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focsle · 3 years ago

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The mention of whale oil doughnuts has inspired me to write yet another long thing laden with primary sources about whaleship fare, ALRIGHT!!

TL;DR, it sucked!

Albert Peck, a foremast hand on the Covington in 1856 was so kind as to write down the weekly menu aboard:

“Our daily diet on board ship was as follows: On Mondays, rice for dinner, with beef and a little pork, a barrel of pork having to last as long as two of beef. Tuesday, boiled beans. Wednesdays, peas, and when these failed, rice. Thursdays, boiled flour pudding called Duff. Fridays, beans again. Saturdays, codfish and potatoes and Sundays, duff again. Breakfast, we had either potatoes and meat hashed up together, with coffee, or scouse, a mess made of ship bread soaked overnight and boiled up in the morning with beef cut up, and sliced potatoes. For supper, hard bread and beef with tea and plenty of molasses, each man being allowed a quart a week, which was amply sufficient if not wasted, and besides this we had extra messes such as a sea pie when a hog was killed, soft bread, pickles, +c.”

By way of variety, there wasn’t much to be found on a whaleship menu. Adding to the monotony the food was often in a very poor condition. William Abbe, greenhand on board the Atkins Adams in 1858, who I’ve talked about at length for his food descriptions of both the good and the ugly, can always be relied upon in expanding on the condition of his meals in the most visceral way possible.

“Our duff this noon, heavy + watery was literally filled with dirt and cockroaches. I didn’t eat a morsel of the filthy food—but sat laughing at the discoveries the fellows made as they carefully sliced their duff— ‘Hullo, heres a piece of old Thompson’s [the cook] hat” cried Johnny — “Here’s a big worm! — Look at these cockroaches!” “I’ve bit a cockroach in two—“ “Let’s make Thompson eat em when he comes below,” came from different empty mouths, while all hands roared out as Curly, finding to his disgust he was munching a boiled cockroach dashed to the slop bucket + holding out his joggy duff cried — “Who wants my duff? Does you Tom?” + finding no purchasers flung his duff into the bucket.”

On multiple whaleships the cook drew the ire of all aboard for the condition of the food. Sometimes it was from a lack of care in the cleanliness and preparation of it, largely it was because it was almost impossible to keep vermin out of the kitchen on a whaleship no matter how clean, and at all times the cook’s orders were tied to what the captain supplied him.

J.T. Langdon of the ship St Peter, 1849, was aware of the limitations of the cook based entirely on how those aft managed food, and talked about it at bitter length.

“The “Old Man” had another rough turn with the steward this morning about grub. The [crossed out—bloody miserable] old crone seems to want us to live on nothing. Nearly the same as we have lived on for the past 30 odd months. When we first came out a number of bushels of turnips and a quantity of pumpkins were left to rot rather than give them to the men; and since we have been out here too, recruits of sweet potatoes have been left in the nettings to spoil rather than the men forward should have them to eat. Such men should have their teeth pulled out and fed on slops.”

Fresh fruits, vegetables, and cheeses were picked up at various ports that whaleships would occasionally stop in for provisions. It wasn’t uncommon for whaleships to also have livestock on board such as chickens or pigs who on many instances free-roamed on the deck, sticking their hungry snouts into the pans of men eating there. In the Galapagos, whalers picked up tortoises (and played a significant role in devastating that population, believed to have taken over 100,000 tortoises between the 1780s-1860s). Fish would sometimes be caught as well, such as skipjacks, albacore, and mahi mahi (which whalers referred to in their personal accounts as porpoises or dolphins). However, fish were not considered a reliable food source to serve a whole crew and usually found themselves on the menu just because someone dropped a line down when they were bored and caught/harpooned one.

But fresh provisions soon ran dry, and it was back to breaking out the dubious casks stored below.

“Found a few bbls of meat that smelled more like carrion than beef, and the “Old Man” told the cook to use that first. I think twill go down rather hard.”

J.T. Langdon wrote, adding to his anger about the condition of the food they had to eat. In the case of the St. Peter the crew refused to eat this spoiled beef, and organized as a collective body to tell the captain such.

“After supper this evening we all went aft to see about eating the beef that was broke out for us on Tuesday. He was not at all surprised at this although he appeared to pull the wool over our eyes we plainly stated to him our grievances and wants in a respectful manner, which made him rowse up a little telling us how he had lived on whale and blackfish meat for a time on the Nor’west; but this would not go down with us and we demanded state’s allowance. He saw we were in good earnest so after while concluded to give us good beef.”

There are a number of instances of shipmates banding together to pressure the captain to improve their fare. Sometimes, like above, that work was successful. Other times it was met with the wrath of the Captain and no change in the food.

In the after cabin, it was a rather different story as far as what was eaten. Mary Lawrence, whaling wife aboard ship Addison, 1859, wrote about food that was prepared when she was entertaining other whaling officers and their families during a gam on the ship:

“We had for dinner oyster soup, boiled ham, and stewed rabbit with dumplings, a gooseberry pudding and tarts made out of bottled fruits, for tea we had fried ham, fish balls, warm biscuit, preserves, pies, plum cake, and plain cake.”

Greenhand John Perkins, of the Tiger in 1845, voiced his envy after talking with the crew of the Sheffield, who during a gam shared what their fare was like (though to me it sounds more like they were pulling his leg). Perkins felt as though the lack of good food on his ship was in some way attributed to the captain having his wife aboard the Tiger (in addition to being cheap).

“Their cook brings their scoff into the forecastle, carries back the kids & washes the pans. A hogshead of molasses is open for them, pepper, vinegar, & salt are free to them. Butter is also allowed them. They have chickens every Sunday, pancakes three times a week, scouse several times a week & potatoes & onions with limitation. The difference in our manner of living is not owing to the owners, for our ship is well fitted out as it respects provision. But our captain is a part owner & therefore wishes to spare all he can, but he also has his wife aboard & therefore wishes not to get out of potatoes, molasses, sugar, butter &c. He now denies us pork.”

Sometimes whaling wives were met with resentment for the above reasons, with the notion that they were an idle hand who was nevertheless eating better food than the men forward (though as time went on much of the cabin fare was quite similar to what the rest of the crew would have, albeit not laden with filth.) Women aboard would often make dishes of their own, such as pies and gingerbread, fruit preserves, candy, and popcorn. Sometimes it was made for themselves, husband, and other officers, but there are also instances of a number of wives making special dishes and condiments for men forward who were sick or—such as in the case of William Abbe—men who seemed to catch her fancy.

Ultimately, revolting as the food often was many found themselves growing accustomed to it, whether it was through necessity after nearly fainting one too many times of hunger from their initial inability to eat it, or because of the substantial appetite the hard labor of their job gave them regardless. It feels fitting to conclude with journalist John Ross Browne, in writing of his 4 year voyage on an unnamed whaler in 1842, about the perspective the food on board gave him.

“The life I had led since I had shipped produced such a change in me as made me a mere animal. When I got anything fit to eat, which was very rarely, I devoured it with the avidity of a starving wolf. I seldom dreamed of any thing at night but good Kentucky roast beef, peaches and cream, pumpkin pies, and all the luxuries of western life. […] I had seen the time when my fastidious taste revolted at a piece of good wholesome bread without butter, and many a time I had lost a meal by discovering a fly on my plate. I was now glad enough to get a hard biscuit and a piece of greasy pork; and it did not at all affect my appetite to see the mangled bodies of divers well-fed cockroaches in my molasses; indeed, I sometimes thought they gave it a rich flavor.”

#awhalin #long post //

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anne-i-write · 4 years ago

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moriarty the patriot headcannons pt. 1

| requested by anon: Can you write about all male characters in moriarty has a same look of their children and hpw many children they want? |

william x reader; louis x reader; albert x reader; sebastian x reader; fred x reader

word count: 2397

pt. 2: 221b boys

a/n: I DONT KNOW WHY I DIDNT WRITE THIS EARLIER IM SO SORRY THIS REQUEST HAS LITERALLY BEEN IN MY INBOX FOR SO LONG I AM SO SORRY I HOPE YOU ENJOY THIS

william: 487 words

with his whole plan to clean the world of the filthy nobles, william never really stopped to think about having children

well, until he met you

you both were in town one day and he saw you fondly watching a child speak with her mother

“i think two children would be nice”

“i didn’t even ask”

“i know, but the look you gave that mother was telling enough”

n e ways he is a simp and he did eventually give you what you wanted

fast forward a few years, you have two children: a boy and a girl

and they look exactly like their father

like,, it lowkey pains you how much they physically take after their father

you wanted to be like “oh they have your personality, but they look just like me!”

granted, your son took after you in an emotional sense but your daughter was a daddy’s girl through and through

like she looks like him, she acts like him, speaks like him, she even EATS like him

ok but the men w your children

fred is a freaking sweetheart ok

like he’ll watch over the kids when no one has the time and they love him too so they’ll help out in the garden which you are SO thankful for

tbh they only like uncle albert bc he brings them lil trinkets from when he gets back from london LMAO

louis doesn’t show it, but he absolutely adores your children and makes extra snacks for them at tea time

you caught onto this at one point bc for some REASON your kids would not stop bouncing off of the walls before bed and they told you uncle louis gave them chocolate

and sebastian loves messing w your kids bc,,, sebastian

but he accidentally made your son cry ONCE and he was at the mercy of every adult in the moriarty estate including the boy’s younger sister

needless to say, he watched his actions and words around your children after that

now, william

i’m just gonna say this straight out: most of the men never really thought about having kids (save john and albert)

but when you finally had kids, william had a different outlook on life

like fr,, this man works overtime now trying to get rid of the filth that is called nobles

he doesn’t want his kids to be raised in a world where just because you have more money than another means you get to look down on them

you still instill in them those good morals ofc

he also tries to be very present in their lives since he and his brother were raised as orphans

when he was younger, he didn’t mind it all much

but now that he had this small family and a brighter future, he did everything in his power to make sure they’re happy and grow up in a cleaner and kinder world

louis: 320 words

it took you a week to get him to at LEAST humor you

“if you could, how many kids do you want?”

“none”

like, this guy is so dedicated to his brother and his cause it is a WONDER you somehow wormed your way into his heart

but you did and honestly, the brothers are actually very happy that you’re with them

william especially

louis rarely emotes but when you came into their lives, you got louis pissed at one point and everyone was like,,,, wtf?? he has emotions???

anyways, his answer is one kid LMAO

and when you get that one kid, he looks just like louis

yall already KNOW that he’s ready to die for that child as soon as louis holds him in his arms

the only kid sebastian wouldnt even try to mess with

he can deal with william’s albert’s or fred’s kids but louis lowkey intimidates him so he’s as nice as he can be

that being said, louis teaches his kid how to properly handle stuff around the house

you want to cry bc ur son is just so??? the little kid just loves helping out no matter how small the task and he’s just so cute it hurts

even sebastian’s kinda like,, “aight he’s the only kid i will tolerate”

louis grew up with only his brothers so he also wants to give his son a shot at a normal family

is actually aware at how he thinks he’s indispensable for william’s cause and he doesn’t want his son to end up like him

he also teaches his son some badass fighting moves

oh and louis smiles a lot more too

cried bc his son saw the scar he got on his cheek, rubbed some dirt on his lil face and said “i have daddy’s cool scar now”

all in all his son is the best thing to happen to all of you

albert: 505 words

same as louis in the fact that it takes him a week to answer

“you know you haven’t even answered my question”

“i’m sorry, what did you say?”

“how many kids do you want?”

genuinely takes time to ponder that question

he hadn’t thought of that since his family adopted william and louis

but with you?

“i think two darling girls who take after their mother is enough for me”

pls he’d be so sweet 🥺🥺🥺

you two end up having a girl and a boy, who look just like their father

and tbh, you’re not even mad

you love them so much so when albert comes back north, the three of you are ecstatic

the happiness was short lived for albert tho

he found his son spending time with william and there’s nothing bad right????

“where’s your sister?”

“she’s with mr. moran”

his heart DROPPED

out of all the people in the manor

HIM

he sees the two running around the garden

it all happened as soon as albert’s daughter went up to sebastian and said “you’re very pretty! you’re my knight now!”

he decided to “adopt” the little girl and now he’s lowkey whipped

you found albert staring at sebastian playing with his daughter and updated him about everything going on

“but him??”

“he’s just a big softie for her let it go”

isn’t really surprised when he finds out they can fight a little

actually glad that they can hold their own, God forbid anything happens to them

otherwise mi6 has to deal w family matters lmao

“albert, she only tripped”

“you shouldve seen the fear in her eyes as she fell”

“IT WAS A STRAY COBBLESTONE”

would raise hell if anyone even THOUGHT ill of his kids

william and louis are the doting uncles

william more so than louis bc your kids have never seen louis smile

now they’re on a mission to make uncle louis smile

louis was on child duty one day and they managed to slip away

omyGOD he was stressed but also,, extremely worried

so when he found them he had the most genuine smile on his face

your daughter was like (・∀・)

she loves uncle louis

ofc your son adores his dad like,,, who else wouldn't feel awesome at the age of 10 if you found out your dad was a high ranking general

feels superior to sebastian bc of his dad

lmao this 4’5 kid thinks he can rule sebastian for some odd reason

the house is always dirty bc him and sebastian always prank each other

your daughter is trying to catch a butterfly but she can’t so fred helps

instantly loves fred

“is that what heartbreak is”

“i guess that’s what happens when you try to get close to my kids colonel”

albert is kind of afraid of turning into his dad but he has you and everyone else to remind him that: no you are not your father, you are so much better than him

loves your family with his entire being

sebastian: 844 words

“i see you looking at those kids and the answer is none”

lmao you’ll get so pouty around him bc you want kids dammit

that and he spoils you to no end so that's why you’re pouty lol

“fine we’ll only do one kid and bc one kid is all i can tolerate”

bruh

this man gives you three in four years LMFAO

two boys a year apart and a girl in the fourth year

you wanted to smack sebastian

when the two boys grew up, it was obvious they were already taking after their father in the physical sense

it was terrifying

they genuinely look like mini sebastians and you know everyone in the manor is afraid that you two birthed satan

and the satan was your eldest one

he’s just a feral sebastian moran in a tiny body

your second son, god bless him, looked just like his father but with fred’s temperament

and see, you were fine with your sons looking like their father

it was FINE right

you prayed to God that your third child would have at least some physical resemblance to you

your daughter was birthed, she grew up

and you cried

“HOW DO THEY ALL LOOK LIKE YOU”

“i’ve got some strong genetics, baby”

you sulk for a lil bit

but you accept it anyway because you love your goddamn kids

thankfully, your second and youngest child are both soft spoken and it's only your husband and his tiny clone bringing hell to earth

smacking sebastian bc all of your children suddenly started swearing up a storm at each other

“WHYD YOU HIT ME”

“YOURE THE ONLY ONE WHO SWEARS AROUND THE KIDS”

finally sitting down and trying to convince them to stop swearing

“father does it!”

“your father’s stupid”

speaking of your daughter

she’s his little princess and no he will not take criticism

spoils her more than he spoils you

did she glance at a toy at a passing store?

he buys more toys than he should from said store

you have to physically hide some of his money bc there is only so much you can buy

and her older brothers are so caring you want to sob

if a person accidentally shoved her over bc she was tiny and they couldn’t see her

oh boy

get ready to restrain them like chihuahuas

“little sister will be protected at all costs”

since his second son is so different from him, sebastian actively makes time to talk about what the little boy is doing and what he’s getting from it

doesn’t want to be pushy and suffocating like his dad was so when his younger kid does want to be left alone to his devices, sebastian does so

but honestly loves that your second son is so literate

lddhsajdsfk what yall dont know is that they’re all in cahoots

kinda funny to see them all together bc they all take after their father so much it's like having three tiny sebastians go around town

anyways,,,, yall know the promised neverland right

you got ray, norman, and emma

granted one of them wasn’t as smart as ray but he definitely knew what stealth was

regular sibling rivalry was still a thing but if they could smell the pudding from the kitchen, they know they have to work together

sebastian caught his eldest smuggling biscuits into a small bag

he had half a mind to scold him

but then he ended up giving tips TO ALL HIS CHILDREN on how not to get caught next time—

bc of this they beg him to tell them some stories from afghanistan bc “there’s no way a man as old as dad knows this many stealth tactics”

louis is so fed up lmao

albert is in london most of the time so he just thanks the lord that he doesn’t have to deal w the propaganda that sebastian feeds his children about how “mr. albert is a bad man”

william is fine w it as long as they don’t trash the library

your younger ones love the library so they would cry at the thought of one of the books losing any of the pages

your second and your daughter are definitely the moriartys’ favorites

they don’t show it, but you just KNOW

your eldest could care less about that though

as long as you and his father still love him

and of course you both do

and fred is definitely your youngers favorite

they like to hang out in the garden

ok they still fight all the time though

just because your second child is soft spoken doesn't mean he’s afraid to throw hands

their sister likes to join in for the hell of it

but if someone wrongs any of the children

just because the younger ones are the moriartys’ favorite, doesn’t mean that they’re not gonna hunt someone down if they even think about trying to hurt the eldest too

yeah,,, good luck to them and their families

they got the entire moriarty estate coming after them

fred: 241 words

cmon yall are like,, young

but you did ask him bc you were curious if he thought about it

he wants one

and when yall do have the kid, you guys actually do have one kid and its a girl

since you both are young, you can immediately see a resemblance between her and her father

everyone who meets her would die for her

ABSOLUTE CUTIE

especially when she walks around the garden w her hand in her dad’s and he’s showing her all the plants and telling her how to take care of them

needless to say she grows up loving plants

any type of plant

the boys love giving her flowers or anything from bc she has the biggest smile every single time

no matter if it’s just a single rose or a rock

this was found out one time when sebastian gave her a rock bc everyone else had given her like,, two roses each

was afraid she was gonna cry

“thank you so much mr. moran! i will treasure this until i get old!”

she was like 4 at the time

and had the widest smile you’ve ever seen on her

guys u don’t understand she smiles a lot but this was like,, genuine happiness

but everyone was just,, i will destroy the world and myself if anything happens to her

fr it’s just sunshines and rainbows every single time she’s around

everyone just loves her ok

moriarty the patriot general taglist: @zoehanji

#moriarty the patriot #moriarty the patriot x reader #yuukoku no moriarty #yuukoku no moriarty x reader #william james moriarty #william moriarty #william james moriarty x reader #william moriarty x reader #louis james moriarty #louis moriarty #louis james moriarty x reader #louis moriarty x reader #albert james moriarty #albert moriarty #albert james moriarty x reader #albert moriarty x reader #sebastian moran #sebastian moran x reader #fred porlock

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ashley-face · 3 years ago

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Note: For you, baby birds - an Egon Spengler x fem!reader (bordering fem!OC) multi-chapter fic that no one asked for, but I started typing out the moment Ghostbusters: Afterlife revived my hyperfixation for the first time since the 2016 film came out.

I wanted to play around with different source material that mentioned Ray Stantz having siblings (mostly because Egon and he are god-tier comfort characters. We’ll see if I’m in a really silly goofy mood; I might do a Ray x reader one-shot, too), namely basing a lot of the reader’s backstory on Ray’s sister Jean from the novels. I mean, a polyamorous pansexual journalist? Please. So, used that as the foundation, then took a metric fuckton of artistic license for the rest. Drop me a comment if you like it. :)

Not beta’d ‘cause we’re gonna live forever - let’s goooo! (and happy holidays!)

Rating for this chapter: Teen

Warnings for this chapter: Some strong language, OCs, minor angst/mention of childhood trauma, my desperate need to pretend like I know diddly about physics and a criminal lack of our Egie himself.

Already Dreaming | Chapter 1

Roman author Pliny the Younger claimed the specter of an old man with a long beard and rattling chains was haunting his house in Athens like a proto-Jacob Marley coming to torment Ebenezer Scrooge.

In 856 A.D. the first ever poltergeist was reported tormenting a German family in their farmhouse by throwing stones and starting fires.

Several millennia later Einstein posited that since all energy of the universe is constant and that it can neither be created nor destroyed - it can only be changed from one form to another - what happens to that energy when we die?

The energy in our bodies that releases in the form of heat goes into the wild animals that eat us, worms that digest the dirt we decompose in, and the roots of plants that absorb the nutrients we’ve left behind. During cremation energy in our bodies merely releases in the form of heat and light.

But what about those little ghosts Wolfgang Pauli theorized about? Those invisible neutrinos that once never existed in the realm of particle physics, and that he claimed could conserve energy throughout the beta decay process? Where does that energy go? How is it metered?

Why are we so reluctant to give credence to existence after death in physics?

Will we ever fully quantify the universe to its smallest components using our limited resources for testing fundamental particles at such a large scale, casting an enormous net to trap a fairyfly?

“The poet William Blake wrote, ‘To see a World in a Grain of Sand / And Heaven in a Wild Flower / Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand / And Eternity in an Hour’,” you gasped, unable to contain yourself as your brother Ray eagerly awaited your response, 20 July 1956 issue of Scientific in his hand and a school print out of “Auguries of Innocence” in yours.

Ray laughed, elated that you were employing critical reading of a totally different material to show proof you had understood what he had been talking about, and at the tender age of 13 years old. He rested his chin in his palm, listening with rapt attention.

Carl, the oldest of you three, had thankfully departed for basic military training (to the dismay of your parents and your relief.)

It had been so long since you could talk to Ray like this without Carl’s constant snide remarks sprinkled in. You were free to wax poetic about prose and protons, wraiths and Sylvia Townsend Warner.

Ray knew you, understood your quirks better than your own mother did. You weren’t "difficult” to him, you were his sister and he would always protect you.

Especially after your father, one of Islip’s beloved general practitioners, tested you for hypoglycemia and anemia when you showed symptoms of hypotension, bouts of vertigo and arrhythmia.

The weekend that Carl temporarily moved back to your parents after graduating from boot camp he found you in your room on your knees, swaying. You were clutching Ray’s old Dopey Dog stuffed animal in a death grip.

“Pops!” Carl shouted, dropping next to you, clueless as to what to do.

You immediately snapped out of your trance-like state, a deer in headlights and only a bit worse for wear, unable to recall when or why you had gone into the attic to grab a toy you hadn't touched in ages.

Ray, having heard Cal, rushed into the bedroom and joined you on the floor, taking your wrist so he could check your pulse like dad had taught him.

“I’m okay Sunshine," you soothed, then assured your oldest brother earnestly. "Really Carl, I just get low blood pressure sometimes."

Carl's brow furrowed, frustration mounting as he became more aware at how out of the loop he'd been, squashing a writhing resentment that festered under his ribcage.

Soon you started to daydream and disassociate constantly. Ray ruled out low blood pressure and suspected that the incidents were brought on by remnants of forgotten dreams being triggered by outward stimuli when awake - a familiar sight, sound, smell. Déjà vu. He’d be able to sense it, recognizing a particular far-off look you’d get, and acted as a tether to bring you back to earth. If anyone gave you grief or called you “space cadet” he’d gently put them in their place.

Ray was a Stantz, after all, and that name carried a certain reputation, no matter his uncanny resemblance to a large teddy bear. Carl had been a star quarterback (as well as a bully), simultaneously adored and feared grades 7-12, but Ray had not been on any sports teams. Yet he still towered over a good portion of his peers, broad shouldered and strong from tinkering in all manner of electronics, heavy equipment and car work. He was also unfathomably kind. The sort of kind that brought to mind, “Demons run when a good man goes to war.”

To make up for his absence Carl showed you how to shoot a rifle (badly), and tried to teach you how to perform basic maintenance on pedestrian vehicles, just like he had with Ray. You watched him work underneath the chassis of your father’s old 1960 Chevy C10 while holding an oil pan, providing the correct tools as needed. It was stilted and a bit awkward, but an attempt none-the-less.

Where Carl was impatient and hated too many questions Ray explained the science that went into a modern combustion engine no differently than your father would tell you a bedtime story, drawing rough figures on paper, thrilled to have such a captive audience.

The oldest Stantz sibling didn’t stick around too much longer once he got into the U.S. Airforce Academy, and not a moment too soon. More often than not he’d stumble in late three sheets to the wind drunk, picking fights with your father.

Mom always wrapped her robe tight, shuffled on her house slippers, fixed him the blackest cup of coffee a human could consume without it becoming sludge, and would let him unload. Her side of the family, the MacMillans, did not let bad blood come between them.

Carl coldly shrugging off a hug from either you or Ray before climbing into dad’s car on his way to the airport is the last you see of him for a while, leaving a void.

You were Ray’s shadow throughout your formative years as he encouraged your rants about Pablo Neruda’s changing writing style or cryptozoology being labeled a pseudoscience, the implications of a soul, the composition of the spirit. He’d sneak you out in the middle of the night, tromping through wet farmland in oversized wellies and carrying heavy flashlights to unveil the Great Mysteries, owing that the Great Mysteries were located in the backwoods of Long Island.

At some point you ended up wrangling a few neighborhood kids around your age to join the cause.

They became your best friends and Ray dubbed you the Scooby Doo gang.

Victoria Ertl, the Daphne Blake of the group, wanted for nothing. Her father worked for an up-and-coming computer sales company by the name of Apple Computer, Inc. Her mother frequently went missing or excused herself to “go take a nap”, leaving Vicky to her own devices. Those devices being extraterrestrials and witchcraft.

Christine Marcu, who shared the unofficial title of Velma Dinkley with you, bothered Ray about invention ideas and had a particular affinity for spirit photography.

Tony Bacheldor turned out to be an odd combination of Fred Jones, Shaggy Rogers and Scooby as despite being highly intelligent his fervent desire to explore the unknown was usually outweighed by the fact that he suffered from acute nyctophobia. He also had a voracious appetite and attained infamy for eating 8 Vienna hot dogs (buns included) in one sitting.

The event was entered into a shared notebook utilized for miscellaneous experiments, simply titled 8TH WONDER OF THE WORLD(?).

Ray claimed he saw himself more as an amalgamation of all five, but you weren’t convinced - he was Fred Jones.

As you reached puberty your “episodes” were less and less frequent, unofficially filed under “unsolved” to your friends’ disappointment, chomping at the bit to see you in action for themselves.

A fateful trip to Queen of All Saints Cemetery irrevocably changed that.

Ray got a tip from a fellow paranormal aficionado about a ghost sighting there. Vicky, Chrissy and Tony meet you at the Railroad Ave entrance to sneak through an unrepaired part of the dilapidated fence.

Fog obscured the pathways that wound through the grounds. Chrissy switched on a headlamp she had found while dumpster diving for parts, signally for you to do the same with yours, then she huddled with Ray to verify the exact coordinates of the sighting.

"I will excommunicate you if your 'reliable source' is Sagar," Chrissy slapped a tree branch out of her way, heading off the gravel paths to a particular cluster of headstones. "He hasn’t paid me back the money that I lent him to buy the newest issue of Captain Steel. Stupid jerk."

Ray pouted, fiddling with a contraption he’d brought to assist them.

"Damn, I'd meant to pick that up for myself today."

Tony took great joy in debating Ray about Superman being a superior hero to Captain Steel and almost butted in. You subtly motioned for him to not interfere.

Chrissy's button nose scrunched in irritation, but Ray missed it and persevered with his lament.

"What a cliffhanger, too! Dr. Destructor was just about to--"

"Knock your block off if you don't zip it," Chrissy bared her teeth, braces flashing.

Vicky diffused the situation by leaning over to Ray, overexaggerating her interest. "Is that an Atari controller?"

Bloodshed successfully avoided, Ray held up the controller-esque item in question, "Good eye, Vicky! It’s a modified electron capture detector, a device for detecting atoms and molecules in gas. Tried tweaking one of the multiplayer ones for a Sears Tele-Games Super-Pong IV console ‘cause it helps make finer adjustments for picking up heat signatures or cold spots--"

He rambled and the others hung on to his every word. Soldering the reconfigured wiring was no easy task, but--

Your vision went fuzzy around the edges, a spike of panic lancing through your stomach as the fog circling everyone crawled along the dirt, through the dark, alive. Tendrils coiled up Ray’s thigh and you blinked rapidly to dispel the hallucination.

Oh my god, oh-my-god, is this real? I’ve never been lucid like this before during an episode. Je-sus, Y/N, be rational, you spaz. It’s an actual ghost and-

You struggled to warn the others, paralyzed and powerless like a waking nightmare. Run!

A faint figure formed in the mist, ethereal and evocative; a middle-aged woman in a Gilded Age gown staring at you, and you become fully cognizant that no one else can see her as she gets closer and closer. Suddenly you could hear her, slipping into the air, into your lungs, through your consciousness, an echo chamber of noise.

"Do not be frightened, I mean you no harm. I'm here as a warning, dear girl, and I must be brief.”

"Be not afraid," said the angel that was pure eldritch terror. Absolutely passed frightened and straight into pants-pissing hysterics, but that’s fine.

Ice ran through your veins, but you pushed on. You have to.

A warning? A warning about what? You concentrated, praying she heard you. “What is your name, ma’am?”

The apparition smiled sadly in acknowledgement, “My name is Veleda. At the turn of the 20th century a selfish, wicked man and his foolish sycophants attempted to knock on Hell’s Gate. They used myself and others like us to usher in an era of gods. His insidious plans have been unfolding long since after his death, beyond the veil, and–”

She was gone - vanished without a trace. The fog dissipated as swiftly as it came.

You collapsed like an unstrung marionette, dropping limply to the grass.

The stars sparkled blindingly without light pollution above you, but the view was obscured by Ray as he pulled you between his legs, his chest a grounding presence at your back, frantically whispering, “breathe in 1-2-3, exhale 1-2-3.” Chrissy, Vicky and Tony joined in a circle around him, gasping as if they’ve overexerted themselves.

Wait, you’d stopped breathing? So you gulp in oxygen, heaving and clutching Ray’s knee. Breathe in 1-2-3, exhale 1-2-3.

“Y/N, we strongly believe you were under some sort of possession from a free floating entity,” Ray recited from Spate’s Catalog of Nameless Horrors for his own benefit so he wouldn’t unravel, hiding in the nape of your neck to block out the terrifying image of your limbs seizing in a rictus that he could only assume was painful.

Tony leaned back, heart rate gradually returning to normal, propped against Vicky whilst Chrissy lay half-sprawled in her lap. “Shit. Goddamn it,” he shakily wiped sweat from his brow. “This is what we wanted. What I wanted...To discover what goes bump in the night. To face my fears. But I…I thought...”

"It'd be like Laurel and Hardy's A Haunting We Will Go?" Vicky barked out a laugh, then groaning at the irony. "Not that we’d have to wrangle her to the ground and make sure she didn't swallow her tongue?"

Ray stopped matching your breaths once you could confidently resume on your own and said sincerely, “Hey, don't beat yourself up. We do this for for anyone that has ever been doubted and taken for granted in what they believe in, or what they’ve been through. We want them to know that we're ready to believe them. If it's too much, you tried. That's more than I can say about…a lot of people.”

At home you plead your case to Ray as he took your vitals, dad’s medical bag at his feet. You’re convinced that your parents will keep you apart if they found out about what you dubbed “Graveyardgate”. You'd been running around playing supernatural detective of your own volition and beating himself up wouldn't solve anything.

Ray conceded, only because you agreed to research further into your situation together. And though you both barely fit in your full size bed you asked him to stay.

He does.

Carolyn and Daniel Stantz don’t discourage your adventures owing Ray kept his promise. Your mother readily quizzed you both in the kitchen about the differences between gray aliens and little green men as she tasked you with chopping root vegetables for her great-grandmother’s neeps and tatties recipe. And your father may have been a small town doctor, but his medical zines were a proverbial kindle to the fire, fueling your fascination with the human body.

They nurtured Ray’s natural aptitude and excitement in whatever subject he applied himself to (math was another matter entirely - pairing mathematical problems to the correct formula was his kryptonite) from infancy, and in turn they made sure you received the same.

Unfortunately, a handful of cousins labeled him and you as the black sheep of the family. Aunt Lois, a matriarchal figure on the Stantz’s side, barred each person who brought such slander up in front of her from receiving her delicious Christmas korolevsky cake and she sent Ray a detailed account of the occult called Tobin’s Spirit Guide.

As the inevitable influx of college placement tests and applications begin to take Ray away from you in his last two years of high school you face the music head-on. You had mentally prepared yourself for him leaving the nest - he was destined to do something great for humanity.

It was cruel to be greedy.

During your sophomore year you started a book club with you as president, Tony as vice president, plus Vicky and Chrissy as treasurer and time keeper respectively.

This is a temporary substitute for your paranormal escapades. “R & D” as Tony called it. Better to be safe than needing an exorcist.

Miss Scarlet, who was gracious enough to allow you the use of her English room, straddled her desk chair backwards at the first meeting and asked point blank if this was a coverup for a ghost and monster hunters club.

Vicky shook out her curls, feigning aloofness, “I can neither confirm nor deny such an accusation Miss Scarlet.”

Miss Scarlet turned into a silent benefactor and sometimes provided great research material to show her support.

Eventually the club spiraled into a Ray Stantz fan club the second Vicky and Chrissy started to see boys as not just boys, or friends, but boy-friends. You and Tony (who firmly established himself as the "no socio-sexual contact or reactions" X on the Kinsey Scale) were glad that Ray was graduating.

Attraction and hormones were a double-edged sword.

However, you make the most of the girls’ adolescent infatuation by…well, pitting them against each other.

For important behavior analyses, of course.

Vicky and Chrissy cottoned on to your scheme and refused to speak to you or Tony for 48 hours. Hour 54 they approached you, swearing you to secrecy, and pursued other romantic prospects.

—

One day, during a gathering for your Aunt Lois’s birthday in her eclectic Victorian home, the same conservative and catholic side of your relatives who did not think highly of you reprimanded your parents for Ray’s wayward thinking and its influence on you over dinner.

No one let you interject, holier-than-thou cousin Gav suggesting Ray join a seminary to answer life’s mysteries with the most reliable source mankind could ever need.

The Bible.

Oh great, goodbye Roman Catholicism, hello full-fledged 17th century Puritanical radicalism. They would’ve burned me at the stake.

Carl turned to his fiancée (a mousey, subservient woman named Mary-Lou he’d found who-knows-where - you curbed the urge to slip her a note asking if their engagement was a result of Stockholm syndrome - blink twice for no, scream for yes) and sneered that Ray hadn’t been disciplined enough, a mistake that would bite him in the ass.

Silence followed.

Ray calmly laid his silverware down and advised if anyone had a problem with him they could hash this out some other time. Today was meant for celebrating Aunt Lois and everybody owed her, your parents and you an apology.

I cannot imagine how cathartic that felt. You had to bite your lip to keep from losing your shit at the collective wave of shame that went around the room, you and Aunt Lois sharing a look across the table whilst she sipped her merlot, hiding a coquettish grin.

Of course Carl had to get in the last word, baiting Ray on the sidewalk as you tried to go your separate ways afterwards. Your mom sighed, coming between her sons to keep the peace.

“You don’t give a flying fuck about me or anyone else! You’re all insane and you live in a house of horrors!” Carl roared.

The moment he stepped forward and insinuated violence toward your mother an uncharacteristic surge of raw anger overcame you, consumed you, and you sent all six and a half feet, 230 pounds of Carl stumbling.

Your dad and Ray strongarmed Carl and Mary-Lou to the curb, hailing them a cab. Daniel Stantz stated in no uncertain terms that they were not welcome in his home until Carl checked himself into anger management or rehab, trembling from residual fear of finally standing up to his own flesh and blood.

Realistically, even if he was unsteady from drinking all evening, you should not be able to exert enough force to push him, adrenaline notwithstanding.

Ray whispered your name, cupping your tear-stained cheeks as impotent rage was replaced with remorse.

You wanted to love him. You wanted him to love you. Why was Carl such an asshole? Why was everyone against you?

Carl and Mary-Lou got into the taxi - Carolyn Stantz watched the car set off with profound sadness, heartbroken that she had failed her firstborn.

The family did what they could to erase the events of that evening and the toxicity that surrounded it.

However, to everyone’s astonishment, Ray did apply to the Union Theological Seminary alongside the Fu Foundation School of Engineering and Applied Science at Columbia University at the same time that he applied for MIT’s School of Engineering and the California Institute of Technology.

Of course he got into all of them and chose Columbia.

On the day Ray left for university, eyes bright like a G dwarf star and full of potential, he handed you his well worn copies of Phantasms of the Living and Tobin’s Spirit Guide - you nearly refused them, likening the gesture to him breaking off a piece of his incandescence.

Incidentally, his seminary studies were cut short. Ray rang home to tell you that even if he dropped out (you suspected the seminary asked him to leave) he had learned quite a lot and found a profound intersection between science, spiritualism and religion.

Your fingers tangled in the living room phone cord, disregarding how expensive the bill was going to be as you chatted to him until your body begged for sleep.

Yup, Raymond Francis Stantz was going to be extraordinary and you couldn’t wait.

_____

1978 April

It’s spring break of your senior year and as luck would have it Ray’s spring break is over. Vicky went on vacation to the Bahamas, Chrissy would be back from visiting her bună midweek and Tony went AWOL at a convention in Texas. You convinced your parents that Ray being a train ride away, and you being a responsible 17-year-old with a part-time job to purchase a ticket for said train ride, you should be allowed to pay him a surprise (unchaperoned) visit.

Daniel sighed at his desk, knowing you would not be denied, and ruffled your hair affectionately. You were smart, generally disliked most people, and would avoid strangers. There was no reason to worry.

So you threw a few favorite books into a messenger bag alongside your amateur star charts of Long Island and dad's pocket transistor, then walked to the Central Islip train stop. You boarded with your thoughts whirring and a soft soundtrack of rock playing, making the commute downtown fly by.

Arriving at Penn Station was akin to stepping into a macrocosm totally separate from the rest of New York - you had never been there by yourself outside of trips with your parents to see a couple of Broadway shows, Christmas tree lightings and museums, so your gaze bounced around in awe as you headed to the subway for the remaining leg of the journey, everyone a swarm of intensity like vibrating molecules. Once you get off at 116th St and head upstairs you are jostled so hard by a hasty business woman you start to fall, but keep your balance and recover, freezing when you spot the building in front of you.

Whoa, there it is. Columbia University, in all its Roman classical style glory. A possible peak into your future.

You crossed the street as ELO’s Mr. Blue Sky filtered out from your transistor, somehow not drowned out by the general din of the city. A crisp wind encourages you to hurry.

The steps to where Ray claimed to have a post-lecture smoke are mostly people-free, so you hunkered down for, per your watch, about 40 minutes. The time passed uneventfully as you got lost within The Haunting of Hill House.

“Y/N!” a cheerful, welcoming voice disturbed Eleanor Vance as she reminisced on childhood memories about encountering a poltergeist.

Ray had spotted you first, elated at your unexpected presence, leaving the lecture hall with someone matching his stride. An unlit cigarette is tucked back behind his ear.

You scrambled up to throw your arms around him, melting into his powerful embrace and the smoky scent that permeated his leather jacket. You could finally, properly breathe again and you whispered, “Surprise, Sunshine.”

His smile widened as he pulled away to introduce you to his friend Peter Venkman, a psychology major.

“Sunshine, what a cute nickname,” Peter teased, hazel eyes sparkling with simultaneous blackmail fueled glee and a hint of genuine amusement, then he snapped his fingers, “Because he’s Ray! A ray of sunshine!”

Peter is the type of guy who perpetually exudes an aura of “butter wouldn't melt in his mouth”, which you find out quite early on is true, only because butter wouldn’t be caught dead anywhere near it.

There’s no reason to feel embarrassed about the endearment you’ve used for Ray since you were a kid, and your brother isn’t flustered by Peter’s remark as he explained the meaning of it in correlation to your passion for astrophysics.

You still feel your cheeks flush all the same.

Peter is relatively harmless and his teasing is unlike the sort of mocking or disingenuousness you faced in the past. But your skin still feels too tight and you’re unsure how you should handle this sort of attention.

Romance wasn’t a complete stranger to you outside of stories, but unlike Vicky and Chrissy, you had turned down admirers throughout high school (excluding a platonic date with Tony to senior prom). Thus, engaging with professional lotharios like Peter was definitely out of your wheelhouse. In a moment of panic you compare the situation to being in a debate and try to match his energy in hopes that it’ll throw him off.

“Tell me Venkman, do you want to major in psychology to have a better grasp of the conscious and unconscious phenomena, or are you going tens of thousands of dollars into debt so you can be the one to answer Freud’s most pertinent question: ‘what do women want’?”

Ray’s brows shot into his hairline as he glanced at the other young man.

Peter's posture relaxed, hands shoved further into his jean pockets and lips turned up in a satisfied expression. How was it you got the inkling that you’d passed some sort of test and now he seemed handsome without the roguish façade?

“Thank God, I was dreading you being Francis's mini me. She’s got moxie.”

Ugh. Moxie? Are you Al Capone? Referring to you in the third person made you scoff in disdain, and then annoyance, “I refuse to believe you call him Francis like I call him Sunshine.”

“To be fair I also call him Francine. Gotta switch it up a bit, lest the honeymoon phase of our budding relationship grow stale.”

The honest confusion that puckered Ray’s lips as he lit his previously abandoned cigarette was comical. The soft utterance of, “we’re in a relationship?” that succeeded it was legendary.

—

1978 September

If your relatives were the betting type they would have put money down on your following in Ray’s footsteps - and they would've been half right, as you were accepted into Columbia University's brand new computer science undergraduate course with the intention to pursue a masters in journalism.

You are assigned to the ancient dormitories of Furnald Hall on the 10th floor. It’s a double suite and your roommate’s name is Azucena Olvera.

On move-in day your dad insisted on dragging your sparse luggage filled with hand-me-down clothes and texts into the shoebox-sized space, ignoring your protests. Your mom ladened you with homemade sweets.

They can’t stay long as traffic will be abysmal getting back and your mother is forced to drag your father out before you have more vitamin supplements to your name than sense.

It turned out your roommate was there. Her bedroom door is open and you find her black-clad form curled up on a twin sized bed, buried in a novel you'd learned about a year or so ago called Interview with a Vampire. After introducing yourself you inquired about the premise, to which she regarded you blankly for a beat, mumbling it was pretty self-explanatory by the title.

Undeterred by her sarcasm you admit to being fascinated by the concept of some no name reporter taking a chance on such a strange tip, offering to lend her Carmilla as a trade when she was done. Azucena smirked as you started to unpack, initiating light conversation about how general classes will go, somehow segueing to the West Virginia Mothman, telling her about your friends back home and where they’ve gone to study or work.

You looked down at your watch - 7:46PM. Ray called before mom and dad dropped you off, saying he was touching base with a professor and would meet you in front of the dorms to treat you to "the best Chinese on the northeast coast" at 7:30PM. You tossed on a windbreaker, snagged An Elementary Treatise on the Differential and Integral Calculus, mom’s snacks, nearly forgot your keys (priorities), bounded down a set of precarious stairs and burst outside in record time.

Ray just about spit his cigarette out at your grand entrance (or exit, really), coughing and chuckling. "Did you think we were gonna leave without you?"

You beamed at him, noticing that Peter was there and not out with his flavor of the week.

This goofball. He'd be so smug if he knew how much he'd grown on you.

Peter winked your way. "You're the lady of the hour, kid, and we would've just sent Spengs here to fetch ya. He's all about the history of some sketchy secret tunnels in the basement of this place. Which are dime a dozen in the city, but what do I know? I’m just a pretty face."

The aforementioned "Spengs” was what some may describe as an elongated version of Poindexter from Felix the Cat; the epitome of an academic or caricature of a genius scientist. Tall, lean, sensibly dressed, his eyes obscured by a nearby street light reflecting off his glasses. You easily imagined him in a pristine white lab coat, holding a beaker overflowing with some dubious concoction.

But as he approached you, posture stiff and hand outstretched to perform the globally widespread greeting of introducing oneself via handshake, his attention shifted downwards.

More specifically, to your jacket pocket, where An Elementary Treatise on the Differential and Integral Calculus poked out.

He remembered himself, large hand engulfing yours, fingers warm, chemical rough, but a nice weight as his severe mouth softened and the streetlights finally allowed you a glimpse of umber irises with a bilateral hint of evergreen.

"Dr. Egon Spengler. A pleasure. If you do not mind, after we’ve eaten, I would appreciate hearing your opinion on Babbage's calculations. Are you familiar with Ada Lovelace?"

An effervescent sensation spread from your stomach to your throat, and you know logically that you're not actually turning into bubbling liquid, but your brain has trebuchet logic into a blackhole. The pitch of his voice is so low you wondered if he’s ever used an oscilloscope to measure the Hertz.

You couldn’t help but stare, and it's your turn to remember yourself. The moment lasted a span of minutes, but seemed so much longer, stretched into decades as you replied, star-struck, “Y/N Stantz. The pleasure is all mine. But uh, yes, Ada Lovelace translated parts of Luigi Menabrea’s work on the Analytical Engine and collaborated with Charles Babbage. I apologize, Sun-” you caught Peter and Ray observing the entire interaction with varying degrees of curiosity, “Raymond said he’d met someone else he deeply admired in his field of study, but you’re–prodigious to already have a PhD or a doctorate of some kind. You can’t be much older than us.”

Peter took that as his cue to insert himself back into the conversation, pulling you into a one-armed hug, “Ah yes, our very own savant. Met him in a women and gender studies class he signed up for by mistake ’cause Dr. Spengler left us plebs in the dust testing out of every core curriculum and taking his ‘accelerated sequences’. Degrees are old hat to this guy. Also, kid, did you know they started a new parapsychology program this semester as well?”

No, you didn’t, but you’re pretty sure the question was rhetorical.

“Introducing a parapsychology class is a golden opportunity to capitalize on a niche as hell field. Imagine the funding for graduate research, the accolades. Naturally I thought, ‘I’ll introduce my favorite eggheads to one another so a: my ears stop bleeding, and b: they’ll go feral at the chance of getting in on this, too.’ Bless their nerdy lil’ hearts, they’ve been attached at the hip, to my everlasting regret.”

“That’s only because together we’re on our way to convincing you that the existence of manifestations and apparitions is scientifically viable–” Ray remarked in a sing-song lilt, coming around to your other side.

You snort, well acquainted with the fact that if your brother found anyone that showed a modicum of inquisitiveness in not only anything involving engineering, biology, physics, chemistry, etc, if they ever had a passing thought about the Fermi Paradox, the Arrow of Time, the location of the Ark of the Covenant or how the Nazca Lines were formed, he was in their life like an Alabama tick.

Peter showed genuine interest in psychological phenomena, but his hard stop was Casper the friendly phantom.

Egon headed down 115th St toward this infamous Chinese restaurant Ray recommended, and as the other two men continued to banter he glanced over his shoulder at you.

What the hell happened? Had he experienced the same subtle full-body shiver as you touched? The same sort of pins and needles caused by the compression of nerves, or static generated when cathode ray tubes bathed the inside of a TV with electrons, triggering the front glass to fluoresce and emit an electrical charge?

Out of your peripheral you noticed him flexing the hand you just shook.

You’d accidentally (other times purposefully) shocked plenty of inanimate objects and people, but–

“Ray, you gotta convince Y/N to let me do a full interview about Graveyardgate. She would be the best person to start as a control variable for–”

“Vex-man, I told you that in confidence,” you chastised Peter, introspection put on the backburner. Vex-man was a derogatory moniker you only used when he crossed a line.

Peter squirmed away, ensuring he was no longer within punching distance.

Too late, you groaned internally as Egon fell back to take Peter’s place, his laser focus once again on you.

Despite not enjoying having to discuss it, and despite having just met Egon...these guys might be the best people to talk to about it.

My first day on campus and we’re dabbling in unauthorized behavioral experiments. You turned around and started to walk backwards, gesturing wildly and hamming it up, “Well doc, it was summer of ‘76–”

Peter clucked his tongue at you in mock exasperation for your brattish snark that he was solely responsible for.

Ray rolled his eyes, but internally he was happy you were ready to exorcise a figurative demon - a part of him hated remembering too, even if it had solidified his motivation and purpose to keep doing what he was doing, skeptics and critics be damned.

And Egon.

Egon deadpanned, “I know where Venkman lives. And I work as a coroner part-time.”

“Alright H. H. Holmes, we’re gonna need to unpack that before I end up as a statistic.”

You tripped on uneven concrete, cackling.

#ghostbusters #the real ghostbusters #ghosbusters ii #ray stantz #egon spengler #peter venkman #winston zeddemore #egon spengler x reader #egon spengler x original female character

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max--phillips · 3 years ago

Note

It's the fact that he hasn't liked/said anything on social media in combination with his lack of interest in talking about The Bubble that much which has me sipping the tea like Kermit and Wendy Williams. Like we see you, bestie.

I mean, I know he can't say anything bad (right now) about it but it's so fucking telling and actually so fucking hilarious to me?? Once contractual obligation is up (???) or enough time has passed, he and Oscar Isaac should charge money for tickets for them to talk about their experiences with The Bubble and X-Men Apocalypse respectively.

Also The Great Wall may have been trash but my soul didn't actively try to escape my body while watching it.

Oh worm and I think the thing w the Great Wall is that that director is a REALLY AMAZING director and has done some AMAZING movies aimed at a Chinese audience but tgw was his attempt at breaking into the American market so Pedro was really excited to work with him but then . That happened . So his disappointment was probably much bigger than working with judd apatow rkgjrnfjdbsk

But yeah honestly I’d pay any price to sit in an auditorium and listen to them complain about that stuff. I wanna know the tea. The dirt. Like sometimes u just gotta complain and I wanna KNOW

#I’m so nosy tkgjfbvjdbskdnfks #tori answers questions #max answers questions #anonymous

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tink27 · 3 years ago

Text

What if John and Sherlock met as kids? (short fluff)

No one in the Holmes household noticed when the young Sherlock Holmes went missing out the back gate, clutching nothing but a cleaned out empty jam jar in his hands, which were not yet big enough to fit all the way around.

His excellent plan (if he did say so himself) was to collect samples of local bugs and to examine the rate at which they would decompose. His new nanny (vegetarian, going off the hemp tote bag, and the small scrunched up expression she pulls as she makes his ham sandwiches) seemed completely opposed to the idea, so sneaking off was necessary.

Thankfully, there was plenty of data to find, with his house located on the edge of town with plenty of woodland area a short walk away (even when walking with child-sized legs). Speed however was imperative, he had approximately 25 minutes before the nanny realised it was not sherlock ‘playing’ with his microscope that she could see, peering into his room. But rather a stack of pillows wearing a jacket and a curly black costume wig, with a tape looping his voice including all of his latest deductions, of which he had recorded the day before.

When you are 9, any plan that takes more than one day of planning feels astronomically important, even for the mature William Sherlock Scott Holmes, and succeeding was paramount. Because of this, Sherlock was running fast as he could, nothing on his mind but finding soil damp enough for worms, and rocks large enough to cover up significant family of woodlice. Therefore, he wasn’t able to notice the tangle of his undone shoe laces, making the little boy fall rather quickly, not even able to catch himself as both small hands were occupied with the all-important jar for his specimens.

Now, those who knew Sherlock Holmes rarely saw the little boy cry, even at age 9 he had decided it was weak and unbecoming (subconsciously copying his stiff and repressed older brother), so he was immensely grateful that no one was there to see the large tears that forced themselves from his eyes, stinging the rather large graze he has gotten across his cheek.

“Hello”

The soft voice startled the tearful boy, and for a moment all he could do was stare. There in front of him stood a boy, maybe slightly older than himself dressed in jeans, a muddy blue and white rugby top and dirty shoes that were once white and pink, with black marker smudged over the pink in an attempt to cover it, if sherlock was not so destressed he would have deduced that he was a poor boy, wearing his older sister's hand-me-downs, and is embarrassed about it.

As Sherlock stared the boy got closer, choosing to sit with his legs crossed in front of him, pulling a crumpled packet of tissues out of his pocket, holding one out to Sherlock. This interaction snapped the crying boy out of his shock and he clambered to his feet, adamantly rubbing his tears away on his t shirt, feeling quite angry that this boy had walked in on his moment of weakness.

The boy did not appear to be judging Sherlock though, he was not laughing at him or smirking. Still, he had little trust for people his age, and did not like to risk being made a fool. So, he held his head high and walked past the boy, aware of the time he lost to his fall and the questions he would need to answer upon returning home.

“Wait!” the boy said, shocked at the cold reaction, and yet not deterred. No boy his age had ever acted like this boy, and the small John Watson knew he had to be his friend. Using all of his 10 years of knowledge in making friends, he decided the best course of action was to introduce himself.

“My name is John” he declared, walking quickly to fall into step with the dark-haired boy, and upon realised he was not getting an answer asked “what's your name?”

Now, weather John knew this or not he had just introduced Sherlock with a difficult question. At their age, insults were uncreative and simple, and yet one thing kids their age seemed to know was that Sherlock’s name was ‘weird’. He was therefore expecting the same reaction from this normal looking boy, and steeled himself as he plainly said “Sherlock Holmes”

Sherlock had avoided eye contact as he declared his name, but if he had been looking at John he would have seen the amazement on his face “Wow!” he exclaimed, grinning “you sound like you’re from a book!”

This was.... new for Sherlock, something almost like a compliment, before he could figure out how to respond, John took his silence as a sign to carry on.

“really, you should take the tissue, if you let that cut get dirty you could get an infection, your face would swell up and get all gross” he sounded perversely pleased as he said this, the same way many little boys did when mentioning something ‘icky’.

Sherlock was not one of those little boys and at the implication that his face could “get all gross” was not fun, and he promptly snatched the tissue that was still in johns fist and rubbed at the graze on his cheek.

“no! Not like that!” john said, sounding rather alarmed as he stole the tissue back and to sherlocks horror spat on it, rubbing it onto sherlocks face to get rid of the grime. John did not see an issue with this, he saw plenty of mothers outside the school gates licking at their thumbs to rub dirt from their children's cheeks, this was no different, and it couldn’t be dirty if mums did it.

“what on earth do you think you're doing?” Sherlock asked with horror at having a stranger's saliva on his face

“cleaning your cut, now stay still and stop talking like the queen” John said, with no malice, he had simply never heard anyone in real life talk the way Sherlock did, especially kids, and the queen was the poshest person he could think of.

Sherlock wanted to reply, but as John wiped his face with one hand and held his chin still with the other, he felt oddly little need to protest. He felt... cared for.

As John pulled away he smiled a big toothy grin at Sherlock, showing off a missing front tooth

“all better” he declared affectionately, stepping back “why were you running so fast with a jam jar anyways?”

Sherlock suddenly remembered his all-important task, and took off with a surprisingly serious expression for someone so young “I am looking for bugs, I want to keep them and then observe the rate at which they decompose”

Sherlock though this was bound to disgust his new companion, but was pleasantly surprised when the golden boy grinned and asked “can I help?”

#johnlock #bbc sherlock #kid!lock #sherlock holmes #John watson #sherlock au #kid john watson #kid sherlock #young sherlock holmes #sherlock x john #john x sherlock #johnlock fanfic #fanfiction #imagine #johnlock imagine #short fanfic #this was purely self indulgent #I love the idea of John meeting lonely little sherlock and being his friend

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renee-writer · 3 years ago

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An Inheritance Chapter Fourteen

AO3

Pulling weeds is therapeutic. Now this is not something she ever expected to think. When she was getting ready to leave the city and head into the wilds of the Highlands, she feared and dreaded, this type of chore. She is finding though, it is calming thing.

“These weeds are Frank.” She mummers as she jerks a group up by their roots. “Yeah, Frank goes in the rubbish.” She flips the weeds into the bag beside her. “This is him screwing Geillis.” Another jerk and toss. Geillis, what is she to do about her.

A large part of her wishes to say, ' screw her as she did him.’ The trust is gone, after all. Their relationship will never be the same. On the other hand, she was her best mate for nearly all her life. You can’t just.. “This weed is my indecisive self.” She jerks it out of the ground and throws it roughly into the rubbish bag. A sigh as she settles back off her knees for a moment.

“Time to think about something else.” She declares out loud. “The babies..” She smiles at recalling the way they cling to her before Jamie took them and left. She had never been much of a baby person. Never had that desire to procreate. But William and Faith had found their way in, worming into her heart. It wasn’t hyperbolic to say she loved them. Their father.. “Is just a mate.” She declares but she can’t even make herself believe that. “Damn!”

“You, you are for my conflicted feelings for Jamie!” she jerks the weed straight up and stares, for a second, at the hanging roots. Whether she sees them or not is anyone’s guess. Her thoughts are jumbled. Irony. Geillis is the person she would usually discuss this with. But, there is no way she can do that now. Bloody hell, to lose her fiancé is hard enough but to lose her best mate on top of it.. That and her confused feelings for Jamie… She tosses the weed. Blowing a breath out, she moves her hair back.

Sitting in the dirt, in the front garden of Leoch, she tries to sort it all out. If she explores these feelings for Jamie, will she be using him to get over Frank? Will he be a rebound man? She doesn’t want that.

“Do I have any unresolved feelings for Frank?” She asks herself. Her hands automatically pull the weeds as her brain and heart strive to answer that. “No,” she decides after weeding the entire space in front of her. “No my unresolved feelings are towards Geillis not Frank. For him I only feel, “ Another weed jerked out, “Contempt mixed with relief I found out before we were wed. Yeah.”

“So I am free to date whoever I want. And I want Jamie.” She adds aloud. She is unaware, the men himself, is coming up behind her and heard this.

#my writing #outlander fanfic #an Inheritance #Chapter Fourteen #Jamie and Claire #modern au #outlander fandom

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flirting-with-psychology · 3 years ago

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Thought I Couldn’t Top It, Huh? OVER 2000 Questions! (Truly the Longest!)

Created by distortedcognition

Part 1

Time and date right now: 9/5/21 12:51am How far do you want to get? Idk, i”ll just do some when I feel like it. It would be cool to eventually finish it =>This or That<= Pie or cake? Cake Chocolate or vanilla? Chocolate Black or white? Black Ceiling or floor? Floor Couch or bed? Bed Cough or sneeze? Sneeze On or off? On Closed or open? Closed Brush or comb? Brush Long or short? Long

Big or small? Small Wet or dry? Dry Under or over? Under Fly or fall? Fly Smile or frown? Smile Tears of joy or tears of sorrow? Tears of joy Hot or cold? Cold Warm or cool? Cool Rough or smooth? Smooth Cat or dog? Cat Snake or bird? Snake Shark or T-Rex? Shark Past or present? Present Science fiction or fantasy? Fantasy Dull or sharp? Sharp Live forever or die young? Live forever Books or television? Television Jump or skip? Skip Fast or slow? Slow Run or walk? Walk Disney or Warner Brothers? Warner Brothers Belle or Jasmine? Jasmine Gaston or Cruella Deville? Gaston Food or friends? Friends Colors or black and white? Colors Cute or pretty? Pretty Good or evil? Good Fruits or vegetables? Fruits Milk or juice? Juice Hot chocolate or gingerale? Hot chocolate Beer or wine? Wine Movies or cartoons? Movies Pillow or blanket? Blanket Moon or stars? Stars Sky or sea? Sea Explode or implode? Implode Tree or flower? Flower Mountain Dew or Sprite? Sprite Ketchup or mustard? Mustard but neither Meats or veggies? Veggies Straps or strapless? Straps Water or Gatorade? Water PS2 or Xbox 360? Xbox History or geography? Geography Geometry or algebra? Geometry Basketball or volleyball? Volleyball Basketball or soccer? Basketball Basketball or tennis? Basketball Basketball or baseball? Baseball Basketball or football? Football Basketball or swimming? Swimming Volleyball or soccer? Volleyball Volleyball or tennis? Volleyball. Geez are you gonna go through every sport? Volleyball or baseball? Volleyball Volleyball or football? Football Volleyball or swimming? Swimming Soccer or tennis? Tennis Soccer or baseball? Baseball Soccer or football? Football Soccer or swimming? Swimming Tennis or baseball? Baseball Tennis or football? Football Tennis or swimming? Swimming Baseball or football? Football Baseball or swimming? Swimming Football or swimming? Swimming Chinese or Mexican food? Mexican food Red or orange? Red Red or yellow? Red Red or green? Green Red or blue? Blue Red or indigo? Indigo Red or violet? Red Orange or yellow? Orange Orange or green? Green Orange or blue? Blue Orange or indigo? Indigo Orange or violet? Violet Yellow or green? Green Yellow or blue? Blue Yellow or indigo? Indigo Yellow or violet? Violet Green or blue? Depends on my mood Green or indigo? Green Green or violet? Green Indigo or violet? Violet Fall or summer? Fall Winter or spring? Spring Rain or snow? Snow Mud or dirt? Dirt Snakes or spiders? Snakes Fido or Fluffy? Fluffy Rainbows or stars? Stars Blue or gray sky? Blue Prairies or forests? Forests Lakes or streams? Streams Fish or caimans? Fish Roses or daffodils? Roses Bauhaus or Rosetta Stone? Rosetta Stone Sisters of Mercy or Skinny Puppy? What? Green Day or Fall Out Boy? Fall Out Boy From First to Last or My Chemical Romance? My Chemical Romance The Monkees or The Beatles? The Beatles David Bowie or Billy Idol? David Bowie Helloween or Skid Row? No idea Britney Spears or Vanessa Carlton? Britney Spears The Goo Goo Dolls or 3 Doors Down? Idk Duran Duran or Madonna? Madonna John Williams or Danny Elfman? John Williams Mozart or Beethoven? Mozart

Men at Work or Men Without Hats? Idk The Arrogant Worms or Voltaire? Idk Dark Muse or Inkubus Sukkubus? Idk Queen or Black Sabbath? Queen Rush or Pet Shop Boys? Idk Johnny Hates Jazz or Deep Blue Something? Idk Supertramp or Steppenwolf? Idk Enormous mansion or humble abode? Enormous mansion Teaspoon or tablespoon? Teaspoon China plates or crystal figurines? Crystal figurines Knife or spork? Knife Bedroom or basement? Bedroom Antiques or chrome? Antiques Wide screen televisions or ornately-designed windows? Television Carpet or wood? Carpet Blenders or washing machines? Washing machines Pen or pencil? Pen Couch or bed? This is the same question Kitchen sink or bathroom sink? Bathroom sink Sitting on the roof with a friend or swimming in your backyard with them? Swimming Phones or AIM? Phones Pillow or footrest? Pillow Sharpies or ducks? Ducks Personality quizzes or story quizzes? Personality Gaia or Neopets? Neopets Attempting to use proper grammar or purposely butchering language? Proper grammar Having to read the poetry on Quizilla or writing your own? Writing my own Gold or silver? Silver Lipstick or lip gloss? Lip gloss Sunny or rainy? Sunny Edgar Allan Poe or Oscar Wilde? Edgar Allann Poe Johnny Depp or Orlando Bloom? Orlando Bloom Lindsay Lohan or Hilary Duff? Lindsay Lohan Pringles or Doritos? Pringles MTV or VHI? MTV Vampire or mermaid? Mermaid The Internet or television? Internet Romantic comedy or romance tragedy? Romantic comedy Comedy or drama? Comedy Comedy or horror? Comedy Comedy or fantasy? Fantasy Law and Order: Criminal Intent or Law and Order: SVU? Idk The OC or Laguna Beach? (Why have I succumbed to asking this question?) Idk Blind or deaf? Deaf Blind or mute?

Mute Mute or deaf?

Mute Shrimp or crab? Shrimp Crab or lobster? Idk Stickers or stamps? Stickers VHS or DVD? DVD VHS or CD? CD CD or DVD? DVD Paris or New York City? New York Philadelphia or Chicago? Chicago MySpace or TagWorld? Myspace MySpace or Facebook? Facebook Mall goth or TRUE goth? Mall goth

Emo or punk? Punk Emo or prep? Prep Punk or prep? Prep Punk or goth? Punk Goth or prep? Prep

#survey

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wormwoodandtheillwills · 5 days ago

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It's so depressing to me that people know about Sir Shayfer James sooo little

( like EVEN LESS THAN Philip Selway Radiohead Drummer, he's Fire asf. He has a whole solo career with 3 albums, 𝔽𝕒𝕞𝕚𝕝𝕚��𝕣, ℍ and a EP and 𝕊𝕥𝕣𝕒𝕟𝕘𝕖 𝔻𝕒𝕟𝕔𝕖 𝕝ast year and he's like invisible I guess? I feel like the Only Listener on YT or Spotify half the time )

But anyway back to Mr. James! No one cares about him so he has no photos on Pinterest or Google ( he's just THAT MYSTERIOUS GUYS or just REALLY Private) and I have to directly Steal/ Download his Facebook Photos and Instagram or YouTube Live videos if I want to make edits of him...

He performs Ferryman with Will Wood himself during the tour happening RIGHT NOW too!

I might be Completely Wrong, he had a whole Merch Line that was pretty long so...

#personalized system #will wood #it's william worm! (have my dirt!)#shayfer james #ferryman #important #i feel guilty about this tbh #philip selway #solo career #solo album #counterfeit arcade #solo artists get no support tbfh #it's william worm!

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lovemesomesurveys · 3 years ago

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Thought I Couldn't Top It, Huh? OVER 2000 Questions! (Truly the Longest!) Created by distortedcognition

Part 1

Time and date right now: It’s currently Monday, August 30, 2021 at 3:37AM. How far do you want to get? I’m gonna get through the whole thing, just not all at once. =>This or That<= Pie or cake? Cake. Chocolate or vanilla? Vanilla. Black or white? Both. Ceiling or floor? Floor. Couch or bed? Bed. Cough or sneeze? Uh, I guess sneeze. On or off? That really depends. Closed or open? That really depends as well. Brush or comb? Brush. Long or short? Depends also.

Big or small? It depends, stopppp. Wet or dry? Sigh. Under or over? I’m not good at choosing, apparently. Fly or fall? Fly. Falling isn’t fun. Smile or frown? I’d rather smile than frown. Tears of joy or tears of sorrow? Tears of joy would of course be better, but I’m only familiar with tears of sorrow. Hot or cold? Cold, unless we’re taking coffee and foods meant to be hot. When I say cold I’m mostly talking about temperature wise. Warm or cool? Same answer ^^^ Rough or smooth? Smooth. Cat or dog? Dog. Snake or bird? Bird. Shark or T-Rex? T-Rex. Past or present? Past. Science fiction or fantasy? Both. Dull or sharp? Sharp. Live forever or die young? Live forever. Books or television? Both. Jump or skip? Skip. Fast or slow? Depends. Run or walk? Walk. Disney or Warner Brothers? Disney. Belle or Jasmine? Belle. Gaston or Cruella Deville? Cruella Deville. Food or friends? Food. ha. Odd comparison. Colors or black and white? Colors. Cute or pretty? Cute. Good or evil? Uh, good. Fruits or vegetables? I eat more veggies than fruits, but even that’s not a lot. Milk or juice? I’ll say milk, but almond milk specifically. I don’t drink it by itself, I just use milk with like coffee drinks, with cereal, milkshakes, and to dip cookies in. Hot chocolate or gingerale? Hot chocolate. Beer or wine? Neither, I don’t drink. Movies or cartoons? Movies, but I still watch some cartoons. Pillow or blanket? Blanket. Moon or stars? Stars. Sky or sea? Sea. Explode or implode? Jeez, both aren’t good but I certainly don’t want to implode... Tree or flower? Tree. Mountain Dew or Sprite? Mountain Dew. Ketchup or mustard? Both. Meats or veggies? Both. Straps or strapless? Straps. Water or Gatorade? Water. PS2 or Xbox 360? PS2. History or geography? History. Geometry or algebra? Ew, neither. Basketball or volleyball? Nether. Not a sports fan at all. Basketball or soccer? ^^^ Basketball or tennis? ^^^ Basketball or baseball? ^^^ Basketball or football? ^^^ Basketball or swimming? Swimming. Volleyball or soccer? Not a sports fan... Volleyball or tennis? ^^^ Volleyball or baseball? ^^^ Volleyball or football? ^^^ Volleyball or swimming? Swimming. Soccer or tennis? Still don’t like sports. Soccer or baseball? ^^^ Soccer or football? ^^^ Soccer or swimming? Swimming. Tennis or baseball? No. Sports. Tennis or football? ^^^ Tennis or swimming? Swimming. Baseball or football? My dislike for sports still hasn’t changed. Baseball or swimming? Swimming. Football or swimming? Swimming. Chinese or Mexican food? Mexican food. Red or orange? Red. Red or yellow? Yellow. Red or green? Green. Red or blue? Blue. Red or indigo? Indigo. Red or violet? Violet. Orange or yellow? Yellow. Orange or green? Green. Orange or blue? Blue. Orange or indigo? Indigo. Orange or violet? Violet. Yellow or green? Green. Yellow or blue? Blue. Yellow or indigo? Yellow. Yellow or violet? Yellow. Green or blue? Green. Green or indigo? Green. Green or violet? Green. Indigo or violet? Violet. Fall or summer? Fall, hands down. I hate summer. Winter or spring? Winter. Rain or snow? Bothhh. Mud or dirt? Neither. Snakes or spiders? Uh, NEITHER OF THEM. Fido or Fluffy? Fluffy. Rainbows or stars? Stars. Blue or gray sky? Gray sky. Prairies or forests? Forests. Lakes or streams? Both. Fish or caimans? I guess fish. I don’t like reptiles. Roses or daffodils? Roses. Bauhaus or Rosetta Stone? Rosetta Stone. I’ve never heard of Bauhaus. Sisters of Mercy or Skinny Puppy? What? Green Day or Fall Out Boy? Both. From First to Last or My Chemical Romance? My Chemical Romance, but I like a couple songs by From First to Last during my emo days. The Monkees or The Beatles? The Beatles. David Bowie or Billy Idol? I like some songs from both, but wasn’t a big fan of either one. Helloween or Skid Row? No idea. Britney Spears or Vanessa Carlton? Britney, but A Thousand Miles by Vanessa Carlton is a fave. The Goo Goo Dolls or 3 Doors Down? Both. Duran Duran or Madonna? Madonna, but I do like “Hungry Like a Wolf” and “Ordinary World” by Duran Duran. John Williams or Danny Elfman? Both. Mozart or Beethoven? Mozart.

Men at Work or Men Without Hats? Men at Work, but ya just can’t help but sing along to “Safety Dance” by Men Without Hats. The Arrogant Worms or Voltaire? Not familiar with either one. Dark Muse or Inkubus Sukkubus? Not familiar with them either. Queen or Black Sabbath? Queen. Rush or Pet Shop Boys? Rush. Johnny Hates Jazz or Deep Blue Something? Deep Blue Something. Supertramp or Steppenwolf? Not familiar with either one. Enormous mansion or humble abode? Ha, I thought we were still on the bands for a sec. Anyway, humble abode. Teaspoon or tablespoon? Uh, don’t really have a preference it just depends. China plates or crystal figurines? Crystal figurines. Knife or spork? Spork. Bedroom or basement? Bedroom. Antiques or chrome? Antiques. Wide screen televisions or ornately-designed windows? Ornately designed windows. Carpet or wood? Wood. Blenders or washing machines? Washing machines. Pen or pencil? Pen. Couch or bed? Bed. Kitchen sink or bathroom sink? Bathroom sink. Sitting on the roof with a friend or swimming in your backyard with them? Swimming. Phones or AIM? Aw, RIP AIM. Pillow or footrest? Pillow. Sharpies or ducks? Sharpies. How did you come up with that comparison? Personality quizzes or story quizzes? Personality. Gaia or Neopets? Oh wow, I remember Gaia. Anyway, I’ll go with Neopets. Attempting to use proper grammar or purposely butchering language? Proper grammar. Having to read the poetry on Quizilla or writing your own? I don’t read poetry, but I’d rather do so than attempt to write my own. Gold or silver? Both. Lipstick or lip gloss? Lip gloss. Sunny or rainy? Rainy. Edgar Allan Poe or Oscar Wilde? Edgar Allann Poe. Johnny Depp or Orlando Bloom? Johnny Depp. Lindsay Lohan or Hilary Duff? Hilary Duff. Pringles or Doritos? Doritos. MTV or VHI? MTV. Vampire or mermaid? Vampire. The Internet or television? Internet. Romantic comedy or romance tragedy? Romantic comedy. Comedy or drama? Drama. Comedy or horror? Horror. Comedy or fantasy? Fantasy. Law and Order: Criminal Intent or Law and Order: SVU? I don’t watch either one. The OC or Laguna Beach? (Why have I succumbed to asking this question?) I liked both. Blind or deaf? Uhh. Blind or mute? Mute or deaf? Shrimp or crab? Neither. I don’t like seafood. Crab or lobster? ^^^ Stickers or stamps? Stickers. VHS or DVD? DVD. VHS or CD? CD. CD or DVD? DVD. Paris or New York City? Both. Philadelphia or Chicago? Chicago. MySpace or TagWorld? Myspace. I’ve never heard of TagWorld. MySpace or Facebook? Facebook. Myspace died a longggg time ago. Mall goth or TRUE goth? What’s a TRUE goth, exactly?

Emo or punk? Emo. Emo or prep? Emo. Punk or prep? Punk. Punk or goth? Punk. Goth or prep? Goth.

#personal #text #survey #surveys #over 2000 questions survey series part 1 #this or that #long survey #about me

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green-eyed-whumpster · 4 years ago

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My OC Universe: Rowan 60

Chapter 60 Summary: Cordelia takes Rowan from the dungeon, and gives him some nice clothes. (Tagglietelle: @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi, @much-ado-about-whumping, @abitefullofeverything, @whump-me-all-night-long, @sky-or-something-idfk and @tears-and-lilies)

Trigger Warnings: Horse fear?

Cordelia held his arm as she led Rowan out of the dungeons. His feet stumbled over the stone in his eagerness to leave, and when he felt the pavers, warmed from the sun, under his soles he closed his eyes softly.

“Can-can I please just…stand here a moment longer?” He asked, soaking in the yellow warmth. “Rowan, we shouldn’t let any of the servants see you,” She replied carefully. “If you are cold you can have this,” She unclasped the cloak hanging around her shoulders and draped it over him. “Are you going to kill me?” He asked gently, the kind gesture filling his chest with fear. “What? No! Of course not!” She exclaimed, turning to face him properly. “I promised Marie that you would disappear. And you will. I’ll take you back to Peter.” She said as she placed her hands on his shoulders. “You…you will?” He breathed in disbelief. “Of course, I will! He’ll be so happy to realise that you’re alive.” Rowan startled her by falling to his knees and hugging her legs, soft sobs muffled by her trousers. “Thank you…thank you so much!” She bit her lip as her hands hovered over his head, unsure of how to properly console the boy. “Ro-Rowan,” She muttered as her fingers brushed his hair. “We should…I’ll take you to a store closet and we can get you some normal clothes, but I meant it when I said the servants shouldn’t see us.” He paused as he realised he was jeopardising their chance to leave by being weak. He released her quickly and scrambled to his feet, wiping his eyes hurriedly. “All right, I-I’m sorry,” He sniffed and hid his hands under the cloak. “No, it’s fine, just, the sooner we leave, the sooner you’re free.” Free. He nodded eagerly and she smiled at him softly, pulling up the hood of the cloak and wrapping her arm around his shoulders. “Keep your head down and stay quiet, no one should notice us.” She said as she began leading him down the hall, he simply nodded, hands balled in the cloak to keep it covering him entirely, grateful for her comforting arm on his shoulders. He flinched whenever he heard another set of footsteps, curling into Cordelia to avoid the spectre from seeing him. She led him through secret passages to the tailor’s storeroom, piled high with spare uniforms for all seasons and smelling pleasantly of linen and potpourri. “Let me just see how big you are,” She muttered, gently prying apart the front of the cloak, taking in his petite form and chewing her lip. “I don’t need anything special,” He said hopefully. “Anything that works is more than enough for me.” She smiled as she looked at him before turning to the pigeon-holes stacked with the clothing, reaching for one labelled ‘Boy’s Trousers’. She handed the brown woollen pants to Rowan and moved along the rows, looking for the box which said, ‘Boy’s Shirts – Autumn’. “Put those on while I find you some shoes and socks.” She said, handing him the light tunic. “I-will I need shoes?” He asked and she hesitated before shaking her head. “Not really, but it’s more comfortable if your feet aren’t bare.” He concentrated for the moment in removing his old clothes, carefully pulling on the shirt.

It was such a ridiculous thing, but he felt so much comfort when the sleeves hung from his arms, and his head had to push slightly to get it through the hole for his neck, only a fraction of his collarbone showing, instead of the tunic’s short sleeves and low neck, delving down to the base of his ribs. And the trousers, they may have been a bit rougher than the cotton shorts he usually wore, but he liked the weight of them hanging down his legs, covering them completely.

He heard Cordelia as she knocked wrong-sized shoes away somewhere nearby, a small huff told him that she had found some, and was moving back towards the corner Rowan was waiting in. “Here, they should fit,” She sighed, holding them and a pair of socks to him. “Thank you,” He muttered, crouching the pull them on. He paused, as a sudden and uncomfortable knot wormed in his stomach. “Cordelia,” He whispered, catching her interest as she rummaged for a coat. “What…what happened to Oliver?” She bit her lip softly and paused. “He-he isn’t dead, is he?” Rowan whimpered. He couldn’t face the possibility that because of him Oliver had been killed. “No, Rowan, he isn’t dead,” She said, moving back towards him. “But, your guard struggled when he was being arrested, he’s not well at the moment, but he should be alive.” Rowan sank to the ground and took a deep, shuddering breath. “Can I see him?” He asked and Cordelia shook her head. “We should leave as soon as possible.” Rowan pressed the heels of his hands into his mouth in a futile attempt to mute the sound of him sobbing desperately. “Rowan…” “Just-just give me a minute! Please,” He whimpered, sniffling violently as his chest stuttered. Cordelia nodded softly and returned to the piles of clothes. He allowed himself his minute of shameless muffled bawling, tears and mucus mixing together on his face as he choked the loudest of the sounds.

But eventually he knew that Cordelia would grow tired of waiting for him, and he didn’t want to upset his ticket out of the castle. He wiped his face with his hands and Cordelia appeared in front of him, holding out a handkerchief. “Thank you!” He gasped and gingerly rubbed his nose with it. “Don’t thank me, Rowan,” She sighed gently. “I should have saved you when I first realised you were here. It’s my fault that much of the worst things happened to you,” She muttered, helping him up. “N-no! I-of course not! It-it was my fault!” She scoffed as she wrapped a coat that was too big around his shoulders. “You were the victim, Rowan. It isn’t your fault.” She said, catching his cheek with her fingertips and forcing him to meet her eyes, to understand how serious she is. “But with a man like William, I knew what would cause him to punish me. I killed someone; he could have had me killed.” Rowan argued. “I knew enough to be able to avoid his anger, so it was my fault. You don’t…you don’t blame a bear for mauling a hunter. You blame the hunter for getting close enough to be hurt. The bear won’t change, so you were being irresponsible for approaching it and not it expecting to attack you.” As Rowan quoted the familiar words Cordelia’s mouth twitched softly. “Peter was talking about assholes in the tavern or people known for screwing over workers. Where the consequences were wounded pride and a few bruises or being cheated of a wage promised. Not of a spoiled monarch who tried to take your personality and crush it into a little ornament he could wear proudly. Cruel people are cruel.” She said, brushing his dirty hair over his eyes. “Anyone with a soul would feel ill when they realise how awfully you were treated. Even Marie, you may have guessed she wasn’t too fond of you,” Rowan nodded certainly, and she smiled gently at him. “But she was appalled when she saw the way he treated you. Even though she didn’t realise the true level of your relationship, she frequently complained that you were treated like an animal.” “Oh,” Was all that Rowan could think to say in response to the revelation that Marie didn’t entirely despise him. That maybe some of her scorn was misdirected because of William’s treatment. “Speaking of Marie, we should be going.” Cordelia added, bundling the stolen clothes into a sheet and pushing them into Rowan’s arms. “Same as before, stay quiet and stick by me, all right?” Rowan nodded, adrenaline rushing through his limbs at the reality of his freedom.

He followed Cordelia like a shadow, eyes glued to her feet, so he remained right by her side. She led him outside to a part of the gardens he was unfamiliar with, a wooden structure surrounded by wet dirt and mud stood before him, rustling sounds and soft whinnies coming from inside. He was grateful for the shoes now that the turned soil sunk beneath him. “Prepare my horse!” Cordelia called into the building, waiting until she heard a sound of affirmation before turning her attention to Rowan. “I need to go back to the port-side of the city to retrieve my things,” She explains. “I left them when I came back recently because I knew that the coup was coming, but at least once we get them it will be an easier trip home.” He nodded as a stableboy brought out a dark brown horse, he flinched and instinctively stepped back as he saw the animal, and Cordelia looked at him with concern. “What’s wrong?” She asked and he tore his eyes away from the creature to look at her, watching as she snatched the reigns from the boy’s hands. “That’s a bit rude, isn’t it?” He murmured weakly and she shook her head, glaring at the boy. “Not the way they’ve been treating you.” She answered, causing the boy to cower under her gaze and scurry off. “But they weren’t that bad,” Rowan argued. “Maybe not directly to your face, but if you don’t wear a crown, or a crest, then servants will say anything. Poisonous gossip being a favourite.” She spat, walking closer to Rowan. “Now, what was your problem with horses?” He was embarrassed to have to admit it. He was already so weak before Cordelia, he had burst into ugly, wet, sobs twice since they left the dungeon. “I-in the past, I haven’t really…enjoyed, the way I travelled on them,” He muttered, averting his gaze from Cordelia. “Oh, all right,” She sighed softly, looking at the beast. “I have an idea,” She said and grabbed the saddle, lifting herself gracefully up onto the horse. Waiting until it steadied before holding a hand to Rowan. “I’ll take your clothes if you like,” She said, reaching for them, Rowan watched as she jammed the lump of cloth in between her and the saddle pommel, testing its security before now reaching to Rowan. “Put one foot in the stirrup,” She instructed as he takes her hand. “Not that one,” She added, causing Rowan to hesitate curiously, she meant for his right foot to leverage him up onto the saddle, meaning that he would face away from the front of the horse. “Trust me,” She encouraged, prompting him to nervously place his foot in the stirrup and look at her for confirmation before attempting to lift himself up. “Hold on, let me help.” She leaned over and placed his hands in the right places before steadying her own on his ribs. “I’ll count to three and then throw yourself up, once you’re balancing up straight you can carefully lift your other leg over so you sit against my chest, sound good?” She asked and he nodded eagerly. “One…two…three!” He let out a soft squeal as he pushed himself up off the ground and struggled to keep his grip on the saddle and not release it to grab Cordelia. “Good job, that was perfect!” She soothed, gently tightening her grip on his sides. “Now lift your leg slowly over the horse’s back, so we don’t startle him.” Rowan nodded as warmth pooled in his stomach from the praise. Before he knew it, he was sitting on the wad of clothing and Cordelia was angling his legs, so they rested over hers. He whined softly as he felt himself being opened up, but soon the familiar and comforting smell of her soap snapped him out of his daze and he curled into her chest. “Can I stay like this?” He asked softly, lips incredibly close to her neck. “It’s really comfortable,” “Of course,” Cordelia replied, wrapping an arm around his back and pushing him gently into her torso. “Just relax, we’ll stay at an inn by the port tonight so I can get my things and then we’ll leave the city, I promise,” Rowan let out a soft little giggle as the horse began moving forward and grinned widely. “I’m free,” He whispered, his voice trembling. “I-I’m finally free.”

#whump #medieval whump #my writing #oc #Rowan #Cordelia #freedom!!#horse fear

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thylalock · 5 years ago

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Title: Celestial By: thylalock Characters: William Schofield, Tom Blake, Joseph Blake Pairing: William Schofield/Tom Blake Summary: Celestial beings don’t die, not truly. Before they completed their tasks, their souls will always reincarnate on Earth. On April 5th, 1896, Elizabeth Schofield had her first son—William Schofield. His task was quite simple: reunite Tom and Joseph Blake. Tags: fantasy AU, angel AU, reincarnation AU, modern AU, truly just an excuse for me to write Sco as an angel that he really is, will he and Blake meet again in the later incarnations? A/N: evidently I’m a weakling for AUs Chapter 1 (of 5): Operation Alberich Full text below the tag or here!

Fore A/N: wow I'm still emotional about this movie after watching it twice in the cinema and reading the script that I needed to get this out of my chest.

—

1896

It was a chilly dawn in April 5th, 1896, but none of it registered to Henry Schofield, who was pacing up and down the hallway just outside the closed door, or to Elizabeth Schofield, who was squeezing the bedpost and crying on top of her lungs as she pushed for the baby for safe delivery.

It might have sprinkled a bit in the morning, when the sun was barely peeking from the far end of the horizon, but none of it mattered. Because none of it could eclipse the bright smile etched on William Schofield’s face as he stared into his mother’s eyes, his cheeks rosy and his smile toothless.

Of course, it would be very natural for the young couple to be blinded by the simple smile of the little one—Henry and Elizabeth Schofield, very much in love, was barely of age themselves when they married, eyes glistening as they stared into each other on the aisle, vowing to be one—but the midwife noticed it.

The other girls from the village who had been helping her delivering the baby had gone downstairs to fetch some water and clean clothes to clean the mess, but for a second, the old woman could’ve sworn she saw the boy's eyes flashed. It wasn’t a blinding flash, although the parents would beg to differ, but under the shadow of April shower that morning, there was no mistaking that there was a glow emanating from the baby's eyes.

When she blinked, however, it was gone, so the midwife paid no mind to it.

—

1906

William—or Will, as how he usually went with these times—grew into a very sweet boy of ten years old.

He was quiet and a bit reserved, always steered clear from conflicts, and was gentle and caring and awfully protective of her two younger sisters, Mary and Elsie. He worked hard for school and during the weekends he could always find the time to help Elizabeth in the bakery even though the young woman always ushered him to go outside and play with his friends. He was relatively clear of any history of troubles, compared to the other boys in his school, except of a handful of times when he punched some boys for trying to kiss Mary as a part of a dare. He was an honest boy and he had relatively no trouble admitting to his mother that he hated being a thin and gangly boy who was too tall for his age the first time he went home with a bruise on his cheek.

But Elizabeth just wished she could get to know her first and only son better.

Of course she knew him, Will was never the kind of child who would hide things from her—she knew he was aware of the fact that she would always love him, all of her three children, whatever happened—but there were times when Will seemed troubled, Elizabeth wished he could only tell what was wrong when she asked him instead of flashing her one of his beautiful smiles, dodging the question away.

It didn’t help that he stopped lying to her, telling her that he was fine, the following months after they discovered that Henry Schofield wasn’t going to be home from the Second Boer War. Forever.

So she would usually just gather him into a hug and kissed the top of his head until he wriggled out, groaning playfully as he insisted that he was alright.

Because unbeknownst to the young mother, the boy himself couldn’t describe it.

—

1910

Will couldn’t place a finger on when he really started hearing those voices.

It was some time ago that he finally accepted the fact that he probably had started hearing the voices in his dreams from a very young age, forgetting them as soon as he woke up, before it finally permeated into his waking moments. He never really knew who it was, but it wasn't until he was fourteen that he realized what the voice had been saying.

He needs water!

Will blinked, the sight of his friend pushing back into focus as he snapped out of his reverie. “Will! He needs water! Get me your bottle!”

Will complied, although he retrieved his bottle from his school backpack a little too slowly, his mind trying not to short-circuit at the revelation. The boy in front of him, Matthew, was helping another boy, Richard, who had a cut on his chin from where he landed on the pavement, flesh raking into the ground and collecting dirt. He was on his way back home from school with his friends and there had been a fight about some nonsense about a girl that Will didn’t really understand, but the quick instinct that jumped into action as he pulled Richard away from the fight quickly dulled as he heard the words.

He needs water!

Matthew barked something at him, probably because he was moving too slowly, before snatching the bottle himself, pouring the contents on Richard’s chin. “For god’s sake, stay still Richard, you can’t have mud on a cut as big as that!”

Every was dull and silent and roaring and loud at the same time in Will’s head. He didn’t register his surroundings until he closed the door to his room, his back sliding against the cool wood and his mother’s questions from the kitchen went unheard.

—

1914

Will stood in front of a simple desk, a group of boys and young men bustling behind him.

He hated doing this. Not a lot of his friends had a family member swallowed by the horrors of war, as how it was evident from the way the lot of them was too eager to sign up to fight for the King and country even though they were barely sixteen years old, but Will knew. More than that, he understood—the impact that it would do to his mother and his two younger sisters. But to say he could easily dodge the pressure from his friends and neighbors, and the tiny voice pushing him to do his part to defend the country, with his views would be lying.

So here he was, standing in the queue, finally his turn to face the officer on the desk. The older man asked how old he was, and he lied through his teeth.

“Nineteen, sir.”

The man looked up, and Will widened his eyes in pure shock as he saw the man’s eyes flashed golden for less than a second, his breath knocked out from his lungs as he staggered backward.

“Oi, you alright mate?” a young man, who was next in the queue and was standing quite close behind him, asked, holding him steady. Will looked at him and was scared to see that the man didn’t even seem to register the unnatural event that he just witnessed. He slowly regained his composure as scanned the crowd around him, each man looking absorbed in their own business—how could nobody see that?

“You’re eighteen, boy, it’s not your time yet. Next!”

Will walked out of the building, feeling a wave of relief that was too confusing. As he stood there for a moment, calming his beating heart, he noticed a few more boys walking out of the building, looking pissed that they didn’t get the chance to fight.

The officer knew he wasn’t nineteen yet, even though the physical difference wouldn’t be recognizable for a gap as small as one year, and he knew all those boys were too young too. His words rang in his ears. It’s not your time yet.

—

1915

It was the same officer that accepted him the following year.

Will hadn’t been sure about it, a lot of his friends and neighbors were now dead and his family had insisted on him not to sign up, but as his eyes connected with the officer’s, a silent understanding passed between them. When the man’s eyes flashed golden once again, he found himself not feeling scared, but certain.

He received the message. This was what he was meant to do.

—

1917

It was the only feeling that he kept close to his heart.

Through the shells, through the deafening bombs, through the piss-soaked handkerchief he clamped tightly against his nose as the trench was flooded by chlorine gas, through the artillery attack and the shrapnel pieces raining down on him, through rain-soaked earth, through blood, through bullets that narrowly missed his helmet from snipers from the other side of no man’s land. But also through hunger, through bites of lice and invasion of rats, through the rain that froze him to near death and infection when the trenches were drained, through the boredom of waiting on the backline with no mail and nothing to eat, through the latrines and the sound of dying soldiers that he helped carry on the stretchers, begging him not to let them die.

To say that war was a cesspool of insanity, a whirlwind of unending terror and boredom and the guilt for alternating between both, was truly an understatement.

A little under two years since he signed up, Will was really ready to give up, until he heard it.

“Sho—Schofield? Did I get it right? Lance Corporal Schofield?”

Will looked up not so much at the mention of his name as much at the voice that wormed itself into his head. That voice—

The soldier before him suddenly turned back, looking at the sky behind him as though he expected to see a German aircraft in the sky rain bullets on them, legs already adopting the pose to enable him to jump. Will rose to his feet just as quickly, his hand already on his rifle and his feet ready to jump for the nearest cover.

“What is it, what is it?” Will asked, his voice rasping from dry throat. There were only the two of them in this corner of the line, and Will was ready to sprint to tell his commander of the threat.

But then the soldier before him them relaxed before turning back to him. “God, sorry, I thought there was something in the sky. Must be the trick of the light, though, saw something flashed in your eyes.”

This was the first time his brain nearly short-circuited since the day Richard Kent cut his chin on the pavement.

Everything about the soldier standing before him screamed new recruit —his build, his rosy cheeks, his demeanor and the fact he couldn’t stop talking, his youthfulness, the uniform on his person that Will would bet hadn’t seen the horrors that he’d seen, the lack of callous on his hands, the fact that he didn’t look like the war had cut some ten years from his lifespan, the generally clean and prim state of his person and belongings—and yet there was something about his voice Will couldn’t put a finger on. Something familiar about his voice—

“They told me you’d be here, so there you go. Got yourself a mail.”

There was something about his voice—

But that couldn’t be. There was nothing about this boy that didn’t betray the fact that he was a nineteen years old, if not younger, new recruit. There was no doubt he hadn’t met this chap before—so how could any of it be familiar?

“Blake, the name’s Blake.”

—

Blake turned out to be a very nice company.

True, sometimes he talked too much and was a bit insensitive, asking about the Somme and Ypres when all the men in the regiment would rather erase the words from their heads, and sometimes they could all do with a bit of silence to rest during the afternoons, but he was funny, never short of hilarious stories to tell, and quite frankly, he was the epitome of what it meant to be human. A reminder for him to stay sane in the middle of the war.

One couldn’t really choose one’s companies in wars—everyone was each other’s brother—but there was something comforting in working with Blake. Carrying the rations with him, helping the wounded with him, digging the bloody earth with him, even though the task used to bore and tire him to death.

One day, as they sat on the slightly damp earth in the backline, playing chess with rocks as makeshift chess pieces to kill time, he correctly deduced that Blake had an older brother.

“How did you know?” the young man asked in the middle of a chess game, astonished. Will only looked up and offered a small smile before he moved his rook, cornering Blake’s knight.

—

And so Will found himself leaning against a tree and drifted off to sleep in one of the rare afternoons where Blake was too tired to tell him the stories about how Evans woke half the trench up upon finding a rat in his pants or how Davies broke the latrine pole and sent his five of his comrades into the muck.

But then he heard Sanders woke Blake up, telling him to take a man and follow him.

It felt almost natural that Blake would offer his hand to him, would choose him to go with the young man, but then something happened as their palms touched.

A weak current seemed to flow from Will’s fingertips, tingling the base of his arms, but he ignored it. He’d been having some of these inexplicable and strange occurrences around Blake for a while now that he was able to brush it off as nothing in the face of the real absurdity of the Great War.

They walked down the trench to follow the Sergeant, Blake getting chatty as usual at the news of Myrtle having puppies, and Will wisely refusing to participate in a bet with him with enough healthy common sense, being the more sensible of the two.

—

The first time he realized it, he put his hand on Blake’s arm immediately, almost instinctively. Something just dawned on him—a feeling he couldn’t quite describe, something foreign and familiar at the same time, a tingling sensation in his bones that told him it was his job to look out for the younger man beside him, more than any other times. Something akin to the understanding—or dare he say it, the accepting of fate—that he felt as he finally signed up to do his part in the Great War, bravely leveling his gaze on the recruiting officer in front of him. Blake stopped climbing the ladder, retrieving his arm from where he was about to grab hold of the parapet to heave himself upwards.

This was it, this was what he was meant to do.

“Age before beauty,” Will said in a low voice, before climbing up the parapet himself.

—

“No, NO!”

And then a deafening explosion.

It happened in less than a fraction of a second that Will was not able to register anything.

But there was something. Someone. A voice, a familiar voice, a voice he had been hearing ever since he was a child. A tug. A faint feeling of his own body being pulled upwards, dull enough that he thought he was dreaming, that he was not inside his own person. A voice, a shout, a tug on his soul—

“WAKE UP! UP!”

His lungs convulsed and he retched, coughing out an awful amount of dust. He was alive.

—

The fact was Will could listen to Blake talk for eternity.

He might have never admitted it—and he really would never admit it, come to think of it, for the sake of other men who really needed the rest, Blake really didn’t need the encouragement—and he often dodged the prospect by saying he was not in the mood to listen, but the fact held true. He might have dozed off a few times during Blake’s endless stock of recounts, too tired to keep listening, but he loved listening to his voice. It was sweet, melodious, full of excitement and rich in hope, shining like a beacon with lights bright enough to pierce through the clouds in Will’s war-addled mind, reminding him of what was pure and what was human.

Gently caressing his soul like a lullaby, because, now he realized, he had been listening to it since he was a child .

And so Will found himself relaxing to Blake’s recount of how Wilko had lost his ear to a rat, of all things.

He had refused to listen to it at first, insisting that they kept their eyes fixed on the ridges for the oncoming Germans and kept their guards, but of course, Blake wouldn’t listen. And Will finally accepted it. They had set one bloody explosive just then, barely escaping the collapsing dugout in the process and nearly getting buried alive themselves, and had stood on open space for a long time. The fact that they hadn’t been shot then could only account for the fact that there was no one to shoot them—that was, if the Germans didn’t have more tricks up their sleeves.

And Will knew Blake was trying to make up for when they had a bit of an argument back then, so he let him.

And he laughed. First reluctantly, then appreciatively, and then genuinely.

The two aircraft they had seen earlier returned from the enemy lines, silencing them both.

—

There was a dull throb in his bones as soon as he set foot on the little house. He didn’t like the place.

He couldn’t decide what inflicted the particular thought—among the dead cows he spotted lying on the far end of the horizon, the cherry trees chopped down to rot, the dead dog he saw lying on the other side of the farmhouse, or the fact that the Germans just gave them miles and miles of land that Will couldn’t quite grasp his mind around—but there was something about it that didn’t feel right. As though there was some evil written on the walls.

“Anything?” Blake called out from the backyard.

Will concluded there was nothing in the area, and said as much to Blake, but he didn’t know if it was true.

—

He knew he was wrong when he heard it. He didn’t know what it meant, but he knew something big was about to unfold.

This was the only time he hated hearing Blake’s voice, even though his voice and these particular words were something he had been listening to since he was a child.

“No, get him some water, he needs water! ”

Will couldn’t take his eyes off Blake, his breathing stopping and his heartbeat stuttering. There was something, something—

He didn’t want to look away from him, he didn’t want to let him out of his sight— how could he had heard this since he was a child —the gravity of the situation was pulling him into the earth, swallowing him whole, snatching his consciousness years into the past before throwing him back into the present in less than a second—something was wrong and he didn’t know what and he didn’t want to lose sight of Blake—

But he complied, and never had tearing his eyes from Blake felt so painful.

Because that was what he embodied. That was what Blake was the epitome of in the midst of this war—humanity. In the most important moment and revelation of his life, Will would not betray what Blake represented in his life.

Blake, Blake, Blake—

Before he regretted it.

“Stop, STOP!”

Will’s neck snapped to Blake so quickly it was a miracle he didn’t sprain it. Before he knew it, he sent two bullets down the German’s body, killing him outright.

Both of them stood looking at each other, Blake’s hands working around the buttons of his uniform, and Will standing there stupefied, both knowing what just happened.

Blake fell on his knees first, looking more like it was at the sight of the blood and the realization of the wound more than the actual pain itself, and Will followed suit, kneeling beside him. His voice shook. God, god—he pressed the dressing onto Blake’s wound, hoping to stop the bleeding although the latter writhed in pain and threw him curses. He couldn’t lose him now, he was supposed to look out for him—he couldn’t lose him, he couldn’t lose him, he couldn’t lose him.

Blake was losing blood impossibly fast, the color draining from his person too quickly. Will was desperate—he’d do anything, anything , he’d lift him, he’d pull him up for as often as he needed to, he’d even carry his whole body himself in his own arms if he needed to, he just couldn’t lose Blake—

“Your brother! We have to find your brother!” Will cried, pleaded, begged . Warm blood was flowing out of the spaces between his fingers in a sickly rhythm with Blake’s beating heart that was slowly losing strength, and Will hated it—he hated it .

He couldn’t lose him, not now, not ever, not—

“You’ll recognize him,” Blake breathed, sending Will’s heart to the bottom of his abdomen.

Will shut his eyes, not trusting his voice to even debate it—no.

“He looks like me,” Blake said, panting, “and, he’s a bit older.”

And then his head lolled to his side, resting against Will’s chest. His breathing slowed, he stopped panting, finally giving in to the death sentence, and Will hated himself for not knowing how to instill the fight back into Blake’s heart. He was still frantically looking around for help—Aid Posts, nearest cover, anything—he couldn’t lose him, he couldn’t lose him for god’s sake—

The roof of the fallen barn behind them collapsed, eaten by the fire roaring from the burning aircraft, sending embers into the air. He noticed how Blake was eyeing them curiously. Will knew what it was—blood was no longer feeding his brain and he slowly forgot what just happened.

“Are we being shelled?”

Will looked at him. He’d seen countless of other soldiers dying, he knew what it meant. “They’re embers, the barn is on fire.”

It was painful to watch as Blake’s eyes travel to the wound on his abdomen, realizing that the pool of blood seeping through to his pants was his own, but it was yet more painful when he put his cold palm on Will’s own. So gentle and weak and childlike and pale and feeble.

When Blake asked if he was dying, it was as painful and agonizing for Will to admit that he was, indeed, dying.

Tears pooled on Blake’s eyes. He was crying.

So there was nothing else he could do except to offer him promises—a letter to Blake’s mother, the safe delivery of the message, finding his brother.

—

“Come with me, Corporal. That’s an order.”

Will had seen countless other men dying, a lot of them cradled in his arms, a lot of them clutching onto his person, a lot of them too young, a lot of them losing the heat of their body on his lap, and a lot of them holding his hand, but Blake’s death felt like something was robbed from his soul.

—

It was the only thing that filled his mind and burned through his being as he left the abandoned barn, on the truck to Ecoust, on the mud that trapped the wheels.

“We all need to push! COME ON!”

It burned. It scorched his being, it burned in his eyes that were threatening to spill angry tears, it torched his throat as he roared in his attempt to move the truck, and it glowed bright—

When they finally got the wheel out of the mud, half of the men filed back into the back of the truck immediately, looking quite pleased that they could continue their journey, while the other half looked slightly annoyed that the driver had opted to veer out of the road and got them trapped in the first place. No one paid any attention to him except one Sikh soldier who offered him a hand to help him stand.

“Back in. Get back in. Go.”

There was nothing he wanted more in the world than to just continue his journey, reaching Ecoust as fast as he could. He knew his emotions were probably written all over his face, but he couldn’t care less.

But unbeknownst to Will, it was not what caught the Sikh’s attention.

It was the literal flash in Will’s eyes, there for a second and gone the next.

—

When he hit the back of his head on the staircase landing, his last thought was his promise to Blake.

—

And it was the first thought that passed through his mind upon waking up.

And so he pushed his way through the city, with only flares to see and ruined walls for cover and luck to pray to.

He pushed his way through the city, through the painful throb on the back on his head, through the aching hole bleeding open on his chest because the lost baby girl in Ecoust reminded him of his little sisters and the young maiden reminded him of his own mother, through the weight of his webbing pulling him under the water as he vaulted down into the river, through the white freezing water roiling all around him and choking his lungs, through the fatigue that was slowly claiming his person as he sat listening to the eerily lonesome ballad—

Blake. Blake. Sixteen hundred men. Joe Blake, Colonel Mackenzie.

Letter.

Devons.

Blake. Blake...

“We’re the Devons.”

There was a dull ebbing in the liquid of his brain. He had trouble understanding it, accepting it. He was there .

The fire had burned too long. His flesh were singed and his sinews exhausted, but the revelation splashed fuel onto his being and cleared his mind. Will rose to his feet.

—

For a moment there was nothing but the sound of his heart beating as he made the decision.

Something dawned on him. There would be no time. These men had prepared to attack in a moment’s notice with lieutenants counting down the seconds to the attack and Mackenzie was still nowhere to be seen, the next man he asked always telling him he was further and further up the line. He had no choice, no time to deal with the bustling soldiers lining up the front line and knocking over him as he tried to push his way through, no time—

And so he climbed up the sloping ground that was the only protection for the front line.

He’d walk through the line of fire for these sixteen hundred men. For Blake.

—

Something tugged on his soul. He heard something behind him.

He realized it now. All the gentle tugging on his soul and all the strange occurrences he’d had throughout his life, all the voices and all the glows, all the gentle tingling in his bones and the inexplicable instinct in his gut. It took his stupid self so long, so bloody long, but he realized it now.

It all pointed to Blake.

But this, this was a different tug. Something similar but not quite the same—

Will knew what it was before he finished his train of thought. He knew who he would see as he turned around.

Lieutenant Joseph Blake.

—

1918

Funny how he went back to the insane and deranged cycle of alternating between terror and boredom as he went to his next battles without Blake on his side.

Will heard the deafening sound of the explosion for a split second, and then all was black.

And then—and then all was white.

—

1919

On the other side of England, a nurse gasped.

The head nurse barked an order to her, telling her to clean the baby and to immediately fetch her more clean clothes for the young mother. She complied, but she could’ve sworn she saw the baby’s eyes flashed for a second.

—

NOTES: the minimum age to sign up in World War I was nineteen, but a lot of boys from age 15 to 18 managed to lie their way in. Before the respirators were introduced, many soldiers had to literally piss on clothes to filter the chlorine gas, utilizing the ammonia in the urine to neutralize the chlorine. This was before the discovery that chlorine and ammonia can, in fact, interact to produce other toxic byproducts, but, you know, it worked at the moment. Nevertheless, the urine-soaked clothes functioned like a normal water-soaked cloth, so it worked quite well. The title of the chapter, Operation Alberich, is the name of German's strategic withdrawal to the shorter Hindenburg Line in the movie. It's a strategy to distribute the men into fewer divisions, therefor strengthening their position. (Correct me if I'm wrong, though, this is the best I could do to make it as real as possible but constructive criticism is always welcomed!)

End A/N: PHEW AHAHAHAHAH finally got it out of my chest! This is the first chapter of the five chapters that I planned, what do you guys think?

#1917 #1917 fanfic #blakefield #william schofield #tom blake #*#my writings #celestial #not sure i got the historical facts right hjksfhfhjk #hoping it works though #what do you guys think?#constructive criticism is always welcomed!

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charlemange1 · 4 years ago

Text

Ask of the Lesser (Frankenstein/Lovecraft Works): 2 Nothing Beside Remains

My frantic flight from Switzerland had taken weeks on foot through the surrounding woodland. The carriage Curwen purchased after leaving Ingolstadt made the journey in a few days. Towns identical in their destruction passed us by as folks picked through the rubble. Geneva likely suffered a similar fate, and my heart ached for the devastated people this bloody revolution was meant to help! Their torches and pitchforks had given great men power and renown, yet what had Napoleon done to benefit them and their broken windows?

Given my familiar face, Curwen decided to wait until nightfall to visit the cemetery, a decision I did not protest too. Abandoning the carriage, I guided him through the desecrated suburbs of Belrive and welcomed the darkness that hid the extent of the damage done to my former home. Despite my occasional pause for breath, we made good time and the moon had not fully risen when I stopped beside the Frankenstein tomb. In the four years of my absence the wildflowers had taken over, though the stone structure stood as regal as ever. Curwen placed his hat over his heart, content to pay his respects from a distance. I shook the vines from my cane and stumbled to the entrance. My torch lit up the chiseled letters above the sealed door: Frankenstein. My family. Little saplings had sprouted around the tomb, how long until nature reclaimed the only proof my loved ones had existed at all?

A sudden wildness seized me, and my knees hit the ground as I tore out the surrounding weeds and flung them into the night. Dirt clogged my nails as I desperately tried beating back the woodland that cared so little for memories of warm smiles and charity. The effort tightened my lungs and I collapsed in a panting heap, still surrounded. It took me a moment to realize Curwen had vanished. Wiping sweat from my brow, I staggered to the tomb’s entrance where the door stood ajar. An odd chemical scent floated around melted metal where a lock had been.

“Are you finished, then?” Curwen’s voice echoed from inside. “Do come in, they do not bite.”

“What did you do,” I stumbled over to Curwen waiting in the back of the tomb.

“I told you already. I wish to see your brother,” Curwen said. His pupils drew in the surrounding shadows. “Which casket is his? We do not have time for petty guesswork.”

His right hand clutched a crowbar. Reality suddenly dawned on me. I was in a hostile land, breaking into the realm of the dead with a stranger who had allegedly known Victor. Previous encounters had taught me that Victor’s rambles attracted two types of readers: those from the tavern who looked on his actions with terror and disgust, and those who did not.

“You are one of those resurrection men,” I breathed. “A graverobber!”

Curwen’s face was a mask. “Your brother kept like-minded company.”

“Victor did no such thing! It was all in his head!” I snarled. “You actually believe he stitched together rotten corpses and reanimated them to massacre my family?”

“What I believe means little, Victor said so himself,” Curwen carelessly tossed the crowbar on Mama’s casket and pulled Walton’s book from his satchel.

“You are mad,” I stepped away.

“Come now, do you really credit your extraordinary misfortune to mere chance?” Curwen pressed. “That those connected to the Frankenstein family just have a habit of getting their necks snapped? That your sweet maid saw it fitting to murder her little charge and hide his locket in so obvious a place? You speak of madness, yet I find your denial of the evidence precisely that!”

“Nonsense!” My cane struck the floor as though the motion alone could defeat Curwen. “My brother was a genius, yes, but creating life? That is strictly God’s domain!”

“Foolish boy, you do not get it. He beat God! Earths’ at least, had it been the other gods he chose to rival, well, that is beside the point!” Curwen shook his head. “I thought being his brother would have opened your eyes more so than the others, but you people are all the same. So stuck in your beliefs that you are incapable of comprehending the grand scope of genius! Of the power we hold now and will claim in the future!”

The image came again—Victor shaking his head as I begged to come with him. His voice saying I was too weak. A slammed door. No, I did understand. I was not on the level of Curwen, and certainly not Victor. And Curwen’s voice, crazy as his claims were, had an undercurrent of genuineness I could not ignore. Somehow, he spoke the truth. The caskets stacked around me seemed to grow with the revelation. Those at the tavern were right. My older brother was a monster! And the man smiling in front of me was…?

“I have researched such unhallowed arts as well, and now I too believe I hold the key for such endeavors,” Curwen said. “I can bring him back, Ernest.”

“Why?” I whimpered. “Has he not done enough?”

“You must have read Walton’s biography,” Curwen insisted. “That creature was a blank slate turned black from Victor’s neglect. If the resurrected had memory, had a soul, how much greater would they be?”

“Far worse, if he was a fiend in life!”

“Your brother was onto something revolutionary,” Curwen continued. His hand lifted toward a future I could not see. “My black magic cannot compare, but I can resurrect his soul. You could have him, and once he relates his secrets to me, everyone you have lost returned.”

“They are mere skeletons,” I croaked, unsure of anything now. “You cannot reanimate flesh the worms have long since eaten away.”

“Its essence remains all the same. Decay does not stump me as it did Victor. In many ways, my methods are superior to his, but not permanent. I need him, the same as you. He is your brother.” Curwen held out his hand. It took me a moment to register the gesture.

“You are right,” I said and grasped his fingers with a smile. “I need him too.” With the last word I yanked Curwen forward and struck his head with my cane—the classic surprise attack mentioned in my old combat books. Turning on my heels, I rushed from the tomb and down the moonlit graveyard. Away from this madman and the truth beneath those caskets! My family murdered by a monster of my brother’s own design! A monster he had said nothing of while Justine hung for his crimes. The poor woman, rotting in a criminal’s grave! I had cursed her legacy while showering the real daemon with misplaced sympathy. My knees gave out and I crashed amidst scattered stone and charred wood. It took me a moment to recognize the great oak that towered over what was once my backyard. I had been so fixated on running away that I had forgotten there was no home to run to anymore. Nothing remained of our villa now, it was rubble and ashes.

Different ashes flashed through my mind, and I wept. Wept for William, Justine, Elizabeth, Papa, Henry, and any other hapless victim that had stumbled upon Victor’s creation. Wicked world! Why must I be the sole survivor? Why not those with such promise, not an invalid too blind to see the truth? Yet here I crouched, the least worthy left unclaimed by the spoiler. Had the monster found me too insignificant to kill? Did I mean so little to Victor that his vengeful creation had ignored me? My hands pawed at the rubble, as though reality could be brushed away and I could return to better days. The dust brought on another coughing fit I did little to disguise. If I had caught on sooner, if I was not so weak, they would still be alive.

Weak. I repeated that word to the charred planks and stone until the sun rose. I was powerless, but I knew someone strong. A genius who could peel back the mortal bounds that held me captive. If Curwen brought Victor back…

No, do not think such things. They are not of God!

A God who did nothing to stop the slaughter. What did God care for my little life or those of the peasants crushed by this horrid war? Where had he been when Victor’s creature strangled my baby brother or French officials drowned innocent commoners at Nantes? Why were cruel men set up to rule while their supporters lived in shacks? Either God had a preference for the wicked, or he viewed us humans as I would an ant—how we lived and died were beneath him.

If Curwen brought Victor back, wicked though my brother was, Curwen could force the secret of life from his lips and we could revive those who had been so cruelly slain! I dared to dream, to picture little William chasing grasshoppers in the vineyards again as Elizabeth and Mama (yes, Mama too!) chuckled while we watched him together. It would be sunny with no monsters in that happy home. Victor would be turned away before his delusions of grandeur ruined us again. Yes, yes it would work! Wicked though such work may be, nothing could rival the vile acts that had sealed my family in the tomb to begin with. If that damns me, so be it. I had nothing to lose in the face of failure. I had to find Curwen!

I arrived at a tomb vacant of life. Victor’s casket stood empty.

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