#sail needle cases

[ltwilliammowett]

Sailor made sail needle cases, 19th century

[untolduttering]

Trust Me

Summary: Reader is terrified of medical needles and avoids Law when they get a deep enough cut to require stitches. They're caught, of course, and Law tries to help and calm a panicked reader.

Tags: hurt/comfort, blood, cutting, knives, medical needles, stitches, mutual pining

Word count: 2.3k

It happened so suddenly that for a moment, you could have imagined that it hadn’t happened at all. You were set to cutting some sailcloth after a run in with the navy left the sails with holes, and if not for the change in how the knife sliced through the fabric, you wouldn’t have noticed at all. The knife was sharp enough that there was barely any resistance as it gouged your arm. There wasn’t any initial pain either. You only grasped that there was indeed an injury once you stared at the wound, feeling the burn as it built and watching the blood flow to the surface, maintaining its surface tension before breaking and spilling over. You had already written off the flashes of white meat that gave away just how deep it was, telling yourself it only needed to be cleaned and wrapped. You snatched a spare piece of sail and pressed it to the wound, then took another to wrap around.

There wasn’t any need to worry, really. Small accidents like this happened all the time on the Polar Tang. Shachi scraping his palms on the rough surface of the deck as he fell, Penguin giggling behind him. Ikkaku dropping something heavy on someone’s foot, grimacing and apologizing profusely. If they didn’t, then Law would probably fall out of practice and lose his title.

That image of white meat flashed through your head again, and it coupled with the burning that only seemed to keep growing, never reaching its crescendo that promised eventual relief, made you think of the stitches that Law could possibly say it required. But it wasn’t bad enough for that, and Law deserved a break from time to time. So, you decided, this was something that you could handle by yourself. Even if Law always demanded that he was seen first in any case of injury, no matter how small, because he was the qualified one that could deem what required real attention, and he didn’t need anyone ruining the precise organization of his supplies. You could be careful, though. You knew what went where, and you only needed a few things. 

Steps slowing as you made it closer to the infirmary, you listened for any sign that Law may be nearby. The Polar Tang surfaced not too long ago, and so Law was most likely up on deck still assessing the damage. You pressed an ear to the closed door, though, waiting for any movement. At the lack of any sound, you entered, and shut the door behind you. It wasn’t avoidance, it was simply a need to not be bothersome over something so unimportant.

None of the cabinets and drawers themselves were labeled, as no one but Law rifled through them, so there was no need when he had it memorized. But it meant that you had to take the time to search through each one. You had to not only keep quiet, but try and keep any blood from getting onto his things.

A scurrying of footsteps rushed past the door, causing you to hold your breath and freeze. No one came in nor knocked, but if the crew members that had been on deck were moving around, it meant that Law might be below deck now too. You picked up pace, grimacing at every rattle and creak. Finally, you found the small butterfly bandages that would hold the wound close, and the wrapping as well. Your eyes skated over the suture kit as you grabbed what you needed and shut the drawer.

“Y/n-ya.”

You felt your stomach drop to the floor. Shit. You turned, keeping your right side facing him. Using your body to block your injured left arm from view, you let it rest on top of the counter, like it had been lifted as it was to lean against casually, and not because it was hurt and dripping. You looked him in the face because guilty people always avoided eye contact. It was set in a scowl as he waited for you to explain yourself. There was no need to chide someone that already knew they were in the wrong.

“I just needed a bandage. Small cut, I didn’t want to bother you about it,” you said. You kept your tone light, nonchalant, and tried at a self-deprecating, ‘I’m just so silly’ smile. And it might just have worked, except since all your attention was on your face and voice, you weren’t in control of your body. Law, a man keenly familiar with violence, could see the tension and threat your body held. Your pupils were dilated too, blown out to a concerning proportion. It was a look that promised that if he got any closer, you might just sink your teeth in.

“Mind if I take a look?” he asked.

Continuing to refuse would be suspicious. If it really had been a measly little cut, you would have readily shown it to him just to poke fun at his worry and overbearance. You would have gone to him in the first place for a simple bandage, too. He knew this was all odd. But what else was there?

“There’s really no need,” you huffed out. “I don’t need stitches or anything.”

His eyes flitted from your face to your body. Tiny smears of blood on the fabric of your coveralls that went unnoticed at first caught his eye. He stepped forward with an extended hand. “Y/n-ya, I’d like to see it.”

Unconsciously, you flinched back. Harder, with a panicked edge you didn’t mean to let slip, you said again, “I don’t need stitches.”

“I didn’t say anything about that yet.” His voice was low, almost like he was trying to soften it.

Yet. He probably hadn’t thought of stitches, but when you said it yourself, he knew that it was worse than he had initially thought.

Law took two steps closer, causing you to turn fully forward, hands lifted. “Stop, stop it. Please.” Your throat felt like it was tightening and it made you sound close to tears.

Law was staring at your arm, now fully revealed in its red glory. So, so much red. The sailcloth was fully soaked now. His jaw tightened and nostrils flared with a heavy exhale at the sight. He lifted both hands in the air, an image of surrender. “You need to let me help you.”

You flinched again, harder this time, fully aware of those hands, that he could easily force you to do whatever. He could shambles you where he wanted, pin you down, and jam that needle in and out of your arm. You shook your head, back and forth, back and forth. You started stepping to the side, pressing against the counter, trying to get farther away, but stopped when you realized all you were moving towards was the corner. The only exit was behind Law.

Deciding to stick with a firm approach, as you had to take orders from your captain, Law said, more stern, “Let me help you.” He took one more step forward.

Your panic tripled, thrilling all throughout your body. You were a cornered animal, coiled tight from the lack of options. “I don’t need your fucking help,” you snapped.

Law felt a flicker of irritation. If you wanted to bleed out, or worse, get an infection, then that was fine. He could leave you to it if you wanted to be that way. But he smothered that feeling quickly. Yes, he could force this. He could strap you down and have it all done in minutes. That wasn’t what a good captain, a good doctor, did though. He’d win, but you wouldn’t go anywhere near him for months, not without thinking of how he handled this. You were a part of his crew. You were someone who’s pain and tears actually made his heart squeeze. This was about trust. The idea of losing yours made his own panic flutter in a way he wasn’t familiar with.

He lowered his hands slowly and let them hang by his sides. He took a few steps back as well. Gentleness was not something he was adept at, but he could try.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, truly soft this time. “That’s the last thing I’d ever want to do. I need you to trust me.”

The sudden change in his demeanor disarms you. You’d never heard him speak so softly, so earnestly, before. Your irrationality and the ridiculousness of your actions hit you, and suddenly your body drains, leaving you exhausted and sore. The wound on your arm is pulsating with ache. You do trust your captain. But your heart is still pounding. “I’m afraid.”

“I know.” Law's chest tightens at how meek those two words sounded. He moves now, albeit slowly, to you. He pauses right before his hands touch you, waiting for permission. You take a slight step forward, and he guides you toward the bed. He walks back to the counter to wash his hands and prep his tools.

“First I need to clean out the wound and make sure there isn’t anything left in there that can cause an infection. Then I’ll numb the area. Once fully numbed, I’ll do an interrupted stitch. That alright?”

Like you could really say no. It had to be done. But you knew he was doing it to give you a sense of control, and you gripped onto the kindness tightly. You nodded your assent.

After a thorough cleaning that has you hissing and huffing through your teeth, it's time for the first needle. Sitting again after going to the sink, you wait. Law lifts it from its place on the counter and brings it to your arm. You snap your head away, staring hard at the wall.

“Deep breaths,” he said. As soon as you inhaled, he stuck the needle in and pushed the plunger down. The cold burn of the liquid entering your arm made your breath hitch and your teeth to grind together. It was less from pain and more from the intrusion of something entering your body unnaturally. Law pulled the needle out and immediately rubbed soothing circles into the injection sight, gently as he was wary to add anymore hurt. You felt a keen disappointment when he stopped.

He placed the empty needle back onto the counter and pulled up the one chair in the room, deciding to sit while waiting for the numbing agent to kick in. He was close enough that your knees were nearly brushing. You fought back the urge to press them together.

“How’d it happen?” Law asked. He leaned back and crossed his arms across his chest.

“I was cutting sailcloth,” you said, jutting your chin toward the door, the vague gesture implying ‘out there’. “The knife slipped, I suppose. It happened so quickly.”

He hummed. “You should pay better attention. I’ll give you tasks without knives from now on.”

You pressed your lips together in a hard, thin line. As if you’d done it on purpose. “I was paying plenty of attention.” 

The corner of Law’s mouth twitched upward, like something about irking you brought him joy. Instead of annoyance, something about it warmed your chest. You glared at him without any heat behind it.

He nodded to your arm. “How’s it feel?”

You poked at the edge of your wound. You felt the vertigo that came from knowing there was something touching you but being unable to feel it. “All numbed up.” Taking a deep breath, you turned your head away again and lifted your arm towards him, letting Law know he could start.

He changed gloves before beginning. He started without warning, knowing well enough that a countdown meant nothing. Nothing would change the how and why of the needle going in and out. There wasn’t any pain and you didn’t necessarily feel it, but you could sense the needle breaking through your skin, dragging through the meat, and pulling back out. You felt the same of the thread. It made your stomach churn and your head spin. You dug your fingers into your thigh, needing the pressure to focus on.

Law took advantage of your inability to look at what he was doing to do some staring of his own. Knowing that you knew nothing of sutures, he knew he could stop and take you in without you asking why he’d stopped. Your eyebrows were drawn so tight together that it caused your nose to wrinkle a little. You bit down into your bottom lip as well, the queasiness you felt obvious on your face. The sight filled him with an unexpected tenderness each time he looked, and he had to fight the overwhelming urge to cup your face and smooth out your features. He wanted nothing more than to soothe you. But it was not something he could bring himself to do. The kindest thing he could do at this moment was finish the sutures.

The worst part was that he liked having you under his fingers like this. If it wasn’t so unsanitary, he’d have done this with his bare hands just so he could feel your skin. He’d let your blood settle under his nails so he could steal that small part of you for himself.

“Finished,” Law tells you.

“Thank you, Captain.”

 He puts the suture kit away and wraps your arm in gauze and bandage. “You’ll need to have me redo the bandaging every so often over the next few days. I’ll tell you when.” He could easily tell you how to do it yourself, give you all the supplies and when to do it and what to look for. But a selfish part of him needed to be the one doing it, so you’d have to keep coming back to him, so he could hear you thank him again and again.

And surprisingly,  you were content to let him do so. Such ministrations made you uncomfortable, or you straight out rejected it, because you knew that to lose that attention in the future would be painful. But you felt unbearably needy when it came to him, and would greedily take whatever he gave you, no matter how little it could be.

You left, unaware of Law’s hungry gaze as you went.

[crackedhrglass]

i got this ask on my strawpage and was gonna type it up in my notes app and post it to twitter, but i really couldn't figure out a way to say it concisely, so i'm answering it here bc it's prob gonna be long lol.

do i think stancest is actually canon? simply put, no. despite how often i'm like "STANCEST IS CANON!!" i truly don't think that AH and the writers intended stan & ford's relationship to be seen through an incestuous lens.

their relationship is def the heart of the show, second only to dipper & mabel's own bond. they are the center of each other's worlds, their story & character arcs revolve almost entirely around each other, and their happy ending is literally the two of them sailing off into the sunset to spend "the rest of their days" together (ford says this almost word-for-word in journal 3).

but i still don't think all of that was meant to be taken romantically.

in my opinion, where things start to get a little weird is, surprisingly enough, ford's relationship with bill.

the rest is under a cut bc HOLY SHIT this got longer than i expected.

there's no denying that bill was written to deliberately parallel stan in a number of ways, from his mannerisms, to his conman status, to the fact that he calls ford the same name stan did when they were kids.

he's written in a very intentional way that makes him serve as both stan's parallel and his foil, especially in their respective relationships to ford (bill feeds into ford's ego and encourages him to aspire for greatness alone, stan has always been a direct obstacle & challenge to ford's ego, accidentally ruining his chances at WCT & encouraging him to live out their childhood dream together; bill valued infinite power over his own family and destroyed his dimension as a result, stan valued his family over everything, and saved ford and his dimension as a result).

normally, this wouldn't be that big of a deal to a stancest shipper like myself. but as the book of bill & the accompanying website all but confirmed in big, flashing neon lights, ford & bill have a romantic history and are exes.

having the two people closest to ford be compared to one another is one thing. having ford be drawn to bill because of how similar he is to the brother he secretly misses is one thing.

having ford be romantically involved with said character is what makes me raise an eyebrow lol.

again, do i think ford is literally a brocon who's got repressed sexual/romantic feelings for stan?

no.

i do, however, think he has unresolved Brother Issues that led him to subconsciously find comfort in a romantic partner that reminded him of stan (right down to bill calling him stan's nickname for him) in much the same way a person with "daddy issues" may seek out affection & intimacy from someone who reminds them of their father (or is just "fatherly" in general).

that much, i believe, was actually intentional. it's just too blatant to not be lol. it'd be a completely different story if either

bill & stan were nothing alike (untrue) or

ford & bill's relationship was strictly platonic and didn't have any romantic implications (also untrue)

i've said this before, but this isn't just a case of "oh, ford fell in love with someone who just coincidentally reminds him of his brother." bill's use of the nickname "sixer" during their first encounter was a deliberate attempt at appealing to a part of ford that was repressed, vulnerable, and aching, in order to get ford's guard down and make it easier for ford to trust him, and it worked.

billford is a ship that, to put it bluntly, would not exist without ford's buried feelings for stan, even disregarding shipping/incest/etc. ford's desire to be close to stan even platonically is what allowed bill to needle his way into ford's heart in the first place.

and all of this wouldn't be that weird if, again, bill hadn't continued to feed into ford's longing for stan even after they'd established a romantic relationship, by still calling him "sixer" and trying to permanently sever the relationship he had with stan specifically, once he and ford broke up (the phone call he tried to make while in ford's body that was described in tbob).

to put it another way, imagine if wendy was basically an older, taller mabel, or if any of mabel's crushes were eerily similar to dipper. people in the fandom would def take notice and view it as a little strange. so i don't get how people can look at ford dating someone so blatantly and intentionally similar to stan and think to themselves "ah yes, this is normal. ford is completely Normal and definitely doesn't have any underlying issues whatsoever" lmao

to conclude: no, i don't think ford & stan's relationship is actually canonically romantic, nor do i think ford falling in love with bill was incestuous, necessarily.

but i do think that he had a desperate longing to reconcile with stan buried DEEEEEEP down, and it manifested itself in the form of being attracted to bill, which is probably why he never bothered correcting bill's use of the nickname "sixer" since their very first meeting, or ever expressed that it made him uncomfortable.

[elsewhereuniversity]

Hi! How close is the current crazed sewing kit to completion? I’m a textile major- wait sorry, introductions- call me Rivet (not like the frog, like the metal thingy that holds things together) she/her. Anyways. I’m a textile major and I want to create the worlds most fucked up non-euclidian quilt. Its my capstone project. If the kit’s already claimed or not ready for usage/consumption/harvest, that’s alright, i have some favors and a variety of the currency the goblin market uses, but i’ve really got my eye on the weaving tablets and myriad pins of this iteration. I promise i’ll use it all though! Or, at least, i’ll keep the odds and ends tucked away for future projects. I’m willing to trade a ship in a bottle that sails on an ocean affected by tomorrow’s weather, a cursed bonefolder that actually, yknow, folds bones instead of paper, and a bolt of fabric i spun and wove myself. Nothing overtly magical about it, but it is a nice shade of red.

The fourth crazed sewing kit is ready and it is yours.

A swatch of bloodstained blue velvet

Swatches of stiff fabric that shift chameleon-like to match any other

A walnut shell containing yards of fabric woven from starshine

A bloodstained pincushion in the approximate form of a person, filled with human hair and fingernail clippings, among other things

A seam ripper that only cuts the threads you intend it to

A pair of iron shears, decorated with gilt filigree, which only cut things that have been measured twice

A needle of steel, which is efficient but bites

A needle used to stitch a wound, which now only pierces flesh

A needle of silver, used as a sword by a very small hand. Any thread spun through the eye is unbreakable while it's being sewn.

Thread of human hair, cut and regrown

Thread of human hair, golden

Thread of horsehair, one strand jet black and one snow-white

Thread of gold and of silver, the first of which sooths and the second of which energizes

Thread of variable length, glowing as though white hot

Fabric-pencils which trace possibilities, leaning theatrical

A mannequin which wants nothing more than to swap places with you, and will do so at the first opportunity

A spool of oakwood plated with gold, which ensures you will have just enough thread to finish any project you use it with.

A drop spindle of oakwood which turns hay to gold

Two buttons of silver which shine in the dark, from a coat made of night-sky

A squatcho from a beret, seemingly made of lead inside the fabric casing.

Pliers plated with sterling silver, to remove recalcitrant needles

[jackoshadows]

Do you think Arya sailing away at the end has any chance of happening in the books?

100% not happening.

Anyone who can read a book and understands themes (and that's definitely not David Benioff and Dan Weiss) can see that GRRM is building up a story for her character in terms of home and identity.

From Arya starting out as a bullied child, unable to conform to patriarchal ideals, feeling like she does not belong in the world she grew up in and wanting to go on fun adventures to her then going on the adventure from hell (an absolutely harrowing journey), the story is about how despite the trauma and how much it has changed her, at her core she holds onto Arya Stark, to family, to her father and mother, to Jon, to Winterfell.

All Arya has been trying to do from book one is get to family and home. And a big part of her narrative theme is identity:

It's been pointed out that a lot of characters in A Dance With Dragons are losing their names, and their very identities, as a result of intense circumstances. What's that about?

Arya has been doing it for some time, actually. Arya has gone through a dozen different identities, even getting to Braavos — where the ultimate goal of the Faceless Men is to become no-one, and to be able to assume identities as one assumes a suit of clothes. But yes, identity is one of the things that I'm playing with in this series as a whole, and in this particular book — what is it that makes us who we are? Is it our birth, our blood, our position in the world? Or something more integral to us? Our values our memories, et cetera.

Usually in a heroic fantasy series when someone loses their identity, you expect that to be followed by them regaining their selfhood in some dramatic way, or taking some heroic action that reasserts who they really are. Do you feel a responsibility to subvert that? Or play with that trope?

I'm certainly playing with it. There are different ways of assuming identities. Some of them I try to get at in books, and it's a little bit reflected in the chapter titles. In some cases, it's just someone putting on a mask. I mean Qwentyn Martell and his companions assume false names at several points during their journey from Dorne to Meereen. They assume different roles and different identities, but it never really affects who they are. When they're in private, they're still the people that they have always been. When you're dealing with Arya and what she's going through, or you're dealing with Theon... you're dealing with something much, much deeper there, where the original identity is being threatened or kind of broken down by one means or another, and maybe is in danger of being lost entirely.

Arya takes on different names and travels in disguise through war torn Westeros, finally ending up in Braavos. And it's at Braavos she has to make that ultimate change and become 'No One'. While at the same time holding onto Needle.

Needle! The last link to Winterfell and Arya. The Faceless Men want her to give it up because they recognize it’s importance - GRRM

This is why Needle is so important in Arya's arc. It's what connects Arya to the idea of home and Winterfell. And she has Needle hidden away for a reason.

And we have two more books to go. Is Arya going to give up 'Arya Stark' and then just be a nameless, faceless assassin running around killing characters for the next two books? Is that why GRRM loves this character so much, has written so much for her (female characters with the most POV chapters) has so many plots revolving around her ? Makes no sense.

I mean look at which Stark has the most POV chapters in the series:

Which Stark thinks the most of other House Stark members ?

Which Stark thinks of their parents the most:

And which Stark child thinks of Winterfell the most in their POV:

[Note: Bran is in Winterfell for two whole books]

And yet this traumatized child - who has been trying to get home since book one - is going to sail away from family and home at the end because she wants to go on adventures? Absolute fuckery I tell you.

[bethanythebogwitch]

Australian Pokemon: 3 regional standards

another set of fakemon from my original Goorda region, based on Australia and Aotearoa/New Zealand (though mostly Australia). This time I'm covering 3 regional standard lines: The early game bug and the fossils. Previous posts: creepy lines, regional variants, birds, early-game standards, misc 2, misc 1, starter variants, starters.

The early game bug is Larvanette, the larva Pokemon, bug-type. As soon as they are born, Larvanette are wrapped in a silk cocoon by their parents that they will stay in until evolved. Different Larvanette live in differently-colored cocoons so collectors sometimes seek out all the variants.

Larvanette is based on a weevil. Weevils are beetles that often have very long snouts. The way it is wrapped in its cocoon is based on a way babies are often wrapped up in blankets. There are multiple color variants (seen on the side of the drawing) with varying variety, white being the rarest. In an actual game this would just be a cosmetic difference, like the color variants of the Flabebe line. Its name comes from "larva" and "bassinet". The color of a Larvanette carries over to its evolved forms.

Larvanette evolves to Weavil, the weaver Pokemon, bug-type. Weavil secrete colorful silk from their upper set of hands, then use the needle-like fingers on their lower hands to weave that silk for many purposes. This silk is very soft and very strong, so Weavil are often caught to use their silk for clothing and other fabrics. Weavil are not particularly good at fighting so many trainers don't bother with them. However, a trainer who sticks with their Weavil for a long time may find it holds hidden potential.

Weavil is based on an adult weevil and is intended to look like a motherly figure wearing a silk cardigan and sewing something new. The color of that cardigan and its silk will change based on the color of the Larvanette it evolved from. Its name is obviously a pun on "weevil" and "weave". I picture evolving Weavil as being challenging, possibly requiring a specific item or needing to be at a pretty high level. Its like Magikarp, stick with it and it gets really good.

The final form of Larvanette is Weevilong, the Weevil Pokemon, bug/dragon type. Weevilong are said to evolve only from the eldest of Weavil and are so rare many do not believe they exist. They are said to weave clouds into their pelts, which gives them the ability to fly. Because of their advanced age, Weevilong are said to be very wise and calm, slow to anger but unstoppable when riled up.

Weevilong is based on the New Zealand giraffe weevil and the Madagascar giraffe weevil, which are highly elongated weevils. It is also based on eastern dragons, who tend to be serpentine, can fly without wings, and are often quite hairy. In this case, its silk instead of hair. The color variants gimmick follows through like with its pre-evos. While the first two stages have typical early game bug stats, Weevilong is a badass with near pseudo-legendary stats. Its name comes from "weevil" and "long". Long both as in the Chinese dragons and, well, it's a long bug.

Moving into the fossils, I looked for Australian fossils and no species I found really inspired me. However I did find a few things that gave me ideas and I decided to combine those with an era of geological history that Pokemon hasn't touched yet: the Permian.

The first fossil Pokemon, revived from the Electrified Fossil, is Shail, the Sail-Back Pokemon, electric/rock type. The sail on its back contain special cells that generate electricity when exposed to sunlight. It would bask in the sun in the morning to power itself up before hunting in the afternoon.

Shail evolves to Galvodon, the Sail-Back Pokemon, electric/rock type. The spines on its back contain special organs that generate large amounts of electricity. When fully charged, the space between its spines fill up with arching electricity, forming a sail. Even millions of years later, it's fossilized bones still hold an electric charge.

Shail and Galvodon are based on dimetrodon, the famous sail-backed synapsid very commonly mistaken for a Dinosaur even though it was extinct long before they came around. I drew inspiration from the lightning beast, an ornithopod dinosaur so called because it was discovered in Australia's lightning ridge. Shail basking in the sun to build up electricity in its sail is a reference to the common hypothesis that dimetrodon used their sails to regulate their body temperature. By basking with the sail facing the sun, it would warm up. Galvodon's back spines are based on tesla coils and the sails aren't flesh, they're raw electricity. Shail's name comes from "shale" and "sail" while Galvodon's name comes from "Luigi Galvani" (who studied bio-electricity in animals), "galvanism" (electricity generated by chemical reactions), and "dimetrodon".

The other fossil Pokemon, revived from the Opal Fossil, is Tuscal, the Opal Tooth Pokemon, psychic/rock type. The gemstone on its forehead has the power to sense the mind of other Pokemon, letting it detect prey and predators without seeing them. Its teeth are made from a psychically-active form of opal.

Tuscal evolves to Gorgopal, the Opal Fang Pokemon, psychic/rock type. It used its psychic powers to predict the actions of prey before they were even made, making it the apex predator of its time. Its opal fangs transmit large amounts of psychic energy, paralyzing the nervous systems of anything it bites.

Tuscal and Gorgopal are based on gorgonsids, powerful, saber-toothed Permian predators. They are also based on opalized fossils. These are fossils that are made of opal due to the conditions where they fossilized. Most opalized fossils are from Australia. The opal on the forehead that gives these Pokemon their powers is based both on the common third eye imagery associated with psychic powers and with parietal eyes, which are simple light-sensing eyes possessed by most modern reptiles and (possibly) by gorgonopsids. Tuscal's name comes from "tusk" and "opal" while Gorgopal's name comes from "gorgonopsid" and "opal".

[randomfoggytiger]

The Scully Family In-Depth (Part II): The First Christmas Death

The first time we see Scully engage with her family is in the infamous Beyond the Sea; and it establishes quite a bit about her personal life with the episode opening alone.

**Note**: I recommend reading the Typing posts for each of the Scullys (located in the Typing section here.)

Beyond the Sea

“You gonna leave this up all year?” Captain Scully asks, a tease sparkling in his eyes. 

Scully doesn’t pause her busy-bee buzzing around the kitchen as she answers, “Yep. All year.” 

Her voice is light-- intentionally buoyant and unpolished, making her seem years younger-- and her lips pull up on one side in a smirk.  “Since you always made us take the Christmas tree down the day after Christmas, I’m making up for lost time.” 

She’s teasing back in the same dead-pan: what appears to be a poke is “betrayed” by a twinkle in her eyes. 

Her father wanders in to further their light-hearted discussion,

but drops in a little paternal my- way-is-best-you’ll-see warning: “If your idea of a good time is to pick up pine needles, treat yourself.” 

Maggie wanders into frame, not to be left out of this tete-a-tete-- “As if he’s an authority on having a good time”-- poking back at her husband while reminding him he’s sounding a bit too authoritarian. 

Scully seems to treat her mother with more gravitas than her father, pausing to listen and engage more seriously with the conversation. 

Dad Scully is delighted to be soundly defeated.

The whole family shares a “got ya back” humor, suppressing their smirks and enjoying themselves in a twofold manner: savoring the joke while purposefully not reacting to it, making it a double joke. 

In this scene, Scully glances back and forth between her parents, gauging their reactions and reveling in their good humor-- which, as was discussed in Part I (see here), has been a while for her since she joined the FBI. 

Scully hinders Maggie from helping with a quiet “It’s okay, Mom, I’ve got it”; and, again, glues her face to Maggie’s when her mother responds with an “Oh, okay.” 

Scully is still heavily reliant on her parents’ reactions towards herself to moderate her own happiness: she’s happy if they’re happy, and she vigilantly zeroes-in on their expressions to see if they've been offended by anything. It would seem the disturbance to their familial equilibrium has been newly re-established; and she’s striving to prove to them-- most likely without them wanting her to-- that she’s capable, smart, and able to take care of herself. 

Interesting note: is that she seems more on edge around Maggie than Captain Scully: while he is a no-nonsense Naval man, Scully is still his little girl; and Scully, while affected about his reaction about her job, seems to expect more disdain or anger from Maggie than her father. Or, at the very least, she suspects that the current peace amongst the three of them is largely moderated by Maggie (which proves to be the case.) 

“Okay Maggie, let’s shove off.” 

Maggie looks up, not ready to go just yet; but immediately acquiesces with a faint “Oh.” She’s rallied by her next sentence-- “Okay”-- and turns to wish her daughter goodbye. Scully gives her a warm hug, careful not to get her dirty hands on her mother’s blouse. 

“Well thank you for having us. Dinner was delicious as usual.” 

Scully, it seems, is a wizard in the kitchen.

Scully gives her mom a quick, warm smile before stepping away to mock-salute her father:

For a split second, she sucks her lower lip up, a rush of emotion passing over her face temporarily-- 

perhaps sad he’s leaving so soon, perhaps gearing up to surprise him with her salute, perhaps both of those and something else-- before her adoring smile returns: "Good sailing, Ahab.” 

Her father beams and scoops her up in a tight hug--

“Good night, Starbuck.”

These two are incredibly happy to be in each other’s company: is this a reunion of sorts, or simply a rebalancing after their relationship had toppled with the Scully family schism? The three of them had to be alone together during the holidays since Bill, Melissa, and Charlie were out of the house (and seemingly out of the state) while around the time Scully was recruited. Melissa was there for one Christmas before her sister was recruited; but Scully has been teaching at Quantico since, and was recently requested to be a field agent to the X-Files. That means Scully had her parents (mostly) to herself during med school (four to eight years?) and developed an even more connected bond than did her siblings-- which makes sense why the others drop intermittently into Maggie's life but Scully stays. It would have been incredibly devastating to Scully to have her parents' reject her FBI vocation; and heartbreakingly devastating for her parents to lose the stability of seeing their baby girl often because of a demanding, dangerous job.

Maggie prods her husband to question their daughter about her job,

even though both Captain Ahab and Scully want to avoid that topic

(Scully’s “It’s good” followed by a convulsive swallow rings loud and clear as the predecessor to her “I’m fine”s;

and her father’s lip purse, slight nod, and quick retreat betraying that he both does and doesn’t want to know more about his little girl’s job-- like Captain, like Starbuck);

but more than that, Ahab and Scully display various degrees of the same discomfort and disappointment: he feels unable to bridge that uncomfortable gap without damaging their relationship again; and she feels disappointed that her father didn’t inquire further about her goals and her ambitions, crumpling up her napkin

and tossing it

as an expression of how severely letdown she is. All three Scullys gloss over the moment as the two parents coat-up and shuffle out the door, ready to shove the awkwardness back under the rug.

Maggie, it seems, pushes her husband and daughter out of their comfort zones so that they will reconnect faster-- which doesn’t seem to be working, but is a method she uses with Scully the rest of the series. Scully sees that her father is only asking because he’d been told to-- she doesn’t even have to turn to know that Maggie is giving him cues over her shoulder, that’s just how her parents are-- and she feels more insecure after this scenario than she felt before it: ramrod-straight back, all-business “drive carefully”, 

and gazing longingly after her father, hoping he’ll reach out for a goodbye kiss or even a final goodbye,

which doesn’t seem to be his normal habit as he walks out in silence without fuss or iciness (he is a man of habit after all, post here.) 

Scully again convulsively swallows, trying to shove the weight of anxiety and insecurity off her back; 

but it seems to have affected her so deeply that she can’t fall asleep, curling up on the couch watching late-night tv and perhaps a short nap. (Was this before or after Mulder told her his own sleep woes? Likely not at all; and just another human trait of Scully’s she keeps tightly under wraps from everyone.) 

Scully suddenly opens her eyes seconds before the lights around her flicker, having felt a second presence in the room; 

and lifts her eyebrows, realizing that this person wasn’t a figment of her imagination and that he was her father. 

“...Dad?” Scully asks, voice soft and crackly from sleep; and starts to sit up as the lights continue to flicker on and off.  

It’s particularly endearing that her right knee pops in and out of frame as she uses her leg to prop up on the couch: 

“I thought you guys left. Where’s Mom?” she asks, blearily. 

Captain Scully continues to mouth the Lord’s Prayer, eyes locked on her with terminal intensity (heh.) 

Despite these strange circumstances, Scully doesn’t seem too fussed, just confused: 

her family seems to have abnormal quirks of their own that she takes for granted-- probably why she isn’t disconcerted by abnormal behavior on the X-Files (leading to Mulder’s bewilderment that she can miss obvious clues that the perpetrators are betraying in their behaviors and mannerisms.) 

The phone rings, surprising Scully; but when she looks back, her father is gone. 

(Also: Scully hung ornaments on her lamp, with the rest of her Christmas kitsch shoved on the table where she writes up her reports. It would seem she doesn’t have the surface space to put her decorations on; but she’d rather give up her work desktop than go holiday cheer-free.)

She stares, a little more nervous, as the phone continues to ring and the lights flicker one more time. Finally, she jumps up to answer the call, taking her security blanket with her.  

Scully’s “Hello?”s drops off into incredulous puzzlement when she hears sniffling on the other end of the line; 

but before it can get more horror-tropey, Maggie squeaks out, “Dana?” 

“Mom? What’s the matter?”

“We, um… we lost your dad.” 

Scully listens in shock as Maggie states, “He had, uh, massive coronary. About an hour ago. …He’s gone.” 

She visibly starts to shake as she turns to the chair where her father’s ghost sat, 

anguish temporarily consumed by fear at this unexplainable circumstance. 

There is no comfort in this last goodbye: only terror.

Thank you for reading~

Enjoy!

Disclaimers: This post is likely filled with typos. Will ghost edit later.

[captmickey]

Been thinking about the Plunderbunnies a little but all I can really do rn is rotate them in my brain, so I wanted to ask... you got any headcanons to share? Maybe regarding their wedding, or being new parents with Boybrush?

Oh boy do I!

....just realized I shout that everytime someone asks me about headcanons and the such.

But yes! Yes I do! I have thought about it intensely for... well, ever. Especially in regards to their wedding. So lets break it down by each thing because I'm that person

In regards to their wedding:

-I always loved the idea that Guybrush had to get his wedding suit tailored because he is both very tall and very lanky. But because of his nerves getting the best of him and imagining all the worst case imaginable scenarios, he shakes like a leaf which causes needles to poke him which makes him panic even more (a.k.a ask me about my 'Guybrush has a phobia of needles' headcanon) and luckily Haggis sees what's happening and manages to calm Guybrush's nerves.

-Thanks to Return, Guybrush wrote with Elaine the invites. He added the haiku and it was a surprise hit... don't ask him to write any more poems/haikus... it was a one time thing.

-Grubby hands is I.... Guybrush stomped the glass at the wedding. If you know, you know.

-I don't know why, but I loved the idea of Wally being a part of Elaine's bridal party over Guybrush's. So Carla and Wally definitely threw an excellent bachelorette party.

-The Barber Quartet were Guybrush's groomsmen. (If Winslow had known Guybrush then, absolutely would be his Best Man).

-Guybrush and Elaine dated for a bit longer before they tied the know officially. Guybrush proposed properly and with a (thankfully) uncursed ring.

-Elaine made the uncursed ring her earring as seen in Tales because one, too big to wear as a ring and two, it's her good luck charm since Guybrush went to great lengths to craft it for her.

In regards to Boybrush:

-Everybody when they heard the news initially panicked that Guybrush would be a terrible father because he's that much of a goof. He not only destroyed but obliterated that fear by being the best husband/father there is.

-Elaine, admittedly, was insulted on Guybrush's behalf that everyone kept asking her if she's feeling safe around him.

-Guybrush stayed up late and read as many parenting/baby books there is so he can take care of Elaine and their soon to be kid. It is safe to say he's the most knowledgeable pirate in that regard.

-Guybrush also panicked endlessly if he was even fit to be a dad. Not that he didn't want to be... he did. Badly. But he feared that everyone's assumption on him had some validity. Elaine had to calm him down that he would be fine... and he calmed her down as well that she would be an excellent mother.

-They were each other's cheerleaders throughout the whole thing.

-It was Guybrush's idea to stay on land during the final months of the pregnancy. He read too many books and the idea that they could be caught in a storm or a battle when it was time scared him.

-Because Meathook moved away, they took residence in his place and refurbished it to be a proper home. They still refer to their ship as home, but this is their "in-between sailing" home.

-Carla saw the extreme lengths Guybrush was going through for Elaine that she had no problem stepping in to help to let him catch some sleep. He was trying his hardest and Elaine would stare, smirk, and go "told you so."

-Winslow and Anemone were the only two to not judge but they knew not to overwhelm either. If they were needed, the Threepwoods knew where to find them.

-After Boybrush was born, Guybrush held him and immediately felt a shift: being a father and a husband was far more important to him. He still loved being a pirate, but that was easily third place.

-Whenever Boybrush woke up in the middle of the night, Guybrush would wake to take care of him... Elaine has done much of the work and he feels this is the least he can do.

-That being said, Elaine has caught him dead asleep with Boybrush in his arms in the rocking chair. She tells him it's okay that she takes care too.

-It shocked Guybrush how quickly Boybrush falls asleep in Elaine’s hold. He has to tell stories to get the child to sleep.

-One time Elaine went to Carla to help with gubernatorial work... they heard snoring and found Guybrush asleep on the couch with Boybrush on his chest drinking from the baby bottle.

[thiscapriciouslife]

“The Ladder”

You’re fatal you’re fatal

Syringes and needles

You go to the atttic

To find all your people

You go to the basement

To find out you’re killers

An insect that thrives

Without handguns or feelers

Nobody sees who you are

without sealant

A child who’s starving to death

While you feed them

And nobody kneels

on the blacktop or pavement

Without picking scabs

causing scars

that don’t mean much

So you stand up and reach

In your pocket for matches

But in it was just a pocket

full of ashes

Now throw it in water

And watch what will happen

Now cover your face with it

Put on a mask then

You look all around

At these walls made of heathens

And watch as they laugh

when you just want to be them

And topping it off

Is a ceiling of treason

So do you just join them

Or fail trying to beat them

The ladder provided

will not even reach them

So why even try

to reach goals

and achievements

Once and a while a

man needs pep talk

You push on that rung

take a step

That’s a leg up

Step out of the ring

let it ring

Put the phone down.

And plan your escape

make your way

out the hole

But the higher you get

There is much less to hold

Except for a rope

with a noose

and a note

We promise to lower you into the ground

Your family and friends

will make sure you’re remembered

Here lies a man

but his name is all weathered

But then you’ll feel cold

with the worms

in the dirt

Looking up at the ground

where where the walls still exist

Where the ladder is rotting

away where it sits

Tempting another

to use the exit

Only to find out

the exits a myth

But what do I know

about pain and regret

I’ll leave that for someone else

back on the deck

A ship that is sailing

on rocks at the bottom

A slight of the hand

leaving bed frames in hostels.

And down on the ground

they are getting more hostile

Eating the eagles

until we have lost hope

Empty nests

lining the treetops

Still up is the way

counting bricks as you go

Until all the chaos

has turned into smoke

And all of the people

and places

and things

are just pins on a map

made of paper and ink

Folded so nicely

and put behind your seat

Just in case you forget your destination

And finally you make it

Standing on that last rung

Realizing the top

is still 10 feet away

A voice telling you

they are proud and impressed

But unfortunately

we can not give you the key.

This door is reserved

for those who can see

That the ladder we gave you

was put upside down

So you just have to keep climbing

Up

To the ground

[deathfavor]

Water has always been an important aspect of Seiroku's life, and one of the few things he never came to hate about his past or part of his former band in a way. It's also why there was always a water theme to his original name and to his 'new' name so to speak. To them, water was their life. Rivers, oceans, lakes, Seiroku's familiar with it all. It's both something that has occurred on a skill level, but also on a biological level with his former band.

Many of his former band possessed a mutation in the PDE10A gene and the BDKRB2 gene. The PDE10A gene allows for a larger than average spleen size ; which in turns gives an oxygen reservoir for diving, allowing for a vastly longer dive time compared to the average person when it is paired with the BDKRB2 gene mutation, which is responsible for vasodilation and vasoconstriction which allow oxygen to go to only the most essential parts of the body. ( People with these mutation have been studied holding their breath 10-13 minutes and Seiroku leans close to 12 ). They've also been known to be able to dive to deeper depths without aid and drop at a quicker rate. All traits that Seiroku himself has, and only came to realize through his case studies on victims and idle observation once he'd left his original band. While he's not aware of the genes specific for this of course, he has realized it is a genetic trait that's essentially died off when he slaughtered his band. ( He never did hunt down though who'd already left the band, so there are still some around who have these traits. )

In terms of skills, he is a skilled sailor in a variety of different ships/boats/rafts and it is something he's kept up with over time. It's not as frequent as it once was, but especially since the Oni won't disturb him, he does enjoy sailing out at sea or river rafting or other traits. Because of this, he also possesses a rather extensive knowledge of aquatic life and hunting skills, and enjoys various forms of seafood. Similarly, he is quite good at astronavigation and is often more inclined to use that over other means, although he will consult maps, especially of areas he doesn't know. He's able to also craft out of fish bones should it be needed, like a needle ( although with his skill it isn't particularly necessary ) and other tools, and could probably figure it out with other kinds if needed. He's also well aware of using fish skin for burns and skin grafts as well as helping with anti-inflammatory and anti-bacterial aspects. It IS certainly a unique kind of knowledge, and I imagine it is quite new to others to see. He doesn't think anything of it - which probably made for some interesting conversations at the Date the first time he did this. It does also unconsciously hint towards some aspects of Seiroku's past without him actually intending to. He himself doesn't realize it because it IS so engrained as a basic fact to him.

While Seiroku long lost faith in anything and doesn't care for the idea of gods or goddesses, he does still recall ways he once did celebrate. And he doesn't hate it should somewhere happen to celebrate. He's inclined to participate, though he'll say it's simply to enjoy life and have fun or to bond with others if any of the other eight happen to be with him. If not though, he does still sometimes finds himself at the water during certain times when festivities would take place. He doesn't do anything special for it but sometimes is a bit more contemplative.

[ltwilliammowett]

Sailor's needle case, mid 19th century

[goodmode]

B + Hornet

[x] B. Under cover of darkness.

In the deeper parts of Hallownest, the shadows tend to cling.

Hornet moves quietly, in the swift, light-footed skitter of a spider intent on being neither noticed nor followed. She has business at the bottom of the world, and the less attention she attracts on the way there, the clearer her head will be.

It must be clear. Her words must be… right, or as right as she can get them. There is much she doesn't know. Enough she does, though, and it is finally time to put what little clarity she has into the hands of someone who can do something with it.

She pauses, tethered by her needle to perch upside-down against the ceiling, to watch the little ghost of the past run on ahead.

It has the Brand, now. She had been of two minds about giving it any direction at all, but its intent has been visible from the moment it set foot within Hallownest's borders, and it has now proven its determination twice over.

In forcing proof through combat, Hornet wishes she were not so different from the Mantis Lords. There is a difference, however, in that Mantis tradition is entirely impersonal.

Either way, Hornet no longer worries about intent or uncertainty. All that remains is the choice, and making it clear that there is one.

Hornet drops as soon as the little ghost is out of sight again, landing neatly into the unsettling patterns of the Ancient Basin tunnels and taking a moment to ground herself. She will have to stand on that old platform and drill the gravity of this task into the little ghost with all the authority of the Princess of Hallownest, as if she still is, as if the Kingdom has not withered and died beneath her feet. As if she doesn't haunt this place just the same.

Speaking of which. Hornet tilts her head slightly down. She just barely catches the slow, lethargic pooling of Void into the cracks of the Basin floor where her shadow is cast. Being down here grows disquieting, after a time. It always seems to know she is here.

Better to be moving on. The old seal has already yielded to the King's command, she can feel it from here. Hornet steps away from the accruing puddle of Void, and continues the chase.

There is a long, terrible wait on the cold metal of the Abyss overlook, and it is everything she can do to keep herself still and steady when the echoes of pattering footsteps and fluttering wings reach her.

She is afraid, suddenly, that she will not be able to recognise whether they return with the same determination that drove them to descend. Perhaps that resolve will have been lost down there, shaken off by the full, sickening truth. In which case her words will find no purchase.

Hornet has a responsibility. She holds firm, though her heart threatens to hammer through her chest. She will speak either way, even if there is no way to know.

There is another flicker of pale light, another whisper of gossamer.

The Vessel sails up and darts towards the platform - and alarmingly, towards her - clothed in a rush of unsettling, inky darkness. No, not clothed in it. Steeped in it. She can see it roil back into place beneath the Vessel's cloak as it comes to an abrupt halt to look at her, almost expectant.

Hornet understands that a choice has been made, now.

She rallies herself to offer another.

[devils-pirate-crew]

Johnny turns around again after a while, humming to himself as he opens one of the smaller books - its pages are filled with meticulous handwriting, and he flips until he finds a blank page. Dipping a quill on the table in its pot of ink, the surgeon scribbles a few notes, then cracks the well-worn spine until it doesn't threaten to close when he lies it down, open, on the table.

"So," he begins. "You want the good news or bad news first?"

"Uh - " Dawson swallows sharply, gripping the edges of the table-bed. "Good news?"

"There's none," Marino shrugs. "Unless the confirmation that you're not going to die is good news."

"I'll take it," the pilot's mate lies.

"Then there you go." He sets the quill back in the inkwell. "Bad news time. We're going to have to stitch that up." Dawson visibly winces at the information, rocking backwards. Johnny fixes him with an apathethic stare in reply. "Unless you'd rather have a gaping wound exposed to bad air. In which case be my guest, but I'd prefer not to get punished for not doing my job."

The surgeon looks back to his table, sliding a needle onto thread - the lantern that lights the room makes the needle shimmer. "Here's the deal," he continues as he prepares the rest of his tools. "We're going to take off the current bandages - nice work, whoever did that, by the way - and then clean up the wound. After that, we're going to put in the stitches. I originally thought we could do a dry suture, which would have me putting adhesive bandages on your face and sewing those together, but there's a few problems with that. Number one, it'll agitate the scar tissue you already have from - before; number two, the wound is fairly deep and I'm not sure it'll close properly; number three, the suture will fail if we set sail again, because the sea water and wind will destroy the bandages. And I think the captain wants to head back out sooner rather than later. Besides, dry suture is good if you don't want it to scar, which - " he waves a hand dismissively at Dawson, "I don't think you really care about. Not like you can make that much worse."

"Thanks for the compliment," Dawson mutters.

"So we're going to have to go for a standard suture. I think we'll need... nine, ten stitches a finger's width apart - good for the circulation." Marino nods to himself. "Then dress it up again. Probably change the dressings every other day, take the sutures out at two weeks if it's looking good..."

"Can you stop talking and start doing," the pilot's mate almost whines with anxiety.

Johnny nods, taking the required supplies over. "Not a chatter, eh Mercy?" Intercepting Dawson's terrified gaze, the surgeon laughs. "Don't worry. You're probably drunk enough that you won't feel that much, anyway," Marino rationalizes before getting to work.

First, he unwinds the bandages from Dawson's face, depositing them in a fenugreek-scented heap on the bed next to him. Johnny then examines the wound a little more, muttering to himself as he does, before grabbing a bowl in which sits a shallow pool of pungent liquid. He procures a sponge from his tools, dipping it into the liquid and reciting a paternoster before pulling it out, deeming it properly saturated. Taking Dawson's head in one hand, he drags the sponge over the wound - the vinegar stings, and Dawson tries to jerk away on reflex, but Johnny keeps his head steady. Once the cleaning is done, Marino reaches for the needle.

Dawson forces himself to keep breathing. To act like this isn't hurting. To pretend he can't feel anything, not this needle and not the needle years and years ago either. Everything is okay.

he's trying to kill you lock you up going to hurt you shut up shut up he's going to lock you up when he knows throw away the key put you on display for everyone to see run away run away run away listen to us why aren't you LISTENING LISTEN TO US WE WILL SAVE YOU ONLY WE CAN SAVE YOU

Everything is okay.

[spacewreck51]

"– that stinks of hate and wafts to him with promise of the fast approaching corpse that bears his face and holds within its chest the promise of his own annihilation carved in gouges deep and ragged cutting clean through bone that cracked to splintered powder cast of empty blackened earth that is his home again but something’s wrong with what he see upon the door is written not his name but words that mean no more to him than jumbled symbols twisting in the edges of his sight that tries to focus on the emptiness around him but the mist that curls its bitter weeping ache around his legs that bristle up with shivered goose flesh stained with red that’s not his blood whose blood he bled but this is not from him and yet he knows he loved this blood when once it beat within a heart that joined to his through choice or circumstance but now it stains his weeping edges scarlet gloating now of all the butchered ugly fates that might already have befallen what you still might boast he loves at hands that might be moved by others or that might just now be his what have you done what have you done what have you done what have you done why do you hear upon the gloating wind the screaming of his name as now he begs him please to stop the razor slicing through that flesh but there is nothing he can do from here upon the threshold to a house she almost knows to be a home but empty hollow and devoid of all the trappings that could once have given comfort to the pale and weeping shadow of her life that has been left devoid and faded at the corners like a photograph whose sepia-tinted warmth has drained to just a crowd of faceless staring strangers among whom once she stood to feel safe as houses no-one dares to enter anymore in case they trip upon the moldy corpse of memories that once gave hope and now provide her nothing but a smile upon the face of something grinning at her sharply and with teeth like rows of hungry needles desperate still to stick through skin like cloth into a tapestry of suffering that billows in the wind and gusts like sails upon a wide and pitch black sea with no horizon in the distance calling one and all towards it with a pull that makes her stomach drop to know she can’t resist the waves that lap and drag her over and across the surface still as cracked obsidian but deeper that the world could ever dream as something wakes and shifts below they grab the wheel and cry in panic at their howling crew to ready for a harrowed doomed escape from what begins to rise below them as they look down to see the pitch black void of ocean getting darker still as something rises up that dwarfs the sky and yet they know it is the smallest tip of only one appendage reaching up splitting timber splitting steel splitting friends all into shapes and forms and spatters that don’t register as human even as the inky frozen sea pulls air out of their lungs because it is so cold it is so cold it is so coldly sneering as sticky strands pull taut against the flailing struggles as they try to pull away from what approaches in the distant edge of this colossal latticework of bone and sickly paste that twists and curls with each vibration of those fools like them now caught and wrapped and flailing in their heaving desperation not to see it looming over them with glassy eyes and fangs that drip with poison and the promise of the slow and steady agony of feeling all that was herself dissolved and broken down into the bitter pleading-"

IM SORRY

WHAT?

[renee-writer]

What If It Were Brian Chapter Twenty -nine

AO3

Murtagh and Fergus enter the ship first. Finding her captain, they confirm the previous arrangements.

 

“Aye, my crew aren’t going to be telling tales. Half of them be running from the bleeding British themselves.”

 

Their cramped legs made it hard to get out of the wagon. Six days hidden in such a cramped space, plays havoc on muscles. Still, it is worth it to be heading to freedom. They work the pins and needles out as Murtagh and Fergus unload the wagon.

 

“You wouldn’t happen to know someone who would buy the wagon and team, would you?” Murtagh asks around to the deck hands assisting them.

 

“Oh eh, me self. I be heading home. Me wife be newly delivered of me son. Wish to see the boy fore he gets to big.”

 

“Congratulations on the bairn.” Murtagh slaps his back. They walk off and make the deal. The bloke is so anxious to get home, it doesn’t take much haggling.  The young deck hand is soon off to meet his son as the Fraser’s enter the ship.

 

Murtagh and Fergus share a bunk room while Jamie, Claire, and Brian do the same. They are small but bigger then the cramped wagon. Here, they are also free to walk about. 

 

Claire is shown her surgery.  The room consists of a small table, a small desk, and a tiny bunk. She has worked with worse.

 

“We are sure glad to have you, ma’am. We haven’t a ship’s captain in a year. The last caught a fever and passed. We buried the poor bloke at sea. “ The first mate tells her.

 

“I am happy to be of service.” She smiles at him. Brian, standing by her side, also grins at him. This whole thing is a huge adventure for him. Being on a ship, traveling across the ocean, it is something that he couldn’t imagine doing when they were still with father. No, he doesn’t wish to think of him.

 

“Hey, little man. Are you going to learn to be a sailor and sail the high seas when you grow up?”

 

“I don’t yet know sir.” He says, “I may suffer from sea sickness like my daddy.”

 

“Such wonderful manners. You may just be to civilized for a sailor.” He bowed to them and slipped out.

 

They set sail a few hours later. Claire prepares a tea for Jamie’s  sea sickness. He is started on it before they set off.

 

To all their relief, Brian has his mama’s  constitution. He can and does, stand at the stern, laughing as the sea winds lift his curls around his face. Murtagh or Fergus remain by his side. Claire is busy with patients.

 

“I ken it be bad, Mistress, but there was none to see to it.” The sailor explains as he shows her his severely infected arm, cut on a mast head a month previous.

 

“Bloody hell.” She says, “This is going to hurt. I must get the inflammation out of it.”

 

He nods stoically. “Do as you must.”

 

He is offered a shot of liquor before she takes her sterile knife and slices across the weeping wound. He lets out a shriek before passing straight out. Her liberal administration of liquor to the now open wound wakes him back up. This time he utters a whimper. The wound is left open, covered with linen strips soaked in garlic and then covered in honey.

 

He is the worst, thank the Lord. Over the first week, she treats her husband’s sea sickness, many cuts and a few rope burns, and a memorable case of constipation. This sends her to talk with the ship’s cook.

 

“This man needs fiber. They all need vegetables and fruit to prevent scurvy.”  Her family gets it. She, unfortunately, doesn’t have enough to share.

 

“Fibrous fish is all I have on board. I do serve fruits and vegetables, in the fish stew, are the vegetables. We have raisins and other dried fruit.”  

 

“That will have to do. Do you have any porridge or oatmeal?”  He looks at her as if she has two heads.

 

“No, for the men will no eat such.”

 

“I have. I will simply have to make some for my patient.”

 

“As you will, Mistress. You will pay hell getting any of these sailors to eat it.”

 

She confronts him. “You are severely backed up. You have two choices. Either eat the porridge or I shall have to clean you out.” She stands, hands on hips, and stares at him. The poor lad, only sixteen on his first sail, turns white.

 

“I shall eat the porridge.”

 

Her own lads keep busy helping the sailors. With time, Jamie’s sea sickness lessens and his color returns. Brian’s spends half the time with his daddy and the other lads and half the time with her. He learns so much, even if he can mainly just watch.

 

“I learned to scrub the deck today, mama! It was something I could help with. They said I was perfect for getting under the rigging where they couldn’t. I am a true sailor now!”

 

“How brilliant, my love.” She smiles at him. He is tucked in a tiny berth each night. It doesn’t take long for him to fall asleep, as active as he is throughout the day.

 

Jamie looks at her curiously that night. Three weeks into the voyage and he is feeling more like himself. There is something though, about his wife. A type of weariness beneath her eyes.

 

“Claire, are you alright?”  She sits, brushing her hair out.

 

“Yes. Why?” He gets it then. The candle reflects off her bosom as she turns. With the limited space and the constant presence of their son, they hadn’t been intimate since they left Lallybroch. Still, he sees the changes reflected in her shift covered chest.

 

“You haven’t your cycle, have you?” He is starting to grin. She frowns as she lowers the brush.

 

“Good Lord!” She shakes her head in disbelief. “How could I have not… you, still keeping track.”

 

He comes up and kneels beside her. “No, this time it was the changes to your breasts that I noticed.”

 

She is laughing and crying. “I am pregnant! On a bleeding ship.”

 

“Aye.” He lays his head over where their child lays. “You are.”

[blood-loving-leech]

uh, big tw for a rant abt my sui attempt and like complete detail so definitely don’t read it unless you’re in a good state of mind please ily all maybe don’t read it at all actually idk i just needed to get it out and pretend someone actually cares

also it’s very long

today last year i went back to school after a fantasy dream trip to California with my dad for sailing

i sat down in my math class and i realized i hated my school, i was failing at everything i used to be good at, i had lost all my friends, my ex had ghosted me for a week and a half, my teachers thought i was weird for bringing a teddy bear to school in 10th grade, and my parents were always dissapointed,

i was worth nothing to nobody, and i had pills in my backpack

so i sat through my math class, and my chemistry class, and then i went and sat in my hallway for lunch, alone

i sat there with my pills in one hand and my bear in my lap and i stared at them, and i stared at them, and i held my bear, but before i could let myself chicken out i swallowed em without even taking a sip of water and then my hand was empty

and i panicked for a minute

i thought about going to the bathroom and purging

but then i calmed down, i just sat there with my bear for lunch, and felt numb, id have cried maybe if i could, but i couldn’t

tbh i didn’t think there were enough pills to kill me actually i just was kinda hoping they would anyway but two periods later i could feel it

it was really cold, like ice, like slowing down, and i started thinking about my childhood, i wrote a story for my english class that day, 5th period, about a person drowning in an icy lake, remembering all the warm days they’d lived, and my tablemates loved it, they were asking question about like, what it was about, and i just told them i didn’t know

i spent 6th period trying not to pass out and failing, it was so cold even with all my sweaters, from the pills and all the weight i’d been losing, my hair was greasy and my clothes were dirty and i was slumped over in my seat in the very back of spanish thinking “maybe ill actually really die after all”

i went to drama club after school and sat in the crappy auditorium chairs and wrote two letters, one to my parents telling them i didn’t expect the pills to kill me and one to my ex, one i never sent, it’s still sitting in my room sealed in an envelope with two of his favorite teas, im too scared to read my desperation but i can’t throw it out either

i went home and i set everything up on my desk in case i really did die and i finished the day and went to bed not really expecting or at least kind of hoping i wouldn’t wake up, i didn’t even say goodbye to my ex, or anyone else, there wasn’t anyone else to say goodbye to anyway

but i woke up the next morning and on the walk to my bus stop i was furious, i was miserable, and i was numb, i watched the pine needles pass under my feet and i could only think about how fucking stupid it was that i was still alive, and i learned nothing from the previous days fear because i told myself that after school, after therapy, i was going to take the rest of my bottle that was in my room

and yeah

idk

i’ll make another post about the hospital cuz fuck

but like

that was a whole year ago now

i remember all of it

and now it’s this year

and i’m still alive but like

nothing has really changed and honestly? what the fuck

why does nothing change

why does nothing get better

why didn’t i get help? was i not sick enough? why have i had to try and fail over and over again to pull myself out of that hole with only a therapist who got fired and a therapist who quit and a doctor who said im too fat for an eating disorder?

i mean what’s the fucking point