#soap attempting to kill your children

[majinbangus]

What happens when soap's on again and off again gf finds out he got someone else pregnant? And do you think she would try to keep him from his children and reader?

Also I hope Soap tells his mom and she chews him out for not being better to reader 😭 (I also want Soap's mom know already that she's going to be a grandma to twins and just kept it from Johnny for reader's health too.)

i struggled with this one, but it turned out hopeful in the end i hope its good

"What're you doing here?"

You don't know what hurts more: the way he said that as if he doesn't want you there (which he probably doesn't; you don't want to be there, either, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt any less), or the apprehensive look he doesn't bother masking. He's never really been one to hide his emotions, but would it have killed him to pretend to be on amicable terms with you for at least a couple of hours? Dumbass.

"I'm doing great, MacTavish, thanks for asking." You go for an overly friendly inflection, but anyone listening in would be able to hear the biting undertone in your sarcasm. "How have you been? Wonderful, you say? That's absolutely grand. Glad to hear it. Truly, thank you for taking the time to welcome me into your home."

You attempt a smile, but from the way Soap's expression pinches at it, it more than likely comes off as a poorly veiled scowl. You can't bring yourself to care. You're more focused on keeping yourself from breaking down, rubbing your hand almost obsessively over your belly, trying to calm yourself with the soothing motion. Soap looks down at it, face flashing with something. You're tempted to call it regret. Whether that's for knocking you up or for hurting you just now or something else entirely, you have no clue. He clenches his fists.

"... Does my family know that you're... that I'm..?"

That's what he's concerned about? Fucking prick. You're half-tempted to announce it to his whole family now. You didn't even want to be at his family gathering in the first place, but Mrs. MacTavish insisted, and you adore his mother (so much so that you’re afraid of her, too). It's been months since you last saw all the MacTavishes in person (for obvious reasons), and you know if you refused another invitation, the woman, though getting up there in age, would've dragged you to the party herself.

You rub your belly a tad faster, and his eyes dart down to the anxious movement again. "No, MacTavish, your family does not know you got me pregnant, so you can stop worrying. I... wasn't planning on telling them. Not now, at least. Or ever. I don’t know. I’m still thinking about stuff."

Perhaps it's the right call, perhaps not (it most likely isn’t), but the tension that visibly leaks out of his body offends you. 

"That's... probably for the best,” He exhales slowly.

“For you or for me?” You snark and he at least has the decency to wince.

“Hen… Princess–”

“Don’t call me that.” You curl your lips at him, teeth bared. A bitter kind of hurt grinds within your chest. He only called you that once before. For one night. It meant nothing to him, but everything to you. “Don’t pretend to care; you never called back to talk like we agreed. You’re such a prick, MacTavish.” 

“You never reached out, either,” He shoots back with a defensive frown that doesn’t feel justified. “And I have a reason for not calling back earlier…”

“Was that reason your girlfriend?”

His silence is telling.

You scoff with a derisive laugh. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Hey, it’s not like that,” He tries to protest, but you remain staunch in your acrimony. 

“Sure, it’s not.” You roll your eyes. “If it isn’t anything else, then what is it?”

“We,” Soap hesitates, breaking eye contact to focus on where your hand is on your stomach. He swallows, rephrasing himself. “After our phone call, I brought up what happened between us… Tried to explain what happened… Communicate with her since that was always a problem we had.”

“And?” You prompt after he falls silent for a few seconds, though you think you can predict where this story is going.

“She didn’t take it well.” He continues, “We’ve been fighting about it. Trying to come to a compromise, but she’d rather I cut contact with you.”

“You… don’t want that?” You smother any bit of hope you feel. You have to.

He doesn’t answer the question verbally, merely shaking his head. It doesn’t feel like a good enough response, but you can’t push him on it because then he’s talking again. “We’re not wanting the same things. Every conversation about it–” about you “–turns into an argument, and we’ve decided to…”

“Go on a break?” You fill in, but he shakes his head again, avoiding your gaze.

“I think it’s permanent this time.”

Oh. That’s… skeptical. After years of watching them go back and forth, it’s hard to believe the permanence of their breakup. You wouldn’t be surprised if that changed as soon as next week, or even tomorrow. But maybe it’s true this time. Maybe they won’t reconcile. If that’s the case, you are glad he’ll be out of such an exhausting relationship, but you won’t let yourself believe he’ll develop feelings for you. 

“I’m sorry,” You offer instead and Soap chuckles humorlessly.

“Do you mean that?”

“I don’t, but I know she was important to you.” Probably still is, but you won’t dwell on that. “I’m still upset with you, though.”

He chuckles again, a little more genuinely this time. It’s almost enough to make you smile. Almost. “Aye, I know. I deserve it.”

“You do.” And maybe a slap. A cathartic slap. Perhaps not for him, but it might do you good. “And you’re still a prick, but now that you’re not… occupied… Can we figure everything out?”

It’s small, but you can’t help that spark of hope that blooms in your chest at the soft smile he gives you.

“I’d like nothing more, Princess.”

(His mother heard the whole thing. She’ll discuss it later with the both of you. But for now, she’ll stay out of it and let you two work it out before getting involved. She just hopes her idiot son doesn’t mess things up with you. 

She much rather prefers you over his ex, after all.)

[live-love-be-unique]

Misery’s your master

Summary: After an emotionally and physically draining mission Ghost finds you alone at the barracks.

This is my first attempt at writing angst, please be gentle!

Parings: Ghost x f reader

Warnings: mentions of death.

The mission should have been routine. Except intel had mentioned nothing about hostages; women and children that the cartel had locked in the warehouse. You’d tried to open the door before Gaz had shouted that it was rigged with explosives, and someone grabbed you, pulling you away just before the explosives were detonated. Killing all inside.

You’d been back on base for over a week now and everyone was treating you with kid gloves. Soap had tried to check in with you but at that point you were so sick of everyone asking how you were that you took a swing at him, after that Price insisted it was time that you speak to the base therapist. It wasn’t a bad idea, you hadn’t eaten or slept in days; the nights were the worst, you stayed awake replaying scenarios in your head, hearing the explosion over and over again.

For the first time in a week you had left your room, making your way to the mess hall and taking a seat as far towards the back of the room as you could find. Pulling your hood over your head and trying to eat something, anything that you could keep down, you felt the eyes of your teammates burning into you.

The hall suddenly became too much. The lights were too bright, the sounds and the voices overlapping each other was overwhelming. Your blood pounded in your ears, heart thudding in your chest. You had to get away. You couldn’t stay in that damned room anymore. With your breath heaving in your lungs, you push your way through the door and make your way towards a terrace at the end of the hallway. Standing in the open feeling the cold air against your skin you gasp, visions of civilians; of the women and children you couldn’t save replaying in your mind. Your hands trembled as you pull your lighter out of your jacket pocket. Clicking the lighter as hard as you can, it wouldn’t light. Frustrated, you sigh around the cigarette between your lips.

“Thought you didn’t smoke” a deep voice came from beside you. Glancing over you spot Ghost leaning against the railing, holding his own lighter under the cigarette still dangling from your lips.

“I don’t, generally” you mutter, inhaling and blowing the smoke into the night air. Watching for a moment, the way the smoke rings curled through the sky.

“How are you?” He questioned, pocketing his lighter.

“Nothing a shower and a good night’s sleep can’t fix” you shrug, avoiding his eyes.

He stared at you, “I’m going to ask you again how you are and I would like you to answer me honestly”

You don’t answer, turning your eyes back to the stars as you take a shaky breath. A warm pressure settles across your hand, looking down you see Ghost’s gloved hand resting atop yours. You let it settle there, his thumb tracing circles on your skin, anchoring your body as you took a shaky breath “I can’t get it out of my head, I can hear them screaming for me to help them. I should have…”

“Come on” He grunted, stepping back from the railing.

“What?”

“Hit me”

“I’m not going to hit you”

“You wanted to take a swing at something. You took a shot at Soap the other day” Ghost shrugged.

You stared at each other for a moment before you balled your fist and struck Ghost in the chest. “Again” he said.

Ghost kept saying “again” as he let he you hit him until you were gasping for breath and fat, heavy tears streaked down your face. You drew back your fist for one final hit but Ghost easily caught it; pulling you close against his chest as he held you tight, one large hand securely against your back holding you firmly against him and the other cradling the back of your head.

“The door was rigged. You were never going to get it open, the cartel had eyes on it the whole time. They wanted us in the warehouse when they blew it up” his voice was low and deep, you could feel his breath against your ear. “You tried to free them. Remember that, hold on to that”

You don’t know how long the two of you stood there like that. He let you cling onto him like a life raft as you cried out everything you had.

“…Thank you” you mumbled, pulling away whipping at your eyes with your sleeve. A door opened and the two of you watched as a group of recruits spilled out of the doorway.

“Don’t blame yourself for what happened” Ghost said, his eyes boring into yours.

“I’ll…I’m trying”

Ghost’s eyes soften at your response, you can hear him breathe out one word, with all the kindness in the world.

There is something so comforting about the simple phrase.

“Good,” he says quietly.

His hand moves to your face, to gently trace the skin on your cheek. A tiny muscle by Ghost’s jaw twitches as he watches you.

Almost as if he is suddenly realized what he was doing, his hand drops from your face and he steps back, glancing towards the door where the recruits came from.

“Make sure you eat something” he said before turning and heading towards his room. You stood alone in the dark for a moment before returning to the mess hall, a small plate of food in front of you almost as if Ghost’s words were the balm your soul needed.

[quotesfrommyreading]

The ongoing war in Sudan and the ensuing humanitarian crisis has pushed people to the brink. At the borders of conflict zones, selling a kidney is becoming a currency of last resort for people seeking refuge. In June 2023, I managed to contact two young Sudanese women who had fled the fighting in Khartoum. In April 2023, Rania was with her friend Fatima, both students at the University of Khartoum, when the RSF raided the main campus, on the banks of the Nile. “We were trying to hide from the fighting,” Rania told me on the phone. “There were a lot of [female] students there who were afraid to leave. We thought we would be safe, but they found us and forced us to have sex with them.”

Soon after that they packed up their belongings and took a bus heading towards the border with South Sudan. They had heard the route south was cheaper than trying to go north to Egypt, and Rania had a brother living in Kampala, Uganda, whom they hoped to join. It was a seven-day journey from Khartoum to Renk, a small town in South Sudan close to the border where thousands of people had set up temporary camps in bleak conditions. A lack of food, water, healthcare and sanitation had left people at increased risk of disease, malnutrition and violence. There were hundreds of new arrivals each day. “People are crammed together under tarpaulins,” Rania said. “There are mosquitoes everywhere. There’s not enough food, water, soap. Everyone is desperate for assistance. It’s chaos.”

When Rania and Fatima arrived at a makeshift camp on the outskirts of the town, they were approached by soldiers in plain clothes selling tickets for flights from a small airstrip outside Renk to South Sudan’s capital, Juba, and the city of Nimule. The flights, which should form part of the humanitarian corridor, are being controlled by armed militias charging exorbitant fees to board them. “They wanted a lot of money,” Rania said. “The price would go up every day. They said if we didn’t have any money we could have sex with them.”

When they refused, they were told there was something else they could sell: a kidney. “They said that this was the only way we were going to get a flight out of here,” Fatima said. “There were two men who had agreed to this [selling a kidney], but I don’t know what happened to them. I was worried that they would kill me and take my kidney.”

Two weeks after Rania and Fatima first arrived in Renk, they messaged me from Kampala. “We received some money from family members in Uganda. They paid a smuggler $500 to take us to Kampala.” Raina said. “There were no humanitarian agencies or government officials transporting people. The drivers, the militias, they are exploiting people every step of the journey.”

In Renk, they had watched as large trucks carried hundreds of people further south to transit camps that were rumoured to be less crowded and better resourced. Others boarded cramped and overcrowded boats down the Nile to the city of Malakal, from which they would attempt to reach Juba, 970km to the south. Each stage of the journey would come at a cost.

“We are telling you this for a reason,” Fatima said. “We desperately need more support for people trapped in Sudan. In Darfur, there is genocide. But no one is talking about it. Women are being raped every day. Children have been killed and abducted. People are desperate. This is when you sell your kidney.”

  —  ‘For me, there was no other choice’: inside the global illegal organ trade

[izvmimi]

cw: japanese words interspersed, please correct me politely if there are mistakes. mild angst. reader is a doctor and does not speak Japanese well.

You sit cross-legged, back straight, facing the man before you who wears many hats when it comes to your relationship, some part savior, some part overlord, some part possibly friend, and other parts undefined. For tonight, he plays the role of language instructor, and as usual, you come with a list of words mulling in your head that you want to learn to better help you communicate with your patients. 

Soap. Wash. Cut. Break. Tear. Hungry. Stomachache. Tired. Lonely. Scared.

Tsukasa repeats the words to you in Japanese, then writes the words in Kanji, using the sharp edge of a rock and etching it gently into the stone floor between you. You watch him carefully every time, attempting to commit each stroke to memory. As if it matters. You don’t know when you’ll have paper, a chalkboard, a keyboard to record this writing.

Tsukasa enjoys this task he’s taken on more than you’d expect from looking at him. He doesn’t smile by default, his beautiful features kept at neutral, something which had previously made you afraid to ask too much of him, and kept your voice low and your words few, but you realize quickly that he smiles easier than you expected.The first time was at the curse you whispered sharply under your breath when you recalled the word Rabbit ( usagi ) wrong, saying Eel ( unagi ) with confidence. The second was the first time you traced your name in the katakana he wrote before you, and your eyebrows furrowed as you pressed harder to make the same marks and let out a sigh at the effort. The third was when you asked him to teach you the word for candy, and he taught you ame-chan , like he and his sister called it as children, you none the wiser as you repeated the word innocently. 

It’s odd that he chooses to do this and not Ukyo, you think, but Tsukasa’s fascination with you is nothing new, present practically since the day you were freed from stone. Tsukasa’s eyes flit often from your eyes to your lips as you speak, and you wonder if he thinks of more than just the way your teeth and tongue handle these new phonemes or if he thinks of something less innocent.

Innocent is not the word you’d use to describe him anyway. 

“Atama ga itai desu. I have a headache.” Tsukasa says.

You repeat after him. 

There’s a pause as he writes, and when he looks up again, you’re looking carefully at him, warily. He can’t read your expression, you’re trying very hard to conceal your feelings to him, but he can see the twitch of your lips as you contemplate your next words.

He raises an eyebrow.

“Question?” he asks.

He watches you swallow saliva, bracing yourself, then nod.

“Teach me the word for kill.”

The air grows cold seemingly quickly, or perhaps it’s just him. Your facial expression flickers, and your hands rest in your lap less comfortably. He already knows that you’re asking more than just the question. You have a way of speaking indirectly to prime a conversation that intrigues him, but he’s not sure how he appreciates the tactic used on him.

“Korosu. To kill.”

The words echo through the cave for some reason, and it’s almost comical to Tsukasa, that the word he likes less and less the more he talks to you seems to be the only one that wants to bounce off the rocky walls.

You nod.

Tsukasa scribbles the word that looks out of place with ‘headache’ and ‘fish’ then looks up at you expectantly.

“Will you repeat it?” he asks.

When you open your mouth next, it’s not what he asks you to do. Instead, you ask directly and firmly, “Tsukasa, have you ever killed a person?”

His heart sinks. His first impulse is to lie, your closed lips are quivering yet again, but he knows he cannot lie to you.

“Yes.”

He writes the word ‘dead body’ on the ground before him. Your eyes still bore into his skin as you watch him.

“Who?”

The question makes bile rise in his throat.

“You don’t need to know.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it; he has the feeling you already know. You and Yuzuriha work side by side often, practicing your stitching in case of emergency. His stomach churns at the thought of you knowing, then he remembers that he rules this empire of might, it should come with the territory. 

You can’t judge him for doing what he has to.

And yet, as he watches you keep your lips pressed together, and the curl of your fingers against your palm, containing yourself, he wants so badly to tell you the opposite.

Your next question isn’t why. 

“Do you regret it?”

Tsukasa’s heart skips a beat. Your eyes meet his, a small shine to them in the dim light. You sit perfectly still. The word ‘kill’ and ‘dead body’ look larger than the rest of the words he’s written tonight. 

The truth is he does. The correct answer for who he is and what he means to portray is that he doesn’t. The answer he wants to give you the truth, it’s the answer you want to hear.

But right now he is your lord, not your friend.

“No,” he lies evenly. “It was necessary.”

He can see a flicker of mistrust in your eyes, and then you’re back to the same neutral face. He recognizes that mask well, he wears it often himself. Beneath both of your held expressions is an agitated pool of emotions. 

You want to call him a liar but you have no proof except a micro-expression and a moment of hesitation. 

Tsukasa killed Senku, his opponent, and will kill again, if necessary. Even if he smiles at you, even despite the furtive glances he thinks you don’t see, even if his voice is softer when he speaks to you, even if his hand envelops yours gently and warmly as he helps you write with the makeshift tools this sad age has to offer you.

You breathe in evenly.

“Can you say the phrase for heartache again?”

Tsukasa knows the word was headache. You don’t meet his eyes looking carefully at all the words he’s written and trying to commit them to memory.

“Kokoro ga itai desu ,” he says, anyway, and can feel the squeeze as if casting a spell on himself.

“Kokoro ga itai desu ,” you repeat. “Thank you.”

“Mm.”

[harveywritings92]

[COD Pokémon au}

R/n: What’s another creepy Poké-fact you know? I’ll start...

R/n: Zorua syndrome is a psychological disorder where a parent believes their child has been replaced with a Zorua. it was very prominent in Sinnoh’s Hisuian period and unfortunately a lot children lost their lives from failed attempts to prove they were actually a Zorua in disguise.

Ghost: If you get burnt by a Houndoom’s flames, it’ll continue to burn you for the rest of your life.

Soap: Phantumps are believed to be the souls of dead children who got lost in the woods.

Roach: Salamance and Infernape have been known to attack or even accidentally kill their trainers while in a battle rage.

Laswell: Gorebyss are predators that will stalk and corner their victims then use their needle-like mouths to suck out their innards; leaving nothing but an empty husk behind.

Price: The mask of a Yamask is actually their true face from when they were human.

Gaz, again checks his phone to verify these facts: I really, really. Don’t like this game!

[presidenthades]

How would you describe the Alicent of lavender?

Honestly for me your stories are canon because canon is getting worse than a latin america soap opera

I have another post about why Lavender!Alicent seems so sad, but I’m happy to elaborate some more. In general, Alicent is telling herself she should be happy: her son is the heir, all her children are healthy, and despite what people feared, Aegon’s marriage to Jace has been going very well. Life is going really well for her by almost every metric.

Because she has so few actual worries (before all the conspiracy stuff starts), this gives her much more time and bandwidth to brood on regrets and mistakes, like her lost friendship with Rhaenyra. In this universe, Rhaenyra hasn’t done anything against Alicent (no getting Otto fired, no Driftmark), so I think Alicent wallowing in the past makes a lot more sense. She is quite similar to her younger self as played by Emily Carey, who feels friendless as the queen. She doesn’t really have a drive like S1E6/7 Alicent. She’s just performing her duties and raising her kids. Otto has been around the entire time she’s been queen, so she never has the opportunity/need to step up and participate in the Small Council etc.

On the plus side, she has a less dysfunctional relationship with her children than in canon. She still isn’t necessarily a great mom: she was very young when she had Aegon, and Otto isn’t a good parenting model to take inspiration from. But because she’s able to focus more on her kids without worrying about them being killed, she pays more attention to Aegon’s bad habits and does more to curb them when he’s younger. (He’s still a bit of a reprobate, but at least he’s a reprobate who knows his mom loves him, even if she does smack him with a hairbrush once in a while.)

Overall Alicent, who is a traditionalist, finds a sort of comfort in the universe “behaving” according to what she thinks is right: the king’s firstborn son is heir, and she, the queen, simply devotes herself to managing her children and other courtly duties. But part of her is secretly unhappy about not only losing her best friend but also a lack of agency; she might not even be consciously unaware that she’s unhappy about the lack of agency (because she’s never really had any agency in the first place). She just knows there’s something dissatisfying in her life, and she can’t quite put her finger on it. But life is fine on the surface, so she keeps chugging along—until all the poisoning attempts and coups.

[aneurinallday]

Green Eyes

Chapter 19: Atonement

He took Alec home - not to Arrow House, but to the old flat above the betting shop in Small Heath, where Thomas had lived as a bachelor before Grace, and which was much closer.

All eyes were upon them as they entered, Alec an arresting sight with his dishevelled curls and smudged makeup, clutching Thomas’s coat around himself. The fringe of his dress was visible below it, the long tassels dancing around his bare legs. But nobody would dare remark upon his appearance.

“You’ll be safe here,” said Thomas as he guided Alec upstairs. “I own this part of the city, and the people answer to me. Nobody can harm you here.”

The small, sparsely furnished flat overlooked the dreary cobblestones of Watery Lane, a view which Thomas had looked at every day while building his empire brick by brick. Alec stood lost in the middle of the room, glancing at his unfamiliar surroundings. He was still clutching the empty picture frame - the only material object that still mattered to him.

“You can put that down - nobody will take it away from you.”

Alec reluctantly set the frame down on the dresser.

“Are you hungry? I can heat up a tin of something.”

Alec shook his head.

“Alright. Let’s get you cleaned up, eh?”

Leading Alec into the small en-suite, he sat him down on the edge of the bathtub and turned both taps. He removed the blanket from around Alec’s shoulders, folded it, and set it aside.

“Take a bath,” he said, “I’ll have my men start looking for your daughter.”

He left Alec staring into the water, and headed downstairs into the betting shop. From there began the search for Clara Cobb - a search he knew would most likely end in failure.

“Her name is Clara,” he said to the assembled Peaky Blinders, “She’s a year and a half old. Yellow hair, green eyes. If Cobb didn’t kill her, he most likely dumped her at an orphanage. Pay a visit to every children’s home in the area. Track down everyone who’s adopted a little girl of that description since late January. Tell them she was kidnapped and should never have been put up for adoption. Whatever compensation they want in exchange for her, tell them Thomas Shelby will pay it.”

He faltered, reluctant to voice what he needed to say next.

“It’s possible that Cobb planned to raise her until she was old enough to start working. Search every business he owned, in case she’s being kept among the other prostitutes’ children. Those businesses belong to Bragg now, and he won’t like us poking around, but he won’t risk starting shit with us - not when he’s still trying to establish himself as the new man in charge. Go in pairs, and don’t leave a single fucking stone unturned. This child needs her father and he needs her. We don’t have time to waste. Understood?”

A map of the West Midlands region was rolled out, and pins were placed to mark the brothels Cobb had run. Once he’d finished giving the men their orders, Thomas returned upstairs to his flat.

He expected to find that Alec had finished his bath, but instead found him sitting in a half-empty tub. His naked knees were drawn up to his chest, and he was gazing vacantly at nothing. His tasselled dress had been dropped in a pile on the floor, unwanted.

Thomas dipped his hand in the water. It had turned cold.

“You’re going to freeze,” he said.

He turned the hot taps on full blast, then crouched by the side of the tub. With a bar of soap and a sponge, he began to scrub Alec’s body, trying to wash away the memory of the Arcadia. The downward trajectory of Alec’s life was mapped out on his skin - fresh welts layered on top of old bruises, ribs making their presence known above a malnourished stomach, rope-marks itching on his wrists and ankles. On his neck and shoulders were love-bites left by loveless encounters - uncaring visitors who’d taken what they’d wanted and given nothing in return.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas said quietly. “I never should’ve sent you away.”

Alec didn’t respond.

With his thumb, Thomas attempted to wipe away what remained of the smudged liner from around his eyes, but it held on stubbornly.

“That’s not giving up easy,” he said to fill the silence, “I’ll ask my Aunt Pol if she’s got anything to remove it. While I’m at it, I’ll ask her if she’s got anything to make these marks go away quicker. A cream or something...”

He checked the water temperature again. It was warm. He turned off the taps. Picking up a bottle of shampoo, he shook some of the fragrant liquid into his palm, and began to rub it into Alec’s hair.

Finally Alec spoke, his voice thin and hoarse from disuse.

“I’m never going to see her again,” he whispered.

“You will.” The dark, wet curls were slick in Thomas’s hands. “I promise you will.”

“She’s gone, Mister Shelby. I’ll never find her.”

“I’ll find her for you,” Thomas assured him, though the words sounded hollow even to his own ears.

“She won’t remember me,” Alec mourned, “Even I find her tomorrow, she won’t remember me. It’s been two months. She’ll have forgotten me by now.”

“You can’t be sure of that.”

Alec put his face in his hands and took a deep, shaky breath to steady himself, trying to suppress his tears.

“I’ll be nobody to her. I’ll be nothing. She won’t love me any more. If she has new parents, she’ll love them instead.”

“She might not remember you, but she will come to love you again. She’s still just a baby. All she’ll care about is that you’re the one holding her, you’re the one singing to her, you’re the one playing with her. Those are the things that matter to a child.”

Alec lowered his hands and looked desperately around the bathroom.

“I can still hear her, but she’s not there. Sometimes I dream that I’m holding her. I can feel her in my arms like she’s there. When I wake up, I just…I just want to go back to sleep, so I can feel her again.”

“I’ll find her,” Thomas repeated firmly.

With wet hands, Alec grasped at Thomas’s arm and clung tightly to it.

“I don’t know what to do, Mister Shelby,” he whispered, “She was…she was all I had. Before I met you, she was my only friend. And after you sent me away, it was the same. But now she’s gone.”

“I’m sorry.”

“My whole life, I was just…I was nothing. I was invisible. People only saw me when they wanted to use me. I didn’t know why I was here - what the point of me was. But when she was born, suddenly I became someone. Someone who mattered. Clara loved me and needed me, and she didn’t care what I was. She didn’t care if I was a whore. To her, I was just her dad. And I was a good dad too.”

He could no longer see through eyes stinging with tears and soap-suds.

“When I held her, I could see her whole future. All the nice things she’d have and all the places she’d go. And I knew I’d do anything to make it come true. I knew I’d do anything for my Clara. And I didn’t hate myself anymore, because I knew I was finally doing something good.”

He choked back his sobs.

“I was nobody until I became a dad. But now she’s gone and I’m not a dad any more.”

“You still are. You always will be.”

“I’m not. How can I be?”

“My Grace is dead but I’m still her husband. Your Clara is still out there, and she will come back to you. I don’t know when, but she will.”

Alec’s ragged sobs subsided into hiccups.

“I’ve always protected her. I’ve always tried my best. But now she’s gone, and I don’t know where she is, and I don’t know if she’s alright. What if she’s in danger? What if she’s…?” He couldn’t speak the word.

“She’ll be alright,” Thomas said, “Whoever she’s with, I’m sure they’re taking care of her. There are decent people in the world.”

“But…”

“You’ve come this far by yourself. Now I’m here, and I’m going to help you. We’ll see it through together, the two of us. Understand?”

Alec nodded through tears and released his grip on Thomas’s arm.

Scooping up more water, Thomas cupped the young man’s jaw to hold his mouth shut, and tipped his head backwards. He placed his hand over Alec’s forehead to shield his eyes, and carefully poured the jug over his hair, rinsing away the foam.

“There.” He kissed Alec’s shoulder, pressing his lips against damp skin. “All done.”

“What should I do, Mister Shelby?”

“Right now? Nothing. You’ve worked yourself to the bone. It’s time to let us take over.” Thomas straightened up. “Now, come on. Up you get.”

Alec’s body was stiff from sitting in the tub for so long, and he struggled to rise. Thomas helped him to towel himself dry, then led him back into the main room. In the corner stood a narrow bed with an iron frame and a single pillow.

Thomas pulled back the old patchwork quilt and sat Alec naked on the edge of the bed. Then he helped him to lie down, lifting his bare legs up onto the mattress.

“Get some sleep,” he said, covering Alec warmly with the quilt.

Alec was unresisting, his mind elsewhere. Then he startled. He suddenly sat up, pushing back the quilt and attempting to rise.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he croaked, “I should be out looking for her.”

“My men are already looking for her. You have to rest.”

“I can’t just wait here. I can’t just do nothing.”

“Easy now,” Thomas said as if soothing a skittish horse. “Easy…”

“How can I stay here? It’s been so long…I haven’t held her in ages. I need to find her.”

“Alec, stop. Listen to me.” He held Alec’s face between his hands, stroking his haggard cheeks, gazing into his hollow eyes. “Listen. We’re searching for her. We’re the Peaky Blinders and we own this town. Wherever she is, we’ll find her much quicker than you could.”

Alec seemed to feel slightly comforted. It was probably the first time he’d been offered any kind of reassurance.

Thomas gently pushed him back onto the bed. Physically and mentally spent, Alec lay unmoving while Thomas adjusted the pillow and straightened the quilt. Thomas fetched the picture frame that was all that remained of Clara, and pressed it into Alec’s hands, then pulled up a chair beside his bed.

“Get some rest. If anything happens, I’ll wake you. Alright?”

“...Alright.”

Unable to argue any longer, Alec closed his eyes, hugged the empty picture frame to his chest, and sank into miserable unconsciousness. Thomas kept a silent watch over him, and when the nightmares came, he was ready. As soon as the sleep turned uneasy and the restless tossing began, he stroked Alec’s damp curls and murmured softly in his ear until he settled again.

Thomas knew that it was his own failures that had led them here. In his desperation for companionship, he’d refused to recognise the obvious warning signs before it was too late. And once the undeniable truth had been revealed, he’d failed to show mercy to a powerless pawn who’d been wielded as an unwilling weapon. Failed to predict the extent of Cobb’s vindictive cruelty. Failed to protect an innocent child from being separated from its father. Now Alec and Clara were paying the price for Thomas’s catastrophic mixture of stubbornness, complacency, and pure aching loneliness.

He knew there was nothing he could do to make up for those abject failures. But he had to start somewhere, and for now, all he could do was offer Alec a moment’s respite from the living hell of losing his daughter.

[saltofmercury]

Don't know that it's a *good* fic request but: Soap being freaked out by a giant spider and while others make fun of him, they're trying to hide that they're freaked out too

Thank you for this, I laughed and did not sleep for nights because I kept dreaming about this spider.

"Spider"

“I can’t believe we’re staying in a barn” Soap’s eyebrows raised, looking at the abandoned, huge, brown barn in front of him. 

On a mission in Venezuela, following a drug lord, the 141 ran out of options to secure a safehouse. A barn located about 45 miles from where they were supposed to be fighting, realizing they were a little bit over their heads on this mission. 

After a successful mission prior, cockiness had filled each of the members' heads. The barn, which smelled of lake water and horseshit, definitely humbled them in their new environment. 

Ghost, Soap, Price, and Gaz had all retreated to this small barn. Tired and hungry from walking so much. Price and Ghost settled outside keeping the first watch as Soap and Gaz took rest first.

Soap had opened the doors to the barn and the smell hit him. Gaz, who had been in much more disgusting places did not mind at all, just wanted to catch some rest before it was his turn to take watch.

He couldn’t help but shake his head at Soap. He never assumed Soap to be such a prissy thing when it came to staying in this barn.

Soap was disgusted. He had not slept in 3 days, the fatigue weighing heavily on his eyelids, shoulders, and legs. He dropped the gun slung over his shoulder and began to make a makeshift bed out of the hay and dirt left inside. He ended up realizing it was not dirt, but dried up feces he was mixing together. 

He gagged out loud. Now he was pissed. Rightfully pissed. Did they not have a better fucking place to take cover for the night? He threw his gloves to the end of the barn. “That’s boggin!”

He shifted over to another space of the barn where Gaz was. He flashed his light inside of the barn and began to make the hay bed again. He was fuming but he wasn’t going to say anything. Sure, there had been worse positions he was in, but right now, he could not handle a grotesque barn.

Gaz saw the opportunity he had to take. He knew Soap was pissed when his top lip curled into his mouth and he remained quiet. 

“Have you ever heard about the folklore here? They hanged a mom in a barn for killing all her children.”

Soap leaned in, “I told you I don’t like your ghost stories or any keech you researched.”

Gaz smiled, “You scared Soap?” “Y’know they say that in this very barn, the woman likes to come and snatch you by the legs to drown ya in the river nearby.”

“haud yer wheesht, just don’t like messin’ with the dead you dobber.” He was tired. Tired of all the useless facts Gaz had been blabbing about the country, and its ghost stories. 

He finished his set up near a thick post. The post was almost as big as his head. After shucking off his gear and carefully placing his weapons by him, he leaned by it, mentally telling himself this was better than any cold ground outside.

Gaz made an eerie noise. He made a guttural noise with this throat, followed by a poor impression of a woman.

“Johnny…. My children… please save my children”

“shitebag.. you startin’?”

Gaz bit the inside of his cheek to hold back laughter. Soap was just too easy.

Gaz continued to make noises, throwing small rocks from his pack to have Soap twitch around. The rocks weren’t hitting him, so he looked around for something else. He then saw his opportunity. A small spider on a post above Soap’s head. He grabbed it and chucked it softly onto Soap’s face.

Soap swiped at his face. His eyes went wide, and his stomach dropped. He turned to face Gaz.

“Enough playing around, I felt something crawl on my entire cheek”

Gaz howled. Soap was so stupid.

“Fuck this I’m not stayin’ here.” Soap had proceeded to sit up looking around.

“You scared of a little spider?” He said, attempting to catch his breath.

“You didn’t feel it mate, it took over ma’ entire cheek” Soap continued.

“You scared of a little bite?”

“You see when those get infected? Entire spot goes BLACK and your face starts fallin’ off I’m not dealing with that.”

Soap wasn’t satisfied. He got up and began searching beneath the hay with his flashlight. He pointed his knife and chucked the hay off trying to find whatever it was that crawled on him.

Gaz stopped laughing, thinking about how Price would surely be pissed knowing they were wasting time dicking around instead of resting up. He was about to tell him he grabbed the spider above his head and to try and get some rest. Soap flashed the light up on the post, where Gaz took the baby spider from and they soon realized the terror watching them from above.

They both jumped back. Soap almost dropped his flashlight just seeing it.

“Fuckin’ hell that’s HUGE!” Gaz pulled his light out and looked at the monstrosity.

The spider was massive. Hairy, brown, and thick– just like the post Soap was laying against. Completely camouflaged, its body had taken up the entire post, its legs wrapped around it. It didn’t move, or twitch. It laid there minding its own business.

Gaz now felt scared. “Shit what if it jumps?”

They turned off their lights. Gaz came to an awful realization in his head.

This was a goliath birdeater. He had been reading up on South America when he read a “fun fact” about Venezuela having a record for the biggest spider, and also eating this spider. He also came to the conclusion that the one he threw at Soap was its babies…

He spoke in shock –

“What if it laid babies underneath the hay?”

Soap eyed the barn hay, if any brown spots had been crawling around. Seeing Gaz terrified, only made him realize something horrific, if he was scared, who was going to kill it?

“Aye so now I’m not the only one scared?”

“Fuck off mate YOU never specified how BIG it was!” Gaz said, shaking his head.

“Aye and me sayin’ something crawled on my ENTIRE cheek wasn’t big enough for you?” Soap pointed at him with his knife. 

Gaz kept his eyesight on the spider. It was huge, hairy, and looked fake…like it took steroids, something you buy for a Halloween prop. It immediately reminded him of the time in Australia.

“This is why we left Australia,” he said in a low voice. Still astonished at the size of it.

Soap was already pissed he felt it crawl on him, and that he needed to get to sleep.

“What if we just shoot the damn thing?”

“Waste ammo? Do you think Price or Ghost would let us?” Gaz thought out loud.

“Cannae be sleeping with that half yorkie half crab above me.” Soap’s patience was thin. His fear had heightened.

“Right then, you should shoot it.”

Gaz cocked his head towards Soap. “You’re kiddin’ right?” Gaz knew once he shot that thing, either babies would come out or guts. “I’m not doing it. There’s no spider in my post.”

Soap rubbed down his face with his hand. He was about to tell Gaz to go fuck himself when Ghost opened the barn door and came in.

“You two muppets done cryin’? I can hear you from outside!”

“And you didn’t think to come inside to help?” Gaz asked him.

“Oh bloody hell, what are ya cryin’ about?”

Soap turned on his flashlight again trailing up the post for Ghost to see.

Ghost remained his composure, not believing his own eyes and spoke –

“Bloody hell, Soap shoot that damn thing!”

“I’m not shootin’ it Lt!” Soap looked at Ghost. “You shoot it and Gaz and I will be quiet for the rest of night.”

Ghost sighed, severely annoyed that they had been making all this noise over a spider, way up high away from them. He took his gun out and aimed for the spider.

When suddenly, something in his stomach told him to stop. What if it jumped on him or what if he missed? 

“Right then, let us stand back, yeah?” Ghost took a few steps back and asked Soap to position the flashlight on it. As soon as the light hit the spider again, it jumped forward.

Soap ran behind Ghost, where he pulled a gun from his pack, then positioned it with the light then began to shoot recklessly to the ground. Ghost’s eyes began frantically searching the floor before he shot anything while Gaz had been near the barn door, swaying his light around to make sure it didn’t jump on him. 

Price had barged through the door witnessing his task force acting like complete imbeciles.

“What the devil has got into all of you?”

“I still haven’t shot it, Lt. Let's just go outside. It’s his barn now” Soap motioned to Ghost walking toward the door.

“I’ve asked you all a question!” Price had shouted.

Ghost now felt so stupid, Price was the reason he came inside the barn to tell Soap and Gaz to shut up.

“Sir… it’s uh… a uh… spider.” Soap said.

Price had lost it. He yelled at his 3 members of the crew. “Givin’ out our location knowing that we’re basically on the run? Over a damn spider?”

Price was fuming. 

Gaz spoke up, “Sir it was huge. If we can kill it, I assure you we will go to sleep.”

The four of them turned on their flashlights and searched the barn. 

There was no sign of the brown creature anywhere. Price mumbled about not being paid enough for this.

“Well it seems it’s gone now, I’ve got no time for nonsense. ”

Soap nudged Gaz “Had t’ get yer daddy for this one aye?”

Gaz shoved him away, then out of the corner of his eye he saw the spider again. He motioned to it with his finger speechless. 

The spider looked unreal crawling around on the ground like that. It was fast too, crawling up the ground towards the barn door.

Price looked to where Gaz was pointing at, and stepped back, pulled his gun out and positioned it sideways, closing one eye to shoot the thing. The single bullet managed to kill the spider, guts flying everywhere. It shot one of his legs off in the process.

“There now, are we alright?” Price said again. Loading his gun into its holder. Mentally kicking himself for using ammo on a spider. “Let’s go Lt.” Ghost followed him outside, in disbelief that he overreacted.

Gaz and Soap settled by the door now, back to back, adrenaline still running through their bodies over the massive spider. Neither of them would admit it.

Right outside the barn door, Ghost and Price settled into their positions again, guns cocked and ready.

Price spoke, “bloody muppets crying over a spider.” he laughed to Ghost. Ghost nodding and continuing to scan the area.

“Tell you one thing, after seeing that creature in person I think it’s best we don't sleep in there.”

“Tell you one thing, after seeing that creature in person I think it’s best we don't sleep in there.”

[semper-legens]

108. The Secrets of Vesuvius, by Caroline Lawrence

Owned: Yes Page count: 206 My summary: Flavia and her friends are spending the summer with her uncle Gaius in Pompeii. They’re on the trail of a mystery that will lead them to a great treasure - but they don’t know that they’re against the clock. Volcano day is coming, and they’re in grave danger… My rating: 3.5/5

Mount Vesuvius explodes! Again. I mean, for the first time in this series, but I'm literally writing this the same day as I wrote up the final Wolf Den book. Anyway, things are getting a lot more dramatic over in Flavia Gemina's life. The stakes have risen from an attempted theft and the killing of dogs to a volcanic eruption that will swallow entire towns in its disaster area. But in the meantime, there's love triangles, absent parents, Christian graffiti, and the favour of everyone's favourite Ancient Roman natural historian. There's a lot happening in a 200-page book for children, that's all I'm saying!

It's still a largely ensemble cast as far as the kids are concerned. Later books will foreground one or the other of the children and give them a bit of a day in the limelight - the next book, for example, is more about Nubia than the others. Here, though, we've still got a more balanced spread of the kids Doing Things. Lupus is a bit of a stand-out here. He winds up sailing out, as an eight year old to try and save his friend and her family from the eruption, walking long distances while carrying her, covered in ash and soot and cuts and bruises. Again, this kid is eight. Who else can claim such dedication? Poor Jonathan's suffering - he has asthma, which is a lot more serious in this time period than it is today. Jonathan has access to herbs which he can inhale to alleviate symptoms, but an attack could have fatal consequences, and he doesn't have access to any treatment outside of his bag of herbs. Which causes problems when Vesuvius starts spitting out sulphur.

Flavia, meanwhile, is embroiled in the riddle given to her by Pliny. The solution is asine, a jackass, because once again it's a Christianity subplot. He also wants them to find a wandering blacksmith called Vulcan, because he suspects that Vulcan, who was abandoned at birth, is the child of his friends Tacitus and Rectina. Which turns out to be right, with some soap-opera twists. See, Vulcan has a club foot, which is seen as a sign of disfavour from the gods. Tacitus assumed Rectina had cheated on him with Pliny (she did not) and abandoned the child himself, staging it as a kidnapping. This would be absolutely abhorrent to the modern reader, but understandable under the social norms of Ancient Rome, where babies were sometimes exposed for physical deformities. It's still bad, but less of a monstrous thing to do. It's all very soap opera, and a little silly to an adult reader that Pliny would enlist some random ten year olds to help, but that's the nature of a book series for children. And, to be fair, ten was considered older in that time and place than it is now.

And then there's the love triangle. Jonathan's family has joined them at Gaius' farm, which includes his thirteen/fourteen year old sister Miriam. She's beautiful, in a way that draws the eye of every man, and three in particular are vying for her affections. There's Flavia's handsome tutor Aristo, Vulcan the blacksmith…and the man she truly loves, Gaius himself. Who is old enough to be her father. And nobody objects to that! It skeeved me out even as a kid - fourteen is practically grown up when you're like six, but the idea of marrying someone who could have kids your age is still weird - and it's only gotten grosser as I grow. But again, that was normal, and it's interesting that none of the kids have anachronistically modern views about it. It's a level of nuance that is interesting in this type of series.

But the main thing we're here for is that volcano, and Lawrence portrays it as hellish and apocalyptic, the same way that the people involved would have likely seen it. There's chaos all around, people using the furor to rob each other, religious officials declaring that everyone should stay inside and ignore the volcano. Gaius gets beaten up and robbed. Minor characters die in front of the kids (and by proxy the reader), including Pliny himself, who is left on a beach after being overcome by an asthma attack. Jonathan is in a coma from the fumes, Lupus is exhausted and wounded, and the girls are terrified. It's appropriately nightmarish! Kudos to Lawrence for not holding back; though of course we don't see all the gory details, it's still a reasonably accurate account of what escaping Pompeii as a refugee might have been like, and one that's on par with the Wolf Den's more adult depiction.

Next, intrigue and scandal in King James' court.

[lilgayducky]

"No-no-no-no-nooooo..." Ink splatters cover my fingers, dripping like blood from my nails and oozing into the fibers of my new crochet top.

"ugh not again," I groan. My top is ruined, and my notebook is soaked. I flop backwards, scraps of paper flying around me as I land on the couch cushions. "Shit." I blink. Blurry balls of light spin in my vision as tears spill down my cheeks. My eyelashes stick together as I close them. My body wracking with sobs.

The fourth top I've ruined, the second couch, and the seventeenth notebook. Mum's gonna be furious. I toss the notebook across the room in a rage. There's no point. I'll never be a good enough writer. Sitting under a tree with my scruffy notebook and fancy pen, leaves drifting around me as I write desperately like I'm running out of time.

But alas. Another pen, broken in my hurry. I guess I'll never be a Hamilton. I'll never be distinguished like Shakespeare, or Hemingway, or Jane Austen. I'll never be creative like Margaret Mahy, spinning tales with quirky characters and colourful ideas. I'll never be funny like Dr Seuss, with his wacky creatures, and witty rhymes. I'll never have original ideas, or entertaining characters. My plots are bland and dull, my words spoilt with too much effort making them sound stupid. My handwriting messy across the page, ruined my the spilled ink of my crappy $2 pen from Kmart.

All artists start off small they say, but when do they get big? When do their small ideas grow and become incredible. Fairy tales have already been done, no room for more. Every new idea I come up with has already been done. Every word I've invented, already exists in some dictionary. Every character I believe is unique, has at least twenty doppelgangers. Genres have been worn bare, and everything is cliche. Unoriginal. Already been done.

How do I strive for success if everyone else is doing the same? How do I reach for the tallest mountains when there are none more left to climb. The moon has been reached. Even Mars. There's nowhere left to go and if you're only limited by your imagination then maybe I'm not good enough. Can't write without a prompt. Can't draw without a reference. Can't create without inspiration.

I copy, copy, copy. Everytime I think I've created something new... I see it in my favourite story the next day. How do I be original in a world that is so original already? Everyone is unique, everything is unique, and yet every person has seven doppelgangers? How does that work! In a world where everyone is different yet everyone is the same. How do I create?

I scrub my hands with soap like the ink that's stained my skin is the worst strain of COVID to no avail. Even the strongest sanitizer can't kill these germs. The germs of failure. A try hard. The germs of unsuccessful children. Of parents forcing them to take the easy root. There's no room for creativity anymore when everything has already been done and people desperate for original ideas just end up down a rabbit hole with no way out and everyone criticizing them. Do you know why so many artists were insane? Why Van Gogh cut off his ear? Why Sylvia Plath killed herself? Why so many artists had their peak, then came crashing down so heavily they left a scar in the Earth. In society.

"don't be like them" they tell us

"take the easy route" they feed us

"success only leads to failure" they repeat

"power corrupts" everyone's motto

Creativity is blooming. Yet CREATIVITY is dying. So fuck my hands, stained with the failure of my desperate attempts to leave my mark. The last of my sorry attempts to create.

[darkherolovercroissant]

I Deserve It

Soap x Fem Reader

Warnings: fluff, Soap killing your children with snow.

———————————————————————-

You watched from the living room window as your children giggled and ran as fast as their little legs could go, while your husband chased after them.

Now that he was back from his latest heist, he had spent the last few days with his children to make up for missing time together. And with the fresh snow they had gotten, it was an all out war in the yard. Snowballs flying and giggles echoed the small area while you stood inside rubbing a hand on your growing stomach.

Just like the snow, Soap couldn’t keep his hands off you and now you’re welcoming your fifth child. You have four boys, all taking after their father. Poor Ghost would have a stroke if he saw there were more mini Soaps.

It wasn’t until Soap chased after the oldest with a big snowball and threw it at him and knocking him over that you went outside to check on the kids. Only taking a deep breath when you heard the child laughing as he got back up and continued to run away.

Soap stopped to take a breather and looked at you in concern.

“You good, lass?” He asks joining your side and placing a hand on your stomach.

“Please don’t murder our children.” You laugh

“It’ll take more than snow to kill those little buggers” Soap laughs

Placing a kiss on his lips, you backed up and turned to the house but not before the kids tackled their dad into the snow and dropped snowballs on him.

“I deserve it” Soap laughs before taking after them. Their squeals and laughter filling your ears before you go and start dinner for the boys.

—————

As you sit around the living room, the boys help their dad decorate the tree and giggle as their dad tells them jokes and stories about his work.

“Is Ghost actually ugly?” Your youngest asks

You snort Soap just nods along, causing them to giggle once again.

“The ugliest bigger to exist.” He playfully teases

“Can we meet uncle ghost soon?” They ask

“I’m sure he’d love to meet you guys. You’ll just have to be gentle, since he’s pretty old” Soap answers

“What about uncle Gaz? Or Uncle Price?” They continue

“Maybe not Price, he’s a moody one. Then again he’s old too.”

The giggling continues as they sit on the couch and watch tv. The movie plays as Soap attempts to get up but his legs are so sore from the work he’s put in today.

“You ok?” You ask

“It’s because he’s old” your youngest chirps

Soap turns to look at his boy in disbelief which causes the kiddos to bust out into fits of giggles.

“I guess I deserve it.” Soap playfully cries causing you to laugh as well.

—————

You were cuddled up in bed later that night, Soap rubbing a hand over your stomach and enjoying the peace and quiet his home had to offer after only hearing shouting and gunfire with some explosions here and there.

“Is this the life you wanted?” You ask

“It’s the life I dreamed of. Having kids, having a house, having a very sexy wife.” He smirks on the last one causing you to snicker.

“It’s the life I more than earned with what I’ve put myself through. I won’t lie, there was a time that I didn’t think we’d make it with all those shadows after us, but I pulled through and came home to you” he sighs happily

“Im glad you did, John.” You smile

“They were handing out time off for the holidays, I figured that I deserve it for all my hard work. Ghost all but threw me out at the airport, bloody bastard”

You let out a loud laugh as Soap chuckles at seeing you smile. He’d try his hardest to make sure that smile never left your face.

“You think Ghost would like to meet the kids?” You playfully ask

“I feel like they’d be the thing that kills him.” He just chuckles

A moment of silence washed over you both before Soap mutters something.

“He deserves it for being smart with me over the radio.”

You just snort before cuddling up to him and falling asleep.

[satanourunholylord]

Love and Love Making Among the Vikings

Below is an infodump post which focuses on these topics:

Courtship: The Viking Way

Good Personal Hygiene

Sex Before Marriage

Homosexuality being Acceptable (with limits)

Some Viking Marriage Customs That Survive Today

Viking Sexual Euphemisms

Acceptance of Adultery in the Viking Age

Viking Women Divorcing Their Husbands

Vikings in popular culture are often viewed as the brutes of the Dark Ages, robbing, raping and pillaging people and goods. However, an analysis of their personal lives shows a much different side. Family life was important to Norse men, and every proper, upstanding Viking aimed to marry and have children. And although their parents arranged their marriages, Norsemen liked to court their ladies- and made a special effort to impress them with their appearance.

As for Norse women, although they had to put up with their husband’s affairs with live-in mistresses, slaves and even other men, they had the right to divorce their partners for violence, neglect, and various sexually related issues. In fact, Norse customs of love, marriage, and sex set a high standard in their time- and some even survive to this day.

Courtship: The Viking Way

Courtship wasn’t strictly necessary in Norse culture as marriage was more about alliances than love. The prospective bride and groom’s families would command the negotiations, to create a match that would bind the two clans as allies – and sometimes end feuds. Many brides were promised as "peace pledges" to smooth troubled waters between rival families. Although the couple in question could voice an opinion, it was fair to say they had little choice but to go ahead with the match.

That didn’t mean there was no romance -but Norse men had to handle it carefully. If a potential groom was too slow in making advances to his prospective bride, the lady’s relatives could take this as a slight and seek blood vengeance. Eighteen courtships in the sagas ended in this messy fashion. On the other hand, it also didn’t pay to move too fast or stretch out the courtship too long. If the couple liked each other too much to wait for the wedding night, matters could become complicated by an unwanted pregnancy.

So attempts to cultivate what the Norse called ˜inn matki munr’ (‘the mighty passion’) were intricate and involved specific rituals. Meeting and talking was one way to forge a relationship. But some odd practices were also employed. For instance, if a girl wanted to show her man she liked him, she made him a shirt. As for Viking men, they would go out and handpick their lady a bunch of purple flowers- and then slap her around the face with it!

Love poetry, although a favorite of the Norse gods, was viewed with suspicion. In fact, Icelandic law forbade skalds to compose Mannsong, (‘maiden songs’) for women who were not married to them under the threat of outlawry or death. This suspicion came about because the Norse believed that the poems could act as spells to seduce and bind women. Worse still, such praises could suggest that the skald or his patron knew the lady more intimately than he should.

Even if they were not in love before the wedding, the couple would try and cultivate it afterward. Husbands would seat their wives next to them if they wanted to show affection. Couples could also express their closeness by sharing the same drinking horn. If a husband were feeling very affectionate, he would ˜put her on his lap’ where he and his wife could indulge in “kyssir hana’ – a kiss and a cuddle. Or he would put his head on her lap, and she would stroke his hair.

Good personal hygiene was a must

Central to making a good impression on a potential or actual partner was good personal hygiene and pride in one’s appearance. This practice applied to both men and women. Norse graves are packed with grooming essentials for the afterlife- regardless of whether they belonged to a man or a woman. Combs, toothpicks, tweezers and ear spoons were all familiar, demonstrating the Norse liked to be neat and tidy-and clean. The Arab, Ibn Fadlan may have felt horror at the Viking practice of sharing a communal wash bowl, but at least his Norse acquaintances washed their face and combed their hair daily.

In fact, the Norse were probably the cleanest people in the Dark Ages. According to the Saxon cleric, John of Wallingford, they bathed weekly, on a Saturday. Wallingford complained that this, and their habit of changing their clothes regularly, was to “ undermine the virtue of married women and even seduce the daughters of nobles to be their mistresses.” However, the Norse were not content merely to be neat and tidy. Ibn Fadlan also noted the Rus- Viking traders who occupied what is now modern Russia-favored bleaching their beards to a saffron yellow, using a strong lye soap.

This method was probably also used on the hair of men and women. Norse women would have been particularly keen on achieving the long, fair, shiny hair that was the feminine ideal, although the white skin that men also coveted was probably only managed by the wealthy. Men also favored long hair, as only slaves wore their hair close cropped. However, this did not mean they were unkept. Figurines show Viking men wearing their hair trimmed and their beards well groomed- either styled to a point or shaped as a goatee.

Finally, there was the question of clothing. When it came to making an impact, the Norse liked to dress to impress. As well as being clean, garments were brightly colored and adorned with the most costly array of jewelry you could afford. Cloak pins and arm rings all showed off status, impressing the object of your desire not only with your appearance but your wealth and prospects in life.

Sex before marriage was acceptable

It wasn’t always possible to marry the one you loved - or lusted after. The sagas make constant reference to “the illicit love visit.” In such cases, a young couple, forbidden from marrying would meet in secret. The sagas never mention sex occurring. However, it is highly unlikely the young man would risk a secret tryst simply to ˜talk’ to the object of his affections. The lovers, however, were said to ˜enjoy’ each other. A document detailing a wife’s dissatisfaction with her impotent husband because she couldn’t ˜enjoy‘ him suggests this is a term linked to sexual fulfilment.

Indeed, although female virginity was the ideal, it was just about acceptable for a woman to have had sexual relationships before her marriage-with certain provisos. First, she needed to have been discrete and not too prolific in her pre martial encounters. However, most importantly, she should not have had any children out of wedlock. This restriction was not for moral reasons. Illegitimate sons could become their father’s heirs- if he recognized them. Rather, society censured Illegitimacy because of the burden it placed on the maternal family, not because it was deemed wrong or shameful.

Illegitimate children were the responsibility of the mother’s family- and so a burden to it. It was they who ultimately supported the child. Even if the father acknowledged his child, he and his family were only obliged to provide two-thirds of its support. Worse yet, the mother probably lost all hope of marriage, as few men would want to take on the responsibility and expense of another man’s child. Thus her family would lose out further as she would gain no bride price and no family alliance. Thus chastity was often the safest bet.

For men, sex outside marriage posed no such strictures. They were free to indulge themselves however they pleased-as long as they submitted to marriage in the end. For to remain unmarried in Norse society was unacceptable. A man accused of shunning wedlock was said to be ˜fleeing from the vagina.’ Women who did the same were “fleeing from the penis.’ Such people risked becoming social outcasts because they were not fulfilling their ultimate role: the procreation of children for the survival of their families and society.

Homosexuality was acceptable- with limits

Pre Christian Norse views on homosexuality weren’t simple. On the face of it, Norse society accepted sexual relationships between men. However, there were restrictions. Firstly, such relationships could not interfere with any future or current marriage. So the man still had to marry- whatever his views on the opposite sex- and his wife and her family had to be prepared to ignore her husband’s male lover or lovers. It was most important that the man did not neglect his conjugal duties. He still needed to have sex with his wife.

More important was that no free Norse man was the passive partner in a homosexual relationship. Vikings would rape males and females when on raiding trips to shame, degrade and weaken them. To be penetrated was to be submissive. It was acceptable to gain pleasure from penetrating someone- but not from being penetrated yourself. One of the worst insults an enemy could hurl at a Norse man was “sordinn” (penetrated). Any man branded as such would fight to the death defend his honor. These conflicts led to Scandinavian law codes making such types of insult illegal because of the bloodshed, with the slanderer often outlawed- if the injured party didn’t kill him first!

However, if such abuse was believed or proven, it had grave consequences for the man in question. Although Norse myths tell of gods such as Loki and even Odin taking on a submissive role in sex, Norse mortal society did not tolerate passivity in men. The man in question would become a social outcast, branded "ergi” (unmanly). Such men were believed to lack the ability to be vital and virile members of society. They were deemed liable to be ineffectual as fathers and fighters- and as such of no use. Dominant homosexuals were quite another matter.

There is no mention of lesbianism in the tales. Nor are there any references in other Old Norse texts to female homosexual relationships, so we cannot gauge pre-Christian attitudes to female homosexuality. However, Icelandic Christian law suggests lesbianism did occur in Norse society. In the 12th century, Bishop Porlakr Porhallson decreed “if women satisfy each other they shall be ordered the same penance as men who perform the most hideous adultery between them or with a quadruped.”

The Eddas and some of the sagas also specifically mention Freja having sex with other women. In fact at a banquet Loki accused her of having slept all the other Aesir at one time or another, a claim which Freja never denied.

Some Viking Marriage customs survive today

The Norse held their weddings on a Friday, the day of Frigg, the goddess of marriage and fertility. The time of the year was also crucial. Late summer or autumn were the preferred times. This period of the year was harvest time, a time of abundance and plenty. A good supply of meat, fruit, and grain was essential to ensure an amply provisioned wedding feast.

One beverage was of particular importance. The ˜bridal ale’ was first consumed in a loving cup by the bride and groom at the marriage feast. The couple would use the mead-like brew to seal their union with a toast to Odin and Freya. The bridal ale was brewed with a good deal of honey, to ensure the fertility of the newlyweds. Their families gifted the couple with enough of this sweet beer to last them a month- a custom that gives us the modern term ˜honeymoon.’

Before the wedding, both bride and groom took a ritual steam bath. Although they did not wear special clothes for the wedding, both wore specific tokens on their special day. For the bride, this was a floral wreath upon her head. For the groom, it was a sword, purposely robbed from one of his family’s burial mounds (or an old family sword buried in a fake mound that he ritually disinterred.) This sword was presented to the bride at the exchange of vows, as a way of making her a custodian of his family line.

As is common today, the bride and groom exchanged rings- both finger rings and arm rings as they spoke their vows. Once the ceremony was complete, the “brud hlaup” occurred. This was a race run by both wedding parties to the feasting hall. Whoever arrived last served the ale. But before the bride could enter, she had to be escorted over the threshold by the groom. The Norse, like many pagan peoples, believed thresholds were dangerous places for in transition to a new stage in their life.

The groom would then thrust a new sword, a gift from his bride, into the central pillar of the house. The depth of the resulting cut was used to determine the success of their union. Then, after the feast, eight witnesses lighted the bridal couple to bed. The groom then removed the bridal wreath from the bride- a ritual deflowering before the real event.

Viking Sexual Euphemisms

The Vikings could be quite ˜direct’ about certain matters. However, they could also be rather coy about sex – or at least, so their stories suggest. The sagas had various ways to refer to sex that describe it in a rather round about way. A man about to have sex with a woman was said to ˜turn towards’ her, “laying his hand/arm/thigh ” on her. The rest was up to the audience’s imagination. However, what was clear was the man was in charge. He took the lead. His partner followed.

Once the action warmed up, the sagas implied the increased activity in similarly guarded terms. A couple in the throes of passion would ˜crowd together in bed” (hviluthrong) and ‘enjoy each other. ‘ If things were particularly raunchy, the tales would describe the man as enjoying a good old brolta a maga or ˜romp on her belly’ or describe the couple as ˜travelling together.” Once they had exhausted themselves, the couple spent the aftermath at ˜hvila meth henna ” (rest with her), or he would ˜amuse one’s self.’ This activity referred to him enjoying a quiet conversation or game of cards with his partner.

However, the everyday terms used by the Vikings were probably not quite so reserved, judging by sexual words they have bequeathed to modern times. The Old Norse ˜thviet’ for a cut or slit began life as a sexual euphemism for a particular part of the female anatomy. Gradually it evolved into the old English ˜thwat’ and later into the more familiar twat which is used today as a term of abuse. The same occurred with another Old Norse word for the female genitals “Kunta’.

However, not all euphemisms were this crude. In contrast to these rather basic sexual terms, the Old Norse for sexual desire was “munuth.” This word derives from the root word for love “mun‘ and that of thought or memory ˜hugr,’ making the sexual impulse a ˜love thought.’ So perhaps the Vikings could be romantic souls after all.

Adultery was acceptable for Viking men, but not their wives

Many Norse men adored their wives, judging by the last words of one man just before he was hung:

” Happy am I to have won the joy of such a consort; ” said the condemned man of his wife. “I shall not go down basely in loneliness to the gods of Tartarus. So let the encircling bonds grip my throat in the midst; the final anguish shall bring with it pleasure only, since the certain hope remains of renewed love, and death shall prove to have its own delights. Each world holds joy, and in the twin regions shall the repose of our united souls win fame, our equal faithfulness in love “(Saxo Grammaticus)

Sadly, however, not everyone practiced “faithfulness in love” The basic requirement of a Norse man was to produce children with his wife. He was not, however, obliged to be faithful. Norse men could keep concubines known as frilles – lower status women who they did not marry and who lived with the man and his wife. According to Adam of Breman, a man could keep as many frilles as he could afford. Society regarded any children from these liaisons as legitimate.

Norse men also kept bed slaves. These unfortunate women had little choice in whether or not they lay with their master. Nor was it a great advantage to be the master’s favorite. Ibn Fadlan described witnessing a Viking funeral where the favoured bed slave of the deceased man was killed to accompany him to the afterlife. However, the one taboo liaison for a Norseman was to lie with another man’s wife. For this, he could be fined or killed.

Wives, however, were expected to remain faithful, probably because of the possibility of falling pregnant with a child that was not her husband’s. It’s unlikely that every wife did remain constant. However, if anyone caught a woman being unfaithful, the penalties varied. At best, her hair would be cut off. At worst, she could be divorced or fined- or killed. Adam of Breman even states that she could be enslaved.

Viking women could divorce their husbands

Viking women may have had to put up with their spouse’s affairs. However, they didn’t have to put up with their husbands ‘until death‘. Although a Norse wife could not divorce her husband for being unfaithful, there were other circumstances where it was perfectly acceptable. If her husband hit her, a woman could fine him. If he abused her in front of witnesses, not only did the fine apply, but his wife could divorce him after the third blow.

There were also various sexual reasons why a wife could divorce a husband. Men who dressed in feminine clothing such as low cut shirts, for instance, could be cast off, as could those who were homosexual- even if they were the dominant partner. A wife could object to the lack of discretion in homosexual liaisons – or the attention they distracted from her relationship with her spouse. In each case, the now ex-wife could claim back her original dowry and any inheritances she received during the marriage.

Another, perhaps surprising reason for divorce was if a man did not satisfy his wife sexually. A man who had refused to have sex with his wife for three years could be set aside. Likewise, if he could not perform or was leaving his wife sexually unfulfilled, he was at risk of being divorced. For if a couple wasn’t having sex, they weren’t producing children. Also, an unhappy marriage bred bitterness and resentment that could boil over into violence and family feuds. So it was better for a sexually unsatisfied woman to look elsewhere for a partner.

Judging by the sagas, it was the women who generally instigated divorce. All that was required was for them to assemble witnesses, cite their reasons and declare themselves divorced. This had to occur three times: in their bedroom, in front of the house and before a public assembly. It was Norse women’s one significant freedom. For if they were to remain tied to one man, run his home and land and put up with his lovers, the least they could expect was satisfying sex life.

[uniquevocashark]

A Good Servant Part 4

Content warnings:

Graphic depictions of gore, blood, smoking, lady dimitrescu washes the readers mouth out with soap and a horse brush so watch out for that, mentions of taxidermy, mentions of meat preparation (skinning), mentions of murder, aftermath of murder

“How dare I?” Lady Dimitrescu said, then her face split open in a wide smile and she threw her head back and laughed. It was light and hysterical, and she covered her mouth softly with one hand. Her bedroom was lit only with candlelight, her pet cowering on the other side of the room by her bed.

You glared at her and she met your eyes gleefully, striding over and grabbing your face in one hand. She squeezed your jaw and forced your mouth open, then rubbed your teeth through your cheeks. You grabbed her wrist and dug your nails in, but she didn’t so much as flinch, smiling at you with all the grace of a lion with an antelope in its mouth.

“Pet,” She called, and you glared, “Go fetch some soap and water, separate bucket for each.”

You glimpsed at her, at her smirk and her pose, the way it accentuated her perfect posture and the perfect way her hair fell and curled. The sleek stitch work of her hat, her cream dress, the strokes of her makeup brush that painted her white. Perfect, down to the last cell.

Lady Dimitrescu walked with you struggling against her, dragging your feet over the well-polished floor and well-appointed carpet to her bed. She sat down and pulled you forward with a quick yank, forcing your stomach against her knee. She reached over you to her bedside table, where she kept a specially designed toothbrush for her horse, Matthias.

“This is such a lovely little knick-knack,” She said pleasantly, twisting the dark wooden brush to catch the light, “It’s a shame I barely use it, don’t you agree?”

You grabbed her wrist in both hands and clawed and, though she swayed slightly, she manhandled you right back where she wanted you with ease. You grunted and she tapped your lips with the brush.

“Now, now, Wesker, no need to act an animal,” Her pet came back with a bucket of soap and a bucket of water, “Excellent choice, pet.”

Last year Lady Dimitrescu had taken to the scent of vanilla, and the smell was thick and syrupy the moment it was set down near you. She used a soft soap that gouged, somewhere between sloid and liquid, and pungent enough to drown your nose already. She scooped some onto her fingers, smiling, then looked at you with a grin crawling up her cheeks. “Try not to swallow.”

You took a quick breath, and she shoved her fingers into your mouth. The soap taste was unbearable, and she took obvious pleasure while she rubbed the soap onto your tongue. The taste filled your mouth, your nose, and no matter how hard you bit her hand she never wavered. She hummed a pleasant tune, tapping her feet beneath you while you struggled against her. When Lady Dimitrescu pulled away to grab the brush, you pulled in a breath and gagged.

She looked down at you, trapped against her and gasping between your violent gags, and smiled.

She tapped your cheek with the brush, and you flinched away from it.

“What a shame,” Lady Dimitrescu mused and tilted your chin up to watch the soap foam drip down your chin. She smiled slowly, her eyes widened softly, and she pushed the brush into your mouth. She scrubbed your teeth harshly, then your gums, your tongue and as far down your throat as she could push you before you were clawing desperately at her hand. She scrapped the brush against the inside of your mouth until you bled, until you had clawed holes in the skirt of her dress, until tears rolled down your face flatly and all you could smell, or taste was iron and rosemary.

By the time she had deemed your mouth clean, suds and spit covered your chin and her skirt. She released your jaw and let you sink to the floor and pushed the bucket of water over to you with her foot.

“All this, because you can’t listen,” She mused, taking her quellazaire from her pet. She turned to the tongueless woman and said, “Inside the bathroom, pet.”

You spat out a mouthful of blood and bristles, your hand shaking, running your tongue over your teeth and finding a few loose. Lady Dimitrescu was never gentle with her punishments to her staff, only her daughters were ever treated gently. She had told you not to cuss once before, in passing.

You wiped the spit off your chin and threw it into the bucket, your hands shaking, and your breath laboured. Rosemary tinted your every breath in when you heard the bathroom door shut.

“I would do that to Mother Miranda,” She said wistfully, relighting her cigarette, “if I could get away with it.”

“She’d kill you,” You choked out, coughing up a chunk of soap, “Speaking to her might help.”

“Mother Miranda doesn’t listen to me,” Lady Dimitrescu took a drag from her cigarette, “not anymore, at least.” She smiled at you, small and bitter, then turned her attention to the bathroom door and frowned.

You stared at her, and the bloody bristles covering your palm. “I know she doesn’t.”

“She speaks to you, a human—”

“Not a human.”

“A mortal,” She corrected absently, moving your chin towards her with the tip of her shoe, “is told over me. Does that seem… fair to you?”

You didn’t answer and she tilted her head as she took another drag from her quellazaire. Then she laughed, soft hiccup like chuckles more bitter than the taste in your mouth, smoke leaking from her ruby red lips.

“I’m obsolete.” She said, turning her eyes to the ceiling and then she laughed again.

“You are not,” You said, the words spilling blood from your mouth onto her shoe, “You have some uses.”

“Oh, thank you for the assessment,” Alcina crooned sarcastically, “It is ever so helpful.”

“I’m not good at this. And you scrubbed my mouth out with a horse brush.”

She pushed the tip of her shoe into your neck, just above the skin that hid your oesophagus. Her golden eyes glowed, “And you were just commenting on my daring, were you not?”

You glowered, then lowered your eyes to your murky reflection. “Yes, Madame.”

“By all means,” Lady Dimitrescu said, flicking ash onto the floor, “Speak.”

You picked up the still glowing end of her cigarette with a handkerchief and spat a glob of blood to smother it with. It was too late, predictably. The carpet was already ruined, “You are a hypocrite.”

“Hm? Did I not scrub hard enough?”

You pulled another bristle out from between your teeth.

“You never told me you had children.”

You dabbed the inside of your cheek with another handkerchief, pulling out a loose tooth as you did so. “I only had one.”

“You lied to me.”

You looked at her and shrugged, “I lie about a lot more than that.”

“Yes,” Her fingers tightened around her quellazaire, “I am aware of that.”

You looked away, into the bucket, then at the door. “It isn’t any of your business.”

"The lives of all my staff are my business."

“But I am not just yours.”

She leaned back a little, cocking her head to the side and smiling, “Yet.”

You glimpsed at her, at her smirk and her pose, the way it accentuated her perfect posture and the perfect way her hair fell and curled. The sleek stitchwork of her hat, her cream dress, the strokes of her makeup brush that painted her white. Perfect, down to the last cell.

“I know plenty about you,” She said, “A Frenchmen, a biologist, a test subject.”

“Easy things to learn from a file.”

“You hate the smell of brandy,” She continued in a dreamy sort of tone, “and acorns, whatever those are. You hate kidney beans and men who smoke. But you like cooking and you like me.”

You wobbled to your feet and took a few shaky steps away from her. She watched you and the blood that dripped down your chin with razor focus.

“I will likely be leaving.” You said, though it was much quieter than you would have preferred.

Lady Dimitrescu saw through your basic attempt and hummed, the sound reverberating through your bones. Then, mockingly, “Oh, are you afraid of dying?”

You looked at the draping on her bed, “You aren’t?”

“I am immortal,” She said, taking a drag from her cigarette then cocked her head, “Get out.”

…

You didn’t sleep that night.

So, after a few hours of soothing the pain in your mouth, you redressed and went into the kitchen. Alex was there, skinning whatever the Lady had deemed to her palate, so you moved to help with the vegetables. You didn’t speak for three hours, not until the prep work was done and the silverware was shining bright enough to blind.

You nodded as the other kitchen staff entered, “Ensure everything is perfect.”

And then you went to start your day.

You put your room to rights, cleaned the table, fixed the bedding and refolded any loose clothing. Then you moved into the dorm rooms for the other maids and roused them up fifteen minutes before six. You cleaned away the last remains of the five that had been eaten last night and dictated tasks down to the rest. Once the dorms had been cleaned to standard, and new bedding was placed on the once used beds, you moved to meet Mihaela at twenty past six and handed off the schedule for Lady Dimitrescu’s morning before Vanessa arrived.

Afterwards you sought out the three Dimitrescu daughters, who slept until half past seven before they deigned to rise. They kept their rooms warm as melted butter, with enough blankets to burn the scales off a rattlesnake, and you took a breath before entering. They were, as ever, aggressive but for Daniela who practically jumped into your arms. She smiled her wide smile and, after a little prompting, began talking excitedly about the necklaces she had made using your teeth.

You brushed their hair, first Daniela, then a yawning Bela and finally Cassandra who flopped half off the bed and snored while you fixed her hair. Once they were dressed, and their necklaces comfortably on their necks, you opened the doors and had breakfast brought in. The ate the dog meat with friendly chatter and warm tea. They weren’t as picky as their mother, nor as reliant on human flesh, and enjoyed tasting different meats when the opportunity presented itself.

But always you knew that they would bounce back onto human flesh. Such was their nature.

You took extra time to clean up their room as quickly and quietly as possible while they talked amongst themselves. Cassandra had disappeared immediately after breakfast, as she always did before you were finished cleaning and never returning until well after dinner. She was, as the other maids had told you, doing something in the opera hall and had barred all entrance into it while she was working.

Lady Dimitrescu always came to say good morning to her children, just after she had finished balancing her accounts and fielding any emergency phone calls. They calmed her considerably, and they talked while you cleaned around them in a flurry of movement. You did catch her eye one time, just as she was leaving, and she smiled at you with more mania than you had seen from her in a while.

At twenty-three past eleven, you went to clean the lower bedroom that Lady Dimitrescu worked in and found her pet hanging on the hooks with her chest broken open. Her ribs had been removed and you could clearly see her lungs inflating and deflating while she noisily took in breath. She would not live another minute, not with the glaze in her eyes as she reacted to your footsteps, especially not with the flies that buzzed out of your skirts and onto her neck. You watched her breath once and then turned your attention to the mess that was Lady Dimitrescu’s desk.

She had small roses made of glass, stuffed rodents that Daniela had made for her, flowers that Cassandra picked for her each morning from her private garden and small statues made of clay that Bela had made for her. And all of it was covered in blood which you would need to scrub and bleach from it all.

“At least you don’t have to deal with this.” You said to the hanging corpse and got to work.

When Vanessa did finally arrive, at one in the afternoon, you had been so thoroughly distracted by your work that you had run your fingers until they were bright red and throbbing. Lady Dimitrescu had watched you from her couch, tilting her head this way and that with feline laziness to track your every move.

Vanessa took tea with Lady Dimitrescu when she arrived, drinking the blood infused blend with a brave face and healthy smile. She always did have a stunning smile, matching to the Lady’s that you now worked under. The business they discussed, and discuss they did, loudly and bordering on obnoxious, was you. And Lady Dimitrescu twisted it into your past with almost reverent ease.

She was always too good at getting information from people.

“Cryogenically frozen?” Lady Dimitrescu asked, her smile stretching a tad too wide, “My, my. I had no idea.”

Vanessa smiled, and you could see the ticking of her brain as she tried to worm her way out of the current conversation, “Yes, it’s a fascinating process.”

“That sounds like quite the ordeal.” Lady Dimitrescu leaned forward, resting her head on her chin and you dug your nails into the platter you were holding.

“It was,” Vanessa said, “There are so many components that can go wrong.”

“Do tell.”

And so, it went on and on and on for two hours. By three in the afternoon, Lady Dimitrescu had weaseled herself into your personal life with as much finesse and subtlety as a charging rhinoceros, not that either you or Vanessa could divert her interest away from the topic. So when she left for work, brushing her hand under your chin as she went.

You watched her go for a moment too long, before Vanessa threw her arm around your shoulders and kissed your cheek.

“That is quite enough.” You said and shook her off.

Vanessa laughed and you went over to the dirty table and began stacking the dishes away. “Oh, come now, I haven’t seen you in twenty years!”

“That was on purpose.”

She sat back down while you cleaned, tossing her dark hair so that it caught the light brilliantly. She didn’t wear perfume, which made the room seem empty now that Lady Dimitrescu had left, and she seemed cold compared to the Lady. “Are you still mad at me?”

“I hope you’re quite finished.”

“You talk like that giant bioweapon.”

“She is,” You said severely, picking up the full tray and wiping down the table, “by definition, not a bioweapon.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Be more precise with your language.”

“Now you’re nit-picking.”

“Please, stop talking.” She smiled gently and you relented. “Fine. I missed you.”

Vanessa threw her arm around your shoulders again and gave you another kiss on the cheek. Daniela appeared before you and placed her sickle against Vanessa’s temple.

She scrunched her nose and her tone was soft and confused, “Why are you touching our things?”

[calif0rnia-lovers]

sweet as pie.

a/n: please join me in welcoming sam wilson to the page. first story dedicated to this classic man, surely not the last.

pairing: sam wilson x black!reader

rating: 💙

main masterlist | taglist | divider © @whimsicalrogers

sum: sam is home. although times have changed, his sister’s intentions for him have not. sarah would love for her brother to settle down, and she knows the perfect person to make him do it. but when sam gets caught up with work, he misses the date sarah has set up for him.

words: 2.3K

It’s funny how the human mind works.

How easily certain moments can slip through its cracks. Names, dates, songs, conversations, faces lost to the wind, never to be remembered again. In the same turn, how those same things can be retained, recited down to the last detail in perfection.

Sam Wilson has seen enough in his lifetime--more than most men. No one could condemn him for forgetting the smallest of details from time to time. Sometimes he does. He is human. But, strangely, he can never forget a single detail when it comes to you.

Sam can still remember the first time he saw you.

The coffee-colored, cardboard box you carried in your arms--'living room' written across the front panel in your mother’s flawless penmanship. The dark curls pineappled to rest atop the crown of your head--a last-ditch attempt of fighting the Louisiana heat. The oversized Purple Rain t-shirt faded from too many runs through the wash. The round, black sunglasses sliding down the brim of your nose as you paused to take note of the boy watching you from his front window. Down to the scuffed, worn high tops that could barely pass for white.

He even remembers the soft smile you gave him once he froze--too embarrassed to move from the window after being caught watching you for the third time--before turning to lug the box up the steps of your front porch.

It was the summer of ‘94, and Sam Wilson was running late. He was expected to be at the docks assisting his father. Instead, he was peeping around his mother’s powder blue curtains, attempting to score glimpses of his new neighbors. Primarily their teenage daughter.

It’s not every day that Delacroix welcomes a new resident--let alone an entire family. Later that night, over dinner, his mother shared that you were entering your senior year--same as him.

He still remembers the knotting of his stomach. The strange and unusual experience of being tongue-tied when he’d tripped over his name--his name for god’s sake--that morning, you opened your front door to find him and Sarah on the other side. The kindness of your dark brown eyes as they met his, the soft giggle you released as you ignored his sputtering to accept the chocolate chip cookies his mother sent her children to deliver.

He also remembers the vision of you in your wedding dress. The smile he had to keep plastered on his face the night he learned his skepticism, surrounding death by broken heart, faded. You’ve never felt pain until you’ve seen the woman you love marry another man.

Sam must admit. When he returned, he expected--hoped--that those feelings would have disappeared. That they would have been erased from his life. Only, the moment he returned home, Sam discovered those feelings remained--were stronger even.

Five years later, he found you in the same house. Your parents no lived there. After their return from the blip, they packed up their things. Suddenly, tackling their bucket list was their main priority. You still had your husband’s last name but no husband. He was gone, lost to a younger woman.

Five years later, and Sam Wilson finds himself still frozen by the sight of you.

The long-sleeved maroon shirt he’s tugged on is not his number one choice. It’s all he had in his bag. The time on his watch had forced him into an ultimatum. Either run home, shower, and change into the outfit Sarah helped him pick out and risk being five hours late. Or head straight to your house, and risk being four hours and forty-five minutes late.

Sam opted for the latter.

Flowers in hand, he stands in the gateway of your backyard. His eyes admire the glow of the string lights against your skin. The yard has been transformed. Several tables and chairs, enough to host the entire neighborhood, squeezed into its space. Filled with music and laughter a few hours before the backyard is now quiet. Only the sounds of crickets, and the rustle of the trash bag in your hand, can be heard over the racing of Sam’s heart.

“Hey.” Sam takes a step forward, clearing his throat. “Sorry, I’m late.”

“Late is an understatement.” You don’t bother looking up from the plates stacked in your hands. Dumping them into the black trash bag, you move towards the next table. “You missed the entire party.”

After dumping the trash, you realize that Sam is no longer in the backyard. You find him in the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” You ask, coming to a stop in the doorway.

Sam glances up from the soap-covered glass in his hands. “Helping you clean up.”

You glance around the kitchen, only to find that he’s managed to wash nearly the entire stack of dishes you’ve been dreading the entire night.

“I didn’t realize you still did stuff like this,” you tease. “What with you running off to save the world. Figured you’d just hire someone to do it for you.”

“Guess it’s a good thing I got you to keep me humble,” he winks.

Sam dries his hands with the bumblebee printed hand towel, a satisfied grin on his lips as he takes in the spotless kitchen. He’s too busy admiring his handiwork to realize you’re standing alongside him.

He turns, the snarky comment he’s prepared lost in his throat as he takes you in.

You can’t deny him a smile as you watch his eyes widen, a boyish grin brightening his face as he takes in the plate you’re holding. On it rests a single slice of homemade apple pie, topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream and perfectly drizzled caramel.

“I think you’ve earned this.”

“You saved me a piece?”

“No,” you sigh, allowing your eyes to roll. “I actually saved it for me. But if I have to look at your pathetic attempt at puppy dog eyes one more second--”

“You were hoping I’d show up.” The grin on Sam’s face has morphed into a trademark smirk, the sight pulling a giggle from your lips. “You and I both know you don’t save, or share your pie with just anyone.”

Sam’s observation is spot on.

You don’t share your pie--or food, for that matter--with just anyone. In the chaos of hosting the neighborhood, you didn’t have a moment to stop and enjoy your own party. Let alone a slice of the apple pies you’d spent the previous night preparing.

Apple pies--specifically yours--were Sam Wilson’s true weakness.

The moment he sees you lugging home a bag full of granny smith and macintosh apples, he’s on full helicopter mode. You’re not sure how he knows, but he’s got a radar. One that somehow allows him to prophesize the exact moment the pies are out of the oven and set aside to cool.

He’ll show up, stopping by to say hi, or to see if you still need the drainpipe your ex-husband never got around to working on fixed, or to “pass along a message” from Sarah--as though your best friend couldn’t pick up the phone and call. Whatever the excuse Sam Wilson always manages to be the one to get the first slice of your apple pie. He’s smart enough to know that once the children of the neighborhood catch a whiff, they’ll show up on your doorstep. And as much as he loves the kids--Sam isn’t letting them steal his pie.

Sam’s words come out muffled through a mouthful of apples and crust. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, Y/N. You should sell these. You'd make a killing.”

“And I’ve already told you, it’s just for fun,” you dismiss his advice, taking another spoonful of ice cream. “Besides, what do you expect me to do? Quit my good paying--although painstakingly boring--job in the hopes that enough people will like my baking to keep me afloat?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Sam nods, a smile growing as he watches your eyes roll.

It’s a conversation the two of you have had for years. Here is the rundown of how it plays out--every single time.

Sam: suggests that you finally open up the bakery you’ve been talking about since your teenage years.

You: dismiss his words of advice, reminding Sam that most teenage dreams are foolish.

Sam: ends the conversation with, “I’d show up every day for a piece.”

You: spend the rest of the night wondering if he’s right, about taking the chance, only to psych yourself out before going to bed.

“I’m just saying,” Sam sighs, sliding the plate to the side. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned. Life is going to pass you by, regardless, no matter what you do. If you give it a shot, and it fails--which is never going to happen--your life isn’t going to end.”

You glance up from the table, a tiny smile on your lips as you take in his soft smile.

“Maybe you’re right,” you shrug. “If all else fails, I’ll just tell everyone it’s the Falcon’s favorite pie--”

“You’ll have people flooding in from across the country.”

“It’s settled,” you giggle. “I’m using you in my business model.”

“Hey,” Sam chuckles. “As long as I get a cut, I’m not complaining.”

A silence falls over the tiny kitchen as your gaze drops from his.

Sam lightly raps his knuckles against the table before pushing his chair back.

“Uh—I should probably head out. You’re probably tired. I just wanted to come by and apologize...again.”

“Wow,” the light laugh you release halts Sam’s act of standing up. “The second you get what you came for you hit the ground running?”

The response is automatic. The chance to tease him is one you never pass up.

Sam’s brow raises as he takes in your smile.

“That’s not what I came for,” he admits.

“What did you come for then?”

“To ask you over to my place for breakfast tomorrow.”

The proposition hangs in the air, Sam nearly squirming in his seat as you take your time studying his gaze. You let out a sigh, your shoulders shrugging lightly, once you finally speak.

“I don’t know, Sam” You shake your head. Picking up the plate, you stand and cross the kitchen to the sink. “You just have so many responsibilities, nowadays, running around trying to save the world--”

“I’m not going anywhere tonight,” he’s quick with the reassurance. “Or any day, until we get through that date you promised me.”

You turn to face him, arms crossing over your chest as he comes to a stop before you.

“Say I show up. You have to promise me something.”

“Whatever you want.”

He knows that promise can end up being a slippery slope, depending on how hard you’re willing to make him work for it.

“If something comes up, in the future, you call me. And you tell me exactly why you can’t be here. Nobody gets to stand me up. Not the Falcon. And sure as hell, not Sam Wilson. Understood?”

Sam’s eyes drop to your interlaced fingers, a soft chuckle escaping his lips as he gives your hand a gentle squeeze.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.” Standing on your toes, you place a kiss against his cheek. “Now, go get some sleep. You’re making me breakfast in the morning. I’m expecting waffles, bacon, freshly squeezed O.J.--the works.”

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[avaritia-apotheosis]

Phantom Children Ch. 6

Hi guys! I'm back <3 (also, I'm currently looking for alpha/beta readers for Phantom Children, so if you're interested, feel free to shoot me a message!)

In Which: Danny Attempts to get Answers, Bruce Learns, and Dick Finally Learns What's Inside the Door that Doesn't Exist

AO3 | Prologue | 5 | [ 6 ] | 7

DANNY IS KNOCKED DOWN three, four, eight times on the ice. Each time made his back ache, his bones bruised and tired, and his mind burning with embarrassment and a drive to lash out. But each time he gets back up. Each time he lasts a little bit longer against Talia.

The ice still shifts, cracks and rumbles with every wrong move. Danny learned to roll with it. Move on light feet but attack with a firm stance, gauge which parts of the ice are stable and which should be avoided. Multi-tasking has never been Danny’s strong suit, but he’s good at learning and learning quickly.

Talia corrected his form as much as she beat him down. Exploited every one of his openings until he learned to defend them and praised him whenever he managed to pull one over her. The League’s martial arts was the holy amalgamation between almost every single fighting style there is, mashed and refined to perfection to become almost unpredictable to the untrained. A vast improvement to Danny’s previous ‘fuck around and see what works’ brawling and had the added benefit of meshing together with his spontaneity.

“You are doing well, Daniel,” Talia said as she sheathed her sword, hand resting just above her hip. “You have improved greatly in such a short time, as I have expected.”

It takes every ounce of Danny’s superhuman energy to not collapse to his knees, his every breath a ragged shudder as he tries to get his breathing under control. “Still can’t beat you, though.”

“Very few can boast that feat.”

“I’m not exactly sure if that’s supposed to make me feel any better or not. Do I get my prize at least?”

Tahlia tossed her braid over one shoulder with a laugh. “Come, then, let us rest in the caves. The sun is to set soon and we must make camp before we freeze to death.”

“Hypothermia is so last season. I’m way too cool for that.”

He didn’t know whether to be disappointed that Tahlia didn’t react to his pun. It was pretty clever, in his opinion.

('Puns are the lowest form of comedy,' said mind-Jazz.

Says the one who named the Box Ghost the ‘Crate Creep.’

'That’s alliteration, not a pun.')

It was kind of pathetic that even his mind-version of Jazz was smarter than him.

“What would you like to know first?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sarcasm dripped from Danny’s voice. He sheathed his sword and let it hang loose at his side. “Maybe how old this mysterious brother of mine is?” Ancients, his life was weird enough already, it wasn’t supposed to sound like the B-plot to a bad soap opera.

“Damian is younger than you by a little over four years. He will turn eleven this year.”

“Huh. Never been an older brother before.”

“Perhaps you might have been, if circumstances had been different.”

Cryptic. Great. Danny stepped over a particularly large crack in the ice and scampered over to solid ground. “You gotta give me more than that. What’s he like?”

“Prideful,” she said. “But skilled enough to warrant it. He was raised like a prince—as how you should have been.”

“And he lives with…our dad?”

“Yes. In America.” The cave was deep enough to shield them from the worst of the eventual mountain winds. Tahlia had already started building a campfire with equipment from her knapsack, embers eating away and growing into a steady flame. He sat down, legs crossed, beside the fire, hands tucked beneath his armpits.

He bit his lip, a question forming in his mind. “Do…do we have the same dad?”

Tahlia looked up at him. “Of course. Only your father has had the privilege of being called my beloved, and only he is worthy enough to have sired my children.”

Once night fell, it fell quickly. Blanketing as far as Danny could see from the mouth of the cave in a thick darkness. Snow fell from the skies in thick tufts and covered their footsteps.

“Does he—do they know about me?”

“No, they do not.”

“And you probably aren’t going to tell them anything about me, if you could help it.”

“That is very perceptive of you, habeebi.”

“You won’t tell me anything more about them, will you?”

“In due time, I will.”

Danny blew part of his fringe away from his face. Figures.

Despite the ever-present niggling at the back of his mind, Bruce had yet to see what was in the flash drive. The weeks since his strange meeting with Vlad Masters suddenly exploded with criminal activity with the recent breakout in Arkham and the brewings of another gang war in the shadows of Gotham’s paved streets. It was all hands-on deck. And Bruce, whether as Batman or Wayne, had always prioritized Gotham and its citizens over anything else.

The flash drive remained on his person despite the crisis, tucked away in one of the sturdier compartments of his utility belt to prevent the data inside from becoming damaged. Sometimes he found his hands gravitating towards it, fingers brushing against the button that would release the mystery from its confines before he realized what he was doing and steeled himself. Hands fisted to his side and attention forcibly directed elsewhere.

Eventually, the rogues were placed back into Arkham, and Gotham let out a shuddered breath of relief as it remained standing for another day.

Most of the family were out on a light patrol, cleaning up the remains of the breakout and helping where they can. Jason and Dick bickering over the comms whilst Barbara laughed in her clocktower.

(“It’s not that bad.”

"‘It’s not that bad’—shut the fuck up.” Jason spat. Bruce could hear him revving his bike. “You’re a fucking idiot, you know that? Certified Grade A idiot. B’s gonna kill you.”

He could hear Dick roll his eyes. “Sure, pile it all on, Jaybird. Blame the victim.”

"It was your fault.”

“It’s not my fault I didn’t see it there!”

"You tripped and got a concussion. From a stick. A. Stick.”

“Can we please just leave that out of the report?” Dick groaned. Barbara laughed. “Oh god.”

“Richard motherfucking John Grayson. I swear if you vomit on me then—”

“I’m not gonna vomit on you! You just turned the corner a little too fast. It’s nice to see you care though.”

"Fuck no, I just don’t wanna smell like regurgitated cereal.”)

Damian was benched from a patrol. Their last conflict with Poison Ivy ended with Damian sticking a bad landing and twisting his ankle. He dealt with it with as much grace as can be expected. Meaning that he spent the last few days sulking as he caught up on his missed schoolwork and shooting daggers at everyone else who came back from patrol.

Bruce flicked the flash drive open and plugged it into the computer. The flash drive contained only a single folder dated six months ago.

He clicked it, and a news headline popped up.

LOCAL TEEN DIES AFTER DRIVING OFF CLIFF

Beneath it, a picture. Blue eyes. Black hair. A familiar face.

Blood pounded in Bruce’s ears. He could hear nothing except a sharp gasp from Damian behind him.

When Dick and Jason arrived at the batcave, it was to an eerie silence. Not that it was usually loud, only that Bruce spent most of his free time down in the cave and Dick had come to expect hearing some signs of him around. Typing on keys, the clicking of a mouse, the heavy thuds of a fist meeting a punching bag or a training dummy, etcetera, etcetera. Or maybe even Alfred cleaning up around the cave, feeding the bats, or restocking their med bay.

(Dick, it turned out, didn’t have a concussion. Probably. Not a severe one anyway. What mattered most was that he managed to convince Jason to have dinner at the Manor. Alfred was making a tarte tatin for dessert tonight and those were absolutely to die for. )

One of Tim’s cases took him to the other side of Gotham. The only person in the cave was Damian, who was staring agape at the batcomputer.

“Why the hell is the demon spawn looking at old pictures of Bruce? We get it. They look alike.

“Uh, Dami? What’s up?”

Damian snapped his mouth shut. “I believe it might be best if you asked father that, Grayson.” Despite his clipped tone, there seemed to be little anger in his voice. His proud shoulders were hunched over on the chair, eyes trained on his lap.

He looked so small.

Damian clucked his tongue. “He’s upstairs, if you need him. So is Pennyworth.”

Dick shot a glance at Jason who raised his hands in mock surrender. “You’re up golden boy. Whatever the fuck the old man’s problem is this time, I’m not dealing with it.”

Dick sighed. “Fine.”

There was a door in Wayne Manor that didn’t exist.

When Dick was a child and recently adopted by Bruce Wayne, one of the first things he did was explore the manor. It’s the prerogative of every child that somehow found themselves in a large mansion—even more so given the castle-like exteriors of Wayne Manor. All castles have secret passages, and if the Batcave lay in the subterranean depths below, then surely the manor proper must have its own secrets.

Dick would tumble and cartwheel along the hallways, opening any and every single door he came across. A lot of them were just empty bedrooms or unused parlors and sitting rooms; the furniture covered by white sheets to keep the dust away. Alfred was probably magic, but even he can’t keep the entirety of the manor dust free.

The majority of the unused rooms were unlocked.

Except for one.

It was a room in the west wing, on the second floor. A couple doors down from where Bruce’s and Dick’s were. Why it was locked, Dick never found out. But he was curious since it was the only room on that floor that remained shut.

When he asked Alfred about it, the old butler only said that it was an unused storage room they preferred to keep locked just in case. When he asked Bruce about it, he’d be quick to change the subject. Usually something Batman related. Which, well, always worked, because it was Batman related. And Dick, young and spry and itching to fly under Batman’s wings, would quickly forget about that curious little mystery in favor of punching bad guys in the face and flipping over rooftops.

At some point that locked door quietly disappeared, leaving a blank expanse of wallpaper and a decorative vase where it once stood. It was never brought up again. And Dick slowly forgot that it was ever there in the first place.

Until now.

The wooden table and vase were shoved off to the side. Wallpaper sliced away to reveal the lines of a doorway. The door, covered in its faint damask wallpaper, was kicked open, the wood around the bolt splintered and cracked. He could hear voices—Alfred’s and Bruce’s—speaking softly on the other side.

He pressed his back against the wall and kept his breathing quiet.

“Three times, Alfred.” Bruce’s voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Three times she’s done this to me.”

“Master Bruce…”

“I don’t—I don’t understand why—” Bruce choked, swallowing a shuddered breath. “Damian, I can understand. Jason, I can too. But…This? I—” Bruce suddenly quieted. Dick knew the jig was up.

He unlatched himself from the wall and slowly slid through the once-hidden-door, a hand kept on the frame. “Um. Hi, Bruce? Alfred?” The words fell flat, stilted. Dick winced as he said them. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop but, uh…” He trailed off the second he registered what was in the room.

It was large, as so many rooms in the manor were. The room was covered in peeling green wallpaper with faded pictures of baby deer and owls and other woodland creatures prancing about. There was a dresser on one wall. A shelf filled with little picture books and stuffed animals on the other. A brown teddy bear had fallen on its face on one of the shelves.

In the middle—where Bruce was hunched over—was a crib. The wood streaked and aged with time, the beddings within pristine and untouched, if not dusty. Hanging overhead was a mobile with little animals dangling on a string.

“Worry not Master Dick. It is good that you are here since it will inevitably involve the rest of the family at some point.”

Dick nodded absentmindedly, trying to lock eyes with his guardian. “B? What’s—what’s going on?” Dick took one step deeper into the room. “The pictures in the cave. I thought they were you since they were too old to be Damian—” Bruce’s hands on the crib’s railing flinched.

Dick’s breath hitched.

“They’re…not your photos, are they.”

Bruce took a deep breath in, the lines of his shoulders tense. “No. They’re not.”

In their line of work, the answer could have been anything. Clones, magical doppelgangers, alternate universe counterparts, hell, even just someone’s genetic code being coincidentally similar to another person. But…this room, this nursery, pointed towards only one conclusion.

“Who is he, Bruce?”

Bruce angled his head towards Dick, unshed tears glimmering in his eyes. “He’s my son, Dick.

“He’s my son.”

[a-cupof-jo]

Spiritus Lenis

Paring: Potion Master!Jaehyun x Medicinal Herbalist!reader

Genre: angst, fluff, magic!au

WC: 1.7k

warning(s): language

Summary: A dark stairwell welcomed him as he started his descent to the kitchen. His feet scrunched as they met the cool tile leading from the stairs to the open kitchen. The glass he had left sitting on the counter earlier that week was full, but that’s not what had him standing speechless in the kitchen. Next to the water was a vial of medicine with your distinct penmanship labeling it.

Prompt: Soulmates 12 “We can’t win. Either I have you and my soul sings but your cries, or we’re apart and your soul rejoices but mine dies.”

Continuation of Dyspnea. I would recommend reading that one first, however, this might be able to be read without knowing what happens in the first one.

~~

Shadows danced around the room as the oil lamp's flame flickered in the hidden room. He shouldn’t say hidden room, more like forgotten, but not to him. Oh no, the walls lined with long shelves and tables became so familiar to Jaehyun that he could tell you which board creaked when one stepped on the end and which wall had the most cracks running through it.

It was forgotten, because he was forgotten. That’s what it felt like. His heart had been ripped out, thrown on the floor, and stomped on. Isn’t that what he asked for, insisted on. He had created that damn soulmate indicator potion and you left, but again he was the one that told you you should go. The world became less bright. Flowers that he would buy to decorate the house no longer allowed their smell to cover up the old houses must. Brewed coffee no longer woke him up. The now dry cake in the fridge you had made that day…

Jaehyun yelped as his hand jerked away from the hot stove. Red spread across his hand and he hissed as the stinging pain increased. “Shit,” he raced into the house. The small bathroom that sat adjacent to the kitchen held his small medicine cabinet. You had made sure it was stocked and filled with every kind of medicine he could ever need. He pulled out a large box full of balms and vials of medicine. Using his uninjured hand he rummaged through the items. He lifted up the small can that read burn salve. Prying the open the lid he looked in to see an empty can. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he leaned forward, his head resting against the cabinet. The can dropped to the floor as a shaky breath escaped his lips. There’s only one place he can go to get more burn salve, “This has got to be some fucking joke.” Tears pressed at his eyes and for the first time in three week, Jaehyun wept. Sobs wracked his body and he buried his face in his arms.

“It’s okay,” an anguished sob ripped out of Jaehyun as the hallucination of your voice, your arms wrapped around him. The dim light of the bathroom lit fickers of shadows around the room. His eyes caught sight of a shadow hanging over him and kept him company as daylight faded away to a pitch black night. Another shadow joined them, reaching out to the one comforting him. Their hands connected and Jaehyun didn’t have the energy in him to look away as more tears escaped him. He leaned further into the cabinet as a cold and light pressured touch pressed on his burned palm. Soothing little circles encouraged him to close his eyes, to shut out the pain surrounding his heart, “That’s it. You're okay, Jaehyun. I love you.” He let the wet drops that hit the back of his hand and words whispered in the night lead him to a dreamless sleep.

Bright lights peaked through closed eyelids. Jaehyun squeezed his eyes tighter trying to fall back into darkness. Once he realized that he wasn’t going to be able to sleep any longer, he pried his eyes open to the sunlight shining down through the skylight in his room. His room, how he got here, he doesn’t know. Maybe he drug himself there in the middle of the night in a sleep induced haze or maybe he had gotten there sometime after the sunset. No, he remembers sitting on the bathroom floor with you- with a figment of you comforting him, “That’s a really shitty move to pull.” His voice came out in hoarse cracks. He turned his head into his pillow blocking the sun further from his sight.

A door creaked slightly and it took just a moment before Jaehyun realized that it was his door. Soft steps moved across the floor toward him, “Jaehyun.” Oh how he had missed that voice. It was so much clearer than the voice his mind had supplied for him the night before. “Honey,” a light touch moved his shoulder slightly. Jaehyun wanted to cry again.

He wanted to reach up and grab you and pull you into bed with him. To hold you in his arms and beg you to come back. To reject the soulmate bond, “Come downstairs when you're ready.” His arm moved slightly and he had to stop himself from reaching out and catching nothing but air.

Light moved further across his room and based on where it sat on his desk he had been laying awake staring at his ceiling for a few hours now. The light yellow of the walls had been your idea, so was the emerald green oversized chair sitting in the corner, and the fronds of spearmint hanging from the skylight. He sat up and glanced around the room again, catching more traces of you. Tears pressed at his eyes again and he pressed the palms of his hand into his eyes. He stopped as he felt thick wrapping press into the tender skin on his face. Confusion took over his thoughts before the pounding of his head had him leaning forward, hands flying up to his temples in an attempt to soothe the pain.

A dark stairwell welcomed him as he started his descent to the kitchen. His feet scrunched as they met the cool tile leading from the stairs to the open kitchen. The glass he had left sitting on the counter earlier that week was full, but that’s not what had him standing speechless in the kitchen. Next to the water was a vial of medicine with your distinct penmanship labeling it. He didn’t remember getting any medicine out last night, in fact he remembered being out of the medicine he needed. That didn’t stop him from unscrewing the little jar and typing the contents back. He stood at the sink looking out through the window in front of it. The sky was so bright and beautiful. The children and family strolling the streets were happy. He was envious. They have their happiness, but his was tied to another.

Wooden shutters rattled as the pale blue door shook in place. Jaehyun startled as he heard two sets of feet storm through the shop. “No,” he heard your voice carry through the door. “I can’t do it anymore. I can’t do this anymore.” He heard your voice get thick as you spoke to the second person.

“Please, listen to me,” Taeyong. Jaehyun braced his hands on the lip of the sink as he eavesdropped on the private conversation. “We are soulmates. We were made for each other. You have to get over this li-”

Your gasp slipped under the door. Jaehyun knew he should be listening but he couldn’t help it. It was you and his heart clenched as you stood on the other side of the door. “Don’t you dare say another word.” He could imagine you, hands clenching the hem of your shirt and eyebrows drawn together in anger. “Soulmates aren’t supposed to feel this way, Taeyong. I’m supposed to be happy but my heart hurts, and last night when we and he-” He knew you were crying now. The urge to race out and wrap you in his arms was nearly too great. He grabbed the handle ready to turn when.

“I know,” Taeyong’s voice was soft. “I know you're hurting, and I know that he’s hurting. What about me? Am I supposed to just let you go and hurt myself?”

“If you truly want me to be happy. Then yes. I need to be with him. The universe may have said that you and I were supposed to be soulmates. But how can we be if this, you and me, is what is killing me,” Jaehyun should really stop listening. The cool metal of the handle had warmed under his hand. Your voice had been broken, pleading. Jaehyun was ready to take you in his arms and never let you go.

“Well then,” Taeyong swallowed hard. “We can’t win. Either I have you and my soul sings but your cries, or we’re apart and your soul rejoices but mine dies.”

“I’m so sorry. I love him so, so much. I can’t give him up. They say my soul was made for you, but my heart beats for him,” her voice was firm and strong. Jaehyun was so in love with you. No amount of time short or long would change that.

Jaehyun heard a foot tapping fast on the floor. He held his breath, waiting for Taeyong to speak, “Okay,” a sigh of relief escaped Jaehyun and he clamped a hand over his mouth. “Maybe,” a loud swallow could be heard through the door. “Maybe we do this differently. Perhaps the universe didn’t want us together like this.”

“Thank you,” joy filled your voice and Jaehyun smiled as he heard Taeyong let out a small oof. “Thank you so much.”

“Anything for you,” Taeyong said lightly. His voice didn’t carry love or regret, but hope for something new, for something different. “I better go. I’ll talk to you later this week.”

Another moment passed, before the knob in Jaehyun’s hand started turning. Jaehyun finished twisting and pulled open the door. There you were light pants and a loose shirt hanging from your frame. You were so beautiful. He opened his arms slightly and you raced into them. The scent of homemade soap and spearmint lifting from your hair and skin. Jaehyun held onto you tight. The two of you stood in silence letting the minutes tick by. Jaehyun kissed your cheek, tightening his grip on you. A sob finally broke the silence and Jaehyun cupped your face in his hands, “You’re okay. I’ve got you. I love you.” You didn’t respond to him, opting to kiss him. Jaehyun didn’t mind the salty flavor of your lips or the way you clutched his arm in your grip as if your life depended on it. All he knew was you were home and he had a lot of time to catch up on.

~~

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