#parental death referenced

[paingoes]

Rubies - Trial III

the prosecution makes its argument

(Content: living weapon whumpee, past trauma, referenced child abuse, referenced caning, past emotional abuse, war, guilt, parental death mention, child death mention, emotional whump, crying, angst, comfort)

In the Emperor’s quarters, the dead far outnumbered the living. Delta knelt upon the bearskin run and ran his fingers through its thick white fur. He wanted to reach for the mouth of it, to feel the teeth, but he dared not move without permission. The fresh cane marks along his calves made sure of that.

“Here, boy.”

The Emperor had taken to calling him boy, which he found strange and overfamiliar. To his handlers, he had always been One-Oh-Seven. More and more, it has simply been Delta. There was no need for numeration when there were no others.

He rose up off of the carpet, taking silent steps until he stood in front of the weary form of the old man. 

The doctor was nowhere to be seen. For this, he was grateful.

A hand heavy with time and with rings pressed against his forehead. Did he look sick? He didn’t mean to. The Emperor would find no fever there, at any rate. Delta ran cold.

“Are the stars all in alignment tonight, poppet?” He withdrew his hand. “Will today be a good day?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

There was no gap in between their words. There was no hesitation. He would be punished for lying just as quickly as for failing, so he was careful not to lie. Of course today would be a good day. 

Delta was excellent.

But the Emperor still searched him. It was not illness he had sensed. 

“Is everything alright?”

The concern in his voice only made the sting worse. Delta looked down in shame.

It was sullenness. That was all. He was cold all over, soaked with shame. It was bad, he knew. He was supposed to take all punishment without complaint, but Delta so seldom needed correction. It hurt all the more when it did come. He couldn’t get the chill of it to leave him. He’d been torn into. 

Unfit, the doctor had said. Unworthy of the privilege. Disgraceful.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Delta responded, the shame of it deepening. He hadn’t meant to sulk about it. He was only proving their point.

There was nothing wrong with his ability to perform, which is all the Emperor had really been asking. A little emotional hurt had never impacted his powers before — thank god for that. Today would be no exception.

With that, the Emperor rose up. Delta followed a half-step behind him. He was getting on in age. It was never hard to keep up.

They walked all the way past the war room, out onto the deck of the ship. The air was thin in the upper atmosphere, but it was getting more bearable upon the descent. There were a collection of advisors and generals gathered about by the railing. Delta kept his head bowed respectfully, careful not to look them dead on. With the Emperor there, he knew they wouldn’t dare touch him. But it was a deeply ingrained habit and one he saw no reason to break.

There was a pressure at his shoulder. It was meant to be reassuring, but it only scared him worse. He could see the target below. Its perimeter was painted in a pale orange color.

They wanted showy this time.

Space was made around him as they clicked the collar off of his neck. He closed his eyes. The light was painful. All the hearts beating so close were distracting. 

Disgraceful. He felt the sting of fear in his chest and prickling at his eyes. It was going to hurt. He was getting frigid in a way he hadn’t before. He didn’t want to be hurt.

He zeroed in on the target anyway, visualizing its delimitation among the pale. He wished they’d given him something to hold onto. All he had now were his own hands and his nails cutting indents into the palms. Showy. The world snapped as the target was turned to dust.

The collar clicked back on. Blood was already pooling in his throat and in his sinuses. The migraine aura descended. He swayed, but not fall. The Emperor’s hand steadied him there. It moved calming circles into his back. He heard the applause, but to him it sounded miles away.

“Incredible.” The Emperor had whispered into his ear. “You were wonderful.”

And like that, he was glowing. He couldn’t help it. He wasn’t supposed to feel a thing, but the warmth of the praise made itself at home in him. It was the only time he let himself feel anything close to pride — and he could have lived in its light. It was almost worth it. He felt sick enough to die and it was almost worth it.

~~~~~~

Silas placed the blank sheet of paper down onto the desk and slid it towards him. His expression was grim.

“I want you to write down every target you can remember hitting. Names and dates. It doesn’t have to be exact.”

The room was small and dark, not much bigger than a broom closet. Maryam sat beside him at the table. He had a legal right to keep her there — and thought he had not asked her to, she volunteered to accompany him. 

Delta rocked his leg a little as he felt at the rough graphite of the pencil.

He took the order for what it was. He had a good sense for it. There were some things he struggled to remember, but in general, his memory was better than most. He had been allowed no distractions. He’d had no choice but to focus in.

He started with the earlier days of his imperial career — the battleship he’d crushed on the water, the first show of strength before the purchase was made. And then there was all that came after. He was never told until the day of what he would be after, but he remembered them all the same.

Marisol

Pyrha

Holliday

Basalt

Clover

Killian

Versus

He wrote mechanically, appending the dates as best as he could. He’d already made up this list in his mind several times. He’d have offered it to Levon if things had gone differently, but as it stood, he’d never been given the chance.

Regina

Ursa

Deidra

Anatol

Timber

Jocobe

Weissan

He soon ran out of space on the page. He write in a smaller script around the margins.

“That’s enough,” Maryam said, eyeing the prosecutor nervously. Delta kept writing.

“You can stop now,” Silas agreed, reaching to take the paper back.

“I’m not done,” Delta snapped. 

He recoiled just as soon as he’d said it. He didn’t know where he’d gotten the nerve to speak like that, to talk back at all, and especially not to them. He dropped the pencil and drew back into the chair, fully expecting to get smacked in the mouth, bare minimum. 

The hit didn’t come. Silas took the paper and examined it without much reaction. It was a long list — and that was only with the Emperor. He hadn’t even gotten to Paris yet.

“Can I ask you something? For my own curiosity?” Silas said.

Delta looked up at him.

“About how far away from the target are you when activated?”

“…A mile, sir.” Delta tapped at the chair.

He nodded. “What’s the closest you’ve ever been to someone you’ve killed?”

He heard Maryam scoff beside him, but he thought it was a fair question, if an abrupt one. He had to think about it for a second. As the answer came to him, he felt the shock of ocean water, stealing just as much breath from him as it had the first time.

He held his hands up to demonstrate, having no other way to quantify the distance. Right up against his body. He’d garroted him, wrapped the chains around his neck and held him there. The water had done the rest. He hadn’t even used his powers.

“Daniel Martino,” he answered quietly, “The same night I got picked up.”

It was his most recent kill  — and if Levon’s word was anything to believe in, it would be the last. 

He hadn’t told anyone about it until now.

“Your handler?” Silas asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Silas and Maryam exchanged a look he could not read.

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t fault you for that.” Silas folded the paper into his pocket.

The clemency caught him off guard. Delta looked down, embarrassed all the same.

~

The shades were drawn in the conference room. It was a stormy day outside — Delta could imagine how the static might’ve felt on his skin had he been out there. For now, all he could do was imagine it.

“Delta,” the prosecutor drew his attention back, “I asked you a question.”

Silas was sharper with him when there was a crowd. He was familiar with this tactic. It didn’t register to him as a surprise, only as a kind of dull pain.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Delta said weakly, but sincerely. “…Could you repeat it, please?”

He usually would not have been bold enough to make requests, but then he usually wouldn’t have zoned out in the first place.

“Were the accounts of lateral violence within the Institute true?” He asked, then clarified: “Were the students there encouraged to hurt one another?” 

“Yes, sir.” Delta closed his eyes. He did not need to guess the next question.

“Did you ever use your powers to injure the other students?”

Not because he wanted to. He didn’t know if he was allowed to answer with that. It had been a yes-or-no question — and his handlers had gotten mad whenever he tried to explain himself around it. He didn’t know if the same rules would apply here.

“Yes, sir.”

He caught the concerned looks of the others at the conference table. The council members had shown him no scorn so far, in spite of everything. He dreaded losing it. But in his mind, it was an inevitability. He couldn’t make himself look back.

“Did you ever kill any of them?”

It wasn’t the same as injuring. The administration had loved to use him as a threat long before he was in the imperial service. He’d always be the first they brought out they sent to scare the others into submission. After the first few times — cracked ribs, broken arms, and painful shocks — any actual violence wasn’t needed. The threat alone was enough.

That wasn’t the same as killing. While the punishment had been painful, the kills were quick. Those were for safety alone. Nobody ever died as a punishment. They died because they were about to kill everyone else.

It’d been a yes-or-no question. The answer was yes, obviously.

“Yes, sir.” 

He kept his eyes down. Kitty shifted a bit to his left. He didn’t want to see the way her face changed when she found out.

Silas ended his line of questioning. The lights dimmed further as the video began to play.

PYRHA 08

SOL 07

The caption showed against the grainy white backdrop. He could see the town in his mind before it was shown on the screen. It was before the disaster. Jade was pushed up into the edges of the home. All their streets were still cobblestone. From above, as he had seen it, the town looked to be built into a crescent moon shape. The blue tops of buildings stood out against the pale sand.

“…There was this burning, endless light…”

The voiceover played over still frames of the cloud. The images clipped together in animation. He saw the tip of the airship approaching the edge of the sky.

Whoever had produced the documentary had no knowledge of the cause. How could they? It was a superweapon, they were sure, but how could they have known what? 

All they could do was to quantify it. The ground temperature had reached the same peak as the sun. The duration lasted ten to fifteen seconds — 12.945 seconds, Delta corrected in his mind. There’d been no warning. 2,031 people had died. About five hundred families.

The focus was the math — and more than that, the footage. Few of his attacks had ever been so well documented. But almost as an aside, they had spoken to some of the eye witnesses.

A girl with chestnut brown hair smiled sadly into the camera as she held up the picture. The image quality changed again as a video from inside her house began to play. He could not tell if she was the infant or the child holding onto it inside the cedar living room. The camera shifted angles to capture their mother grinning on the couch, clapping along to the silent song. 

There was some primordial ache in him that would not sleep. It’d always burned too hot. After the first few times, he’d learned not to touch it.

He felt it burning now, pressed up against his skin with no escape.

“And my friends always made fun of me for being such a townie, because I had to ride the bus two hours just to get to school,” the girl chirped softly, “And I remember that morning, my mom telling me not to stay too long after classes. She wanted me to come straight home that day because-“

Her voice broke. 

“Because we were going to go out as a family.”

The clip cut away to the moment the sky tore open.

Delta stood up before he knew what he was doing. He stumbled blindly away from the table, pushing out into the hall.

He’d taken her parents from her. Ripped her away from them, the same way he’d been ripped away from his own. The loss cut through him sharper than he could ever remember. 

He was crying. He couldn’t stop it. The sorrow and fear enveloped him in equal measures. He’d walked out. He hadn’t been dismissed, he’d never walked out like that in all his life. But he couldn’t stand to hear anymore. He didn’t want them to see him cry.

He wanted his mom. It was silly. He didn’t even know what she looked like. She clearly hadn’t wanted him.

“Delta?” Levon called after him. He stopped dead. He was recall trained — he wouldn’t dare move farther. But he couldn’t bring himself to turn around. He didn’t think he could.

He sank to the floor instead. He tried to hide his tears, but his body shook from the effort. He was still good about being quiet when he was hurt. He was trying very hard to be good about it.

A soft sob escaped him anyway. Levon bent down onto the floor beside him.

“That was too far. I’m sorry. That shouldn’t have happened.” Levon placed one hand lightly onto his shoulderblade. His thumb worked over the knots that had formed there, so bound up and painful.

“I’m sorry,” Delta said. It was always the first thing to come out of his mouth these days, no matter how much they tried to correct it. 

He remembered how young he was at the time. He remembered how proud he’d been.

“I didn’t know,” Delta said through tears, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“I know, baby,” Levon’s voice got quiet. It didn’t echo. No one else could have heard. “You’re okay. It’s okay.”

Then, even quieter, the admission: “It’s not your fault.”

Delta sobbed into his sleeve, leaning over so that his face almost touched the ground. He wished he could stop it. It was taking everything out of him.

He felt a gentle tug at his sleeve. It was an invitation. He accepted it before he could stop himself, too desperate for any semblance of comfort. Levon pulled him into the hug. His cries grew muffled as he hid his face in the fabric of the shirt.

“I’m so sorry, baby.” Levon said, the pain audible in his voice. He carded his hands through the boy’s hair, doing all he could to soothe him.

“I didn’t mean to,” came the soft whine in response.

~~~

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety @floral-comet-whump @littlebookworm69

@lordcatwich @human-123-person @paperprinxe @whomeidontknowthem @chiswhumpcorner

@bacillusinfection @dietofwormsofficial @ichortwine @whump-queen @lumpywhump

@jumpywhumpywriter

[hood-ex]

Also, I can't buy this "fear of heights" thing Dick's suddenly going through because we're literally talking about the man that jumped 105,000 ft to the ground for fun. Like you can't take someone who previously had a skydiving hobby and then, out of nowhere, be like, "Actually, he's scared of jumping and riding in planes now." Like what are you talking about 😭? There better be a damn good reason for this.

[sforzesco]

ascanio and louis xii

so

Milan Undone, Contested Sovereignties in the Italian Wars, John Gagné

extremely bold of louis xii to assume that ascanio, who has a reputation for conspiracy, wouldn't turn around and say 'fuck you,' after all of that™

(Ibid.)

it IS funny how men in power keep thinking they can put him on a leash like, pal. the odds are NOT in your favor

[mugloversonly]

Silver over Gold

Ch 3: Kintsugi - Final

Ch.1 Ch.2 AO3

Summary:

Steve and Eddie finally talk.

Steve stood outside Eddie’s door horrified by what he heard on the other side. Eddie was sobbing and his inner omega was whining weakly. “Eddie? Baby can I come in?” He pleaded.

“Alpha?” Eddie cried softly. “Door’s locked.” His voice was fading into a whisper. “I’m sorry alpha.”

Steve didn’t think twice about ripping the door of the hinges; he'd fix it later, he just hoped Wayne would understand. His omega needed him and his alpha would stop at nothing to help him (for once he was in total agreement). The smashing of the door echoed through the whole trailer but Eddie didn’t seem to notice. He was curled up on his side in the corner of the room with his head tucked against his knees, shaking violently. Steve rushed over to him and gently swept his hair out of his face. He gasped when he saw his beautiful omega. “Oh, Eddie.” He whispered. He was paler than usual, practically translucent. His lively chocolate eyes were red rimmed and puffy, empty as they stared up at him. Steve wasn’t even sure if Eddie could see him right now.

“I’m sorry alpha.” Eddie whispered. Steve stared at him hoping for some awareness in his eyes but there still wasn’t anything. He must be speaking unconsciously.

“Sh,” Steve cooed. “I’m right here, omega. Your alpha is right here. I'm not going anywhere.” He ran his hands up and down Eddie’s arms and kissed him on the forehead. His skin was freezing to the touch and if Steve didn’t know better he’d think he just came out of Lover’s Lake.

He took him into his arms, laid them back in Eddie’s nest, and removed their shirts for skin contact, pulling the blanket over them for good measure . Steve made sure to hold the omega’s nose directly onto his scent gland. He didn’t know much about rejection sickness, but from what he learned in school one way to cure it was through comforting touch and scents. Eddie barely moved and didn’t acknowledge Steve at all. Steve was having a hard time staying calm but the whines and howling of his omega were helping him to stay focused.

H is shivering finally subsided and Eddie fell into a light haze. He pulled back from Steve and his eyes were a bit clearer. “Stevie?” He asked. At Steve’s nod he threw himself back. He didn’t deserve to be held like this. He was a bad omega. His alpha didn’t love him and it was all his fault. Steve didn’t let him get far before he was yanking him right back in. He ran his fingers through his tangled hair and nuzzled his neck. “I’m sorry Steve. I should’ ve trusted you . I'm a bad omega.” He sobbed but Steve clapped a hand over his mouth.

“You're not a bad omega Eddie. You're my omega.” Steve said. He felt more than heard Eddie’s gasp and watched as his wet eyes widened. He reached up and pulled Steve’s hand off his mouth.

“I’m still your omega?” He whispered hopeful yet terrified.

“Yes, darling.” Steve replied caressing his cheek. Eddie put his hand over Steve’s and held it there.

“You still want to be my alpha? After everything I put you through?” Steve looked deep into Eddie’s eyes and kissed him on the nose.

“You didn’t put me through anything. I will always be your alpha. Even if you decided you wanted nothing to do with me, I will be here waiting. There is nothing you could do that would drive me away. I will never leave you.” He promised. “Let me apologize now.”

“No, Steve you don’t owe me anything.” Eddie said clutching his shirt. “I was the one in the wrong.”

“No you weren’t. I was scared. I didn’t stop to consider that I was stringing you along.” He bowed his head as tears finally spilled over. “I love you, Eddie. I never want you to doubt that. I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner. And I’m sorry the first time I said it was in an argument.” He grabbed Eddie’s face and tilted it until their lips were barely a millimeter apart. “I would never lie to you. I know why you would think that. Wayne told me. Just know, that the most important person in my life, is right here in my arms. Okay?”

“Except Robin?” He knew it was shitty, but he needed to know.

“No my lovely omega. Even more important than Robin.” He kissed him then. A quick press of lips, there and gone in mere moments. “Robin is my best friend and I won’t stop loving her or change how she and I are with each other. But you’re my future mate, and nothing is more important than you feeling secure in us.” Eddie surged forward and kissed him hard practically shoving his tongue down his throat.

“I don’t want you to stop being friends with Robin or anything like that, Stevie. It’s just…” Eddie knew he had to let Steve hear some of this from him. “The pups constantly tell me how you two were made for each other and how it’s only a matter of time for you two to mate.” Eddie looked down. “I guess, with you wanting to keep it a secret and when I ask about courting you brush it off, mix that with Dustin asking me to find out if you’re secretly dating Robin and I thought it was only a matter of time before you stopped what we had and went with her. And when I saw you two together, I thought it finally happened and you didn’t even have the decency to tell me first.” His voice broke on that last word.

“Wait a second...the pups have been saying what?!” Steve yelled out startling the omega and causing him to whimper. “Sorry.” He took a few calming breaths before asking again. “The pups have been telling you that Robin and I are secretly together?”

“Basically.” Eddie admitted.

“No wonder you didn’t believe me.” Steve scoffed. “Don’t worry my love I’ll set the record straight as soon as I can.” He snuggled Eddie closer and kissed his hair.

“You don’t have to do anything you’re uncomfortable with Steve. Not for my sake.” He understood that it may be hard for Steve since he had only dated female omegas before. But his alpha just rolled his eyes.

“I’ll put an ad in the newspaper try me.” He laughed. “It’ll say something like: I, Steven Anthony Harrington am courting and plan to mate with the beautiful” he leaned over and nuzzled against Eddie’s scent gland causing the omega to giggle. “Wonderful, remarkable, one of a kind, Edward Wayne Munson.” He nipped lightly at his neck. “I will don’t tempt me.”

Light finally returned to Eddie’s eyes. “Thank you.” He whispered. Steve knew he was thanking him for much more but Steve didn’t want him to feel grateful that Steve treated him like a worthy partner.

“No thanks necessary. I’m not going to hide any more okay? In fact, close your eyes.” he said. When Eddie did so, he reached into his pocket to pull something out that he fastened around Eddie’s pale throat and kissed him softly. “Open.”

Eddie opened his eyes and gasped. It was the most unique courting gift he’d ever received. Pure silver because he mentioned to Steve once that it was his favorite precious metal. The pendant was a perfect copy of his warlock with small rubies creating the red lightening. As he took a closer look, he realized the neck of the guitar was actually Steve’s nail bat. It was the perfect combination of them.

His chest no longer felt tight and his nose tickled as his blood orange scent began pouring out of his scent gland. It was faint, but it was there. Steve beamed and pushed his nose to the source and took a big inhale. “Thank you, Alpha. I accept your request to court.” Eddie said in the traditional manner. He pulled away. “I’ll give you something I scented in return once it gets back to normal.” Eddie promised. Steve nodded and pulled him into another kiss. This one was more heated and while Eddie did feel better and the sickness was receding, he wasn’t ready to go very far. He leaned back slightly but stayed close so the alpha knew he was okay. “Is it alright, if we take it slow?” He couldn’t meet his eyes.

“Whatever you need.” Steve said tilting his head up. “What ever you want. It’s yours.” He said more like an oath than a promise.

“I threw away your yellow sweater. I’m sorry. I know it was your favorite.” He admitted ashamed. Steve slid away and for a second Eddie thought he was leaving, but before he could let out a single noise of protest he was getting hit in the face with soft cotton. In his hands was the best thing he'd ever seen.

“Wayne said he saw you throw it away and figured you were just upset.” Eddie smiled.

“He knows me so well.”

“I’d hope so, he is your dad and all.” Steve said. “Speaking of, I’d like to formally ask him to court you. I know you already said yes, but it’s traditional to ask an omega’s parent.” Eddie beamed.

“You really do love me, don’t you?” He asked.

“I do. I love you so much. I want to court you and mate with you. I want to see you round with my pups.” Steve replied and laid down pulling Eddie with him. “I want us to smell like one another so there’s no mistaking who we belong to.”

“How long have you had this necklace by the way?” Eddie asked the pendant clutched in his hand.

“Since right after spring break.” He admitted. At Eddie’s raised eyebrows he sheepishly said “I told you, I’ve wanted to court you for a long time.”

The two talked a bit more about their insecurities and about Eddie’s past trauma with alphas. When the alpha that hurt him came up again, Steve growled. “Give me a name.” The fire in his eyes would have scared Eddie if it was directed at him. But at the moment, it may have made him a bit slick. He’d never had an alpha want to protect him like this.

“If I tell you, can you promise you won’t do anything crazy?” Eddie asked.

“No.” Steve said. “I promised no lies.” He defended at Eddie’s snort.

“You did, you did. Okay, just promise you’ll be careful.” Steve agreed to that and motioned for Eddie to continue. “It was Tommy Hagan my first senior year.” He admitted. The scent of burning woods filled the his nostrils.

“When?” Steve growled. Had he still been friends with Tommy?

“We started courting in August. The heat we spent together was in November.”

“You were the omega he couldn’t shut up about?” Steve asked. Eddie shrugged.

“I guess. Weird that he couldn’t shut up about me when he cheated on me with Carol.” Eddie said meekly. The faint blood orange Eddie was finally emitting was turning sour and he was trying to pump out calming omega pheromones to calm Steve, but it didn’t seem to be working well due to the dull nature of it.

“Sorry, sorry.” Steve said as he willed himself to calm down. “It’s not important right now.” He stood and pulled Eddie to his feet.

“What is important is getting you checked out by a doctor. Let’s let Wayne know and we can go okay?” Steve asked. Eddie nodded and the two got dressed with some difficulty since they refused to let go of each other. Steve wore his yellow sweater so it would smell like him again and Eddie pulled on his favorite band tee. On their way out of the trailer they wrote a note for Wayne and Steve walked Eddie to the passenger side. He opened the door and kept a firm hand in Eddie’s until he was seated. Eddie watched on amused as Steve practically sprinted around the car so they could spend the least amount apart as possible.

~ ~~

At the hospital, the Doctor that saw him last time was able to see him again. “Eddie, this one could have killed you if your alpha hadn’t come when he did. To help you get back on your feet it’ll be good for the two of you to spend the next 48 to 72 hours together. Now for cases like yours we have a new type of medication that can stop rejection sickness from getting worse once it starts. I’m giving you a prescription for that. And I want you to go back to taking the preventive ones for a while.” He looked between the two men knowingly. “I’d say until you’ve mated. After that, you should be okay to stop them. But, keep the emergency one on you at all times. It could be the difference between life and death.” He said before leaving them with a nurse. She gave Eddie some fluids in an IV that were supposed to help him return to normal and then they were on their way.

“So, what now?” Eddie asked. Steve took his hand again.

“Let me take you out on the town? Then we can go back to the trailer and cuddle?” He asked. Eddie blushed and his blood orange scent finally filled the car in full force.

"I'd like that."

@v3lv3tf0x @lexirosewrites Final part!

That's a wrap on this one. But I do have plans to write some Robin POV and what Steve does the next time he sees Tommy.

[salemsimss]

cię nie opuszczę aż do śmierci

[fanficfanattic]

Goal, Chance and/or Away (purely taking words from this football commentary rn lol)

I am once again impressed with the gems my recent word challenges have excavated. Six fic snippets under the cut.

Goal

1. From a fic where a newly returned Jamie sees a man drug a lady’s drink at a bar and intervenes. But without context it just looks like Jamie got in a bar fight.

He knows it plays into the idea that he is a prima donna, a moody little bitch, feels like its proof that he’s more trouble than he��s worth. But he can’t help laying in bed; with the team that can barely stand him downstairs watching a movie, while he’s been fucking grounded to his room like the child Roy always said he was, and feeling desperately alone.

He hadn’t cared about being alone, before Ted. During most of his time with Ted, even. His dad had always made him either actively drive people away or that was just the practical application of conforming to his demands. He’d been used to it. It was all he’d ever known.

And then Keeley said he should stop battling the people trying to help him. And he sacrificed the reminder he’d taken from home, of home, when he left it. And danced around a bonfire after Roy Kent said he was right about something. Dani had thrown his arm around him. He’d sung with the lads…

It was fun, and it made it hurt even more when the next day he’d gone back to how it had always been. He didn’t tell Ted how much time he’d spent fantasizing about what it would have been like to have gotten to stay. To develop those tiny first buds of friendships.

To have never relegated Richmond. To be playing in the now with his teammates but versions of them he’d grown alongside for months. Who never got extra pissed at him for shit talking them on tv, and destroying their Captain’s career, for sending them down.

To be trusted. Before, the only thing a team had cared about was wether they could trust him to score. Which was still technically true. But they hadn’t ever wanted more from him, and he certainly hadn’t been putting extra out there for free. Besides he hadn’t trusted anyone else much either. Maybe Man City to be good players and to work together towards a common goal. And Richmond to pass him the ball to score the first time around.

Now he trusted Dani to smile at him even when no one else would. He trusted Jeff to subtly nod, but not more than that, because he had greeted Jamie when he returned before realizing how mad everyone else was at him. Not that Jamie blamed him. He’d gone out of his way to message the man saying the small nod was probably better for both of them.

He hadn’t realized it until the moment Ted didn’t even let him talk that he’d trusted the man to be fair. He talked a good talk, but he had trouble walking the good walk, and was pretty lousy at both when it came to Jamie.

2. Now that the team has been gelling, and Roy understands how Jamie’s mind works more, he’s got a plan to run circles around West Ham.

“Kent, the fuck mate! You said you could keep in position!”

“Fuck you Tartt! Maybe if you weren’t-“

They had been yelling about the play in the heat of being pissed off at each other. Jamie had telegraphed the pass to Roy very clearly. And the defender who was supposed to be on the left, loosely marking Sam, tore off to be another line of defense between Roy Kent and their goal.

Unfortunately for them, even when Roy and him had been out for blood against each other, they’d have never been that stupid. Jamie doesn’t even twist his body fully the way it should be for the kick. It still rolls smoothly to Sam who buries it in the back of the net from his completely cleared lane.

Chance

1. From the Investigative Journalist epic.

“…for as long as I remember, when I heard people say things, I always thought they meant it however the worst possible way is. But a lot of people say it while meaning it in the best possible way turns out.”

“And how does this relate back to you thinking people are rude when they talk around a subject?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m trying to do that more.”

“What more?”

“Identify when I’m doing that kind of thinking that what someone is doing is the worst version it could be. So, society probably isn’t trying to be rude by talking around things. I think it’s accidentally rude.”

“Do you mean incidentally?”

“What’s the difference?”

“They both mean something happened by chance. Accidental implies that the thing happened by carelessness while incidental indicates it would still happen this way even if people were taking care.”

“I think people want to believe it’s that last one but I believe it’s more often the first one. Cause I can be the same way. I normally don’t think much before talking, and if I did that more, I’d say things differently or maybe not say anything at all.”

2. This is also from the platonic a/b/o fic I didn’t realize had so many scenes already sketched out. The scenario is that James had a shady doctor prescribing Jamie pills that included an (i fucking guess) untraceable dynamic suppression med. When his dad is too busy to deal with a refill, Jamie asks Richmond’s med team to prescribe him a new vitamin pack.

“Oh that bastard. I’m gonna kill him this time, Simon, I am!”

“Georgie, c’mon, let’s focus on Jamie now and murdering later, yeah?”

“Fine, fine! So doctor, what about that? Like I believe his father would hurt him, cause that’s his way, but the how doesn’t make any sense. With vitamins?”

“Well, we don’t know if there is anything different between the vitamins his dad got for him and what we provided here. The best way to find out is with a blood test.

And you’re Jamie’s medical health proxy. So-“

“Yes, you’ve got my. You need to do a blood draw? Run tests?”

“Yes ma’am. You’re granting permission for the draw?”

“Yes, of course. What the fuck. How-how soon will you know? Does he have to go to hospital? It’ll take us almost four hours to get there. Do we-“

“Georgie, she can’t answer any questions if you don’t give her a chance, love. Take another deep breath for me, okay? In and in and in. Hold and hold and hold. Out and out and out. Okay, again.” And after she kept at it, he addressed the doctor again.

3. From that evil fic I teased about. I’ve played coy about what happened before now but you caught me! Rebecca walks onto the practice pitch ‘without Jamie’, Ted notes to himself.

“Jamie’s parents were in a car accident this morning. That’s why I called for him. His mother is being held overnight for observation and is quite understandably shaken. She called Man City to get a hold of Jamie, and when she explained what was going on she was able to talk with Pep. He promised he’d talk to Jamie so she could rest.

And then he called me directly.”

It was silent for a moment, and she was tempted to look around to better gauge player reactions. She kept her eyes on Ted, instead, because his was both more important and certainly more interesting. As she’d begun her story, he’d paled alarmingly.

And he failed to spill forth some folksy American tale to talk circles around everyone. Instead he hoarsely asked only one question.

“And his father?”

It gave away a weakness he had, which Rebecca was sure he neither realized he’d done nor that it was one. And why would he be worried about that, she reminded herself, when he also doesn’t realize he’s in game of your making.

“Ah, I should have been more precise in my language. His biological father divorced his mother when he was still an infant, I’ve been informed. It was his stepfather that was driving and took the brunt of the impact. He died on scene.”

She didn’t say it icily or meanly. She just said it without warmth. And that impacted the players more than she’d thought possible. Unfortunately it took time for her to understand that, because at the moment everyone just appeared to be in shock.

Ted didn’t ask anymore questions, and the silence was getting uncomfortable even for her.

“Well, since she took her late husband’s last name, there is a chance this won’t make the papers without the name Tartt attached. Still, if it does, Keeley made some excellent points about how we want to look. So no one go on your socials until she’s spoken with you.

Back to training now.” And she turned to walk away, not once looking back.

Away

1. ^ Chance #3

2. ^ Goal #1

3. I shamelessly stole this idea from a fic where Ted has Jamie stay with Roy in a similar manner as hockey players sometimes do? Apparently. So season 2 Jamie returns to Richmond. And Ted cooks up a thing where Jamie is going to room with Sam. Help them get their differences settled. And then…and then James Tartt shows up.

Jamie sort of unthinkingly says “Oh, Ted knows about me da’”. And Sam is sure that Jamie must have misunderstood what happened until he hears about Ted walking away but sending the soldier. And the conversation Jamie and Ted had in the Crown & Anchor.

[topgunruinedme]

When they closed their eyes (and prayed you would change)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death

Fandom: Top Gun (Movies)

Relationships: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw & Pete "Maverick" Mitchell, Past Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw/Jake "Hangman" Seresin - Relationship, Solomon "Warlock" Bates & Beau "Cyclone" Simpson

Characters: Beau "Cyclone" Simpson, Pete "Maverick" Mitchell, Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw

Additional Tags: Referred previous relationship, Previous Hangster, Ex Hangster, Grieving, Past Relationship(s), "Dagger" Training Detachment (Top Gun), Movie: Top Gun Maverick (2022), Protective Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw, Hurt Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw, Pete "Maverick" Mitchell Acting as Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw's Parental Figure, Pete "Maverick" Mitchell Needs A Hug, Beau "Cyclone" Simpson is a Softie, Protective Beau "Cyclone" Simpson, Beau "Cyclone" Simpson Needs A Hug, Parental Beau "Cyclone" Simpson, POV Beau "Cyclone" Simpson, Guilt, Medical Inaccuracies, Survivor Guilt, Dissection, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Major Character Injury, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Wakes & Funerals, Hurt No Comfort, Whump

Language:English

Series: ← Previous Work Part 8 of (Jon Hamm) Beau “Cyclone” Simpson fics

Words: 4,462

Summery: Beau’s reaction to the outcome to the Uranium mission.

Receiving one final nod from the head doctor confirming that they no longer needed him for anything else, feeling more like a lieutenant being dismissed from a Commanding Officers office after being chewed out he turned to leave only to feel something under his shoe grind, and his stomach dropped as the risk of hurling skyrocketed. He closed his eyes briefly trying to find the will before he lowered himself down, one hand clutching around the chilled metal of a nearby hospital cot the other gently dislodging the object as he rocked back onto his heel, eyes darting towards the sticky metal as his palm clutched around the familiar shape. The unmistakable shape. There innocently hanging from his fingers by its mattered slick chain were Bradshaw’s dog tags. The chain was caked in blood, drowned in mud and slowly drying dirt and who knows what other substances had been smeared into it during transport obscuring the name. He didn’t need to be able to read it to know who it had once belonged too.

Losing a wingman didn’t get any easier.

They like to pretend it does, that its common, and that it’s just another part of the job. He was sure that numerus aviators his age, retired, climbing the brass ladder, or still flying, had heard their Commanding Officer start the tangent ‘If you fly long enough, it’s bound to happen,’ once or twice in their career. But that’s just the thing, it happens, but no matter how many times it happens; how many times they got shot at, burned in, no matter what you tried. It didn’t get easier.  

Because you can’t stop it.

They were pilots, worse, Navy Aviators. Their entire lives were dangerous, from dawn to dusk, 365 days a year.

But losing a Wingman, it was different. That was someone on your wing 24/7, who was so close they were practically an extension to your own body. That’s why it hurts so much. Its why his own chest had cracked open when he had burnt in, breaking his back firmly dragging him out of the sky’s only to open his eyes to find his wingman, his best friend by his bedside, wings already self-clipped with a broad smile as Solomon scolded him for thinking he could climb the ladder before him as if it was a challenge.

It was different.

But losing an Aviator…much less one under your command. It took that crack and wedged priers into the wound and tugged, like standing in a swarming room as they performed open heart surgery, knocking around in your chest and your pretended you didn’t know about it.

It was different. He didn’t know how, but it just was. Maybe it was the fact he didn’t have them flying on his wing, he didn’t know them in the sky’s, he didn’t trust them with his life. Maybe it was because they were young, so much more then him, that they arrogant, just he was, and maybe just maybe, he was wating for the fire in the sky when they finally burnt in.

But it didn’t stop them. The nightmares that frequented him in the twilight hours. Draining terror filled dream space that was no longer filled with him sitting in the cockpit of his jet just sitting on their wing watching them get shot down with a gut wrenching feeling deep down that he could have saved them. Now it was much worse, hanging up his wings his dreams drag him to his one place of sanctuary, the control room, only now instead of being on their wing watching knowing he couldn’t do anything, he was now listening to his pilots, as life's they put in his hands for safety, crumble before them.

Those days were the hardest, the ones that he struggled to tell life from fantasy, watching a plane crash into the tarmac in one moment then clear skies in another. Those days weighed him down for hours after waking with the screams of his aviators, their cries of fear, an echo of their training coms, haunted by the feeling that he was the one who put them there. Who clutched their hands and lead them to their deaths. 

It was harder when they were people he knew. People he had seen walk into his halls young faces filled with anxiety and excitement only to leave hardened by life, confident in their abilities even if their confidence was backed with an enormous ego and cocky grins. They were good, serious enough about the missions that he didn’t need to rebuke them, yet. It was different when it was people that he had trained, that he had selected for the mission out of hundreds of other files. Watching them openly struggle to complete the training course, the bad blood, the bird strike, the g-lock. It was dangerous, too dangerous. Yet he pushed them, he still sent them to their deaths knowing he would be standing before 6 coffins that next week because he had watched them fail the simulation time, and time again. Witnessing them all slowly break down over time as they were forced to face the fact the realisation that they were being sent on a suicide mission, the mark of death finally searing into their skin digging its crawls in and refusing to let go. And despite the poorly hidden terror, the trembling palms, and flattering voices on the coms as another sim failed. He still sent them. 

There was no pretending, no brushing it aside. They all knew. He could see the way Sol’s jaw ticked in worry, and how every so often the staff would send him a worried uneasy look the longer he let the pause drag on before finally denying a rescue bird. He could feel it, the heated glare Mitchell sent him, he had no doubt the man had wanted to truly burn him, fists clutched by his side, already prepared for a fight, teeth grinding, in his last resort for control. Because that's what it really was. Suicide. There was no point denying it. He gave them the tools, the means, and now they were dying for their country. But they will still be dead, and very well by his hand. 

They weren’t ready, but they were they’re only line of defence. 

Somehow 6 graves didn't seem all that important in the grand mass of casualties that could occur if they failed. 

Only, when those jets left the tarmac for the last time it wasn’t 6 graves he was digging. It was only one. One foolish boy. 

Dagger Two. Bradley Bradshaw. A lonely kid with too much anger, a warm sun who would gravitate towards people and became the light of the room, only to be smothered by the raging flames that stung anyone who got too close. A kid who had the potential to be a great pilot, if only he wasn't afraid of his own shadow. He was too cautious, too hesitant, too angry. And in the end, it cost him everything. 

And he had lost it all over one man. Jake Seresin. A man that Bradshaw didn’t even like, a man the older had been ribbing since the first moment he had met them at the graduation gala. He was observed the faux rivalry, and the teasing grins turn hostile over the years as their friendship became frail, and those teasing comments became biting and tension built, their failed communication butting between them until they finally exploded. He knew, he could see it, the hesitant tense tight nod to each other over the tarmac as they climbed into their respective jets. He knew what they really wanted to say. Stay safe, come home, I love you. 

Too hesitant. Too rash. 

In the end, it was too late. The kid may have looked like he just walked out of a 80’s commercial with his loud shirts, crappy clique facial hair and taste in music, but by god that kid loved. He loved everyone. He knew that from the report of the man's first hop in Top Gun, the man who sacrificed himself in the very first training hop just because he was trying to save his wingman. The man who unlike others didn’t hold his life on a pedestal, instead he left it low and allowed people to use it as a stepping stool.

A man who struggled to see worth in his own life. And briefly he wondered if Mitchell had a hand in that. 

They were children. All of them. And he had sent them to their deaths. He had sent one to their death. 

The only son of the esteemed reckless Captain who stood beside him, anger fading as he became frighteningly pale as he swayed, his body shaking with light tremors as his hands clenched around the mission control board hunched over in an attempt to take in a breath as his panicked short rasping breaths became audible. His eyes pinned to the raider that was entirely too empty as if begging for the light to reappear, for Roosters Estat to magically activate. His knuckles were white and the man's chest was moving entirely too fast, but the older man didn't seem to hear Hondo trying to talk to him in a low voice, or register Solomon who stood beside him stock still back straight and chin high as a perfect picture of a Commanding Officer, but his face betrayed him, it radiated his sorrow as he rested a silent hand on the grieving man’s shoulder. 

The silent comfort did nothing to compare to the gut-wrenching sob that was ripped from the grieving father’s lips as his son was shot down, or shot the wails as the title KIA was stamped onto his file. It didn’t stop a father who had already lost so much listening to his son sacrifice himself for a man that according to everyone, Bradshaw hated. 

Lieutenant Jake Seresin, Hangman. The same man whose cry of agony ripped through their radios his grief so plainly clear, the devastating longing as he called out for Bradshaw, for Bradley, his wingman. 

“Did anyone see a parachute?” Seresin demanded “Did anyone see him?”

“He's gone Hangman” Floyd said quietly down the coms. 

“No! We have to go back, he could still be-”

“Return to base. Now Hangman god dammit, we are not losing anyone else today” he croaked out swallowing thickly praying no one else picked up on how his voice had cracked issuing the order. If anyone had no one mentioned it. A small mercy. Especially after having to face the fact he called off any rescue attempts on a fallen soldier, the same soldier whose family stood beside him listening to him sentence his son to death, again.

What will you tell them when you're dead? What will you tell their families?

There was nothing he could say, not without cutting out his own warm intestines and wrapping them around his neck first. A noose that pulled too tightly with each breath he took on borrowed time stolen from someone far too young. 

Calling them back to base had been one of the hardest things he had ever done and yet, it had also been the easiest. Calling them away from Bradshaw, condemning him to death had been the hardest thing he had ever had to condone, yet making the choice to save 5 other lives in the process had been a no brainer. In fact, hearing that all 3 jets had landed on the tarmac in okay condition had caused him to release a guilty breath of relief. 

To have to stand next to a man's world who had just lost all steering and crashed into a fiery end was not, watching Trace drop from her jet and rush over to their sonic leader and throw herself into his arms sobbing hysterically has been pain inducing. 

Yet somehow, he doubted his pain came anywhere close to what Mitchell was feeling watching everyone return home safely. 

Everyone except his son.

Search and rescue took hours. It took hours too long.

The only small mercy he could offer the Captain was sending out a ship wide notice that only required staff were to be on deck, preventing anyone beside the ground staff from witnessing the Halo land, from witnessing the way Mitchell shattered as they wheeled a black body bag out on a stretcher, to witness the way the man’s hand twitched as if to reach out for the boy, as if his touch alone would solve whatever ailment plagued the kid. The sight of the black bag caused a mass to form in his throat, his chest wrenching open ever so slightly more as his pradictions were confirmed. But if he had thought the idea of the kid dying had hurt, it was nothing compared to how he silently closed the door to the medical bay in the Captain’s face, baring him dorm the medical examination. From the horrifying post modem report as they all but caved open his chest and cracked it open with a wrench.

Bradshaw had been killed by extensive blood loss. Which in itself wasn't typically unusual, ejections were just as dangerous as flying the jet. Anything could go wrong at any moment, and you have nothing to protect you as you quite literally fall from the sky. Only he bled out, slowly and painfully. Not from his initial ejection, not from burning in, or succumbing to the cold climate. But from an unfortunate and ill-timed run in with an attack helicopter that had decided to finish the job that the SAM’s had failed. 

Bradshaw had been shot to death. He had been alive when he went down. 

And he had called them off. 

He had killed Bradley Bradshaw.

Maverick's Son.

His aviator.

Staring down at the man before him he couldn’t help but feel sick. There was specks of dried blood in the kids moustache, and he felt an odd parental urge to reach down and fix it for him much like his own mother had for his father, and his grandmother had for his grandfather, much to his annoyance. His skin itched with the urge to lick his thumb and brush it across the man’s face to rub away the blood like an insignificant speck of dirt.

As if he had the right to touch him.

It was him. Bradshaw. Part of him had hoped when they set the bag down on the cold morgue table that it would be a stranger’s face staring up at him in a familiar uniform. He had hoped…but the kid hadn’t managed to escape the clutched of death. So he laid there naked, chest cut up in three different directions barely held together by stapples, face filled with tension, brows furrowed, lips pursed as if squeezing his eyes shut in fear of facing his death. rigor motus, the doctor had explained, the tension of muscles freezing after death, he would relax in time as the muscles burned away. He wasn’t sure if it made him feel better or worse.

 He didn’t have the heart to let Mitchell in here, not after he was the reason his kid was on the slab. He couldn’t bear the idea of making the man identify his own kid, ruining his last memory of the lively man. Taking over was the least he could do. Mitchell had just lost his wingman, had just put one of the most important person in his life into the ground and now he was about to burry another, he didn’t deserve to have his image of Bradshaw tarnished like this, no matter how messy of a relationship they had.

Swallowing down the bile as he silently signed his name on the bottom of the document confirming his witness to the identification as he tried to ignore the nurse who gave the boy a shed of decency as they wheeled him over to the freezers placing a white sheet over the body. Receiving one final nod from the head doctor confirming that they no longer needed him for anything else, feeling more like a lieutenant being dismissed from a Commanding Officers office after being chewed out he turned to leave only to feel something under his shoe grind on something, and his stomach dropped as the risk of hurling skyrocketed. He closed his eyes briefly trying to find the will before he lowered himself down one hand clutching around the chilled metal of a nearby hospital cot the other gently dislodging the object as he rocked back onto his heel, eyes darting towards the sticky metal as his palm clutched around the familiar shape. The unmistakable shape. There innocently hanging from his fingers by its mattered slick chain were Bradshaw’s dog tags.

The chain was caked in blood, drowned in mud and slowly drying dirt and who knows what other substances had been smeared into it during transport obscuring the name. He didn’t need to be able to read it to know who it had once belonged too.

He swallowed thickly standing, stepping back to compensate for the way his head buzzed with dizziness, tongue frozen glued to his lower jaw bile coating the inside surfaces as he gently folded the tags into his palm before clenching them feeling the pin prick of the name as the indented mental pressed into his skin. Searing its victims name into its murders skin.

He didn’t remember the walk back ot his quarters. But he remembered the red lines across his skin from where he had clutched too tightly in fear they would disappear if he didn’t clutch them. He remembered thinking about debriefing and how he’d have the brass on his arse for a report, before immediately dismissing the idea. There would be a time and place for debrief, it just wasn’t now. He would let them have some time to grief and get over the initial shock of the mission and allow them to suffer their individual adrenaline crashes and dinful hospital stays before he bothered them. he remembered the slightly pause in his stride as he stepped out into the hall into the communal ward, the fuzzy faces of the daggers all exhausted and waiting their turns to be check on, their voices wobbling in his ears unobtainable in his own silent panic, no doubt asking about the very man whose figure, cold, still, and dead, that haunted the corner of his vision.

He didn’t see any of it, his own jaw clenched so hard it made his head throb. His shoulders wound so tight that one touch might send him into hysteria as his eyes filled with tears. 

He didn’t remember the stumbled walk back to his quarters, he didn’t remember how he got from the hallway to his sink. Fingers trembling as they wrapped around the still wet chain. He didn’t remember if he had locked the door or not, but he remembered reminding himself to be careful as he ran the tags under the water with shaky hands. Turning them over as he cleaned them with a gentle stroke of his thumb revealing the name beneath it as he attempted to repent, to remove the sin that cling so tightly to the kid’s innocence.

His sin.

He deserved better. Bradley deserved so much better.

The water turned red, and the colour of his sin settled at the bottom of the sink staining stark against the cracked white porcelain for all to see. Red dripped down his wrist and travelled down his arm into his elbow drenching the front of his uniform due to how close he stood hunching over the sink as he worked. 

He had to get this right. He had to fix it. He had to do something. 

The funeral was the worst he had ever attended. Not because no one came. If fact it was one of the biggest, he had seen in all his years, Bradshaw was truly loved. And worst of all, he wasn’t entirely sure the man had realised how much. A man who walked thorough life alone with the occasional Phoenix by his side willing to walk him through the darkness failing to reach out to the welcoming hands as if he was blind to them, as if he was all alone in the world.

He had been to many funerals, families, friends, comrades, it was part of the trade. Almost second nature. But he had never been to a silent funeral. Pure silence. No one other then the officiant spoke. Not a sob, not a cry or a sniffle. Nothing. As if the sound of shifting itself would rob Bradshaw the small amount of peace he had found in that stuffy box as they lowered it into the ground Mitchell standing blankly at the edge, golden wings imprinted into his palm, taps still ringing in his ears as dirt dropped from his palm onto his sons grave.

Returning the boy where he truly belonged, between his mother and father.

There was no cheerfulness that Bradshaw always managed to prompt by being nearby, there was no one to be slowly dragged out of their shell at the sheer ridiculousness of the older man, and there was no soft music for the man to serenade as he sung the house down his voice reverberating off the walls.

This wasn’t a funeral; it was a tomb.

He watched as Solomon, a man stronger than himself, stand up and approach the podium to softly conclude the service. A man who knew Mitchell so much better, who was more empathetic than he could ever make himself, hand him the flag that represented his son’s life. He watched silently waiting until Mitchell was able to step away from the swarm of condolences, the smaller man visually shaky on his legs before Kerner swooped into his side gently taking his weight without blinking.

It was now or never.

He stood form his seat, the grounds mostly cleared out now as people began to congregate towards their cars to drive to the Hard Deck for the wake, forcing himself to take a step towards the man and swallow his own anxiety and flaring guilt, he knew the moment Kerner clocked him, hand twitching on Mitchel’s shoulder ever so slightly in warning, incoming. Neven and Wolf never standing far, the guard dogs watching him carefully while pretending to be interested in the conversation they were holding.

He watched Mitchell tense his tired gaze drag to him, shoulder slumping in defeat.  “Admiral Simpson” Mitchell sounded dull. Empty. 

His lips parted then closed, then again. What the hell was he meant to say to a man who just buried his son far too early? What was he meant to say to the man after killing his son? 

They're dead! What do you tell their family! 

What excuse is worth their child’s life?

He pressed his lisp together firmly swallowing, instead his hand slipped into his pocket collecting the precious cargo where he had been running his finger pad over most of the service. He hesitated slightly before extended the handout towards the man. Mitchell adjusted his grip slightly freeing one hand clinging the flag to his chest, his eyes were red, puffy, and bloodshot as he held out his hand palm up. Making it very clear this was a very frail olive branch of trust.

His breath hitched slightly as he twisted his wrist, fingers brushing the man’s freezing skin and finally let the tags fall, before letting his hand fall back to his side as Michell stared at them like he’d never seen them before, then as if they were the stars themselves. A nebula, a supernova promising life beyond the universe. Like a man behind a yoke who was just told that they would be flying into enemy land with no wingman, no flairs, no ammo, with no parachute.

A death sentence.

He cleared his throat rasping as the emotions threatened to choke him. His own words trying to crush him under the weight of his father’s gaze. His voice shook slightly “They- they got left behind in medical while they were working on him- they were covered in blood and…” he wavered trailing off silently, begging the man to understand why he withheld them from him for so long.

I already took your son; I couldn’t bare giving you last part of him covered dripping with the same red that drenched my own hands.

“Thank you” Mitchell rasped tightly, hand curling around the tags hand coming up to clench them to his chest joining the flag, Mitchell flattered slightly “Thank you. For seeing him…”

“Of course,”. The boy’s face was going to haunt him from the rest of his life. But he didn’t regret it. Not when he had ripped him away from the world too soon. No number of apologies would ever be enough. No matter what he did would ever make up for that, for stealing him from Mithcell. 

“I don’t think I would have been able to handle seeing him like that” Mitchell whispered admitting it with a pained look eyes flickering over to the coffins and the photo beside it. The man’s haunting smile mocked back at them. Playful and alive. 

“You shouldn’t have had to”. 

No parent should ever have to bury their child before them.

“Take some time”. He knew he hesitated too long when Mitchell’s tired eyes tracked his, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the moment he dreaded so much finally happen, at his sons funeral to all places. He wasn’t that cruel.

Aren’t you? His mind mocked.

“Take some time…you have until the end of the month then I expect you back in my office for debrief Captain” he watched the man’s brows furrow and the Admiral’s hand on the man’s shoulder squeeze, grounding him as Mitchell wavered swaying to the man’s side, all but collapsing like a puppet with no strings, “That is if you still want the position” 

“Position?” Mitchell croaked weakly.

“As a teacher. There are still 11 daggers, and I would like them to stay that way. I can’t guarantee you will be flying missions anymore, but I can waver flight hops. At least for a few years until the Brass manage to kick you to the curb”.

“You want me to come back?” Mitchell sounded distraught, destroyed.

“If you’re willing. You don’t have many years left in you Mitchell, but I think a few years teaching the best of the best what you know, then it’s well worth it. Even if it does mean I’m going to have to get used to those flybys of yours haunted the base”.

“Thank you” Kerner rumbled when it became apparently Mitchell was lost, unsure how to answer, the man frowned slightly there was a slight hint of gratitude, but the man held it behind tightly locked gates. “It’s a very generous gesture considering what I’ve heard your opinion on Mitchell has been in the last few weeks”. 

It’s the least I could do, he could suffer for a few years. He deserved it. It would stunt his career taking on the role of Mitchell’s protector he knew that. He could care less. 

It’s what Bradshaw would have wanted.

To have a chance to fix things between him and his dad, to be able to teach side by side and hear them laugh in the hallways or yells as they lecture the pilots after a risky hip. To see the man hang over his godfather with that goofy smile clad in those stupid loud shirts singing out his heart. 

Where he should be.

Instead, he settled on “It's what Iceman would have wanted”.

[starsandauras]

Entry 24: Bar

FFXIV 30 Day Writing Challenge Prompt 24: Bar OKAY Y'ALL. I PROMISED BAD DAD YESTERDAY. HERE HE IS. Yes this is the annual Hereward fic, meaning the usual warnings apply: Alcohol Abuse, Parental Death Referenced, Parental Abandonment, Neglect, all that shitty shitty stuff! So please, take care of yourself. If I've missed something please let me know!

Hereward stumbled into the tavern and dropped down on a chair at the bar, blond hair mussed and face covered by his hand, perched on his elbow. After a moment the bartender came over with a shot glass of whiskey, placing it in front of the man. “We were hearin’ about your wife, Hereward,” he said quietly, and Hereward groaned deep in his chest. “Your drinks on all of us tonight.”

He looked up, blue eyes blurry with grief, looking for a long moment at the glass. “Thank ye,” he muttered eventually, picking it up and knocking back the contents. He welcomed the burn down his throat, the way it settled in his belly.

“How are yer children doin’?” asked one of the regulars in a nearby seat as the bartender brought another shot over, as well as a bottle.

Hereward shrugged and grasped the neck of the bottle. “Wrecks, th’ lot ay them,” he grumbled. Llewellyn was neck deep in books, trying to figure out what he could have done, Brigid wouldn’t stop crying, William was angry, Arthur had just shut down, and Connor couldn’t understand. “Needed t’get ‘way.” He drank half of it in one go.

“It’s hard, losing someone like that,” said another bar patron, nodding in sympathy, before taking a pull of her tankard. “We’ll be here for you.” Hereward grunted in reply.

He was back at the bar a moon later, but no one had the heart to hie him away, a man so recently widowed deserved the occasional vice. Even if he drank to blackout more times than he didn’t. Even if he spent coin that everyone was fairly sure he couldn’t spare.

It took several moons before his next appearance, near on half a year. He’d ordered a bottle of whiskey, no glass, and sat at the bar silently drinking. Eventually they got something out of him, how his little girl was starting to look more and more like her mother by the day. How it hurt to look at her. Looks were exchanged over his head, silent head shakes following equally silent conversations.

The next moon he was there again. And then the next fortnight. And then the next sennight. The bartender started to put limits on him. Then it became nightly, for several long moons. The regulars started to avoid him, either silently judging him or just not wanting to be in such close contact to so much condensed grief and anger.

Finally the bartender put his foot down. “Hereward, I dinnae where you’re going to get your next drink, but you’re nay going to get it here anymore. Go home. Be with your children. They’re needin’ their father.”

And Hereward had looked up at him, blue eyes blurry with grief and drink, tried to stare him down for a long minute. The bartender had stared back, and in the end it was Hereward who blinked. He skulked out of the tavern, and for the following year he didn’t set foot inside again.

Only, he didn’t seem to set foot inside anywhere in the small village, either. The village gossips would report on how the elder three of his children seemed to be running the tiny farm more often than not, and that the younger two would sometimes make sad eyes at the neighbors for food. But there was only so much to go around and most didn’t have much to spare.

It seemed like Hereward would blow in and out of town like the storms off the Rhotano, and his time at home was less and less. Until finally… they never saw him again.

[naminethewriter]

One's Hometown, One's New Home

Chapter Six: Complicated Families

Masterpost | First | Previous | Next | Ao3

@tss-anxceit-week

Summary: Janus’ hometown is a usually quiet place where everyone knows everyone. So when someone new moves in, they’re usually the hottest topic of local gossip. The newcomer then comes by the library Janus works at, he can’t help but chat with him a little. Doesn’t hurt that he’s good looking as well.

Content Warnings: Referenced Homophobia, Past Parental Death, References to the Foster System

~*~

“You sure you don’t want a glass?” Janus asked as he poured himself some wine. Virgil sat next to him on the couch and shook his head.

“No, thanks. Alcohol isn’t my thing in general. I’ll stick to water.”

“Suit yourself.” Janus leaned back and took a sip, taking a moment to enjoy it. Virgil shifted, a bit uncomfortable with the silence.

“My dad,” Janus began after he took a deep breath, “came to this town in his early twenties. He brought nothing but a single suitcase, his papers, and some money. He found work in an auto repair shop and quickly became a hot topic of the locals. He was kind, hard working and handsome, allegedly. The perfect bachelor. At least, according to what my mom’s told me. My grandma was always a lot more skeptical about him, but she rarely trusted outsiders.

“My mom had also turned twenty around that time. She was working as a waitress in a local diner. It wasn’t really that she needed the money but that she didn’t know what to do after school. She liked the idea of college but didn’t know what to major in and such. My grandparents hadn’t been much for travel, so my mom hadn’t seen much of the world, and she was curious. So, of course my dad as an outsider appealed to her.”

Virgil listened intently to Janus’ story while fiddling with the edge of a blanket.

“They got to talking a lot when my dad came into the diner for meals. She asked him about where he’s been and he’d in turn ask her about the local places and legends. It naturally progressed with them starting to date and eventually getting married.” Janus paused, taking another sip of his wine.

“But that’s not all?” Virgil prompted quietly.

“Well, a lot of the rest is speculation, both of my mother’s and my own. Dad didn’t like talking about what exactly happened before he moved here or his family. But a fact is that he wasn’t heterosexual. Actually, very early on into him dating my mom he broke out into tears and told her that he never thought that he could fall in love with a woman.”

Suddenly, Virgil had a bad feeling about where this story was going.

“Mom never minded it, of course. She knew dad loved her with all his heart. But it made her question his reasons for coming here all the more. Dad never outright said it, but mom’s pretty sure he came from a rather wealthy, old-fashioned, and conservative family that kicked him out when they found out about his sexuality. He probably had a boyfriend he left behind. Or maybe they broke up, we don’t know. Mom wrote down what little information he told her and connected the pieces from there.”

After Janus finished his story, they were both quiet for a while. For a second time that evening, Virgil didn’t know how to respond.

“That really sucks,” he finally said. It startled a laugh out of Janus at least.

“Yeah. He probably would have told us at some point if the accident hadn’t happened. I do know his hometown and his former last name, so I could look some things up if I wanted to, but… so far I haven’t dared.”

“I can understand that. It’s the same with me in a way.”

Janus looked at him and cocked his head. A silent offer to continue or change the topic, either way, he wasn’t going to push, and Virgil was grateful for it.

“You’re right, I wasn’t always a werewolf. I—” He paused, taking a deep breath before continuing. “I’m an orphan, actually. I don’t know what happened to my parents, if they died or if they didn’t want me or what. Never had the courage to ask or look it up. I’ve been in the foster system for as long as I can remember. I developed an anxiety disorder very early on and that made my chances at adoption slim.”

Janus put away his glass and offered his hands to Virgil in silent support. He hesitated for a moment but took them and squeezed them gently.

“I switched between foster families every few years until I was twelve. Then I was taken in by a lesbian couple that more or less specialized in older children with neurodivergences. They didn’t do adoptions, but they were very supportive of me and the others they took in. I stayed with them until I aged out and they helped me find an apartment that I could afford. If it hadn’t been for them, I probably wouldn't have finished school. I didn’t want to go to college, so I got two shitty paying jobs and just did the best to keep myself afloat. I wasn’t really living as much as surviving.

“Then one day I was on my way home from work. It was dark and cold and I just wanted to go back as quickly as possible, so I took a few shortcuts. I didn’t live in the most secure neighborhood, so I carried a pocketknife with me, just in case. I was passing through an alley when I suddenly heard some growling. I just thought it was a dog or something and continued but then a wolf rounded the corner and barreled into me. I panicked. Managed to get my knife out and just stabbed. I hit it in the shoulder, and it wasn’t happy about it. Bit me in retaliation and I passed out.”

Janus held his hands a bit tighter, and Virgil remembered to breathe. The memory alone could still make him panic a little.

“When I woke up, I was in an apartment I didn’t know. A woman was watching over me and started fussing as soon as I moved. It took me a bit to understand what was happening, but she explained that she was the wolf that attacked me and that she hadn’t meant to. Apparently, there was a territorial dispute, and she was on the run from another pack. I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and her instincts kinda took over, especially when I stabbed her. She turned me without meaning to.”

“So, that was how you became a wolf?”

Virgil nodded. “Yeah. She introduced herself as Mary Lee. She was a college student and also still a relatively new werewolf. Then she introduced me to the rest of her pack, also all students. Her boyfriend Lee was the leader of the pack and a born wolf, as well as the one who had turned Mary Lee. They were all super apologetic towards me and reassured me that they would do their best to take care of me and help me learn about my new self.” He smiled at the fond memory.

“They kept their word, and the next few years were the happiest I had so far. It felt like I finally had a family. It wasn’t perfect of course but I didn’t mind. But the thing about college is that eventually, you graduate. And that means change.

“Lee and Mary Lee had plans and places to be. New York City to be exact. The other members of the pack also went off to pursue whatever they wanted. I didn’t really have anything like that. Lee and Mary Lee offered me to come along, they both saw me as their little brother at that point. And I really considered it. I loved living with them, but I also felt like I would be intruding. Not that I wanted to tell them that, but Mary Lee knew me and got me to talk eventually.

“She again told me that I wouldn’t, that they both would love for me to be there but that she doubted that I truly wanted to come along. ‘You’re just not built for the city life and that’s okay,’ she said. And it’s true, I hate cities. Even where we lived was almost too much for me. So she told me to go and find my own path and if it ever got too hard, she and Lee would welcome me with open arms.”

“They sound like amazing people.”

“They are,” Virgil smiled sadly. “And I really miss them, but we’re keeping in touch. They promised they’d come visit me as soon as they had the time, and I was truly settled in.”

“Thank you for telling me, Virgil,” Janus said earnestly and again squeezed his hands.

“It felt good to talk about it actually,” Virgil laughed. “I was kind of avoiding thinking about how much I miss them.”

“Yeah, I know the feeling.”

They looked at each other, both mourning the loss of their families but happy to find solace in each other.

“Hey, Virgil?” Janus asked quietly after a while.

“Yeah?”

“Can I kiss you?”

It felt like they were both still teens and not in their late twenties, but Virgil didn’t mind.

“Please.”

Their lips connected softly, and he thought, maybe he really could find a new home here.

Janus certainly made him feel like he belonged.

[actress4him]

>_>

<_<

~Psst~

Gimme 'Gilded Cage' for the bthb

For 'anyone' *wink wink*

This totally isn't someone you know o.o

*gasp*

Who could this be from?? And how did they possibly know that the very day this ask was sent, I was talking with Izzy about wanting to write something for the new AU using this prompt??

You must be psychic, Anon.

.

Introducing the new (well, not SO new at this point, but new to Tumblr!) Brumaria universe, The Royal AU. This piece is pre-Bruno, however, and hopefully sets up Kamaria's side of the story well enough that it doesn't require extra explanation. If not, feel free to ask questions, I love to ramble about ocs (especially Brumaria!) and aus.

Also this got, uh...really long, so, yeah.

Taglist: @painful-pooch (who obviously had NOTHING whatsoever to do with this ask), @badthingshappenbingo

Shadow of Death Masterlist

Fandom: Original Work

Prompt: Gilded Cage

Contains: fairly mild whump of a minor (14yo), lady whump, referenced parental death, referenced war, referenced fire, manhandling, non-graphic stabbing (not of the minor), hitting, prejudice, hunger, corporal punishment

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Kamaria slips in and out of the throng of people like a shadow, unnoticed by most. It’s market day - the perfect opportunity for making a living. While the people of Ethorcon shout and haggle and admire stalls full of goods, she eyes their wrists and belts. 

There’s a lady who doesn’t belong in this part of town, some noblewoman entertaining herself by watching how the simple folk live. It’s fairly common. Kamaria follows closely behind her and the girl who’s probably her maid, reaching easily between them to release the clasp of her golden bracelet and let it slide silently into her palm. She disappears immediately into the crowd again, waiting until she’s out of their sight before opening her fist and transferring the trinket to the hidden pocket she created for herself in the folds of her tattered skirt.

Brushing by a busy stall of dried meats, she tips a piece off the edge and into her other hand. It goes into her pocket, too. There’s already a pouch of roasted nuts nestled inside. She’ll eat one herself, and save the other for Aisling. The orphanage workers do what they can to feed them, but it’s never enough - which is why Kamaria takes to the streets as often as she can.

She won’t be able to stay for much longer, though. Too much time in one location is just asking to be caught, so she needs to make her last finds good ones. 

There are actually a few brave Navarians out today, risking the scorn of all the true Ethorconites and the prices that the merchants raise as soon as they see them. She skirts around the small group, letting her eyes linger for just a moment on the rich earth tones of their clothing. She misses when everyone around her was dressed like them.

Once she’s put some distance between herself and the other Navarians, not wanting to risk any possibility of them being accused of anything, she spots her next target - a man with a large shoulder bag. There’s not as much of a guarantee that she’ll snag something of great value, but she can’t help the curiosity that pulls her toward it. She sidles up nearly beside the man, waiting until his head is turned the other direction before she sticks her hand inside, fingers closing around the first item of substance she feels and smoothly sliding it back out.

She doesn’t look at her new treasure until she’s in a nearby alley. It’s…a knife. Small enough that the tarnished brass hilt fits in her not yet full grown hand. Carefully, she removes it from its sheath. The piece may be old, but the blade seems to be in good condition, and she can tell just by looking at it that it’s sharp. 

Thoughtfully, she tucks it into her pocket alongside the other items. This one she won’t sell, maybe. She likes the weight of it in her hands, the feeling of safety it brings. 

She takes her usual route back to the orphanage, crisscrossing through alleys and abandoned back streets. No one looks up when she walks inside. For the most part, the workers allow the children to come and go as they please. It’s up to them to arrive on time for meals if they want to be fed, and to come in before the doors are locked for the night if they want a bed. At first she thought she would hate it here, and she does hate that she’s stuck in the capital city of Ethorcon, no longer within the borders of what used to be Navar. But she can’t pass up the food and shelter the orphanage provides, and at least they don’t try to control her.

She hasn’t thought of leaving, anyway. Not while Aisling needs her.

The small girl’s brown eyes light up when Kamaria enters the bedroom they share with four other Navarians, the room next door reserved for several Ethorconite children. “Did you bring anything interesting this time?” she whispers in the language the two share.

The room is currently empty, so Kamaria sits down on the floor mat with her and begins to empty her pocket. She holds out the two food options first. “Which do you want?”

Aisling hums, considering, then taps her finger on the pouch of roasted nuts. Passing it over, Kamaria takes a bite of the dried meat before reaching into her pocket again. “I haven’t checked to see what’s inside yet,” she explains as she drops a small purse into her lap, tugging it open. The two girls eagerly count out the coins inside, then hurriedly put them back, Kamaria running to hide it beneath the broken floorboard before returning to the bed. 

“Look at this.” She displays the bracelet, and Aisling gasps in delight. 

“So pretty! Can I try it on?” Giggling, she holds out her hand.

Kamaria smiles a little and acquiesces, slipping the dainty, expensive piece around her frail wrist.

The girl laughs again, twisting her hand so that the gold catches the light. “Someday, I’m going to be a rich lady and own hundreds of jewels.”

Snorting, Kamaria takes the bracelet back. “Being rich isn’t anything to strive for. The rich think they’re better than everyone, but their lives mean nothing. Strive for…independence, instead. And a position where you can help those who can’t help themselves.”

She turns her back to place the bracelet inside the hiding spot with the purse, trying not to think too hard about Aisling’s future. The way things are now…she may not live to be Kamaria’s age, much less to achieve riches or power.

“Tomorrow I’ll take a bit of the money and buy us some more food.” She returns to the bed, settling down next to Aisling and leaning her back against the wall. She can still feel the weight of the knife in her pocket. “Is there anything you’d like me to look for?”

Popping one of the roasted nuts into her mouth, Aisling chews thoughtfully. “Apples,” she declares finally. “And chocolate!” 

Kamaria elbows her in the ribs, not too hard. “I stole the chocolate, you goose. We can’t afford luxuries like that.”

Aisling pouts, but it’s obviously playful. “Well then, can you steal some more chocolate next time you go out?”

Huffing a bit of a laugh through her nose, Kamaria shakes her head. “I’ll do my best.”

They sit in contented silence, munching their food, until a loud knock sounds on the front door of the house. Kamaria tenses, sitting up straight.

Aisling grabs onto her arm. “What is it?”

“I don’t know.” She tries to keep her voice calm, despite her body language. “Someone’s here. But no one ever visits.”

There’s a murmur of one of the workers answering the door, and a louder man’s voice responds. “We are here on behalf of His Majesty King Alaric, ruler of Ethorcon.”

Aisling’s grip on her arm grows tighter, whether in fear, shock, or excitement, she doesn’t know. Kamaria personally feels anger start to bubble in her chest at the mention of the man’s name. He’s the reason all of their parents are dead. He’s the reason that her home is a pile of ash, that she’s had to steal and beg and dig through rubbish for the past two years in order to survive. He’s the reason that they each take turns waking up during the night, gasping for breath with tears pouring down their cheeks.

“His Majesty requires a child. A Navarian child, to be exact.”

Another voice, slightly deeper. “King Alaric wishes to show his goodwill toward the former people of Navar by taking in one of their orphans as his own. They will be raised in the castle as royalty and afforded every advantage.”

“What a marvelous opportunity for one of our poor young ones!” That’s one of the workers. She sounds blown away. “They’ve all been through so much. Well, I can take you to see our boys over here, there are four of them -”

“Not a boy,” the first man interrupts. “We’re not looking for an heir to the throne. A girl will be more…suitable for him to bestow his goodwill upon.”

“Of course. We only have two Navarian girls, I believe they’re in their room.”

Kamaria jumps up off the mat and places herself in between Aisling and the door, allowing them to still see her but not come near. Her mind is racing with the conversation she’s just overheard. The king wants to adopt one of them. To turn them into a…a princess. It sounds too far-fetched to be true. All the Navarians know that he hates them. He invaded their kingdom solely to conquer it and extend his power, slaughtered them by the thousands, and now claims that they are citizens of Ethorcon but sits idly by while the real Ethorconites treat them like the dirt under their feet. And now he wants one as his daughter?

The door opens, and her hands clench into fists. The worker enters first, beaming. “Ah yes, here they are.”

Two men in rich attire enter, glancing back and forth between the two of them. The bald one looks her over closely, from her frizzy brown braid and dirt-streaked skin to her patched clothing and bare feet. “How old are you?” he demands.

She considers not answering, but doesn’t see the point in the end. “Fourteen.”

He sighs heavily. “That’s older than I was hoping for. Harder to train.”

The other man, the one with the deeper voice, nods toward Aisling. “The little one looks to be around the right age.”

The bald man doesn’t even glance her way. “She’s sickly, can’t you tell it just from the look of her?” He turns toward the worker, clearly exasperated. “You said these are the only two Navarian girls you have?”

“She wouldn’t be if you took her.” The words are out Kamaria’s mouth before she can fully decide whether she should say them. “She’s frail now, yes, but with proper food and access to a physician she’d flourish, I’m certain of it.” And she’d be able to be a rich lady with hundreds of jewels, like she wants.

She doesn’t want to be separated from Aisling, she’s become like a little sister to her. She isn’t sure, either, that the castle is the best, most loving place for her. But if it means guaranteeing her survival…

Besides, she has no intention of going with these men herself, and if she’s taken then there will be no one to look after Aisling, to bring her extra food. This is how it needs to be.

“I’m not taking that risk,” the bald man grunts. “The older will have to do. Come.” 

He nods his head toward the door before turning to walk out, as if he expects her to follow him just like that. Kamaria stands rooted to the floor, heart pounding and thoughts swirling.

“Come,” the other man repeats, holding out a hand to her. “You’ve been chosen. This is a great honor for you.”

“No.”

The bald man turns, and they both stare at her. “No?”

She lifts her chin, gathering her courage. “No, I won’t go with you. I don’t want to go, you’ll have to take her, instead.” She looks briefly back over her shoulder at Aisling, who’s watching everything silently with wide, fearful eyes.

Taking two slow steps toward her, the bald man huffs. “You behave as if you have any say in this matter, girl. We are acting on behalf of His Majesty, and you will do as we command.”

Kamaria’s anger flares. “His Majesty has never cared anything about my existence before, and he can live without it now. I want nothing to do with him. If he wanted to extend his goodwill, then he should have refrained from murdering my family and my people.”

The fury in her heart is reflected back at her in the man’s expression. As the other man mutters something like, “Are you sure that you want this one?”, he stalks toward her. She takes a few quick steps backwards away from him.

“I haven’t the time for this.” Lunging forward, he grabs her by her waist and yanks her into him, wrapping one arm around her and beginning to drag her toward the door.

Kamaria forgets how to breathe. For a moment, she’s one of the women that she sees in her nightmares, being carried off by laughing soldiers while the town burns around them.

She’s brought back to the present by Aisling’s screech. “Kamaria!” 

“No! Let go of me!” She fights, digging her heels into the floor as best she can, hitting and scratching his arm and anything else she can reach. “I’m not going anywhere! Let me go, I will not be your stupid princess!”

The knife in her pocket knocks into her leg as if politely reminding her of its existence. She clamors for it wildly, somehow managing to get it out and fling the sheath to the ground. 

“I said let me go!” She has no idea how to properly use a knife, but she has plenty of access to drive the point of it into his arm near the elbow. 

He curses loudly and she’s suddenly free. Knife still in hand, she runs back toward Aisling, who’s sobbing uncontrollably, only to be tackled to the floor by the second man. He pins her there, and she screams, memories from the night of the fire washing over her again. 

“The little minx stabbed me!” the bald man roars. “Get that knife away from her! You let these children have weapons?”

She can’t see anything but the wooden floor, but she tries to stretch out her arm so that the knife is out of reach. It doesn’t matter, though. The man on top of her holds down her arm and wrestles the knife out of her grip, handing it off to someone else. 

She should have just left it for Aisling. Now it’s gone to waste, like the bracelet and coins hidden underneath the floorboard that the little girl won’t be able to sell. 

“Get her out of here!” the bald man growls. “I clearly have my work cut out for me, teaching this one even basic manners.”

She’s flipped over onto her back, large hands holding her wrists tightly, then yanked up off the floor and thrown over the man’s shoulder. Beating and scratching on his back and kicking her legs doesn’t seem to faze him at all. Aisling screams her name again, and she cranes her head up to find her tear-streaked face. 

“Ai-Aisling…stay strong for me, okay? Stay…stay strong.”

The younger girl sobs again. “Please don’t leave me!”

She’s carried out the door and around the corner before she can respond. 

.

The carriage ride through town is tense. Kamaria is too angry and afraid to enjoy the novelty of it, crushed in between the two men on the bench seat. She tries to fling herself out the door at one point, and gets backhanded across the face so hard that she falls into the opposite wall.

It’s the first time anyone has ever hit her. With all of the violence she’s seen in her life, it shouldn’t feel as sickening as it does.

She spends the rest of the ride in her seat, staring at a spot straight ahead of her with her mind racing with thoughts of what’s ahead.

The second man walks her into the castle with a firm grip on her arm that she wants to shake off but tries her best to ignore. It’s obvious she’s not getting away from them anytime soon. She’s never been anywhere close to a castle before, much less inside of one, and despite her determination to hate every inch of it she can’t help but gape. Every surface seems to shine. The floor is cold beneath her feet, and when she looks down she can nearly see her reflection in it. Above her, the ceiling stretches almost as high as the sky itself, and staircases with polished railings wind up toward long balconies. 

“This way.” Her arm is jerked, and the bald man leads them through a door and into a series of hallways and stairs that seem to never end. Kamaria tries to memorize the route, in case she gets the chance to escape.

At last they go through another intricately carved door, into a room that looks to be a bedroom but is so huge it could fit an entire house inside. There’s a bed against one wall, with a blue canopy over it and heavy curtains at each post. Pillows are piled on top of the covers. In the corner sits a dainty table with two matching chairs, and on another wall a sofa with even more pillows. Opposite the bed, nearly the entire wall is taken up by glass doors leading out onto a balcony.

“These will be your chambers,” the man holding her arm announces. He glances over at her dumbfounded expression. “See, this arrangement isn’t all that bad, is it?”

She quickly reins in her shock, throwing a glare back at him. “I don’t want any of this. Not when it comes from him.”

The bald man whirls around and slaps her cheek, not nearly as hard as the first hit but enough to turn her face to the side. “We’ll start your first lesson now. You will refer to His Majesty with respect and honor at all times. Understood?”

She clenches her jaw and stares him down, refusing to respond.

Taking a step forward, he grasps her chin hard between his fingers, tilting her head back to stare down into her face. “Answer me.”

“Yes,” she spits. She understands. That doesn’t mean she’ll do it.

A quiet knock sounds on the open door behind her, and the bald man looks up and releases her chin. “Come in, let’s hurry this along.” 

Several women appear, most wearing matching plain dresses. Kamaria watches them warily. 

“Lord Roderick,” the one who doesn’t match the others begins, addressing the bald man. “This is she?”

“Yes. Get started right away, there’s no time to waste. You -” he turns his attention to the others, whom she guesses are maids -“go draw a bath. She’s absolutely filthy, and this hair is a disaster.”

She wants to snap something back about how he’d be the same way if he was forced to live on the streets and actually had hair, but decides to keep her mouth shut this time. It would likely only get her slapped again, unless he wouldn’t do it with the maids around.

A few of the maids curtsy and disappear through a door on the other side of the room. The woman who spoke approaches her, and the man finally lets go of her arm, going to shut the door to the bedroom. 

“I’m going to measure you for a new gown,” the woman explains, holding up a measuring tape. Without waiting for a response, she sets to work wrapping it around various parts of Kamaria’s body while the two maids that are left assist her and write down the numbers she calls out. Kamaria stands stiffly, unsure of what to do or where to put her arms. She’s uncomfortable with all the hands in such close proximity to her, but at least these are female and aren’t hurting her right now.

“I have everything I need,” the seamstress announces eventually. “The fabric and trim is already chosen, and we’ll all work on this tirelessly until it’s done.”

“Good.” Roderick gives a dismissive wave of his hand. “See that you do. If all goes well I want to introduce her to His Majesty by tonight.”

The three of them curtsy and exit the room. One of the other maids peeks out from the door they’d exited through. “Her bath is ready.”

Roderick places a hand on her back and prods her forward. A bath…actually sounds rather nice. She is filthy, though she’d prefer that not be pointed out by this horrid man, and she’s certainly not going to let on that she’s grateful for anything they’re forcing on her. 

The bathtub in the next room is, of course, also fancier than anything she’s ever seen. Roderick ushers her inside and leaves, and the maids immediately descend upon her, hands grabbing at her clothes. With a wordless shout, Kamaria swats them away, backing up until she bumps into the wall. 

“We only wish to help you undress, Your Highness,” one explains, as if that somehow makes their intrusion better.

“Keep your hands off me! I’m not a Highness, and I definitely don’t need help getting undressed! Nor do I need you watching me get undressed! I’m not a child, I can bathe myself perfectly well.”

Roderick throws open the door and steps inside again. “Lower your voice, girl. You’re a princess now, there will be no shouting and causing a ruckus.”

She glares at him, arms crossed protectively over herself. “I’m not a princess, and I’m not staying here so there’s no need for me to adhere to all your stupid rules. You may have conquered Navar, but that doesn’t mean that -”

Stepping forward, he grabs a fistful of hair on the back of her head. “I said to lower your voice, and unless you want your head shoved into the water in that tub, I suggest you also keep war talk out of your mouth.”

Kamaria snaps her mouth shut, fury sparking in her eyes. She doesn’t want to follow this man’s orders, but she has no doubt at this point that he’ll follow through on his threat and she’d rather not be drowned.

This can’t last. She keeps hoping maybe it’s a nightmare that she’ll wake from soon, but even if it is reality…it can’t last. Either they’ll realize that this is a terrible decision and send her back, or she’ll escape somehow. There’s no way that she’s actually going to be stuck here for more than…a few days, maybe weeks. 

So maybe, for now, she should just play along. Not enough to make them think that this actually is a good idea, but enough that she doesn’t keep getting hurt by this man. She can let her displeasure be known, but learn to stop before he gets too angry.

He stares her down for a few more seconds before deciding she’s done talking for now and releasing her hair. “Behave yourself and do as your maids say. Just hurry up and get in the bath.” Exiting the room, he slams the door shut behind him.

Kamaria narrows her eyes at the maids. Her maids, he’d called them. Well, if they’re her maids, and she’s supposed to be a princess, then they should listen to her, right? “I will undress myself. I don’t want you to touch me.”

The maids glance at each other. “I suppose it’s alright this time,” one replies. “In the future, though, Your Highness, your gowns will be much more complicated, and you’ll need help removing them.”

There’s no way she’s letting anyone put their hands all over her like that, ever. She’ll just have to figure out the so-called complicated gowns herself until she can get out of here. “And I don’t want you staring at me while I undress, either. Do royals have no sense of modesty, or is that an Ethorconite thing?”

Reluctantly, they turn their backs and allow her to undress and slip into the hot water herself. In all honesty, it feels extraordinarily nice, but not nice enough that she’s ready to turn her back on her people to indulge in it for the rest of her life. 

.

An awkward hour later, Kamaria sits in front of an ornate mirror, wearing undergarments that cover nearly enough of her to be an actual gown and are made of the softest fabric she’s ever touched. Each of the maids is yanking a comb through her still-damp hair, trying to get rid of the never ending tangles, while they discuss how to style it when they’re done.

“A braid,” she says simply.

One of them frowns at her reflection. “A braid is too simplistic, Your Highness. You’ll need something regal to meet His Majesty.”

“Then multiple braids. That’s how the Navarian nobles style their hair.”

The maid sighs, turning her attention back to a particularly stubborn snarl. “You’re a princess of Ethorcon now. Not Navar.”

Kamaria jerks her head away, putting a hand to her sore scalp, and glares into the mirror. “So? What is the point of the king adopting a Navarian if you’re just going to try to turn me into an Ethorconite?” She reluctantly lowers her hand, allowing the combing to continue. “We all know that he doesn’t actually care anything about ‘extending goodwill’. Which means the only reason for him to do something like this is to try to fool people into thinking that he does actually care about us.”

“You shouldn’t talk about His Majesty that way.”

She continues on without pausing. “And if that’s the case, then shouldn’t I actually look like who I am? Doesn’t he want to be able to show me off and make sure everyone knows that it’s a Navarian he’s taken in?”

These thoughts have been occurring to her through everything that’s happened, but saying them aloud makes them much more terrifying and sickening than turning them over in her head. She’s a trophy, that’s what she is. What he wants her to be, at least. A shiny new thing that the king can wave around and use to prove how wonderful he is, while continuing to do absolutely nothing to actually help her people.

“There will be an announcement of your adoption in due time, and the people will be informed of your heritage then. But Lord Roderick and His Majesty want you to look the part of the princess of Ethorcon. And braids are not part of a traditional hairstyle here.”

“But -”

The door opens, and Roderick strides back into the room. “Are you still arguing?”

She snaps her mouth shut, transferring her glare to his reflection before finding her courage again. “I will have a braid somewhere in my hair.”

“You will do what you’re told, or you’re going to regret it.” He walks up beside her, and she wraps her arms around herself, trying to hide her immodesty. He just grabs her chin again and turns her face toward his. “At least you clean up decently, though you’ll look much better once that hair is dealt with.” His other hand comes up to brush across the purple bruise that has begun forming on her cheek, and she flinches away. 

“Would you like us to do something to cover that, my lord?”

“Don’t bother.” He turns and walks back toward the door. “His Majesty will understand. I’m going to check on the seamstress’ progress and attend to a few other matters. Be sure her hair is finished by the time I return.”

She’s never had to sit still for so long in her life. It feels like all of her hair is going to fall out of her head by the time they’re done, but she does have to admit - to herself, at least - that they do a good job of making her curls look soft and shiny for the first time in two years. And the updo that they settle on is elegant and regal - for an Ethorconite, that is.

When she’s finally allowed a moment alone in the privacy of the bathroom, the first thing she does is tug out a section of hair on the side and braid it, then pins it back into place. She studies herself in the mirror. She’s thinner than she used to be. The last years have hollowed out her cheeks and made her collarbone more prominent, though nothing like poor Aisling’s. And now she looks ridiculous in this fancy foreign style, and she hasn’t even put on a gown yet. 

At least she has the braid now, though. She’ll cling to any part of Navar that she can, no matter how hard they attempt to strip it all from her.

Eventually the maid knocks on the door, probably worried that she’s doing something drastic like destroying all their hard work by adding a braid to her hair. While she was inside, the second maid brought up a tray with lunch from the kitchen. Kamaria can smell it as soon as the cover is removed, and finds herself drawn to the table where it sits. 

There’s so much food, and it’s all supposed to be for her. Poultry with a golden sheen, steaming vegetables, bread with butter pooling on top. For the longest time she just stares at it all. She wants it. The hunger that’s been a constant presence in her life for two years suddenly lurches to the forefront of her mind, demanding that she stuff everything on the tray into her mouth as quickly as she can. 

But she also can’t stop seeing Aisling’s face. She’s the one who needed this, not Kamaria. It isn’t fair, that she should sit here in luxury and eat her fill of the finest foods, while her friend stays behind and continues to suffer. 

“I can’t eat this.” She takes a step back, hand pressed against her stomach, eyes still fixated on the overflowing plate.

The maid sighs. “Why not, Your Highness? I understand that it’s not the cuisine you’re accustomed to -”

“I’m not accustomed to anything except scraps of whatever happens to be available!” she shoots back. “I just…I can’t. I can’t.” How can she explain that eating this food would feel like betraying the only person she’s cared for since losing her family? They wouldn’t understand, and they don’t need that kind of personal information about her.

“Well we’re not going to feed you scraps, Your Highness. You must eat.” She gestures to the food. “You don’t have to worry about going hungry anymore, all your needs will be provided for here.”

That’s the whole problem. But she’s right about one thing, she has to eat something. Especially if she ends up needing to escape from this place, if they don’t just kick her out, she’ll need energy and strength.

Reluctantly, she walks over and takes a seat and begins picking at the food. It’s delicious, but it’s so rich that she can barely stomach it, and guilt accompanies every bite. She only makes it through a small fraction of the pile before she’s pushing it away. 

“I’m full.” She waves a hand without looking at the food again. “The two of you can have the rest if you’d like.” This isn’t the orphanage, food isn’t a rare and precious commodity. It’s doubtful they want to eat your leftovers, Kamaria. Among the children it was incredibly rare for someone to leave any of their food, but on the occasion that it happened there would always be a tussle to split the rest.

.

She spends the rest of the afternoon being trained by first the maids, then Roderick, on the perfect curtsy with which to greet the king. Despite her disdain for the idea - and her great desire to come up with the most disrespectful greeting she can to substitute - she tries her best to copy them and follow the instructions, especially once Roderick arrives and starts threatening to slap her around again. He’s still not happy with her performance by the time they end the lesson, but throws up his hands with a sigh and declares that it will do for now.

Finally, the seamstress arrives with the finished gown. She’s forced to let the maids help her slip it over her head and lace it, partially because Roderick is still lurking and she doesn’t feel like being hit for arguing again, and partially because they were, unfortunately, correct, and she probably wouldn’t be able to wrangle all of the fabric and reach the laces herself. The dress is a deep red, and it feels expensive, silky and smooth and so much skirt that she feels twice as heavy once it’s on.

Roderick stares her down critically, a scowl permanently painted on his face. “I suppose you’re as ready as you’re going to be. You look the part, at least.”

“How did this braid get here?” a maid gasps, and Kamaria can’t keep a smirk from quirking her lips.

“Never mind, it’s hardly noticeable and we don’t have time,” Roderick growls. “Let’s go.”

Her nerves rise as she’s led through the castle halls once again. She’s only a commoner, she’s never met anyone like a king before, and certainly not King Alaric, whom she’s heard so many stories about. Obviously she doesn’t care anything about making a good impression on him. She’d rather he take one look at her and immediately order Roderick to send her back. 

But…this is the man who destroyed her country. This is the man who ordered his soldiers to kill her family and burn her home. 

At one point, as a foolish, grieving child, she’d sworn that if she ever stood in his presence she would kill him herself. Now she’s expected to pretend to be his daughter.

The doors to the throne room tower over her head, ornately carved and inlaid with gold. They swing open suddenly, and she finds herself in the largest room she could ever imagine, with the king staring down from his throne a great distance away. 

She freezes. Her feet won’t move forward, refusing to carry her into the same room as her mother’s murderer. 

A hand on her back shoves her through the doorway. She nearly trips over the long skirt of her dress, but still can’t take her eyes off the man at the other end of the room. He’s as stern-faced and intimidating as she’d imagined, face pale beneath his black hair and beard and eyes bright and intense. They watch her every move as Roderick gives up on her walking herself and drags her by the arm. 

The walk seems to go by in an instant and take an eternity all at once. Suddenly they’re at the foot of the steps that lead to the throne, and Roderick is pinching a bruise into her arm. Right, curtsy, she’s supposed to curtsy. Was she even planning on doing so? Maybe she was going to just stand here and refuse. It’s too late now, she’s already moving. Everything that they taught her this afternoon has escaped from her mind, though, and whatever motion she makes is clumsy and awkward. She can hear Roderick sigh quietly next to her.

“Your Majesty, may I present the Navarian girl that you requested. I’m afraid she will require quite extensive training before she’s ready to make an appearance as a princess, but rest assured that I am up to the task.”

King Alaric just keeps raking his eyes over her, stoic expression never changing. “How old is she? I thought you were getting a little one.”

There are so many things she should say to him, but they all stick in her throat. The emotions swirling through her chest are fighting against each other. She feels at once everything and nothing. 

“Fourteen, I believe she said. I was originally planning for younger, but unfortunately she was the best option.”

The words finally take shape and burst from her lips. “No, I wasn’t! Aisling was the best option, I told you so right then and there, she would have flourished here and she would have been happy to do whatever you wanted.”

Roderick grabs her arm in the same place he was pinching it earlier. “You will hold your tongue in the presence of the king,” he hisses.

She tries to pull away from him, glaring daggers. “I told you I didn’t want to come here. If you want a perfect, obedient princess then you’ll send me back, because I will not be her.”

“Shut up, girl!” He twists her arm hard, wrenching her shoulder, and she gasps in pain. “I apologize on her behalf, Your Majesty. As I said, she requires extensive training. And the other child she’s referring to was sickly and frail, so don’t let her deceive you. She was the best choice…” He throws her a disdainful look. “Such as she is.”

King Alaric leans back in his throne, expression still unreadable, as Kamaria continues to glower at them both. “I must say I’m disappointed. I was hoping to have something I could present to the people sooner rather than later. I trust that your outing was discreet, at least?”

“Of course, Your Majesty. The orphanage worker was the only one outside the castle who knew of our mission, and she was paid handsomely to hold her tongue until the proper time.”

The king sighs, looking her over one more time. “Fine. Start your training and make sure absolutely everyone knows that she is to remain unknown until I make the announcement. I’m counting on you, Lord Roderick, to make this work.”

“Yes, Your Majesty, I will not fail you.” He bows his head, still firmly gripping her arm.

“Does the feral child have a name?”

There’s a pause, and Roderick shoots her a look, jaw tight with anger. She raises one eyebrow at him - oh now you want me to speak? Now that someone is actually bothering to find something out about me? - and the anger grows. He jerks his head toward the king, prompting her to answer. 

She lets the silence linger for another moment before answering. “Kamaria.”

The king scoffs. “Of course. Well, at least there will be no mistaking that she’s Navarian.” He waves a lazy, ring-laden hand. “You’re dismissed.”

Kamaria has never been so glad to leave a room, though she’s furious that her hope to be sent back right away has been dashed. Part of her wants to run back and argue some more, to show the king just how bad of an idea this really is, but even if she had the courage, Roderick isn’t giving her that choice. He doesn’t let go of her arm until they’re back in the bedroom that’s been designated as hers. 

Unfortunately, he’s just as angry as she is at how that meeting went. She’s gotten glimpses of what this new life under his control is going to be like throughout the day, but it’s that evening that she’s fully shown just what to expect from his training.

[ollieofthebeholder]

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

<< Beginning < Prev. || AO3 || My website

Chapter 52: June 1996

If this is what most primary schools are like, Gerard thinks, he’s astonishingly grateful to his mother for teaching him at home. For a given degree of “teaching”, anyway.

Martin insists it isn’t, and he’s told Gerard about the school he went to in Devon before he and his mother moved to London—he actually seems to miss it—but Gerard isn’t convinced. The whole building seems tired and sagging, but it’s also extremely clinical and impersonal. Everything is cinderblock and grey tile and plain doors with mesh in the glass. Bells bristle on the walls like boils, and all in all it seems more like a prison than a place of learning. Of course, Gerard isn’t entirely certain they’re all that different anyway.

The actual meeting takes place in the gymnasium, which has a wooden floor but is otherwise made of the same depressing cinderblocks as the rest of the building, and there is an almost coyly twee sign reading Support for Parents Alone Raising Kids, the capitalized letters obvious and adorned in glitter to make the SPARK stand out. The parents in question, mostly mothers, sit on metal folding chairs in only slightly better shape than the gymnasium. The kids in question, however, are currently being shooed outside.

Gerard does not want to go outside. He caught a glimpse of the playground on the way in, thank you very much, and it looks like a tetanus shot waiting to happen. Rust and concrete and sand and nothing particularly exciting. He’d much rather stay inside and listen to the meeting, or go hole up in the library—surely this place has a library. But Martin is tugging him outside, and, okay, he’ll play along.

Gerard’s a bit surprised, but he really likes this kid. Part of it is that he’s not immune to a bit of hero-worship and Martin tends to look at him like he’s some kind of minor god, but mostly it’s just that…well, Martin is a genuinely nice person. He’s amazingly brilliant for a seven-year-old, a fast and voracious reader—he’s read even more books than Gerard has—and he’s got, so Gerard thinks, the voice of an angel. His fondness for poetry is a bit of an irritation, but again, he’s seven, he’ll probably grow out of sentimental nonsense like that. Anyway, if Martin thinks they should go outside with the other children, Gerard will let him take the lead. After all, this is his first time being here; Mrs. Blackwood has been attending, and bringing Martin, for several weeks now.

Gerard isn’t sure why his mother agreed to come, actually, since his dad’s been gone at least five years now and she definitely doesn’t need any support in raising him, but she did and he already knows better than to question her actions.

There are about a dozen kids that spill out onto the playground and scatter to the corners. Several of the girls run over to pick up skipping ropes; most of the boys begin kicking a ball around. Others race for the climbing structure or the rickety slide. None of it appeals to Gerard.

“What do you usually do?” Gerard asks Martin, who hasn’t run to join any of the groups. He assumes Martin is waiting for him to choose what they’ll do, but surely Martin has a favorite activity.

Martin scuffs his shoe against the concrete, a bit shyly, and doesn’t look up at Gerard when he answers. “I, um, I like the swings.”

“Okay, sounds good,” Gerard lies. Like everything else on the playground, the swing set seems to be comprised of metal and rust, and he isn’t entirely sure what the point of them is either. Just to sit on them? It doesn’t sound like his idea of fun, but if Martin likes them…

There was a bit of a drizzle this morning, but it’s cleared up now; still, the pavement is damp in places and there are a few undeniable puddles where the yard sags and dips. Gerard is thankful for the new—well, new to him anyway—boots he bought at the secondhand shop last week; though worn, they still have deep treads that keep him from slipping as they head across the playground. He’s still wearing a three-piece suit, which he hates, but…baby steps. Sooner or later he’ll be able to save up enough of his pocket money to buy the clothes he wants to wear, and maybe eventually his mother will get the hint and stop dressing him like a small professor. They’re not upper class, whatever she says about her ancestors, and Gerard is pretty sure that the rich assholes who come to buy rare books from his mother can see through his outfits clearly enough. They know he’s trash. He might as well dress like it.

Martin rounds a teeter-totter that looks even more unsafe than the rest of the playground equipment and stutters to a halt, nearly making Gerard trip over him. He’s about to ask what’s wrong when he sees it, too. Someone else got to the swings first.

Someone else is a girl who’s either very young or very small for her age. Gerard finds himself envious of her outfit, not because he wants to wear that exactly—he can’t imagine anyone wanting to wear that many colors at the same time—but because she very obviously picked it out herself, because no way would her mother (he assumes it’s her mother) select something like this for her. She’s wearing a shirt with orange and white horizontal stripes, bright purple dungarees with tiny pale lilac flower buds printed all over them, and hot pink high-top sneakers with glittery laces, and her hair is pulled into two bunches on either side of her head and secured with something with bright, slightly translucent blue balls on the ends. She has a puffy gold star sticker under each eye like some kind of war paint, and she’s staring at the swing with narrowed eyes and her hands on her hips like she’s challenging it to something.

Gerard assumes they’ll be moving on to find something else to do, but to his surprise, Martin clears his throat. “Um, hi.”

The girl starts and whirls on them. Her scowl somehow deepens, and her fists come up in front of her. It would be intimidating if she wasn’t so tiny, but as it is, Gerard isn’t impressed.

“What?” she demands.

Martin gives her a smile that seems a bit shaky and indicates the swings. “Um, can—can we join you? O-on the swings?”

The girl considers this for a minute, then eyes the swings before looking back at Martin. “There are only two.”

“That’s okay, you two can have them,” Gerard says quickly before Martin can offer. “I’ll just watch or something.”

He’ll watch, all right. He’ll watch long enough for Martin to make friends with this new girl and forget he’s there, and then he can slip off inside. He’ll probably feel bad about that later, but at least he’s not abandoning Martin with no one to play with if he and Miss Thing here get on.

“Well…okay.” The girl lifts her chin almost defiantly and sticks out a hand towards them. “I’m Melanie.”

“I’m Martin, and this is Gerard,” Martin says, taking her hand and shaking it. “It’s nice to meet you, Melanie.”

“Uh…yeah…hi,” Gerard says. He, too, shakes her hand when she offers it.

Martin smiles, a bit more confidently this time. Melanie doesn’t exactly smile back, but at least she’s not scowling. “You can have that swing. I’m going to get on this one.”

“Okay.”

Martin goes over to the swing indicated and circles it for a moment, then leans forward to snag the chain. Gerard isn’t sure why until he notices the twin puddles directly under both swings. He realizes that generations of feet scuffing at the ground have worn a bit of a dip that allows water to collect, and Martin is worried—most likely rightly—that his mother will have kittens if he gets his shoes muddy. Once Martin has the swing in hand, he maneuvers himself so he’s facing away from it, takes a deep breath, and gives a little hop. Somehow he settles into the seat correctly without falling; it immediately swings backwards, and Martin holds on desperately and tries to kick his feet to straighten himself out and keep from swinging over onto Melanie’s side of the swings.

Melanie tries to do the same, but Gerard realizes very quickly that it won’t work. Apart from the fact that she’s shorter than Martin, the seat is somehow higher than the other side. If she leans forward without stepping into the puddle, she’s going to fall face-first into it. Gerard tries to figure out how to tell her that without making it look like he’s being a bully. Then, as Martin finally gets his trajectory more or less under control, Gerard notices that the swing has been wrapped over the top bar of the swing set.

“Well, duh,” Melanie says when he points this out. “Otherwise your feet get wet.”

“Yeah, but you can’t reach it. Hang on.” Gerard manages to plant his feet on either side of the puddle and tosses the swing a few times until he manages to get it over the top, with a rattle and a clank. Once it settles, he pulls it back and hands it to Melanie. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” Melanie eyes him suspiciously for a minute, but takes the chains in either hand. She tries several times to haul herself up into the seat, but doesn’t quite manage it, and on her final try nearly gets dragged into the puddle. She manages to brake herself and backs up, then looks over at Gerard. “Can you hold it steady for me while I get on? Please?”

The please is clearly an afterthought, but Gerard doesn’t care all that much about politeness, and he’s a bit surprised to be asked anyway. He takes the chain and holds the swing as requested.

It still takes Melanie two or three tries, but she finally manages to get herself settled. Gerard holds on for just a second, until Martin swings out of the way, then lets go and steps to one side. As an afterthought, watching Martin’s still-wobbly swing, he catches his chain and manages to stop him, then straightens him out before pulling him back and letting him go as well.

“Thanks, Gerard,” Martin says happily, kicking his feet in their battered trainers forward.

“Thanks, Gerard,” Melanie echoes.

Gerard blinks. “Uh, yeah, sure, no problem.”

He watches for a few moments. They seem happy enough, and he’s about ready to try to slink off when Melanie asks, “Is this your first time coming here?”

“Not mine. Mum’s been coming for a few weeks,” Martin answers, his sentence punctuated with the tiniest of pauses every time he reaches the acme of his swing and pumps himself backwards or forwards. “It’s Gerard’s first time, though.”

“Oh.” Melanie twists her head to study Gerard with a frown. The action makes her swing start twisting slightly, and she hurriedly turns to face forward again. “But aren’t you brothers?”

“No.” Gerard tries not to sound appalled at the idea. It’s not that he doesn’t like Martin, he does, but he wouldn’t want Mrs. Blackwood as a mum any more than he would wish his mother on another child. He comes around and catches Melanie’s swing to stop it twisting before it slams into Martin and straightens it out, then gives her a little push when he lets go. “My mother is friends with his.”

“Oh,” Melanie says again. She doesn’t tuck her feet as far under herself this time when she reaches the top of her arc, and Gerard instinctively takes a step back and gives her another little push when she comes close enough. “So you don’t have a dad? Either of you?”

Martin shakes his head, but doesn’t elaborate. Gerard’s not surprised. He’s only known Martin about six weeks, and in that whole time, he’s never heard him mention his dad once. He gives Martin a push as well—it’s only fair—and tells Melanie, “Haven’t for a while. Mine died when I was about your age. I don’t remember him too well, really.”

“How old are you?” Melanie asks suspiciously.

“Ten.”

“I’m seven,” Martin interjects. “But I’ll be eight in August.”

“I’m seven, too,” Melanie says. “My birthday’s not until November, though.”

Martin kicks his feet out to push himself backwards. “‘Not yesterday I learned to know / The love of bare November days…’”

“Robert Browning?” Gerard hazards, catching Martin lightly and pushing him forward, then shifting to do the same for Melanie.

“Frost.”

“Who’s that?” Melanie asks. She tips her head back to look at Gerard, then squeaks as the chain momentarily goes slack and nearly topples her backwards. Gerard instinctively starts forward to catch her, but she manages to correct herself.

“Robert Frost? He was a poet,” Martin explains. “He wrote lots of really great poems about nature, especially winter and autumn and all that. He was American, but he lived in a pretty part. Mrs. Dooley taught me about him.”

“Oh—you go to school here too?”

“Yup. I just started this term. I was in Mrs. Tisdale’s class.”

“I was in Mrs. Brown’s. Maybe we’ll both be in the same class next year.” Melanie glances at Gerard as she reaches the end of her swing. “Whose class were you in?”

“My mother teaches me at home.” Gerard tries not to sound superior.

Melanie grunts. “Figures.”

Gerard decides to turn the tables a bit. “What about your dad? How long has he been gone?”

“He isn’t. He’s inside.” Melanie stops kicking her feet, and Gerard notices her hands tighten around the chains, even as her chin drops to her chest. “Mama just died.”

Okay, now Gerard feels like a little bit of a jerk. Martin stops kicking his feet, too, and his face, when he looks at Melanie, is creased in sympathy. “I’m sorry, Melanie.”

Melanie looks up as she begins to slow, and there’s an almost angry look in her eyes. “I’m not going to forget her. Not when I’m ten and not when I’m ten hundred.”

Gerard almost corrects her that “ten hundred” is a thousand, but one look at the reproachful expression on Martin’s face and he swallows that. “I, um, I thought you were younger than seven, actually. It’s been five years almost. And he worked a lot before that, so I never really got to know him all that well. I’m sure you’ll remember your mother better.”

Melanie sniffs. She clearly means it to be defiant, but it sounds more like she’s about to cry. “She’s worth remembering.”

Martin gives her an encouraging smile. “Why don’t you tell us about her?”

Gerard grabs Melanie’s swing again and pulls her clear of the puddle. “Why don’t we go inside first?”

“We’re supposed to be outside,” Martin protests.

“I’m big enough to be responsible,” Gerard boasts. “We can go sit in the library.”

Melanie slips out of the swing and hops to one side. “If Mrs. Dooley is there, she’ll let us.”

“Well…” Martin wavers.

Gerard tugs Martin away from the puddle under his swing. “C’mon, Martin, don’t you trust me?”

It’s maybe a little bit unfair, but it works. Martin’s eyes widen briefly, and he slips out of the swing instantly. “Of course I trust you!”

“Come on then.” Gerard takes Martin’s hand and reaches for Melanie’s, too; she eyes him suspiciously, but accepts it.

The teenager who’s supposed to be watching them doesn’t notice them slipping inside, which is just fine with Gerard. They tiptoe down the hallway—the doors to the gymnasium are open and they don’t want to get caught—and to the only other set of double doors, with a brass plaque on the left one reading LIBRARY. There’s a light on inside, and when they pull it open, they’re met with a plump, matronly woman who greets them with a smile and open arms. She seems pleased to meet Gerard, and she readily directs them to a tiny cluster of chairs.

“There’s no one else here,” she says, her Scottish accent thick and heavy, “so you can be as loud as you like. I’ll let your parents know they can find you here after the meeting, but meantime, you three just settle down and enjoy yourselves, you hear?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Dooley,” Martin and Melanie say in unison with matching smiles. Mrs. Dooley laughs and bustles away.

Gerard looks at the two kids he’s inexplicably saddled himself with and wonders, for a fleeting moment, how he let things get this far. He wanted to be alone.

By the time his mother comes to collect all three of them, with the explanation that Mrs. Blackwood and Mr. King are in deep conversation and will meet them out front, he wonders why he ever thought that would be the better option.

[mugloversonly]

Silver over Gold

Chapter one: Cracked

inspired by: this

ao3

Summary:

Eddie goes to Family Video, giddy to see Steve at work. It doesn't go well.

They’ve been together for three months. After Vecna, he never thought he’d be this happy; but ever since Steve kissed him on his couch, Eddie’s been on cloud nine.

Steve had been acting weird that whole day. They went to the diner and the record store and Steve bought Eddie any record he wanted. If Eddie didn’t know any better, he would have thought it was a date. Turns out, it was because the next thing he knew Steve’s lips were on his and the two have been together ever since.

They aren’t officially courting…yet. But it was only a matter of time, Steve promised. Eddie can be patient though, especially since he’s seen him turn down every other omega that made a pass at him.

At the beginning of this whole thing, Eddie made sure Steve knew he wanted exclusivity. He’d tried the causal thing before and it did not go too well for Eddie.

Steve reassured him he had nothing to worry about, Robin was the only other omega around Steve’s age in their friend group and they were just friends.

He wanted to believe him, even though everyone was saying they were dating or would be soon. Henderson especially was adamant. He’d constantly tell Eddie that Robin was the girl Steve was going to marry and he secretly loved her. He even tried to get him to help figure out if they were secretly dating.

He wanted to bring it up but didn’t want Steve to think he didn’t trust him so he pushed his insecurities to the side and trusted this alpha with all of him. His heat was a few weeks away and the two planned on spending it together. Eddie was nervous. He wasn’t a virgin by any means, but the last time he spent a heat with an alpha...well there’s a reason he’s never done it again.

But Steve, he trusts. He knows Steve will take care of him, like he’s been doing for the past few months, and make sure it’s a good experience. His omega is already purring at the thought and Eddie can’t sit in the trailer waiting for Steve anymore. He grabs his keys and goes to visit his alpha at work.

~~~

As he opened the door to Family Video, the bell chimes but the two employees don’t move. The first thing to register to Eddie was the scent of calming alpha pheromones and an underlying scent that stops his heart. As he stared at the two embracing in front of him, he knew now that he was a fool.

Steve’s arms were wrapped tight around Robin. The omega he told Eddie not to worry about, he said they were just friends. But as he stood frozen, Steve kissed Robin on the cheek near the corner of her mouth, and her scent flooded with joy. They were in their own little world as Eddie’s came crashing down.

Eddie’s normal blood orange scent turned sour as tears sprung to his eyes. He knew the moment it reached Steve because he looked up and gasped in shock. “Eddie!” he said. Eddie scoffed at the panic in his eyes and held back the tears. Humiliation filled him. He turned and bolted back out the door and into his van. Steve was running after him and nearly managed to grab the door before Eddie could pull away. He had to jump back to avoid getting his toes crushed. All the while he was screaming Eddie’s name but he didn’t stop, didn’t breath, until he was back in the government issued trailer. His chest tightened in a eerily familiar way and all he could think was not this again.

~~~

Wayne immediately noticed his anguish. “Ed? You alright?” Eddie didn’t pause on the way to his nest. He made a disgruntled noise and slammed his bedroom door shut. He looked at his nest and the tears finally fell. Steve’s presence was all over it. His yellow sweater was tucked into it, right near the top. It brought Eddie comfort the past few nights since Steve has been staying at his house. At least that’s what he said. But Eddie didn’t know if he believed that now.

Suddenly the idea of Steve’s scent being in his nest disgusted him. He ripped the nest apart and threw everything into the hamper, except Steve’s sweater. That he threw onto the couch on his way to the washer. Wayne watched concern written all over his face. He ignored his uncle’s look and threw everything into the washer. He poured way too much detergent in and pushed start. Then he went back into the living room and stopped short at the sweater on the chair.

He didn’t want to see it any more. He angrily picked it up and stalked through the front door. He threw it into the dirt and stomped away before coming back and throwing it into the trash can. There. Now he wouldn’t have to see it again. His eyes were still blurry when he came back in but he knew he needed to tell Wayne what happened. He sat down next to his uncle and slumped into him, tucking himself into his side as small as he could get. He didn’t say anything yet. He let Wayne hold him as he calmed down.

“What the hell happened, Ed?” Wayne asked. The older Alpha knew his son wouldn’t speak up unless asked.

“He lied Wayne.” Eddie sobbed. Through choking gasps and hiccups he told Wayne what he saw. “He promised she was just a friend. He promised. But he was emitting the same pheromones he does for me.” Wayne released calming alpha pheromones that soothed his nephew. There was a spicy scent of anger there too but Eddie knew it wasn’t at him. “He's gonna leave me, Wayne. Just like everyone else. What am I gonna do?” He asked.

“First things first, let’s build you a new nest okay?” Wayne said. Eddie nodded and the two went to his room. Wayne gave him the flannel he was wearing and the two set about rebuilding. Wayne always helped him as he was the only person Eddie trusted with such a personal ritual. Soon his bed was covered in blankets, Wayne’s clothes, and a shirt from his mom that had long lost it’s scent. He crawled in and began rolling around in it as Wayne tucked him in. “Try to rest kid. I’m calling out of work tonight so I’ll be home if you need me.” Usually Eddie would protest but he really didn’t want to be alone right now.

“Can you come back and sit with me for a bit?” He whispered. He felt small and like he was about to break. He needed his uncle’s presence even if he had to ask like a pup to get it. Wayne agreed and stepped out.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door but Eddie couldn’t be bothered to get it. He curled onto his side into a tight ball. The agony was unreal, one he’d unfortunately felt a few times. Rejection sickness.

Wayne gently opened the door, “Eds. Steve’s at the door. He looks right devastated.” He admitted. “Want me to let him in?”

“I never want to see him again.” Eddie whispered even as his omega cried out for his alpha.

“Son, are you sure?” The older alpha asked. Eddie turned to face him.

“Please, dad.” He choked out. Wayne nodded, ducking out back to the front door. If Eddie didn’t want to handle it, then he was more torn up than Wayne guessed.

He waited until he heard the front door close then he let his omega mourn. He’s always been more in tune with his hind brain than anyone else he’d ever met. It made him more likely to act on instinct but it also made it less likely he’d go feral. He usually loved it, but right now, he wanted nothing more than to fade away and let his instincts take full control.

When Wayne came back, he didn’t say anything. He just sat in Eddie’s nest and let him curl into his side. He ran his fingers through his hair and let out soothing pheromones: the same he released when Eddie’s mama died. It helped dull it, but it couldn’t prevent the sickness altogether. Rejection sickness had its tells, but every omega was slightly different. Unfortunately, Wayne knew all the signs in his nephew. It’s happened twice before: once due to his own father; and once due to his last alpha. Wayne hoped Steve was different but it wasn’t looking good.

Wayne resolved to let Eddie rest for a few days before he forced him to the hospital.

~~~

Eddie moved around the trailer like a ghost for days. After that first night, Wayne couldn’t call out any more, but he made sure to spend as much time with Eddie during the day as he could, even going so far as to sleep in the nest in a puppy pile. During the day, he didn’t feel too lonely. His heart hurt, but he was able to get out of his nest a few times. Wayne sent Steve away every time he came by or called.

But at night when he was alone, the rejection he felt knowing Steve lied was slowly destroying him. He ignored every ring of the phone just to be safe, and refused to answer the door. He spent countless hours digging through his stuff and finding every little thing of Steve’s and putting it in a box. He’d make Wayne give it to him.

He was stuck in a loop of endless thoughts, jumping from hating Steve for doing this to hating himself for falling for it...again. He thought Steve was a different alpha. He was always a romantic in school with his girlfriends, Eddie always hoped he felt as serious about him.

But he was wrong. And he was suffering for it while Steve was out there with a beautiful girl laughing about his stupid conquest.

His scent was fading. The doctor warned him after the last time that it would hit him a lot faster and harder if it happened again and recommended he take medication that helped lower the risk. Stupidly, he stopped taking them once he thought Steve was serious. Why would he need medication preventing rejection sickness when he had the perfect alpha in his bed? God he was an idiot. Maybe letting the sickness take him this time was better than fighting it.

He was pulled from his spiraling by a knock on the window. He tried ignoring it, but it was insistent. He jumped up and slammed the window open, planning on telling whatever sheep was there to fuck off, but he stopped in his tracks. Steve was standing on the other side looking as devastatingly handsome as ever, even though he was clearly angry. The omega whimpered as he unlocked the window before returning to cower in his nest while Steve let himself in.

“What are you doing here Steve?” Eddie asked as confidently as he could as his omega shook with fear. Steve stared at him for a moment.

“You’ve been ignoring me.” Steve stepped forward and went to sit on the edge of Eddie’s bed. Eddie growled at him and bared his teeth. It wasn’t particularly threatening against the alpha, but Steve took the hint and sat at his desk instead. “I came to explain.”

“You don’t need to explain, just leave like I know you’re going to. I should have known.” Eddie spat. “You’re such a liar.” The tears hadn’t stopped, but now they turned cold in anger. “Wayne told you I didn’t want to see you.” Steve sighed softly.

“I thought maybe he said that because he’s your pack alpha and he didn’t actually ask you.” He admitted.

“You told me you’d never leave me. Was that just bullshit?” Eddie yelled unable to contain himself.

“Don’t call me bullshit.” Steve growled, his alpha voice peaking through. Eddie shrank down, trying to make himself smaller and brought his arms up to protect his face. He didn’t think Steve would hurt him, especially with Wayne in the house. But he’s also never used his alpha voice on him.

“Get out.” He demanded meekly. Steve stood and for a second, Eddie thought he would. But instead he crossed the room and knelt next to the bed. “Do you love her?” Eddie glared, not sure he wanted to know the answer.

“Yes I do. Robin is my best friend.” Steve attempted to reassure. But Eddie didn’t want to hear more lies. The box of Steve’s things were by the door and he shoved it into his hands.

“Forget my number, knothead.” He sneered and strode out of his room ignoring Steve’s gasp.

Wayne was at the stove cooking mac and cheese when Eddie walked in, closely followed by Steve. “Eds? You okay?” He asked.

“No.” Came instantly and tight lipped. Wayne turned around to see the boys glaring at each other, but he noticed Eddie was slightly shaking in fear. He turned off the stove and crossed to his side, putting a hand on his shoulder. His nephew calmed slightly.

“What are you doing here, Harrington?” Wayne narrowed his eyes at the boy.

“No offense Wayne, but this is between Eddie and I.” Steve directed at Wayne though his eyes didn’t move. The younger alpha was trying to assert himself but this was Wayne’s territory. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Eddie subtly shake his head. He calmly sat in his recliner and pulled a newspaper over his face, clearly saying act like I’m not here, but I ain’t leaving.

“Why are you here?” Eddie asked again. Steve turned away from Wayne with a scoff.

“I love you.” Steve replied simply. Eddie’s eyes narrowed and he grabbed an empty beer bottle from the recycling bin. He threw it as hard as he could at Steve’s feet.

“How dare you!” He yelled.

“She’s just my friend!” Steve yelled back, unable to reign in his alpha. He was trying to stay calm but Eddie wouldn’t listen. When he saw him flinch back, Steve took a deep breath, he didn’t want to scare him.

“She’s why you won’t court me isn’t she?” He screamed.

“No!” Steve exclaimed dodging another bottle.

“Liar! You kissed her!” He threw another bottle.

“On the cheek!” Steve’s nostrils flared and he scented the air. Suddenly all his anger evaporated.

“You let me fall in love with you. I told you things that I’ve never told anyone but Wayne.” Eddie threw bottle after bottle, until Wayne finally wrapped his arms around his boy. The anger was fading into anguish.“What does she have that I don’t?” He crumpled into Wayne’s arms. “Why would you do this? I thought you wanted me.” The two embracing men sat on the couch with the younger tucking himself into his uncle. “I thought you were different.” His eyes finally met Steve’s again. What Steve saw in them nearly stopped his heart. “I thought you were different, but you’re just like them.” Eddie could no longer see Steve. Lost in his memories of hurts past. “You’re leaving just like them.”

Wayne commanded the younger alpha to approach slowly. He did and crouched in front of Eddie. “I do love her.” The omega whined but Steve forced himself to continue. “She’s like my sister. She got in a huge fight with her friend and I was comforting her. I know how it looks, I do. But I promise. It’s not like that.” He implored.

“I want to believe you.” Eddie whispered.

“Then believe me” He begged lifting his hand to stroke Eddie’s cheek. At the omega’s flinch he dropped his hand, palm up in offer. Eddie didn’t take it.

“I don’t know what to do, Stevie.” Eddie whispered. “You promised you’d never leave.”

“I’m not leaving you.” Steve blinked a few times but didn’t move.

“Please, I can’t…can’t stand it...it hurts, Stevie...I...” Eddie trailed off. “I can’t do this right now, I need a little time.” Tears ran down his face again, his eyes drained of all life. “Don’t leave me just give me a little time, please.” Steve looked up at Wayne. He was at a loss. On one hand, he didn’t want to leave Eddie. But on the other, he didn’t want to upset him further. He was stuck in an omega drop and there was going to be nothing anyone could do if he didn’t snap out of it soon.

“You should get going Steve.” Wayne said. “Call in the morning when I get home from the plant?” Wayne lifted his eyebrows trying to communicate something. Steve nodded and stood to go.

“I’m sorry I hurt you Eddie.” Steve whispered. “I never wanted to do that. I’ll be here whenever you’re ready, no matter how long it takes. I promise.” He left the trailer, clutching the box to his chest, and trying to ignore the sounds of broken omega and a lack of that blood orange scent he loved.

~~~

When he got home he called Robin. He didn’t tell her any details, but he did tell her it didn’t go well and made her promise to leave it alone. That night Steve laid in bed staring at the ceiling. His heart cracked open further as he thought about everything he did wrong. The ignored calls and visits, being turned away by Wayne; at first Steve thought Eddie was just mad at him. He used his alpha voice on Eddie in anger. He showed up half-cocked and frustrated; so blind by his need to clear the air that he couldn’t see the distress his omega was in. His omega needed him but he wasn’t there. He scoffed at himself. His omega. How dare he even think that about Eddie.

He loves him; but, he didn’t start officially courting him. He was so afraid of getting his heart broken again that he broke someone else. Because he’s sure now. It wasn’t just Eddie’s heart that cracked in the entry way to Family Video; it was his soul. His very being was crushed into dust by Steve. If he could have just gotten over his stupid fears, he wouldn’t be here. His...the omega wouldn’t be spiraling into a drop. He smelled as if he’d been suffering rejection sickness untreated for months but it had only been a few days.

Steve shattered the love of his life.

@v3lv3tf0x @lexirosewrites

[obstinaterixatrix]

I really enjoyed this one, it’s about a detective who investigates infidelity and a concierge who is The Perfect Man. the thing is I consider it… really weird but in a pretty normal way. or pretty normal in a really weird way. like at first it’s like ‘oh there’s probably a blueberry shot situation here’ and then it’s like ‘oh there are slightly more blueberry shots than initially assumed’. probably wouldn’t rec it for folks who like low stakes or relationships that that are… hm… well it’s technically functional but I wouldn’t rec it to people who like reading about Functional Relationships

the artist had some really good humor

as for the Weird Vibes… I think this conveys it without spoiling everything?

I’ll leave content warnings in the tags

[whumptywhumpdump]

Random update for my Adam series! Really, this is just me processing my own feelings and throwing them on the poor boy as usual...

Cw: well... grief and referenced parental death, overall just a bit of angst.

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

Grief

At first, he'd think about them all the time and feel the walls closing in, his world crumbling around him. His eyes would tear up immediately, and it was a struggle to not break down. The pain was all consuming and incapacitating. Nothing else seemed to matter in the face of it.

Adam knew he had been happy, but he could simply not remember the feeling. He'd lie awake for hours wondering why and feeling tears run out the corners of his eyes and into the shells of his ears, soak into his pillow. He could see people worried about him, he was worried about himself. And yet, it didn't seem to matter because his family was gone.

After a couple weeks he started thinking maybe that was just how the rest of his life would be, he would just forever feel like this.

But he didn't.

Time went on and without realizing, suddenly Adam didn't feel bad all the time. Of course, that was what made him feel bad then, he wasn't supposed to feel better so soon was he? It had barely been a month, how was it that he went a whole day without crying? How was it that he felt happy with the choice of lunch at the house?

His brain felt like two different people, one desperately trying to feel better and another wanting to hold on to his pain. He didn't know which one to follow.

But the weeks kept passing and his choice apparently went away with them. He still thought about his family near constantly, and the thought of them still made him sad, but it felt different now. Where before he thought his chest might cave in and drag him down into darkness, his sadness now felt more contained. It didn't leak into the other aspects of the life he was building as much.

He could be helping with chores, reading, getting ready for sleep, laughing at something (he could do that again), and think of his parents, of Hannah, and the sadness would still come, he would still wonder why but his body wouldn't crumble, his laughter wouldn't stop.

The memories of the ones he lost could now live with him, and so he could keep on living.

He did not know that yet, but there would come a day where even the thought of them would be less frequent and so much more life would have happened since, that he would hardly even notice.

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

Unsuspecting taglist attack! (Lemme know if you want to be included or taken out of it):

@boxboysandotherwhump @deluxewhump @aseasonwithclarasblog @angst-after-dark @ashintheairlikesnow

[czeriahshiptank]

Hi ! New fic just dropped....

Heaven envies the geese - Czeriahx

Summary:

Just as I was about to lay Tiān Zhīnǚ onto one of the bed, she grabbed my arm and, for the first time, spoke to me. Her voice was as soft as a breeze, made rough by her earlier crying, but I felt my heart flutter at being acknowledged nonetheless.

“My, my coat. You saved me, you have to give me my coat back.” “Your coat ?” “Yes. If you think any good of me, Lán HuáiYì, find my coat and give it back to me. You gain nothing while keeping it, I assure you.”

As soon as the words escaped her lips, I remembered the words of my master, and for the first time of my life, I lied.

“I will my lady.”

And then, he did not.

-----

Or, my take on what happened to Madam Lán, with a healthy portion of divergence and shapeshifters.

----------------->>>  https://archiveofourown.org/works/43880899 <<<-----------------

[curlicuecal]

playing science telephone

Hi folks. Let's play a fun game today called "unravelling bad science communication back to its source."

Journey with me.

Saw a comment going around on a tumblr thread that "sometimes the life expectancy of autism is cited in the 30s"

That number seemed..... strange. The commenter DID go on to say that that was "situational on people being awful and not… anything autism actually does", but you know what? Still a strange number. I feel compelled to fact check.

Quick Google "autism life expectancy" pulls up quite a few websites bandying around the number 39. Which is ~technically~ within the 30s, but already higher than the tumblr factoid would suggest. But, guess what. This number still sounds strange to me.

Most of the websites presenting this factoid present themselves as official autism resources and organizations (for parents, etc), and most of them vaguely wave towards "studies."

Ex: "Above And Beyond Therapy" has a whole article on "Does Autism Affect Life Expectancy" and states:

The link implies that it will take you to the "research studies" being referenced, but it in fact takes you to another random autism resource group called.... Songbird Care?

And on that website we find the factoid again:

Ooh, look. Now they've added the word "some". The average lifespan for SOME autistic people. Which the next group erased from the fact. The message shifts further.

And we have slightly more information about the study! (Which has also shifted from "studies" to a singular "study"). And we have another link!

Wonderfully, this link actually takes us to the actual peer-reviewed 2020 study being discussed. [x]

And here, just by reading the abstract, we find the most important information of all.

This study followed a cohort of adolescent and adult autistic people across a 20 year time period. Within that time period, 6.4% of the cohort died. Within that 6.4%, the average age of death was 39 years.

So this number is VERY MUCH not the average age of death for autistic people, or even the average age of death for the cohort of autistic people in that study. It is the average age of death IF you died young and within the 20 year period of the study (n=26), and also we don't even know the average starting age of participants without digging into earlier papers, except that it was 10 or older. (If you're curious, the researchers in the study suggested reduced self-sufficiency to be among the biggest risk factors for the early mortality group.)

But the number in the study has been removed from it's context, gradually modified and spread around the web, and modified some more, until it is pretty much a nonsense number that everyone is citing from everyone else.

There ARE two other numbers that pop up semi-frequently:

One cites the life expectancy at 58. I will leave finding the context for that number as an exercise for the audience, since none of the places I saw it gave a direct citation for where they were getting it.

And then, probably the best and most relevant number floating around out there (and the least frequently cited) draws from a 2023 study of over 17,000 UK people with an autism diagnosis, across 30 years. [x] This study estimated life expectancies between 70 and 77 years, varying with sex and presence/absence of a learning disability. (As compared to the UK 80-83 average for the population as a whole.)

This is a set of numbers that makes way more sense and is backed by way better data, but isn't quite as snappy a soundbite to pass around the internet. I'm gonna pass it around anyway, because I feel bad about how many scared internet people I stumbled across while doing this search.

People on quora like "I'm autistic, can I live past 38"-- honey, YES. omg.

---

tl;dr, when someone gives you a number out of context, consider that the context is probably important

also, make an amateur fact checker's life easier and CITE YOUR SOURCES