family than just my mother, and it still lingered, even though I understood my mother’s reasons now that I was older.

I tried to push the thought aside as I finished my rounds quickly, returning to my mother’s shop with my basket jangling hollowly with the day’s payments.

“I’m back,” I announced as I swung open the herb shop’s door, knowing my mother was in the storeroom behind the counter working on her latest perfume experiment.

“How was the Captain?” She called absently.

“He very much appreciated your reminder,” I said, smiling wryly to myself, but my mother was too distracted by her work to notice my tone.

“Good, good,” she mumbled, then popped her head through the storeroom doorway. “Will you come smell this? I can’t decide if it’s mysterious or utterly distasteful.”

I passed the counter and slipped into the storeroom, where my mother held out one of her glass vials, this one half full of a cloudy blue liquid. I took a sniff and wrinkled my nose. “It’s a little potent, don’t you think?” I said, trying not to cough.

My mother sighed. “I can dilute it. Rosewater might help.”

I nodded and swallowed the tickle in my throat. “I think it might. You should have seen Mrs. Herrim today. She looked exhausted. Said her oldest wouldn’t stop coughing, and her family couldn’t sleep.”

“Hmm. Hold this,” my mother held out an empty vial and poured a bit of the blue mixture in. “Yes, she sent me that message last night, so I arranged for Meredith to visit her today with a meal.” She tucked a stray blonde curl behind her ear before pouring a bit of rosewater into the vial I held. “Smell that, tell me if it’s better.”

I took a cautious sniff, and twisted my lips. “Definitely better. But I think it could”—

The shop door slamming interrupted my statement, and I handed my mother the vial to see to the customer. I poked my head out of the storeroom to see who it was, and immediately ducked out of the doorway when I saw the red and silver uniform. “Mother,” I whispered, as though my voice would give me away, “it’s a palace soldier. You see to him and I’ll clean up in here.”

Her face was serene, but her eyes were a bit too wide, as she handed the vial back to me and left the storeroom. I could hear her using her customer voice, a tone higher and sweeter than usual, as I tried to still my shaking hands and fluttering stomach. I leaned on the wooden counter, my head bowed. It wasn’t the first time a soldier had entered this shop. I should have been used to it. The instant panic was self-preservation as much as it was habit, though I desperately wanted to stop being afraid. I wanted a life where I didn’t have to hide, or keep my conversations short, but I could not leave my secret behind so easily. I wore it in plain sight, where anyone could observe it or ignore it.

Mother returned to the storeroom with a sigh, the lines of pity etched deeply into the corners of her eyes. She leaned on the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron as she said, “I’m sorry I gave you this life.”

I shook my head mutely.

“You deserve better than having to hide your face at every turn. You deserve more than a life keeping my secret.”

She always said so after something like this happened, but she always refused to leave the King’s City. Farmor was her home, she would say. It was where she could earn her money, it was where she felt happiest. The truth was that she felt closest to her true love here, even though he’d left us behind and broken her heart. Some of it I understood. After all, I had grown up here. This city, with its fishy smells and noisy sailors living in the shadow of the king’s castle, was all I had ever known. But I always wondered what it would be like to leave, to find safety in a strange place where my face was mine alone.

I would never speak that thought aloud, though. It was the one thing my mother was unwilling to give me, as much as she might want to. In this, she always came first. I thought that maybe she couldn’t help it.

My mother studied me before saying, “I want you to be happy, Trinity. You deserve time with your friends. Some freedom to find a man, maybe have a family of your own.”

It was a tempting dream, but I knew I would not find it here in Farmor. Maybe I would not find it even in all of Harlorisi. “I know, mother,” I said, and I hugged her to keep her from seeing the pain that I could not keep from my expression. I was shackled here by my love for my mother, by my past, but my secret constantly pressed me away. I was living on the edges of Farmor, both a prisoner and a gatekeeper.

“I think I’m going to take a walk,” I said as I pulled away. “I’ll be back later.”

I kept my back to my mother as I swung my cloak over my shoulders, grabbed a few coins, and left. My mother did not say a word, though I knew she wanted to.

I went back to the docks, which were empty this time of day. Most of the ships had left for the day, or had yet to arrive, and the whining cries of seagulls were the loudest sounds above the dull roar of the waves. I stayed as long as I could, finding solace in the solitude, enjoying the anonymity of a public place.

As the day waxed on, the sun dimmed behind afternoon clouds. A cold front brought winds that snapped my braid behind me. By the time the sun hovered over the horizon, threatening to dip beneath the waves and end the day, I was ready to return home. The port had begun to liven up again, boats docking with their precious cargo and paying passengers. I wandered back into the city to find the town crier already making his rounds. He drew the attention of the city’s wanderers with a singularly boisterous announcement.

“By order of King Aebert Ceoleth the Third of Harlorisi, coronation of his son and heir, Crown Prince Bastian Alecsander, will commence three days hence. Public celebration and festivities shall be held in the town square,” he cried, strutting the street, holding a royal document aloft. It was signed by the King himself, and the royal crest was displayed proudly beneath the signature.

If the crier had not held that document up for all to see, I might have been unbothered by the announcement. I could have kept my head down, kept walking, and made it home to my mother for a warm meal next to the fireplace. After all, the abdication had been expected for the past few months. It was Harlorisian tradition to make the transition from one ruler to the next as smooth as possible, allowing the former king to advise the new king during the first, most sensitive years of his rule. As it was, the sight of the King’s signature was a blow to my gut. The air left my lungs with a quiet grunt, and I stood, frozen, in the cobbled street.

Most of the townspeople were either on their way home, or home already, as I should have been. When I closed my eyes, trying to catch my breath again, the slap of footsteps against stone was muffled and slow, deadened by well-worn shoes and the exhaustion of a long day. The sound gave me something to fix on while my brain caught up with my lungs.

I couldn’t go home, I realized as I opened my eyes. I couldn’t walk up the stairs behind the shop, open the door, and make small talk with my mother over a meal as if nothing was wrong. The idea left a bitter taste in my mouth. I took stock of where I was, realizing that my last delivery of the day had left me fairly close to a tavern I had often frequented with my friend Merta. Well, until she had married the brawny owner. Now, she spent all her time there, while I busied myself with the work of my mother’s shop.

I turned so that I faced the tavern, the painted sign that read Portly Pelican swinging welcomingly over the door. The windows gleamed yellow with the light of candles and a hearth, promising an ease to the chill fog that crept over the streets as the sun set. The door swung open behind a customer, offering a glimpse of the hungry bachelors, soldiers, and sailors that sought a meal and a hearty mug of ale at the tavern’s tables. It buzzed quietly, but it was not quite busy yet. I could go in, buy some stew and an ale with the spare coin from my deliveries, and set my thoughts to rights before going home.

Feeling better after making a plan, I set off toward the tavern with a firm stride. I ducked into the doorway, shaking my cloak free of dust and moisture before I hung it on a wooden pelican’s gaping beak, one of the many such carvings that served as hooks. Keeping my head down, I made my way to an empty table against the wall and took a seat.

Merta wasted no time before making her way to me. She greeted me with a hearty smile as she leaned on my table. She looked well; her cheeks were as round as ever, her brown eyes clear and bright.

“It’s been too long since I saw you here!” She said, her tone edging on reprimanding, though her smile never wavered.

I shrugged. “The shop has been busy lately,” I offered as an excuse. “But you might see me more often if you ever left your tavern.” I softened my teasing tone with a knowing glance at her husband, who was wiping down the bar with a rag.

She glanced back at him with flushed cheeks, her smile growing. “You may be right, but I rather like my place here,” she said. Almost two years of marriage, and she still acted like a newlywed. I smiled, ignoring the ache in my chest at the sight and refusing to analyze it.

“How have you been? How is”—

Her questions were cut off by her husband calling her name, waving for her. She held up a hand to him, sighed, and turned back to me. “All right, I’m sure you came here for more than just my idle chatter. The usual?”

I nodded, leaning back in my seat. It always surprised me how easily she slipped into familiarity with me, even after all I had done to create distance between us.

She was about to turn away, but something in my expression must have caught her eye. She raised a thin eyebrow and looked at me askance. “You look like you could use something stronger than ale tonight, my friend.”

My smile felt wan on my lips. “Then I’ll take whatever you’ve got.”

She smiled and left to see to her husband. It was a few moments before she returned to my table with my stew and some sharp-smelling wine. I thanked her and was about to tuck into my meal when she said, “I hope that you know… you can talk to me about anything, yeah?”

I studied her, surprised at the serious expression on her face. Between the two of us, she had always been the quickest to laugh, the easiest to charm, the most willing to smile. It was what had drawn me to her when we were children playing in the streets.

“I know that,” I said, though I knew I would never put the burden of my own secret on her shoulders. She didn’t deserve that.

Merta looked as if she were about to say something else, but a man at the bar hailed her, raising his mug and crying for a refill. She offered me a wincing smile and squeezed my shoulder before returning to her duties.

I took a testing sip of the wine as she walked away, wrinkling my nose as I considered it. The wine’s fruity taste was countered with the tang of strong alcohol, and I wondered briefly if Merta had added something to the tavern’s usual wine. Eventually, as I ate and sipped, I decided I didn’t mind either way. The warmth of the alcohol reached into my muscles and relaxed them one by one. Another waitress came by intermittently and refilled my drink before it was ever empty. As a result, I drank more than I should have as I watched the Portly Pelican grow ever busier with the influx of thirsty sailors and their hungry passengers. One of them had even brought an accordion with him, and was playing familiar folk songs as his friends ate their meals.

I knew my mother would worry about me. I was out far later than I usually was. But that worry seemed blearily distant as I peered into my wine. I would go home soon enough, I decided, but I would listen to one more song first. The music mingled with the quiet buzz of conversation in a way that made me feel comfortably disguised. Nearly every table was occupied now, soldiers and sailors alike mingling over good food and drink. People were starting to take seats at tables with strangers, it was so full.

This happened often enough, I knew, but usually I left before the Pelican got this busy. So when a blond-headed stranger sat opposite me at my table and offered me smile, I was caught distinctly off-guard. I searched for Merta in the crowded room, but she had either retired for the night or was hidden away in the kitchen preparing food. They had lost their cook a few months ago, and had not since found a new one. For lack of a familiar face, and for the stubbornness that would not let me abandon my seat at the sight of a stranger, I took stock of the man as he ate his meal.

He wore no visible weapons, tattoos, or piercings, so he was likely not a sailor. He did not wear the uniform or regalia of a soldier. His clothes were well-worn and faintly dusty, as though he had been traveling for a long while, but otherwise they were of good quality. His ice-blue eyes were bloodshot with exhaustion, and his fair skin was tinged red, as if he had been in the sun. A traveler from a distant land, then. A stranger I would likely never see again.

As I studied him, I remembered hearing once that there was a sort of comfort in telling secrets to strangers. As if the fact that they were strangers, and that fact alone, made the secret powerless in their hands. In the relaxed bleariness of the wine, the idea appealed to me. This man looked to be a stranger that was safe enough, and I had a secret that weighed heavy upon me. I was tired, exhausted by the long day coupled with my earlier shock, and vaguely content with the alcohol in my veins.

I wanted to free my secret from its cage in my chest. I had kept it earnestly, obsessively, over the past four years, and I wondered what it would feel like to speak it out loud just once. This wasn’t the first time I had wondered it, but it was the first time I had indulged the thought and not shoved it away immediately. The wondering was heavier this time, the weight of the secret pressing down on me insistently.

My eyes drifted across the tavern, seeking Merta but not seeing her. Perhaps I should have told her my secret when she asked earlier. Perhaps I should have told her four years ago, when I first learned it. Now, I feared sharing it with her would change things irrevocably between us. I couldn’t bear that, not after the changes I had gone through in the past four years. But a stranger—I would likely never see this man again. There was nothing to change, nothing to sever between us. What could be the harm in telling this traveler? I could simply say what I wished, take my leave, and taste the brief freedom of having my secret out in the open before resuming my life of secrecy.

As the tavern buzzed around us, I made a decision, and pushed my wine aside.

“My name is Trinity,” I told the stranger, who looked startled to hear me speak. He set down his spoon and opened his mouth as if to introduce himself, but I shook my head and spoke on. “I am the daughter of the local herbalist,” I said. “Mother dabbles in perfumes as well as healing herbs, but she isn’t quite willing to sell the perfumes yet.”

I spoke deliberately, and the stranger set his meal aside as he listened. Perhaps that should have been a warning sign to me, but I pressed on. In the confused state of my exhaustion and the forced relaxation of the wine, I would not give up on this idea of confessing to a stranger. Besides, the tavern’s din of drinking songs and idle chatter disguised my words to any other listening ears.

“Mother married young, but she was widowed by the age of twenty eight. Her husband’s life was short, but her love for him was even shorter. She always did tell me that the fire of passion is no basis for a stable relationship,” I said, smiling. “When he died, she took over her husband’s herb shop. It was in that shop, the one she and I still live right above, that she met my father.”

The man’s blond brows raised. He looked as if he wanted to ask a question, but he left it unspoken. I answered it anyway.

“I’m not a legitimate child,” I explained detachedly. “My mother never married my father, but they had a whirlwind affair that resulted in me. It ended before I was born, even before my mother knew she was pregnant. He left her when his son and heir was born, you see,” I went on. “After all, the King must be quite visibly present for such events, and by the time all the ceremonies and celebrations were over, he formed a newfound dedication to his wife.” I scoffed. “Likely he just found contentment in having a male heir to the throne.”

I paused, studying the stranger’s utterly shocked expression. “Oh,” I grinned wryly, “I suppose I should have started with that. This blasted wine,” I mused, peering into the cup before I fixed my eyes on the stranger.

“I am the bastard daughter of King Aebert Ceoleth the Third.”

Buy Daughter of Secrets today!

Anne Blackthorn © 2018

[happywitch416]

Chapter 10

Elena sent off the raven with a hasty note to Odara, the bird had appeared one day like a puff of smoke with a letter from her sister stating this was the best way to keep in touch. Always a short whistle away, Elena, just like when we were kids. She hadn’t quite believed Odara’s claim until the day she tried it. One short whistle, the one they had used to keep track of each other when they adventured all those years ago, and a twist of smoke turned into a raven with keen eyes. She may not entirely approve of her sister’s choice of employment, but she had to admit it was the greatest source of information which was worth its weight in gold. It helped that Keir loved the girls and they him. What she hadn’t planned on was the banging on her door at the crack of dawn. She made her way to the door, with a heated glare towards Jordis’s room, if she was going to insist on so many things for the safety of her Thane, she could save her from early morning suffering.

Odara stood on her doorstep with a wide grin and bouncing on the soles of her feet. The man behind her watched her with a soft smile that made Elena want to shove him down the stairs. Their breath clouded the morning’s crisp air and Elena stood back opening the door wide to let them in. Odara stepped in, spinning in a circle before planting a kiss on her sister’s cheek. “You have done so much with the place.”

Elena snorted, slamming the door shut. “The moth-eaten drapes Ma had left up were difficult to replace.” Jordis’s door opened a bit and Elena waved off her questioning look, the door closing softly again. Elena knew that although the door was shut, Jordis was undoubtedly listening to every word in case she was needed. 

Odara wrapped herself around the man’s waist and beamed up at him. “Elena, this is Brynjolf, my business associate.” Elena raised her brows at that and Brynjolf shook his head. “Dear heart, this is my older sister and blight upon the land.” 

Elena rolled her eyes but stuck her hand out to shake his. “Good to meet you.” She cast a glance at her sister who was now rummaging through the cabinets. “Any chance the raven didn’t pass you?”

Odara’s eyes twinkled above her grin. “Keir never misses.” Elena shook her head, let the damned bird keep its secrets then.

“You are in luck, lass. A Moth priest had stopped in Riften” Brynjolf offered.” But he’s not there.” Her happy sigh quickly dissolved.

“Any idea where to?” Elena jumped, she had never heard Serana on the stairs and the way the other two were grinning they decided to say nothing.

Brynjolf laughed. “What use would we be if we didn’t ask questions? He said he was headed for Dragon’s Bridge.”

Odara was eyeing Serana suspiciously, causing heat to rise on Elena’s cheeks. She settled against the table edge; arms crossed. “He was an odd fellow, cheerful enough. If I had known you needed him, I would have kept him there.” She stared at Elena expectantly. “Are you going to introduce us or keep standing there like you're stuck to a hot iron?”

Elena took a deep breath, refusing the urge to pick up the closest thing and lob at her head. “Serana, meet my younger sister, Odara, and her partner, Brynjolf.” She smirked at Odara when it was her cheeks that flushed red this time. Serana shook both their hands as Elena spread hers with a welcoming gesture. “You are welcome to stay as long as you like, I’ll be making breakfast soon.” She caught Serana’s eye and she gave a slight nod. “We will head out not long after I think, but Odara knows where everything is.”

Odara shook her head, her features becoming stony. “We are here on business that needs tending.” Elena decided she was going to light a candle at the temple for the poor bastard, he was going to need it judging by the look Odara and Brynjolf shared. Odara’s cheerfulness returned quickly. “I will however let us back in so I can see my darling nieces.” At Odara’s pointed look she continued. “And I will stop in to see Ma at the temple.”

Elena chuckled. “Pa and Da are there too.” Odara groaned good naturedly and the pair made their way out the door.

Elena gave Serana a soft smile as Jordis and Illia appeared in the kitchen. Illia must have come up the stairs earlier and she hadn’t noticed, probably to discuss something with Jordis based on how closely they stood together. “I hope you don’t mind some breakfast before we go.”

Serana grinned, as the staircase began to rumble. “And miss saying goodbye to the girls?”

They headed away from Proudspire, the girls still shouting and waving from the doorstep. Elena cast a glance towards Dour and adjusted the strap on her shoulder. “I need to stop at the temple before we go.” She cast Serana a questioning look when her expression soured. “You are not obligated to go in with me. I am just speaking to my mother, I have nowhere in Proudspire for a Moth Priest.” She kicked a loose pebble. “Nor do I want the girls getting into.” She paused searching for a safe word. “Things they shouldn’t read.”

Serana nodded, hand reaching back to graze the bottom of the old quiver Elena had hastily altered to carry the scroll a bit more conspicuously. “I am not a fan of temples.”

Elena chuckled. “That is reasonable.” She showed Serana to the garden just outside of Dour’s walls. The priests and priestesses used it for quiet contemplation and for growing the medical herbs they needed amongst the more ornamental beds. “I will be back soon.”

As they made their way down the hill, Elena relayed her mother’s agreement to housing the Moth Priest at the temple. She had felt a slight unease as she told her mother she couldn’t tell her why she needed to speak to a Moth Priest for an unknown amount of time. Or why she was traveling again, other than to reassure her that she had not taken another job with the Legion. “Why is she concerned with that?” Serana stared at her quizzically.

Elena let a long sigh, forcing the air out hard at the end. “I am supposed to be retired.” She closed her eyes, inhaling the sea breeze as it started to mix the pines around them. “My last few years in the Legion were hard on my soul. The White Gold Concordat was signed when I was a child and I joined not long after the Second Treaty of Stros M'kai.” She gave a mirthless laugh. “I had a fire in my heart, to rebuild the Empire, one brick at a time if I needed to, anything to keep the Dominion out of Skyrim. I spent most of it routing worshippers of Talos and crushing rebellions.” She shook her head, willing the past to ease its grasp on her heart. “Here.” She led the way into the farmyard, cutting the conversation off. “We’ll get the horses, and we’ll make Dragon’s Bridge in no time.” 

After three fumbling attempts to get in the saddle Elena gave the reins back to the quietly laughing stable master. With Serana’s arms around her waist as they rode down the road to Dragon’s Bridge, the icy grip of unpleasant memories faded like smoke in the breeze.

Chapter 11

“Let's find a cave or something.”

Elena shook her head before gently teasing. “Don't like the outside, don't like caves. What would make you happy?”

“Finding the Moth Priest and stopping my father.” Came the tart reply from behind her followed by a half kick against the back of her boot.

Elena let out a huff of laughter. “Fair enough. I know a place; we'll stop at it until nightfall.”

“Thank you.” Serana said with all the sincerity she could muster under the hot sun.

Elena set the horse off at a gallop, ignoring the tightening arms around her waist that made her cheeks warm. She veered off the road and cleared a low fence, smiling when Serana laughed. She brought the horse back to a walk when they neared the old hut. She had seen better stables, better chicken houses even, but if you needed a place for a quiet rest it was perfect. Odara had shown it to her a few years ago and it was regularly used by Guild members, and she hoped none would be needing it currently. It would not end badly, but it would be awkward. Serana slid off the side of the horse and briskly moved indoors, pausing briefly to look at the symbol etched into the wood. Elena removed the saddlebags before setting the horse loose to roll in the grass and drink from the creek.  

“What is it like being a vampire?” Elena asked, lowering herself to the ground beside the saddlebags, she lounged in the early afternoon sun letting it soak into her bones. “The few I have ran into seem ruled by hunger and rage. Yet you seem so in control.” She watched Serana intently, it wasn’t control that sparked her interest as much as the grace that seemed to be the only way she was capable of moving. Elena’s lips quirked up in a soft smile at the small wind that joined them, swirling gently.

Serana nodded joining her on the ground, further back into the hut. Elena wondered how her eyes glowed so bright even in the half-light she sat in. “It can be that way, especially if you are turned by a common vampire. It’s like the power and control dilutes the further it gets from the source.”

“Like blood in a stream.” Serana nodded. Elena leaned back against the wall and let her eyes fall shut. “I am going to take a chance to catch some sleep. Wake me when the sun begins to set?”

“Will do.” All the time home at Proudspire had left her road weary in no time. And right before sleep claimed her, she felt the softness of her cloak settle against her, a gentle touch against her forehead. “Sleep well.”

Chapter 12

Elena leaned out over the Dragon Bridge before turning her grin on Serana. “Best views in Skyrim.”

Serana shook her head. “You are going to fall over the side.” Her grin only widened, and she hopped up on the narrow ledge, shading her eyes against the sun. Serana’s heart felt ready to explode from her chest and before she could hiss at her, Elena’s hand steadied herself on the bridge.

“There’s a cart just the other side.” It was toppled over; she could almost make out a fallen horse and it filled her with icy dread and irritation.

Forgetting her fear, Serana joined Elena, peering around her knee to follow her point. “The Moth Priest?”

With a nimble hop backward Elena was back on the bridge beside her. “I hope not, it looked like a bandit attack.”

The ruined cart and corpses were quick enough to sort through, easier still to tell the guards that had been accompanying the moth priest from the vampires that had been sent to retrieve him. Elena led them, following the path of blood across the land to a cave. Serana settled into Elena’s silent shadow as they traversed it, coming finally to the circular chamber where the moth priest was being kept in a barrier.

“Malkus.” Serana hissed as the vampire began to speak. Elena felt a brow rise at the venom in her tone, but kept her gaze and arrow focused.

“The more you fight me, the more you will suffer, mortal.” The amusement in his voice begged for the priest to continue.

“I will resist you, monster. I must!”

Malkus laughed. “How much longer can you keep this up, Moth Priest? Your mind was strong, but you're exhausted from the struggle.”

“Must... resist...” Elena could hear his weakness from their hiding point and settled into breathing, waiting for a clear shot. A wounded target was more dangerous than a whole one if she didn’t strike true.

“Yes, I can feel your defenses crumbling. You want it to end. You want to give in to me. Now, acknowledge me as your master!” Her arrow caught him between the shoulder blades as the moth priest fell to his knees and Malkus fell scrabbling to the ground before another pierced his skull. His minions were easy enough to send off to oblivion while Serana released the moth priest from the barrier.

Elena approached him, ready to offer aid and reassurance but he launched himself, snarling at her. “I serve my master's will. But my master is dead, and his enemies will pay!” She swung, slamming her bow into the side of his head and he dropped back to his knees. He threw up his hands when she went to swing again. “Wait, stop! I yield!” She still held herself at ready, distrust in every taut muscle. “That...that wasn't me you were fighting. I could see through my eyes, but I could not control my actions. Thank you for breaking that foul vampire's hold over me.”

She nodded and extended a hand to help him to his feet. “You alright?”

“I'm quite alright, thanks to you.” He said with a relieved sigh. “Dexion Evicus is my name. I'm a Moth Priest of the White Gold Tower. These vampires claimed they had some purpose in store for me, but they wouldn't say what.” He shook his head and muttered. “Probably holding me for ransom, the fools.”

Elena shuffled a moment. “I know why they needed you, because I think we need you for the same purpose.”

“You do?” He eyed her a bit warily, Serana more so as she joined them. “Alright then, enough mysteries.”

“We,” she gestured to herself and Serana. “We need you to read an Elder Scroll, whatever is in it has to do with the vampires.”

“You have an Elder Scroll? Remarkable!” His face creased with joy. “I will be happy to assist you with your Elder Scroll. Just tell me where I need to go.”

Elena let out a relieved sigh. “Solitude.”

“Very well. I'll hurry on my way there before more of those vampires turn up.”

Elena chuckled. “We will meet you outside and travel together.” Dexion hurried from the cave without a backwards glance and she turned to Serana. “Are you alright?”

Serana smiled, it reached her eyes crinkling the corners and warming her whole face. Elena let out the breath she had been holding, only to find herself breathless. “We found our moth priest.”

Chapter 13

The basement of Proudspire manor was conspicuously clean, the alchemy table even lacked its customary bubbling brews. The girls had been herded to the Temple to stay with her parents, there had been whining complaints until Nana told them there were cookies in the kitchen. Elena looked about, eyes resting on Serana a moment longer than necessary and grinning when she caught her eye. “Is everything ready?”

“Oh, most certainly! Let's find out what secrets the scroll can tell.” Dexion gleefully replied. Serana handed it to him and Elena noticed how pale she had become, the slight tremor in her hands. Elena clenched her fists at her sides, leaving crescent moons in her palms as she fought the urge to reach out and take Serana’s hand before shrugging and reaching out anyway. Serana squeezed her fingers in return. 

“Now, if everyone will please be quiet, I must concentrate.” Dexion gave her a smile and opened the scroll and Elena felt the power in the room shift, the light was different, warmer and tangible. She was a bit surprised to find his voice unchanged when he began to speak again. “I see a vision before me, an image of a great bow. I know this weapon! It is Auriel's Bow! Now a voice whispers, saying "Among the night's children, a dread lord will rise. In an age of strife, when dragons return to the realm of men, darkness will mingle with light and the night and day will be as one." The voice fades and the words begin to shimmer and distort. But wait, there is more here. The secret of the bow's power is written elsewhere. I think there is more to the prophecy, recorded in other scrolls. Yes, I see them now... One contains the ancient secrets of the dragons, and the other speaks of the potency of ancient blood. My vision darkens, and I see no more.” He let the scroll close, handing it back to Serana, and a hand went to his head.  To know the complete prophecy, we must have the other two scrolls. I must rest now. The reading has made me weary.”

Elena stepped forward, wrapping an arm around him. “Come on, we’ve got a spot made up for you here, with more spacious accommodations at the temple.”

After getting Dexion settled in the guest quarters next to the alchemy room, Serana gently touched Elena’s arm. “Do you have a moment to talk?”

Elena nodded before pulling them into an alcove by the stairs, the gleam of the blades and axes on the wall flickering gently in the candlelight. “What is it?”

“He said we needed two other Elder Scrolls.” She was silent for a moment, chewing the inside of her lip in such a way Elena had to drag her eyes from them to stare at the wall over her shoulder. “I think I know where we can start looking.”

Elena gave her a wary look, brows furrowing enough to make her ears move. “Not with your father I am guessing. I don’t think you would have trusted him enough to go back if he did.”

Serana smiled a little. “Ever since he decided to make that prophecy his calling, we kind of drifted apart.”

Elena nodded solemnly, cupping an elbow with her palm. “Can you trust him at all?”

“It's not a question of trust, he's just obsessed with the prophecy.” Elena wanted to argue that point but was unsure if it was personal bias influenced by her dislike of him, or the protectiveness Serana inspired in her. She promptly pushed that thought away. “And from what I can tell, a thousand extra years of obsession haven't made him any better. He’s not going to be pleased that we know this, and I can only imagine how he will react if we find more of the Elder Scrolls.” Her voice dropped, half muttering to herself. “We should have found him a hobby.”

Elena bit back a snort before sobering again. She stuttered a moment when meeting Serana’s eyes. The color of topaz she decided but lit by the sun, she swallowed hard before speaking. “Do you think he cares for you anymore? Or is he too far gone into this prophecy to see anything else?”

She saw the grief and anger flash through Serana’s eyes. “You know, I've asked myself the same thing. I thought, I hoped that if he saw me, he might feel something again. But I guess I don't really factor in at this point.” She shrugged, staring at the floor now.

Elena’s hand fell gently on to Serana’s arm giving it a gentle squeeze. “I am sorry, Serana.” She nodded and Elena’s hand fell back to her sides before she did anything foolish. After a few silent heartbeats, Elena perked up forcefully. “So where is this Elder Scroll?”

“We need to find my mother, Valerica. She'll definitely know where it is, and if we're lucky, she actually has it herself.”

Elena stared at her quizzically. “You said you didn't know where she went.”

Serana nodded. “The last time I saw her, she said that she'd go somewhere safe, somewhere that my father would never search. Other than that, she wouldn't tell me anything. But the way she said it "someplace he'd never search." It was cryptic, yet she called attention to it.”

“Sounds like she was being cautious. I don’t blame her.”

 Serana shrugged, gaze focusing on Elena’s thumb that she drug across her lip repeatedly as she thought as she stared far and away. It was distracting. “Maybe. What I can't figure out is why she said it that way.” She let out a long sigh, before settling her back against the wall behind her, arms tightly crossed even as she purposefully settled against the roughest jut in the stonework. “Besides, I can't imagine a single place my father would avoid looking. And he's had all this time, too. Any ideas?”

Elena tapped her boot on the stone floor, she had stopped with her lip but now was rubbing a tense spot in her neck, neck arching into a long line, the steady flutter of her pulse all too loud in Serana’s ears. “Could she have locked herself away, like she did you?”

“I don't think so.” She said with a firm shake of her head. “She said she wanted to stay awake in case the situation was resolved. It had to be one of us, and, well, she's so much more powerful than I am.” She shrugged at the bemused look Elena shot her. “It just made sense for her to be out there.”

Elena pondered a moment, before an idea so absurd it would work popped into her head, straightening from where she was lounged against the wall. Serana’s breath caught a moment, Elena was tall, board shouldered, and very warm. “Castle Volkihar?”

Serana’s eyes widened, jolting her back into her brain. “Wait, that almost makes sense!” She began to pace, and Elena flattened herself against the wall to give her room. “There's a courtyard in the castle.” She shook her head, it made so much sense. “I used to help her tend a garden there. All of the ingredients for our potions came from there. She used to say that my father couldn't stand the place. Too peaceful.”

Elena huffed; she was not surprised. “The only problem is Harkon won’t just let us in and.” She grinned. “I am rather partial to living.”

Serana clapped her hands before halting in front of Elena, close enough she could hear the woman’s steady pulse perfectly clear and the brief hitch in her breath. “There's an unused inlet on the northern side of the island that was used by the previous owners to bring supplies into the castle. An old escape tunnel from the castle exits there.” Elena’s eyes watched her lips a moment before she drug them back up and both of them let out a ruffling breath. Serana took a half step back. “I think that's our way in.”

Elena gave her a bright grin that didn’t quite reach her now blanketed eyes. “Then let’s get going.” Yes, outside, the sooner the better.

A Warrior’s Heart Master List

[imaginethebeautifulworld]

nordes, axIs, allIes + prussaI, canananda, sapIn, roma- as craetures??s?

This will require a lot of research~ Let’s crack open some old tomes, light a candle, and conspire, shall we?

Allies:

America- Mimic. 

A creature able to change its shape to disguise its body as an inanimate object or another being. The concept was first introduced in Dungeons and Dragons in the 1970s, and it appealed to me for Al as America has a habit- the country as well as the character, of borrowing bits and pieces of other nations, and almost presenting as them on many an occasion. Similar to the doppelganger, but I don’t foresee Al trying to actually consume his targets, merely... Mimic them.

Canada- Ol’ Yellow Top.

Old Yellow Top is an alleged cryptid from Ontario, Canada. Allegedly, there have been sightings of this guy since 1906. Some have claimed that it could be a Sasquatch, apart from the distinctly golden mane on its head and the lightness of fur. I immediately thought of Mattie in this case- Just trying to live in the woods, mind his own business, get mistaken as a local cryptid. All in a day’s work, really.

China- Bai Zé.

An alleged mystical beast of Chinese legend. According to lore, the Bai Zé was encountered by the Yellow Emperor during a patrol. The Bai Ze gifted the Emperor with information on all 11,520 types of supernatural creatures in the world, and how to overcome their hauntings and attacks. The emperor had this information written down in a book called the Bái Zé Tú. Just thinking back to how many stories Yao's passed down to his younger siblings and the advice he has for the other nations- I felt this fit him very well.

England- Feyling.

A child born of both Fey and Human blood. Much like a Half-Fey, they have excellent charisma, and with practice and patience, eventually can successfully cast spells and incantations to overwhelm others, become seemingly invisible, and slip away from the law. These creatures are born with the ethereal beauty of the Fair Folk, but unfortunately, it also makes them a little aloof. And of course, I thought of England. It would make sense as to why he can see the Fey, and his strong connections to earth-based magicke.

France- Enfant de Melusine.

The legend of Melusine is reminiscent of a fairy bride. Melusine, vaguely similar to mermaids, had the lower half of a serpent, and the upper half of a human woman, though by some accounts, this metamorphisis only occurred once per week, some accounts by once per month. She was taken as a bride by a king, and gave birth to two sons. The legend gets further distorted- some claim that she was unable to stand the holy words of a Sunday sermon, others claim that her husband discovered her true nature- But the endgame was the same. She completed her transformation into a dragon, and fled. It is rumored that all French royals were descendents of her two sons, and that one can hear her crying for her children outside the castles to date. I feel France is definitely one of those lost, wandering children. It's in his tenancity, his resilience, and beneath his majestic beauty is a ferocity that nothing has been able to break.

Russia- Domovik.

Similar to the Brownie in Scottish folklore, the domovik is believed to protect the home from tragedy and disaster, including theives, disease, natural disasters, and evil spirits. Although he never attacks people, it has also earned the spite that falls to the common poltergeist. Rumour has it that he lives near the hearth, or perhaps behind the stove, so long as he is warm. I felt this fit Ivan; he is so desperate to help others, and he has a kind of quiet protectiveness.

Axis:

Germany- Kobold.

Kobolds are industrious small humanoid creatures, noted for their skill at building traps and preparing ambushes. As for what Ludvig may be trying to trap is anyone's guess, but combining his ingenuity with his skills in engineering and strategy, it fits him. They are also resilient as a concept, as throughout even modern history, German mythologists like Jakob Grimm (yes, from the Brothers Grimm) made many arguments that the story of the kobold dates all the way back to Rome, perhaps even before. The Church continued to tolerate the creature, and it was one of the small pieces of Germanic culture that hasn't been diluted throughout the ages. And that, to me, seems very much like something Ludvig would appreciate.

Japan- Kitsune.

Stories depict them as intelligent beings and as possessing magical abilities that increase with their age and wisdom. Some folktales speak of kitsune shape-shifting to trick others — as foxes in folklore often do — other stories portray them as guardians, friends, and lovers. Kiku downplays it frequently, but he is a devious little bastard, and it makes him all that better for keeping an eye out for his friends. And with all that age and wisdom he's obtained, I feel he's met all of the qualifications of the Kitsune.

Prussia- Vampyre.

Rather than provide a whole description of the lore on vampyres and all that wonderful blood-sucking stuff, I'm going to cut it short and give a few ideas why Gil would make a good vampyre. An isolationist longing for the simplicty of his earlier lives, relying on the energies of others to keep him young. Prussia needs to have exposure to that youthful energy, to new ideas, and soak it all up. Otherwise, he'll fade away into nothing but dust.

Romano- Werewolf.

I kind of dabbled on this before in one of my asks on Lovino headcanons, and it's a running theory I've been exploring for a while. In the supposed story of the founding of Rome, brothers Romulus and Remus were raised by wolves. Now, I had the thought of if they hadn't just been raised by wolves, but were, in fact, wolves traversing as human. And from there a long internal journey began of if Rome and eventually Romano were also part of that lineage. So anyway- Lovino is very territorial, devoted to his family, and has a deeper connection to the ancient roots than most people would think of him.

Spain- Ventolin.

NOT to be mistaken for albuterol! Ventolins are actually small wind sprites with majestic green wings. Legends depict that they will fly inland from the sea, bringing with them gentle rains and mists. They also help babies fall asleep with quiet, soft whispers, and bring with them the last goodbyes of those who died far from their homes. Spain in particular comes to mind, with his more peaceful nature, especially when it comes to children. Also, the thought of that man gently knocking on the front door with the last whispers of a loved one- It's a very soothing image to me. But mostly the sweet whisperings to quell the nightmares of a baby really stood out to me. It's Tonio; of course he's going to help out the little ones.

Veneziano- Merman.

If there's one thing I picked up while I was lost in the maze of a city that is Venice, it's that the city itself half belongs to the creatures below the waters, not just those of us above it. With deep canals filled with algaes and seaweed and centuries of mystery, it's all too easy to imagine that beautiful bastard's caramel eyes as he slowly swims nearer to the surface, charming young lads and lassies away from the dusty walkways, down the crumbling steps, and into the depths. He's got the charm, the mystery, the alluring smile and bright eyes that could make you want to sign your life away. Plus I mean- At this point, the poor boy probably actually is at least part fish.

Nordics:

Denmark- Draugr.

The Draugr are undead beings, but the rest of the lore gets very debateable. Some say that they guard their treasures in burial mounds. Others claim they haunt the oceans, and if seen are a harbringer of doom for any soul upon the waves. And yet another legend I encountered told of undead Viking armies, raised by necromancy, consuming all flesh in their wake, devouring every- Basically zombies, people. I feel like Mati would be a prime example of a ghost (or zombie) who is still around to fufill their purpose. His devotion to protect his family of Northern rapscallions has kind of become his only real dream now, and I believe it is so strong an emotion that it could essentially keep his spirit tied to the earth, with essentially the same skills he had before. Just- A lot more dead jokes. You thought the dad jokes were bad? Oh buddy-

Finland- Nisse.

Small creatures from Scandinavian folklore, Nisse live in houses and barns, secretly guarding the farmstead. If treated well, they protect the family and animals from evil, and sometimes even help with chores and farm work. In ancient times, it was believed the nisse were the first farmers. It wasn't until later in my research that I discovered that the Nisse are most commonly associated with the winter solstice, and can be seen in a lot of holiday decor; they look like little elves with white beards and either green or red clothing resembling the 17th century. Tino with his nurturing spirit, I feel, is perfect as a representative of these little guys.

Iceland- Fossegrimen.

The fossegrimen is a fiddle-playing water spirit who never wants to leave his waterfall. In lore, many travellers would stop and ask him for help in learning how to better their skill at the fiddle, and he would often gladly be of help. The cost was often just a nice meal with a good portion of meat. If travellers didn't meet the expectations, the fossegrimen would only teach their student how to tune the fiddle, but not how to play it. I thought of Emil immediately for the determined isolationism, the love of good music, and the easy going attitude of still offering help, even if the exchange wasn't quite what he expected.

Norway- Mage.

As much as I would love to explore a potential troll!Norway route, the reality that he is probably a well-rehearsed and extremely gifted magicke-user just refuses to leave me alone. Mages, unlike wizards, are not as timid about their abilities. He is absolutely out there wandering ruins and exploring foreign cities. He may be traveling alone, but he is learning plenty. I feel like at some point, Lukas probably also looked into necromancy, but that's a theory to explore when I'm a little less sleepy.

Sweden- Landvættir.

The Landvættir are land guardians, most specifically centered around farms or wild grounds. When approaching Vikings neared land, they allegedly removed the carved dragon heads from the bows of their ships, to avoid the risk of provoking the Landvættir and bringing bad luck. There wasn't very much lore on them that I could find, but from the little I did, I feel Berwald is exactly the kind of stoic guardian one must pass by quietly to safely explore a new world.

These were a lot of fun, Anon! I may do more research later into some of these concepts (may even try to find some pictures~), but for now it is late, and I thank you for the Halloween ask!

Merry Samhain!

Blessed be.

[theretreatcounselingcenter]

Big-T Trauma & Small-t Trauma

Blatant forms of trauma in the family include being subjected to and/or witnessing physical and sexual abuse is considered Big T Trauma. Trauma also occurs in more subtle forms — for example, living with fear on an ongoing basis, such as the fear of not knowing if or when a parent is coming home; or the fear that comes with listening to one’s parents argue night after night; or the fear of not being able to rely on a parent attending a significant event. This type of trauma is called small-t Trauma.To live with chronic fear during the vulnerable childhood and adolescent years — when one is developing beliefs about oneself and the world at large — is traumatic to emotional, psychological and spiritual development.

In addition to the more blatant forms of abuse, these children are often subjected to covert forms of sexual abuse; being called sexual names such as, “whore,” “slut,” or being asked if he or she got “laid” last night and then being laughed at in a humiliating tone; or being exposed to drunken nudity, which often reinforces negative statements to a child about his or her own body. All small-t Trauma.

It is living with ­broken promises, lying and unpredictability — not knowing what will happen next.

With this type of small-t trauma comes a myriad of feelings, such as:

Fear — of being with an under–the-influence driver; of divorce, or no divorce; that someone will get seriously hurt or die.

Sadness — for the parent not showing up; for what the parent said or didn’t say to the child.

Anger — for broken promises; for the message that the parent’s using is more important than the child; that the parent does not try to quit or is not able to quit.

Embarrassment — for outbursts in front of friends; for the unkempt appearance of the parent; for what the parent said or did in public.

Guilt — for thinking that they are responsible for their parents’ behavior; for having negative feelings for someone they are supposed to love.

Confusion — about why this is all happening and who is at fault.

How does trauma affect addiction?

Stress responses and trauma

There are three types of stress: positive, tolerable and toxic.

Positive stress is associated with moderate short-lived physiological responses, such as the stress that comes with meeting new people, handling frustration, coping with parental limit-setting, etc. Positive stress is an important and necessary aspect of healthy development.

Tolerable stress is associated with physiological responses that could actually disrupt brain architecture, but are relieved by supportive relationships, among other protective factors. These are stress situations such as the death or illness of a loved one; a frightening accident; or a natural disaster. Certainly, these types of experiences can have long-term consequences, and they often become traumatic, particularly when coinciding with toxic conditions in childhood, which are traumatic in and of themselves. However, such stresses are emotionally and mentally tolerable when they are time-limited and the child has access to supportive people to provide buffering protection.

Toxic stress, the most threatening, is associated with strong and prolonged activation of the body’s stress management systems in the absence of the buffering protection of support. Toxic stress emerges in the face of loss — conditions of extreme poverty; continuous family chaos; persistent emotional, physical and/or sexual abuse; chronic parental depression; persistent parental substance abuse or other manifestations of addiction; and ongoing emotional or physical neglect. Without the protective factors that allow children the space to disengage, they become trauma victims. Stereotypically, when we think of trauma, what comes to mind are public catastrophic events than can overwhelm an adult. What distinguishes childhood trauma from occurrences like combat stress is simply that the injuries occur to children. “Dear Lord, be good to me,” reads the epigram for the National Children’s Defense Fund. “The sea is so wide and my boat is so small.” A child’s personality and neurology — the little boat he or she must navigate in — are still developing.

When it is not safe psychologically or physically to be the person you are, to own your truth, and what you see and how you feel, then you move into various trauma responses — you fight, you flee or you freeze. Today we know the body cannot tell the difference between an emotional emergency and physical danger. When triggered, it will respond to either situation by pumping out stress chemicals designed to impel someone to flee to safety or stand and fight.

Trauma is an incident or occurrence that happens inexplicably or without warning. It is categorized as an over whelming life-changing experience. It is typically a physical and/or emotional shock to the very fiber of ones’ being.

Trauma presents an imbalance to our emotional or mental system that is far beyond the norm. Plane crash, automobile fatality, sudden or near death experience or major life alterations can all be considered traumatic whether experienced or witnessed. A person’s response can result in intense fear, helplessness or horror.

Though one may have a substance abuse issue before trauma strikes, trauma often paves the way from abuse to addiction.

Everyone has varying degrees of trauma in their life. Depending on the person and their ability to handle traumatic situations, these experiences can range from shock-wave shivers when re-living the incident to an almost out of body experience due to the lack of acceptance from the event.

Similar to depression, trauma can lead to self medication (prescription or otherwise) to numb the pain in an attempt to dilute the reality of the occurrence; which in turn can lead to dependency and/or addiction.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is a very real and professional diagnosis categorized under Anxiety Disorders. One has acute PTSD if the duration of symptoms is less than 3 months, and it becomes chronic if over 3 months.

Some of the emotional symptoms associated with PTSD are:

Avoiding conversations associated with the trauma and not dealing with or confronting emotions and feelings.

Avoiding certain people or places that may arouse memories of the incident.

Feeling detached or estranged from society and friends. Interests, hobbies or activities are considered unimportant and not worth any effort to reincorporate into their life.

Difficulty in having or continuing with intimate relationships. This is especially true if a sexual or physical violation upon the person is the reason for the trauma.

Some of the physical symptoms associated with PTSD are:

Difficulty relaxing, or sleeping soundly.

Easily agitated or irritable.

Mercurial behavior or mood swings

Concentration or commitment to a task is short lived.

Trauma should never be taken lightly, but especially if it involves a child. For a youngster, trauma can be anything from bathroom accidents at home or in school to being picked on for something that might catch the amusement of fellow classmates. It does not have to be of such magnitude as listed above, but to a child many events in their formative years become larger than life and therefore traumatic.

Parents frequently deny that their child has experienced any trauma, or they may down play its significance, or simply wish/believe the child is over it.

Regardless of child or adult, if these traumas are not dealt with in their infancy, it can result in unfinished business and could rear its ugly head later in life in the form of addictive behavior. Remember that self medication is an attempt to take away the pain can easily turn into addiction from wounds that turn into scars.

Most present day addiction therapists and researchers believe that trauma is at the root of most addictions. There are two basic types of trauma. The first is developmental trauma. This is where crucial developmental needs are not met or are thwarted so that crucial development does not happen, or happens in a skewed way.

Some examples of thwarted developmental needs include situations where a parent is too repressive, too critical, or too encouraging of an adolescence’s sexuality so that normal sexual development is interfered with and either does not happen, or happens in an unhealthy direction.

The second type of trauma is event trauma or shock trauma. One example of this kind of trauma is sexual abuse, which usually causes a state of traumatic shock within a person. This type of trauma can cause many problems — such as unhealthy sexual development, symptoms of unregulated emotions, or over stimulation of the nervous system to name a few.

This is why an addiction may come into play — because a person tries to use the addiction to “medicate” or handle the state of traumatic shock to better deal with the challenges of life, or move on with development that needs to happen.

When a person has developmental trauma the situation is somewhat different from shock trauma, but this kind of trauma can also lead to an addiction.

To illustrate this I will use an example of a person addicted to masturbation with pornography. A person could get into this type of addiction because their sexual development was derailed during adolescence and they turned to this type of sex at that time, instead of moving towards beginning to be sexual with other peers during adolescence.

Either type of trauma can interfere with healthy sexual development and can lead to sexual addictions (and/or other addictions) in an attempt to cope with the trauma and its symptoms.

The reality is that there is a closer link between addiction and trauma that is often overlooked.

The way I see it, there are at least 3 distinct stages to addiction:

What happens before drug use.

What happens once the drug use begins.

What happens once a person stops using.

Though we often like to pretend otherwise, trauma is a common part of the first stage.

How do we define trauma?

In this context, trauma is any event that affects a person in a way that can be seen to have caused a substantial, long term, psychological disturbance. The key to this way of looking at trauma is its subjective nature.

Things like divorce, bullying, rejection, or physical injury can all be considered traumatic if the subjective experience can be thought to conform to this definition. Anything counts as long as it leaves a painful emotional mark.

While we’re all pretty adapt at covering up such trauma, the emotional pain often needs to be soothed and a good way to soothe it is with drugs that make it temporarily go away. The first drink of alcohol, or hit of some other drug, will often take care of that.

The reality of early trauma and addiction

Some call the experience of covering up the pain of trauma with drugs “self-medication” (though the term also applies to other situations), some dislike the term, but I think the fact remains that often, emotional pain can begin a search that often leads to risky behaviors and drugs.

I’m nowhere near calling self-medication the only reason for drug abuse as some others do, but I think it’s an important factor and one that can’t be ignored. As the stigma of emotional pain, or emotional responding in general, is reduced, people’s ability to deal with such pain in a healthy way should lead to a reduction in seemingly helpful, but ultimately self-destructive behaviors.

The ignored reality about addiction is that it often has an origin in behavior and unfortunately, trauma is often that starting point.

There is a fairly common phenomenon where trauma can lead to addiction and addiction leads back to trauma.

A survivor of trauma is at a significantly greater risk of developing some type of addiction and the reverse is also true.

At The Retreat Counseling Center, all of our licensed therapists are specialized in treating trauma. Please contact us today if you’re looking for help overcoming your own trauma.