#the day the spitting image fandom is united is the day I will finally be happy

[tvs-coach]

Spitting Image Series 10, Episode 1

[border-spam]

Does troy really have a split jaw or is that fanon?

It's total fanon!

The design of the split lines across his cheekbones and chin coupled with the cheek clips and v shaped hinge outline next to his ears lead to a lot of people coming to that same outcome, that there is something up with his mouth from a prosthetic/mod standpoint.

So much of his design is never mentioned once or referenced in any way (hightech spinal rig with tattoos under it, neuro connector, mech arm that's much older and doesn't seem related to the spine and neuroport, implants on bicep, face mod etc) that like Tyreen's scars and possible lower body Siren markings, fandom took over when it came to coming up with logical explanations for 'em.

This actually touches ground with some Ao3 comments I wanted to share as they are all Leech Lord compliant, so I'll list them here alongside links to the fics they were related to (note warnings!)

You leave no avenue for characterization unexplored. Troy's facial prostheses finally receiving backstory is amazing

- Maw (Gore/Bodyhorror)

I LOVE the idea of it being not just decorative shit on his face, but my MO for any content I make is always based around asking why, over and over, and trying to make sense of what material I'm using in the first place. The modded mouth is a popular piece of fanon but you know... why? Why would he do that shit to himself. WHY would he want to be grotesque, why would he be chasing the reaction people would have to it when canonically he seems to really not be interested in fan attention the same way Tyreen is, what's the difference to him between being adored as his persona or being lusted after as a monster, etc. I just love deep-diving into the logic behind character and world building? It's what adds meat to the bone for me.

Big 'ol character and worldbuilding / lore responses list under the cut -

He could afford better robots but these ones UNDERSTAND Ty, don't you get it?

- Good night in (tooth rotting fluff)

Hey just because it's mangled and broken, and can't perform its intended function to a degree expected of it by everyone around it... and it's got rusty sharp bits it accidentally hurts you with sometimes... and it's cranky but it doesn't mean it... and sometimes it errors out in a way that's mildly disturbing in a way you can't place.. uh.. doesn't mean you should just GIVE UP ON IT you know? He can fix them :) They will be fine :) No one should just throw away something that's trying so hard just because it's damaged... haha... :')

It's so hard seeing how much they tear each other down when they're the only thing they have left. And what a poor self-image Tyreen has beyond all that glitter and bluster...

- Wolf in sheep's clothing

The twins function well enough as a unit till tensions rise, and I was trying to seed in The Leech's influence on them in earlier work like this too - towards anyone else Ty would become MORE aggressively confident, more assured in her complete and utter dominance of the situation, her flawlessness, but against Troy who see's her for what she is, it turns inwards and eats at her instead of lashing outwards. He switches from relatively submissive around her to almost surgical levels of dissection, he knows exactly how to go for the jugular with words, and doesn't hold back. She's The Leech's mouth but he's its eyes and it's only when they lose control emotionally enough for it to claw to the surface of their psyches that you get an idea of how much it really affects them individually. GB had an absolute goldmine on their hands here of cosmic/body horror and the concept of toxic family when all you have is each other, there's so much to work with, and I figure it's a factor in why some people still really enjoy messing around with Calypso content.

I like how you allow Troy to be a disabled character, how his congenital defects and prosthetics colour his outlook and appear in ways big and small in all these vignettes. It's easy, I think, to see him as largely untroubled by his health apart from when he needs a charge from Tyreen in the game, but you allow him to struggle with his weakness.

- Chronic (Drug use)

I'm really glad to hear that's coming through in the writing because it's something I noticed a lot too. Very often when Troy, or other characters canonically disabled / chronically unwell are written it's "told" and not "shown". Chronic pain, illness, it's not something that is just a little tickbox in a life or some descriptive terms added to a character synopsis, it's something you live and deal with. There are bad days. There are times it is a negative that has to be worked around or faced in ways that aren't pleasant. It doesn't make you lesser or weak to have times where illness does leave you unable to function to a level you want to, it's not a failure for you to be unable to perform tasks when a disability or flair up means it's not viable. I feel personally that by showing scenes like this where his health and body issues do have a very visceral and impossible to ignore the effect on his ability to function, and going through his mental processes of dealing with and managing them, it brings the character across as stronger than if he never seemed to be shown dealing with symptoms or weaknesses. People are more than their disabilities and conditions, those aren't just kinda taglines to add onto a character's description and then never address. I feel like doing that in a way undermines what people deal with who manage chronic illness, pain, and who have disabilities that affect their daily lives negatively. Appreciating the effort it takes to manage them is important.

What I really like about these is that you can really understand as a reader how their dynamic must have evolved. How even before Leda's death Tyreen would have felt demonized while Troy got the attention because of his condition, because he was less willful.

- Starlight, Moonbright

Ah man, absolutely - and that shit stayed with them. It wasn't his fault and he never wanted it, but of course their parents would have had their extremely ill child at the forefront of their thoughts, especially during weeks when he was.. bad. Tyreen by nature even without The Leech's influence is a little attention seeker, she'd be the life of any party and she BLOSSOMS if she's got the spotlight, but as a little kid who's got literally no one but her parents and her brother, and who all three of which can't give her nearly as much time as she deserved? That's rough. That's really unfair. That coupled with The Leech's warping effect on their egos as they grew up and the bitterness and resentment they harbored in different ways created a reverse dynamic. She'd never be out of the Galaxy's attention again, and he'd have no choice but to take his rightful place in her shadow.

I love how you illustrate both how much more, and yet how much less Troy is now. How the blameless child, full of potential, is inextricably linked to the brutal, larger-than-life avatar he fashions.

- DeLeon ( Graphic Violence / Gore / Hallucinations)

He's molded the monster he is now out of the bones of the man he should have been - there's no going back really. There's nothing left to go back to. He broke Troy DeLeon apart to build the persona that acts like an iron lung now, suffocating him breath by breath while forcing him to still take them. That life is over, he killed it before it had a chance, but the idea of it is still there in his subconscious. Somewhere in the absolute trainwreck of Troy's brain is the tiny, flickering belief that maaaaaybe one day this will all be over and he can shuck off the bracer and spines, peel off all the shit he's covered his skin with, and just go back to not being Calypso. DeLeon here isn't some aspect of his mental state or his sins haunting him - it's The Leech, spitting venom at a host it loathes in something that's not sound or comprehensible language. His subconscious has just translated it into something it can understand - his greatest regret.

On if Borderlands Humans originated on Earth -

There's a really tenuous link between BL verse and rEarth, but it's there and can't be ignored. The cultures, accents, terminologies, so many are Earth specific despite these people being spread across galaxies, so hell yes - Earth as an emergence point makes total sense. The next question then, is why is it never mentioned - and you can cover for that with a lot of things like say, tt was so long ago that it's not relevant to anything that would ever be discussed, or it could be a mass evacuation from a catastrophe there is little record of now. I like to go with something along those lines, that the first human Siren host emergence on earth just absolutely decimated the planet. Like, we were doing fine till this random woman somewhere in the ass-end of nowhere develops weird markings overnight, then goes apocalyptic. The first Leech maybe, not understanding her powers and having them rip across continents in a spread of crackling electric death that only left husked shells of plants and animals in its wake, or the first Firehawk who went nuclear and burned the sky, or the first Voidgrasp who lost control and began to collapse the planet's core - some extreme shit that had humans fleeing en masse with barely any preparation and HUGE swathes of history and knowledge left behind. That would cover so many social things surviving into the BL verse, cultures, accents, cooking, that shit comes with us regardless of what we were able to throw into escape ships. Like so much data would be stored on any tech and data arrays within the vessels people would use to leave a dying planet even in an insane rush, but that shit waters down over time - if you're farming barely edible plants on some planet that smells like farts, are you really gonna be that stressed about teaching your kids history from a lost planet when your current concerns are not being eaten by something with 19 legs and 4 buttholes? Don't think so.

On if the other Siren entities are as influential to their hosts as The Leech -

I touch on it a wee bit throughout LL, but the others are FAR more passive and meld more to their host's whims. The Firehawk Siren wouldn't.. like.. care? If the host was burning down a planet or fighting off an evil corporation? They are removed from any nonsense happening on this side, they might not even really be able to tell, it's like asking an amoeba or a collection of sentient atomic particles what its opinion is on Brexit. That's not really its priority. The Leech is so aggressive in its control of the twins and desperation to drive them towards an outcome it desires only cause it's split, broken, removed from the song, and completely lost. We're talking a caged, half-mad animal removed from its natural environment and left totally isolated from its own kind for millennia. It's in pain, it's confused, it wants to find its way back to the song and the others and where it belongs, but it's stopped by a barrier it can't comprehend ( the twins and being ripped between them), so in its impotent rage it feeds back that hatred onto them. It's not really sentient in the way we would describe functional intelligence, but it wants, and craves, and FEELS. And it feels very, very angry.

Big thanks to @undergoingcalibrations for talking through so much of this with me!

Asks are Open!

[iwrestlenow]

Many More To Die, Chapter 7

TITLE: Many More To Die (Chapter 7)

FANDOM: Sanders Sides (Necromancer AU)

SUMMARY: The secret history of Logan and Roman begins to come to light while little pieces of Roman's world start to fall apart around him, resulting in a late night confrontation that exposes Roman's role in reuniting Virgil with his big brother.

SHIPS: Logince (Logan/Roman), Moceit (Patton/Janus) and future Dukexiety (Remus/Virgil)

WARNINGS: MORE CHAPTERS INCOMING, ‘cause this was getting super bloated. IDK, I just have a lot of feelings, and I’m rushing ‘cause I want the boys to kiss and be happy so I can start my series of smutty one-shots...I mean, what? >.> <.< XD

Also, no betas, we die like men.

NOTES: This is based on the gorgeous piece of art by @gretacticdraws that can be found here. I ended up writing a ficlet for it, and then my brain got swallowed up. Breathe at me wrong, and I’ll write more…hell, who am I kidding? I’ll write more anyway because this? Is self indulgent drivel. XD

Also located at AO3 over here.

1020, A.A.

“Hold on...just hold on...”

It took all his effort to stay calm, keeping the rhythm of his compressions steady the way Remus taught him. It was different, watching his twin tap-tap-tap the chest of a tiny kitten and blowing a careful stream of air into its snout—this was a boy, an entire person and his skin was pale as marble, lips tinged the blue of Father's lapis ring...

The body under his hands spasmed, a gush of water suddenly erupting from his mouth. Thinking as quickly as he could, Roman tipped the boy's head to the side so he could spit the water on the grass beside the river that ran behind the palace, and not swallow it back into his lungs—but you couldn't swallow things into your lungs, could you? Was it wrong? Was he doing this wrong?

...pulse. He should feel for a pulse, right? That's what Remus said...

Roman pressed fingers to the boy's throat, sagging when he felt the rapid flutter of a heartbeat there...at least until the boy twisted away and scrambled back, still hacking and shaking from the chill air and his sodden clothing.

Blue eyes met green, and eleven year old Prince Roman Sanders was struck breathless by the most beautiful person he had ever seen in his short life.

“Careful��it's all right, I won't hurt you.” he soothed, raising his hands and remaining on his knees. “I just want to make sure you're okay.”

The other boy blinked, water dripping off clumped eyelashes like diamonds falling to roll down his wet cheeks. He had jet black hair, plastered to his head, and even with his heart beating again, his skin was still so pale. His eyes sparkled like the river water itself, clear and bright and so blue it almost hurt to look at them.

“I...was dead.” the other boy hiccuped, bringing a hand to his chest as his brow furrowed in confusion.

“I...well, yeah. I mean, your heart wasn't beating, so I used the vital breath to make it start again. My brother taught me.”

The boy blinked, his thin but well formed lips drawing into a curious pout that made him flinch, made him reach up and touch his lower lip—sporting a shallow cut that matched one on Roman's, where he'd been a little too forceful pressing his mouth to the boy's so he could force air into his lungs.

“You...you brought me back from the dead.”

Roman blinked—but when he said it like that, he supposed that he had. Wow.

“I didn't use magic.” he said instead of...literally anything else. “I swear it.”

“On the Spider's Thread?”

“What's that?”

“The bond that unites souls.” the boy explained. “It's the most sacred oath in the world, 'cause if you break it the Fates will tear you from the Living Tapestry.”

“What's the Living Tapestry?” Roman asked, shifting to edge closer to the boy.

“The world.” he replied through chattering teeth. “And all the people in it...and you stopped them. You stopped Fate.”

“But—I didn't use magic. I didn't...really stop Fate, I...I just...you were floating in the river, and—I had to try.” Roman explained, feeling strange with all this talk of bonded souls and raising the dead, and how pretty the boy was.

“Is...is that okay?”

The boy watched him with a look Roman couldn't make heads or tails of...but after a moment he nodded.

“It's okay.” he assured him, shifting onto his knees slowly.

“Good.” Roman replied, then winced a little when the clickclickclickclick of the boy's chattering teeth became audible.

“You're so cold—you'll catch your death without some dry clothes.” He looked down at himself—equally wet from diving into the river to pull the boy out. “I could bring you back to the palace to dry off and--”

“I can't go there.”

Roman flinched at the forceful way he said it, harsh and tinged with fear. He didn't need to be his brother to connect the dots.

The boy knew a lot about death magic, and he was afraid of the palace. He was Necromata...but he was small and beautiful and shivering, and he wasn't sure anyone so awestruck by the vital breath, of all things, could be as evil as he'd been raised to believe.

Could they?

Roman thought for a moment, then struggled to his feet and started pulling off his tailored white tunic, leaving him in a simple black cotton undershirt.

“What--”

“I'm going to walk you home.” Roman insisted. “You're in no shape to be by yourself—and if I'm dressed like a citizen, no one will recognize me as a prince! You'll be safe.”

The boy watched him as he finished stripping off anything that would mark him as nobility, even discarding his boots so he was walking barefoot. When he was done, the boy was still kneeling on the ground, just...staring at him.

“What?”

“You said 'citizen.' Not 'commoner.'”

Roman made a face. “I don't like the word. I don't think people are common—I like to watch the roads from my bedroom window and imagine all the stories that the people who travel them have to tell. Common people are boring, and how can anyone with so many stories be boring?”

The boy hesitated, but finally started to get to his feet.

“Thank you...apologies. I don't know which prince you are.”

“Roman. I'm Prince Roman.” he offered, extending his hand to the boy to help him up. “And I swear—by the Spider's Thread—that I will see you home safe.”

Regarding the hand thoughtfully, the boy reached up to take it.

“Salutations, Your Highness. I am Logan Crofter.”

Their fingers touched—and Roman's heart froze when the other boy screamed.

********** 1033, A.A.

“At the end of the day, Your Majesty, the truth will come out: you're not merely a pawn of the necromancer. You're in league with him—and the Sanders line will fall from power. After all, twins don't long survive the death of their other half—or so the stories say.”

The words were going to haunt Roman long past the resurrection of his father—then again, so was the broken hand that still throbbed where he'd punched the court mage in a fit of blind fury.

“Roman!”

He stopped in his tracks, finally allowing himself to take stock of his surroundings: he was storming down the corridor that would lead to the north wing, where Patton and Logan were being kept. Head still spinning with the angry shouts and protests of both royal advisors and soldiers loyal to Colonel Mori, he'd fled the crowded throne room after breaking the mage's jaw with only the sound of his brother's cackling to comfort him.

Without his permission, his feet were trying to carry him towards the necromancer—towards Logan.

The one who was depending on him. The one who was helping him...the one...

Footsteps pounded behind him. His eternal, steady awareness of his own twin was all that kept Roman from being startled by the hand that grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.

“Roman.”

Remus stood there in front of him, hands on his shoulders, wearing an uncharacteristically sober expression. For one moment, in his mind's eye he saw Logan and Virgil, somewhere in the palace, having a similar encounter—the image had clung to the back of his thoughts since a discreet intrusion from Remy let him know that Logan was okay, his hope for both of them a fantasy he couldn't stop himself from willing into reality.

Logan had his brother back. Virgil had his...the notion of it made Roman ache, brought him dangerously close to thinking about things he couldn't entertain. Not a hint, not even a memory.

Hold on.

Do not let go.

I never have...I never will.

Roman was clutching at Remus's hands on his shoulders before he could stop himself, staring down his twin. For a second, Remus's eyes widened and his gaze grew distant—looked at him like he wasn't there, didn't seem to see him through whatever wheels were turning in his head...

Then the wall came down, his hands slid away from Roman's...his arms opened, and Roman collapsed into them. He felt the tears fall, then stream, then shook with sobs torn from his marrow. The dangerous memories fell away, replaced instead by the chill of the king's lifeless body, the stillness in Roman's arms, the stiffness of rigor setting in as he held him close before the guards forced him back into the castle.

His father was dead.

Father was dead.

Father was dead.

In the heart of the palace, Roman came apart, and Remus gently put him back together with strong arms, soft words, and shared pain.

********** 1021, A.A.

“You're sure this is all right?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why am I here?”

“Because I wish it.”

The pair were walking by the river, Logan's request. He wouldn't tell Roman anything more than that he had to do something as part of his training, and that he wanted Roman's help. Logan's Grandpap didn't know he was doing it, Roman lied about being sick to get out of his lessons and sneak out for the afternoon...

It was confusing as hell, and Roman would be a lot more afraid of the chances he was taking if it were anyone but Logan asking him to do this.

“But what if your Grandpap finds out about...whatever we're doing, and you get in trouble?” Roman protested.

“Then he can...”

Logan trailed off and stopped walking with a  frown before fumbling with uncharacteristic clumsiness to reach into his pocket for the vocabulary cards that had been a staple since Roman started teaching him outsider slang. The clumsiness came from reaching into his right pocket with his left hand—because his right hand was busy being firmly enmeshed with Roman's.

“...'deal.'” Logan finished once he'd pulled the cards out and read the top one. Glancing up to meet Roman's gaze, he offered him the small, triumphant smirk that anyone else might read as arrogant confidence. Roman knew it was all Logan allowed himself in moments of triumph—pride in the hard-won victories.

“You've been studying.” Roman observed, doing a miserable job of hiding a smile.

Logan stopped in his tracks, released Roman's hand, and shuffled through the vocabulary cards for another one, speaking as he displayed it for Roman's evaluation.

“'Duh.'”

Roman dissolved into giggling, and on impulse reached out, pulling Logan into a hug. The ten year old boy immediately tensed, breath stilling at the unexpected embrace.

Roman didn't let go, but he did loosen his arms for Logan's benefit. He waited to see if he'd bolt or...

Roman watched the vocabulary card flutter to the ground as Logan let them go, and very deliberately wrapped his arms around Roman's waist, laying his cheek against Roman's shoulder. He was still tense, but held on.

“Too much?” Roman asked softly.

“Yes.” Logan replied.

“Hurts?”

“Yes.”

“Should I stop?”

“...no. I...”

“Breathe, Logan. Remus says it's important to breathe—and important to take it slow 'cause you're touch starved.” Roman reminded him. “I'm sorry I didn't ask first, but I really don't want to hurt you. I'll let go if you ask me to.”

“I know, just...”

“What is it, Logan?”

“...more.”

The way his voice fractured and his arms reflexively tightened broke something inside of Roman as he did as he was asked: held tighter, pressed his face to Logan's hair, stood still and gave hugging his best friend his whole attention.

That was the moment Logan let out a shaky sigh and sagged in Roman's arms. He didn't know what it was, but he had to be thinking about touching Logan for it to stop hurting. Sometimes it was still too warm and too overwhelming, but it didn't seem to hurt him as bad when he was just standing there, willing his whole attention into Logan.

“...it's the Warping.”

Roman frowned a little, lifting his head just enough to rest his cheek against Logan's hair instead of his whole face. “What?”

“The Warping.” Logan repeated quietly, his breath puffing warm against Roman's neck. “I must commune with the dead as part of my training. The fiber strung onto the loom for weaving is called the warp, while the fiber that is strung across this is called the weft. The Warping is preparing myself to learn how to find the Loom of Memory—a state of consciousness where I can work my power properly.”

Roman nodded against Logan's head. “What do I need to do?”

“Just be with me...technically, I am supposed to do it alone, but I researched the ritual, and it is believed that, in the Old Times, a Weaver could bring their Animata to the Warping.”

“But I'm not an Animata.”

“No, but the Animata's defining characteristic was that they were twin souls—and you are a twin. I believe your presence will be acceptable.” Logan replied. “I...am supposed to acclimate myself to the emotions of the dead. It's not really my strongest area—feelings—and...”

Logan didn't finish. Just held on, tensing a little, then relaxing—leaning into Roman's embrace.

“You're afraid.” Roman finished for him softly.

“Fear is an emotion. I feel nothing.” Logan insisted petulantly—and it was petulant with the way he huffed soft against Roman's neck. “Necromancers have no souls with which to feel.”

“So you keep saying.”

“It's true.”

Silence fell again.

“...if I had a soul, however...I would entrust it to you.”

Roman felt something in his stomach tremble at that, soft and shivery and bright.

“Swear it on the Spider's Thread?” he asked softly.

Logan didn't answer right away—as he did with things he was never terribly sure of.

“Grandpap says that the Spider's Thread is woven by Fate, not by magic.” he replied instead of a real answer.

Roman fell silent at that, just holding onto Logan and trying to ignore the way that having Logan close like this, pledging him his non-existent soul, quiet breaths on his neck and head on his shoulder made his chest warm, made his heart do pleasant, squirmy things in his chest.

“Do...you believe in Fate, Logan?” he asked softly, not sure why he suddenly felt like holding his breath. Fortunately, he didn't have to.

Like most things Logan knew—which was almost everything—he answered immediately.

“I have since I met you.”

********** 1033, A.A.

Roman couldn't sleep that night—which was a good thing, seeing as how his room was invaded at three AM.

It happened silently, but he was emotionally raw and vaguely paranoid after what had happened to his father, after the threats made against him and all he cared for by the members of his own guard, his own court—or, perhaps, he just felt Logan's magic still teeming in his veins, keeping his heart beating and his lungs full of air. Maybe the nearness of him set something off, magic calling to magic.

One moment, the dark was empty and gaping like the hole in his chest that lingered ever since his breakdown in the halls with Remus, and the next it opened wider before filling with a presence that teased him with both the promise of danger and comfort.

When the blade touched his throat, he already had his hand under the pillow.

“Virgil, don't.”

Roman expected Logan's voice—he did not, however, expect that Logan had company.

Snapping his fingers to call to life the luminaries in his room, Roman sat up and pulled his hand out from under his pillow, a dagger in his hand and pressed to the hollow of the cadet's throat. Virgil hissed—actually hissed out loud—and backpedaled, his own dagger dragging a thin line against the side of Roman's throat.

“OW! You venomous little shit!” he spat, touching his bleeding neck as he blinked against the onslaught of light.

His hand was jerked away, and cool fingers probed his throat with deft, clinical precision. Abruptly, his head grew foggy with something akin to sleep, but cold and light...Logan's magic working, taking control of him again.

“Relax—I'm not taking your mind, I'm healing you.”

“You're what?! Logan, you're a Weaver! You can't heal!”

Roman had to work at it a little, but his free hand lifted to rub his eyes. When he let it fall again, he had  Logan sitting on the edge of his bed, hand pressed to his chest just below his collarbone, eyes lit up with that dazzling blue-white, misty light again.

“Apparently, I can when I'm animating someone.” Logan pointed out, lifting his hand and running it along Roman's throat. The touch, with Logan so close, raised gooseflesh on his skin—and there was a lot of it, given Roman slept only in loose trousers and nothing else.

Virgil leaned in as he sheathed his dagger, his eyes going wide. “Ohhhhhh, shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit...”

Roman reached up, following the trail Logan's palm had taken—and found no trace of the wound. Not even a scar remained.

What troubled him was that Virgil was right. It wasn't something Roman was allowed to know, something he couldn't glean from the things he read in secret or the tidbits Remus shared from his Anima lovers...and he couldn't communicate how he knew.

Logan looked at Virgil pointedly over his shoulder, then turned back to Roman when his brother fell silent again.

“I apologize for the unexpected arrival, but Virgil insisted on secrecy once he realized he'd been exposed.”

“E-exposed?” Roman stammered, his head still spinning with surprise, the lingering effects of Logan's power, and very genuine confusion. “I don't understand.”

“Yeah, you do.” Virgil snapped, folding his arms. “You knew who I was before Master Picani felt my connection to Logan and outed me in the war room. That's how I got in, and with a shard of Necromatic magic hidden in a healing object, no less.”

Roman felt his blood run cold, and in a manner that was anything but light or misty like Logan's magic.

“Don't deny it: I asked around after Logan got back to Patton this evening. You personally cleared me when I applied to join the guard. Pair that with the fact that Logan remembers the night he was arrested? And you're lucky he stopped me from killing you.”

The world stopped turning in that instant. Everything came to a halt, from the spinning of the earth to the beating of his heart as he met Logan's eyes—those crystal blue depths that he barely kept at bay, the swirling tempest that he restrained for ten years...

Roman balled his hands into fists and tried to remember how to breathe again around the nameless emotion trying to claw its way out of his heart.

“You...remember me, Logan?”

Logan just stared at him, features inscrutable. His brow furrowed, his lips pursed—he was thinking, he was...uncertain.

“I was half conscious in the war room.” he finally replied. “The Spider's Thread—Virgil told me what that oath references. I...I don't remember you, but I feel certain you swore that oath for a reason.”

The nameless feeling in his heart grew claws, ripped and tore and drew blood.

“I did.”

“...how long have we known each other?”

“Ten years. Since the night we met in the dungeon.”

“And in total?”

Roman shut his eyes, bowing his head to avoid that look, those eyes that would unmake him.

“...thirteen. We've known each other for thirteen years.”

[katehuntington]

Title: Three Days Ago Fandom: Supernatural Characters: Reader, Dean Winchester (Sam Winchester & Castiel mentioned) Pairing: Dean x Reader Summary: Dean and Y/N finally decide to settle down. But before they do, they take on one more case, which will turn out to be their last. Warnings: ANGST with a capital ‘A’! Canon typical violence, description of blood and injury, panic, major character death, grief. Seriously, do not read in public if you don’t like crying in a crowd. Word Count: 3514 words Author’s note: Grab your tissues, hurdle up in a burrito of sadness, because this is gonna be sad. @kittenofdoomage said: “Well, that was rude,” @wingedcatninja: “HOW. DARE. YOU.” and @winchest09 asked: “Why? Why do you do this to me?” So on that note, I hope you all enjoy!

     Three days ago, you and Dean had the talk. About quitting the job, about getting your own place, maybe even start a family. It has been occasionally discussed before over the years, but always jokingly, always the sarcastic ‘as if’. Dean and you are both realists. You know you will most likely die in armor. There is no happy ending in the cards. Every time the hunters took out an enemy, new ones would arise. The war never seemed to end, you were always covered in blood and bruises, always neck deep in trouble, fighting some impossible greater power that was way above your pay grade. And so you both laughed at the idea, like neither of you could picture it, while deep down both longed for that kind of peace. 

     One time, while driving through the night with Sam fast asleep in the back seat, the two of you fantasized about living a normal life. How it would be to have a home that isn’t a bunker, with windows that would allow sunlight to peek through the curtains. A house where the floors creak and the roof tiles tick when autumn rain pelts down. Maybe a house with a porch or a deck, with a view over a lake, so that Dean could spend his retirement fishing. A house like the cute cabin in Grand Mesa, Colorado, that you spotted on a real estate website. Dean doesn’t know, but you’ve been keeping an eye on the property, feeling a hint of relief every time you went online and found it to still be for sale. Even though the chances of ever living there are slimmer than winning the lottery, you couldn’t help yourself. 

     That is, until the final big bad was defeated. All there is left now are the little cases. The little cases that other hunters would have no problem with, the little cases that aren’t worth dying for. After decades of fighting a battle against what hides in the shadows and threatens mankind, you and Dean have decided the time has come to lay down the weapons. Your hunting days will soon be over, you were finally going to settle down with the man you love. So when Dean came across a suspicious news article and convinced you to work the case, you promised yourself: one last job. 

     Three days ago, the two of you went on that final hunt, having no idea that this case would end so much more.

      “Dean!”

     The damage is done before you can blink, let alone prevent it from happening. With a gun trapped and steady between both hands, you hurry around the corner and enter a dark alley in one of the neglected neighborhoods of Chicago. The hunter you care so much for comes into view, pushed against the brick wall by the shapeshifter that’s wearing your skin. Making a split second decision, you fire two silver bullets. Both hit the shifter in the chest, one piercing its heart. When the creature turns to you, horrified, the light coming from the lamppost on the corner of the street hits its eyes, igniting them to flash abnormally bright one last time. Then the spitting image of yourself crumbles to the ground, a fist clasped around the handle of the knife, pulling the weapon from Dean’s chest. 

     Every detail is clear, your senses heightened by the adrenaline. It all happens so fast, yet you are very much aware of every detail of what’s playing out in front of you. The fresh crimson on the blade, the gasp that escapes from Dean’s lungs as the knife is roughly drawn from his flesh, your racing heartbeat drumming in your ears, triggering a crippling state of inner panic. You lower the gun, big eyes watching him in shock as he turns his head to meet your gaze. A desperate, hopeless shade of emerald green, begging you silently to catch him before he collapses.

     You start to run towards him, but his legs give out. Unable to stay on his feet Dean slides down against the brick wall, but before he tumbles over to the side, you grab him and keep him vertical. 

     “I got you. I got you now. Hey hey hey…”       You force him to look into your eyes, your hand firmly on the back of his neck, holding him upright. Damn, he took a good punch. Two nasty gashes on his brow and cheekbone allow blood to drip down his face, but the red substance that is pooling on his bottom lip and starts to drip down his nose is not just a result from the beat down. It’s coming from deep within, filling his lungs, creeping up his throat. 

     You hastily shrug off your flannel shirt, first one arm, then the other, so that you can keep him steady. After folding it into a ball, you move his denim jacket aside to witness the stabwound between his ribs. For a short second you just stare at the stain that evens out the colors of his plaid shirt in one dark tone of red, growing larger with each passing moment. The image translates in your mind, setting it in overdrive. 

     “Cas!!!” you yell up to the sky.      You know he can’t hear you, you know Castiel doesn’t have the power to heal Dean either, not at this moment anyway. Still, you hope for a miracle, looking up at the tainted clouds above, painted in a hue of purple from the city lights. You call out for the angel again, but nothing happens, and so you return your teary eyes back to the hunter. The look he returns petrifies you to a degree that it can be felt in your deepest core, because besides the mixture of fear and pain, you notice something else. Sympathy for having to leave you for good this time. Acceptance of the inevitable fate that lies before him. Then you know. Dean is going to die tonight.

     You could give up. Now that you realize all hope is lost, you could stop fighting. But you can’t. You can’t give up on him. Not now, not ever. The small voice that tells you to stop your attempt to save the man you love, causes your hands to tremble and your heart to race, but you are calmed by the strong minded will that wants to keep him alive.       “This is going to hurt a little,” you warn, before you press the bundled fabric against the injury, doing your best to stop the severe bleeding.       Dean groans in agony when you apply pressure, grinding his teeth in the process as he does is very best to keep pulling in breaths.      “I know, I know. I’m sorry. Shhh…” you hush him, pulling out your phone and dialing 9-1-1.      “Y/N… don’t bother,” he says.      “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that,” you return, stern yet broken. “We’ll do this the old fashioned way, alright? All we gotta do is get you to a hospital and they will fix this. You’re gonna be fine. You're gonna be just fine.”

     You’re not just trying to convince him as you keep repeating the mantra in your head, but who are you fooling? Certainly not Dean, who watches you with empathy as you press the cellphone between your shoulder and your ear. The operator asks what your emergency is.       “I need an ambulance! M-my boyfriend just got stabbed in the chest and he’s - he’s losing a lot of blood. You’ve gotta send someone quick,” you tell the woman on the other end of the line, trying your best to get the message across best as you can.      “Okay, m’am. Help is on the way. What’s your location?”      You quickly glance at the corner of the street, trying to find a street sign. There isn't one, but years of experience in hunting and tracking pay off. You only need a fraction of a second to determine where you are, going on observations and memory of your chase that led you in this dark and empty street.       “I'm in a back alley of N. Morgan Street, right next to the ‘L’,” you explain, returning your focus to Dean.      “I’m dispatching units to your location right now. Is your boyfriend responsive?”      “Yes. Yes, he is,” you reply. “He's conscious.”

     You observe the oldest Winchester, witnessing how the flare in his eyes slowly starts to die down. He has a calm over him that seems foreign, at terms with the inevitable. Dean, who never backs out of a fight, who keeps throwing punches no matter what, has accepted his fate. The sight causes tears to fill your eyes again, desperately clinging to your lashes. You can't let them fall. If the tears fall, you will acknowledge it. If the tears fall, you will admit that you are about to lose him.      “What’s your name?”      You snap your attention back to the operator, who tries to gain more information. For a second your mind rushes through your aliases, deciding which one to give the woman on the phone, but then Dean’s head slowly dips in your hand as his eyelids become heavy.      “Dean? No no no no. Stay with me now,” you respond panicky, quickly dropping the phone to the concrete in order to hold him up.      “Look at me. Look at me. Dean?!”      Frantically you cup his face, trying to get him to focus on you again. Your thumb rubs his scruffy cheek lovingly as you pray for him to hang on. Someone seems to listen to the request, though, because his eyes flutter open again, able to take you in once more. 

     “They’re on their way, Dean. You just have to hold on a little bit longer, alright?” you say, emotion thick on your voice. “Tell me something.”      “Tell you what?” he asks, weakly.      You shrug, because honestly, all you want is to hear his voice.      “Anything. A stupid joke, a funny story. Just keep talking to me.”      A small smile appears on his lips while thoughts form in his head. Something in his warm eyes changes as he seems to figure out what to say to you. You can tell it’s a message he needs to get across, last requests and pleas for promises.      “W - will you do me a favor? Sammy, he's gonna be devastated--”      “- Dean,” you object, knowing where this is going.      “Y/N, please let me say this,” he whispers, weakening by the second. “I'm not sure how much time I've got here.”

     You want to interrupt him, yell at him to stop talking like he is going to die. Because you still want to believe that he isn't. You still want to believe that the two of you will have your happy ending. But you let him continue, as the tears finally fall. Reluctantly admitting, acknowledging, the last spark of naivety slipping away.       The hand that is clenching the piece of clothing against the wound, hesitatingly loosens grip on the fabric. Eventually you let go completely, allowing the dam to break. Dean sighs relieved when the painful pressure is taken away from his chest and then looks into your glistening eyes. Despite his deteriorating condition his hand now reaches for yours, rubbing his thumb over your bloody skin comfortingly, then gripping it tight.

     “Promise me--” He inhales sharply, trying to get enough air in to deliver his message. “- that you will look after my little brother. Make sure he doesn't do anything suicidal... And let him look after you too. Don't go through this alone, okay?”      A burn ignites in your chest, the hurting flames firing up your throat as you lower your gaze, unable to hold yourself up. Actual physical pain, caused by heartbreak. Nonetheless, you promise with a nod.       “One other thing. Now this… this is important.”       His voice gains a little strength, drawing your eyes back to his. His pupils are dilated slightly, the darkness of the alley surrounding them this dreadful evening, but the beautiful shade of jade that has always captivated you is still noticeable. You take him in, trying to look past the blood, past the bruising.      “Promise me you'll quit hunting.” Dean pleads.

     Your jaw lowers a little as you stare at him. Not nearly confident enough to take a leap that substantial, especially now that you are going to have to make it on your own, you shake your head frantically, and look down again.       “Dean, I can't,” you resist.      “Yeah, you can,” he pauses, trying to catch his breath.      You watch him struggle, blood coloring his teeth red as it gathers in his mouth. Despite that the shadows are closing in on him, he clears his throat.      “You’re talented, Y/N. You’re capable of so much more,” he says, smiling lovingly as he watches you. “Go get that degree you’ve always wanted, buy that little house by the lake that you’ve been checking on for months now. But don't dwell on revenge, okay? Leave this life behind.”      “How the hell am I supposed to do that without you, huh?” you reply, whimpering.       “It’s gonna be easier to move on from being a hunter now that I won't be there to slow you down.”

     As he swallows apprehensively, he glances down at his hand on yours. The message shocks you at first, but quickly transforms into compassion when the true meaning of his words settles in. Moved, you run your fingers through his hair as you support his head, trying to get through to him.       “You picked me up when I was at my worst, you took me for the mess I was and you made me into a better person. So don't you dare think that there has ever been a moment in my life that you were a burden, you hear me?” you say, the words coming out strong, contradicting the tears that stream down your face.      For the first time you witness a glazed fog in his eyes, not caused by the pain he is suffering from, but surfaced by your moving words. You know he needed to hear that, because he would never be able to convince himself of that fact. The guilt doesn't leave his weary mind completely, though.

     “I - I’ve done many stupid things in my life, but you know what I regret most?” Dean continues.      You shake your head, waiting in suspense as he coughs violently. He settles, though, and you wipe the blood away that drips from the corner of his mouth.      “Not settling down with you,” he continues. “Not taking the chance that was right in front of me. I waited too long, and I - I was too damn scared to let my guard down, that I drove right by the exit…”      You hush him, trying to ease the man who carries so much on his shoulders still.      “Hey hey… It’s alright,” you say, softly. “You know why? You didn't have to take that exit. I was right there on that highway trying to hitch a ride. Look who stopped and let me in, huh?”      You smile through the hurt and Dean mirrors your expression as he blinks slowly.      “It's been one hell of a ride,” he whispers, his flooding lungs making it difficult to speak.      “It sure has,” you chuckle, trying to mask a sniffle. “And I wouldn't have missed it for the world.”

     Fingertips try to break the trail of blood that has come down his handsome face when he closes his eyes again, pulling in a shallow breath with difficulty, trying to cope with the pain. It kills you to see him like this, to watch him stall, trying desperately to stay with you for a little while longer. He’s living on borrowed time.

     “You need to know something, too,” you start, steadying him with both hands now, cupping his face.       His eyelids part again, but he can barely focus. He is beginning to weigh heavily on you and it is petrifying to see how the strength oozes from his body. As his heartbeat slows to a worrying low pace, yours speeds up. Tears have now carved shimmering lines in your cheeks as you tremble, not ready for the moment that is about to come.      “I love you, Dean. You know that, right?” you say, falling apart.      Going on fumes, he looks up into your eyes, as the corner of his mouth twitches. There is no actual answer to your insecure question, but the line parting his lips growing further into a small smile says it all. Pupils bouncing over your features, trying to imprint this image in his mind, so that he can take the memory with him to wherever he will go in the afterlife. It’s the last thing he is going to see.       “Kiss me,” he breathes, barely audible.

     You lovingly stroke his cheek with your thumb as more tears spill from your eyes. Willingly, you come closer until you’ve closed the gap between the two of you completely, pressing a gentle kiss on his mouth. You are the one who he wants to feel in his final seconds. You are his last wish.      As his lips move over yours, dwelling in the moment, you understand that this is his way of saying ‘I love you, too’. His taste that is so familiar to you, has mixed with the metallic flavor of blood, but you try not to think of that matter. Memories of all your epic moments with him flash through your mind, and God, how beautiful those memories are. 

     4th of July on an empty desert road on the hood of the Impala, beer instead of champagne, shooting stars instead of fireworks. Driving across the country for a Bob Seger concert and ending up right in front of the stage, you dancing freely and him singing along every word. The first time he took your hand in his while riding down the 101 in California, finally allowing himself to fall for you. The first time you kissed him under the traffic lights, stretching the moment until the lights turned green and the cars behind you started honking, but neither of you cared. All you want is to make more of these memories, for those intimate moments to carry on. But they will not. This is going to be the final moment you will share. So you put all the love you carry for him in this last kiss, just like you did in the first.

     You feel his last breath on your lips without realizing it. It’s only when he fails to respond to your touch, that you freeze. Paralyzed, you wait as fear of your worst nightmare coming true begins to crawl up your throat, closing it off. You slowly remove your lips from his, not ready to look at his motionless face that you still hold in your hands.       “Dean?”      His eyes are closed, like he’s sleeping and could wake up at any second, but the silence is horrifying. Frightened by what is right in front of you, your fingers slip down to his neck, desperately trying to find a pulse. You relocate your fingertips on his artery in denial, looking for a heartbeat, a breath, any sign of life.       “No no no no…” you speak again, repeating his name more forceful. “Dean!”

     Unable to accept what has in fact become reality, you shake your head as you keep holding Dean up, unable to bare feeling him slip from your hands. Desperately, you try to force him to feel your touch once more, running your fingers through his hair, caressing his clammy skin, as you whisper to yourself in order to keep calm. This is not happening. This can't be happening. This must be a very, very twisted dream. This is not real, this is not real, this is not real.

     But it is. It is real. And just like that, your light is gone.

     Your breath hitches in your throat and the confirmation hits you like a freight train. You let his lifeless body slip against your chest as you fold your arms around him, letting his head rest on your shoulder. A heart wrenching cry reverberates through the back alley. Unable to breathe you struggle to let the cool air fill your lungs, so unsettled by the loss of the man that you love, that you can’t imagine yourself ever getting up again. As sirens approach in the distance and echo between the concrete of Chicago, you hold Dean close, your tears mixing with his blood, your wailing breaking the silence.

     Three days ago, you were faced with a choice and made the wrong one.      Three days ago, you could have decided to spend the rest of your lives in peace, but you promised yourself, one last job.       Three days ago, it wasn't Dean who drove past the exit. It was you.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to reblog my work or buy me coffee (Link in bio at the top of the page).

This work is written by me, Kate Huntington, and it is under no circumstances allowed to copy my work.

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[jesatria]

Fic: Simple Pleasures, Chap 9

Title: Simple Pleasures Fandom: Kushiel’s Legacy Characters: Isidore d’Aiglemort, Anne Livet Pairings: Isidore/Anne Word Count: 5,130 Rating: NC-17 Summary: The story of Isidore d’Aiglemort & the gardener’s daughter of Lombelon. WIP. Disclaimer: I do not own Kushiel’s Legacy. This is only for fun & no profit is being made from it.

Previous Chapters:

1. The Visit

2. Desire

3. The Harvest Festival

4. Triumph

5. Gifts

6. The Eagle Unbound

7. Lighting the Candle

8. The Longest Night

Chapter 9: The Final Parting

           I didn’t mind being with child.

           Other women hated it, I came to understand. Between the monthly courses brought on by lighting the candle and the many pains and discomforts childbearing women were forced to endure, I understood why some wished Eisheth would close their wombs. Mayhap I would feel that way in time, after I’d borne more than one child, but not now. That isn’t to say I enjoyed the vomiting or back pain, but those things were not enough to detract from my happiness. I had chosen this. I wanted this child, our child. Early summer couldn’t come soon enough.

           It was extremely difficult to bid Isidore farewell when he left. Spring was in the air, a time when I’d normally rejoice at the first green shoots to poke through the thawing ground. This time I’d spent the better part of the winter with him and thus it was much harder to see him go. War was coming. We did not speak of it; I sensed he was reluctant to do so. At first I thought he didn’t want to spoil the occasion of our first Longest Night together, but it continued for the duration of his visit. I came to suspect his reluctance was due to my condition, never mind that I was hardly some delicate flower to faint at the mention of war. I suppose he meant to spare me the stress that was sure to follow if I knew the details. Regardless, he told me enough that I understood this was far more serious than the usual border raids. The Skaldi found a leader to unite them and they meant to invade. I’d learned enough from Isidore over the years to know he kept the border forts well-garrisoned and watched the passes closely. Surely that would be enough to hold off an invasion along with the Royal Army. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling of apprehension that rose in me whenever I thought of Isidore on the border. It was the only thing that spoiled my happiness.

           Bit by bit I grew used to my new status. I didn’t miss the more tedious of my chores, such as cleaning the manor. No longer being responsible for my share of that meant I could pursue other things. The quilt was one of them. It was my first time making one entirely on my own—my previous experience had been working alongside the other women making quilts for the household. It was true that I hardly needed to make one myself for our child, who wouldn’t lack for blankets, but I wanted a child of my body to have somewhat made with care by me. I’d made shirts for Isidore for the same reason. In time I would make clothing for our child too.

           With the arrival of spring, I returned to the gardens. It was the first time I’d done so since becoming lady of the manor. I could’ve hired a gardener to tend to the gardens according to my specifications, but I chose not to. The gardens had been my father’s charge for as long as I could remember and I was not about to give them over to another.

           “Are you certain you ought to be doing that in your condition?” a familiar voice asked. I looked up from the lavender bed to see Marcel, evidently deciding to stop for a chat on his way to the orchard.

           “Thank you for your concern, but this is hardly taxing.” I was far enough along now that my condition was quite apparent. I’d even had to make myself some new dresses and alter others to accommodate it.

           “You’re sure? Because I doubt d’Aiglemort would want you overexerting yourself.”

           “I’m quite sure, Marcel. I’ll stop if I feel tired or ill.”

           He knelt down until he was level with me. “Do you think you’ll have much time for gardening once he makes you his consort and you’re a mother?”

           “I certainly intend to make time, whatever happens,” I replied. Mayhap I could tend to the gardens at the townhouse Isidore offered to buy me. That would be my one requirement—I certainly didn’t need anything fancy. The prospect of being able to design and plan my gardens, not merely choose what I planted in plots laid out by someone else, was an exciting one.

           Somewhat softened in Marcel’s face. “I’ll miss you once you’re gone, you know.”

           I smiled. “I know, and I’ll miss you too. But you know I won’t be gone all the time. I love this place too much not to spend a portion of my time here.”

           “That’s good to know. Still, I’ll miss you.”

           After Marcel left, I let my thoughts wander. They were wont to take familiar paths these days. I couldn’t help wondering what our child will be like. Isidore wanted a son he could teach Camael’s Arts, but I had no preference. Boy or girl, I meant to teach our child to appreciate growing things as I did. Mayhap our child might even join me when I worked in the gardens. I would make sure the L’Agnacite heritage wasn’t lost beneath the Camaeline. I hoped the child would have Isidore’s beautiful hair. In my mind’s eye, I could see a girl who looked like me but for the silver hair or a boy who was the spitting image of his father.

           The first buds were just opening on the trees when Isidore returned to Lombelon. I could tell right away that he was not himself. He was tense, though his face brightened at the sight of me. “Somewhat’s bothering you, I can tell,” I said once we’d settled into the privacy of the master suite. “Care to tell me?”

           He looked away. “It’s nothing, Anne, just the impending invasion. Soon enough the passes will be free of snow and the Skaldi will be upon us. I cannot stay here long, but I had to see you again. You are well, I hope?”

           “Yes, aside from the common complaints of a woman with child.” I laid a hand on my stomach. “I’m managing just fine, though I have to admit I’m quite ready for the birth.”

           “We are into spring now. The start of summer is not so very far away.”

           “No, and yet time moves so slowly. Have you thought much about our child, what it might be like?”

           He pursed his lips, considering the question. “I have, yes.”

           “Personally I’m hoping it has your hair.”

           An amused expression came over his face. “Have you now?”

           “Of course. It’s beautiful.”

           “I’ll freely admit it’s my only vanity. So yes, I’ve also imagined our child inheriting my hair,” he answered, grinning.

           “Blessed Elua let it be so,” I said with a smile. “You are still hoping for a son?”

           “Yes, though I’d be willing to teach our daughter Camael’s Arts if she’d a mind to learn. Truth be told, I can’t see any child of mine not being drawn to the sword.”

           “Is that how it was for you?”

           He nodded. “I started learning around the time I was learning to read. I can still remember how it felt, the first time I picked up a practice sword. Somewhat inside of me cried out in happiness at how right it felt.”

           “That’s quite young to begin, is it not? I imagined you started at age ten, as the Cassiline Brothers do.”

           “Not in Camlach. I don’t know how it is in the other provinces, but it is common for Camaeline peers to begin training at such a young age,” he replied. I suppose that made sense if you were born to wield a sword.

           “Is it the same for the girls?”

           “I cannot say. I never had a sister, or indeed any close female friends until I went to the Shahrizai. If I had to guess, I’d say they begin later. Camaeline women don’t take to the battlefield, but they are expected to defend themselves.”

           Try as I might, I had a hard time picturing a noblewoman, even a Camaeline one, wielding a sword. “Do they carry swords as men do?”

           Isidore chuckled. “Some of them might. They certainly own them and bear them as needed. Camaeline noblewomen will defend themselves and their castles at need.”

           I’d never heard of any D’Angeline woman doing such a thing. It certainly wasn’t done in L’Agnace. “Would I be expected to do that?”

           He was quiet for a moment before answering. “Camael willing, there will be no more Skaldi attacks for some time after I deal with them and you’ll not need to concern yourself with such matters. The Camaelines won’t expect a gardener from L’Agnace to know how to defend a castle.”

           I let out a big sigh “Well that’s a relief!”

           “You are no Camaeline. They’ll notice that, as surely as everyone here can see I’m no L’Agnacite.”

           “I could tell the moment I set eyes on you, though I was quite preoccupied with how beautiful you are.”

           “Were you indeed?”

           “I was.”

           “Well, I wish I could say I noticed you when I first arrived, but I didn’t. There was much to take in. You only caught my attention when you brought me that first bottle of pear brandy.”

           “We owe a debt of gratitude to Thèrese, for choosing to send me up with that brandy,” I replied, leaning my head against his shoulder.

           We spoke of names for the first time that night. I lay propped up in bed, a stack of pillows behind my back, while Isidore rubbed oil onto my belly. The motion of his hands soon soothed me so much that I began to doze.

           “I had a thought about names.” His voice startled me into alertness.

           “Oh?” I hadn’t given the topic much thought, for all the time I’d spent imagining what our child would be like.

           “If we should have a son, I’d like to name him Maslin.”

           “A pretty name. I like it.” He gave me a small smile in response. “Maslin was your father’s name, was it not?”

           “Yes. I thought we might follow tradition.”

           The babe moved at his words as if in agreement. “That would be good. If we have a daughter, we could name her Louise after my mother.”

           For a moment I thought he might insist a daughter be named after his mother, but he didn’t. Instead all he said was, “Louise d’Aiglemort? That does have a certain flow to it.”

           “Well, there’s that decided. Maslin for a boy; Louise for a girl,” I remarked. He continued to massage me and I closed my eyes in contentment. He’d rubbed my feet earlier in the evening, which I greatly appreciated. Any relief from the aches and pains that came with my condition were quite welcome.

           “You look as content as can be,” Isidore observed.

           “I am. The only thing that could make me happier would be you staying here until the birth.”

           “You know I cannot do that, much as I wish I could.”

           “Yes, but I can’t help wishing it was so,” I replied.

           He ceased his rubbing and moved to lie beside me. “I will do whatever I can to be here for the birth,” he said gently, black eyes softening as he met my gaze. “I cannot promise more than that, and there is a real possibility that I will fail.”

           My hopes deflated at his words. Every time I’d imagined giving birth he was beside me, despite knowing he was needed to deal with the Skaldi. I’d held that hope since I discovered I was with child and it died hard. Isidore saw the disappointment in my face and laid a hand on my belly. “I will not make false promises to you, Anne. All I can promise is that I will try. The Skaldi will be defeated by then, Camael willing.”

           “Camael willing.”

 **

           We spoke more about the future the next day. Isidore was due to leave the day after that and we were determined to spend as much time together as we could. Despite his assurances, the impending Skaldi invasion lingered in my mind. This was rather more serious than the border raids he’d spoken of previously. What would happen if the Skaldi were able to breach the border defenses? I shuddered at the thought of a horde of barbarians raping, pillaging, and plundering their way across Terre d’Ange. These fears I mostly kept to myself, not wanting to mar our time together. It was the last time I would see him before the invasion, and I did not want it filled with talk of coming war.

           It was a chilly spring day, cold enough to warrant wearing a cloak when walking outside. We walked together in the orchard, where the laborers who tended the trees could be seen here and there going about their work. It was chilly enough that the sun peeking through the clouds gave little warmth. Beside the buds on the trees, here and there green shoots poked their way through the earth. I’d always loved spring. It was heartening to see the first bits of green coming up after months of winter. Yet I did not feel that way this spring, rare for a L’Agnacite and unheard of for a gardener.

           “I’ve been giving some thought to matters of inheritance,” Isidore began, “I know very well how deeply you love Lombelon and it seems fitting that our child should inherit it.”

           “Elua willing, our child will love Lombelon as much as I do.” The babe was half-L’Agnacite, after all, and surely that wouldn’t all vanish beneath the Camaeline heritage.

           “Indeed, I cannot imagine any child of ours not inheriting your L’Agnacite love of the land,” he replied, amused.

           “Neither can I,” I said with a grin, “for I do not mean to let our child be ignorant of that part of its heritage. What of your other estates? Would our child inherit them as well?”

           He took a moment to consider the question. “Mayhap. We shall see.”

           “Because politics may demand you marry some noblewoman?”

           “Yes. You do understand that such a marriage would not mean me casting you aside?”

           I nodded. “I know well enough how you feel about me to be certain that wouldn’t be the case.”

           He took my hand in his and ran a calloused thumb over it. “You are first in my heart, now and always. No future wife of mine will ever come between us. And if it transpires that I need not marry for politics, I would be pleased to have our child succeed me as Duc or Duchese d’Aiglemort.”

           My child, ruling a province. “That would be… a great honor.” In truth I cared very little about such things. Our child inheriting Lombelon meant more to me than becoming a Duc or Duchese. That a child of my blood would inherit the home I loved was so much more than I’d ever dreamed. With that inheritance, my child would be a peer of the Realm. I smiled a little at the thought—not bad for the grandchild of a gardener.

           “We shall see but Lombelon, that is certain. I’ll see it done once the babe is born and officially acknowledged by me,” he said. “It is easy enough to change my will and dispose of my estates as I see fit.”

           “Do you think you’ll still want to come here often once I am living with you as your consort?” I asked. All this talk of estates had me wondering how much time I’d be spending at Lombelon in the future.

           “We can come here as often as you like,” Isidore replied, “and you would be welcome to come here without me if you so desired. I’ll not expect you to remain at my side wherever I go. I doubt you’d enjoy the border fortifications.”

           “No, I daresay I would not. I recall you once telling me there were almost no women to be found there, not even Servants of Naamah.”

           “There’s little in the way of comfort to be found. Hardly a place I’d take my consort, even with the border perfectly quiet and peaceful.”

           This talk of the border brought the fears I’d tried to bury back to the surface. “Will it be a long campaign, do you think?”

           He looked away, taking time to consider his answer. “I am hopeful that it will be. The combined might of the Allies of Camlach and the Royal Army should suffice to drive back the Skaldi.” There was a note of tension in his voice that hadn’t been there before; I suspected he was more worried about the battle to come than he was letting on, not wanting me to worry overmuch. Well, it was too late for that now. My worry must’ve shown on my face, for he gave my hand a squeeze of reassurance and stroked my cheek gently. He said nothing; there was nothing to say on this matter that hadn’t been said already.

           Did I know, then, what was to come? I did not. All I had was a nagging worry, born of what he’d told me of the Skaldi. I suppose many women have felt the same when their lovers have gone off to war. It is my own misfortune that those worries would prove to be horribly correct, and in ways I couldn’t have begun to imagine. That last day we spent together became all the more precious. I was for enough gone with child by then that long walks tired me, so we returned to the manor after a short walk through the gardens and nearest orchard. Instead we retired to the manor, where we passed the rest of the day in quiet companionship, savoring each other’s presence. Things had progressed to the point where simply being together was enough. That being said, we were certain to make good use of what we both knew would be our last night together for some time. It would indeed prove to be our last together, but for a far longer time than either of us anticipated.

           We took our time that night, hands exploring each other’s bodies as if for the first time. The feel of his calloused hands on me never failed to stir my desire, and this was no exception. Isidore took the lead, as he’d done every night of this visit, and I was content to lie on the plush pillows and let him pleasure me. He moved slowly with the languisement, licking and sucking until I thought I might die of pleasure. With me now so far gone with child, he insisted that I relax and let him take over. I was more than happy to do so. That never lost its appeal for me, who’d been a servant for so long, being serviced by another.

           The Trois Milles Joies lists positions considered most comfortable for a woman with child. We’d already sampled a few on this visit. After he brought me to the peak of arousal for a second time, I turned on my side and spread my legs. My foot came to rest on Isidore’s shoulder as he situated himself between my legs. He moved as slowly as he had with everything else that night. I closed my eyes and savored the feeling of him inside me, of his hand gripping my thigh. I almost didn’t want my climax to come so I might remain in that moment. But come it did, for I could not preserve the night forever. Later we lay closely together, both of us spent and satisfied. I lay on my side, with him pressed up close against my back, one arm thrown protectively over my stomach.

           The morning came too soon.

           Since being relieved of my servant duties, I’d taken to lingering longer in bed than I would have otherwise, even when Isidore wasn’t there. This morning was no exception. If I remained in bed, perhaps the day wouldn’t begin and Isidore wouldn’t leave me. I wondered if he felt the same, for he did not rise as early as he usually did. After some minutes had passed, I felt him move off the bed. I turned to watch as he dressed, fixing the image of his perfect body in my mind. I never tired of looking at him, especially when he was unclothed. He was well-aware of it too, and I swear he would deliberately take his time dressing for my enjoyment. This was not one of those times, much to my dismay. There was naught for me to do then but rise and don my own clothes.

           Isidore handed me a small wooden box once I’d finished dressing. “A gift for you. Since I’ll not be here for your birthday, I thought I might give it to you now.”

           I opened it to find a delicate snowdrop pendant on a silver chain. The white flower was inlaid with pearl and the green stem set with emeralds. “Oh!” No one had ever given me such a valuable gift, and I found myself at a loss for words.

           “You told me you’d like to see snowdrops.” His voice was soft. “This will have to do until I can take you with me to Camlach.”

           I slipped the necklace over my head. The chain was long enough that there was no need to undo the clasp. It came to rest just above my breasts. “It’s beautiful. I will wear it and think of you until we are reunited.”

           We left the bedchamber and walked into the sitting room. A meal waited for us on the table. I immediately spread jam on a thick slice of baguette and took a bite. I was well-accustomed by now to the increases in appetite brought on by my condition. Even so, I was a bit surprised to find myself still hungry after finishing my meal. Indeed, the meal passed all too quickly and there was no more delaying the inevitable.

           I met Isidore in the courtyard to bid him farewell, as was our custom. A few other members of the household were present, as were his men in their familiar black-and-silver livery, but we might’ve been alone for all the attention I paid them. It was a clear spring day, with a hint of winter’s chill yet in the air. He pulled me into his arms and kissed me softly. “Return to me,” I breathed once we’d separated, resting my head against his chest, “return to me and see our child born.”

           “I have every intention of doing so,” he said, stroking my hair with a gloved hand. “If I should not return… I left you enough coin to keep you and the babe for a while. You will name it as we discussed?”

           “Yes. Maslin for a boy; Louise for a girl.”

           “Very good.” I leaned my cheek against the rich velvet of his doublet; his hand moved to rest on my back. “Anne, I want you to know that though it is unlikely I’ll be able to write much, you will be in my thoughts every day we are parted.” His voice was thick with emotion. “Every soldier knows there’s nothing quite like the promise of returning home to loved ones to keep him going through the hell of war. I want you to know that I’ll carry the memory of you with me along with the promise of our child and hope they will see me through.”

           Tears slid down my cheeks, soaking into his doublet. “Anne.” I lifted my head to look up at him. His black eyes were filled with a terrible love. “Anne, love, please don’t cry. I don’t want my last sight of you before I go to war to be with tears running down your face.” He removed one of his gloves and gently brushed the tears away. That he called me “love” was enough to show the depths of his feelings. He rarely did that.

           “That would hardly be a memory to sustain you through the hardships of war,” I replied, giving him a small smile.

           He brushed the last of my tears away. “Indeed it would not.”

           I stroked his beautiful hair and gave him another kiss. “I trust that will be a better memory.”

           “Rest assured that it will.”

           We kissed and embraced for a little while longer until the parting could be put off no longer. “I love you,” he said as we separated. “Sometimes I think I haven’t said that as often I should have.”

           “It doesn’t matter. I’ve known it in my heart, as you know I love you.”

           We parted truly then, and I watched as he mounted his horse, waved to me, and rode down the path to the gate with his men following close behind him. I remained where I was until his distant figure vanished from sight.

           I never saw him again.

 **

           It is an unfortunate thing that the mind will retain the memories of the worst moments of our lives when we’d much prefer to forget them if we could. I would gladly do without the memory of the day my world came crashing down around me. Spring had come in earnest by then and the pear trees were fully leafed out. Many flowers had already started to bloom. A few weeks had passed since Isidore’s departure and I wondered how he was faring. Surely the mountain passes were open by now and the Skaldi invasion had begun.

           I was now in the last weeks of my term. Early summer, the priestess had told me, or mayhap late spring if the babe was minded to come early. With some reluctance I had to cut down on my time in the gardens, as I tried easily. The birth really couldn’t come soon enough. This was my mood, then, when the news arrived.

           Lombelon was never starved for news. Close as we were to the City, we heard things. Couriers passed by frequently and would often share news with us. It was one such courier who brought the news that was to devastate me. I was in the upstairs sitting room when he came, working on the quilt. It was very near to completion. The noise downstairs was clearly audible with the door to the room open. I set the quilt aside and rose from my chair, awkward as I now was. I’d made it halfway down the stairs when I heard the news the courier brought.

           “The Duc d’Aiglemort has turned traitor to the Crown!”

           The words were a dagger to my heart. I gripped the railing tightly as the room seemed almost to spin around me. Isidore, a traitor? Surely not! He always was mindful of his duty to protect the Realm from the Skaldi. I wouldn’t believe it, I couldn’t believe it…

           “The Skaldi have invaded through the passes of Camlach, a horde such as has never been seen in recent times!”

           He’d been preparing to fend off the invasion by making sure the passes were well-defended. How many times had we spoken of this, and how it was his duty to protect the Realm from the Skaldi. “No,” I heard myself saying, “no. He wouldn’t do that. The Skaldi must’ve broken past the border defenses. They have a strong leader…”

           But the courier shook his head. “You are mistaken, Madame. I have just come from the front and heard the news from those who were there.”

           “Then they must be mistaken! He’d never let the Skaldi through the passes intentionally!”

           “D’Aiglemort left the southern passes lightly defended so the Skaldi could pass through. He meant to use them to claim the throne for himself.” A small crowd had gathered around the courier by now. “But the Skaldi turned on him, and he fled with his army into the mountains.”

           I didn’t want to believe it. It was too awful a thing to contemplate, that the man I loved could betray our nation in such a way. Yet the rational part of my mind pointed out that a courier riding to the City had no reason to lie about such a thing. What purpose would he have in making up things about Isidore? It’s true, that part of my mind insisted, otherwise why carry such news to the City? This I understood, even as the rest of me rebelled at it. I was lover to a traitor, carrying a traitor’s child…

           My legs seemed to be made of jelly. I clung to the railing so tightly my knuckles were white and sank to my knees, mind reeling. Footsteps sounded on the stairs as some of the crowd noticed me and meant to see that I was unharmed. Hands grabbed my arms and carefully lifted me up; I couldn’t have said whose they were.

           “Anne!” someone cried out.

           “Quick—she might lose the child!”

           I could not say what exactly happened next, only that my head was spinning and the shock of the news rendered me unable to focus on anything else. The next thing I can recall clearly is lying on my bed. I turned my head to see Thèrese sitting in a chair at the bedside, watching me intently. “Thèrese?” I asked, sitting up.

           She held up a hand and I settled back down on the pillows. “You’re in shock from what you just heard. You need to rest and steady yourself.”

           My hand came to rest on my stomach. Nothing felt out of the ordinary, indeed the babe moved as if in response to my apprehension. I breathed a small sigh of relief. Had I fallen down the stairs, the worst might’ve happened. Thèrese’s gaze moved from my face to my stomach. “I’m so sorry, Anne.”

           Everything was a haze. All I could think of was the revelation that Isidore was a traitor. He’d never said anything to me indicating he coveted the throne, not once in the years we’d been lovers. The only time I could recall him showing any sort of ambition when he told me about the triumph he and Baudoin had been grated by the King. Yet it had clearly been growing inside him for years and he’d kept it from me. I had to wonder—how well did I really know him? What else had he kept from me? “Oh Isidore, how could you?” I whispered, turning away from Thèrese. After a few minutes passed, I heard her chair scrape across the floor followed by the sound of her shoes as she walked out of the room. The tears flowed then, as if a dam holding them back had burst.

[nadisabug]

Title: Sick

Fandom: Danganronpa (SDR2) AU: post-simulation Warnings: disorientation and sickness A/N: okay so I've been super stressed with school, and all I can think about is what if Hajime is getting sick right and he tries to hide it because now hes in charge of the class and apart of the Future Foundation and he is really good at hiding it except nagito notices bc hes nagito and watches hajime closely and now its all i can think about here i go

^^^

Hajime felt awful.

He had been feeling really off for days now, but he brushed it aside. He had to, everyone relied on him. The only reason why they were allowed off the island in the first place was because Hajime convinced Makoto and the rest of the Future Foundation to allow them to move back to the mainland because staying on the island where everything happened would just be worse. Makoto knew Hajime was right, staying on the island was the worst thing that could happen to the students, he told Hajime himself that. But, the Future Foundation was nothing if not skeptical. They were not sure if the students were properly rehabilitated, seeing as they got all their memories back, so they still did not trust the so-called Remnants. Consequently, they were a lot of conditions associated with leaving the island and moving into their relatively nice place. All of which rested squarely on Hajime's shoulders.

One of them was the morning report to Makoto.

He had to report how everyone was doing, feeling, saying, and acting. They did have an assigned therapist that was required to meet with them biweekly, who had her own report, but they wanted an update from the supposed leader of the community as well. Hajime took this responsibility very seriously. Honestly, he had nothing else to offer. He couldn't make patrol groups to help keep the streets safe like Kuzuryu, Pekoyama, Owari, and Nidai, he couldn't help create relief packages like Teruteru, Soda, Tsumiki, and Tanaka, and he couldn't go out into the streets and inspire hope like Moida, Nevermind, Koizumi, and Saionji. He couldn't even just cycle through the three, like Komaeda did, lending his luck to all of the causes. He had a knack for finding out where trouble was occurring, adding personalized items to packages just right and relying on his luck to deliver it to the citizen who needed it most, and no matter how unnerving he could be, no one could deny his unwavering charisma and the faith and hope it inspired in the citizens. Hajime could do none of that. All he had were his supervision and regulatory jobs. So he committed himself to completing them to the best of his ability. He collected and documented everyone's reports flawlessly, he kept inventory and sent out refill requests before the other students knew they were running low on anything, and he never missed a morning report.

Until today. 

Hajime woke up groggily to the sound of his Comm beeping. His head was pounding, needles pressing into his temples, and he could feel the dull throb as his blood pumped through his exhausted body. The pain flared in rhythm with the beat, waves of pain rolling over his head as the pressure within felt like it was going to burst. He was about to chalk it up to the fact that he had gone to sleep at 4 am the night before when he sucked in a deep breath, stopping halfway when a fit of coughs overtook him, curling into himself and coughing desperately into his elbow. Once the fit subsided, he took another, full deep breath and picked up his Comm device. On it, read the time.

7:37. Fuck.

He answered it quickly, then threw the covers off of himself, launching to his feet. As he did so, a wave of nausea rolled over him, his vision going completely white. He stumbled forward and caught himself on the dresser, slamming the edge of his elbow on the corner in the process. He bit down on his tongue to keep the contents of his stomach down. Hard. He tasted the the sour blood as it coated his tongue and filled his mouth, but he did not let up.

"You're late," a cold voice announced from the Comm's speaker. With how hard Hajime was gripping the thing, he was surprised it was still working.

Fucking hell. The one day he was late of course Kirirgiri had to be there. He swallowed the blood and the pain radiating from his head, and now his funny bone, with a grimace. "My apologies Kirigiri-san. It was not my intention to-"

"I have neither the time nor the patience for your excuses, boy. Get to your device, now."

The line went dead, much like how Hajime felt and knew he was. Kirigiri pointedly refused to use his name. She was livid.

And she had every right to be, Hajime thought as he desperately pulled on the first pair of trousers he saw. He was an entire 37 minutes late. He started buttoning his shirt frantically, but found that he could not get his hands to stop shaking enough to do so. Hajime cursed and tossed the shirt to the side, instead opting to wear his undershirt to the meeting, and not his usual formal wear. He ran into the bathroom to smooth his hair when it hit him.

His stomach convulsed and the next thing he knew he was heaving into the toilet, a white knuckle grip on the toilet bowl. He skipped dinner last night because he hadn't been feeling well, so the only thing that came up was bile, burning his throat and stinging his nose. All he could think about was getting whatever was in him out as fast as possible so that he could get to the meeting.

Once the heaving subsided, he rushed to the sink and rinsed his mouth quickly, wiping the snot and vomit onto his hand towel. He rushed out of the bathroom, not bothering to flush or brush his teeth. When he finally threw himself into the conference room, he found that the screen on the computer was already depicting a grainy image of Makoto, Kirigiri standing over his shoulder. He threw himself into his usual seat at the head of the table and in front of the monitor, straightening up  and trying to appear as composed as possible.

Both Makoto and Kirigiri did not appear pleased.

"You took your time," Kirigiri announced the obvious for the second time, her voice dangerously sharp.

Hajime's eye darted to the time and found that it was now 7:53. He had spent nearly ten minutes emptying his stomach into his toilet bowl. /Fuck.

"And did not even bother to get dressed. Did you fall back asleep?"

Hajime knew it wasn't a question, but felt compelled to defend himself. He opened his mouth to respond, but Makoto waved his hand and spoke before he could.

"It does not matter. You are here now. Give your report, I am already late for another meeting and really do not have anymore time to waste." Makoto's voice was unusually cold and strung tight. Hajime had made him very late for a meeting. Hajime couldn't tell if his gut was clenching from the nausea or the guilt, but it didn't matter.

He quickly launched into his report, desperately hoping he wouldn't vomit all over the desktop.

Once the meeting was over, and he had been given another reprimand, he slowly picked himself up out of the chair and stumbled to the door. His next meeting wasn't until noon with the Patrol unit, so he had time to return to his room and clean himself up. He knew he should probably got to breakfast, but the idea of food made his stomach clench and he decided against it. He swung open the door, leaning heavily on the handle, when he realized someone was outside of it. Before he could register who it was, he straightened up and wiped the grimace off of his face. He couldn't let anyone know.

Komaeda pushed off the hallway wall he was leaning on and froze when he saw Hajime. "Oh shit, you look awful," he blurted.

"Thanks," Hajime grunted, rolling his eyes, and started down the hallway to his room. He heard Komaeda scramble to catch up behind him and within a moment he was walking backward in front of Hajime.

"I mean, you just look so sick, you don't look bad Hinata-kun, you never do- I mean well, I just meant that-"

Hajime felt another wave of nausea tear through him and he was forced to stop walking. He folded his arms over his chest to play off needing to put pressure on his stomach and attempted to mask his grimace as a scowl of annoyance at Komaeda.

Komaeda immediately snapped his mouth closed and stopped walking. "Sorry," he apologized quickly. "I just-"

"Why are you here?" Hajime grunted. He didn't mean for it to come out as harsh as he did, and couldn't help but feel bad when Komaeda flinched at his tone.

"Sorry... you just skipped dinner last night... and then you weren't at breakfast... so I was just... worried... I know I am sorry that sounds super stalkerish, like I am watching you or something, but I was so worried that you got hurt or something because you never miss meals, even if you don't eat and I am so sorry for pointing that out I am just-"

"No, thank you Nagito." Hajime found himself thanking the rambling boy before he could stop himself. After the morning he had, being yelled at and just feeling shitty for fucking up, the kind words made him feel better more than he liked to admit. "But you don't have to worry, I'm fine." Hajime moved to walk past Komaeda, but Komaeda caught his arm. If Hajime had been feeling better, he could have easily brushed him off. But for some reason, Hajime couldn't find the strength to break away.

It didn't matter though, Komaeda hissed and pulled his hand back quickly. "You are burning!" He raised a hand to Hajime's face and pressed his hand to his forehead before Hajime could smack his hand away. "You definitely have a fever."

Hajime's stomach dropped. He knew Komaeda was probably right, but he couldn't bring himself to admit it. "No, I told you, I am fine." Hajime stalked toward his room and let himself in, planning to slam the door behind him so that Komaeda did not follow him in, but at that exact moment, a violent wave of nausea hit him and he bolted to the toilet.

Hajime thought it was impossible to throw up nothing. But here he was, heaving over the toilet, nothing but spit falling in. As his entire body clenched and spasmed, he felt a soothing hand on his back. The presence beside him comforted him immensely; just knowing someone was there made this bout of vomiting just a bit more bearable than the first, even though it was worse.

Hajime wasn't sure how long he spent over the toilet, but he knew it was a while. After Hajime no longer felt the need to vomit up his entire stomach, he kept his head hidden in the bowl, unwilling to face Komaeda.

Komaeda stayed silent, rubbing Hajime's back. He gave him a moment, then curled his arms around Hajime's shaking torso. "Here," Komaeda said as he helped Hajime stand up. "You'll want to brush your teeth."

Hajime no longer had the energy to fight, so he just did whatever Komaeda told him to. He guided him through the motions of washing out his mouth, and allowed Komaeda to brush his teeth for him when it was apparent that his hands were shaking too bad. Komaeda took over wordlessly, not commenting on Hajime's shortcoming, but Hajime still had to close his eyes as Komaeda brushed his teeth for him. He wasn't sure what it was exactly, but he knew it was a combination of shame over how useless he was and the fact Komaeda was so close to Hajime's face. He kept his eyes squeezed closed as Komaeda prompted him to spit, and only opened them once Komaeda began to lead him to the bed.

To be very honest, it was more like half dragging Hajime to the bed. Hajime couldn't seem to get his feet to work correctly, and it tore him up. As Komaeda sat him up on the bed and crouched to take off Hajime's shoes, Hajime found himself closing his eyes again. He didn't even ask me to try. He knows I can't do it. I'm fucking pathetic.

"Hey," Hajime felt a hand cup his face and he blinked his eyes open in surprise. He almost shut them again when he realized Komaeda was mere inches from his face. He could feel Komaeda's warm breath fan his own flushed face, and felt Komaeda's thumb wipe away tears he did not know he had shed. Hajime felt so weak and small, but when he looked into Komaeda's eyes, he got lost in the genuine sincerity they held. "It's okay. I want to help."

How did he? Hajime's mind was swirling. Had he said that out loud? He wasn't sure anymore. He was too overwhelmed to fight back at anything, so he just nodded weakly. He let Komaeda take off his shoes and turn him to lay down on the bed. He didn't fight when Komaeda got up to get him water and something to swallow; he just took it.

As Komaeda pulled the covers over Hajime, he finally realized what was happening.

"Wait, meeting..." he protested weakly, trying to sit up, but collapsing back onto the bed when his vision blurred and spun.

"I'll take care of it," Komaeda insisted. He pressed Hajime down into the covers and placed a wet towel on his forehead. Hajime didn't know where Komaeda had found it or gotten it, but he was grateful nonetheless.

"They can't... I'm not..." Hajime struggled to form words as exhaustion tugged at his mind.

"Don't worry," Komaeda smiled, shushing Hajime. "I won't tell them. It will be our secret."

Hajime knew that he should have been creeped out by that, just like all his peers would have been, but Komaeda's reassuring words and kind actions overwhelmed him. Hajime chalked it up to him being sick. He was probably delirious, and that was the reason why he felt like kissing Komaeda. It was the fever and not because he liked him, because he didn't.

"Thank you, Nagito," Hajime muttered with a small smile, his eyes closing before he could gauge Komaeda's reaction.

After that, Hajime fell into a deep sleep, no longer able to keep himself up for another second.

[wellhellotragic]

Fractured

This is just a little birthday drabble for @miss-lucy-preston on her day of birth. I’m not used to writing for other fandoms so to say that this was a labor of love would be an understatement. I’m not sure how around I’ll be tomorrow, and I think we all know that tumblr mobile is the devil when I comes to posting fic, so here it is a day early. Somehow late at night on a Sunday seems fitting though.

Happy birthday!

Lucy had grown more than she realized in the months since learning that time travel was possible and that her mother was part of an evil secret society obsessed with changing history. Royalty. That’s how it had been put to her. She was Rittenhouse royalty, and he mother had sacrificed Amy for nothing. She’d still died in the end.

And Lucy, well she’d been left alone again. Flynn was avoiding her. Rufus was lost to them. Jiya had spent all of her time looking for him in the recesses of her mind with no luck. Connor, well Conner was certain that he could fix it somehow, and Agent Christopher had made it her life’s mission to bring Emma to justice.

And then there had been Wyatt. He’d told her that he loved her, but it had been the wrong time, the wrong way. He’d said it right after he’d lost is wife - again – and she hadn’t been able to say it back.

The time team was fractured, and she wasn’t sure they’d ever make it back. Not until Connor had snuck a man into the bunker. A man he’d promised was trust worthy and the best chance they had to get Rufus back. Andrew Beacon, a United States Air Force pilot.

Andrew’s training had begun right away. He’d been cocky at first, a little arrogant even. He’d been certain that with his background in aviation that he’d fly through the program, pun clearly intended as he’d winked at Lucy when he’d said it. And Lucy, despite seeming disinterested in his attempts of flirtation, had blushed at the remark.

Training had taken it’s toll though, and as well as he managed to control himself in high pressure situations, piloting the lifeboat had been completely different that anything he’d flown before, and he’d found himself out of his depth.

 That’s when Lucy had finally taken pity on him, taking dinner with him, watching television late at night. The conversation, stilted in the beginning, had become easy. He shared her love of history, although his in particular rain more towards military history.

 Wyatt had made his opinion on Andrew perfectly clear, reminding Lucy on more than one occasion that Andrew was an outsider, and that if he succeeded in bringing back Rufus, he’d no longer be needed. Flynn had seemed more open to Andrew, but Lucy had her suspicions that his approval of their newest member was only to further frustrate Wyatt. Agent Christopher was pleasant, but it was obvious that she hadn’t fully trusted him, and Connor spent all of his time setting the simulator up for every possible outcome. He no longer had time to socialize.

 Jiya had been the only one to really open up to him aside from Lucy. She understood that he was needed, and that he’d be going back in time alone, trying to save the man she loved. The last guy they’d brought in hadn’t even finished the mission, and she’d be damned if all of Andrew’s training had been for nothing.

 Eventually, Christopher had insisted that he travel back with the team, following Emma on whatever absurd attempt she’d made last to ruin the timeline. Wyatt had absolutely refused to let Lucy go with both him and Flynn, and as Jiya was the only fully certified pilot, it forced Flynn and Andrew to take turns.

 Andrew had loved it. His enthusiasm had been infectious and Lucy had fed off of it. Wyatt had noticed. Their giggles rang through the bunker at night, and they were inseparable on missions. And then there had been a kiss. To be honest, it had taken both of them by surprise, but all Wyatt had seen was a man toying with Lucy’s heart. He’d been fooled by Jess, and he’d be damned if he let someone fool Lucy in the same way.

 But when he’d confronted her, Lucy had stated in no certain terms, that his opinion on her personal life had it’s limits. They were friends, no more. She’d also reminded him, that despite her feelings for him in the past, and how much it had hurt when he’d chosen Jess, she’d done her best to be happy for him. She’d championed for his happiness, and he needed to learn to do the same.

 Over the months, they grew closer, and while Lucy wasn’t certain that she was in love, scared to give her heart away again, Andrew had told her that he was. He hadn’t asked for her to say anything in return, and Lucy had felt history repeating itself in a grand twist of irony.

 Andrew was only a few hours short of completing his training, and Lucy could feel time working against them as they sat in her room, going through her favorite history books. There had been an off the cuff remark at one point, when Andrew had opened a page dedicated to Abraham Lincoln.

 Thank God for Juliette Shakesman.

 Lucy’s eyes had snapped open, unsure if he’d been aware of her history. Finally, she’d asked him. He’d explained that he simply meant that had she not been there, more people may have died, and history might have turned out completely differently.

 There had been an awkward silence after that, and she’d felt like he’d been holding something back.

 And then he’d finally told her the more personal side to the story. That while he didn’t care for it to be advertised, he was a direct descendant of Robert Todd Lincoln. Lucy had insisted that it wasn’t possible, that the last of the lineage had died over thirty years ago as an old man. But all families had secrets, and there had been a child out of wedlock, which had led to a new line on the family tree.

 She should have seen it before. His tall lean frame, the raven hair and dark eyes. He’d nearly been the spitting image of a man she’d met long ago, in another century. A man she’d felt something for, however brief. It had thrown her, and she hadn’t been sure what to make of his confession, simply pulling her hands away from his suddenly and running from the room, avoiding him for the rest of the night, no matter how hard he tried to make amends for whatever he’d done to upset her.

 Then the alarms had gone off. Emma had taken the Mothership back to July 2, 1776. She was trying to prevent the motion that led to the vote in favor of independence.  Lucy hadn’t been able to meet his eyes, but she knew that Andrew’s presence was necessary. There were too many important people, and she wouldn’t be able to keep Wyatt well enough informed of everyone there. She needed another historian, and Garcia had insisted Andrew probably had a better working knowledge.

They came back defeated and down a man. Lucy hadn’t been able to get the image of his eyes out of her head. The way the life had drained out of them. The way he’d told her that he loved her one more time. She’d said it back, finally, but the words had only been meant as a goodbye, something to give him peace as he passed.

 The guilt had haunted her for months, years even. He’d taken a bullet meant for her when all hell broke loose. Jiya had been inconsolable, knowing that the last year had been for nothing. Rufus was still gone, and now so was Andrew. And it had all been Lucy’s fault.

 She tried to fold in on herself. To shut out the world, but Wyatt wouldn’t let her. He stayed with her every night, keeping the vodka bottle out of her grasp, and the demon’s at bay. He told her stories of his time during the war. How he hadn’t been able to save people, and how he’d let the guilt take over his life, just as he had with Jess.

 He’d also told her how she’d saved him, and that he was going to do the same for her, as a friend. He listened as she talked about Andrew, little things like his favorite movie, or favorite meal. He’d done his best to bring those things into her life, trying to show her that Andrew would always be with her in a way. It killed him, watching her grieve for someone else, but he’d finally learned what Lucy had meant all those months before.

 What Lucy needed was time and space. She needed someone who could just be there for her without judgment. The way she had for him. He’d made her a promise too. After they saved Rufus, and then Amy, they’d find a way to save Andrew too.

 It took another year. A year of Lucy and Wyatt mending their relationship. A year of Wyatt training to be a pilot too, just in case.  And then, just as he’d finished, Connor had had a revelation. He’d figured out a way to let multiple versions of themselves experience being in the same time without ramification. There had been a scientific explanation, but none of them had understood. Rufus would have though.

 They’d all gone through multiple scenarios, and finally it had been decided that Lucy and Wyatt would go back alone. That way, if they failed, it would leave a contingency team to come back and save them. Jiya and Flynn.

 When they fired up the lifepod, Lucy couldn’t help but think back on how far she had come. Her hands no longer shook, and she no longer needed Wyatt to buckle her in, although she made no protests when he did anyway. She was older, stronger, wiser. They were going to be okay.

 And that’s when she’d finally said it. As time and space were shifting around them, she’d finally told Wyatt that she loved him.

 Then they’d landed, and as the door opened, she and Wyatt were face to face with younger versions of themselves.

 “You guys wanna get Rufus back or what?”

[araeph]

Araeph’s Greatest Hits, Vol. 2

Vol. 1 here.

It’s Araeph’s 1000th post! Thank you so much to all my followers, people who’ve messaged me for discussion, and fans who’ve filled my inbox with such thought-provoking asks. Below is the latest master list of my essays and fiction that I’ve compiled over the past year or so, as well as a few choice reblogs from other tumblr users that are mentioned by name. Have a fantastic 4th of July, everyone!

Fic Recs

A:TLA Friendship Recs Favorite Zutara writers

Araeph’s fics

Hatchling, Part 1 Spitting Image, Part 1 Breath of Fire Confidants Sunrise Moonrise Love Is a Marathon Defiance, Part 1 Defiance, Part 2 Defiance, Part 3 Defiance, Part 4 Defiance, Part 5 Defiance, Part 6 Defiance, Part 7 Defiance, Part 8

Other Meta

Araeph’s fandoms Mulan: contrasting messages in pop song vs. theatrical song The arranged marriage plot in Mulan 2 Mulan and Shang: military dynamics vs. a relationship What did you think of the Red John arc in The Mentalist? Was the Jane/Lisbon pairing in The Mentalist treated well? Did Lizzy marry Darcy for his money? What advice do you have for up-and-coming authors? What do you think makes a good romance? Are there particular directors you gravitate towards?

Steven Universe Criticism

What are your favorite critiques of Steven Universe? Who did Pearl belong to before she joined the Crystal Gems? How Pearl responds to toughness vs. niceness Can autism explain Pearl’s behavior toward Greg? What do you think of Pearl’s character and her treatment of Steven? Are there similarities between Aang and Pearl’s clinginess to their partners? The Diamonds: taking “compassion for one’s adversaries” too far What do you think of the "Rose is Pink Diamond" theory? Rainbow Quartz: requited love I miss the way they used to draw Peridot The decline of Steven Universe

A:TLA Gen Criticism

I just don’t know how to feel about Bryke! How do you keep A:TLA’s flaws from ruining the show for you? Should Teo, Haru, and The Duke have had bigger roles in Book 3? Should there have been a scene where Aang mourns the dead at the end of Book 3? The structure of the first half of Book 3 Is energybending Ozai enough to delegitimize his rule? Could Aang lying to the tribes in “The Great Divide” have been handled better? Was the Fire Nation secretly looking for the Avatar in the Southern Water Tribe? Parallels between the Fire Nation Royal Family and the SWT chief family Does the GAang idealize their parents and mentors too much? The significance of Momo How did the characters age visually throughout A:TLA? Was Ozai an abusive spouse as well as father? Do you think the Avatar universe has a legitimate afterlife? Detachment and unlocking the chakras Avatar cosmology @peacockarehot What happens before each Avatar is old enough to master the elements? How well was the challenge of being the Avatar told in A:TLA and LOK?

A:TLA’s Four Nations

Four Nations and childhood education Four Nations’ view of sex and gender roles Four Nations: a food contest analysis Four Nations eye color What is the best way for the SWT to develop? What is your opinion on Water Tribe betrothal necklaces? Why an earthbender shouldn’t be able to lavabend alone Is the Earth Kingdom united under a cohesive value? What is your opinion on the Air Nomad council of elders? Did the Air Nomads get shortchanged in development? Is Ty Lee an untrained airbender? Stormbending What kind of benders would mixed heritage kids be? Could firebenders draw power from the Earth’s core? Can waterbenders heat water to create steam? Part 1 Can waterbenders heat water to create steam? Part 2 What is your favorite nation and what type of bender would you be? Who are your favorite minor characters from all four nations?

Alternative A:TLA Finale and Book 4 Speculation

Zutara would have been a better bookend, even with only 3 books How would the Book 3 Zutara moments change with Book 4? What should have been the theme of the A:TLA finale? What do you find disappointing about the A:TLA finale? Aaron Ehaz’s plan for A:TLA and beyond @kataraaandzuko @terminaschosenone Anything you would like to see from an A:TLA sequel? How do you see the relationships of the Gaang progressing through adulthood? How would hidden airbenders have been revealed? Koh in Book 4

A:TLA Comics Criticism

Rosy colonialism in “The Promise” “North and South” : a settler’s fantasy  @fireladykatara “North and South” and the issue of progress The A:TLA comics do not follow A:TLA’s visual style Bryke’s interference in the comics What do you think of the role the Air Acolytes played in the comics?

Legend of Korra criticism

A:TLA vs. LOK: simple vs. complex beginnings LOK and inconsistent bending origins Which element is the hardest for an Avatar to learn? How would you write Korra’s development in Books 1-4? Mary Suyin How would you write Suyin Beifong? Suyin: complex vs. annoying characterization Zaheer and compelling belief systems Is Zaheer Korra’s foil? Thoughts on the Red Lotus What do you think of the concept of Raava and Vaatu? What do you think are the most well developed secondary characters in LOK? Varrick, Zhu Li, and abuse Could Makorra have become compatible? Bolin and Lavabending What do you think about the Dai Li surviving into the era of LOK? Bumi and Air Nomad colors Bryke’s extreme responses to fan theories How would a sequel to Legend of Korra play out?

Zutara Meta

A:TLA non-canon shippers keep A:TLA fandom afloat Zuko and Katara: Color symbolism in “Cave of Two Lovers” @marsreds Zuko and Katara: character parallels “Zutara is toxic and unhealthy!” (again) Zuko and Katara, twin flames @peacockarehot Zutara parallels with Darcy and Elizabeth Zutara parallels with Beauty and the Beast Blue Spirit/Painted Lady parallels The Blue Spirit vs. the Painted Lady Were the Blue Spirit and Painted Lady connected? How Zuko shows respect when saving Katara from falling rocks @theadamantdaughter Zuko and Katara’s parenting styles Zuko jumping in front of lightning was sacrificial What would young viewers learn from Zutara? On Zuko interacting more with the GAang Thoughts on School Time Shipping

“What Would [X] Gain from Zutara?” Katara Zuko Sokka Toph Suki Aang Mai Hakoda Iroh Azula Ozai Ursa and Kiyi The Fire Nation and Water Tribes The cabbage merchant

Kataang Criticism

Irrefutable proof that Kataang was NOT always going to be canon @peacockarehot Do you think Katara felt some pressure to date Aang? Kataang and unwanted advances (with @theadamantdaughter) Aang’s possessive behavior toward Katara @theadamantdaughter Why Aang’s behavior in “Love Is a Battlefield” is dangerous Love vs. attachment Does Aang respect Katara? Why “The Fortuneteller” is anti-Kataang Fanon Kataang vs. canon Kataang Could Katara and Aang still be happy together? Katara is aged down in scenes with Aang Kataang and the magic aging (with @jasubb-8) Does Aang’s age excuse his unwanted advances? What if Katara couldn’t give Aang an airbender? Will-they-won’t-they and Kataang Aang’s romances vs. Sokka’s romances @peacockarehot Kataang’s lack of substance in “The Headband” Kataang’s lack of substance in “The Cave of Two Lovers”

Maiko Criticism

Would Ty Mai be more compatible than Maiko? Ty Mai and understanding each other Were Zuko and Mai’s relations consensual? with @theadamantdaughter Why Maiko is prime for failure @peacockarehot Maiko, Zutara, and Conflict @theadamantdaughter The pitfalls of Maiko @peacockarehot Is Maiko or Kataang worse? Is Maiko or Kataang worse? – part 2 Why do Maiko shippers ignore the problems in their ship? Mai never dated the real Zuko Pros and Cons of Maiko

Character Analysis

Aang How would you have written Aang’s character development from Books 1-3? Aang exalting Air Nomad culture above everyone else’s Should Aang’s introspection have followed Buddhist tenets more closely? Rewriting energybending to improve Aang’s character @terminaschosenone Should Aang have had a more prominent teacher or guide? Do you think Aang’s grief at the loss of the Air Nomads was properly presented? Why was Aang not worried about killing Ozai on the Day of Black Sun? Aang vs. the vulture wasp Aang’s reaction to the other Avatars’ advice Aang’s reaction to Yangchen’s advice Aang’s response to Jetara Aang’s anger vs. Katara’s Did Aang truly exhibit contrition for the EIP kiss? How Aang idealizes Katara Did Aang really know how Katara felt because of his own loss? Who would be a good match for Aang?

Azula Could the dragons heal Azula? Do you think any little part of Azula ever loved Zuko? Azula’s motivations for the lightning strike Azula’s motivations for the lightning strike, Part 2 Would Katara feel a moral obligation to help Azula post-A:TLA? How would Azula have compelled Mai to go with her initially if Mai had refused?

Iroh Iroh’s character journey Do Iroh’s values align better with Mai’s or Katara’s? Maiko shipper bashes Iroh and Zuko Zuko and Iroh’s relationship parallels with Jim Hawkins and Long John Silver

Katara Katara and her emotional iceberg Katara would have been more independent if she’d married Zuko Katara puts her emotional needs in front of Aang’s Katara is abandoned at the South Pole Katara crying over Aang vs. Zuko Did Katara’s character development stall? Should Katara have been at the Boiling Rock? Should Katara have forgiven Zuko earlier? Katara lashing out at Sokka during Southern Raiders How do you think Kya would feel about the Southern Raiders? Would it have been in character for Katara to murder Yon Rha? Why does Katara’s character become so irrelevant? @zuzusexytiems Why Katara is not a Mary Sue @daughter-of-water @theadamantdaughter Why do people continually try to make excuses for Katara not fighting in LOK?

Mai What would Mai’s ideal character arc be? Mai doesn’t understand Zuko’s values @honxrable What personality would be best for Mai’s partner? Was Mai originally going to be a villain? Is there any evidence that Mai was scared of Azula? Debunking Mai’s affection for Tom-Tom

Sokka Sokka’s quest to be a man On Sokka seeing Katara’s face instead of his mother’s Sokka’s protective nature

Toph Could Toph and her parents reconcile? Toph and law enforcement

Zuko Is Zuko emotionally unstable? How would Zuko handle the issue of bloodbending? Was Zuko more open in Book 2 or Book 3? Hair cutting symbolism in A:TLA Do you think Zuko has PTSD? Zuko and Aang’s relationship Locations of Zuko’s Agni Kais and their significance The symbolism of Zuko’s scar Zuko is not stoic (@honxrable) Why I Feel Zuko’s Betrayal Was to End Zutara @peacockarehot Piandao as Zuko’s mentor