#ill get on after helping draft 3 more papers

[antariies]

how to build a chair........... director's cut ∠( ᐛ 」∠)__ this is about to be a very long very self-indulgent post where i just talk about my own writing. i also doodled on all the pages i think it makes the whole thing more fun to go thru. welcome to my ted talk

SIKE before i begin. credit where credit is due, this post was the start of it all. it changed my brain chemistry my jaw was dropped i was in awe i was obsessed and before i even finished it i knew that i would eventually have to make something similar for the commander or else i would be cursed to think about it for the rest of my life. and i Was cursed for like two years every day i would just be like........ is today the day i sit down and draft the commander chair fic of my dreams....... maybe tomorrow......

and then i got accepted as a writer for the gw2 zine ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ the chair idea was actually my backup option in case my first idea didn't pan out, and thank god it didn't, bc this one worked so much better. (still working on my initial idea, just turning it into a full fic! it was wayyy too long to be a zine submission.)

this is the chair i used. i downloaded the assembly instructions and tried out a bunch of different free pdf editors until i found one i liked, which ended up being sedja. if anyone's interested in doing something like this, i recommend printing out the pdf and writing directly on it! it was a lot easier for me to just figure out everything on paper first and then digitalize it after :P here's a picture of my physical copy

okay actually getting into it for real this time !!!!!

1. yeah i could've just erased the ikea logo and left a blank space but then i realized i could turn it into an in-universe joke. and then i ran with it.

2. i ripped this straight from the product description on the website. thanks ikea

3. i'm not sure if anyone went and looked it up, but it's a real item code!

hehe :3c

4. if your commander willingly goes to therapy i'm happy for them but TO ME? you'd have to drag the commander kicking and screaming. it's not that they don't know that something is wrong with them, they know, and they know YOU know. you're just never supposed to talk about it. they don't look at their own psych eval results bc that's none of their business.

5. i normally avoid specifying the commander's race when i write them bc i enjoy the challenge, but for the zine i was assigned to write about a norn commander! as a human main i was uhhhh very ill-equipped. but that just meant i had to study up on my norn lore (•̀ᴗ•́)و i spent hours on the wiki, then went around interviewing norn mains for their opinions, which was great fun :D it all helped me narrow the focus of my piece: joining the war on commander objectification on the side of commander objectification (ㅅ´ ˘ `)♡ and no one self-aggrandizes quite like the norn commander!

and to balance that i knew my narrator had to be patronizing as shitttt. they've clearly been following the commander since the beginning and seem to know a lot of intimate details about their life, despite not thinking very highly of them. wonder who that could be :3c

6. i can't stop making references. so the original part number is actually #122620 in the manual but i've changed it here (and on the previous page!) to #082812, as in 08/28/12, the date gw2 was released! no real reason for it, @dalennaugw suggested it for funsies and i liked it. if you're my pal and i show you a wip and you have a cool idea for it, chances are i Will put that shit in. hi dale if you're reading this

7. another thing about me. i loveeee repetition. here the word "over" is repeated four times to match the picture. honestly a lot of the creative process for this piece was just staring at the pages and figuring out how to tie the pictures to the commander in ways that weren't extremely corny or trite. idk why i enjoy writing like this when i could be frolicking in the beautiful prosaic meadows of a word doc instead but. it's like i see a tiny little restrictive box and i'm like OH BOY can't wait to think inside of that thing!!! i like when the format matters just as much as the content and in some cases informs the content. am i making any sense here. well all you need to know is that i'm a virgo and my favorite book is house of leaves

7. aw fuck just realized i wrote 7 twice. whatever i'm not changing it this is 7 part two now. the theme of my piece is glory, what it means to the norn commander, and how far they're willing to go for it.

8. does norn culture place emphasis on seeking individual glory Yes are norn also very community-oriented Also Yes. i think it's common to see norn kids napping together in a big pile, usually after they've worn themselves out playing games outside. it makes sense practically (apes together warm) and socially (pack bonding good) but that's just my hc. growing up i used to share a bed with my cousins all the time so it's normal to me.

a young, naive not-yet-commander, with no real combat experience, has no point of reference to compare a "blaze of glory" to. but the way everyone talks about it, it must be a good thing. a wonderful thing. a reward fit for a life well-fought and a legend hard-earned. so they imagine it must feel like falling asleep surrounded by the people they love, who love them in turn.

9. .........i was playing a lot of ace attorney when i wrote this page. i wish i was joking 👍🏼

10. ohhh shit the truth come OUT this whole chair thing was all a ploy just so i could write about the departing. again.

will i ever stop thinking about her. reply hazy, try again later.

11. out of all the pages, this one has the most emphasis on text placement, like comparing the enlarged picture of the screw to a sword, the numbers counting the screws, and "up up up" being arranged to mimic a wisp of smoke.

i also wanted to lean into the viking/norse mythology influences with my word choice.

12. more nods to norn culture. i didn't know they referred to the six human gods as "spirits of action" until i was doing the research for this piece :O

and the domain of the lost is called a hall of ghosts....... cause valhalla.....

13.

i'm sorry this so funnyyy. SAYS the guy who literally clawed their way back to life for a rematch.

me when i'm in a sore loser competition and my opponent is the COMMANDER!!!

14. arms as in "limbs" and also arms as in "armaments" :•]

15. haha get it because the picture makes it look like there are two mirrored speech bubbles while the text paints two opposing interpretations of the norn commander. one that's selfless and humble versus one that's selfish and vainglorious.

16. and the best part is IT DOESN'T MATTER which one is true bc at the end of the day no matter what their motivation, balthazar is dead by their hand. ofc i'm of the opinion that the most compelling interpretation of the commander is both, simultaneously. contradictions are good for the soul.

17. i could've name-dropped kas, the only person present that would do something like that, but i felt it was better to leave it ambiguous.

18. low-hanging fruit. the metaphor was so obvious here but i had to do it. for the culture

19. the alternate title for this piece was "THIS COULD BE GLORY". "how to build a chair" was only supposed to be a placeholder title til i figured out a better one, but the innocuousness of it grew on me. also i came up with the other one too late and had already advertised under the chair title lol

20. my first instinct was to end it with something more reassuring, like "what you have built so far is enough" but that would've been an ooc switch-up for a narrator who has been nothing but snide and detached this whole time. gotta stick to my guns

21.

obligatory chair joke as the last line. for realsies though it’s meant to be an earnest appeal to the commander to take a break, to have a seat, but it’s also a challenge. are they willing to lean on their friends? are the bonds they’ve forged strong enough to hold their weight? are they willing to put their faith in someone else’s hands? are they brave enough to try? well. only one way to find out.

also guess what that wasn’t even the real last page of the manual. it's THIS

but no way i was letting this be the image we ended on. IT LOOKS LIKE A DICK AND BALLS!!!

and on that note, THANK YOU if you made it this far!! a very special shout-out to @hawkepockets, my lovely boyfriend and beta reader, without whom this piece would not be nearly as polished. i would bring him pages to look over and he would say Scrap half of those lines you can do better than that. kill your darlings. i would complain and argue for a few minutes then we would revise. rinse and repeat until we had honed this thing to perfection. i can't stress enough the importance of having a second pair of eyes on your work throughout your creative process, even better if it's someone who challenges you. i don't even pay him 🫶🏼

and if there was anything i didn't cover that you still have questions about, please feel free to shoot me an ask! (ㅅ´ ˘ `)♡ thanks for reading! see u later dudes ;P

[chososdiscordkitten]

PLEASE GIVE ME SMUT WRUTING TIPS..GOJO BREEDING KINK MADE ME WANT TO WRITE SOMETHING FOR MYSELF. (EVEVN IF U DONT LIKE GS BREEDING KINK, ITS ONE OF UR BWSTS) PLEASE GIVE ME DIALOGUE WRITING HELP. HELPPPPP DONT LEAVE ME HELPLESS

UHHHH smut writing tips... hmmm. (yapping below the cut)

this may sound very wrong and not pc BUT, ive been reading smut for years. Since I was like 10, ive read countless different writing styles, and millions of words of pure filth.

And as I read them I developed a taste of what I like and don't like- I write in a way as though I am reading to the reader- you/your/yours, because I don't like y/n or I don't like using third person pov nor first person.

What I do- is I think of the scene, picture it and if I can't get a body part- or a hand placement correct, I go look at porn videos or hentai- whatever. Not because i derive like arousal from it- but I truly use it as a form of studying. (im asexual)

I also use shows, movies and songs for inspo- certain lyrics I can picture on x character I write down.

I find it helpful to use a physical notebook for my ideas, there are times I don't have access to my computer so actual paper helps.

And as for dialogue, I try to keep a mix of x characters physical state while they speak, an example;

("blah blah blah" she said, and he said "blah blah" and then-) ive never liked this specific kind of writing so I include the way their eyebrows furrow- or the way their nose crinkles after saying something.

with smut I think its helpful for the reader to picture the way x characters face churns, a trembling bottom lip, dilated pupils, it helps make everything seem more intimate and inclusive for the reader.

And when it comes to describing the way something feels- if its something small like a trailing touch- I take a second and do what im writing about onto myself-

example; if im writing about a gripping hand on a hip- ill press the tips of my fingers onto my thigh to see the way the skin indents and how it feels? (embarrassing)

One thing ive learned- just because you write it with a specific image in mind- doesn't mean people will be able to see it the way you do unless you provide details.

usually when im doing laundry or at work a specific sentence pops into my head that id picture x character saying.

Let's use gojo for example, in my head when I think of his dialogue I think of playful, sweet, but with kinda mean undertones. Because in the anime/manga he keeps a playful tone while saying some very mean things.

once ive finished a very rough first draft- I spell check everything and read it outloud to myself- I say the dialogue in the tone I pictured while writing to be sure it sounds correct. and if it doesn't I brainstorm different phrases or words. (use of different words is soo important.)

And once ive corrected any words that don't fit together- or changing certain things that make me squint- I feed it into Siri nd have it read it to me outloud while I follow the sentences.

I do this 3-4 times till the whole thing sounds correct and how I mean for it to be read.

And I do one final skim once I paste the story onto Tumblr.

it's a tedious process, I know, there's times where im on my 4th reread and it seems boring or uninteresting- but only because ive reread it a million times and combed through it carefully.

There are times where I think my writing sucks because it seems over processed it and it's not entertaining- but!!! I proceed regardless.

And remember- you shouldn't write for the likes of other people, write for yourself and to your likings.

The masses shouldn't tell you what you should enjoy writing, pls don't take this as rules or as like a demanding thing- this is just my personal experience and the way I like to do things.

Writing should be a fun hobby and something you do to get the filth out of your mind, nd im not a very big writer on here, so don't listen to me too much

thank u for the question :>>> (I know how it feels to reach out for some help anon, im happy you enjoy my writing enough to ask me this, ily)

[strangelysamantha]

shark bite ☆

rafe cameron x fem!reader.

warnings: blood, injury, mentions of sharks, being bit by a shark, and swearing.

words: 1,018.

summary: what was once a fun day on the beach filled with surfing, quickly became a bloody and painful nightmare.

request? no.

a/n: hi hi hi this is my worst nightmare! haha, in all seriousness i could actually never go through all of that. like and comment if you enjoyed this story, and please send in some requests, ill be running out of ideas soon (after i finish my drafts/ half written stories)!! more stories out tonight. <3

my masterlist

——————————————————————————

“one more wave! please, and then we can leave!” you begged rafe, who was already done with surfing. “okay, fine!” he laughs, standing in the sand, “but i’m staying here.” you run into the water. you look up at him, sending a smile out to him, and waving. you lift yourself on the surfboard, preparing for the next wave. you sit down deciding you weren’t far out enough, so you start paddling deeper into the ocean. your legs dangle into the warm water, the sun blinding you slightly.

you close your eyes, content with your life at this moment. when you open your eyes, a wave hits you, harder than the earlier ones. the wave causes you to fly off your board, submerging entirely under the water. you thrash under the water, trying to swim to shore. a sharp pain pulses from your foot, to your calf. the pain prickles your skin, making it harder to make it to the surface.

rafe looks up, seeing your lonely board unattended to. his eyes scout the ocean, looking for you. he begins to panic when he can’t find you, he instead finds an area where the water is a darker red. he rushes into the water, swimming to the red-stained water. he screams your name, his heart racing. he glances over and sees your arm extend out the water, and he frantically swims towards you. relief washes over him when he realizes you were too far from the bloody spot, meaning you couldn’t have gotten hurt.

he grabs you, helping you to the shore, he sets you down, immediately attending to your face. you cough up water, gasping slightly. “fuck!” you scream out, the air hitting your open wound. he jumps forward, grabbing your arm. “WHAT?!” he questions you, and you quickly shake your head. “rafe! please!” you reach to your left leg, tears falling from your eyes. his eyes glance down to your leg, startled and upset he hadn’t noticed it before.

“holy shit! you got bit!” he stumbles back, anxiety taking over. “rafe i need to go to the hospital.” you whine, the pain in your leg only getting worse. he nods, “okay, okay. holy shit.” he leaps to his feet, immediately reaching down to lift you. his arm wraps around your waist, the other grabbing your hand that was tightened around his neck. you limp forward, your body depending on him for support.

he carefully carries you to his car, setting you up in the backseat. he rushes to the front seat, grabbing his phone. he dials the hospital, explaining to them what was happening. the ambulance was on it’s way. your foot hurt so bad, all you wanted was to be able to take the pain away. “rafe,” you whisper slightly, your tone causing his heart to drop. “yes?” he couldn’t look at your leg, it was making him nauseous. “it hurts so bad.” you reach for his arm, grasping it tightly. “i know, i know.” he frowns at you, “help is on the way, just stay awake. please stay awake.”

you groan but nod your head slightly. he whispers to you, but you aren’t fully listening. the sounds of sirens finally fill your ears, making you smile softly. “okay, you’re okay.” he was rubbing your thigh, glancing around to see where the ambulance was.

the ambulance pulled up to rafe’s car, the doctors immediately going by your side. they carry you to the bed, swiftly positioning you into the back. rafe shuts his car door before locking it, immediately joining you in the back of the ambulance. the sight of you made his heartache, he decided to look out the window, averting his eye contact.

the nurses murmur to themselves while they quickly clean the bite mark. you arrive at the hospital and they rush you inside. rafe stayed in the waiting room. he stayed still and silent for the most part, but as time went by, and the longer it took, he began to pace and become anxious. the image of your mutilated leg still clouded his mind.

after what felt like forever to rafe, he was finally called back to your room. “rafe.” you called out to him, confused by how awkward he looked when he stood in your doorway. he frowned, “hey, baby.” you gesture for him to come closer and he silently obeys.

“rafe, i’m surprised you are still here.” you glance away from him, your eyes going to the annoying and repetitive beeping monitor. when you look back at him he looks shocked. “of course i’m still here. i wouldn’t leave you.” you nod, smiling softly. the doctor walked inside, his head engulfed into a large packet of paper.

“you are a champ.” the doctor stared at you, smirking. the confused look on your face makes him laugh. “you survived a shark attack. that’s a big deal.” you nod, “what’s the damage?” he stares at you, thinking about your question. “you’ll survive. you called us just in time. luckily, the shark only nipped your calf, somehow it avoided the bone.” rafe smiles at the doctor's words.

“while you are okay, you need to take it easy. you need to recover.” the doctor's earlier playful manner quickly turned serious. you reassured him, “i will.” the doctor informed you and rafe about your future limitations, and then left you two. you were free to go home.

“my shark survivor.” rafe stated, while he helped you put your shoes on. “ew rafe!” you playfully punch his shoulder, “don’t ever call me that.” he shakes his head, grinning. “it has a nice ring to it.” you scoff, “says who?” you asked him. “me, i declare that.” you roll your eyes, “okay, fine. can we go home now?” he nods. you suddenly break into a fit of laughter, the whole situation finally hitting you. “i almost died.” rafe frowns at your words, “yes, that is true. but you are okay! that’s why we call you the shark survivor.” you sigh in defeat, “fine, it does sound kinda cool.” rafe smirks, “exactly, because i came up with it.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Frailty, thy name is woman! {1}

Warnings: noncon sexual acts and rape, masturbation, mentions of miscarriage, depression, and suicide.

This is dark!doctor!Steve Rogers and soft!Peter Parker and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You have an illness that can’t be seen or named. Doctor Rogers is your last chance at a cure as your loving husband tries to rediscover the woman he married.

Inspired by this ask

Note: So this went a little long and I split it into 2 but you can just pretend it’s a one shot lol. It’s set in the 1900s so keep that in mind! I hope you all like it.

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

Another cold morning. It started like any other. You woke in the bed, wrapped in the same woolen blanket, in the same dress you’d been wearing for more than a week.  In the same spot you hadn’t left for nearly as long. You didn’t have the strength to do anything but wallow, trapped in another episode of melancholy.

You wanted to be normal, you wanted to be happy, you wanted to get up and go tell your husband to stop messing around in the kitchen so you could do your work. So you could be the wife you were supposed to be. But that desire could not fill the endless pit you felt deep in your chest.

You listened to the clink of heavy dishes and the bubbling of water over the hissing gas burner. Peter moved around in a series of groans and creaks from the floorboards. You pulled the blanket tighter, sickened by your own odor, and sniffed. You wouldn’t cry again, you couldn’t. You always felt as if the tears would fall at any moment but they never came. You just laid there, staring at the wall, curled up against the drafts that blew through the rattling window panes.

You heard the hinges and winced. Worse than letting down your husband was looking in his face and seeing it. He came around your side of the bed and sat on the edge, just against your stomach. He set down a bowl on the boxy night table, steam curling from its brim as he set a spoon against the side and clinked a cup down next to it.

You turned your face into the pillow and he touched your shoulder as he turned and bent his leg up on the mattress. He rubbed your arm gently but you felt nothing. You shivered and knotted your fingers together.

“Hey, you need to eat,” he coaxed, “please.”

You grumbled and shook your head. “I’m not hungry.”

“You said that last night,” he ran his knuckles over your cheek and bent over you, “you haven’t eaten in two days, dear.”

“I don’t care,” you pouted into the feather pillow.

“Well, I do,” he stretched his fingers over your head and rubbed your cheekbone with his thumb, “I care about you, dear. Even after everything that’s happened.”

“Why?” you asked weakly.

“Because I will always care for you. I love you, you’re my wife and we will get through this together, so please, sit up and eat for me.” His voice was brittle and threatened to shatter in the air. Your heart squeezed and you rolled onto your back. 

You looked at him grimly, “I’m sorry.”

“No, you don’t need to be sorry,” he pulled open the blanket and hooked his arms under yours to pull you up. He sat you against the metal headboard and took the bowl. “Just eat. I put some cinnamon in the porridge, just like you prefer, and milk in the tea. I promise, it’s not sour this time.”

You accepted the hot bowl and nestled it in your lap. You stared at the oats and wiggled your nose. “I… you shouldn’t do all this. You shouldn’t have to,” you held the bowl with your legs and covered your face, “I want to do it all so badly but--” you blinked away the tears and wiped your cheeks as you dropped your hands back to the dish, “I’m so sorry.”

“I know you want to,” he grabbed the spoon and scooped up some oats, “and I want to help you do that but I can’t unless you help me.”

You let him feed you a mouthful. Just like everything else, it was bland, you barely even felt the heat.

“I’m trying--”

He hushed you and fed you some more. He focused on the task until the bowl was empty and your stomach felt painfully heavy. He placed the bowl back beside the porcelain and handed you the tea.

“I need you to listen to me, dear,” he said, “please and understand this is for your own good. To help you be the wife you once were.”

You held the cup with both hands and watched him over the brim. You gulped. Would he send you to one of those sanitariums where women never came back the same, if at all?

“Please, don’t send me away. You can’t! Please,” you begged and nearly spilled the tea.

“No, no, I… couldn’t,” he touched your elbow gently, “but I’ve been asking around and I’ve found a physician.”

“A physician? Oh, Peter, the last one laughed me out of the room,” you moped, “and the one before him yelled at me so horribly. I cannot do it again.”

“I know, I know,” he played with a fold along his sleeve, “but this one specialises in women’s issues. I’ve heard positive things about him and I think you should talk to him.”

“I don’t know,” you sipped the tea, it was acidic but thin.

Peter was silent as he hung his head. He grasped his knees and his jaw ticked. He heaved and closed his eyes. “I can’t let you die in here. I can’t--” his voice cracked, “please, just try this for me, dear.” He opened his eyes and looked at you, his warm brown irises were desperate, “It would kill me too.”

You lowered your chin and peered into the mug, errant leaves floating in the tea. You exhaled and gulped.

“I’ve made the appointment for noon.”

“I… I’m unready. My hair, my dress… I am unbathed.”

“You have time and I will help you,” he ran his hand up your leg smoothly, “and if you want me in the office with you, I will be there, and if you want me away, I will go.”

You thought and took another drink. You leaned back on the whiny headboard and blinked at Peter. 

“You really think he can help me?”

“I’ve got to hope. It’s all I got,” he said as he opened his hands helplessly, “I believe in you. You’re still the woman I fell in love with.”

🩺

Peter helped you wash and dress. You picked the grey dress with the buttons down the front and the straight sleeves. You hid your hair under a black hat and teetered on the low heels of your boots. You felt like an imposter, like anyone could see through your disguise to the horrid creature beneath.

He drove you uptown in the one-horse buggy and the old steed moved slowly through the mud and cobbles. 

You felt a sudden storm of guilt as he drew up to the brick front of the office and tied up the horse. He did everything, he worked at the laboratory as an lowly assistant, expected only to dispose of the refuse and wipe the countertops, then came home and did your chores for you. He worked hard for the little money you had and now he was spending it on another doctor to fix your irreparable mind.

He helped you out of the buggy with his hand on yours and you pulled your short cape closer as you huddled down against the collar. He led you to the front door of the shared offices and up the three flights to the door marked ‘Dr. Steven Rogers, physician’. 

You wrung your hands as you entered and glanced around as Peter gave your name and the time of your appointment. You were surprised to find that your husband was the only male in the room. He led you to a bench and sat with you, his hand on your arm as he comforted your doubts.

You listened as names were called and after more than an hour, yours finally rose from the nurse’s lips. You stood as Peter did too. “Do you want me here or with you?” he asked.

“I…” your heart raced as you looked between him and the nurse, “I suppose I should do it myself.”

“I’ll be out here. You send for me if you need,” he squeezed your hand one last time and watched you go.

The nurse smiled at you but you couldn’t return the gesture. You were terrified. You had seen so many doctors and each one gave the same answers; there was nothing wrong with you, you were only lazy, you were conjuring it all in your head, you were just another woman without sense.

You were shown into the sterile room and the nurse left your chart on the desk. You stepped up the stool and sat on the metal examination table covered in pure white linen. You waited in suspense, arguing with yourself not to flee and go back to your blanket and bed. When a knock came, you squeaked and the door opened slowly.

A man peeked inside cautiously and cleared his throat as he spotted you. “I’m coming in, miss.”

You nodded and he entered, the door clicking behind him. He greeted you with a handshake and read your name off the chart as he gave his own; Dr. Steven Rogers. He sat on the tall stool by the desk and looked at you. 

His blond hair was as neat as his suit and his blue eyes were penetrating but placid. His white jacket hung from his broad shoulders and a stethoscope rounded his neck as his posture put him above most.

“You can sit on the sofa if your are more comfortable,” he gestured to the leather seat along the opposite wall, “this is just an introductory appointment, I won’t be doing any examinations.”

You pursed your lips and shifted off the table. You went to the sofa and sat, your leg shaking wildly as you tried to still it with your hand. He smiled patiently and dipped his pen in the well.

“So, we will start easy, how old are you?”

Your eyes rounded. You sputtered before you got the answer out and he nodded and scribbled on the paper. He went down a list; an previous health issues, height, weight, current prescriptions. When he finished he set aside the folder and looked at you fully.

“That’s all just formality and I don’t like my patients to feel like they’re being interrogated so we’re just going to talk. Would you like some water?”

“No, no, I’m…” you smoothed a wrinkle in your dull skirt and stared at your lap. 

“You need a moment?” he dipped his head as he tried to catch your eye, “take a breath, I know it’s a lot.”

“No, I’m just… pathetic.” you murmured.

“Now, we don’t talk like that in this office,” he girded, “so why don’t you tell me why you’re really here?”

You sucked in a breath and your hands crawled over your skirts nervously, skittering like spiders. You could feel the dread rising and the air was thick in your lungs. You began to pant in shallow breaths and gripped the arm of the couch.

“Ma’am, ma’am,” he stood slowly and neared you, “may I sit with you?”

“Oh, oh, oh,” you moaned as you began to shake, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” you wetted your dry lips with your tongue, “yes, doctor.”

He lowered himself lightly onto the cushion. He leaned forward and looked you in your face as you tried to hide from him and struggled to breathe. “I’m going to count and you breathe in time; one, two…”

You focused on the numbers and rocked back and forth until your heart slowed and your gasps petered out. He stopped his count and sat up. He stayed where he was, his hand on his thigh as you felt his gaze on you.

“So, what has been happening in your life, ma’am?” he asked.

“I’m sure my husband--”

“No, I don’t speak with husbands, I want to hear from the women themselves. You see I run a practice for women and their troubles and I cannot treat these troubles if they come from the lips of men. So you explain, in your own way, in your own time.”

You raised your shoulders and exhaled. You folded your hands and nodded. You tried to sort through all your thoughts, the blurred days, and the frightening nights.

“Today is the first I’ve left my bed in more than a week. It’s not the first time, either. It keeps happening and… I just don’t know why,” you’re voice quivered as you shrunk down in shame.

You waited in silence. You peeked over at him as you expected him to speak.

“Go on, just pretend as if you were speaking to yourself. No one else is here, you’re just going through your thoughts aloud. Sometimes when we hear them, they are clearer to us.”

“I don’t understand--” you clapped your hands.

“Close your eyes and keep talking.”

You swallowed and let your lids shut. The room disappeared and you mustered your voice. You didn’t know where to begin. So you went back to the day you married Peter. From the wedding day, to the first episode, the second, the third, you gave a brief map of the three years you’d been together. Then you braced yourself for it, the “I don’t know” and “nothing’s wrong”.

“Hmm,” he stood and you opened your eyes. He paced to the other side of the room and leaned against the table. “That’s not everything. You… have to be honest with yourself. This isn’t about me and what I think, it’s about you. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me everything.”

“I don’t know what else to tell you,” you gulped.

He nodded and crossed his arms. He dropped them when he saw you frown and resumed his seat on the stool. He sat straight and watched you but held no anger or malintent in his gaze.

“Alright, then we shall go through some questions and answers. Many of my patients find a dialogue more helpful,” he said. “Now, I might ask some personal questions but remember that your answers do not go beyond these walls.”

You bit into your bottom lip and hummed your agreement. He clicked his tongue and smiled again.

“You said you’ve been married for three years, thereabouts, so when was the last time you were close with your husband?”

“Close?” you stammered.

“Intimate,” he prodded.

“Uhhh,” you squirmed and looked away.

“You are married, there is no shame in it. So?”

“Months,” you confessed, “I don’t know how many. And it isn’t as if he doesn’t try but I can’t.”

“Mhmm, and you said you have no children?”

You tensed and couldn’t answer. Your heart sank and you bent over as you hugged yourself.

“You… you’ve lost a child?” he asked softly.

You nodded and batted away tears with your lashes. You shook and grunted in frustration. You stood suddenly and stomped your foot.

“I need to go,” you hissed as you marched to the door.

Doctor Rogers was quick and held the door closed before you could reach it.

“Did he know?” he asked.

You sneered and shook your head.

“Just one?”

You trembled and tried to push his arm down. “I can’t--”

“Hey,” he grabbed your shoulders and edged you back from the door, “I’m trying to help you. You’re here to repair yourself and your marriage, you need to try and it won’t be easy but it would be worse to wallow in all that grief alone.”

“Please, Dr. Rogers, I have to--” you shoved on his arms as you sobbed, “I… I… he is my husband and I can’t give him the most precious thing he ever wanted. I can’t make him happy no matter how I try. It would be a gift if I were to die in that bed. He would be free--”

“No,” he said sharply and guided you backward, “we don’t speak like that.” He sat you down and knelt to look in your eyes, “you don’t speak to yourself like that.”

He sighed and dropped his hands to yours. He held them gently as you sniffed back the tears and hid behind the brim of your hat.

“When was the last?” he asked cautiously.

“I lost it a month and a half back. I abstained from my marital bed in hopes it might survive,” you quavered, “It did not.”

“Is there pain?”

“Now?”

“Yes?”

“At times, but in my soul,” you said.

He let you go and stood, “and how do you sleep?”

“Not much. I cannot. I only lay and stare and wish.”

“Mm, well, I have some things for you to do but they are easy and I do not want you to stress yourself. If you cannot do all, then some.” He sat on his stool again and picked up a small pad. “I will prescribe you a medicine you can put in your tea, it will aid in your sleep and that it the foundation of healing. Then, there are only small things; when your husband comes to you, affectionately, you will let him kiss you, just on the cheek if you wish, but if he cares as you say, you will let him.”

You listened and fidgeted as he spoke.

“And you will do things for yourself and for your children. If you feel like you can make a dinner, do so, if not, you will take a journal and write. These words are only for your. You will write about those you’ve lost so that they may rest and you will too. For every chore you cannot complete, you will write one sentence, or one page, or as many as you need to.”

“What do I write?”

“Whatever you think. Whatever weighs on your heart at that moment. And you will come back to me in two weeks to go over all you’ve done and I have faith that you will make great progress.”

He stood and tore free a page. He neared and held it out to you. “Take this to the apothecary and they will fill it. One drop in your tea, two if it is an especially bad night.”

You took it and rose. You folded it and tucked it into your handbag. You looked up at him and adjusted your cape.

“I’m sorry, doctor, I will try.”

“You will start by not apologizing for yourself. You have a right to feel and be. And try is all I ask.”

He smiled and turned to stride across the office. He opened the door and bent his head. 

“Now, I hope a peaceful day awaits you and don’t forget, two weeks. You will make an appointment at the desk before you go.”

🩺

The drive through the city was quiet as Peter watched you worried from the corner of his eye. He didn’t dare to ask how it went as you hadn’t yet said a word but to tell him to stop at the pharmacy. With the vial in hand, he took your home and sat you at the table as he made another pot of tea.

He sat with you and sipped his own cup as you stared at the reddish brown brew. You lifted the vial and read the hand-written label. It was too early to sleep. You put it down and looked at Peter.

“It was… not bad,” you said slowly.

He perked up and sat forward on his chair. “Was he nice?”

“Very nice,” you felt the hot porcelain, “he listened.”

“And the medicine?” he looked at the vial.

“For sleep.”

“That’s good,” he uttered nervously, “you’re going back, right, dear?”

“Yes, two weeks,” you said, “I hope. I…” you looked at him glumly, “I’m going to try. I want to try.”

“I know,” he reached across the table and took your hand, “and I can help. I only want to help.”

You nodded and squeezed his hand. It was rough against your dry skin. You felt as if your body was falling apart from neglect. Your nails were peeling and cracked at the tips. You turned his hand so you did not have to see them.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

You lifted your head and searched his face. You tried to smile but it was small. 

“Please,” you whispered.

He came around and bent to kiss your forehead, then your cheek. You stood and shyly looped your arms around him. He held you tentatively and as you leaned into him, he relaxed. You were relieved to find the warmth was still there.

🩺

That night, Peter put you to bed and laid beside you. You wore a proper nightgown and the tincture dragged you down in a deep dreamless slumber. When you woke, you didn’t want to get out of bed but if you stayed, you’d feel worse. You dressed and Peter didn’t hide his joy as he readied for a day at the lab.

You ate together, more porridge and he left you with another kiss. When he was gone, you stared at the wall. You took the dishes and boiled water to wash them in the basin. There were only a few so your work was easy. You thought of wiping down the stove but once more felt the lethargic weight on your chest.

So you went to the bedroom and dug out the old recipe book your mother bought you as a wedding present. You hadn’t used it so the pages remained blank but for a single list of ingredients for stuffed duck. You tore out that page and wrote the date on the next.

You sat at the vanity you never used. Peter bought it after your first episode, thinking it might help you to have the mirror and place to store your toiletries. You held open the pages and dipped the pen into the shallow well. Most of the ink had dried up. You made a blotch on the paper as you tried to think of what to write.

You stayed like that and inked the pen again. Then you wrote the name. The name of the daughter you lost. Peter didn’t know that name and you never dared to speak it. She was the first one, at least, you wanted it to be a girl. You wrote that you wanted her to have Peter’s eyes and his sweetness. You wrote about him holding her and smiling down at her. Then, you shut the book and dropped the pen.

You began to sob and leaned on the vanity. You let out horrible, draining wails. You quaked until you had no strength left. You stood and watched your feet as you went to the bed and fell onto it. It hurt so much.

🩺

You tried to follow Dr. Rogers advice, tried to keep to your chores and your writing, but your renewed vigour faded by your next appointment. That morning wasn’t as hard as the first but Peter had to convince you to leave the house. He couldn’t wait for you as he was due at the lab but he gave you coin for your ride back..

You sat in the hushed waiting room and stared at the wall. The other women chatted with their neighbour or read the penny weekly’s left out for the patients. You rubbed your gloved hands together and counted your breaths. You felt that tidal again, the rising wave of nerves rising within.

When your name was called, you were taken to the same room and the same chart was left on the desk. You sat on the sofa but your restlessness had you back up on your feet and pacing. When the door opened again, you turned and stopped as Dr. Rogers entered with a knock.

“Hello, again,” he offered another stiff handshake and you accepted it meekly as you crossed the room, “and how are you this morning?”

You let out a breath and shrugged, “well as I can be.”

“Please, sit, and we can go over the last two weeks,” he waved to the leather bench and sat on his stool. He ignored the chart as he slung one leg over the other. He waited for you to lower yourself onto the couch and watched your hands you wrung them, “would you like some water? A tea?”

“No, thank you, Doctor,” you tapped your heels nervously.

“You’re anxious,” he said. You nodded and he did the same, “why? Did our last appointment go so poorly?”

You shook your head and stilled your fingers, “I don’t know why I am alight, but I am.”

“Mhmm,” he tapped his fingertips on the desk as he leaned his arm against it, “and your home life, has it changed at all?”

“I… I try to do more but it’s difficult,” you admitted, “I get so overwhelmed.”

“Have you written at all?”

“Some but… it makes me sad,” you explained as you folded a wrinkle in your skirt, “I find myself as I was, in bed with a hole in my heart.”

He considered and scratched his chin, his clean shave smooth beneath his fingers. “Your husband, he is… affectionate?” When you affirmed the question, he continued, “and you have made yourself open to him?”

“Kiss, hand-holding, embraces, but… I cannot…” you squirmed, “I cannot even make him feel as my husband.”

“You have a lot of emotions but speaking of them makes you uncomfortable, doesn’t it?” he uncrossed his legs and sat up straight.

“They feel like excuses, like a delusion I’ve made up to escape my life,” you stared at the floor, “like I’ve lied not only to myself but the man I love.”

“You’ve seen other physicians for your maladies?”

“Several, yes.”

“And what did they tell you?”

“They told me I was healthy and that my emotions were of my own failure,” you poked your palm with your nail, “and I couldn’t claim they were wrong for I don’t know myself.”

“Do you take exercise?” he asked.

“Not often, not anymore,” you replied evasively.

“You go out in the sun? Open the windows?”

“No,” you muttered, “no…”

“I would suggest thought it is with your own will to take it that you leave the house once a day, for a few minutes, for an hour, whatever you can do, and just walk. You don’t have to go anywhere but I want you to see the sun and keep your blood moving.” he stood and cleared his throat, “perhaps you cannot see it or you will not accept it, but you are doing well. You’ve made progress. If I am being quite honest, I did not expect a second visit and that in itself is a feat.”

You pressed your lips together and shifted. He went to the end of the examination table and looked you over.

“Now, as this is our second visit and we’ve gone over the basics, it is my usual practice to administer a physical exam but if your are unprepared, we can delay it until your third appointment,” he said cautiously, “but as you’ve disclosed your difficulties with conception, I do think it pertinent that I rule out any biological barriers.”

Your eyebrows shot up and you sucked in air. The only man who had ever seen beyond your dress was your husband and even with him you were shy. Still, he was a doctor and he might be able to help. You doubted yourself knowing that if you had time to think on it, you would refuse it altogether.

“If you advise it,” you stood rigidly, “I would permit it.”

He bowed his head and pulled the corner of the sheet taut on the table. He backed away and smoothed his white jacket as he went to the door.

“You only need remove your under garments and I will return in a moment. You will lay on the table and I will do a brief exam of your anatomy,” he guided, “Is this to your acceptance.”

“Doctor,” you said and watched him go, releasing a sigh when he was on the other side of the door.

You removed your leggings and drawers and folded them. You climbed onto the table and laid on your bad, your legs clenched together as your skirts felt thinner. You waited and tried to ease your nerves. The knock at the door spiked your pulse and you assured Dr. Rogers you were ready.

He entered and you listened to him move around. You squeezed your eyes shut and he neared the table. You quivered as he came near and his hand settled on the hem of your skirt. He stood at the foot of the table and his shadow coloured your eyelids.

“We’ll take it one step at a time, I will let you know everything I do before I do it,” he assured you, “now, I’m going to have you bend your legs.”

You nodded and kept your eyes closed and bent your legs. He touched your knees through the layers gently.

“Now part them,” he coaxed.

That was harder and as you obeyed, you felt a rush of air slip up your skirts. Your dress rustled and Dr. Rogers held the hem firm.

“I will now have a look,” you heard metal and flinched, “and I will use a special tool to do so. You will feel perhaps a cold touch and some pressure inside but I will be quick.”

You only nodded and gripped the sides of the table. He lifted your skirts entirely and you gasped. You felt the metal instrument on your most intimate part and he pressed it until it was slightly inside of you. He bent over you as he opened you up with the tool and removed it almost as suddenly as he’d applied it.

“Well, I see no abnormalities,” he set the instrument aside and fixed your skirts, “nothing which would cause difficulty.”

You sat up and turned your legs over the edge of the table. You felt your cheeks burn but he seemed entirely unbothered. You reminded yourself how usual the practice must have been for him.

“I would also recommend smelling salts if you do not already use them for when you feel faint or overcome and I will have a diet plan for you to take with you. Those might help improve your condition as well. I think for now,” he neared the door and paused with his hand on the handle, “that is enough change. It isn’t about pushing yourself, it is about little steps.”

“Thank you, doctor,” you said.

“And if you require anything, you needn’t wait for your next appointment. If you have questions, you may come in and ask,” he turned the handle slowly, “along with all we’ve gone over today, you will continue on with what we established since our first appointment.”

“Yes, doctor.”

He smiled and left you again. You slid off the table and reached for your undergarments. You dressed quickly and as you stepped out, Dr. Rogers bid you farewell. You hoped he could help you, that this wasn’t another lost cause.

[katytheinspiredworkaholic]

Wip Wednesday

Untitled fic (Correspondence)

Summary/Story so far: HotchReid, slow burn, AU where Reid never joined the FBI, but got roped into consulting for the LA field office while working and teaching at Caltech. Hotch gets his email from a fellow agent, and they start to work on cases together -- until they start talking on a regular basis. Regular becomes frequent, frequent becomes constant. We are now months into this... tentative thing that is beyond friendship, beyond flirtatious, they still don't know much about each other on paper... but this feels a lot like dating. And then one day, Hotch abruptly stops answering his phone.

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3)

(Set in season 6, unbeta'd, still the first draft, text/email templates are temporary)

((Notes: Spencer's POV this time, he is 29 and working at CalTech, Hotch still doesn't know how old he is though he does know that he's at least younger than 45 now. Hotch has been MIA now for about 18 hours.))

.

Spencer spends way too long online that morning, searching for anything about the case Hotch is working. There's nothing about a raid, or a shooting, or even an arrest -- which could all just be apart of the ongoing media blackout -- but it also does nothing to stop him from panicking. 

With a drafted email pulled up to Ms. Penelope Garcia, the BAU's personal tech analyst, he ponders how to... even word this without it sounding too personal. Too much like he and Hotch have more than just a working relationship.

Because they do. They have... something.

Something that gives him fluttering sensations in his stomach, makes him check his phone constantly, and react to even the slightest chime similar to his text tone. Makes him smile when he sees Hotch's name on his notifications, in his email inbox, makes him message the man in the middle of the day at the most random thoughts. Just because he wants to make him laugh.

.

[]You're going to get me in trouble.

[][]Did I make you smile?

[]I'm at a crime scene. There's a dead body in front of me.

[][]Then why are you checking your phone?

[]You know why.

.

But that’s not something that is shared with the rest of the team, he’s sure. So he should be careful how he words his email, lest Ms. Garcia realize that Spencer isn’t asking purely as a colleague. 

Surely they know he has friends, though?

Chewing his lip, Spencer types out a brief email asking if Agent Hotchner is feeling well since he missed an appointment the night before and hasn’t been returning his calls. It’s a phrase he’s used often, so it comes naturally to Spencer as he types it out, and he realizes… he hasn’t called. He’s sent a dozen text messages, but not a phone call. Never a phone call. That was against the rules. 

He looks to his phone beside him on his desk, and tries to fight back the dueling forms of panic clawing at his chest. Panic that Hotch might not answer, panic what that means for the man he’s been… becoming more and more inclined to than any other person he’s met in so long. Panic if he does answer, breaking that barrier of written words to spoken, and the opportunity to hear Hotch’s voice. But he would also hear Spencer’s, and then there would be no hiding just how… how young he really is.

But his phone is in his hand before he can stop himself, and Hotch’s contact pulled up and his thumb hovering over the phone number with baited breath. 

Was he really going to do this?

He presses the touch screen and can hear the line connecting, the dial tone ring even before he gets the phone up to his ear and waits. It rings, and rings, and rings a fourth time -- before clicking over to voicemail. And Spencer’s hyper-fast thought processes realize he’s going to hear Hotch’s voice for the first time. Frozen in a panic, unsure if he wants to or if that had been something he wanted them to do together that the seconds slip by and suddenly it’s too late.

“You’ve reached the voicemail box of -- (703)-567-8790 -- this caller is not available. Please leave a message after the tone--”

It’s an automated, female voice that rattles off the numbers and generic call back message, and Spencer hangs up before it can begin recording him. Exhaling a shaky breath, that nothing had been ruined between him and Hotch thanks to an ill-timed phone call. 

He keeps the momentum going without much thought, and adjusts his email to Ms. Garcia before sending it. 

It feels so understated, and yet over dramatic the more he thinks about it. The more he reads it.

.

Please let me know of his well-being.

.

God, no wonder Hotch thought he was in his 60’s. 

But Spencer has to keep the façade up, not give away anything he doesn’t want to just because the emotional part of his brain is running rampant over the rational one. There are… many explanations as to why Hotch isn’t answering him. His gut feeling aside, he doesn’t need to be panicking like this. The world is still turning, he still has work to do, so Spencer tries to gather himself into some semblance of order and preps to talk to his doctoral students within the hour.

.

--

.

His morning routine progresses as usual, to start. Dr. Reid has his mandatory round up with his doctoral candidates going over thesis and dissertation parameters, class lecture schedules, updates, the works. Like morning announcements, but he requires them all to be there and to listen, and they all show up. Everyone knows of Spencer’s eidetic memory. He will certainly not forget a single date or schedule change, and he expects his students to not forget as well. 

But this morning Spencer is fully distracted, his mind elsewhere, somewhere in the state of Delaware with an agent who may or may not be in danger. Because Spencer cannot shake the feeling that something is wrong. It almost seems more like a fact than a feeling. 

He becomes even more distracted when his email pings, a response from Ms. Garcia of Quantico, VA flashing across his laptop screen, right in the middle of his department announcements. Spencer’s eyes skim the preview sentence in the pop-up box, and his voice trails off as his mind… whirls. 

.

Dr. Reid, I’m sorry to tell you I don’t know when Hotch will be available again. There was an incident, and he’s still in surg-

.

Surgery.

Surgery.

That vice-like grip of worry that has taken hold of him since last night tightens further, to the point Spencer can’t breathe. Hotch is hurt, he’s in surgery, and if he hasn’t been answering his phone since last night -- or even late yesterday afternoon -- it was not a minor thing.

Hotch is hurt. 

“Dr. Reid? Are you okay?”

“I--” he’s still looking at the email pop-up box, and is clicking on it before he can stop himself. Immediately disconnecting his laptop from the projector as his email loads there. It takes him a faction of a second to read the email. “I’m sorry, an emergency just came up. Kimmy, finish reading off the schedule for me?” He doesn’t even wait until she answers him, just picks up his laptop and retreats to his office as fast as his long legs will carry him.

.

--surgery and we’re still waiting on word. I know you 2 talk on the reg so I’ll keep you posted. 

Fret not, genius professor, our fearless leader has been through much worse than this.

.

She’s using informal speech patterns, which she has never done before. It bleeds her nervousness, and worries Spencer even more. Ms. Garcia also revealed she knows he and Hotch talk, but surprisingly that doesn’t have the effect he thought it would on his already rattled nerves. Instead, any and all reservations fall away as he types out a response much in the same way he and Hotch had started their friendship all those months ago.

.

Please, is there anything you are allowed to tell me about the case or his condition? We --

.

Spencer pauses, bites his lip as he considers crossing this boundary into the uncomfortable unknown, and then thinks about Hotch on a hospital operating table three thousand miles away.

“Screw it,” he mutters and continues to type.

.

--We’ve become good friends and I’m very worried.

.

The reply is almost immediate.

.

That makes 2 of us, boy wonder, but I’m already hacked into the hospital records database and Prentiss is in the waiting room.

I’m sending you the case files and the incident report from last night. Maybe you can see some shiz we can’t b/c the bossman is tough but he’s been in surgery a long time. 

.

Of course, whatever he can do to help. Spencer’s heavy heart-beat triples in his chest as pulls up the files and immediately prints them out so he can read through them faster. But then his mind sticks on something from the email. 

Boy Wonder.

Ms. Garcia knows how young he is.

She must have done a background check on him, that would make sense since he’s been consulting so much lately. But why would Garcia know his age, and not Hotch?

.

Ms. Garcia, did you update my dossier with the bureau after you ran my background check?

.

If you’re referring to why Hotch seems to think you’re rocking the senior discount at restaurants and not still getting carded for beer, then no I didn’t update it. I’m very anti-gov files having every detail of our lives in them, that’s what I’m for, and I figured there was a reason he didn’t know. Your secret is safe with me, sugar bean.

.

The real reason is Agent Anderson of the LA field office is a dick, with a bully streak he never outgrew after high school, and didn’t bother filling out a full file on him the first time Spencer consulted for the FBI. Then, he couldn’t be bothered to update it when his consultations became more than a one time thing.

But that was all in the past now, and Spencer can’t even be upset about it. Because now he has Hotch.

.

Thank you, Ms. Garcia. I’ll let you know my findings soon.

.

He skims the file quickly, pulling information out at lightning speed. It appears a very straight-forward case. As straight-forward as a murderous sociopath can be, anyway. Very anti-establishment, specified targets that devolved to anyone in a uniform. Anyone who appears too official, or lables as official. 

It’s easy to see, now why the unsub attacked Hotch instead of running from him. He practically served himself up on a silver platter. But there’s something about the kills that’s bothering Spencer. The knife wounds, bludgeoning, even the gunshots during the first murders -- it’s all overkill. Rage. Every single target has died from massive internal bleeding, M.E. reports all label the knife wounds and beatings as the cause. But the amount of blood left over, measured during autopsy, doesn’t add up. They bled too much. No wounds indicating intentional bleeding occurred, and the tox screens are all clean. 

Except, every victim has elevated potassium rates.

“Oh, God,” Spencer whispers, quiet and horrified. “Hotch.”

There’s no time for email.

He picks up his phone, goes to an older email that has full contact details in the footer, and dials Ms. Garcia’s direct line in Quantico.

“Speak, and behold greatness.”

“Ms. Garcia, it’s Dr. Reid,” Spencer says, and his tone and quickened speech patterns gives way to his panic.

“Dr-- Dr. Reid?” 

“Yes, quick there’s no time. Do you have Hotch’s hospital records in front of you still?” 

“Yes,” Garcia says, her voice a musical thing even in it’s breathless reaction to his heightened state of haste. “Updated every two minutes.”

“Is his potassium elevated?”

Some quick typing of keys that move faster than even he could ever hope to type. “... Yes.”

God. “Okay, okay I need you to call the hospital right now,” Spencer says in a spiel that all sounds like one word. “Whatever you have to do, he needs Sodium Polystyrene Sulfonate as soon as possible, to counteract the chemical imbalance or he’s going to go into kidney failure and bleed out.”

.

tbc...

[inmyarmswrappedin]

So, because Fatou’s season ends today and, as far as we know, Druck hasn’t been renewed yet, I want to go over the things I feel the team did well in this season and the things I hope they take with them when they sit down to write the next season (which I’m manifesting will be Ava’s).

I think that s5 and, perhaps to a bigger extent, s6, were the team’s attempt to address fan feedback for and criticisms of s3 and s4. So I have hopes that, after possibly the most scrutinized season of any Skams, they are still willing to read even more feedback and sit down once again to craft a couple more seasons (possibly even 3 or 4 more seasons!).

So, without further ado, things that were done well! (Do I have to add “in my opinion”? Do I??)

I liked that for both s5 and s6, the thorough-line for the season wasn’t made obvious or shared in a press release, but rather it was up to fans to connect the story threads for themselves.

I loved that the team sought to address one of the biggest criticisms of s3, that is, that Matteo was given so many symptoms of a mental illness, but it ultimately went unaddressed in the narrative. They did this by giving Nora a dissociative disorder, and Fatou dyscalculia. (Matteo has been headcanoned as being mentally ill and having a disability.) It allowed the teams to develop both fan theories into full-blown seasons and give each of them the importance they deserved.

I have said this already, but I really appreciate that the team chose misunderstood, misrepresented and underrepresented mental illnesses and disabilities. I feel like s5 and s6 will be referents for many years, because they really took the time to portray a dissociative disorder and dyscalculia in a down-to-earth, unhurried way that isn’t meant to shock and awe, but simply allow us to understand why and when Nora and Fatou will struggle. Druck got the viewers to anticipate when Nora and Fatou would struggle, and that’s the first step in being able to anticipate and accommodate the needs of the Noras and Fatous of the world. I really can’t overstate how important this is and what a difference it makes in a real, tangible way. These seasons aren’t meant to be enjoyed for voyeuristic reasons, but they will legitimately help people.

One of the biggest criticisms of s4 was that Amira and Sam didn’t connect as women of color. In fact, it seemed like in s4 Sam was treated as another white friend, when in s2 both she and Amira were the victims of Kiki’s racism. The team addressed this by giving us Ava and Fatou’s friendship, which I want to say might be the first friendship between main characters of color where their race is a substantial reason for their bond. (There are the Sanas with their Jamillas, but the Jamillas aren’t main characters, and then there are friendships like Jo and Megan and Zoya, or Imaan and Liv, or Luca and Yasmina, but iirc in every case their bond as women of color isn’t made explicit.)

Another criticism of s4 was the way Kiki turned into the world’s most understanding white friend offscreen. The team addressed this with the Ava and Mailin storyline, which I think was wonderfully and subtly set up in s5, then built on with the biology test leaked answers.

On the topic of race, I think a major criticism of s3 was that David’s ethnicity wasn’t acknowledged (to the point where a white actress was cast to play his sister gvhvhv). The team has made up for this with Josh (more in the s6 sm than in s5, but I still count it) and with Kieu My. Fatou and Kieu My bonded over being first/second gen children of immigrants, and in doing so, they acknowledged that these characters aren’t white and have different experiences than white Germans.  

The first 6 episodes of this season were some of the finest writing in the Skams. The storylines all connected and built on each other. The motifs were just so good and beautiful and fitting. The themes were all clearly defined and easy to follow.

The tortoise plot was one of the most fun and imaginative storylines in any Skams, it connected Fatou and Ismail in a believable way. And not to rave about a fucking tortoise, but animals can be really uncooperative and that tortoise delivered every fucking clip. Druck has a reputation for being one of the most depressive versions of Skam, but the Maike/Burger plot was just plain fun.

I feel like some of the old gen’s instas were a bit self-indulgent. I’m thinking specifically of Matteo’s memes and how they they weren’t necessarily the kind of memes a gay dude born in 2001 would pick, but someone a decade older. I think this is much better done with new gen. Fatou’s memes reflect her age and her sexuality, and not just that, but Ava, Mailin, Kieu My, Josh, etc. all pick memes and even focus on different aspects of recent news, based on their gender, race, personalities, interests, etc.

I appreciate that the team found a way to fit a sex scene between Fatou and Kieu My to add to the small catalogue of wlw sex scenes on Skams (I’m including the scene in lovleg or we’d only have two lol). While I understood the reasons eskam opted not to include one, I thought there were ways to feature a sex scene that didn’t sexualize the actresses and didn’t require nudity. Cases in point: the lovleg scene, and this scene in Druck.

And it also needs to be said. This is the first original season with a main of color, and the third season overall (after Liv and Imane) where 10 episodes are given to a character of color and no one else. Of the three, it’s certainly the season that loved and respected its main the most. The bar is so low it’s in hell, but Druck did clear that bar!

With all that said, let’s talk about the things I would really want the team to address in following seasons:

The thing I most want them to fix might be small or unimportant for a lot of people, but I think it’s at the core of why the season has been unenjoyable or certain plot points haven’t come across the way the team wanted, for many people. I am talking about the overly expositional nature of the writing.  It appears as if the team approached the writing of the clips with the intention of hitting each beat as noted in their agreed upon outline, and absolutely nothing else was to be added. This is an issue both in s5 and s6. It’s just less noticeable in s5, because s5 is setting up stuff for Fatou’s season, and possibly even seasons that haven’t been written yet. The fact that absolutely every second counts makes for a stressful watching experience for me, because the narrative tension is always heightened. Whereas with Skam, the narrative tension would build throughout the clip. Take the Pride scene in Skam, for instance. The clip allows for Isak and Eskild to get increasingly more agitated as they butt heads. I feel like if this Druck team had done the Pride scene in s5 or s6, the clip would’ve started with both Isak and Eskild already on edge, and cut much of the dialogue that got them there.

On the topic of naturalistic dialogue, this season doesn’t have it. Here is an example from ep 10 clip 2, Wieder vereint/Reunited 11:37.

Fatou: I’ll get a certificate too and bring it over to you. And I checked it, I only have to change one course and my schedule will work.

Teacher: Miss Jallow, you are not the first one to come to me with an epiphany. We could fill entire school weeks with the lessons you missed. In addition, Doctor Steinberg told me about your, well… activities. You don’t have a lot of arguments on your side. 

Fatou: But I’ve spoken to all of the teachers and they said they are okay with it. 

Teacher: You seem to have friends among the teaching staff. Mrs Pavlovic put in a word for you. Okay then, do it and go before I change my mind. [translated by @kieu-tou! Thank you!] 

Like. This is the bare bones version of a dialogue. This should be the first draft, not the final version. The coordinator goes from absolute no to yes, with just one line from Fatou. The coordinator gives reasons that would necessitate more than one sentence of counterargument, like Fatou’s absences and the Biology test leaked answers. The coordinator even says Fatou doesn’t have a lot of arguments on her side, and yet it takes Fatou one line to change her mind!

And of course we viewers don’t want or need a lot of time with the coordinator. And particularly at this point in the season, no one would enjoy a naturalistic dialogue with the coordinator of all people.  But my point is that this is an issue with the dialogue all this season (and last season as well, but this season has been more scrutinized), the reason I picked this example is because of how easy it is to see here.

Which brings us to the pacing of the clips, and specifically the Friday clips. Because the script goes straight to the information the team wants to convey to the viewers, skipping the build up to it, many Friday clips have fallen flat, felt abrupt, and have been, tbh, unsatisfying. Again, I had this issue in s5, but as that season went on, I felt like the team had a better grip on Friday clips. But then they did it again in the first Friday clip this season, and so I think this is something the writers really should work on. The first Friday clip in Isak’s season closes on Isak being sandwiched by Emma and Even on a bench, visually setting up the love triangle, or more accurately, the personifications of who Isak should want to hook up with and who he really wants. But in order to get there, we’re shown a good amount of info, from the way Vilde, Eva and Sana are handling Noora’s absence, to Chris and Kasper, Even hovering around Isak, Emma trying to impress Isak, Isak escaping and, like, draping himself on the walls because he’s so over it all. Isak playing a game on the bathroom to stall for time. The paper towel maneuver to immediately give us a sense of what a weirdo Even is. A conversation between Isak and Even that gives us some clues about Even’s shame, as well as establish interests in common (like weed), and this is all before Emma even joins them! Just think of all the stuff we learn about who Isak, Even, Emma, Eva, Vilde or Sana are as people, before we get to the point of the clip! Fatou’s season simply didn’t have that. Compare it with the first Friday clip of Fatou’s season where the cashqueens quickly talk about the leaked answers, one of the major storylines this season that only gets a couple lines, before Fatou says she doesn’t want to talk about school (Fatou’s struggles with school, another major storyline), and then we’re onto the point of the clip, which is that Kieu My likes girls too. AND FADE TO BLACK. When people say they want longer clips, what they mean isn’t artificially inflate the clip length or add more plot stuff. Just let us watch the characters interact with each other so that we get a feel for how they relate to each other. I know I wish we’d have gotten more of Ava and Fatou interacting with each other before things turned to shit, and Ava with the other girls, so that I know why they all like and value Ava so much. I wish we’d have gotten more of Kieu My talking to the cashqueens about, like, why she didn’t make use of the biology test answers, instead of getting it on a chat. Or food combos they don’t like. So it makes more sense that later on Kieu My actually thinks she and Fatou are friends.  And every line doesn’t have to count. In Skam España, the characters are constantly talking and not everything they ever talked about ended up being relevant. When one of the characters lied about her house undergoing renovations to hide the fact that she was poor, the characters joked about Italian marble and put on bad Italian accents and made that Italian hand gesture. None of this was important to the plot because those renovations weren’t real to begin with, but they made viewers feel like these were real friends joking around, instead of characters needing to hit every storyline beat in a clip.

I have this joke with my friends about Druck always going 🤪🤪 in the last third of every season, in which a season that was very tightly written and cohesive suddenly pulls something inexplicable and pretty much impossible to resolve in 1-3 episodes. Hanna’s season suddenly switching to Mia, Björn creeping on Mia in episode 9! of a total 10, David getting outed in episode 8 and then disappearing for a whole week, Amira’s season pivoting to Mia and Hanna. It has happened in every season except Nora’s, so I thought the team had learned its lesson, but then the forgotten date with Ava happened. To be clear. It really makes no sense that Nora would have hung out with Ava several times since Tuesday, and the topic of the cashqueens being officially introduced to Kieu My wouldn’t have come up. it’s just not realistic.gif I feel like at that point the writing for the rest of the reason became super contrived to keep Fatou miserable and apart from Kieu My and Ava to artificially delay the reunions until episode 9 and 10. Why add a cheating insinuation and the main checking her partner’s messages in episode 8 if you know you won’t be able to properly resolve it? Why make Kieu My mock Fatou’s “uhm” if it’s not going to be addressed in their reunion clip? Kieu My had taken the initiative for a lot of the relationship, so it’s okay for Fatou to take the initiative when it comes to making up. You don’t have to add things that can only be resolved through an expositional info dump. (Please no more exposition than it’s necessary! I think we’ve established that at this point lol.) In the case of Fatou’s season, this is even sadder because I feel like Kieu My’s intimacy issues could’ve been the reason to drive them apart for two weeks, rather than the Maya/uhm stuff. This could’ve also been resolved through Fatou and Kieu My explicitly negotiating their boundaries and how they want to be comforted and how they want to comfort each other, which I thought was the issue with Fatou rejecting Kieu My’s attempts to help while wanting physical touch, while Kieu My didn’t want to be touched but rather seen.  

There are going to be many thinkpieces on why a myriad of stuff didn’t work for people, so I’m going to keep this simple and address one last thing. I think that choosing to focus on Nora’s mental illness and Fatou’s disability is a great choice that doesn’t complicate the themes too much, but Druck (and all the Skams, but I’m invested only in Druck succeeding at this point) still struggles with being intersectional. This is the major reason why the Ava/Mailin storyline ended not with a bang, but a whimper. There just wasn’t enough work done to connect Fatou’s struggles not just to her disability, but also to her race (and even her sexuality). I think that if people really want (and lbr, it’ll be mostly poc who will put in that effort and work), they can see how Fatou’s race affected the way other people and especially adults reacted to her, but this wasn’t made explicit. If Ava and Mailin are going to argue about racism all season, why not connect that with Karin firing Fatou from Aquarius? As it stands, Karin fired Fatou because of a disability neither of them knew Fatou has, and that was the resolution to that storyline. Why not make it explicit that the Physics teacher had preconceived ideas about Fatou because Fatou is black? Why wasn’t Fatou’s disability addressed in the meeting with the coordinator? Why didn’t Fatou express to Mailin that Fatou, too, had issues with how Mailin was acting wrt racism? It felt like, with the way the season was putting so much emphasis on racism, all these threads were going to be connected. In the end though, it almost felt as if only Ava is affected by racism (aside from Mailin mentioning Fatou in the last episode). It’s not like talking about how racism affects Fatou is going to make the topic redundant for Ava’s or Ismail’s season. As a light-skinned black lesbian with a disability, Fatou’s life is going to be impacted by racism in a different way than Ava’s will, as a dark-skinned black fat straight cis girl, or Ismail’s, as a Turkish-German possibly Muslim possibly non binary person. All these experiences are specific enough, and different enough, that they can be touched upon in different seasons without becoming redundant. The fact that Fatou’s season almost seemed to forget at times that she is a black lesbian, doesn’t bode well for Ava’s and Ismail’s season to acknowledge all their struggles.

The bottom line is that this season really was great and did a lot of good, and I feel like the writing just needs to be tweaked a bit for further seasons to be even better and more enjoyable overall. I am very pleasantly surprised by how the team took s1-s4 fan feedback to heart and worked to implement suggestions, and so I really trust them and hope they keep working on the show. It’d be a shame if Druck wasn’t renewed, with this team at the helm.    

[sun-spice]

@themagnuswriters is apparently doing a fic appreciation thing? Have I got that right? I've been busy as fuck lately so I haven't had the energy to properly appreciate the stuff I've been reading, but I do happen to have an old rec list in my drafts that I'd forgotten about. If I have the time I might do another one with some more recent stuff and maybe an additional nsfw reclist :)

List under the cut, word counts and completion statuses are probably out of date.

the sword of damocles by penhaligon | post-160 apocalypse averted, hurt/comfort | 89k, ongoing, T | minor JonMartin

Summary: Martin interrupts Jonah's ritual. That doesn't mean their problems are solved.

Jon, Martin and Basira set off to deal with Jonah once and for all after the ritual is interrupted. To make matters worse for them, however, the Fears now know of said ritual and are each determined to pull it off themselves. Stunning prose in this one, I love how penhaligon builds up small moments of suspense.

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where there's a will, we will make a way by bubonickitten | S4 time travel fix-it | 107k, ongoing, T | minor JonMartin

Summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Late series time travel fix-it with communication between the characters. Some development on minor characters as well, which I love, and lots of relatable hard conversations <3

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An Cailleach agus an Fear Sidhe by Drowsy_Salamander | urban fantasy, fae au, witchcraft | 30k, ongoing, T | JonMartin, Martin & Sasha & Tim

Martin moves to join a witch coven consisting of Tim and Sasha. The three of them have to pick up the slack protecting their town, previously lacking witch presence, from the fair folk. Meanwhile there are people in the town who know more than they're letting on.

Loving the dynamic between Martin, Sasha and Tim so far. The exposition and worldbuilding is well delivered and the beginnings of a mystery start to drag you in. What do Jon, Daisy and Basira have to do with everything? What is Jane Prentiss hoping to achieve?

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A Home For What Loves You by TheWrongShop | canon divergence, hurt/comfort, slow burn romance | 66k, ongoing, T | JonMartin

Summary: Jon and Martin end up investigating Carlos Vittery's basement and finding the entity formerly known as Jane Prentiss together.

Jon and Martin are trapped together in Martin's apartment band later have to live together in the archives. Communication? Among archive staff? More likely than you think.

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What Once Was Mine by dieanywhereelse | reverse time travel fix-it, dramatic comedy, safehouse fic | 29k, ongoing, T | S1 Polychives, JonMartin, found family

Summary: The Scottish Safe house gets a few visitors from the past. Jon and Martin get a chance to set things right.

In which future Jon and Martin are actually somewhat well adjusted after averting the apocalypse and dealing with Jonah. They get an opportunity to help past versions of themselves and their dead friends to get where they are with (hopefully) less pain. Love this au a whole bunch, it's one of my all-time faves! Really well thought-out with some great character dynamics and some adjusted monster!Jon.

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Moth Song by Siarven | time travel fix-it, dimension hopping, hurt/comfort, found family | 76k, ongoing, M | minor JonMartin

Jon accidentally travels into the S1 of an alternate universe and tries to set things right. He's a mess, and has a breakdown, but he talks with his friends and together they start to work it out.

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I'd Be Under the Sea but You Hold Me Above by Write_as_Rain | mer au, hurt/comfort, fast burn romance | 14k, completed, T | JonMartin

Summary: As a fisherman working under Captain Lukas, Martin has learned to keep his head down and fade into the mist. He does his work, walks further down the path Peter has laid before him, and if members of the crew occasionally disappear, Martin has learned not to ask about them. Has learned to stop caring at all.

At least until the crew pull up something strange and wonderful and impossible, tangled in one of the fishing nets. Something that Peter means ill.

No, Martin doesn't... care. But maybe he can save it. Maybe they can save each other.

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A Few Small Repairs by Mad_Maudlin, shipwreckblue | canon divergence | 138k, completed, M | minor JonMartin

Gertrude shot first, killing Elias and all of the staff of the Magnus Institute who where in the building that day. Jon somehow survives and is taken in by Gertrude, Gerry and Mary at Pinhole Books.

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Meanwhile, Martin, Sasha and Tim are some of the surviving staff trying to pick up the pieces after the strange 'fire'. But wasn't Gertrude supposed to be dead? What is up with this new Institute director?

the garden of forking paths by bibliocratic | post post-apocalypse, time travel, dimension hopping, angst with a happy ending | 50k, completed, T | JonMartin, minor found family

Summary: Whatever he had predicted might happen, Jon wasn't expecting to survive upon demolishing the Panopticon. He certainly wasn't expecting to be rescued.

Instead, he wakes up in an alternative universe where he's never been the Archivist, and Martin Blackwood doesn't exist.

Martin Blackwood wakes up somewhere else entirely.

Poignant and bittersweet but with a happy ending. Really well written!

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youth dipped in folly by evanescent_jasmine | pre-canon divergence(?), bittersweet | 27k, completed, M | GerryOliver

Summary: In 2012, Oliver meets Gerard Keay and thinks that maybe, just maybe, he can finally save somebody.

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He’s wrong.

A Reel for the Watcher by RedCytosine | period drama (early 1900s), fae au | 50k, ongoing, M | JonMartin, minor found family

Summary: Martin Blackwood, in need of employment and out of options, takes a clerical position in Scotland at Castle Magnus, working for the enigmatic Lord Elias Bouchard. He expects it to be glorified paper-shuffling, but what he finds instead is much more sinister. What secrets lurk in the castle library? Who plays the wild music that haunts his dreams? And why does a strange horse wander the lakeshore each morning at dawn?

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TFW you wake up from a long nap and have no idea where you are by forgetfulmachine | time travel fix-it, fluff, found family | 33k, ongoing, G

Summary: Jon gets sent back to mid season one in the middle of his coma. Tim, Sasha, and Martin help him through his emotions and stopping the Unknowing. There's a lot of fluff along the way.

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Thistle and Weeds by ajkal2 | time travel hurt/comfort, disability | 6k, ongoing, M

Excerpt: “Jon,” Martin says. “Are you alright?”

Jon’s head lifts, turns toward the sound. He’s shaking. His teeth are bared, a flash of white against his dark skin, but it’s not a smile. There’s something- His eyes, they don’t look right-

His mouth opens, jaw trembling, and he says “Martin?” The bright overhead lights gleam off the blood pouring down his face. His eyes are black, empty sockets.

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for a firmament by supaslim | two works | canon divergence, transformation horror, recovery | 31k, completed, T

Series summary: There is beauty in destruction. There is art in becoming.

In which Jon becomes the Archive, and the Archive becomes Jon.

Wonderful monster!Jon with some amazing body horror and mental illness recovery themes. Moved me to tears!

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A Break in the Clouds by Ash_Rabbit | time-travel, fluff and angst, pre-canon | 22k, ongoing, T | Jon & Original Elias

Excerpt: “I’m eight.” the kid sniffs as if eight was any different from four, maybe not an unspeakable horror then, just a regular horror. “And I heard that the Magnus Institute deals with-” his little nose scrunches, cute. “-spooky things.”

“Do you have a-” he cracks a grin, and then rethinks it as small hands tighten against their burden.”-spooky thing to deliver?” gods he hopes not, it’s bad enough when adults walk in and lay out all of their baggage, but for a child-

“There’s a spider in this book.” the kid says solemnly, raising his textbook sized parcel. “It ate Evan Pritchard.” a bloody fucking Leitner. Of course an eight year old would find a murder spider book. “This seemed like the best place to bring it.”

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Seen, Unseen, Unsung by bluejayblueskies | character undeath, canon divergence, memory loss, End!Tim | 50k, ongoing, M | JonMarTim, Tim & Danny & Sasha

Summary: Tim wakes up from the Unknowing with a blank slate where the Institute had been, Danny sitting at his bedside, and a man with too many eyes haunting his dreams.

[tanoraqui]

uhh please enjoy this rough draft of the first half of chapter two of Iron, Blood, and Grave Dirt, aka the demon baby!A-Yuan au

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0. Lan Wangji arrives at the Burial Mounds too late to find A-Yuan, but not too late to see Jiang Cheng and the YunmengJiang disciples flying away with him. He follows.

He waits, bleeding and aching, for night. It doesn’t take long - Lotus Pier isn’t far from Yunmeng, as the sword flies, but the day has already been long. When the sect compound quiets, Lan Wangji slips in.

He is spotted almost immediately. He is clumsy with pain and grief, and Jiang Cheng has not trained his people to be incautious of intruders. Through sheer force of will, he (mostly) does not lean on the alarmed disciple who offers him an arm, a seat, a bed in the infirmary, Hanguang-jun?!?

It’s easier when Jiang Cheng stalks into sight, because Lan Wangji is fueled by determination and fear and rage and love and just a little bit of spite.

He may never know what in his face - his posture? his mere presence? - makes Jiang Cheng’s eyes widen in realization. He will certainly never realize that Jiang Cheng’s voice cracks more with betrayal than fury when he says, “You? You knew?”

He dismisses his disciples with a sharp wave of one hand and Lan Wangji stays standing because he is bleeding and broken but his hand is on Bichen’s hilt, he will fight if he has to, because - 

“Wei Yuan.”

“Is my nephew, and you are not touching him.” Zidian throws off sparks.

It’s a testament, frankly, to Jiang Cheng’s mental and emotional disarray, that Lan Wangji is the first to realize that they do not need to kill one another in defense of the same child, because Lan Wangji is, as discussed, bleeding and broken and 3 steps from passing out.

“He needs to be...hidden,” he says.

Jiang Cheng laughs with bitterness so vast it can only be folded and compressed to rage, like steel folded into a sword, and waves a handful of papers bent in one fist. At Lan Wangji’s stone-faced bafflement, he loosens his grip and smooths them out, and shows off the familiar handwriting. Unfamiliar designs, but recognizable concepts.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji breaths without a thought.

“I went looking in his room for- some sort of explanation,” says Jiang Cheng. “Found this half-baked thing - it’ll disguise resentful energy as spiritual, if- when I finish it.” (The sort of invention that would get the Yiling Patriarch accused of villainy and deception from the eastern sea to the western heavens, but both of them know that’s not the reason for it.)

“Will you?” says Lan Wangji (and can you as well; both rude, but the older Lan Wangji grows, the less time he has for politeness.)

Jiang Cheng nearly spits at him, and for once, that is answer enough.

Here’s where, in another timeline, Lan Wangji might collapse and need a bed to lie on, or Jiang Cheng might look him over and offer one, and the Second Jade of Lan might spend his seclusion, very quietly, at Lotus Pier. This is not one of those timelines, though. In this one, Jiang Cheng looks him over and maybe, maybe he thinks about it - but instead he bunches the paper up in his fist again and drops it to his side, and says gruffly and almost kindly, “Go home, Lan-er-gongzi. Can you make it?”

Lan Wangji doesn’t waste his effort nodding.

“Good. Then go. You being here will only raise more questions.” As an act of mercy he says, “Wei Yuan has a fever, but it’s probably some fucky demonic thing, not real illness. He’s - ” his face twists - “strong. I’ll send you a message when he pulls through.”

1. Wei Yuan is still bedridden when he receives his first (remembered) assignment from his sect leader (that isn’t “go to sleep” or “eat your soup” or boring stuff like that). But he’s been permitted to sit up and provided pencils and paper with which to draw, so long as he does both without either getting up further or making enough noise to wake the baby (again). He’s doing it all fantastically, singing softly to himself in accompaniment to the story he’s drawing about two butterflies who are friends, when actually it’s shushu who breaks the quiet.

Wei Yuan looks up in shocked delight. “That was a bad word!”

“Oh shut the- ” Shushu, who is also Sect Leader Jiang, takes a deep breath and puts aside the papers he’s been reading, in chair near Wei Yuan’s bed. He eyes Wei Yuan sitting attentively with his lapdesk, and the baby (Jin Ling, Wei Yuan’s cousin) in the crook of his own arm, and opens his mouth to shout for a servant - than looks again at the sleeping baby. At Wei Yuan. He releases the shout as a slow, quiet, exhale.

Very carefully and slowly, without adjusting the angle of his bed-arm almost at all, he stands, walks over, and puts the baby down on the bed next to Wei Yuan. 

Wei Yuan holds perfectly still. He doesn’t even breathe. Jin Ling squirms a little, and shushu takes Wei Yuan’s arm and tucks it around his fuzzy head, so Jin Ling still has something to nestle into. Possibly even shushu holds his breath as Jin Ling quiets again. 

“Don’t move,” shushu instructs quietly and quickly. “Don’t let him move, except to wiggle or whatever. I’ll be right back, I’m just going to go get a couple reports from my room. If he wakes up and starts crying, shout for help.”

He pauses and adds, “Breathe, A-Yuan.”

Wei Yuan takes in a deep, gasping breath, and immediate tries to calm it so the baby doesn’t notice.

“Got it?” asks shushu.

Wei Yuan nods as furiously as possible without moving anything below the neck. Shushu gives him a serious nod and slips silently out of the room.

(Wei Yuan doesn’t...remember either his uncle or his cousin, or Lotus Pier or much anyone or anything else. Shushu and the doctor say the second thing is okay because he’s never actually met Jin Ling before, and anyway Jin Ling is so little that he doesn’t remember anything at all; and the first and third are okay because he had a bad fever and it hurt his head, and so long as he can still remember things like words and how to draw butterflies, and kind of remembers enough that he never thought to be scared of waking up in Lotus Pier with a grumpy uncle beside his bed, then that’s okay. And they also say it’s very impressive that he can count to three, which is satisfying.)

2. “I’m Chifeng-zun!”

“I’m Sandu Shengshou!”

“You always get to be Sandu Shengshou - I want to be Sandu Shengshou!”

“Fine - I’ll be Lianfang-zun!”

“I’m Hanguang-jun!”

“Don’t be stupid,” scoffs A-Jiao, and pulls the sword-shaped stick from his hands. “You have to be the Yiling Patriarch.”

“Who says!” Wei Yuan demands, and grabs the stick back. “Gimme Bichen!”

“Everyone says!” A-Jiao refuses to let go, and gives it a good hard yank for good measure. “You look like him, my mama said, and he’s your dad and you’re weird!”

It’s one of the weeks when Jin Ling is at Carp Tower, is the problem. Those weeks are always the worst. When Jin Ling is here, Wei Yuan can bounce happily between training and lessons and playing with Jin Ling, and nobody complains at all. When Jin Ling gone, Wei Yuan has to try to play with the other kids, the couple in the sect and the varying dozen who run around the market while their parents tend stalls. It’s pretty much always terrible.

He lets go of the stick abruptly and lets A-Jiao stumble back.

“Fine!” he shouts. “I don’t want to play Sunshot anyway! It’s stupid!”

Jiang Cheng finds him a couple hours later, sitting in a corner rather than eating dinner with the other young disciples like he should be.

“What are you doing?” he demands. “What’s this I hear about you shoving a girl in the market?”

“I didn’t - ” Wei Yuan redirects his scowl to his knees (it’s not a very good scrowl, anyway. There’s too many tears hovering at the corners of it.) “Sorry, Jiang-zongzhu.” (It’s Jiang-zongzhu when he’s yelling, especially if Jin Ling isn’t here.) (Wei Yuan can call him shushu sometimes, but not Jiang-shushu, because he makes a Face and then snaps at everyone even more than usual.)

“Hrmph,” says Jiang Cheng, because there’s clearly, like, Feelings happening here, and that’s bullshit. “Are you still wearing that necklace I gave you?”

“Yes, Jiang-zongzhu.” Wei Yuan brushes his hand along the chain and pulls the pendant out for inspection. It’s not especially pretty, just a few lotus seeds carved with marks indicipheravle through the thick lacquer that glues them together. It makes him feel a little better and a little worse, because it’s something his father, the Yiling Patriarch made for him, a protection charm that shushu found (he says) in a pile of Wei Wuxian’s things, and passed on to Wei Yuan.

“Good,” says Jiang Cheng. “Now, if you have a problem with anyone, show them up by getting your butt to dinner and eating well, and going to bed early, and being better than the rest of them in training tomorrow. And every day after that. That’s the only real way to get people to shut up.”

Wei Yuan looks up with a little bit of hope in his eyes.

“And you’ll be waking up early to kneel for an hour, because YunmengJiang disciples don’t shove girls in the marketplace. What are you waiting for, go! You want all the food to get cold?”

3. Wei Yuan thinks that maybe the Second Jade of Lan is heartbroken, that Wei Yuan doesn’t recognize him. It’s very hard to tell - there’s the slightest widening of his eyes, the tiniest downturn of his mouth - but that very reticence of expression is what makes Wei Yuan think that even the little he sees probably says quite a lot.

“This one apologies, Hanguang-jun,” he says with as formal a bow as he knows. “I had a fever, when I was little. I don’t remember a lot, from before I was four.”

Lan Wangji remains silent.

“I’m seven now,” Wei Yuan says helpfully, straightening, because he just had his birthday and he’s proud of the fact.

“You have grown,” Lan Wangji manages, because that’s certainly one of the things that is leaving him frozen.

Wei Yuan beams up at him. “I’m 120 centimeters tall!”

“And you are...well?”

(It’s...possible that Lan Wangji had entertained himself, from time to time in the last three years, with thoughts of striding into Lotus Pier the second he was free of “seclusion” and being instantly greeted by Wei Yuan flinging himself into his arms. Wei Yuan would be simultaneously weeping with yearning and beaming with pure joy, that wide smile that was so very much Wei Wuxian’s even when nothing else about their faces looked particularly the same (except the eyes, the ghost-pale eyes). Wei Yuan would cry that Jiang Wanyin was a wholly inadequate guardian and beg to go back to Gusu with Lan Wangji, or maybe to travel around doing righteous things, and in the truly extravagant dreams, he’d say that before leaving him in the tree, Wei Ying had confessed that - )

“I’m very well, thank you!” Wei Yuan says with perfect manners, and beams Wei Wuxian’s smile. “I...” He looks around uncertainly. “I was doing sword practice, but I guess that’s...over?”

“LAN WANGJI!” comes a familiar bellow as Jiang Cheng stalks into the training yard, a couple junior and senior disciples at his heels. Others have clustered at the edges of the yard pushed back by more or less the force of Lan Wangji’s focused attention. It is...possible that Lan Wangji carried out the first part of his daydreams without thought, striding (barging) into Lotus Pier without warning and not stopping until he found Wei Yuan and confirmed that he was - 

He blinks. “You plan to wield a spiritual - ”

Jiang Cheng grabs the interfering idiot in white by the elbow and pinches hard enough to bruise, and hisses in his ear, “Don’t you dare fucking tell him.”

4. Jin Ling sprinted down the corridor, shrieking gleefully at the top of his lungs. 

“I’m gonna get you! I’m gonna get you!” Wei Sizhui hollered at his heels. “I’m gonna - ”

“HEY,” Jiang Cheng broke off conversation with a disciple to bellow, as both boys skidded to a halt. “Do you think this is a playground? A race course? Shouldn’t you both be in lessons right now?” In fact he knew they should be, Jin Ling with learning letters with his brand-new tutor and Wei Sizhui in basic talisman class with the other young disciples, under Yang Bozhao’s watchful eye.

“Lessons are boring,” Jin Ling said promptly, though he had the grace to look shifty. 

“Many apologies,” Wei Sizhui said much more politely and a little out of breath with laughter, half a step behind him. “A-Ling wanted to play, and Yang-shixiong said we may have a stretch break - ”

“So you run screaming through the halls of my ancestors?” Jiang Cheng snapped. “A-Ling, back to your tutor - I’m sure she’s looking for you.” Though how the woman could’ve missed the trail of shouting, he couldn’t imagine. “Wei Sizhui, you will return to class, then you will report to the discipline hall, for three hours’ scrubbing floors and contemplating proper behavior.”

Wei Sizhui looked unhappy, but he bowed. “Yes, [shifu].”

“What- but then we can’t play [checkers]!” Jin Ling complained.

“Tough luck,” said Jiang Cheng.

“But - ” Jin Ling looked between his cousin and his uncle in bewilderment. “I wanted to play tag and I don’t have to scrub floors! Why’s A-Yuan got to!”

“Because Wei Sizhui is four years older than you are and should know better,” Jiang Cheng snapped. (Though, gods all above, he regretted letting Lan Wangji choose that stupid courtesy name.) He loosened his darkest glower. “Such impropriety brings shame on our sect, and on any decent ancestors he has.”

“A-Ling.” Wei Sizhui caught him by the elbow.

Jin Ling shook him off, balled his fists and planted his feet with all the authority of his five years, and glared back at Jiang Cheng. “No!”

Great, now Jin Ling’s getting into trouble because of him, Jiang Cheng thought, and, I don’t know why I expected propriety from a literal demon child anyway, and, Mother, please! You don’t have to cut off his hand!

Ever since he’d first gotten it, Jiang Cheng had gotten used to letting Zidian react to his mood with little restraint. So what if it meant people could read him - they’d also know he was strong. He was used to the comfortable feeling of it warming on his finger, sparks crackling, bond to his golden core strengthening.

With hardly an indrawn breath, he cut it off so hard and absolutley that for a moment the ring felt foreign on his finger, cool and distant and dull.

5. There is something terrible in the Lotus Lake.

It comes and goes, swimming here and there or not appearing at all. Often it is with a group of living things, or at least one or two, though it does not devour them. Always, it is draped in illusions such that the water ghoul trapped under the boulder cannot identify it apart from the other bright and living things until it comes close, terrifyingly close. Close enough to see the ghoul and, according to the ecosystem of the dead, devour it.

But it does not. Nor does it devour the bright things among which it swam, ripe with power through they were. So very ripe, so very bright... the water ghoul strains to reach them, scrabbling against its imprisoning boulder with resentment that grows day by day, year by year. Only when the dark and terrible thing appears does it cease its struggles, frozen in the pale fear of the dead.

Until the boulder moves. Years of scratching and scrabbling with nothing more than fingertips, from the ghoul’s place buried in the silt...the boulder moves. It tips just an inch, just a millimeter - and then another. And then another. The ghoul scrabbles for purchase to pull itself up, to push its cell door further; it twists and contorts and shoves and breaks free.

The water ghoul has long since forgotten who exactly it blames for its death. It rages simply at the living, every bright, breathing one of them. They’ve taunted it for years, swimming down to tap its prison door like a challenge, ignorant of the hatred beneath - no more. There are two little bright things on a raft above. The ghoul rockets silently up toward them with all the hunger and fury of the dead. They will make a good start.

Too late, as usual, it realizes that one of them is the monster. It cannot stop its charge - it crashes into the raft and knocks it over, throws both riders into the moonlit water. The ghoul does not think well; it is a creature of jealous rage and hunger. It hesitates - and goes for the smaller prey, the one that is prey, is bright and screaming with life and breath and a flickering, half-grown golden core -

“Stop!”

If the ghoul has long-since forgotten language, stewing in silt and resentment, cannot misunderstand the monster’s terrible will, carried on a wave of resentful energy that crashes on it with frothing fury. it cannot resist the wave, either, strong with inpatience though the ghoul is. The ghoul freezes -

“Come over here!” follows on the first demand’s heels, crashing upon the ghoul with a panicked desperation that it would wonder at if it had the mind to do so. With what it has, it fights this one harder, self-preservation stronger even than the need to kill that one child that dares live when it was dead. It snarls silent defiance at the monster even as it swims helplessly closer.

Go away! It’s not spoken at all this time, but that hardly matters. The monster’s eyes are wide and white-edged and its power floods over the water ghoul, and the ghoul accepts the mercy for what it is and swims as fast and far as it can.

“A-Yuan?” Jin Ling’s voice is high and just barely held together, though at least he’s managed to get back on the raft. “Is it gone? Did it bite you? Was that a ghoul?”

“...Yeah,” Wei Sizhui says slowly. He stops treading water and swims back to the raft (overturned, and all their illicitly collected lotus seeds lost). He doesn’t climb on when he reaches it, just holds the side and looks back in the direction the...thing went. He can almost still feel it, he thinks, if he focuses his golden core like he’s meditating, reaches out to commune with the energy around him...

“Yeah,” he says more confidently. “It’s gone, A-Ling. You don’t need to worry.”

Jin Ling lets out a shuddering breath of relief. For a moment, Wei Sizhui feels pretty good, Responsible Older Cousin-wise.

Then Jin Ling scrambles over to his side of the raft, threatening to overbalance it again, and asks, “How?”

[ivyuns]

violation❆♞♣

hwang hyunjin

genre: angst | bit of fluff

word count: 1.7k

warnings: swearing, mentions of guns, blood, death, pregnancy + not proof read oops lol

A/N: lol hyunjin kinda psycho in this

this was drowning in my drafts since may omg

masterlist

mafia!hyunjin x fembarista!reader

y/f/n = ur fiance’s name

you owned your own cafe in downtown seoul. your customers and employees were always great people and bought positivity around you. it was currently a busy day and everyone was in and out of the main entrance. the employees were trying their best to stay calm and keep a positivity mindset. you however, were distracted by the co-owner, hwang hyunjin.

hyunjin always seemed like that flirty but a suspicious type. everyone told you to stay away from him since you were little but how could you when you two were inseparable. it all started in kindergarten.

you were running around the classroom til your teacher yelled out “stop” and everyone looked at her. you saw a little boy. next to the teacher, waiting to be introduced. “hello kids, we have a new student! please introduce youself.” the teacher says.

“hi im sam hwang from korea. please take care of me” he says softly and hides. the teacher tells him theres nothing to be scared of and let him wonder around the classroom. you went up to him and introduced yourself. “hi sam! my name is y/n kwon. i’m also from korea!”. hyunjins head went up and eyes went big. “y-you’re from korea?!” he stuttered since he was lowkey excited that someone in his class was korean, just like him. you smiled and nodded your head. you grabbed his hand and dragged him to the playground to continue recess.

2 years later in summer, your best friend came over with his parents to tell these news. hyunjin came in your room with a sad smile as you were playing with your stuffed animals. you looked up and smiled at him, “hi hyunjin!” you said cheerfully, obviously in a better mood than him. “y/n, i need to tell you something” he said sadly. he went to go sit across of you and picked up some of the toys around your room.

“i’m moving back to korea.” you stopped your actions after hearing what he said. “moving? why?” you looked up at him. “m-my parents said it’s best for us to go back to korea because we only came here for my dad’s work, but he ended up leaving the job and now we’re going to go back” hyunjin looks up to see tears falling out of your eyes. he went to your side and hugged you, telling you that you’ll be spending quality time before he leaves.

-

after moving back to korea after years hyunjin left you, you opened your own cafe. as your shop was almost completed for the grand opening, hyunjin happened to pass by your shop. he looked through the window and saw a girl that looked so familiar to him.

knocking on the window to get your attention, you go the the door to unlock it and stick your head out of the window. “hyunjin?!” he looks at you with his eyes big. “y/n? what are you doing here?” hyunjin asks. “i recently moved here and now im starting a business” hyunjin nods his head.

“are you looking for any employees?” nodding your head. “yeah but i guess around this area, nobody wants to work at a cafe” you joked. “maybe i can help? i-i mean if you want to” hyunjin laughs. nodding your head, you lead him inside the cafe. hyunjin looks at your artwork and the nicely decorated shop, amazed.

handing a paper that has all the requirements and terms in order to start working here. after hyunjin was done signing it, you looked at the paper and gave him a thumbs up. “looks good! ill give you a call whenever we start” hyunjin nods his head and waves a goodbye to you.as hyunjin exits, he now knows where his target is.

2 hours earlier:

“hwang” chan calls out.

hyunjin looks up from his phone and sees chan carrying files. “remember that girl youd always talk about? kwon y/n? your childhood best friend back in america?” he nods. “apparently her dad is in a gang too and stole our money for whatever reason. so now your mission is to find her, bring her here, and kill her”

hyunjin gulps.‘why? did you do something wrong? what do you have to deal with this? does she know about this?’ all of hyunjins thoughts were about you. “ill do it”he knows he cant do it. but he has to or else he’ll be kicked out of stray kids. after moving back to korea and his parents suddenly passing, he was lonely. until stray kids saved him from being in the dark and invited him to their family. he gladly accepted.

hyunjin goes to his room and does research about you. he finds your instagram and sees that youre opening a cafe around the little area of downtown seoul which was a few hours away from his place. after enough of his little research, he grabs his jacket and heads out to find you.

present time:

the first week of the grand opening was a hassle. the cafe was always packed and made the employees feel stressed. as the cafe was almost settled, you told the workers to take a break as you and hyunjin will do everything else.

finishing an iced americano, you could see from the corner of your eyes and sees hyunjins strange actions. ignoring it, you gave the drink to the correct customer and continued making drinks.

-

closing time finally happened and everyone left out a huge sigh. having a group meeting, you gave everyone their weekly paycheck. “thank you everyone for working hard. i will see you tomorrow morning!” you waved goodbye and smiled. as soon as you saw almost everyone leave, you turned around and started cleaning.

hyunjin goes next to you and helps you clean the counters and machines. “jin, you know you can leave you know?” you told him as hyunjin lets out a chuckle. “nah its alright. plus as the second ceo, i shall help you” hyunjin winks. stopping your actions, you playfully smack hyunjin across his chest. “hey hey, im just joking. but still, after we finish cleaning, ill take you home” “but you said you have an exam tomorrow? shouldnt you be going home and start studying?” you asked. hyunjin nods his head, defeated. “alright you got me. i promise ill take you home another time” nodding your head, he goes and gets his belongings and leaves.

quickly cleaning the shop, you turn off all the lights and lock all of the doors. turning around to see the whole cafe in one point of view, a smile grew on your face. plugging your earphones in to walk home with your music blasting and texting your family group chat.

y/n: on my way home. the cafe was a success this week :)

mum <3: cheers to a successful opening

dad: come home safely, my son in law is waiting for you

smiling from the excitement, you started walking down the street to get to your house. as you entered this street, it was dark with the moonlight shining. feeling someone following you, you turned around and saw nobody. pulling up hyunjins contact on your phone just in case something happened, you continued walking in a fast pace, turning the volume down.

feeling the same aura from before, you quickly pressed the call button but you heard the familiar ringtone.

“sleep tight princess”

you wake up feeling sore and lost of warmth. opening your eyes, youre in a room thats filled with drywalls and a hwang hyunjin to your left, sitting on a chair. “h-hyunjin?” you called out his name. he looks up from your phone after reading every conversation you had that was about him. “the princess has finally awoken from her slumber” hyunjin smirks.

hyunjin gets off of the chair and goes by your side, lifting your chin up. trying to protest only to be stopped as you felt your limbs tied up. “now now princess, no need to get feisty” hyunjin laughs. “what the fuck do you want hyunjin” “hmm? you really dont know?” shaking your head, hyunjin gets up and walks around the room.

“so, youre saying you dont know what your dad has been doing? the fact that he stole money from me just to help you other with the small disgusting shop of yours?” it hurt. both you and hyunjin. hyunjin wanted to give his mission up and hug you, wipe your tears away and apologize. you were more than hurt. more like angry. hyunjin knew you wanted a cafe when you grew up and he supported you more than anything.

“the fuck are you talking about? youre assuming that my dad stole money from you? from what information is getting in that head of yours?” you shouted out. hyunjin grabs his gun and clicks it. you hear the click and your attention is immediately on hyunjin. “h-hyunjin whatever youre wanting to do, put the gun down first” hyunjin closes his eyes as he feels fresh tears escaping and shakes his head.

“hwang hyunjin! do you not know what youre about to do? tell me what you want from us. we’ll give you your money back- anything just dont pull it-” you stopped talking as soon as you see him point the gun at you. “please hyunjin dont. im pregnant-”

he pulled the trigger.

everyone in the house heard the gun go off and goes to the basement. stopping as they heard hyunjins sobs, they see him on his knees, holding your bloody body and cries into your hair.

chan goes to hyunjin and pats him on the back. “you finally did it hwang”

as hyunjin takes his seat during your funeral, he sees your family and y/f/n go up the stage. after each family member said what they had to say about you and your death, as well as your unborn baby, everybody was now crying their eyes out. “my sunshine. thank you for everyone you love feel happy and we are deeply happy that you were able to start your own business. with the past events, i shouldve came by and picked you up from work before i lost both you and our child. without your presence, nothing will bring a smile onto my face. i love you so much kwon y/n, and i hope you fly high with our baby girl”

-

lowering your casket down, everyone leaned on each other, crying after they realized the kwon y/n has suddenly passed for an unknown reason at a young age. hyunjin just leaned on a pole and cried. looking up in the sky, he see something that had a little smile form on his face.

‘you’ll be next, hwang’

hyunjin gets into reality and turns around to see who whispered to him. seeing nobody, hyunjins future is now crumbling.

END <3

tf is the end 🥴

[falsegoodnight]

✰ say a little prayer: an outtake ✰

*a harry-centric drabble from sleeping on our problems taking place the five days after louis told harry about the baby.

(obviously: major spoilers from the fic!

a birthday present for @louislyrics <3 thank you for asking the question that sparked this!

The door shuts behind Louis with a dull thud, silence echoing as Harry stares at the wood, mouth still dropped open with his protest lingering on his lips. 

A wave of nausea rises in him, strengthened only by his disbelief, confusion, and slowly festering panic. 

Pregnant. Louis is pregnant. 

With his baby. 

The panic grows, tightening in his chest and filling his lungs. He exhales jaggedly, hands shaking as he sits down on his bed stiffly and places them on his knees, bracing himself.

He’s twenty. He’s twenty years old and he’s gone and knocked up an omega. He’s just recently been picked as captain. The season is picking up soon and he’s got classes and responsibilities and he’s knocked up an omega. 

A product of him and Louis has been planted in Louis’ stomach and will grow into a living breathing human after just nine and a half months. The white gap on his wall between his window and a poster sears into his burning eyes as he stares blankly. 

He doesn’t realize someone has entered his room until a hand lands on his shoulder, jerking him out of his tense actions. Liam’s face slowly comes into view when he glances down, a worried furrow between his brow. 

His mouth is open too, closing and widening as if pronouncing syllables and words, trying to communicate - except Harry can hardly hear a word through the thundering of his heart, deafening in his ears and making his vision go blurry. 

“Harry,” Liam says, maybe for the fifth or dozenth time, “Harry, are you okay?” 

Opening his mouth, he is unable to respond. Is he okay? Is he okay after finding out he’s going to be a father when he’s only twenty years old? 

And it’s like - Harry has always known he wants children, wants to find a nice omega and settle down and put a baby or a bunch of babies in them. He wants to have a family. He gets off on the idea, for fuck’s sake. But it’s different having it sprung on him so suddenly. It’s different because he’s not ready. Not even close. 

He’s Captain for fuck’s sake. He’s got a year to play well and play hard to up his chances of being drafted to a good team in the summer. Not to mention, an entire team not to let down. Hockey is his life - it’s been his life since he first got onto the ice at eight years old and fuck, he wants it to continue being his life for a long time. 

“H, you’re worrying me, what’s wrong?” Liam continues, sounding completely bewildered. Harry can’t blame him. He’s Harry - always cool headed, calm, and driven. Not much rattles him, though it’s safe to say this definitely has. 

“Liam,” he says slowly, voice hoarse. He forces himself to make eye contact with the fellow alpha, taking a deep shuddery breath. “Liam, I’m going to be a dad.” 

He watches as the words process and Liam’s face morphs into one of disbelief. He watches as Liam looks at him, face pale once he sees the tears in Harry’s eyes and the raw honesty on his face. He watches as he realizes it’s the truth. 

Fumbling for words, Liam sits down on the bed beside him. “Um,” he starts, giving Harry an anxious look. 

Shaking his head, Harry explains properly. He reminds Liam about Louis, the omega he hooked up with at their end-of-summer party and who helped him with his rut. He tells him that Louis wants to keep the baby. “I mean, s’his body, his choice, of course,” he says panickedly. “But he also wants to know if I want to be involved and-” He cuts off, unable to continue. 

Liam is silent for a bit. “What’re you going to do?” he asks eventually, voice soft and gentle. 

It’s still enough for Harry to break. Suddenly he’s crying into his hands, shaking because he has no fucking idea what he’s going to do. He’s twenty - he’s twenty years old and he has no fucking idea what he’s doing. 

He thinks of Louis. Sweet and beautiful Louis who’s caught his eye more than any omega he’s ever met, who his inner alpha feels an inexplicable pull towards, against his mind’s wishes. If he hadn’t been so dedicated to hockey, he wonders how things might have been between them. If this would be playing out a little differently. 

Most of all he wonders how Louis isn’t in pieces like him. He’s the same age as Harry and yet he was so sure - so certain of this new permanent fixture in his life. 

Even when he left, face crumpled and close to tears much to the torment of his inner alpha, there was no trace of regret or doubt in his face. He wants to keep the baby. He’s okay with being a mother and raising a child. 

Meanwhile Harry feels like he’s going to puke. He keeps crying, letting Liam awkwardly pat his back and murmur semi-encouraging words, struggling to handle an emotionally distressed Harry when he’s never even seen him cry before today. But Harry soaks up the little bit of comfort Liam offers, closing his eyes shut and wanting to scream because the ultrasound picture  he left on his desk is still branded across his eyelids. 

One thing’s for sure, he needs to make a decision here. But first he has to come to terms with it. 

-

Harry wakes up on Sunday morning and almost forgets the revelation of the evening before. 

He told Liam to tell their frat brothers he was feeling ill and would be eating in his room. Then he proceeded to have his dinner, which was tasteless and overall unappealing to him, while staring aimlessly at his laptop screen where Criminal Minds was playing. He remembers nothing of the two episodes he watched, putting his laptop on the nightstand and yanking his clothes off so he can sleep about three hours earlier than usual. 

Though he forgets, it comes back to him like a knife to the chest when he glances at his desk where the ultrasound is sitting, black and white little blob and all. He sucks in a breath and then exhales through his nose, heading to the door and slamming the door shut behind him.

Liam must have told the others to leave him alone because no one comes up to tell him good morning or complain about current chore assignments. He’s sure he’s radiating frustrated pheromones as he grabs some cereal and an energy drink. 

There’s a morning practice in half an hour so Harry brings his breakfast upstairs with him, eating as he gets dressed and grabs his stuff. 

He stares at the ultrasound as he gathers his gear, eyes latched onto it even when he’s stuffing everything in his duffel along with his water bottle, before turning his head and looking away. He pushes it all down. 

Striving to the door, he hesitates, glancing back at the desk. With an exhausted sigh, he walks back to the desk.

After spending the entire morning avoiding the elephant in the room, it all comes rushing back to him, a heavy weight in his lungs making it hard for him to breathe. But he makes himself look at the paper, lets himself study the small blob in the middle that will be his and Louis’ pup.

His pup. His child. 

He wonders what they’d look like. Would they look more like him or Louis? He imagines a baby in his head but its face flashes between Louis’ delicate features and his sharper ones, Louis’ big blue eyes and his green ones, Louis’ soft smile and his own. 

“Harry,” Liam says, knocking gently on the door. He’s cautious as he reminds Harry that they have to get to practice.

Harry nods, gnawing on his lip. “I’ll meet you down there,” he murmurs, not moving his eyes from the ultrasound picture. There’s traces of Louis’ scent on it, sweet ripe strawberries. So lovely and intoxicating and so much deeper now. Deeper because of the baby. He glances at Liam who hasn’t left, a concerned frown on his face. “I’m fine,” he swears, voice lowering to a whisper. 

Liam dips his head to his chest in acknowledgment and backs out of the room. 

Heart fluttering painfully, Harry realizes that he just spent five minutes thinking about his child and not panicking. 

Examining the black and white sheet carefully, he folds it gently and tucks it into his jacket pocket. It sits there like a promise through the entire day. 

-

Harry spends the next couple of days going through his normal routines and attending classes and practice completely dazed. He zones out during lectures, mind wandering to heartbeats and tiny limbs. He’s distant with his frat brothers and absent from his friends; ignoring text messages and Snapchats and cutting all interactions with everyone, except Liam, short. His mind is constantly spinning with thoughts of ultrasounds, parenting, and panic. 

How is he expected to talk to people normally when a lump the size of a boulder is clawing up his throat and fighting to spill out, his thoughts utterly consumed by something the size of a cherry. 

(A size of a cherry. That’s what the internet said when he googled information on babies at 9 weeks in the middle of Music Theory. Itty bitty. Just bigger than the pad of his thumb.)

He’s distracted in practice and everyone notices, including Coach, who pulls him aside during a practice game to tell him off for being sloppy. He’s captain for fuck’s sake and the season is just kicking off. He can’t afford to be so spaced out - he’s lectured on this point over and over, head ducked and shame curling in his stomach. 

And yet, he can’t stop himself from pulling the picture out of his pocket during class or practice or in the middle of the night when he wakes up staring at the ceiling, while his insecurities and nerves whirl around him like a never ending nightmare. 

The folds grow cracked and worn with the amount of times he opens and refolds the paper; looking, staring, and memorizing the lines of his future pup as his heart beats painfully. 

On Wednesday, three days after he found out, he calls his mom.

She answers with a, “Hey, lovey,” like she always does, chipper and happy.

Harry swallows, closing his eyes. When he speaks, his voice shakes. “Mom, I have something to tell you.” 

As if sensing the panic in his voice, her response is soft and encouraging. “You can tell me anything, darling.”

“I don’t want you to be disappointed,” he whispers. 

“You’ve never disappointed me and you never will,” she says easily, sounding confused and curious. 

It doesn’t make him feel any better. His stomach is twisting painfully when he finally works up the courage to blurt it out. “I got someone pregnant.” 

His mother’s shock is palpable, bleeding through the phone and seeping into his skin until he’s flinching, the hitch in her breathing almost deafening to his ringing ears. 

Before he knows it, his tears are brimming again. 

“Mom,” he says desperately. “Say something.” 

“Harry,” she says. “Oh my god.”

Needless to say, he starts crying again. The whole story comes tumbling out and his mother is achingly indecipherable, asking him questions about if they used protection (no, but Louis had been on birth control) and how far along Louis is (9 weeks and 4 days as far as Harry knows) and how well they know each other (“Not well at all,” he had been forced to admit). 

“Honey,” she starts, voice gentle but firm. “I’m your mother and you know I always want the best for you. But you also know I’ll never bullshit you, which is why I feel comfortable telling you that there’s a right and wrong decision to make here and I swear to God, Harry Edward Styles, that if you choose the wrong path - the coward’s path, I will come up there and -”

“Mom, I’m not abandoning him,” he interrupts, gaping. “What the fuck?”

“I know you’re not,” she scoffs. “I meant if you choose not to have a joint-custody. I know you, darling, and I know how much you’d regret it if you let one of your own flesh and blood slip through your fingers even when you’re as young as you are.”

“I…” He trails off, swallowing. “How am I supposed to raise a child when I want to be in the NHL?”

“How is this omega supposed to carry a child while attending classes and living his own life?” she counters. “I’ll tell you how. You figure it out. You work your ass off and you come up with solutions and you never give up. When it comes to family, you can move mountains if need be.” 

Harry exhales, words embedding themselves into his skin and sticking there. He nods even though she can’t see him. She’s right. She’s completely right. It’s been four days and his pup is still just an embryo but he’s already attached. He’s in too deep and there’s no way he can settle for anything less than as much as he can get. “What about weekends?” he suggests.

“Weekends,” Anne repeats. “Is that what you want?” 

He takes his time to respond, mulling it over and considering every option. Is it possible for me to do this? he thinks. Is it possible that he can live and breathe hockey and other obligations while still being a father that his pup deserves?

In the end, it’s an easy question to answer. 

“Yes,” he says, no signs of hesitance or doubt in his voice. “It’s what I want.”

“I’m glad to hear that, darling. So glad. But I also need you to understand. Being a parent will change your life forever - it’s the most satisfying and fulfilling and beautiful thing, but it’s hard. Looking after another human being is a full-time commitment and I know you want kids, but it’s different when you’re actually having them.”

“I know,” he says. He’ll need to do research and tag along to appointments and be as involved as he can. He’ll need to find time for his pup - make time for them - both before and after they’re born. “I’ll do my best.”

“And I don’t care if you and this omega are nothing but strangers,” she continues fiercely. “That child is half yours and this omega will be carrying it for the both of you these next nine months. You better be there trying to make it even a little bit easier for him every step of the way.”

He sputters. “Of course,” he says, defensive. “I would hope you’d expect better of me than that.”

“And I’d hope I raised you well enough that you’ll treat this omega as good as if he were your own omega and support him as much as possible,” she says.

“You did, I will,” he argues, brows furrowing. He thinks about Louis and how much discomfort, pain, and struggles he’ll have to endure over his pregnancy and how he knows he’ll handle it brilliantly. Because Louis is smart and determined and he’s going to be a brilliant mother. 

He knows it. 

“I love you and I’m proud of you,” his mother says after a beat, voice softening. “And I’ll be here for you whenever you need me, honey. Just a few hours away. For you and Louis.”

It’s the first time she’s said his name out loud and Harry’s heart does a funny thing at the sound. “I love you too,” he says belatedly. 

“Robin’s going to be home in a few minutes, so stay on,” she says. “I want you to be the one to tell him the news. You have to tell your sister too, but maybe in a little bit. I don’t want to overwhelm you, darling. But how long do you think is the appropriate time to wait before telling the relatives?”

Harry can’t help but smile as she rambles on but it fades as his earlier worries return. She wants to tell the relatives but Harry’s still scrambling to process, to believe. 

“Mom,” he says, voice ragged. 

“Yes, lovey?” she asks softly, sensing his distress.  

“Do you think I’ll be a good dad?” he breathes, wiping a stray tear with the back of his hand. He hears his mother’s shocked inhale before she’s crying too, telling Harry of course, darling, the best dad in the entire world. 

And Harry, through his tears and worries and anguish, believes her. He can feel it in his bones, in his mind, in his heart. He will be. For his pup, he’d be anything. 

They stay on the phone for hours. 

-

It’s Thursday afternoon, five days after he found out, and Harry’s staring at the creased and wrinkled ultrasound picture - staring at his future - when he pulls out his phone and writes out a text. 

Hey Louis...

-

this is one of quite a few drabbles i have on a list for already-posted fics and the first one i’ve actually finished (whoops) - hopefully i’ll get to the others too!! :) this was really fun for me to write and i hope it was nice to read :)

thank you @soldouthaz and chelsea for looking this over for me! <33

[mysticm3ss]

Could u pls write headcanons/a fanfic about RFA+(V & Saeran if u want to) getting MC pregnant but MC tries to hide her pregnancy (for any reason) and around 3 months later when her stomach starts to grow RFA find her pregnancy test hidden away somewhere and confront her about it. I know u already wrote a headcanon about their kids but I just love any sort of headcanon/fanfic about baby’s and pregnancy’s yknow. Btw I love your requests broski. Your a good writer. Sorry if my English not good lol

sure thing, thank you for requesting and thank you for the compliments! don’t worry your english is perfect! 

so i wrote this literally months ago and forgot it was in my drafts, i’m sorry it’s taken so long to get up!! i rly enjoyed proofreading this bc i’m studying developmental psyc at uni right now and it’s lowkey giving me mad baby fever lmao

(leaving out jaehee for this one bc she ain’t out here getting anyone pregnant, like even if she had a penis she’d be too responsible for that to happen unless it was planned anyway let’s b real. also i varied the way the boys found out a bit as well just so things don’t get too repetitive, hope that’s okay!) 

Yoosung:

The thing you have to know about Yoosung is that he is very small and has no money, so you can only imagine the stress he’s under~

Jokes aside, when you realise you’re pregnant, your first reaction is panic.

You and your boyfriend are both so young–you’re not even old enough to have graduated college yet, how are you going to take care of a child?

It takes you a solid month or two just to come to terms with the pregnancy yourself.

When you finally think you’re feeling brave enough to bring it up to him, the thought of what his family might think acts as another hindrance–he seemed to have a perfect family, and Yoosung himself had admitted they were somewhat conservative… how would they react to your situation?

While you’re busy still coming to terms with it, however, Yoosung accidentally stumbles upon the pregnancy test you had so cleverly hidden in the bathroom cabinet.

You’d slipped it into a box of toiletries, snugly hidden between the myriad of tampons and pads that it held. When Yoosung accidentally knocked it from the cabinet, he scrambled to tidy up, cheeks flushed with embarrassment as he tucked away the sanitary products.

He froze when he saw the test, mind whirring as he struggled to explain away the white stick in his hand.

There was no explaining away those two pink lines, however, and so that night, he dared to broach the subject with you.

He fiddled nervously with his hands as he sat on your shared bed, eyes looking everywhere except your face when you entered the room.

“Yoosung… is everything okay?”

A shaky breath. “MC… are you… you’d tell me if something big happened, right? Like… like if you got pregnant or something?”

The guilt-ridden look on your face was all the answer he needed.

Your eyes welled up, and Yoosung’s arms were instantly around you, pulling you against him as he squeezed you tight despite his own shock.

“MC, why wouldn’t you tell me? How long?” His words were soft; gentle whispers into your ear as his fingers combed through your hair.

When you explained your worries, Yoosung’s heart instantly melted, and he felt guilty that he’d never realised what you’d been going through the past few months.

“Don’t worry about my family, MC– don’t worry about anything at all. I love you, and I love this baby, and we’re going to be so happy, okay? I’m right here, cutie, I’m right here…”

And though your face was buried in his shirt, Yoosung could still feel your smile.

Zen:

We all know that Zen is super-focussed on his career, and in turn, works long hours with early starts and late finishes.

His busy schedule and blooming career is the first thing to cross your mind as you stare at the two glaring pink lines on your pregnancy test.

How were you going to tell him? How would he react? His career was just beginning to take off… what if he didn’t want children so soon?

How were you supposed to deal with that..?

And so, spiralling into uncertainty, you decide to put off telling him for as long as possible; to enjoy your relationship for what it was now, in case it all fell apart.

As a result of Zen’s schedule, it’s not too gruelling to hide your pregnancy from your boyfriend.

You usually wake up to brutal morning sickness hours after he’s already left for work, and your fluctuating hormones generally only make their presence known while you’re on your own.

Regardless, Zen is extremely observant, especially when it comes to his jagiya.

He idly notices that you’ve gained weight, but he’d never bring it up; he honestly doesn’t care, so long as you’re healthy, which you certainly seem to be with how radiant you’ve been the past couple of months.

He does, however, notice that you’re keeping something from him. As to what, he’s not sure.

Zen trusts you wholly and completely, so it doesn’t even cross his mind that you could be hiding anything too big from him (at least, at first).

He figures that maybe you’re just planning a surprise for him, as he’s done a number of times for you in the past few years that the two of you have been dating.

When he comes back early one evening to see that you’re not at home, he sets about making dinner for the two of you and decides to get a head start on the chores.

He knows that he’s slacked off on his household duties lately, and the least he can do is pick up a few now that he has some time at home so that you don’t have to worry about them later.

While your favourite meal is warming on the stove, Zen strips the bed of sheets and gathers your dirty laundry into the hamper. 

When he returns with a load of freshly dried clothes, he begins to pack them away. As he folds your underwear and tucks them into the drawer, he notices what seems to be a piece of paper peeking out from beneath the neatly folded fabric.

Confused, he pulls it out, his breath catching as he sees the ultrasound.

He reads your name and the date over and over, unable to even comprehend that you could keep something like this from him.

He’s crushed that you hadn’t told him, and immediately falls into denial.

This has to be a prank, right? MC would never keep something like this from me…

He’s still frozen, sonogram clutched in hand, when you arrive home.

Zen looks up at you, eyes pleading and face soft with vulnerability as he wordlessly begs an explanation.

“…MC?”

His voice is so quiet and broken that it kills you.

You gently explain that it’s real; that this isn’t a tasteless prank but, in fact, reality. Zen takes a deep breath to steel himself.

“Why wouldn’t you tell me? Don’t you think I’d want to be there, especially for this?” he demands, voice ringing with pain and rising in anger as he holds up the sonogram still crinkled in his fist. 

It takes a bit of explaining on your part, but Zen’s hot temper gets the best of him as he shakes his head and turns away from you. Tears prick your eyes.

“Don’t you see, Zen? This is what I was afraid of!” Your voice cracks, and Zen spares a glance back at you, immediately softening as he sees your glistening eyes and the tears beginning to stain your cheeks.

“MC… I love you. I love this baby. I’d never leave, you know that, don’t you, jagi?” His voice is hushed, his heart breaking as he leans in to brush a tear from your face with his thumb.

“You can’t keep things like this from me, princess… not something this big. If you’re worried, talk to me, okay? I’m in this with you. Forever, remember?”

His arms fall around your shoulders as he crushes you to his chest, before pulling away in panic.

“Crap! Was that too tight? Did I hurt the baby?!”

You laugh, and the sound is music to Zen’s ears as you drag him in for another hug.

Jumin:

When you wake up to a sudden wave of nausea, Jumin’s first reaction is concern.

“O-oh, it’s nothing, it must just be something I ate…”

“I see. I must speak with the chef who cooked for us last night, this is a disgusting oversight on his par-”

No Jumin don’t fire the chef ohmygod

You barely manage to calm Jumin down before you’re huddled over the toilet once more, and he lets all remaining traces of fury evaporate as he focusses on holding back your hair and rubbing your back soothingly.

All the while, your mind can’t help but dart back to the pregnancy test that you’d hidden at the bottom of the wastebasket.

You knew you couldn’t keep this a secret from your husband forever; and in your head, you knew that everything would work out just fine. It wasn’t like you couldn’t afford a child, you had more than enough money to provide for them, it was just…

The two of you hadn’t been together for that long; not really. And although that didn’t diminish your love for one another, it didn’t change the fact that Jumin was still just getting used to being emotionally vulnerable and opening himself up to other people.

Would children be too much, too quickly?

He’d never even expressed interest in having children before; he was far too occupied with you and your relationship, enjoying the joys of the present and letting the future bring what it may.

And although you manage to hide your continual morning sickness from him for a little while, you know that as soon as you start to show, you won’t be able to put it off any longer.

When you wake up feeling nauseous yet again, Jumin declares it the final straw.

“MC, you’re clearly ill. I’m phoning a doctor,” he says, voice stern and leaving no room for disagreement. “I should let Assistant Kang know that I won’t be in for work today…”

Your weak protests fall on deaf ears, and barely half an hour later, Jumin is opening the door…

You didn’t realise that “phoning a doctor” entailed bringing in a whole team of specialists in various medical fields.

They check your vitals, and when you hear them begin to murmur about blood tests, you break.

“Jumin, this isn’t necessary!”

“What? Of course it is–they can help, MC. There’s clearly something wrong-”

“Jumin, I’m pregnant!” you snap, the words falling from your lips before you can register their utterance. Jumin’s eyes widen, and he clears his throat as deafening silence falls over the room.

“Excuse us,” he manages, and the team of specialists quickly and awkwardly take their leave.

Honestly, he’s lowkey offended that you kept it from him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice is stiff and cold, and your heart sinks as you feebly attempt to explain.

“Do you honestly think so low of me? Do you truly not trust me, after everything that we’ve been through?” he asks, voice hard.

That’s when you start to cry.

Damn hormones!

Jumin immediately softens, pulling you into his arms.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry… you’re right. I do trust you, I swear, I was just… I was scared,” you finally managed, voice thick with tears.

And though it takes a little while, Jumin understands. And once the shock has faded, the small smile that tugs up the corner of his lips betrays the excitement that your news has brought him.

“We’ll have to start thinking of names, hmm?”

Seven:

You could hardly call the life that Seven led “safe.”

The risks that come with his job hardly provide an environment fit to raise a child, a thought that instantly flashed through your mind the instant you saw the two lines on the pregnancy test.

You swallow hard, hands shaking as you move to rest a hand over your stomach. If you had to guess, you’d wager that you were at least eight weeks along…

God, had Seven ever mentioned even wanting kids before?

But despite your worries, you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of delight at the idea of raising children with the man you loved so dearly.

Still, that didn’t mean you knew how to tell him.

Luckily, you had time. Seven had been sent on a mission for the agency only that morning, and he wouldn’t be back for at least a month.

Although the news had been initially devastating, you were half-beginning to consider it somewhat of a blessing in disguise… at least you could figure out how to break it to him now, right? It wasn’t like you could break news like that over the phone, after all.

When Seven does finally arrive home, he wastes no time in sweeping you into his arms and planting tiny kisses all across your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, drinking in your warmth and softness and desperately attempting to atone for all the time with you that he had missed.

After finally pulling away, Seven easily notices that you’ve gained weight–of course, he’d never mention it; you were always beautiful to him.

Regardless, he can’t help but observe that you really do seem to be glowing. 

Saeyoung knows you well enough to easily realise that you’re keeping something from him. He sees the nervous twitch of your fingers, the tightness of your smile…

And so, when the two of you cuddle up on the couch later that evening, Seven pressing kisses to your hair and clinging to you like a baby koala, he finally brings it up.

“Sooo… what aren’t you telling me, MC?” he asks, playfully poking your side despite the worry that claws at his chest.

What if they want to break up? Oh god, what if-

He finds himself so lost in his own concerns that when the words finally fall from your lips, it takes him a moment to process them.

“W-what?”

“I’m… I’m pregnant, Sae.”

You hold your breath, and only release it when you see the huge smile stretch over his face, brighter than the sun and just as warm.

And just like that, you know that everything is going to be just fine.

“If it’s a girl, can we name her Elizabeth?” “Seven nO-”

hope you enjoyed, please reblog/comment if you did! ^^

[duhragonball]

Hellsing Liveblog Ch. 2-3

Chapter 2 is a flashback to the origin of Sir Integra Hellsing.   As established in Chapter 1, the Hellsing Organization is a secret anti-Halloween-monster task force.   From what I’ve been able to tell, they have a small army of guys and they all live and train in a big mansion, and the Hellsing family runs the whole show.   It’s sort of like the X-Men except they actually do cool shit and you only have to keep track of four or five characters.   

It’s implied throughout this manga that the Hellsing Family is descended from Abraham Van Helsing, the vampire hunter seen in Bram Stoker’s novel, Dracula.    Shoot, I just remembered I wanted to read the novel so I’d know what this manga was referencing, but it’s too late, I’ll just have to do that later.   I’ve been meaning to read the Great Gatsby for several years, too, and I just never get around to it.   

On the other hand, Integra claimed that her family had been at this since “ancient times”, suggesting that they predate the events of the Dracula novel.  If Abraham Van Helsing was part of their line, then he may have only been carrying on a tradition instead of founding a new one.   I think the conceit of Hellsing is that it regards the Dracula novel as part of its canon.   That is, in this fictional world, the events in the novel really happened, more or less.    I don’t know if that means the novel exists in this world or not.

Whatever the case, it was Arthur Hellsing running the organization up until 1989, when he suddenly took ill.   On his deathbed, he named his daughter as his successor, and asked his brother Richard to help her run things, since Integra was like, twelve, at the time.

Instead, Richard waited three days and staged a coup, forcing Li’l Integra to hide in the ventilation ducts.   He has to act quickly, and kill her before the whole staff finds out what he’s up to, but if he can kill her, he’ll assume control and be set for life.    I’m not really sure what Richard wants out of this.    Maybe he just really wants to run the family business, or maybe he wants to shut the whole thing down and just be a wealthy nobleman without all the monsters.   Anyway, the search for Integra leads to the “underground sector”, which hasn’t been used in over twenty years, so I guess 1969 is about when it was shut down?    It houses a dark arts lab, a library, speciment room, torture chamber, dissecting room, and a dungeon.   That last one tips Richard off, because before he died, Arthur told her that she could find something that would protect her.  

But all she finds inside is a corpse, and then Richard and his goons show up shortly after.   He plans to kill her slowly to punish her for wasting his time, but when he shoots he in the arm, some of the blood splashes on the corpse, and then it comes to life.

Just like Frosty the Snowman, only horrifying.   Richard tries to kill it, which seems pretty stupid, considering how they thought it was dead a minute ago.   That goes about as well as you’d expect, and after slaughtering the goons and taking Richard’s arm, the corpse kneels before Integra and addresses her as “Master.”

Richard apparently knew nothing of this, but the corpse seems to recognize him, at least as far as a Hellsing who’s not fit to head the family.  As Integra shoots Richard dead, the corpse introduces himself as Alucard, the name her family has always called him.  

One thing I find interesting here is that I could have sworn the Hellsing Ultimate anime established that Richard had poisoned Arthur, presumably thinking he would have a clear shot at the inheritance.   But it’s never mentioned here.   Maybe this was something they added in, because honestly, it just makes too much sense.  The implication of this flashback is that there are certain secrets in the Hellsing Family that only got passed down from parent to child.    Arthur and Richard’s father must have known about Alucard, and Arthur was likely the one who sealed him up in the basement in the first place, but neither of them said a word about him to Richard.   Maybe if they had, Richard might have thought twice before trying to take over.   Like the Cheddar Priest, he thought he had it all figured out, but he didn’t know what he didn’t know.

Back in the present day, Alucard is on the shooting range with Seras, teaching her how to shoot.   Seras already knows how to fire a gun, but Al wants her to hit targets at greater distances, using The Force a vampiric “third eye.”   He demonstrates by shooting a target one kilometer away, and hitting it perfectly.   For some reason, Integra is reading the paper nearby, and reminiscing about the her first meeting with Alucard ten years ago.   For some reason, she takes umbrage with the idea that she’s not still a “little girl” like she was back then.   Seras even ribs her a bit, which ticks Integra off.   Of course, Seras wouldn’t think Integra’s a “little girl”.   Integra’s a few years older than she is.  

The main point of all of this is that it establishes why Alucard works for Integra, and what they did with Seras after Alucard turned her into a vampire.   One way or another, Seras is just drafted to fight the Vampire Wars, or whatever they call it.   I find this kind of unsatisfying, because the anime didn’t expand on it either.   Seras just wakes up in the mansion, and Integra tosses her a uniform and says “Get dressed, kid, your shift starts in twenty minutes.”

I think Seras wants to work for the Hellsing Organization, partly because she has nowhere else to go, and partly because she admires Alucard and wants to join his cause.    But it’s never established that Seras has a choice in the matter.  It’s implied that Alucard is magically bound to the Hellsing family.    Integra called him “the research” that her “father and the others were doing.”  Like, you can’t just have a vampire work for you, you have to do stuff to him to make him obey.   I don’t think they’re mind-controlling Al per se.  He seems fully aware of what his role is, and he’s totally comfortable in it.   But he’s not just doing this voluntarily, either.    Integra has some sort of power over him, and my assumption is that Seras inherited that same quality when Alucard turned her.   So now she’s bound to Integra’s orders in the same way.  

But there’s a lot of unanswered questions in this.    I would think Alucard would be expressly forbidden from making his own ghouls or vampire broods.   Yet he drank Seras’ blood without any problems.  Maybe he’s allowed to do it if he has permission?    That might be it.    But then he brings her back to Integra, and I assume she has to make the decision to either keep Seras or destroy her.   I mean, Seras is handy to have on the team, sure, but if this was a good idea, why didn’t they have Alucard do this before?   I guess the situation just never came up.  

I think a lot about what might have happened if the Cheddar Priest had turned her into a vampire.    Would she have become loyal to him?  He said she would have free will, but she’s pretty deferential to Alucard, so what’s that about?   And if she had become a vampire and turned against the Priest, would Al have allowed her to live?   He was on a mission to destroy vampires, so I would think he would have shot first and asked questions later.    Well, let’s move on.

Chapter 3 jumps ahead to August 12, so Seras has been with the team for a little over a month now.   A bunch of murders have taken place in Birmingham (England, not Alabama), and this time no one waits around to call in Hellsing, though they are still surprised to find out she’s a woman.     

This time, the culprit is on the move, and Integra deduces that they’re choosing specific households full of “devout Christians” and spacious walls to write “blasphemous anti-Christian messages.”   Since they’re moving along Route 17, Integra has a rough idea of where they’ll strike next.  

I don’t know what the point of the “blasphemous messages” or seemingly ritual killings is supposed to be, since the killers are just this young vampire couple who only seem to be interested in this for immortality and power.   Their goal seems to be to kill thirteen families, and “they’ll” see to it that they get stronger.   I don’t know if this means some other party has put them up to this, or maybe they mean “they” as in all the families they’re killing.   It’s like this is an initiation ritual or something, except we’ve already seen Seras become a vampire, and she didn’t have to do anything like this to seal the deal. 

Then again, maybe the point of this chapter is to demonstrate that vampires take a while to get all their powers.  When Alucard confronts them, he scolds them, not for their string of murders, but for their lack of conviction, and their inability to transform or fight without guns.     So maybe this couple was trying to jumpstart the process by feeding on several dozen people in a short span of time.    But Al seems to think that isn’t how it works.    I don’t fully understand his moral code, but he doesn’t seem to object to vampires on principle.   Being a vampire is fine with him, so long as you have a purpose to it.   If you’re only in it for immortality and power, with no other reason, then he doesn’t respect you.   Seras wanted to live, but not necessarily forever, and I think she wanted power, but only enough to fight against evil.   That’s what sets her apart in Alucard’s eyes. 

So he kills the boy, but the girl escapes out the window, but Alucard already had that move scouted.

I’m not sure who’s saying “No!” here.   Maybe the girl vampire running down the road.   Anyway, Alucard put Seras on the roof of the house before he went inside, just in case anyone tried to make a break for it.   So all she has to do is shoot down the runner before she’s out of range.  Except she’s 600 meters away, it’s night time, and Seras doesn’t have a scope for her gun.   But Al reminds her to use her “third eye” and it works.  

After it’s over, Seras realizes that she didn’t even feel the recoil of the gun, and she can see in the dark with no trouble at all.   She wonders what’s happening to her, but that seems like a dumb question to ask one month after turning into a vampire.    I’m guessing the first few weeks of it didn’t feel all that different to her, and she probably knew she’d get stronger and better at shooting guns, but now that it’s actually happening it feels a lot stranger than she expected it to be.   In the anime, Seras also points out that she can hear Alucard talking to her in her mind, which is also weird, but I guess she’s got plenty of other weird stuff to process now.

Back at the base, Integra considers the recent increase in vampire attacks.   They’re all jobbers, like this couple Al and Seras killed, and none of them have any particular agenda, except to kill people.    She begins to wonder if someone’s making all these vampires just to cause trouble.  Hmmm...

So, I don’t want to get too far ahead of myself here, but this foreshadows Milennium quite nicely, but are we saying Milennium made vampires out of that boy and girl?   Were they behind the Cheddar Priest as well?  Also, “two” doesn’t seem like a huge increase in vampire incidents, so I guess there have been some other vampires running around between Chapters 1 and 3.   Oh well. 

[ruffboijuliaburnsides]

more voiceless jaskier AU

https://bygodstillam.tumblr.com/post/613282643525697536/okay-so-i-have-written-800ish-words-ofApparently the middle of the night is when I write this. Though to be fair “the middle of the night” is also just when I’m awake right now.

Reminder that this is entirely self-indulgent, which means people will be giving in to their hearts even when in canon the almost certainly wouldn't. :)

Still pretty angsty, but we're starting to inch towards the soft comfort part of this h/c!

(Part 1) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7) (Part 8) (Part 9) (Part 10) Now on AO3

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

The second night after finding himself voiceless, Jaskier ate.

Geralt had tried, most of the day, to talk to fill the silences. He'd failed horribly, the silences were still long and painful, but the attempt was not lost on Jaskier, and it was enough to melt him out of the petrified, empty shock that had consumed him the night before. Their progress away from the lake had been in the opposite direction of Rinde, even though it was the closest place to go for news or supplies. Jaskier couldn't help but be glad - if he never saw that town or the lake again, he'd be grateful.

"If we keep making good time, we should reach the next village in three days or so," Geralt was saying as Jaskier picked at the dried venison stew, wishing he hadn't emptied his flask already days ago. Or that they didn't have to make good time, so he could put off carrying his lute as long as possible in the mornings and take it off (and carefully, so carefully, set it down a safe distance away from the fire) as soon as possible in the evenings.

There was a slight shift of movement in the corner of Jaskier's vision, where Geralt sat, and a subtle glance revealed that Geralt was failing to hide that he kept glancing over at Jaskier, not eating, with a concerned frown. Jaskier lifted the spoon and took a bite. It wasn't too bad, and... well, to be honest now that he'd forced himself to take a bite, he was pretty hungry. A few bites later and the frown had settled back into the usual one, directed into the fire.

Laying in his bedroll that night, Jaskier didn't cry, to his great relief. That wouldn't last, he could tell, but he stared up at the shadows of leaves and branches over the sky, the peek of stars between them in the breeze, and thought about what happened, and didn't cry.

He couldn't remember the entire course of events that led to the djinn's attack on his throat - he'd been a lot more drunk than he would like to admit, burned from being dumped by his most recent lady love, his attempts to flirt ignored by Geralt, and he just felt lonely. He remembered needling Geralt, who was clearly in a worse mood than usual, and doing so beyond what he normally would've. Prodding him until he lashed out, and then taking it too personally. It was fuzzy, but he remembered Geralt shouting that he just wanted a little peace, and then pain, and--

And Geralt's face, immediately panicked by what was happening. Whatever he'd been feeling, he hadn't wanted Jaskier hurt, or dying.

And really, when you thought about it, Jaskier had known, even drunk, that Geralt was exhausted and more volatile than usual. For one of his more obnoxiously annoying drunk idiot mistakes, the fact that he was still here, alive, was more than he'd generally hoped for throughout his adult life. He'd always sort of assumed one day he'd piss off the wrong person and die to that. He'd done it, but then that person had done their best to save him anyway, and succeeded. It was a second lease on life, even if the near-death had never been Geralt's intention.

Maybe that's how he could get through this, learn to live with this silence: by viewing it as a kind of gift.

The third night, Geralt was restless and grumpy. He still hadn't quite given up attempting to fill silences, but had clearly found it even harder than the day before. In desperation, he'd started singing some folk song, and Jaskier had gotten lightheaded and couldn't breathe, and it was stupid because other people singing shouldn't make him feel like he was being crushed to death by his own chest, and after he'd gotten back under control, sitting in the dirt of the road, Geralt had all but forced him to ride Roach the rest of the afternoon.

The whole thing had put Geralt off of speaking, apparently; either that or he was running out of whatever fuel he used to create speech at all, because to Jaskier's ear it sounded like he was forcing the words out with every ounce of willpower he had, when he spoke.

"I'll fix it," Geralt grumbled. Jaskier nodded in response, then shrugged. Oh, he was hoping beyond hope Geralt could find an answer, and soon, but he was still trying to cling to his thought from the night before, that this was the cost of a second chance. Not because of Geralt, nothing to do with Geralt, but because fate herself was trying to tell Jaskier not to be so much of an ass. Geralt frowned deeply at that response.

"It's important," he insisted. "I will fix it. It was my wish, it's my responsibility." And Jaskier knew he didn't mean it like that, like the only reason he cared was because he felt obligated, because you couldn't spend large chunks of over a decade with a man and fall in love with him and not be able to pick out when he truly cares about someone or something. Jaskier knew that Geralt cared, that was why he'd gone to find him in the first place, that day: if nothing else he was lonely and needed to be around someone who gave a shit.

It still felt like a knife twisting in his chest, and his lips twisted in a weak attempt at a smile and waved Geralt off. It wasn't very believable, but he didn't want Geralt to feel obligated.

"It's not fine," Geralt snapped, more or less accurately translating from Jaskier's vague gesturing. But to answer that no, it wasn't, but the idea of obligation made him feel ill? That no, it wasn't fine, but at least he was alive? Jaskier couldn't figure out how to explain that silently without writing, and the only paper he had was his journal. His songwriting journal, the most recent of many, half-full with notes and ideas and scraps of lyrics and the working drafts of his songs. No, he couldn't bring himself to use it for this. So instead he just spread his hands helplessly.

Geralt grumbled wordlessly and stood. "Stay here." He strode into the trees, and Jaskier was left sitting by the fire wondering if Geralt was going to just go scream into the trees or try to find a bear to wrestle with his bare hands or something. That could make a good song, the bear wrestling, but Jaskier shook his head to try to clear that thought from it. Maybe, if Geralt couldn't find some sort of magic that can undo this, he could write again one day anyway. But not yet.

Geralt came all but stomping back into the clearing after a few minutes and jerked his head for Jaskier to follow. Not having anything better to do, Jaskier went.

A few yards through the brush was another small clearing, not big enough for a camp, but with a large flat area of loose slightly damp earth, not so loose as to be sandy, that had clearly been brushed free of leaves and sticks. Jaskier frowned, and turned to ask-- no, to look confused at Geralt, but found a sturdy but narrow stick held out to him.

"Write," said Geralt. "If you need to."

Jaskier swallowed hard, fighting tears despite himself. Geralt's response to Jaskier being unable to communicate a clear thought was to find a way for him to express it, and if Jaskier hadn't already fallen in love with the witcher years ago, he would have now. He nodded and crouched, considering the space he had and the words he wanted to say.

Thought my mouth kill me 1 day, he wrote carefully in the dirt, cutting out words he didn't need, grimacing a bit at his mangling of language. It couldn't be helped, but it wasn't fun. Least not dead? Good.

"It wasn't your-- it was my fault," Geralt said, clearly frustrated. "I was an ass." And yes, it was technically Geralt's fault, in that it was his wish that caused this. If he wanted to, Jaskier could blame him. Part of him wanted to. Most of him thought Geralt wanted him to. But really, Jaskier couldn't find it in him to be angry at Geralt. Not when he saw Geralt's face when he couldn't breathe, heard the panic in his voice demanding someone tell him where to find a sorcerer to fix it.

Jaskier smoothed the earth, tamped it down a bit with his foot. Not intentional. He paused, then underlined it. He could faintly hear Geralt make a displeased noise, and added, Didn't know you had wishes.

There was a moment's pause, then Geralt said softly, "And yet, here we are."

Jaskier couldn't think of anything to say to that, not that he could fathom writing in the dirt, so he just reached over to pat Geralt's arm, in comfort or reassurance or forgiveness? He wasn't sure. Geralt just frowned deeper and sighed. Jaskier didn't like that frown. It was a sad frown, a guilty frown, one that made him think Geralt was internally flogging himself over something he hadn't tried or intended to do.

Not. Your. Fault. Jaskier wrote, after smoothing the ground again. Rather be alive. Other people maybe let me die. But not you. Better.

Geralt put his hand on Jaskier's, stilling his scrawling in the dirt before he can try to add more. "I'm still going to fix it," he said. There was a long pause as Geralt fell silent again, and Jaskier itched to write more, to fill the silence with even the idea of his words, but he could see more words trying to order themselves in Geralt's mouth, and he didn't want to spook Geralt into not saying them.

"I'm sorry, Jaskier," Geralt said, eventually, almost too soft to hear. He cleared his throat and continued a little louder. "You're not a pie with no filling. Not you, not your singing. I was... I wanted you to go away, stop telling me the truth about how I was avoiding the real problem." Jaskier knew, he did, that it had been a cruel barb meant to try to get him to storm off in a huff. But it had still hurt, and it still soothed some little wound in his heart to hear it. "When I was trying to save you," Geralt continued, "I kept thinking I couldn't let that be the last thing I said to you."

Jaskier couldn't help but laugh, though it was just a brief, silent huff of air and shake of his shoulders. The last thing he remembered Geralt saying to him that night was some nonsense about apple juice. He didn't point that out, even in writing, because really, that wouldn't have been much better, and also because he knew that wasn't what Geralt meant.

He couldn't let the last thing he'd said to Jaskier before they were in crisis mode, the last thing he'd said that he'd remember later, be something cruel.

Thanks, Jaskier wrote. Appreciate you tried.

"Wasn't good enough," Geralt rumbled under his breath, but he looked at least slightly less like he wanted to throw himself into a lake as penance, and Jaskier would take that. He smiled up at Geralt, weak but at least sincere, because it did mean a lot to him, that Geralt was that desperate to try to save him, and was this torn up by his failure to save all of him.

"Well," Geralt said, apparently uncomfortable with the implied forgiveness Jaskier kept offering, "do you need anything?"

A voice? Jaskier thought, his smile fading and his shoulders drooping slightly. An identity that isn't built around my words? The ability to undo everything I did to provoke you? But nothing Geralt could actually give him came to mind, so instead he shook his head. The light was fading, and they still needed to make supper and eat, so Jaskier pushed himself to his feet and right into Geralt's chest, not having noticed the larger man move so much closer to him. Geralt caught his arm to keep him from losing his balance and then, looking almost uncertain but deeply determined, pulled Jaskier into a hug.

He was trying to be comforting, working off of an uncertain and ill-used script, but doing his best for Jaskier's sake, and Jaskier choked on the tears that tried to well up in his eyes. He would not cry, even though the physical affection and comfort was something he hadn't realized he needed so badly. He just pressed his forehead to Geralt's chest and breathed in the smell of sweat and horse and leather and Geralt, willed himself to not fall apart, and tried to drink in what might be the only chance he'd have to be this close to the man he loved more than reason itself. He couldn't stand it for too long, for all he needed the embrace, and he stepped back with what he hoped was a grateful smile before jerking a thumb back over his shoulder toward camp and miming eating stew.

"Fine," Geralt said, and started to walk back, pointedly keeping Jaskier in front of him for some reason. "Get settled, supper soon."

Jaskier waited, after supper, for Geralt to fall asleep, or at least lay down silently long enough that Jaskier had to assume he was asleep, before curling in on himself and letting himself cry out all the raw emotions that Geralt's hug had pulled back up. Not the quiet still tears of that very first night but sobs, for the loss of his voice, the loss of his independence (because how would he survive without Geralt at this point, he had no skills to speak of besides music), the loss of the very core of his identity. He felt lost and isolated and the fact that he could sob so hard and the only sound was the faint exhalation of air made everything even worse.

He wasn't sure how long he cried, until it petered out into sniffles and he had to blow his nose a few times into his handkerchief, even if the sniffling didn't stop. He tried to steady his breathing, stop the silent hiccuping breaths that he associated with small children crying themselves sick, and didn't hear the sounds of Geralt getting up and moving until suddenly he felt Geralt laying down behind him on his bedroll, on top of the blankets, an arm slung over his waist. Where the embrace earlier had forced him to fight back tears, this contact - as unexpected and bizarre as it was - settled Jaskier almost immediately, his trembling breaths slowly evening out to match steady rhythm of Geralt's breathing.

He was exhausted, and quickly found himself drifting off to sleep, wondering absently if he wasn't asleep already, to get to feel secure and soothed by Geralt's solid presence at his back.

He definitely imagined, as he let go of that last scraps of consciousness, that he felt lips press against his hair.

(Part 1) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7) (Part 8) (Part 9) (Part 10)

Now on AO3

[whatdoesshedotothem]

Saturday 8 August 1835

8 ¼

12 ¾

No kiss. Very fine morning - very kind note from Lady Stuart de R- more thanks for the table - hopes I shall not leave London till after Wednesday that she may see me again - breakfast at 9 ½ -  considering with A- and till 12 ¼ wrote copy of note to Mr Johnson about the schools - A- went to Mr Dumergue again at 11 for about ½ hour - left her to go at 1 to dine with Mrs Plowes (glass coach and laquais de place) and drove to Whitehall - there at 1 - sat about ¾ hour with Lady Stuart and Lady V- The former in a stew about Thrupp in Oxford Street  her coach maker to whom it seems she owes seven hundred pounds carriage hire and accumulations   Thrupp wanted paying and Lord S- bound himself with his mother for her paying him by instalments of fifty six pounds odd per annum   the bill drawn by Mr Stuart (Charles  I suppose) came this morning or rather notice of its being due the man could not wait must have money  no draft would be take  Lady S- did not understand it we had Thrupp’s impertinence talked over  Lady S- has Lord Stuart’s chariot will have nothing more to do with Thrupp in which I joined till I saw into the thing (saw the paper left by Thrupp’s banker’s clerk or messenger) and advised

SH:7/ML/E/18/0077

Lady S- merely to send the notice of the bill being due to her own banker and desire him to honour that is pay it   Lady S- glad I had happened to be there to tell her what to do   Vere said nothing  had I offered the money it would have been taken but of course I knew better   Lady S- fears my lord is laying out a great deal at Highcliffe and wonders where it is to come from how they are all running to ruin  let it be a lesson to me. From Whitehall drove to the National school, and left my note to the ‘revered Mr Johnson, central National school, Westminster’ - then to Colnaghi’s - stopt at the door to say I would look at the books on perspective - should be in town till Monday - to see the British museum now closed to strangers (open to students) should write to the secretary ‘the revered Josiah Forshall Secretary to the British museum’ - then drove to 34 Hertford street - lady Gordon not at home - sent up my card - admitted to Georgiana - Lady G- very ill in bed with so bad a headache could not see her - Alice in Herefordshire - lady S- and Georgiana going to Scotland (per steam to Edinburgh) passage take for Wednesday - staid about 5 minutes and then to Lady Mexboroughs’ - very kind and glad to see me - shewed me the company rooms above and below - went down to luncheon and had excellent prime-cut exprès pour moi - asked me very kindly to visit her at Methlay - hoped I would go - Lady Sarah and Arthur Savile with us at luncheon - gave lady M- Thorpe’s address 28 or 38 Bedford street Covent garden, and said if Lady Hardwicke really wished to sell any of her books perhaps he would give as much for them as anybody would - then drove to 16 Orchard street - Miss Hall not in London - in the North - wrote in pencil at the corner of my card ‘Saturday 8 August 1835’ - then to the Pantheon, new bazaar, in Oxford street just to take a peep at and inquire about the sketch we admired the other day - yes! really by the Turner T- R.A. price 4 guineas done when he was very young, and given to his friend Dr. Monroe - would not now give lesson under any possible circumstances - would not put pencil to paper under 20 guineas - Dr. M- had a collection of sketches by 1st rate artists - the collection was sold - then some difficulty in finding Taylor the publisher 6 Barnard’s Inn, Holborn - a long but tidy narrow passage at the end of which T-‘s house - sometime there - saw only his clerk - bought Banks on a millwheels etc etc and got 10 pc taken off little thought A- had been there before and bought duplicates (full price) of the perspective I got for her and a little 2/. pamphlet on repairing roads - home at 4 ½ - A- has locked up my journal - beside myself at the disappointment - asleep - dressed - at Lady Stuart’s to dinner at 7 10 - only herself and Lady VC- very kind and glad to see me - dinner at 7 ½ - Miss Hyrioth came in the evening - Charlotte S- spending the day in Grosvenor square at Lady Cunnings’ - Lady S- de R- and Louisa gone to Hatfield - Lady S- begged me to write to Lady Harriet - V- can always receive anything free thro’ Mr. Cameron’s cousin by marriage the ‘Honourable Fox Maule, Home office, London’ - V- goes on Wednesday - to spend 2 nights at Lady Northlands’ and .:. be 3 days on the road 57 miles to ‘Brafield House Olney Bucks’ - I may send what I like (in moderation i.e. any  moderate quantity sheets of paper) thro’ Mr. FM. so asked V- to write to me often and said I would scribble her something or other in return, busy as I was - she said I must have a hoard somewhere, or coal or something must yield a great deal or how could I build Inns and talk of a house in London etc - hoped I should not ruin myself - I hope not said I - but, if I do, my little friend Miss W- must help me out - come to me said V- I will keep you - I said A- had a very good fortune - but I should take care -had no thought of an house in London perhaps for these 10 years to come - V- said she knew not how it was, she always associated the idea of me with her travels - it seemed as if I had been with her everywhere I had given away her place - I laughed and said it was she who had taken 3 (Donald and 2 children) into mine - she said she had seen no antiquities in Rome as she ought to have done for want of me - She said she was jealous   it was joke but somehow she was  for her   very affectionate  I almost fancied she really liked me in some degree   as great as her small quantity  of warm feeling would permit. Seemed pleased at my promise to go and see her in Scotland and perhaps in Bucks - she said she should be delighted to come to Shibden sometime or other - Miss Hyrioth had walked - I set her down in passing and got home at 11 - A- had returned at 9 ½ and had had tea - Mr Thomas Edwards very ill - Mrs Plowes with him - A- had dined with the children and then gone to Mr TE-’s and sat about a couple of hours with Mrs P- no hope of Mr John E-‘s recovery - had made his will - say up talking about an hour - very fine day - F68° at 12 ¾ tonight - V- accidentally mentioned that her Perrelet-watch did not go very well - not at all well till Jefferson in Bruton street (the best in London) watchmaker or cleaner one or other had it to clean - she said it had never been visitée at all - V- owned she had bought it in a great hurry - P- had only a week to get it ready in and had a very small stock of watches by him at the time.

[it-lives-in-westchester]

ILITW Fanfic

A/N: So PB crushed all of my hopes and dreams....which was also a great motivation for finishing this fanfic. This is how I personally think MC and Redfield!Noah first meeting went. It’s just filled with my own headcanons and such. Never published any fanfics here before, so please be gentle with me.  Named MC Claudia because that is the name I gave her while playing. 

Word count: 5272

Warnings: Some bad language and mentions of death/suicide.

The woods around the small town of Westchester, Oregon always had this eerie energy to it. Everyone knew about the wild animals that lived there, especially after the “feral animals” attacks last year. Even without the animal attacks during the homecoming dance at Westchester High, every generation could remember a tragic event that happened in those woods. 

There are unmarked graves of people who were sacrificed in witch rituals. A sass suicide that happened in the 70s seemingly done by a creepy cult. Countless mysterious deaths that might have just been accidents or gruesome murders. More people one can count who walked into the woods and never came out again. 

Claudia Harrington was well aware of the tragedies that have happened in the woods, after all, she had lived through two of them up close. Still kinda a miracle she survived both of those events, she was not sure if that was a blessing or not. Feeling more numb than ever and her insomnia getting worse than ever.

This was the 3. time this month she had tried to make a new system with the stuff in her room. Maybe she should listen to her mom more often with her having too much stuff in there. Opening one of her drawers, it was a pile of papers, that could have been from anywhere from a week ago or 5 years ago. She sighed deeply and started to make three different piles, one to keep, one that was just blank paper she could reuse and one to throw away. God, there was a lot of crap in there she noted. 

Essays from High school, Reports of stuff, notes from Ava, drafts of short stories she had written, essays from her first year at college, checklists. Then something caught her attention. A handwritten letter, it was her handwriting she was sure of it. 

"Happy Birthday!" was the first thing written on it. There were no memories she had written this. She continued reading it a bit curious. 

"I can't believe you and Jane wou…." Claudia crumbled the piece of paper and threw it in the trash.

Now she remembered it was a stupid thing her consular said she should try. Writing letters to people that they would never read just say everything you wanted to tell them. Claudia did not feel like it helped a whole lot. She thought she had thrown them all away, guess she had not done that. 

Continued to look through the paper pile. However, the “letter” she found earlier was the only thing that was on her mind. After a few minutes, she picked up the crumpled piece of paper from the trash and started to read for herself.

Happy Birthday!

I can’t believe you and Jane would have turn 18 today, I know kind of unbelievable, it seemed like it was just yesterday we believe turning 18 meant we were finally adults, oh how wrong we were right? 

For being honest with you Noah I have no idea what to write here. This whole thing just feels wrong knowing you are not really gone. I just hope you are doing well, wherever you are. 

You’re probably not, but hey I can pretend right?

Good wishes, Claudia. 

After reading the whole thing Claudia swallowed a bit. She could not believe she had written this crap almost 2 years ago. Damn, it already been two years since it all happened? It still felt so fresh in her mind. It still stung, after finally reconnecting with Noah after years of not talking to each other. Feeling like things would be okay between them for the first time in a long while. 

But then he had to throw all of that away, lying to her face about everything. Luring her and all of her friends to a messed up game of “Are you scared?”. Knowing full well it could end with death. 

Oh, how she wished she could hate him for it, after all, he had threatened her with a knife and almost killed everyone because of sheer stupidity, but she could not do it. Still feeling terrible about the fate that Noah Marshall had met all those years ago in the ruins in the woods.   

The "official" story about what happened to him, was that he had a mental breakdown because of unchecked mental illnesses and trauma with losing his sister at such a young age. Delusional and hurt going back to the unsafe caves where his sister died in a hope that it could bring her back. The cave collapsed with him inside and killed him. 

It was dumb, but what else were the townsfolks of Westchester gonna believe. That the corrupt spirit of his sister manipulated him and then convinced it might be a good idea to sacrifice all of their friends in a hope to free her. Then sacrificing himself in the end so he could free her from that awful half-life she had been living for 10 years. Of course not. Sometimes Claudia even had a hard time believing it as the truth. Even though she witnessed it from start to finish. Still hoping she would see him again in the hallways at school during her senior year of high school.     

It was still bothering her on some level that everyone, including her, was just to ignore it. Like everyone did last time after what happened to Jane. This time around they had decided to keep contact, but still. 

It could all happen again, right? Some other stupid kids finding the ruins and getting the same life as Claudia and her friends had been living. No that could not happen. They had not fixed anything, it would come back. Maybe when they are 30 or something and has to deal with the consequences then.  

Looking at the clock, it was around 04:45 am. Looking out of the window it was dark the only thing she could see was the snow on the ground that reflected the moon lightning. Maybe she should..no was she crazy?  

Going back was the whole reason this all started again but at the same time. If she knew earlier that Redfield was gone and it was Jane, could she have prevented it? All that damage? All those deaths? Besides she was not tired so better do something that might be effective and not just scroll through social media till the sun came up, that had seemed to become a habit of lately. 

Thank god her parents were gone for the weekend, so they did not have to question her on what she was doing at 05:00 am. Putting on her winter coat and boots while going outside to her backyard. Going past the tree Cody died in and then entering her shed.   

It had been a while she had been inside the shed behind her house. An old flashlight that was her fathers was on a shelf, that could be useful. After picking up the that she noticed her bat, Barb lying against the wall. That might come in handy in case things went south like last time she thought, then she grabbed it before going out in the woods.  

The woods had not changed over these past 2 years. Tall trees that made it impossible to see the night sky. Weird noises in a lot of places but certain areas where there was not a single sound you could hear. Having a weird feeling that someone or something was always watching you. It almost felt like for each step she took into the woods the heavy feeling in her chest became bigger. At least the snow on the ground made it easier to see where she was going, maybe the flashlight was not necessary. 

Finally, she arrived at the clearing, this was here her, Ava, Andy, and Noah had found Dan in the woods, that seemed like it was forever ago. 

Halfway to the ruins now, you can do it. 

However when she was halfway through the clearing suddenly she heard a tree branch snap. 

Almost just by instinct, Claudia turned around. What the hell was that noise? Behind her was nothing, maybe it was a bird or another small animal… c’mon Claudia that can’t be it. She took a better grip on her bat. 

“Hello?” She said with a bit of uncertainty in her voice. Looking around between the trees, for something, anything. Nothing, just darkness looking back at her. Turning on her flashlight and she started to flash it between the trees like it would comfort her a lot more if she saw something like a deer. Even then the flashlight was old, maybe older than her, so it was not like it did help to see what was between the trees. She tried to listen if any more noises came, but nothing more happened. Nothing felt too of either. She dropped her shoulders a bit, hadn't even noticed how much tension she had put on them. 

C'mon, I am not even there at the ruins yet, it just my mind playing tricks on me. 

However, when she turned around to walk deeper in the woods she stopped. Two bright lights were staring right at her, with a dark shadow surrounding it, like ink spilling over. Her first reaction was to get away, far away. It was kinda a blur what happened next, it was just her acting on fear and panic at the moment. She was not even sure if she had screamed or not.  

The next thing she could see was the stars filling the night sky with no clouds in sight. Claudia looked up trying to catch her breath. Had she fallen over? She tried to collect all of her thoughts in her head.

What the hell, what the hell, what the hell!? Okay just think.

What she had seen was what she thought, right? Wait that would mean…..

She bolted up, nothing was in front of her. No no-no-no. She frantically started to look around the place. It was real right? No hallucination or her lack of sleep made this up. She had seen it, what she had been looking for the reason she was even here in the first place.  

Then she stopped looking around when she noticed the glowing eyes staring at her from behind a tree. When it saw that Claudia was looking at it, it came out of hiding. The glowing eyes belonged to a tall thin shadow creature. She noticed that it seemed to be floating a bit of the ground. The shape was like a man, with a head and arms. So from a distance, it would just look like that, a silhouette of a person. However, if you looked closer you could see that the arms were freakishly long with long sharp fingers at the end of them, and it was a lot taller than an average man.    

"Hey" Rising from the ground and started to walk towards the shadow creature. "Didn't mean to do that, you just surprised me"

She noticed for each step she took the distance between them did not change. It took around five steps before she realized what was happening

For each step, she took forward the shadow took a step backward. 

When she stopped walking so did the shadow creature. 

"Okay then….I'll just stand here then, good for you?" 

Planting her feet on the ground. Redfi...Noah was also standing still now. On the other side of the clearing. Just looking at her while holding a hand towards his "jaw". Not much of a conversation. 

Guess I have to be the one to break the ice.  

"Hello….how are you doing?" That made her cringe in an instance, oh Jesus Christ what kinda question was that. This was also the first time it dawned on her that she had no plans on what to do next. Damn those impulsive thoughts in her head. Well, now it was too late to go back with this. 

There was no response to her question. Just the natural sounds from the woods like birds and other small creatures coming back to her. 

Well, what kind of response was she expecting?

Oh, I have been doing well Claudia, you know expect for this whole being dead thing. Besides that great.

"That was a stupid question, I just realized that" She awkwardly continued. "Maybe you should say something instead because I suck at this as you can see" Could not help herself to laugh nervously after that. Like this was an awkward family reunion with an uncle asking what’s your plan after college and not her talking to an all-powerful forest spirit who could destroy the whole town if it felt like it. It did not seem like Noah even heard her saying anything or he had the most minimalistic reactions to things, she was about to continue talking.

Then she noticed that his eyes were not staring at her directly, but rather her hand. Was still holding a strong grip on Barb, wasn't she?

Oh shit, did I hit him? shit shit shit shIT! No, relax just….

Taking a few seconds of considerations before she dropped the bat on the ground, and then kicked it far enough away she could not reach for it. Noah’s glance followed the bat and then went back into staring right into her eyes when it was out of reach. 

“See… Don’t want to hurt you” she tried to give a small smile to show that she was genuine. In hindsight, that statement was almost ridiculous. What would a bat with barbed wire do against an undead forest spirit? Like if he wanted he could have probably just thrown her against a rock breaking her back in an instant. Maybe he could just drop her onto a tree, as Jane did with Cody, better just break Claudia's neck in on swift motion or maybe I should stop thinking about all the ways I could die, sounds like a plan. 

No big reactions from Noah unfortunately, the only thing he did was staring at her again, like he was studying her. 

Why isn’t he saying anything? 

Claudia almost felt like that made it worse than it was. It was not like Redfield or Jane was that talkative in this type of state either, but they were talking, be it pretty simple. 

She did not know what would have felt worse between him saying nothing or him taunting her for letting him die because she was a coward like the others would have done. At this point, she was not even sure if coming back was a good idea at all. 

C’mon, I can’t give up this easily. I have to try to say something different.

“Can you talk?” that came out a lot more annoyed than Claudia intended to sound like, now it almost felt dumb asking. At least it got a reaction out of Noah, he was now tilting his head and his eyes widened she could see that the colors in them turned neon blue. Almost like he was taken back by the question. 

“.....yesssssss...?” 

Claudia felt every hair on her body rise. Even felt like the temperature had gone more down. That voice was the same voice that had been haunting her nightmares for years. The whispering voice that seemed to break through the silence like nails against a chalkboard. Still, even if it sounded nothing like Noah, it had to be him, right? It could not be anyone else? Maybe he remembered nothing so she could not even say it was him, because nothing that made him Noah Marshall was even left. 

Jane had remembered, right? Even after 10 years and without the advantage of any of her friends knowing it was her. So he had to remember something, he had to remember Claudia, right? 

“Do you remember me?” There was no point dodging the question, Claudia just had to know if he did remember. Hoping there was still something of her old friend in there. 

This was the first in a long time he broke eye contact and was looking at the ground instead. Claudia tried to take one step forward, this time he did not seem to mind. It almost looked like he was too deep in his thoughts to even notice. 

“My name is Claudia, Claudia Harrington, I am… your friend?” She said that last part almost in a whisper, like who knows what to even call their relationship at this point. They have not seen or talked to each other for almost two years. Last time they talked he had held a knife against her throat and then she let him kill himself. What do you even call that? Besides all types of messed up. 

"Claudia..mm?" He said most likely to himself. She tried to walk a few more steps. Without a warning, he turned his gaze back to her and Claudia stopped right in her track holding her breath. Feeling like it got stuck in her throat. 

He was not moving, she was not sure if it was her imagination or not, but it felt like everything had turned eerily quiet even more than before. Nothing that was living in the woods was making any noises now or knew to stay far away from where they were standing. 

She could hear her heart hammering in her chest and she was wondering if Noah could hear it too. 

Why did I not tell anyone what I was planing before going out here? Well, they would have probably tried to stop me. Oh, fucking christ I'm gonna die here. Aren't I?

To Claudia, it almost looked like his eyes was flickering a bit. Then he started to float a bit closer to her, but when he was just about 6 feet away he stopped. He promptly straightens up all of a sudden, It almost looked like he remembered something else.

".....leave.."

"What!? Wait What?" 

Claudia had no idea how to respond or what to do with this. Was she supposed to just leave? Stay? Ask what he meant by "leave"? Had she said something wrong? Was he mad at her for everything that happened? Was there just something else unrelated? What had she done wrong? Her thoughts ran rampant. This was not making any sense to her. 

Claudia looked up from the ground and Noah had not done anything. None of them had done anything. She noticed that his eyes seem to flicker a bit between the usual white, neon blue, and orange flames. 

"No, I am not leaving until you answer my question," She said trying to sound as brave as possible. 

"Do you remember me? Yes, or No" Trying to sound tough as hard when every instinct in her screamed she should run away and never look back. 

Noah backed away and looked a bit to the left. Seemingly trying to avoid all eye contact with her. 

"......Leave.." he said again, lower this time. 

"No, answer my question!" Yelling back at him. 

It seemed to get a reaction out of him. Turning his head and looking directly at her, she felt like his eyes were piercing through her soul. 

Noah started to float a bit closer to Claudia, without breaking eye contact. He bends down so he was just a few inches away from her face. If he had been human Claudia would probably felt him breathing right up in her face and smelt his breath. Had she finally got him to remember something?

"LEEEEAVE!" 

Claudia felt ringing in her ears that made her put her hands against her ears by reflex. She also closed her eyes shut to respond to the pain. 

Nope, did not make him remember anything, just made it worse. Of course, I made it worse.

Slowly she opened her eyes. A face of nightmares was looking straight at her. The familiar skeletal face and bright orange eyes of flames. Which made her close her eyes immediately back again. 

This situation is probably one where most would have run away screaming and never look back. Claudia was considering it. A part of her did not want to go until she got answers and a part of her felt frozen. 

She was still holding her eyes shut. Nothing was happening, was he just standing in front of her? She knew something was in front of her and it was not moving. He had not hurt or touched her and the only thing he wanted was her leaving right?

She started to chant under breath

"I am not scared, I am not scared, I am not scared, I am not scared, I am not sc…"

"Huh….?" The whispering voice responded

Taking a deep breath, before opening her eyes again facing him.  

"I am not scared of you" His eyes widened a bit like he was not expecting her to say that. "And I am not leaving you either," She said with the best poker face she was able to do while her heart felt like it would burst out of her ribcage at any moment. 

The skeletal face with flame eyes was gone and the shadowy face with big neon blue eyes was back again. He backed away as well so he was not right up in her face and was standing a few feet away again.

"I am not leaving you okay, not again, I promise" Claudia took a hand towards him. He looked at it, almost unsure what she meant by it, Claudia continued talking:

"You don't deserve this, and I should have come back sooner, but I am here now, right?"  

Trying to give a small smile. Noah glanced between her face and her hand. She stretched out her arm a bit closer to him. Maybe so he could take the hint. 

"So maybe, we can be friends again?" 

Suddenly Claudia saw that he tried to reach for her hand, but then he suddenly stopped. Almost frozen at the moment. He stood there for about half a minute. 

"no" he started to say. He took back his hand. "no no no" 

Claudia wanted to say something but Noah continued talking to himself seemingly forgetting that Claudia was even standing in front of him. 

"Why back?.....worst...no no-no" He was hiding his face in his hands. Shaking his head back and forth. He continued rambling to himself for a while most of the words Claudia was catching was: "bad" "why" and "no". 

"Noah? It's okay just…."

“DON’T!”

It seemed like the orange flames’ eyes were back again for a solid second. They disappeared just as quickly and he looked down at his own two hands and then at Claudia again.     

".....Bye," he whispered and then turned around to leave her.

"Wait you can't just go!?" Claudia Yelled at him. He did not seem to care and continued floating away from her. 

"After everything you did you can't just leave, you owe me something," she said in frustration. “bye” he replied with again. She ran so she was standing in front of him now and he stopped right in his track.    

"What do you even want me to say or do?"

"...leave..." He said while walking straight through her. It did not feel much kinda like a cold breeze that went past her. Still made her shudder an insane amount.

“Hey!” She yelped and turned around to see him, still did not stop. 

"...bye….leave..." he said again, waving a hand at her. 

“I just want to talk! Come back! Please” It seemed like nothing she said was changing his mind, he was on the other side of clearing now. There was so much she wanted to say and in the end, she finally shouted at him:

“I’m sorry, OKAY!” she noticed Noah stopped walking away.

“.....what?” He turned around with wide eyes. Well no point holding back now, if she was never gonna see him again at least she can say everything she wanted to tell him before being gone forever. Taking a deep breath before continuing.

“I am sorry for everything that happened between us two.

I am sorry I trusted Redfield even though you were right about him. 

I am sorry that I couldn’t save Jane from him as well.

I am sorry I left you after what happened to her. 

I am sorry that you are…you’re..that you...” That was it, she broke, started to choke on a sob. Tears were starting to block her vision. She hid her face in her hands and continued to sob loudly to herself. When her knees started to feel weak she fell on the forest floor. 

Maybe it was naive thinking that just spilling everything out was gonna make her feel or even make the situation at hand better. 

It felt like an aching pain in her chest like her heart was being crushed by a pressure she could not see. 

It was almost painful to breathe in. God if she started to throw up she would just die on the spot she felt like. 

Guilt

That one terrible feeling she had felt constantly since the homecoming night. Been eating at her soul ever since everything happened. Thinking about all the things she could have done differently. 

What if she was not an idiot as a child and backed away when a real-life ghost story wanted to be her friend.

What if she tried to talk to Noah after what happened to Jane, instead of a mutual avoidance of each other. 

What if she had taken Jane’s place instead of being coward. 

What if she had just tried harder to convince Noah it was another way to end Jane's messed up game.

None of her friends seemed to understand that. It did not matter how many times they told her "It's not your fault, you couldn't have stopped this" It still felt like it was her fault. Their choice that night was between life or death. They did not have to choose between killing another person or themself. 

For Claudia, it felt like two people she cared about died because of her. Maybe she shouldn't feel bad after all those two tried to kill her and all of her friends. Still, she knew all the suffering they had gone through how much could have been prevented was the question if she had done different choices. Now she had the possibility to make amends with one of them and she messed up that too. 

God, why can't I do anything right anymore? C'mon when was I doing anything right ever. 

“...Stop crying..”

“What?” She looked up, her vision was a bit blurry because of the tears, but she did notice Noah was standing in front of her now, instead of the other side of the clearing. Then he lowered himself so they were more eye to eye. 

“...Don’t cry….” He hesitantly reached out a hand and slowly patted her head for a while. She barely felt it, but that was definitely what he was doing. 

"..Is..okay.." he continued talking with a bit of uncertainty, "… don't say sorry….is okay..." was he?

“....Are you comforting me?” Claudia did not know what to think, what was happening? Her worst childhood trauma, the monster who has been haunting her half her life, seemingly trying to cheer her up after upsetting her. When just moments earlier it seemed like he wanted nothing to do with her. 

He froze immediately after she asked that. Almost like this was the first time he realized what he was actually doing. 

“....working..?” He stopped doing, whatever he was doing. Holding his hands together, waiting for her response. It was hard reading his expression, it was after all just two bright lights that looked at her. It did not look like he had any anger behind his eyes like before as far as Claudia could tell.

“Yeah, we can say that” Claudia responded while wiping her tears away. 

At least he did not leave like she feared he was going to do. It was kinda sweet, in a weird way. Maybe it was more of her old friend in there, someone who did care about her.

“....sorry too...” He quietly said. it was almost so low Claudia almost did not catch it at all.

“....hurt you...didn’t I?". He was fiddling with his fingers now and looking lower than before. 

"you could say it like that" Claudia responded, a bit unsure what he was talking about this time. 

"Sorry," he said again to her. "Sorry… messed up….sorry"

He could be talking about what had just happened, but Claudia's gut feeling was saying he was talking about something else. The whole reason why both of them were even here, to begin with. 

"So, you do remember me?"

It was a few seconds of silence, Claudia feared a moment she had messed up again. Nevertheless, Noah started to nod a bit. Even looked like he was rolling with his eyes a bit.

"yes..of course…" she noticed that his eyes seemed to be smiling after he said that, if that even any made sense.

That made Claudia smile as well, she could feel her cheeks hurting. 

"I knew you would" She finally said and she felt the tears were coming back again.

"wait… don't cry" 

She started to laugh at that comment. 

"No no, don't worry, I am crying now because I am so happy" She started to explain. It seemed like he tensed down a bit after she explained herself. 

Then they were both sitting in silence for a while, what now? She had to admit it was kinda nice just sitting there with Noah. It was still something left of him inside this shadowy figure, now the question was how to save it. She had no ideas at the moment. Also what was she even gonna tell her friends, they were not so forgiving on what Noah had done. Also with the way he first responded to seeing her again, not the best reaction she could have hoped for. Guess she could tell them later when the time was right. 

What snapped her out of her thoughts was a low hissing sound that seemed to get louder. Suddenly Noah went away and hid behind the treelines. Before Claudia could ask what was wrong she felt sunlight hitting her face that made her squint. 

She had not noticed how bright it had gotten these past few hours. Guess fearing the ghost of a childhood friend might not even remember you were a bigger issue.

"Yeah….not a fan of sunlight I guess" Remembering how Redfield and Jane had reacted to it as well. She turned around where Noah was hiding between the trees. 

"no...hurts a lot" Noah hissed while looking down where the sun was shining.   

"I can come to visit again…. Next week? sounds good?" She gave him a thumbs up. He looked at her gesture for a while, before he copied it back. Then he was gone. 

Claudia walked to were Barb was and picked the bat up. 

"Well looks like I didn't need you," she said to it. She also realized that she never really apologized for potentially hitting Noah in the face, well could do that another time. 

 The woods were not as creepy with the morning lights shining through the tree. After around 15 minutes, she finally arrived back at her house. Going straight to her bedroom and crashed on her bed until the late afternoon.

[celosiaa]

steady, love (chapter 2)

Summary:

Martin is not doing well.

Jon is there with him through every step.

(because I became obsessed (tm) with the idea of Martin dealing with the physical and emotional aftermath of leaving the Lonely)

Chapters 1-5 are up on ao3 under the same username!

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8)

Martin awakens slowly, as if floating up from the bottom of a pool. Sensation returning to his heavy limbs, he becomes gradually aware of the heat enveloping him.  Not a burning heat, not the Desolation—just warmth all around.  It’s been such a long time since he’s truly felt warm that he is very nearly lulled back to sleep by the sheer comfort of it all—when a chill runs through his body, and he is startled back into full consciousness.

Ah. That’ll be the fever, then.

Sweeping a hand over his brow, he curls his nose in displeasure at the sweat he finds beaded there.  He startles again when something next to him moves in response.  Head whipping around, eyes wide, he prepares to face whatever monstrosity has crept into his bed, when he realizes—it’s Jon.

God, it’s Jon.  In my bed.  In our bed.

He sleeps with his face turned toward Martin, a hand lying draped across his arm, hair hanging loosely across his face.  Martin has rarely seen him in such an unguarded moment, looking so peaceful, so trusting—his chest swells with the dawning remembrance of the kiss they had shared that night. It had been so gentle, so filled with love, so warm—

Martin takes a deep inhale to settle his butterflies.  Upon exhaling, his breath catches quickly as he realizes that thick tendrils of smoke are now streaming from his mouth.

Gasping and clapping his hands over his mouth, he shoots up to a seated position, holding his breath in shock, heart pounding, mind racing.

Nonono please god don’t tell me this has all been a lie please please—

He tentatively exhales a bit more, chest on fire—but there is nothing.  No more smoke.  Relieved, he wheezes out rapid, shaky breaths, leaning forward to ease his attempts to slow them down.  His nose immediately starting dripping, and he wipes a sleeve across it, disgusted with himself even as he does so.

Did I dream that?  Was I hallucinating?

Behind him, a soft noise of discomfort catches his attention.  Jon rolls onto his back, furrowing his brow and curling his arms into himself, away from the sudden draft that has invaded his now-absent blanket cocoon.  Seeing this sends a pang of guilt through Martin, and he lies down once again, pulling the blanket back over his and Jon’s shoulders.  He closes his eyes and desperately prays that it had all been a dream.

A few minutes pass this way, Jon snuggling a bit closer to Martin’s warmth in the meantime.  Martin finds himself still locked in the struggle to catch his breath—his nose is now completely useless, and there is a strange sensation of both airiness and weight on his chest, pressing on his lungs.  It appears that his struggle to return to sleep is going to be futile.

He sniffs heavily, the wetness amplifying the sound.

Jon shifts again at this, brow furrowing as he returns to some level of awareness.  Martin has to make a decision, and quickly.

I have to get out of here—I can’t wake him, god knows the last time he’s actually slept.

With a well-practiced noiselessness, Martin extracts himself from Jon’s side, gently tucking the blankets around him as he does.  Jon does not move again, his breathing still deep and slow.  Satisfied that he has not been disturbed, Martin moves silently across the room and through the door.

Martin excels at quietness.  This is one thing his mum had praised him for over the years—his ability to be quiet, to fade into the background, to stay of sight and mind whenever she needed.  He creeps down the steps in stocking feet, doing his best to avoid causing any of them to creak.  A chill runs through him again when he reaches the bottom of the steps and flicks the light on.  Looking longingly at the dusty blanket folded over the edge of the couch for a moment, he sniffles again and heads into the bathroom.  

Don’t look don’t look don’t look, he thinks as he passes by the mirror, keeping his head down.  He pauses, considering the roll of toilet paper for a moment, before taking the whole thing off the holder and carrying it back out with him.

Back in the living room now, Martin unfolds the dusty blanket, shaking it out for a few seconds before crumpling onto the couch beneath its folds.  Letting out a miserable sigh, he tears off a long bit of toilet paper and does his best to clear his head, ears popping uncomfortably in the process, and ends up a bit lightheaded.

Better lie back down for a bit if I can, he thinks, fluffing the pillow to his left and stretching out as much as possible on the too-short couch.

Before even a minute has passed, however, that odd airy-but-heavy feeling has landed in his chest again, causing his breaths to feel compressed, coming in short.

What is this?  Is it panic?

Testing this theory, Martin takes what is meant to be a deep, grounding breath—until it suddenly hitches near the top. A small gagging sound escapes him before his body convulses upright, driven by the painful, violent coughs bursting from his lungs, threatening to choke him, ripping through his agonized throat.  Tears gather in his eyes and run down his face as he continues, gasping for breath as the rattle in his chest struggles to clear.

Don’t wake Jon don’t wake Jon don’t wake Jon, he thinks on a loop as he tries desperately to muffle the sounds with the blanket.

Several minutes of this leave him doubled over, his head pounding with congestion and exhaustion.  His throat is on fire, but he can’t even drag himself over to the kitchen for a glass of water.

Pathetic.  Useless.

Loud.

Martin closes his eyes and leans back against the sofa, removing the blanket from his face and listening carefully for any signs of movement from upstairs.  With relief, he hears nothing save for the occasional creak of the house settling.  He smiles gratefully down at his lap.

Thanks, Sir Blanket, you worked like a charm.

Sighing wetly, he turns to stare at the pillow still welcoming him from the head of the couch, but Martin doesn’t dare to lie down again.  He’d like to keep the ability to breathe, thanks very much.  So he settles for curling up against the arm rest, supporting his head with his hand.

What was that smoke upstairs?

I feel quite certain now that I was awake.  That it was there, actually there.

It’s got to have something to do with the Lonely, doesn’t it?

With…him?

Another fever chill courses through him, and he pulls the blanket back up to his chin, curling in even tighter.

Alright, let’s not panic.  Let’s think it through.  We know it’s the Lonely.  So it’s probably bad, right?

He considers this for a few moments, coughing harshly into the blanket again.

It didn’t…feel bad, though.  It felt…warm.  And happy.  Like a weight lifted from me.

…maybe it’s the Lonely leaving me?  Maybe because I’m not alone, not anymore.

He smiles briefly at the thought.

Does it have anything to do with the fact that I’m ill?

Admitting that to himself, even just within his own thoughts, pulls a deep sense of shame from him.

What a waste.

Of time, of energy.

Jon doesn’t need another thing to shoulder right now.

He swipes a hand across his dampening brow.

In his heart of hearts, Martin knows that these things—relationships, caretaking, et cetera—are meant to be a two-way street.  He’s had many conversations with his therapist about exactly this—ever since his mum left for the care home, he’d been trying to undo his habit of constant caretaking of others.  He hadn’t made much progress in therapy, though.  Really, he couldn’t even tell her half of the bizarre things that were going on in his life unless he wanted to sound delusional.

Martin half-chuckles.

If she only knew that the Lonely existed, perhaps she’d refer everyone with the curse of caring too much there.  That’s as good a way as any to get it all torn out of you.

He pauses, taken aback.

What a bitter thought.  Is that who I am now?  A bitter old thing with white hair and beard?

He loses some time envisioning this thought, and when he comes back to himself, he is once again lying down on the couch.  The uncomfortable pressure in his chest is still present, but he finds he no longer has the strength (nor the will) to lift himself back up.

What a right mess this is.

When he coughs again, it’s deeper, more rattling—and so loud it leaves his head pounding again.

Don’t wake him don’t wake him don’t wake him

His mother’s voice turns up to berate him.

Be quiet, Martin.

Settle down, Martin.

This isn’t about you, Martin.

…

…Oh god, how high is my fever?

His thoughts continue spinning as a fitful sleep overtakes him at last, and he begins to dream.

Jon wonders now if the dreams he’s had over the years have all been this—the nightmares of others.

He had never been one for sleep, work always preoccupying his thoughts, but…this was different, now.  Now that he knows what he does to people by taking their statements, the anguish he causes—he’s found himself repulsed by the very idea of sleep.  The unfortunate reality is that, for now, some part of him is still human, and humans require sleep after so many hours of tortured wakefulness.

Tonight is no different.  Except that it is, wholly and completely.

He finds himself wandering through Martin’s dreams tonight.

He’s in a back garden, a dilapidated old thing surrounded by an iron fence laced up with weeds.  A small child in a bright red raincoat and Wellingtons runs haphazardly through the garden, splashing in a mud puddle and screaming with delight as it all flies into the air and onto his clothes.

Jon can’t help but smile at this young, carefree version of Martin, and he is contented with the fact that Martin is dreaming peacefully.  He begins looking for some way to exit, to opt out of what feels very much like spying.

The peacefulness does not last for long.

A large man, who looks so very much like Martin, bursts through the back door of the house, screaming at the child, who falls over into the puddle in shock.  Jon cannot make out the words, but as he watches the man approaching the child, his face turns into some ugly, twisted thing.  The child cries out, and—

Jon is now inside the house he had seen from the back garden, in the corner of the living room.  Martin’s parents are arguing heatedly about things he cannot hear, cannot understand, when he sees Martin—a bit older now, with long curls flowing down the back of his nightdress—creeping ever so cautiously through the house and toward the kitchen.  He collects a glass of water without being seen, without being heard, and carefully slinks back up the stairs from which he came.

Jon watches Martin’s father walk out the door.

He moves forward in time, rooted to that same corner of the living room, where he sees Martin again—this time, around eleven or twelve years old.  Already he has shot up in height, very nearly matching Jon’s own.  He is once again carefully tiptoeing through the living room, this time carrying a stack of very heavy-looking books.  Jon realizes with dread what is about to happen a split second before it does.

BANG.

Martin had dropped one of the heavy textbooks, and startled his mum awake from the couch.  She yells again, and Martin proceeds to drop the rest of the textbooks from his now shaking hands.  As he kneels down to pick them up, apologizing over and over, his mum chucks a shoe at him from where she sits.  Martin doesn’t even react.

Jon has never felt such a seething fury as the one swelling in him now.

Another time jump, and Jon finds himself cramped into a small bathroom.  Martin appears to be a young teenager now, still with dark curls cascading down his back.  He has a school uniform on now—a pleated skirt—and is leaning over the sink, sobbing.

Jon’s heart is absolutely shattered.

After a moment, Martin picks up a pair of scissors from the sink and, with a look of furious determination, mercilessly hacks at his own hair, ringlets dropping listlessly to the floor.

His work done, Martin stares at his own face in the mirror for a moment.  Leaning in, an entirely new expression crosses his face—one of realization, of understanding.  He smiles and runs a hand through his shorn locks.

The jumps are coming faster now.  Jon sees Martin in his bedroom, his chest wrapped in ace bandages, tugging at them desperately as he struggles to control the deep, wrenching coughs erupting from drowning lungs.

Martin is alone in the hospital with pneumonia, nasal cannula in his nose, watching the fog creeping in with a fevered gaze.

He sits alone at a picnic table at university, as everyone passes him by.

Eyes streaming with tears, Martin submits his form to drop out of university.

Jon watches himself slam the door in Martin’s face at the institute.  The fog is rolling across the floor in billows now.

Martin returns home to find his home completely barren—his mother moved into a care home, with no warning and all of their belongings.

Jon is lying in a hospital bed, with Martin holding his hand, trying desperately not to look at the grey tendrils wrapping around his limbs, around his heart.

Martin walks up to his mother’s casket.  The fog is no longer following him, it is him—streaming from beneath his glasses, his clothes, his skin, his mouth, choking choking choking choking—

Jon startles awake to the sound of Martin’s anguished, gasping coughing from downstairs.

Running a hand through his hair, Jon takes a moment to grieve.  Guilt floods him as the reality of his trespassing sinks in—though it had been unintentional, it was a betrayal of trust all the same.

He remembers their conversation from weeks past.

“The Lonely’s really got you, hasn’t it?”

“You know, I think it always did.”

He had been right, of course.  As always.

After a few grounding breaths, Jon divests himself of the blankets and stands, his body protesting every move.  Martin’s coughing has died out, replaced again by the silence—the same silence that Jon now knows has haunted him all his life.

Not anymore, Jon determines, tying his hair back as he begins to descend the stairs.

Not anymore, Martin.