#tw attempted eugenics

[splosh-crime]

BNHA x Encanto Crossover

Villain Madrigal Family. Quirkless Vigilante Mirabel.

The Encanto is a cult owned by All For One and led by Alma, used as a breeding ground for AFO’s test subjects and child soldiers.

Alma agreed to lead AFO’s cult, allow use of her kids as soldiers, and her citizens as test subjects in exchange for giving her kids the power to protect themselves and each other, ensuring none of her family would be killed like Pedro ever again.

Colombia has a very low Quirkless population, even less than Japan.

Eventually the Colombian decided Quirkless were “impeding evolution” and tried to kill them all.

Quirkless Pedro’s death activated his & Alma’s latent quirk factors to create the Encanto & Casita.

When 5 y/o Mirabel discovers Alma’s deal with AFO and her abuse of everyone in the Encanto, she runs away before her Gift Ceremony (AFO gives the Quirks) and spends the next 10 years traveling with Bruno to Japan to stop AFO.

[cartoonscientist]

call me a hippie dippie bleeding heart socialist but I think if we’re willing to try assisted suicide to deal with mental illness without trying just giving people money so they don’t have to work first, I think that’s kind of evil. but that’s just me.

[alianoralacanta]

A version of this happened in the UK during the first two lockdowns, targetted primarily towards autistic people and some people in residential homes with learning disabilities. The only difference is that Canada is at least admitting the nature of what it is doing before doing this. The reasons why that doesn’t help very much should be obvious to anyone who has read through the preceding posters’ contributions.

I need you guys to listen so bad, but I’m at least glad people on Twitter are starting to talk about this. The government of Canada is expanding Medically Assisted Death to cull the poor and disabled, and now suicidal and mentally ill (these are usually interchangeable of course here). It is EUGENICS and every single disabled rights organization is against it.

Disability payments are $1,200 a month. The average one bedroom apartment rent in the Greater Toronto Area (greatest pop. area by far here) is $2,000 a month. People with mental illnesses are on months long waitlists to get even a single publicly funded session. Weeks to get privately funded care which costs at least $200 a session. There is no housing here for disabled people. We are in one of the worst housing crises in the world right now.

Doctors are now offering MAiD unprompted to young suicidal people. This woman is 21, a health practitioner literally suggested she kill herself.

This is one of the worst Disability Rights Violations we’ve ever seen in Canada. The government is killing us because it is cheaper than funding healthcare, cheaper than giving people housing and food and basic human rights.

[bellewintersroe]

Hey, there! I have a BoB headcanons request that is a bit angsty/heavy so if you don’t feel like doing it, I completely understand! I was just wondering how the easy boys would go about trying to comfort a reader with guilt/trauma from either killing a German soldier (like Winters when he shoots that one SS soldier) or not being able to save a fellow soldier if you’d like to go the nurse route. I’d just love some Winters and Eugene comfort!! Thank you!🫶

Heyyy so sorry for the slow reply!! Thank you, this is such a good request!!! I’ve combined both your ideas for the diff guys- I hope you enjoy!

Tw - talks of death, guilt, trauma, ptsd, war, etc.

BoB Headcanons - How they comfort you

Eugene Roe:

As a fellow medic, Gene understands completely what you’re doing when you start shutting yourself away.

After leaving Bastogne you didn’t actually think things could get much worse, but when you lose Jackson in the dingy basement in the middle of Haguenau - let’s just say you don’t take it well.

“It woulda’ happened anyway… it’s not your fault.” Gene would remind.

You’d sigh with a heavy heart and attempt to leave any kind of confrontation.

“Gene you weren’t the one assigned to take care of them. He died under my watch, I didn’t do good enough.”

Not only are you heavily burdened by Jackson’s death, but you’re also exhausted and cold and hungry. Gene at first would watch from afar with a furrow between his brow until enough was enough and he confronted you.

He’d find a way to pull you back in, he’d wrap blankets around your shoulders when you’re just sat staring into space. Or he’d force Hershey bars into your pocket, practically begging you to eat.

“It’s my fault.” You’d tell him.

Gene just takes the honest route, he knows that’s better than blatantly trying to soften the blow with anything else.

“Jackson woulda died anyway. I saw what happened and… you could’ve tried everything n’ he wouldn’t have made it…”

If you need him to go into technical medical talk he would. He’d do anything, he’s the type of guy to sit talking with you for hours.

Huge empathetic so cannot stand the idea of you being troubled by this or taking the blame.

If the two of you aren’t already together then he’s a little more careful to not overstep boundaries, but he 1000% keeps the blanket wrapped over your shoulders in place by holding it there with an arm over you. Even if his hand is freezing.

Dick Winters:

It maybe happens around Bastogne? You happen to fire at the Germans and when you guys go look after, one of them is just a kid.

Let’s say he’s nowhere near older than twenty, still in his teens, and you’re absolutely horrified from the second you find this out.

It makes you freak tf out and the men bundle you back to the line pretty fast, they all know what it feels like, that guilt ravishing them alive. And Winters especially understands the exact thing you’ve been through.

I feel like he’d find out pretty fast, the two of you are in a private relationship that can’t be openly shown out on the field.

He’d take a sensible approach, despite being oh so worried.

Has you come sit in his and Lewis’ tent at CP.

Would offer you a drink, food, another coat, new boots, worries that you need feminine products? Idk the man just wants to take care of u ok.

When it comes to it and you say no to everything he simply sits besides you and just looks over your face.

Then he opens up about Holland and how he shot another soldier, just a kid. It’s relatable and the feelings he talks about are exactly what you’re experiencing.

If you get upset he can’t engulf you into the hug he wants, but he deffo squeezes you with an arm around you, encouraging you to know this isn’t your fault.

Extremely mindful of you for the following days after. If you wanna go off the line then he does that, if you wanna go for a walk then he makes somebody’s with you at all times.

Super super emotionally intelligent and would support you through anything.

Joe Liebgott:

Probs walks into the quiet aid station all loud mouthed and hollering about something irrelevant. He knew you were on shift tonight with one other nurse who’s occupied upstairs in the building. Your arrival in Austria luckily called for a lot less gruesome wounds and gory deaths- but every now and then, someone slipped through your fingers.

Your head snaps up, away from the patient who lay still before you. Your eyes are full of tears and at the sight of Joe, you begin to sob.

“What is it-” immediately goes to run forwards, but then he clicks when he noticed the bloodied man below you. Your hands are covered in crimson, trembling and it’s smeared all over your uniform.

Realises pretty quick what’s happened.

“I couldn’t save him, Joe.” You wept. “Nobody came to help.”

Understandably Joes first reaction is to throw a fit that nobody else was here to help you- but then he takes in your broken expression once more and remembers where they were. Things like this just happened out here.

“Okay, baby.” He’d sooth, approaching you as carefully as possible. He’d take your hands in his and meet your gaze. “Let me help you.”

You can’t tell me that he wouldn’t be the biggest sweetheart ever?

He’d wash your hands for you, rubbing his thumb gently over each patch of skin, then he’d get help from another medic, a little pissed that nobody came to help. After that he’d tell whoever’s in charge you’re done off shift and take you back to your room (screw fraternisation rules, Joe doesn’t follow them, not when it comes to you).

He’d pretty soon find out that the guy on the table had a burst artery, whilst he’s undressing you from your stained uniform, he’d tut to himself gently.

“Somethin’ like that happens n’ they’re gone. There wasn’t anything you coulda’ done.”

“No but- I could’ve tried! If somebody helped then I could’ve done it! We’re not in Bastogne anymore I should’ve been able to help!”

“Y/n, you know you can’t think like that.”

Wouldn’t allow it for a second that you blamed yourself, it physically pains him that you’re sobbing and shaking, Joe holds you close and just lets you get it all out, feeling pretty revengeful for whoever left you alone that night.

“It’s all my fault, Joe…”

“No… no, sweetheart. C’mere, the guy was a dead man the second he got hit..”

The best with comforting you with words, if he needs to be a little harsh to get it through to you that it’s not your fault he will- but he won’t allow it for a second that you take any form of blame for this.

It hurts him to know it’s hurting you.

[best-underrated-anime]

Best Underrated Anime Group F Round 4: Talentless Nana vs Welcome to Demon School! Iruma-kun

#F6: Talentless Nana (Munou na Nana)

Normal school until stuff happens

#F8: Welcome to Demon School! Iruma-kun (Marimashita! Iruma-kun)

Young boy gets sold to a demon to be his grandson

Details and poll under the cut!

#F6: Talentless Nana (Munou na Nana)

Summary:

Fifty years ago, horrific creatures dubbed as the “enemies of humanity” suddenly appeared around the world. To combat these threats, teenagers gifted with supernatural abilities called “Talents”—such as pyrokinesis and time travel—hone their powers at an academy on a secluded island.

Nanao Nakajima, however, is quite different from the others on the island: he has no Talent. With many “Talented” teenagers around him, Nanao is often a target for bullying, but even so, he still strives to complete his training. Soon after, two transfer students, the mysterious Kyouya Onodera and the mind-reading Nana Hiiragi, join the class. But just as everyone starts blending as comrades-in-arms, mysterious disappearances begin to threaten the class’s entire foundation.

Propaganda:

I’d like to start off by saying that this is NOT a copy of My Hero Academia, even though it sounds as such. It’s kinda hard to explain the show without spoiling a major plot point, but it’s pretty much as the summary says. Honestly, if you want to watch this, don’t look up anything about it—you will get spoiled right away, and it does ruin the experience. I started this without knowing anything about it and I think that’s for the best because it’s plot twist after plot twis,t and you’re not sure what to expect next. That’s honestly something I really liked about it because you don’t know where the story will take you. Anyways, highly recommend because more people should know about this series.

Trigger Warnings:

Child Abuse, Emotional Abuse, Graphic Depictions of Cruelty/Violence/Gore

There’s a Nazi-coded character who does eugenics, and he’s also the reason for the child abuse tw

Sexual assault attempt on main character

Necrophilia (there’s a character who controls another person’s corpse and act like they’re dating)

#F8: Welcome to Demon School! Iruma-kun (Marimashita! Iruma-kun)

Summary:

Fourteen-year-old Iruma Suzuki has been unfortunate all his life, having to work to earn money for his irresponsible parents despite being underage. One day, he finds out that his parents sold him to the demon Sullivan. However, Iruma's worries about what will become of him are soon relieved, for Sullivan merely wants a grandchild, pampering him and making him attend the demon school Babyls.

At first, Iruma tries to keep a low profile in fear of his peers discovering that he is human. Unfortunately, this ends up being more difficult than he expected. It turns out that Sullivan himself is the chairman of the school, and everyone expects him to become the next Demon King!

Iruma immediately finds himself in an outrageous situation when he has to chant a forbidden spell in front of the entire school. With this, Iruma instantly earns a reputation he does not want. Even so, he is bound to be roped into more bizarre circumstances.

Propaganda 1:

The main character, Iruma, is very kind and wholesome, and you really just want to see him succeed throughout the series, especially after knowing everything he’s been through. He was neglected and used by his parents, but now he gets to live out a nice life despite being surrounded by demons, as his new grandfather spoils him. The demon that adopted him, Sullivan, is an extremely powerful figure in the demon realm, but through most of the series, he looks like an egg. The side characters are also well-designed with interesting personalities. The main two, Asmodeus and Clara, become almost inseparable from Iruma after they become friends, and the three of them are very cute together. There is also a canon nonbinary cat person, who is technically Sullivan’s servant, but he is treated as part of the family, and he’s a disaster bisexual.

Propaganda 2:

It’s really good in terms of art, plot, and characters. There’s nonbinary representation in the form of Opera, and there’s friendship galore with very poly undertones. It’s so sweet and good, and it’s just rahhhhh. Everyone is silly but also realistic and well-developed. There are reasonable arcs, and there’s a well mix of plot-driven growth and character-driven plots. I love every person who appears onscreen, even for like two seconds. The world building is lovely and so bright and colorful.

Propaganda 3:

You should vote for it because it is genuinely one of the best animes I’ve ever seen. It has good character development, mysteries, focuses on the cast well, and it is not a harem anime. The plot is also really good and is suitable for all age groups.

Fun fact: the main character crossdresses three times in the first three seasons

Trigger Warnings: Child Abuse (mild)

When reblogging and adding your own propaganda, please tag me @best-underrated-anime so that I’ll be sure to see it.

If you want to criticize one of the shows above to give the one you’re rooting for an advantage, then do so constructively. I do not tolerate groundless hate or slander on this blog. If I catch you doing such a thing in the notes, be it in the tags or reblogs, I will block you.

Know one of the shows above and not satisfied with how it’s presented in this tournament? Just fill up this form with your revisions, and I’ll consider adapting those changes.

New: Starting round 5, screenshots will be included in the poll post. You can submit screenshots through the form linked above, or through here, via ask or dm.

Guidelines in submitting screenshots:

No NSFW or spoilery images.

Pick some good images please. Don’t send any blurry or pixelated ones.

You may send up to 9 screenshots, but not all may be used.

[nodawnesperia]

Character Profile: Gavus

Together with Lorsan's backstory, Gavus won the poll so we'll talk about him a little bit! He isn't your entirely typical Celestial but that much is to be expected. Not many specific TWs in here.

Name: Gavus

Age at the time of the Barred Gate breaking: ???

Current age: ???

Affiliation: Celestials (?)

Appearance: With Celestials being forced into hiding, wearing white and gold doesn't quite cut it anymore. Instead, dark colors, hoods, and covered-up bodies are what it's all about. Gavus, too, subscribes to these necessary changes to his attire. Other than that, much is still the same. Though the Scales of Benevolence aren't quite as powerful as they once were with no mortal faith powering them anymore, they can still help a little bit if he's in a pinch and Gavus' hair is kept as orderly as possible. His eyes lost some of their warmth though.

Personality: Gavus is much less idealistic than he once was. Though he wouldn't purposely hurt an innocent to achieve his goals, he is aware that the situation is dire and drastic measures need to be taken in order for Esperia to have any chance of overturning the invasion. Though he may not agree with all the steps taken by his fellow Celestials to fight, he can understand why most of them were necessary. The incident at the Monastery is an exception and he never forgave the higher-ranking Celestials for the massacre.

Backstory: "You're here again, pigeonhead? Don't you know it isn't safe for you?" The Hypogean sighed with his hands on his hips as he stood on the porch of the house. It was summer again and the fruit trees in what was once the town's orchard were heavy with ripening fruit. Gavus didn't respond, only looking around to see if he could spot the children. "Okay, fine, don't talk to me." Once again, the Hypogean spoke, this time throwing his hands up in the air. He plopped into a chair and motioned to another one on the other side of the porch. "The brats are away on training but should be back in a while. Take a seat or something, you look like you've been through the wringer." After a moment of hesitation, Gavus caved. As he sat in the chair, stubbornly refusing the Hypogean's offers of drinks and snacks and meeting his conversation attempts with silence, he had to admit, at least quietly, to himself, that maybe this one wasn't as bad as the others. Even during their first meeting, he merely warned him to be quiet and let him go before that commander – Conrad if he remembered correctly – found him. Of course, he remained stalking them for days up until the Divine Weapons were revealed to be two human children. That honestly confused him. Luckily, Conrad wasn't up for the task of caring for two infants and dumped them on this one. And this one was quick to call in that favor Gavus now apparently owed him to employ his help. The children – Liberta and Lucilla as they decided to name them – were a surprise to Gavus in more ways than one. Their difference in personalities despite being twins, their strong connection and love for each other, their obvious attachment to the Hypogean... "Do you ever think of running away, Eugene?" He asked suddenly, interrupting the Hypogean mid-sentence. Seeing the quizzical look on his face, he sighed. "I know you don't want them to live like this either. They are turning fifteen this year. I cannot be the only one who doesn't want their life to only be comprised of hunting down Celestials and battling to the death, even if they come out on top." The Hypogean was silent but in his face, Gavus could see he wasn't wrong. Neither of them had wanted this for the twins, not when they were found, and not for a single day in the years since. They were children, not weapons, powerful as they may be. "Sure wish it was that easy." The other man stretched his arms, folding them behind his head but only moments later, he suddenly shot up from his seat, alert and frowning. He growled under his breath. "Pigeonhead, get inside." But before Gavus could follow the command, a huge shadow passed over the small house. An enormous dragon landed in the clearing and two figures jumped off. They were not Lucilla and Liberta. One of them, Gavus saw in person in the past. The other, he could only assume was the legendary Oathbreaker. "You weren't wrong for once." The Oathbreaker muttered, and Conrad scoffed, pointing his massive axe at Gavus, then at Eugene. "Let's see what Annih thinks of you playing house with a Celestial, shall we?"

[lewis-winters]

eucharistia (this is how meat loves meat)

In Rachamps, just before Easy is sent to Haguenau, Eugene Roe brings Babe Heffron to Father John Maloney for his first confession in seven years.

Jesus said to them: "Amen, amen, I say to you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink His blood, you do not have life within you. Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him on the last day. For my flesh is true food, and my blood is true drink. Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me and I in him." John 6:53-59, NABRE

read it on ao3

tw: Magical Realism, Horror, Religion as Justification for Unhinged Behavior, Catholicism, Catholic Imagery, Bastogne, Canon Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Blood & Gore, Depictions of a Corpse, Cannibalism

---

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” says the boy with hair like copper and a face white as a sheet, kneeling before me. He breathes deep, breathes slow, then looks to his companion who guards the door of this little hide-away. A boy of even paler complexion, who nods in encouragement. A small, minute movement that somehow takes from him a great toll. His dark head bows with the weight of it.

Disturbed by this image, the boy quickly continues: “I haven’t confessed since I was fifteen. I’m twenty-two now. It’s been seven years.”

“That’s alright.” Silence. Nervous, jittery silence. “Go on.”

More silence. Long and dark and cold and damp, the cavernousness of this large and leaky house of God echoing each drip and drop of water across empty space. Empty. Like nobody’s home.

“I’ve done so many things,” the boy says, tipping his face into his hands in despair. “So many, Father.”

“Don’t name them all. We’ll be here all night.” An attempt at good humor. “Just the ones that have brought you before me.”

“Oh, Father,” says the boy, in a whisper that sounds like a wail. “Father. I kept my promise.”

“That doesn’t sound like a sin.”

No, says a voice from the depths of the boy’s eyes. A wailing, lamenting voice, a darkness that threatens to crawl forth from the open wound of his face, and reach out to me with cold, blood-damp hands. No, Father, you don’t understand.

“Make me,” I say, taking his face in my hands and holding it steady. “Babe, tell me what you did.”

His watcher has closed the door on us now. All of us. He stands before it, weight against the wood, hands behind his back. His head is still bowed, upper body almost perpendicular to the stone floor, but his eyes meet mine. Deep blue so dark it’s almost black, staring out from behind a dark brow. Piercing. Waiting. “Go on, Heffron,” he says, voice a deep, unwavering thing. The voice of an Angel. “Don’t be afraid.”

“Don’t be afraid,” I echo. But not for him.

Sprawled against the walls, our shadows continue to flicker.

Babe tries again. “Forgive me, Father. For I have sinned. It’s been seven years since my last confession. My sins—”

Are many. Too many.

“But this one—”

The night he’d gone back for him was clear and bright, the clouds of Bastogne disappearing, momentarily, laying the already barren world of snow white and cold even more bare, absent of the broken shadows of looming trees and the shape of men beyond the mist. Even the looming cold that had settled into their bones seems to have alleviated, somewhat. Still there, but suspended, momentarily, as the fog lifted and Bastogne became just another forest.

But the dread remained. So deep in the marrow of them all that it pulled him out of dreamless sleep; roused suddenly in his shallow grave-bed and forced into the nightmare of this tangible unreality, an endless waking, by the familiar urge to rungotta go get him sir rundangerrun take him with us runrunrunRUN—

And a voice, beyond the light of the moon.

“I felt it, Father. Like… Like I was on one end of the rope, and he was on the other. Pulling me toward him. He showed me where to go, Father, you gotta believe me. I was being led—”

Like a lamb to the slaughter.

No.

Like a pilgrim to his god.

Through snow drifts and trees, down familiar paths made unfamiliar through the sudden clarity of pale moonlight. He found the broken body soon enough. Just where they had left it, earlier that day, but this time devoid of all material things.

The Germans had stripped him, just as he had feared. Taken with them trophies of olive-green pelt, rifle antlers, and silver dog tag bones. What lay in their wake was the naked body of a slaughtered child, lying in the snow, a crater of bone and flesh where his neck should be. Blue eyes upturned to Babe’s face.

Hand outstretched.

Beckoning.

“I touched him, Father. I touched him. And he was warm.”

Not breathing. Warm. Soft. Pliant. Despite hours laying in the snow.

He couldn’t explain it.

But then again, what pilgrim questions a miracle?

“I… I tried to pick him up. I tried.”

Yes. Yes, he had tried. I could see him try. Struggling and panting and finding himself crying, the grief and the desperation manifesting themselves in frustrated tears. They freeze on his cheeks, a record of his suffering. Julian, buddy, c’mon. I gotta get you up. Please. I can’t, I can’t—

But the god is in an immovable shrine. Trapped within and rooted into the snow on the ground.

“All I could lift was his head, Father Maloney. And I held him in my lap, like I used to back when the world made sense.”

Yes. Yes, I could see them there, too. Two boys in basic training, surrounded by pleasant summer heat. Golden light. One with his head in the lap of the other.

Dark hair against pale thighs.

Blue eyes meeting blue.

A smile meeting another smile in a thrilling brush of skin.

God was with them, then.

And it is with the turning of my stomach that I realize, God was with them, here, too.

“What… did you do, Babe?” I ask. I already know the answer. But I must ask.

And the boy looks up at me, open wound for a face, and says with two voices; “I couldn’t leave him there, Father Maloney.”

No. He couldn’t.

He’d brought those unsmiling lips to his mouth, and he’d kissed them one last time. As any pilgrim should.

And then he’d dug his fingers into bone and flesh, and freed his god from his earthly prison.

“I couldn’t—I promised. I said I would. And he told me that I should. He was so warm, Father. And it was so cold. And I was hungry, and Julian always—from the beginning he’d always—when I closed my eyes, I was back there, with him, and he was—”

“Oh, Babe,” I say, opening my arms. Allowing him to fall into them. “Oh, Babe.”

I have long ago accepted that to seek joy in the form of relief of any kind is not a sin. Or at least, should not be. Jesus Christ, Son of God and Man, who enjoyed the taste of wine and bread and the company of prostitutes and degenerates would not consider it a sin. It’s no exception here, where it is common for men to share many things in basic training and in trenches and in Foxholes. Food. Water. Coffee. Things to keep warm. Things to make you feel just a little bit more human. Things to sustain you.

And there are so few things to sustain you, in the frozen hell of Bastogne. In this stomach disguised as a dark forest, a belly to get lost in.

I look toward the door, where the guardian boy stands, still bowed forward (even more so, it seems) and bent at the knees, unable to meet my eyes. Atlas holding up the sky and full of regret. Frozen in commencement of penance, the weight of the world bearing down upon his shoulders.

“There is more to this,” I realize. He does not startle at the sound of my voice, eerily still. “What is it that you aren’t telling me, Eugene?”

In my arms, Babe is quiet. Hitching breaths quick and warm against my throat. Mouth against my rapid beating pulse. Teeth—

“I saw it, Father,” says Eugene, voice ringing clear and deep despite its whispered quality. “I saw them.”

He’d felt Babe stumble out of their foxhole—Spina fast asleep and oblivious to the sudden preternatural quiet and stillness of the world—and followed behind him at a distance, mindful of their vulnerable position but not enough to stop.

“Then there was a moment where I—I couldn’t see ‘im. It got all dark all o’ a sudden, like the moon blinked outta sight. Just for a minute. A kinda dark you can feel.”

Crawling up your skin, looming over you, making all the hairs of your body stand up in response. Like two, large and heavy hands clasping around you. Holding you caged between its palms. An unfortunate butterfly, caught unawares.

Wait, it seemed to say. This is not for you.

“When the dark left and the moon came back, I couldn’t see ‘im.”

But he could hear it.

The wet, moist sound of hands tearing into flesh.

The guttural snarls of an animal tearing into its latest meal.

The crunch of cartilage.

The weeping. The moaning in despair.

In relief.

“I followed it. And I. I saw.”

He pauses. Then looks up at me with pleading eyes, asking for words. Asking for understanding. He does not know, I realize, what to call it. What greeted him in the snow on that fateful night was not any creature he has ever seen or heard of before.

Part-human, part-animal, part-divine. A wretched, blessed chimera. On its hands and knees, hunched over its carrion and feasting, with great relish, upon its steaming insides. The rapidly cooling warmth of fresh death, curling up, up, and away into the frigid, Bastogne night.

“I saw, Father,” Eugene says again. “And I…”

He did nothing.

No, that’s not true.

“I waited. For it to be over.”

And it was soon over.

The chimera could only eat so much, and what he has come to set free has left the altar as soon as the steam had lifted, and once again, the fog had returned, between one blink to the next. A twin to the darkness felt earlier, heavy hands once again clasped about him, but this time, enveloping all of them—voyeur, scavenger, and carrion—all at once.

Eugene took a step forward, afraid to lose sight of him again, and the chimera, startled, lifted its head toward the crunch of snow.

“And that’s when you led him away?” I ask.

Eugene nods. He’d done it when they’d entered here, too. Appearing to me like a grotesque Angel of God in my doorway, two bodies pressed so close together, leaning upon each other for strength, that they became one entity with two heads and eight appendages, illuminated by a column of warm, orange light cutting into the gloom of my assigned billet.

Do not be afraid, one voice had said to its companion, achingly kind. An echo from that night, I imagine, when he’d taken Babe’s hand and brought him back from the brink. Took him away and deposited him into his empty foxhole, melting snow to wipe away the memory of what he had done from his face. Fed him more chocolate, offered him a cup of coffee, to wash the taste from his mouth. Father Maloney, Heffron is here to confess.

“You were right to come to me,” I say to them, easing Babe out of my arms to once again, sit by my feet as I reach out to Eugene, offering my hand. He takes it without much hesitance, lurching forward as if afraid I might recoil from his touch. Gently, I allow him to sink to his knees, and together, both of them look up to me as I stand and dig through my bag for the needed elements. “What a heavy burden you both have shared. What a weight—” I produce what I need, and I turn to them with a smile I hope is kind and reassuring. “It’s alright, now. You may put it down.”

“Father,” says Babe, eyeing the ciborium and chalice in my hands. “Father, what—”

“Let me give you a place to rest,” I tell him, getting on my knees with them, perching the precious relics upon my billet bed so that they may not touch the floor. Crossing myself, I open them, ignoring how both boys scuttle away from me, like rats, who have spent all their lives in the dark, upon the sudden, violent arrival of light. It breaks my heart, how fearful they look upon me, and it strengthens my resolve, once again. Carefully, as I may be during weekly service, I pray over and take into my hands the bread and wine; mere pemmican biscuits from previous rations, and wine I had been given from bombed out churches, mixed with a little water. But in their golden receptacles, they glow with an otherworldly power. True pieces of the Heavenly Host.

I take two of the Flesh into my unworthy hands.

“John Julian was a martyr,” I say, presenting the host to them both and watching as they, cautiously, move toward me, still on their knees, but with their faces tipped toward the light. “A man who had been living, but who’d given his life for the love of you, Babe. His death was swift and quick, there was little pain and little else we could do to keep him with us. It’s those he’s left behind that he ached to comfort—such pain it must have been, for him, to know that you mourned him so deeply.

“And so, he’d asked God and His Angels to hold Death’s hand for far longer, and he called out to you. He was yet Living when you came upon him—how else could he have enticed him to come? How else would he have stayed that warm, that fresh, in order for his body to provide the nourishment that you needed? Therefore, do not be ashamed, Babe. To cannibalize is to feed upon the dead. John Julian was not dead, not while his soul sang to you its precious entreaty.”

Now, he rests, cradled in the soft, warm alcove of Babe’s body.

“He gave his life to you, that you may yet live. Just like our Lord Jesus Christ gave the first Eucharist to His disciples, the night He was to be arrested and taken away from them. He fed them His Living Flesh, so that they may find strength for the coming days. Sustain themselves upon Him.”

Babe comes closer, the tip of his nose lightly brushing the Flesh held in my fingers.

“John Julian was a martyr who has found his final resting place within you,” I press the Sacrament to his mouth, watching it open in anticipation. A gaping maw not unlike a bleeding wound. “Let these Holy Flesh intermingle within you. Let John Julian meet God in your stomach. Turn him into a Saint.”

Babe closes his eyes and his lips close over the Holy communion, his tongue lapping at my fingers.

I let him eat from my unworthy hand.

I watch him swallow. “Your turn, Eugene.”

Eugene looks at me, unblinking. Unfazed. He does not eat from my hand, but instead cups his own to receive it. I place it between his palms and watch him bow his head over it and take it between his teeth. The hard bread makes a loud crunching sound as he crushes it with his molars. He closes his eyes to the symphony of it, and his shoulders fall for the first time since I’ve known him.

“What a weight you have been forced to carry,” I coo, reaching out to cup his face in one of my hands, the other doing the same to Babe. Both boys tip their heads into my hold, and I find myself weeping at how starved they seem to be, for a simple touch that is gentle. Babe, seeing my tears, starts to sniffle with some of his own. “Come, drink the Blood. Let it wash away the taste.”

I tip the wine, carefully, into their open mouths. They drink every last drop.

“There,” I say once they are finished, drawing Babe, who has begun to weep in earnest, to my breast. Against the hollow of my throat, he hiccups, the grief and the relief pouring out of him now that he knows he is allowed. “Oh, Babe.”

“I left him there, Father,” he sobs. “I left him—”

“You did not,” I soothe. “No, Babe, you did not. You came back for him, and now he rests in you—lives in you. This way, he will see home, again. You can bring him home, my boy. He is a part of you now. So long as you are alive, Julian is, also.”

It takes a while, but Babe soon quiets, and hiccupping, sobbing breaths turn even and steady, a sign that he has fallen asleep against me. Peaceful and dreamless, I hope.

Eugene helps me tuck him into my bed, moving the Holy vessels aside to make room for him.

“Thank you, Father,” he says to me, as I replace the sacred items in my pack. I smile at him and he smiles at me from his position on the floor, kneeling by Babe’s head, his hand held tight in the other boy’s grasp, even in deep sleep. “Thank you.”

“Judas ate of the Eucharist.”

This time, Eugene does blink, startled. “… Father?”

“Our Lord Jesus had Judas eat of His Flesh before He revealed him to be the traitor,” I repeat, once again sitting on the floor so that he and I can talk to each other at level. Not once does he tear his eyes away from mine. Brave boy. “He made sure Judas ate so that even when he was apart from Him, betraying Him to the Romans, orchestrating His death, He was always with Judas. Inside him. He loved him very well—perhaps too well. Enough to smother him.” I reach over to tap their clasped hands, gently, with a finger. “There is no position more intimate.”

Eugene’s ears color pink, as if still cold, and I resist the urge to cup my hands around them, so that they may be warm. They’re warm plenty already, I know, and that, at least, makes me smile.

“You are a tenacious one, Eugene Roe,” I tell him, getting up with a groan. He watches me, curious, confused, and I smile at him, amused.

Nobody leaves Bastogne unchanged—undigested, staggering out of that beast’s belly masquerading for a forest. But when one is stubborn, when he is cunning and astute, sure in his footing and determined in his mission, a body trapped could be sustained for long enough that escape is made possible.

“There are many ways a person could be sustained,” I say, running my fingers through his blue-black hair. And, like a cat, he pushes his head into the meat of my palm, affectionate. “You found him, fed him, and you watered him. You made sure to wash it all away, the taste. But shame is a powerful thing, and it almost took him. That would not do.”

Eugene stares up at me. Unflinching.

“And so, you brought him here, to me.”

Because he knew I would nourish him and he would nourish me, gorge ourselves on this story we spin together until hope and faith solidify into truth. He has bargained with Death well; has done so enough times to know how to win. John Julian may have been lost to the violence of Bastogne, but Babe Heffron remains, and Eugene Roe would rather see his own soul rot before he loses him, too.

“The Ignatian way of life dictates that we must strive to see God in all things,” I say, smiling down at him. “Today, you have shown me a Face of God I have not seen before. It brings me comfort, in this world steeped in decay. Thank you.”

Eugene smiles back, a tiny little thing that rapidly disappears when he finally takes his eyes away from me and turns them to Babe, silently contemplating his pale face, deep in sleep.

They’re good boys. I leave them both to each other as I venture back into the bowels of God’s House to search for a quiet place to pray.

---

tagging those who have either helped conceptualize this or who have expressed interest along the way: @bringmefoxgloves @hellofanidea @liebgottsjumpwings @pastexistence

This was supposed to go up on Halloween. But I was on a family trip so I fell behind on editing and putting the final touches in. It's here now, though, and I'm so so proud of it-- something which I could almost never claim about things I've written. I'm very happy it's done, and I hope people enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.

Finally, I can rest.

[bananablossoms06]

There she is!!!!

Wysteria Afton/Danielle Miller

Lore dump in coming:

TW: mentions of R/pe and S/xual Assault

Wysteria in the gender bend au is a bit different than my William; serial killer wise. Just like my au of William- Wysteria was horrible abused as a child but particularly by her father. Got pregnant at 10 by her father's assault, grew up in a bad environment, later by 15 she kills her father (just like William kills his mother). However, unlike William- this murder was a form of self defense that got out of hand and after Wysteria saw what she had done she left everything behind taking her little sister Vivi(Vince who is William's brother in my main au)- fleeing hoping to get a better life, especially without the help of Rachelle (Richard). There isnt much known how she graduated high school or how she got into college but she does pretty well- making money on a part time job and taking care of Vivi...despite jumping place to place or living in a car half of the time (Unlike William). Eventually Wysteria meets Helen(Henry) and they develope a friendship which then leads into a romantic relationship where they love each other dearly and Wysteria confesses her fears about her past and only tells bits and pieces about what her father did to her- opposite to what William does in the main au.

Eventually the break up happens and Helen and Wysteria date and marry men instead despite wanting to keep their romantic feelings going. Then Helen is with Emmett(Emilie) and they have Charlie(..Charlie) and Samantha(Samuel).

Wysteria in this au doesn't kill Sebastian(which would be Sarah, William's first wife), though- again unlike William who kills Sarah out of a psychosis attack. So Michelle(Michael) has every right in the world to meet her biological father.

Yippie :D

Then Wysteria meets Claud(Clementine) and their relationship starts off fine before the marriage, but after their vows have been said their relationship becomes very abusive and Claud assaults Wysteria in which she has Eugene(Elizabeth) while at the same time Vivi who was only 14- was assaulted and pregnant at the same time.

Wysteria attempted to over dose on her medication during her pregnancy with Eugene as to miscarry since she successfully made Vivi miscarry with the same medication because there was no other way- Abortion wasnt legal in their state and town.

However...Wysteria did end up hoing into labor- giving birth to Eugene really early on instead due to her medications...and so she got put in a hospital after attempting to overdose.

__________________

Too lazy to write more but basically Laurence (Lauren) and Wysteria's relationship is very similar to the relationship Wysteria had with Sebastian which they had a kid and seperated on equal agreement and wasnt abusive.

Everything else is to be determined

Edit: my dumb ass wrote the wrong...I put right instead of Write...god I hate English...AAA

[cultofdixon]

Stick with me at all times

Daryl Dixon [PLATONIC] • They/Them Pronouns • People come and go, family is forever. Even when it’s found. Even when it’s lost. There is always someone sticking by you through the chaos. • ANGST/SFW • TW: Canon Violence / Injuries / PTSD / Depression / SH Scars / Talks about Past Attempts

Requested by: Anon

“Stick with me at all times” you would say that growing up and enforce it now that the world ended. It annoyed me Abe. It annoyed me a lot because for the most part, you didn’t trust me.

Never did I think ever…that I would miss those words coming from you

~

“Stick with me at all times, alright?” Abraham states a bit harshly towards them given the hell they had just endured in Terminus.

“Yeah yeah whatever..” They brush him off and left to double check to make sure they weren’t being followed by anybody that could’ve survived Terminus.

“You gotta lay off Abraham, or they’ll leave. Again” Rosita emphasized her point on that last bit knowing damn well if he flips, they’re gone.

“They bicker like their parents. But she doesn’t look anything like the small one” Glenn whispers to Maggie as she immediately elbows him. “What?”

“You don’t gotta be blood related to be family, besides. Abraham has to be their dad right?”

“We’ve been with them for a bit now and it’s still a bit confusing.”

“Y/N Ford is Abraham Ford’s younger sibling.” Eugene of course startled the two along with a few others at his abruptness. “I don’t understand the point in whispering about it”

“Because we didn’t want to be rude, Eugene.” Glenn sighs having to get used to his forward self. “We’ve gotta find somewhere for the night”

Carol lead the group to the house she had Tyreese coop up in while she went to save the others. The sight of Rick and Carl reuniting with his baby sister Judith, made Abraham instinctively wrap his arm around Y/N’s shoulders pulling them in close.

“Ours was a bit more hellish”

“Don’t remind me Abe”

________

“Gotta protect Eugene at all cost” Abraham states cleaning his knife after taking out a few walkers to clear their path.

“Then why are we in this infested cul-de-sac. What is here that is so important?” Rosita frowns following Abraham’s lead with Eugene quickly trailing her looking around them.

“The best packrats I fucking….” Abraham stops talking when he approached what used to be the picture perfect nuclear family home with the white picket fence and everything…has been broken into and partially burned. “Fuck. FUCK” he ran into the place instantly.

“What in the hell is going on?” Rosita enters after Abraham seeing him frozen in the middle of the place. “Abe—-“

“ROSITA ABRAHAM!!”

Abraham immediately snapped out of his thoughts and ran as fast as Rosita did to find a random figure pining Eugene to the ground aiming their arrow to his head. Rosita instantly took her gun out aiming it at the stranger’s head.

“Lower your we—-“

“Y/N Ford!”

The stranger instantly lowers their weapon turning toward Abraham who forced Rosita to lower her gun.

“Could you kindly—-“

“Fuck off!” They snap, getting off the guy and immediately approaching Abraham removing their mask. “You’re an asshole, yknow” they continued getting closer and right as the younger Ford got into punching range, they did exactly that.

“Hey!” Rosita split the two right after Y/N got him square in the face. “What the fuck is your problem?!”

“HE FUCKING LEFT ME”

________

Y/N pushes his hand off their shoulder taking in the temporary happiness where they can get it before continuing to follow Rick’s lead.

The group set up camp for the night and Daryl of course took the first watch. But he expected to be alone and not find someone he barely knew sitting outside the camp.

“Are you the army one’s kid?”

“I’m not even a kid. Or his kid.” Y/N snaps, soon immediately forgetting it and cowering. “Sorry. I’m just his little sibling.”

“Mm” Daryl sat with them in more awkward silence before striking again. “Were yea with him since the start?”

“Imma need a name before you ask shit like that”

“Daryl”

“Y/N, and no I wasn’t. I was with our parents after…uh. Something when I was enlisted so I had to go home and deal with shit. Then the world ended” Y/N couldn’t help the uneasy feeling crawling up their back as they quickly stood to their feet and when they did, Daryl noticed it.

“Could be somebody—“

“Tracking us. Gotta let your friend know” Y/N finished his sentence walking back inside the camp.

It didn’t take the group long to find the skittish priest and inevitably his safe house being the church he preached at. The group found themselves settling in once again temporarily and Y/N kept to themselves again just within the four walls.

“You okay?” Rosita joins Y/N in the pew they found purchase in. The two had gotten a bit close since they’ve met. Even with the rage introduction.

“It’s weird being around this many people again”

“I get that, but if it makes you feel any better. I trust them. Not as much as your brother but. Yknow”

“Abe is talking about continuing the DC trip…part of me wants to stick with my brother. But I’m done trying to find a cure. I don’t…even entirely believe it” Y/N frowns messing with the tip of one of their arrows.

“Would you rather stay with them? It is your choice. You’re not a kid”

“Abraham only sees me as a little kid. Always has”

Rosita frowns watching them tense to the sound of the floor boards creaking whenever someone took a step. That lead them to take a breather outside as she was about to follow when she just decided they’ll need it.

She never expected Y/N to get roped up in the search for Beth.

“Did you mean to drag them with us?”

“They’re alright.” Daryl shrugs, guess the bitchy first impression struck him. “They’ll keep an eye out for us and vise versa”

“Alright. Now come on” Carol took lead once the three got into the city. She knew a place for them to hide out in without being sought out for, if such was happening.

The story was retold back to Michonne and if Abraham was there, he would be blaming Daryl for what happened. Even the new guy Noah.

Neither of them expected Y/N to do what they did though.

“I don’t think handcuffing me to the gurney is going to help you in any way”

“This is a hospital, there’s no prison. We don’t know where to keep you and Dawn doesn’t have a job for you yet”

“Like I know who the fuck that is” Y/N snaps at the cop on his way out as they were handcuffed to Carol’s gurney. They didn’t leave her when the cops hit her with their car. Noah stopped Daryl and when he tried to stop Y/N, he failed in doing so.

Part of them…couldn’t leave her behind.

________

“What do you mean left yea behind? I had a wife and fucking kids. I ain’t gonna live with mommy and daddy forever like—-“

“I didn’t…you thought I did that on my own free will? Not everybody wants the picture perfectness of life. I only followed in your footsteps because that’s what dad wanted. Both kids following his legacy. I did it…until it broke me” Y/N frowns hating the aching feeling of remembering something that brought a whole lot of pain while struggling to piece itself together. “You…just. Didn’t show up. You were always there when I was a kid. But when I really needed you…I had already fallen off the edge”

It didn’t click at first. Because how could you be forward about needing to be committed for your own safety after trying to take yourself out of the equation of life? It’s hard. Telling that to someone you looked up to.

And that’s what broke him. Yeah, life moves on. You’ll get through this. Was what he thought in the moment, when their parents did call to tell him what happened. Abraham didn’t think that they would need him the way that they did.

“I’m not going anywhere anymore”

“Now how can I trust that?”

“Yea stick with me, at all times. I ain’t leavin’ yea anymore”

________

Even if they keep straying away.

It wasn’t a fair exchange. They’re both adults. With different agendas in the apocalypse. But deep down Abraham needs his last bit of family and Y/N needs to know that they’re never going to lose him. They both need to open themselves to more people.

Abe did that.

And Y/N is trying.

“You alright?”

Daryl snapped out of his thoughts spotting the youngest Ford looking down at him with the same unreadable look that could mean a whole lot of things to everyone around them.

“No”

“At least you’re honest” Y/N brought themselves to sit beside him staring at the barn he had found when taking a walk from the group. Wanting to be alone.

“Why’re you here”

“Why are you?”

The silence that grew after that made it clear he was affected by what they saw in the hospital. He didn’t like to show how he felt around others.

“You didn’t know’er and yea cried just as hard as her sister.”

“Before y’all made the deal, I was handcuffed to Carol’s bed and then just handcuffed in her room cuz there’s not jail cells in the hospital. Beth would hide out in her room. We talked. And I met someone…that understood what I felt at the start of all this mess. Then it was ripped from me” Y/N shrugs hugging their legs close to their chest feeling the anxiety build up inside them like times before as they hid their face from his gaze. “Everything good gets taken from me…”

“Same here” Daryl frowns staring at the ground for a moment. “Lost my brother. Yeah he fought for the wrong side at first, but then he died for the right one. He annoyed everybody. Annoyed the fuck outta me. But he was still my stupid big brother. Would do anything for another second with his bitchass”

“I’m afraid of losing my brother…just don’t tell him that. Cuz he’ll just hover”

“Ain’t it his job to worry about yea?” Daryl looked at them for some kind of change in their expression. But it was weird. Seeing that same blank expression that he carries, on someone who shouldn’t have to deal with a world like this. “What happened to yea before the world ended? Clearly you weren’t peacefully hunting and then a walker came out of nowhere”

“The end of my freedom.“ Y/N leaned up against the tree frowning. “Heard Rick’s story from his son. Woke up from a coma to the undead and then the magical reunion for a lifetime with his now dead wife and now annoying teenage son. I wish I was in a coma. Instead of coming home with compression bandages and hearing how much of a disappointment I am the second before—-someone set a fire on my childhood home to get the walkers away”

“Jesus fuck” Daryl scoffs taking out another cigarette from the pack he snagged and before he could even think about offering, Y/N took the one he had in hand right away. “Damn. Didn’t even offer”

“You would’ve right?”

“Nah. I’ve been told I’m selfish”

“From what I saw earlier, that’s a fucking lie” Y/N laughs taking out an old zippo they’ve only used for emergencies and lit the cig for themselves. “Don’t tell my brother. I’m still a baby in his eyes”

Daryl crossed his heart as a promise and brought back the silence between the two. It occurred to him that they find a sense of comfort with him and part of him wants to protect that. Like he couldn’t with Beth.

After the rough storm in the barn and the reveal of the mystery man in the shadows, the group found themselves following this guy named Aaron to a place behind walls. Reminded half the group of the prison era and the other half of the old world with gated communities.

Y/N stood before the gates with the rest of them feeling the tightness in their chest grow thinking about all the things that could go wrong. That the second they heard Daryl whistle, he knew that got their mind off what’s inside there. He approached them resting something in their extended hand. It being a rubber band.

“Wear it, and whenever you’re anxious. Just snap it” Daryl states snapping the rubber band once Y/N had put it on their wrist. Next thing you know, he’s taking out a possum before the gates opened up for them.

Interviews.

Job placements…

Parties?

A whole lot of the old world expressed itself through this community and not everybody was having it.

“Daryl”

The archer looks up from his spot on the porch to lock eyes with the ex-marine standing before him watching him struggle to find his wording. Guess they both have that in common.

“Y/N likes yea, so I need a favor”

Forward. Daryl nods setting the arrow he was working on down beside him.

“If anything, and I mean anything happens to me. You’d stick by them”

“Always”

It wasn’t a binding contract, Y/N is their own person. But having someone look out for them other than himself, eased Abraham’s anxieties. Especially in the end.

“My mother... told me... to pick... the very... best... one... and you... are...” Negan smirks stopping his bat right in front of Abraham’s face. “…it”

The sound was muffled. All there was was buzzing. Pounding. The fear rushing up their spine that Negan clearly saw when saying what to do if anybody moves or says a word. Next thing that happened was Y/N watching Lucille meet their brother’s skull.

“Oh! Look at that!” Negan laughs after the first hit letting Abraham rise to look at him. But his attention was more on the shock expression resting on his sibling’s face. “Taking it like a champ”

“Suck…my…nuts” Abraham spits out and that was his last words.

Y/N watched as Negan continued.

Blow…after…blow…

The blood…

The scream that wanted to escape their throat and failed…

Negan continues to laugh, happy to the fact that he brought pain amongst those he thought deserved it. He turned slowly toward Y/N seeing the tears roll off their cheeks and the hesitation their body had trying and wanting to cover their brother from any more pain but there they knelt frozen. Only to flinch like the rest when he swung his bat too close to them, just to get Abraham’s blood splattered on their face.

“Love tearing families apart” and right after he said that, Daryl quickly lunged socking him square in the face. Only for him to be pinned to the ground next.

Daryl fought against them at first but when he kicked eyes with Y/N’s, watching them shake their head slowly. Pleading with their eyes for him to stop. So he did. But both feared that his fate was next.

When the next death was Glenn, and everybody was falling apart at that moment. The next actions only brought pain and anxiety to force Y/N back into a corner of their mind they thought they were safe from. Y/N tried to speak out when they watched a few men grab Daryl forcing him into the back of the van, but nothing came out except for a straggled scream that they so desperately wanted Negan to hear when he killed their brother.

The group kept their distance when they watched Y/N crawl over to Abraham’s body and Maggie struggle to walk to Glenn’s. Maggie knelt by her husband’s corpse not wanting help to take care of him as Y/N laid themselves over Abraham gripping onto his jacket not saying a word.

“Y/N…we…we have to move his body” Sasha frowns kneeling besides Y/N resting her hand on their back watching their whole body flinch. “Y/N…”

“Hun…” Rosita frowns watching Y/N lift their head to look at her and all there was was pain in a neutral expression.

Numb…

________

“Yea like having your brother back?” Daryl asks Y/N as the three of them were scavenging a small station after finding a truck full of supplies.

“Yeah, even if everybody thinks he’s my dad”

“Well anybody would be lucky to have you as their kid” Rick adds entering one of the few buildings as Y/N stuck with Daryl examining the tipped over vending machine.

“Rick’s right yknow”

“How?”

“You’re hella smart. Know a good knot to secure arrow heads. You’re always watching out for everybody. Know what to do in immediate crisis. If yea didn’t, Carl would’ve probably lost more than an eye. Have a good eye when searching for certain things. I don’t know. Very apocalypse focused but. Hey I’m proud of yea for the shut you’ve done. Even if we only met a few months ago”

Y/N couldn’t help the smile in the moment.

________

Oh how he misses that moment

Maggie went to the back of Hilltop where they buried Glenn and Abraham. Expecting to be alone. But she couldn’t help the worry that stirred when finding Y/N laying in the dirt right beside their brother’s grave wearing the jacket he had worn the night he died. They’ve been there since they buried him. They scream at everybody who asked if they were okay, because they weren’t. Maggie brought herself to their side seeing their cloudy eyes lock onto her as she sat on the ground beside them.

“How long has it been?”

“About a week, you ain’t cold at night?”

Y/N shook their head immedieatly hugging themselves for a moment as Maggie moved herself to lay down.

“You…uh….Never mind”

“Y/N, I’m here for you” Maggie reassures that negative thought striking them currently as they tugged at the rubber band on their wrist.

“Could…Daryl be alive?”

“He’s a fighter”

“my brother was a fighter…and…” They stopped everything they were doing and let the painful tears resurface as Maggie carefully took one of their hands into hers even if their body tensed to such. “I feel selfish…for laying here…stuck in my head…when both Rosita and Sasha are trying to avenge him…as I just…want him back. Want…Daryl back to tell me it’s alright instead of thinking he’s dead too…and now I’m feeling even worse”

“If the next thing outta yea, is about me. How you feel bad for feeling what you’re feeling. While I also have lost someone close to me. Imma kindly tell you to shut up” Maggie scoffs squeezing their hand as they squeezed back. “We’ve got each other. We’ll…always feel this pain but we’ll always be there for the other. Even if that means laying in the dirt for a while longer before fighting…and Daryl? The guy talked about you like you were his little sibling. Knowing him? We all need a drive to keep goin’. And he’s gonna fight to get back to his family. You need to keep living to see that”

“Can…can you stay with me a little longer?”

“I’m sticking with yea for however long you need me”

________

“Stick with me at all times, alright? I don’t trust this place either” Daryl states watching Y/N nod before going to Michonne when she called for them a second.

Maggie watched the two from the infirmary trailer steps for a moment as she smiles when Daryl caught her watching. He walks over thinking she had something to ask of him but instead-

“You’re protective of them. It’s cute”

“Shut it. I’ve heard that three times today”

“Oh yeah? Who else” Maggie smiles patting the spot beside her as Daryl sat down leaning back.

“Michonne, that Jesus guy thought I was also their brother”

“Well…aren’t yea?”

“What?” Daryl looks at her confused when her happy expression was already clear as day.

“We’re a family Daryl. You are especially a big brother to Y/N Ford and I don’t think they mind it either. They wanted their family back when this hell all started and they got a whole lot more than just Abraham”

________

“Is…Y/N dead?”

“No?” Jesus laughs, he fucking laughs. He wasn’t there when Rick told Negan that both Maggie and Y/N died because of what he did to their brother and her husband. Daryl wanted to kill him right then and there, didn’t care if he was a lackey in that moment. He wanted to strangle the life out of him for killing his kid indirectly.

But when the doors to Hilltop showed Maggie alive and relieved to see Daryl alive as well…

She knew what she had to do.

“Take it easy alright? They’re still back at that line up…they don’t…they ain’t okay.”

Daryl frowns wishing he had fought more to stay with them instead of being whisked away by the Saviors to the hell called the Sanctuary. He follows Maggie to where they buried the two and saw Y/N laying on the ground. Still frozen in that state of mind of wishing what happened didn’t happen. Maggie left him to be alone with them, even if she wanted to see the look on Y/N’s face…

When Daryl came into view causing Y/N to suddenly lunge forward hugging onto him as he was trying to kneel down slowly. Making him stumble into the dirt.

“Stick with me at all times alright?”

“Ain’t going anywhere, kid”

[next-autopsy]

A/N: Well, hi there! Chapter 6! Read! Enjoy! Or don't, I can't tell you what to do. This story is the slowest of slow burns and I'm trying to build up and develop Birdies friendships between the other ladies and Easy men before any romance is brought up, just so y'all know...

Based on the actors portrayal/hbo show and written with no disrespect to the real life veterans. Also all images found on Pinterest.

TW: Meal skipping, gossiping (but like nicely?)….. maybe that’s it?

Made of Glass

Chapter six: Oh, The Guilt Gossip Brings.

Richard Winters was a respectable man and functioned well in the military. He didn't question ridiculous orders and never spoke out of turn, he put up with a lot.

But even he knew when enough was enough, unlike his commanding officer; Herbert Sobel.

The punishments he was giving Bernadette were testing the boundaries of enough. It was making Winters consider telling on his CO like a schoolboy ratting on a bully.

Richard didn't interfere when Sobel had pushed Bernadette to her physical limits on the obstacle course. He didn't say a thing to the man in charge when he assigned the girl a full night of guard duty, even though he wanted to. He knew this was her chance to prove her strength and determination to the men, so he let it happen. He didn't bat an eye as he watched Sobel bend over and draw a circle of chalk on the floor of the mess hall at breakfast. Winters observed quietly as she was made to stand inside it at lunch as well.

And now, the redheaded lieutenant was at his limit.

The specific targeting of the only woman in the company was becoming too much. She hadn't slept at all the previous night and was being denied a full days worth of food, so when Sobel approached her as she stood obediently inside the circle at dinner that evening, Dick was apprehensive. What else could he possibly pile on to her already hefty punishment?

Nixon sat across from him yet both men were peering at the woman and the officer, completely disinterested in their meal. They watched as Sobel sneered at her and she took it all in her stride, chin held high. They were far enough away that neither Winters nor Nixon could hear the words he was barking at her but they took note of her clenched fists held by her side and the displeased looks on several of the eavesdropping men's faces, so whatever it was, it wasn't good.

Swiftly and without explanation, Sobel swiveled on his heel and exited the mess hall.

Birdie visibly relaxed at his departure but stayed in her spot, just in case he returned or someone grassed on her. She attempted to start up a conversation with Toye and Guarnere, who never seemed to be far away from the girl anymore.

To anyone watching she was clearly trying to lighten the mood of her two new friends but they were holding the grudge closer to their hearts than she did.

“Maybe he's trying to starve her out.” Nixon turned away from the scene, pulling Richard's attention with him.

“Wait until she passes out, then discharge her for failing to complete orders.” Lewis rolled his eyes, he pitied the poor girl but she was holding up well enough that he'd felt confident to take a bet on her outlasting the cruel punishment. Something Dick had chastised him for.

The hall was filled with the usual amount of chatter and movement so no-one blinked an eye when Eugene Roe got up from his seat and shuffled towards the center table. He motioned for Toye to make room for him and sat in the vacated space. He didn't miss the curious look from Bill or Toye straightening up his shoulders when Eugene leaned closer to Bernadette.

“Here.” The medic held out his hand in Birdie's direction and laying in his palm was a Hershey's bar.

Upon catching sight of the chocolate treat, Birdie's head shot up and she hurriedly scanned the room before looking back at the kindhearted man in front of her and shaking her head vigorously.

“He's not here.” Roe kept his voice low, noticing her worry in her dinner plate sized eyes.

“It's not him I'm worried 'bout.” She whispered. She didn't think anyone would rat on her, but you couldn't be too sure of these kinds of things. It was safer not to disobey the pigheaded CO.

Roe sighed, “It's not going to do anyone any good if you pass out halfway up Currahee.” She gazed at the offered food longingly, the tips of her fingers tingled with anticipation. She had never in her life wanted anything more than to reach out and take the chocolate. Birdie had to physically shake her head to break the trance the bar had put her in.

“I can't. Thank you, but I can't.” Her words were final, she wouldn't take the bar.

——————————————

Standing at attention with a full pack on as the sky dimmed was a nightmare for Bernadette.

She was beginning to feel delirious, the lack of sleep and food was one thing but adding the slowly darkening sky and gentle quiet lull of nature and she was done for. She wasn't sure if she was about to fall flat on her face and sleep or scream, cry and throw a tantrum but something was about to break.

Sobel paced the lines of Easy company, yelling about the conditions of the weekly nighttime march. Absolute silence, no water, typical stuff.

Honestly, Bernadette had stopped paying attention to the things Sobel screamed about. She just focused on the horizon and prayed her didn't call on her. Which he always did.

“Private Coldwell.” Right on time, as expected.

The looming officer stood in front of her, “You will identify the man who tried to sneak you food during dinner and you will identify him now.” It wasn't a question, someone had told him.

Birdie knew she couldn't give Eugene up. She was still gaining the trust of her fellow soldiers and tattling on one of them would do nothing for her. Besides, Roe was only trying to help her and she would felt guilty spitting in the face of his kind gesture.

“Uh.... Sir, no man snuck me food durin' dinner tonight.”

“Are you calling Sargent Evans a liar?” Sargent Evans. She should've known he's go running to Sobel and report every little thing she did.

“No, sir.”

“Then explain yourself, Private.”

“I-” How could she explain herself? “I asked one of the men for somethin' to eat, and thankfully he reminded me of the rules you laid out, so I didn't take it.” Would that work? She could only hope Sobel was dumb enough to buy it or she'd be branded a liar in his eyes.

“Identify the man, Private.” Sobel's voice was venom dipped. Bernadette looked dumbly at his face, how was she supposed to weasel her way out of this?

“It was me, sir.” Roe's Cajun accent was easily recognisable. Birdie held her breath, waiting for some sort of punishment or reprimand.

“Is she lying?” His words were directed at Eugene but he didn't turn his face away from the woman. She needed the medic to go along with her lie but couldn't send him an unspoked message while she was occupied in a staring competition with the angry commander.

“No, sir.” Thank God.

Sobel took the information in, mulling it over and finally moved away from the Easy company riflewoman.

“You have latrine duty tomorrow, don't you?” The CO asked Eugene.

“Yes, sir.”

“Not anymore. Private Coldwell has volunteered to cover your shift.” Well that sounded about right.

“Yes, sir.” Roe responded, his glare did not go unnoticed by Bernadette.

“Dismissed.”

And their twelve mile Friday night march began.

————————————

Sleep came easy to Birdie that night.

The thin mattress and itchy blanket felt like resting on a fluffy cloud wrapped in silk. The gentle chatter that filled the women's barracks acted like soothing background noise settling her into some much needed sleep. The lights were still on but that didn't stop Bernadette from shutting her eyes and switching off her brain.

“Poor things really been through it.” Lucy, the dark haired Fox girl spoke, noticing Birdie's unconscious state. She sat at the end of her bed across from the sleeping figure while Blythe had made herself comfortable at the head of Lucy's bed.

“What do you mean?” Constance asked, she and Harriet had been sent to a medical seminar almost everyday that week and were yet to hear the rumours. Harriet heard the commotion and moved closer to the forming group, choosing to sit on the floor next to Lucy's bed.

“Her CO's totally got it out for her.” Blythe commented, flicking through a comic she'd found in Lucy's footlocker. Barbara rolled her eyes and ignored them, scribbling away in her journal, while Betty listened in but kept quiet in her corner of the room.

Connie sauntered over to the bed separating Lucy, Blythe and Harriet from Charlotte, who scrubbed her boots vigorously, and sat, curious to hear the stories about Easy company's woman.

“He's making her run the obstacle course ten times more than the guys and last night she had ALL five guard shifts. By herself.” Lucy explained to Connie and Harriet seeing as they missed the action. The girls widened their eyes, unbelieving of the harsh treatment by her own CO.

“Yeah, and apparently, he makes her stand in a circle in the middle of the mess hall so she can't eat.” Blythe added on to Lucy's statement.

“Nah, I think that one's made up, B.” Lucy told the redhead laying on her bed.

“I heard he's trying to force her to quit.” The Able woman uttered one bed away from the group. She was still polishing her boots and didn't look up from her work but the conversation had piqued her interest.

“Well, someone told me, he flirted with her and she turned him down so now he's punishing her.” Blythe announced, lazily tossing the comic to the end of the bed so Lucy could finish reading it. The duo of blonde medics gasped scandalously.

“No way. Some guy told me, that some guy in Easy told him-”

“Jesus. You ladies never stop yapping, do you?” Francesca exhaled a stream of smoke and tossed the end of her cigarette into the drum. She was leaning against the wall with her knee bent and foot propped up behind her, her usual scowl sat on her face.

She wasn't exactly best friends with the southern woman but she couldn't tolerate good people being gossiped about while they couldn't say anything to defend themselves. She had no time for rumours and hearsay.

Birdie was kind to her and always smiled at Francesca even when all she did in return was glare. Out of all the woman here, Francesca could endure Birdie's presence the longest. Her sunny disposition was ever so slowly growing on the broody woman, though she would rather die than admit it.

“Oh no, we didn't mean-” Harriet spoke up, defending the idle talk shared between growing friends.

“Mhm sure, but would you have said it if she was awake?”

The room fell silent allowing the sound of Francesca swinging open the door and exiting to echo through the women's ears.

A certain level of guilt crept over the room.

Charlotte continued working on her boots, Connie and Harriet found their way back to their respective cots and Blythe and Lucy resumed their senseless chatter about the comic book.

Constance toyed with the corner of her blanket, glancing at Birdie as she dozed peacefully in the bed next to hers. She admired the woman and hadn't meant to engage in the whispered tales but hearing what her comrade was going through impressed her, even if half of it wasn't true, she was still achieving more than the others combined.

Constance decided she would ask her friend about it when she woke up. Francesca was right, if she couldn't say something to her face why would she talk about it while Birdie slept, unaware to what was being said about her?

A/N: Thoughts? Comments?

~ next-autopsy ~

Chapter seven

[kaijubluu]

alright, attempt 2 😭

happy @hbowardaily fic exchange, @ep6bastogne!

your prompts were, quite frankly, a delight to work with! i did take some creative liberties with prompts one and two, but i hope you enjoy my nyquil-tinted, slightly manic writing.

enjoy!

wash the blood from my hands

baberoe, mild tw for injury/death

there are guts in his hands, rubbery and cooling and dead.

no, there's blood bubbling up under his desperate fingers and desperate linens, not showing any signs of stopping.

no, there's necrotic flesh giving way under his oh-so-gentle hands, black and rotted and corpse-like, though the corpsman the limb is attached to is very much alive.

no, his blood-slick fingers are slipping on packets of sulfa, as toye and guarnere lay at his feet in pieces.

no, he's laying in a frigid foxhole in the dead of france.

eugene roe snaps awake with a shudder, feeling like he needs to vomit. everything around him smells like blood and death, and he can't-

he can't-

he can't escape.

gene scrambles out of his lonesome little shelter before he suffocates in it, in the copper-sweet. he stumbles through the trees, quiet as a mouse and heart beating twice as fast, searching for a sign, any sign, that he hasn't failed his men, his duty.

he gasps in breath after breath of frigid air, desperate to regain control. he can feel tears spilling out of his eyes, freezing in salty icicles on his blue-black lashes, his still blood-splattered cheeks. his breathing turns to weeping, huge, choking sobs clawing their way out of his throat.

gene falls to his knees in a copse of icy trees, dead but still standing. he's drowning in his despair, in the blood of his friends and enemies, in the tears that hurt to shed.

all of a sudden, there's a hand on his shoulder, and a kind voice drifting through the deliciously cold air.

"doc," the voice, babe's voice says. "doc, you look dead on your feet!"

he mumbles out a tear-stained excuse, but babe doesn't care to listen, and drops down into the snow next to his friend.

"c'mon, gene," he tries again, infinitely softer. "you'll be a lot more comfortable in my foxhole."

they stand together, one unsteady and one solid as stone. babe leads the medic through snow-capped trees, but gene barely notices. he still feels asleep, or lost in some fugue state. all sensation is lost to the winter air, save the warmth that blooms under babe's hands on his wrist, his side, his shoulder.

it's in this dreamy state that babe directs him to a cozy foxhole right on the front line, so similar yet so different from his own. the same scratchy blanket, the same tang in his nose of dirt. but babe's foxhole feels lived-in, a place where friends have come and gone in comfort. it feels like an actual refuge, one babe tucks gene in with the same infinite gentleness he speaks to him with.

babe nudges his friend in and crawls in after him before tucking a blanket over the both of them.

they're so close together, gene notices distantly. pressed together shoulder to hip to thigh to ankle.

a moment passes.

as warmth builds up in the foxhole, gene finds himself coming back alive. he turns to thank his friend, but babe shushes him and gently take gene's frozen hands in his own, only marginally warmer ones.

"when i was little," babe begins. "when i was little, my momma would kiss each and every one of our little cuts and bruises away. we used to ask if it was magic. she'd laugh, and tell us no, there was no such thing as magic. just love, and hope."

he leans forward, carefully, so carefully, and presses a kiss to gene's blood-stained knuckles.

gene gasps, a tiny little noise, almost lost in his breathing.

babe elects to ignore it, and presses another kiss to gene's opposite hand.

"guess what i'm trying to say, hon-"

"how can you love me?" gene interrupts in a raspy whisper. "how can you love me when you know what i have and haven't done, edward?"

babe frowns. "i don't . . . i don't understand, gene."

"your friends, edward. i've held your friends' guts in, and tried to keep their blood in their veins, and tried to save their limbs, and i've failed!" gene pulls his hands out of babe's grasp to wipe at his wet-again eyes. "i've failed everywhere it counts, babe, and you still love me!"

"oh, gene . . ." it's a sigh of a sentence, punctuated only by the plink, plink of tears on frozen soil. babe leans forward once more, but this time, he kisses the salt off of gene's apple-red cheeks. "you don't need to save everyone to be worthy of love. i'd kiss the blood off your hands, honey. i'd kiss the sins off your lips as you confess them, darling."

"you . . . what?" comes a shaky whisper.

babe sighs again. "come here," he says, and gene does. babe tucks his lover close, rests his chin on that tousled head of blue-black hair.

"i didn't fall in love with perfect, eugene roe. i fell in love with you. every mistake you've made, good or bad. just you."

[shzmluvrs]

I luved your freddy lovey dovey stuff so can i request sum more fluffy things for the first movie freddy?? Like maybe trying to have a sleepover and the family keep interrupting them or something like that?? x

Finally

Prompt: Freddy should've known better. Wanting time to himself was already hard enough at his house. Wanting time for himself and you? For a sleepover, a.k.a. a longer than 24-hour period of time? *loud laughing*.

Timeline: Post Shazam!, Pre S!:FOTG

TW/Content: Yelling⚡️Freddy being inpatient and wanting you to himself lol⚡️Fluff (plenty of it, I'm sure)⚡️Cursing (I think, but probably not)

Reader: Non-specified! Any Pronouns!

Requested By: Anon

Back to Master List

I know for a fact that Freddy never watches TV downstairs, ever, for the exact reason that there is no point in doing so.

Er, attempting to do so, rather.

So why he even bothered to try it while you were over spending the night with him, he'll never know. He will reap the consequences, though.

He could excuse it when it was Victor, the man coming in to suggest some of the top notch, upmost best and entertaining movies to watch. And when Rosa came in to "check on you guys" and "make sure you had snacks." She was just mothering and being nosy, nothing new.

But it was when he had barely gotten to slyly drape his arm around your shoulders before Mary walked in squealing over something ridiculous, his irritation had started to grow. And you gladly gave her your attention, turning away from him to entertain whatever little funny video she had to show you on her phone right now.

He would knaw at his lip and keep his brown eyes glued to the screen, ignoring it all until he felt you cuddle up into his side once again. Maybe he had gotten all worked up and pissy for nothing, I mean, your attention wasn't pulled away for that long...

Mary was already gone, the movie was still only beginning... Good. But before the two of you could fully relax, Eugene came barreling into the room. Right in front of the TV.

Shouting.

"FREDDY, THEY RELEASED IT, THE GAME JUST DROPPED LIKE, TWO MINTUES AGO, WE HAVE TO GET IT NOW, LIKE, RIGHT FREAKIN' NOW!!"

While you stared like a deer caught in headlights, Freddy could only (again) roll his eyes. He knew exactly what his younger brother was talking about, and though a small part of him fluttered with excitement at the news, it meant nothing to him right now with you right next to him, attempting to spend some time together.

"I'm kind of busy right now...!" He hummed (hiding his passive aggressiveness through grit teeth). "Like, extra busy." Even going as far as to pulling you even closer, if possible, hoping Eugene would catch the obvious hint. He did not.

"She'll understand it if we just explained it to her!"

"Yeah, Freddy, explain it to me~." You teased, and then hushed up real quick when he sent both of you glares indicating he was not at all in the mood.

"Maybe later."

With Euegene gone, he was finally able to kick back once more, placing casual kisses to your temple as if he didn't almost explode mere seconds ago. It caused giggles to leave your throat, humming to yourself at Freddy's versatile range of emotions when it came to you. Although, you couldn't help but admit you did admire his willingness to completely give up any and all other distractions for you.

Including this next one, Darla bounding into the living room with dolls in hand. This was now, not only a test of Freddy's patience, but yours as well...

"(Y/N)!! Do'ya' wanna play Pixie Nightclub Life with me?"

... what ?

"...What?" You asked in complete confusion, staring between her and the dolls.

"No." Freddy gave a solid answer for you, pursing his lips up into a huge pout you didn't want to address just yet. "We actually just wanna spend time together, if that could be possible, which, I know it could, because it's not- It's not a hard thing to achieve and completely reasonable to want... just sayin'."

"Stop it..." You hissed, slapping at him lightly before leaning upwards to face Darla one-on-one. "How about this? When I wake up tomorrow morning, me and Freddy will play dolls with you. Call it... a special reservation of our time." Her lips, which were already beginning to dip into a frown, immediately backtracked right back up into a wide grin at your compromise, nodding swiftly before bounding off.

. . . "I don't wan-" "I don't care, be a good big brother." "Mmm..."

He didn't argue, but he released his pout and leaned further into you, knowing you had basically just done him a favor. Plus, he was just happy you two could now, finally, have so-

Nevermind.

The two of you jumped at the loud screaming coming from the kitchen, sharing a worried glance before you shot up off of the couch and Freddy paused the movie.

"WHY IS IT ON FIRE?!" "I BURNT THE WAFFLES!!" You weren't even granted time to wonder, 'How does one burn waffles?', watching with wide eyes as a flame lit up the entirety of the kitchen with its orange light, Pedro backing away before he could get burned.

"WHY WERE YOU MAKING WAFFLES IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!" Freddy screamed, Billy already moving towards the sink as he shouted back. "WE WERE HUNGRY AND ROSA IS SLEEPING!"

"Probably not anymore..." Pedro murmured, your hand itching to stop Billy's actions for some odd reason. You couldn't place it, but something about him pouring water into a large cup to put out a fire in/on the toaster didn't seem right. "Wait..."

"OH MY GOD, WE CAN LITERALLY HAVE NOTHING NICE IN THIS HOUSE!!" Freddy groaned in agitation, not noticing it as you left his side to slowly trail after Billy's hurried movements.

"Dude, wait..."

"WELL, NOBODY TOLD YOU TO INVOLVE YOURSELF, FREDDY!!"

"I'M A SIMPLE, HEROIC GUY! I HEAR A SCREAM, I GOTTA SEE WHAT'S UP!"

And finally, it clicked. "Wait, nO, YOU DON'T POUR WATER ON AN ELECTRICAL F-!!"

Too late. Water doused over the toaster, drenching the burnt bread and anything else around it as a silence loomed over the group. It wasn't long before low, electrical humming could be heard, and then a loud pop/shock sound from the outlet, scaring the life out of all of you, jumping back as a curt scream escaped from your throat. At the very least, you found it endearing that Billy, Freddy, and Pedro's instinct was to immediately keep you behind them. Yet still...

"Stupid idiots." "DID WE NOT...? JUST SAVE YOUR LIFE??" "YEAH, FROM A PROBLEM YOU CAUSED!"

When the chaos was said and done (and the whole of downstairs aired out to get rid of the burnt smell) you and Freddy were placed back on the couch, comfortable in each other's arms as Freddy eagerly rewinded the movie.

"I'm sorry we haven't really gotten to focus :/..." You sighed into the crook of his neck, your boyfriend already placing his hand on top of yours to rub your knuckles soothingly.

"Don't worry about it, (Y/N). Everyone's asleep now, I'm pretty sure, so we've got all night to ourselves, finally."

"Finally." You repeated, a smile gracing your lips with a hum, your eyes closing in content as you leaned against his chest.

It was Freddy who realized they never opened back up again (your eyes), looking down at you upon feeling the oddly slow rise and fall of your body against his arms wrapped around you. You had peacefully lulled yourself to sleep, the calming sound of his heart beating not aiding in keeping you awake while he scoffed.

"Are you serious right now..."

The next morning was pretty much the same deal, everyone sitting at the large dining table enjoying the breakfast and chit-chat. Each member of the family capturing your attention over and over again, leaving Freddy no time to even speak to you. But, for this moment, he didn't mind. He sat and smiled, mainly at you, admiring your features as you interacted with his family. He squeezed your hand under the table, keeping it in his lap. And, without any need for you to even break conversation, you squeezed it back.

I hope you liked it!! I feel like I made it a little longer (and more chaotic-ish) than originally intended, but it's ight, you'll live💅🏽.

Also, Moon, I'm coming for your man, he's so sweet🥺🫶🏽💙.

~ Star✨️

Back to Master List

[bellewintersroe]

Max Verstappen x HornerDaughter! part 11! Here’s the LINK for part 10. Tw: some mentions of death threats? Leni gets a little anxious so talks of anxiety and worry. Talks of a sexual nature. Max and Leni find themselves in a little awkward conversation, after a few too many drinks Max finds himself moping around when his feelings don’t seem to be mutual. It’s fair to say the next morning he’s embarrassed. Still, things move on and soon Mexico is looming, Max gets protective especially when death threats are for some reason sent in innocent Leni’s direction, and the two grow closer than ever. Taglist: @ironmaiden1313 @callsignwidow @fangirl125reader @norassimpingzone @roseseraj @eugene-emt-roe @copper-boom @its-elias-world @cassiopeiia24@larastark3107 @maxxiemoo @crashingwavesofeuphoria @18754389

“Hey, careful.” I breathlessly laughed, reaching out and holding Max’s upper arm, supporting his stance. It wasn’t like he was taller or bigger than me or anything…

“I’m good- sorry!” Max’s semi-sober mind shone through, before he started snickering with drunken laughter. “Cant have you breaking an arm before Mexico.” I smiled, scanning over his slightly messy hair. He’d ruffled it and attempted to tidy it over and over again in the ride back to the hotel.

“No. That wouldn’t be good.” He smiled back to me, eyes glimmering as he watched down in my direction. He was somehow walking and staring at me simultaneously. “You know, you look really pretty tonight.” Max’s arm relaxed and soon I was just holding onto his bicep gently.

“Thank you.” My face immediately warmed. I felt my smile grow and my heart literally fluttered like somebody had just electrocuted me. “But you can’t walk and stare at me at the same time, you should watch where you’re going.” I playfully knocked his face back in the direction down the hall. He was still smiling, laughing to himself.

“Sorry, Leni, I probably shouldn’t have drunk this much… probably.” He muttered to himself, clearly trying to buck up his ideas. “For a change you’re more drunk than I am.” My hand softly slipped off his arm. I saw his brows falter slightly and he reached down, taking a hold of my hand.

My voice hitched as I went to protest, but soon he was looking at me with the same softened eyes I’d stared back to that night we spent on the yacht for his birthday. “Maybe I’m gonna come on too strong-”

“No, don’t say that…” I awkwardly shrugged, stepping outside my hotel room door. “I just…” he paused, looking back down to me again. “I just really like you, Leni.” He hiccuped once again and my heart simultaneously jumped and broke, realizing how truly wasted he just was.

“You’re drunk, Max.” My voice softened, gaze fluttering to the ground. I was afraid if I stared back to him I’d lose myself. “Im truthful.” He slurred as I sighed turning up to him.

“Maybe you don’t feel the same, or-or you’re scared-”

“Max. Let’s not.” An uncomfortable awkwardness rattled through me. He couldn’t mean all of this seeing how wasted he was. I’d been told by men before in this exact situation how they felt about me and it meant nothing. “Sorry.” He quickly spoke as I pulled my key card out. “Sorry.” Max repeated. I reached out and unlocked my door. “Trust me, Max. I do feel the same.” I shyly muttered, facing the door as I pushed on it. Max remained silent. “I just can’t, yet.” He let out out a drunken laugh, one that was overwhelmingly sad. I turned back to him, door wide open so I stepped forwards and eloped him within a hug. “Don’t look so sad, you’re literally a world champion.” I teased, lightly slapping his cheek. Max’s smile emerged again, hands moving up to my waist. “I want you, Leni.” He whispered. I didn’t quite know how to take that comment, I felt weak in the knee’s, an immediate warmth spread through my core and I couldn’t stop staring back into his eyes.

My hand softened on his neck as I grazed over the very bottom of his scalp. I want you too, but not like this. “Please, Max. Not when you’re so drunk. It’s just too soon.” Max and I separated slightly.

“Okay.” He nodded, not overstepping a boundary. “Okay.” He repeated. “Are you okay getting back to your room?”

“It’s only down the hall.” He awkwardly shrugged. Despite seemingly to understand where I was coming from, he still had a semi-sour expression plastered across his face. It would be one that would torment me day and night.

“Okay… night Max.”

“Night…” awkward…

___________________________________________ Friday 28th October 2023.

“All im saying Leni, is that you’ll just be safer in the garage, with us and security.” My dad explained. I huffed in frustration, pushing my glasses off my face. It wasn’t like I was trying to do my work or anything and my dad kept pestering me. “Yeah, but, dad, I don’t get it. Nobody’s bothered about me, I don’t think they even know who I am.” I harshly reached for my glasses, shoving them back on my face. “I’d beg to differ.” He scoffed as I rolled my eyes.

“Look, don’t be rolling your eyes, Leni. At the end of the day it’s for your own safety.” “Nobody’s gonna go out and behead me in the paddock.” I dramatically spoke. “Well you haven’t seen what people have been saying.” He muttered in a low tone. I pursed my lips and pushed my laptop screen back slightly.

“I stay in the garage anyway.” “No you don’t.”

“Okay, I don’t. But I’m safe.” I defended as my dad sighed. “Look, for the safety of you and everybody just stay in the bloody garage this race. I can’t risk anything.” “Alright I will. I was going to anyway.” My eyes widened. My dad muttered something before walking back to what he was focused on before. Basically there’d been a whole load of threats towards Max and Red Bull in Mexico, I wasn’t too sure what for or what over, but security had increased. I hadn’t been very present on that side of social media, so as far as I knew my dad was just being overdramatic. I got back to my work and focused for the rest of the evening, occupied on finishing everything up before the weekend ahead. It wasn’t until I had downtime in the evening that I decided to have a browse of exactly what these threats were. My accounts were all on private so I headed to my message requests. Half of them were spam or just random people messaging me about my dad, or Red Bull, but I did see one particular creepy message about Mexico. A shudder ran down my spine reading how the man said he was going to do horrific things to me. I knew not to take it seriously, but I shouldn’t have doubted my dad so much, let alone argue with him, especially when there was a chain of frightening messages. I wasn’t quite sure what I’d done, or why they knew me? I suppose it was just fear mongering amongst Red Bull and to Max. I didn’t want to spook my father any further, so I hovered over Max’s contact. We hadn’t text in a while, I didn’t know if it would be weird, especially after the other night, to text him. But truthfully I was scared, especially alone in a hotel room.

I screenshotted the imagine and sent it to him, punching out my message frantically quick. Seconds later, Max had responded. Leni: I’m scared wtf?!!!

Max: Leni that’s disgusting, have you told your dad? Leni: I’ll show him tomorrow fml Max: are you ok???

Leni: Im good, just freaked now I’m alone in the hotel room

Max: don’t worry you are safe in here, there’s more security than usual.

Part of me wanted to go be with Max that night. No matter how hard I attempted to deny that I didn’t want anything yet, I did. I couldn’t deny that for much longer. So when he responded I found myself tapping my phone, shuddering at the idea of being alone all evening in this room. Leni: yeah it’ll be fine

Max: I’m sorry they are messaging you too

Leni: don’t be sorry?? It’s not your fault at all, Max

Max: is there anything I can do though? Leni: bring me a night light fml Max: hahahahah not allowed to leave my room sorry Max: you can come to my room however if you are actually that scared

One thing led to another and I was creeping past security with my head held low. They didn’t bat an eyelid. Max must have told them I was coming, I just hoped to god it wouldn’t get spread back to my dad and Geri that I was sneaking into Max’s room at 9pm. But it wasn’t like that, not at all.

“Are you okay?” Max was quick to greet me inside, thanking the security before locking the door behind us. His room was fucking huge, he had the most amazing view and a TV the size of a cinema screen. His bed was king sized (of course) and the sheets were only slightly ruffled from where he’d been sat. Max was in his underwear and had thrown on a hoody. I hoped I hadn’t awoken him.

“I’m ok. I didn’t wake you did I?”

“No, of course not. Come sit down.” He switched the main light off, the TV illuminating the room. I followed, taking the side of the bed that was furthest away from the door and kicking my crocs off to one side neatly. “Are those crocs?!” Max crawled over, leaning over the side of the bed.

“Yeah.” I giggled, gaze lingering over him. “Jesus, Leni. I thought you were better than that.”

“Uh- I love crocs. They’re actually so comfy.” I hugged my knees upwards slightly, Max smirked towards me before resting back onto the pillows to my right. He kept a comfortable distance, one that I wanted to break. “Are you sure you’re okay, though? Those messages were weird.” He double checked. “Yeah… it was just weird. I don’t know how they know who I am.”

“They are just a set of pricks.” He huffed, shaking his head back to the TV. He’d been watching ‘We’re the Millers’ and had it paused until I came in. “I don’t think they’ll do anything though, Leni. But just in case you should be careful.” He nodded towards me, playing the movie.

“Sorry, dad.” I teased as he looked towards me in surprise. “It’s true, no?”

“Yeah, it is.” I glanced down to my Nike socks, I’d purposefully put them on to look cool in front of Max. It was kinda pathetic. “But you can stay here, all night- I mean if you want to, I’m okay with it.” He shrugged honestly.

“I don’t want you to be scared.” He added back on as I smiled softly towards him. “At least I have somebody to watch this with.” He gave me a double glance, nodding towards the tv as I laughed gently. “Suppose so.” A moment of silence took over us as we watched the movie. “I will seriously head-butt someone, though.” “What?”

“If they do anything to you- ah not that they will, but I would.” I laughed slightly, but the protective comment was actually really cute- in a strange kinda way.

“Thanks, Max.” I glanced back down to the sheets I was yet to slip under. “I am a little worried though, I didn’t take my dad seriously.” The message included graphic details of what they wanted to do to me because I was a girl and where they’d find me (not that they could do that but still). I shuddered at the thought. “Don’t be worried, you’ll be ok with us.” Max nodded resting back against the pillows. The aircon nipped at my skin slightly, Max must’ve noticed the goosebumps on my skin and tugged at the blanket slightly. “Thanks.” I smiled back, allowing him to semi help me under.

“Sorry, I can turn it down.” He reached up for the remote, “honestly it’s fine, it’s warmer under here.” I tugged the bedding up to my neck. I could smell Max’s cologne, it dizzied me with emotion.

“Comfy bed.” He commented, still switching the air-con down to a more natural temperature. I still shuddered slightly and brought my hands forwards. “Feel how cold they are.” In the process I touched his bare thigh, Max squirmed and called out in shock. “Leni! What the fuck- how are you so cold?” He scrambled, grabbing my hands in his larger ones. I laid on my side facing him whilst he shuffled down slightly. “Because your room is Antarctica.” I pointed out.

“C’mere.” He offered his arm out and I shuffled forwards, moving over onto his chest with a comfy arm over his front. This felt nice. Like real good, he was all snug and when his hand casually rested on my arm, rubbing up and down I thought I’d burst from excitement. Cuddling wouldn’t lead to anything, right? I could still not overstep a boundary but enjoy myself. I hummed, squeezing him slightly. “You’re all warm.”

“Yeah, you’re fucking freezing.” He tensed when my hand touched the skin that had been exposed from his top lifting. I purposefully put my hand there, hearing him groan as he tensed, reaching down there to shift my hand again. The noise he made did things to me. It was more like a moan than anything, the thought of Max like that making those noises was something I hadn’t dwelled on a whole not- until now. “Mmm, let me get warm!” I teased hearing him laugh and slowly take my hand, pinning it over the other side of my head. Woah. I gasped out a laugh, my stomach fluttering and there was that familiar warming between my legs. Fuck- I was horny, for Max. How embarrassing. My face blushed as I scanned back to his eyes, not knowing if he was thinking what I was thinking.

“Max.” I pouted, but he’d already glanced my face up and down, shifting his body so he was on his knees besides me. His hair fell messy and down over his face and he looked really good. All sensation of being cold left me and suddenly I felt like I was sweating in my hoody.

“Sorry.” He blinked, hand sliding off my wrist gently. My brows furrowed in a slight disappointment and I sat up once again, eyeing over him. All sense had left my body, I wanted his attention, I wanted Max. What about waiting? Fuck waiting- okay maybe I was being brash.

“It’s fine.” I smiled gently, pulling off the hoody and placing it gently on the floor. “We had something good going on then, you ruined it.” He was still teasing, I was glad.

“I wouldn’t say it was good.” I fired back, resting back under the covers. Max then glanced to me, deciding to pull on the own material of his shirt before sinking deeper into the bed. He was almost completely naked. Fuck.

“Fine.” He nodded confidently, meeting my gaze for a moment before his eyes landed back on the TV. Throughout the movie we’d moved closer, with a small nudge of my foot on his leg, Max was offering his arm out again and pulling me into yet another cuddle. I felt like a dog in heat, and when his hand mindlessly slipped onto my lower thigh that was gently resting over his legs I wanted to moan out loud.

I decided to push it further, knowing his hand was where it was, fingers deliciously squeezing into my skin every now and then, I shifted my hand a little lower down his chest, to his stomach. Max swallowed, I could see by the bobbing of his Adam’s apple, but I simply pretended to laugh at the TV. Inside, I was trying to retrace the feeling of his lips on mine, his hand on my skin, even higher up than it was now.

When the movie was over we’d made no significant moves so I let out a small moan of dissatisfaction and rolled back, my hand was cold again, so I purposefully placed it over his lower abdomen just for some attention. It worked. Max hissed, fighting for my hand and grabbing it between his larger one. “If you keep doing that-”

“Sorry, sorry.” I sheepishly spoke, stretching slightly from how uncomfortable this vest stop was. His eyes fell to my chest, my nipples were peaked in the cool air and you could clearly see the outline of them through the white material.

“What will you do if I keep doing it?” My laugh fell short, “make you sleep on the floor.” Max still held my hand up, but when I relaxed it it flopped down besides me, still squeezed by his.

“That’s mean.” My eyes fell to where the covers had pulled down, revealing his naked torso. “Well, if you can’t control yourself..”

“I can control myself!” Truthfully I couldn’t, right now I wanted to do every sinful act to Max under the sun.

“Sure.” He smirked, gaze effortlessly gliding over me. “Mh.” I made a pathetic attempt to fight from his grasp, my hips raising slightly as I did. Max didn’t fail to notice this. At the same time he moved his hand, moving them to my shorts and tugging at them slightly.

“Are you not uncomfortable?” He flicked at them again, the tight material pinging back down to my skin. “Mhm.” Suddenly I felt all shy, nodding as my hand slid to where his was, adjusting the material slightly. “Take them off then.” He spoke in a hushed tone. My breath hitched and my thumbs pushed under the material, inching them off my legs to reveal my matching white thong I’d paired with my vest top on purpose. I had to be prepared, okay?! I lifted my knees up, shyly bringing them together as Max’s jaw tensed. “You can borrow some shorts if you want.” He tore his eyes away, staring back to me from above me. “No, it’s okay.” I whispered as he inhaled sharply, tearing his eyes away.

“You’re doing things to me, Leni.” He openly spoke. I blinked back up to him, pushing myself up once again. “What- what do you mean?” I stammered. Max turned back to me after a moment with an exasperated look. His cheeks were pink and his jaw was tightened. He looked frustrated, exceptionally sexy.

“Because you say you want to wait and then this happens I- you’re driving me insane.”

“Well… we don't have to wait just for tonight…”

[ricardian-werewolf]

Ruleth England Under a Hogge

Chapter 3: Thus Saith the Lord

Summary:

Richard is forced at knife-point to come to terms with what his reign has meant for his only surviving child. Ensconced in the safety of engagement, Cecily finally gets associated with Ravka, its people, and the king's mysterious ailment that has come to her through unofficial channels only.

Notes:

TWS: Discussion of Eugenics, Fascism, murder, domestic violence, serious mental illness.

Tagging: @lordbettany @dreadbirate @rovinglemon

Waterloo Station.

Richard could only watch in wide-eyed horror as his daughter’s train pulled from the station without him.

Blood - from such a small cut! - spilled from his chest in rivulets. The armor had shattered the blade’s tip, yes, but the wound had still been made. His facade of indomitable strength had collapsed. Yet, only slightly. He had to make this a rallying cry, a declaration of war against Cecily and her household-to-be. Rubbing his forehead, Richard stepped into the shade of an alcove as his blackshirts swarmed to protect their king. Ripping open his shirt, he grimaced. The armor that his daughter had so assumed was merely an undershirt. The blade she wielded had been rusted by years of Flanders soil and so cracked when plunged into his flesh. Richard examined the wound a moment more then buttoned his shirt and tightened his tie. At once, breaking through the crowd, James Tyrell - a rat faced man with wicked eyes, came to his side. “Should we stop the train, your Grace? Have Cecily hauled back to London and tried as a pariah ought?”

If Tyrell had been expecting a yes , he was shortly and sorely mistaken. Richard gave him a dark look and then, backhanded Tyrell across the cheek. The silver of the signet ring on his pinky slashing a cut into the soft flesh. Before the man could think to cry out, Richard leaned yet closer and grabbed Tyrell’s collar.

“She will be allowed the decency to escape. Let her survive in a court where she knows not the language or customs. Soon, the errors of her sins will have her kneeling at my feet. With luck, I’ll have the foresight to cleave her head from her shoulders.” Chewing on a hangnail, Richard adjusted the lapels of his cape and strode across the station to his waiting car. He’d stood here just a few years ago, welcoming the young princes from their safe-havens. Then, he’d murdered them himself and the throne was his.

Settled in his seat, only then did Richard realize that Jeeves had fled. Seemingly operating on other orders, the long-suffering valet had rid himself of Richard’s pins, protection, and all honor. Sniffing, Richard lit himself a cigarette and watched the city-scape of London roll by. He had an upcoming dinner with the German ambassador to worry about. France’s attempts at Fascism had been so poorly accepted with the February 6th coup d’etat that Richard’s hopes of seeing a 4th Republic France bearing the Fasces was dashed. He had put money and hopes into L’Émeute des vétérans succeeding. But with this counter-revolt fought back by the anti-fascist parasites popping up all over France, fear began to coil in his gut. Maybe he would have the East End torched again. Another round-up of the new immigrants. Go about breaking down doors and hauling out dissenters. The camps in the midlands needed more…

Labor . Opening his briefcase handed to him that morning by his private secretary, Richard skimmed through telegrams, missives and more pieces of statecraft. However, his hand paused when he settled on a simple cream folder of manila titled simply:

Gnadentod.

England had a long history of Eugenics worming its way into the lexicon of the society, bolstered by Social Darwinisim, empirical superiority and blatant racism. Yet, this was more insidious, beneath the surface. And Richard had been the one to ignite it. Not to save his own wretched, twisted soul, but for Cecily’s. If the government and the state came for others, maybe they would overlook her. Maybe the deaths of thousands of other feeble-minded children and adults who weren’t adding much to the gene pool - more so polluting it - would save Cecily from the surgeon’s scalpel and reaper’s scythe. 

He could live with it. Perhaps he would even go and witness some of the roundups. Make speeches. Every word spoke to rile a hungry crowd of animals who wanted these people dead. Dissenters would be crushed. He could do that. All of it was just actions. Death took and took, distinguishing not the sinner or the saint. But as long as Cecily breathed, he was content. He would look the other way when mothers screamed at him to return their children. Let them take that grief unto their shoulders, a burden that would no doubt crush them like fine glass.

“Where to, your Grace?” His driver asked.

Richard grimaced. He could go after Cecily, break her into pieces no bigger than his thumbnail and feed her bones to his pigs, or he could stay. Staying behind meant continuing to drag England kicking and screaming into the era that it deserved. Losing Cecily meant that she could be easily corrupted by the Eastern influences of Communism. Yet, she was already far too mired in that mindset. He hadn’t been blind to her childhood training sessions in the East end, nor had he raised a brow at her reading The Daily Worker and The Communist Manifesto . What had come to a head was the General Strike of 1926, which Richard had brought out the police to crush. The army had given support, and veterans once more tore one another to pieces with bullet and bayonet. Cecily had been 26 at that point, and he’d spotted her amongst the strikers. A misplaced bullet to the spine would have cut her down. The shot misfired. The shooter was killed publicly outside of Saint Paul’s, and Cecily had been packed off to Middleham for the rest of the year. The public had howled hopelessly for their beloved Princess’s return, what with Edward’s death still so fresh-

Richard flinched . He’d not meant to kill his son. But the urge to, the sight of him so drunk and so stupid , had guided his hand. He regretted it, but not in the way a normal father might. He regretted killing such a fine piece on the chessboard of power. Edward had been set up to wed with one of Heinrich Himmler’s daughters, and that alcoholism had developed as a result. Something simply had to be done. Richard had taken the blade and the action. It would have been perfect only had Cecily not been there to see it. The shock of it, thank god, blotted out the incident to mere hazy fragments. Combined with the affects of her constant morphine usage to wipe out the memories of the trenches, she was in no place to remember much of anything . She’d been packed off to bed and in the morning taken up to Oxford as a surprise. There, she’d been stuck in Saint Hilda’s College and given the option to Read History.

She’d sprung at the chance. Richard had doubted that Cecily would survive her first term. She’d come out with first class honors in modern history. He’d hoped she would have failed her first year examinations. Yet, somehow… she’d not. Perhaps it was just stubbornness or anger or… His gaze turned to the window, which beyond lay the empty platform that’d borne the train to Os Alta via Berlin. Some part of him, that old fear, rose its ugly head. There was another reason for her survival. Something that had carried her through the years of pain, of misery. Nursed her wounds when everyone else had turned their back. Lehzen hadn’t been brought in until her breakage in 1929. This wasn’t some sort of childish affection, nursed between two young people. Love. True, affectionate feeling between two people who’d never met, yet written letters of a sort for years . The letter Nikolai had written to Cecily as an official opening couldn’t have been her first. Somehow, they must’ve figured out how to write while ignoring the censors. Richard gritted his teeth so hard that he heard the golden crowns of his back molars crack . Shaking his head, he pressed a hand to his brow and sighed. His driver waited with wide, expectant eyes. He still hadn’t given an order on where they were to go yet. Grumbling, he spoke:

“The Senate House.”

“Right away, your Grace.”

The car leaped at once into motion. The procession of armored cars, Rolls Royces and a motorcade all followed swiftly after their king. It was, he noted, uncannily close to how a hunting procession closed in on the prey. His fingers fiddled wordlessly with the wedding band. As the car moved silently through the streets of the City, he thought hopelessly of a woman with striking ginger hair and blazing green eyes that could arrest even the fairest of souls. However, within that love and longing, burned a hatred and a hunger to see her again. She’d once held a knife to his throat when the darkness had begun to whisper sweet words in his ears, and he’d laughed her off.

Now, he wanted her like some sort of starving animal. He’d exiled her to the furthest reaches of the empire, a place not even where his best spies could reach. She’d gone too, with his own lady mother. Good riddance to both of them, he’d cried to the air at the time. But now? 11 years had passed since he’d killed the princes. Cecily probably didn’t remember her mother nor her Grandmother. He hoped she didn’t. Desperately. How he hoped with all his heart that Anne Neville had met a painful ending on some foreign shore. How he hungered for their confirmations of death.

His fingers rubbed over the wedding band again, and he tugged it off. Holding it in his palm, he regarded the inscription. Loyaulte Me Lie. Richard rolled down the window as they were roaring over the Tower bridge, and tossed the tiny ring with its emerald jewels into the roaring swell of the Thames. Let some mudlarker find it. He would not let the past bind him to his sins. 

He settled back in his seat and uncorked a hip flask of malmsey wine which he sipped. The honeyed sweetness settled easily on his tongue and he sighed. Such was the life of a king.

Death followed him, sinking its claws into his shoulders and twisting his spine. Leaning back, Richard closed his eyes.

Not even sleep would bring him the peace of the virtuous.

Arriving in Ravka by train was an experience Cecily wasn’t used to. 

Her father’s diesel monstrosity pulled in at the central station inside Os Alta’s modern expansion sometime after the 10th morning bell. Cecily found herself being swept through crowds of passengers and tourists by two well-dressed army soldiers. Her trunks and bags weren’t torn apart for illicit items, instead gently inspected by two purple clad fellows that she knew were Grisha who were able to meld materials and chemicals. Refugees from the expanses of Ravka dealing with some sort of blight crowded the cow-pens, snarling at the customs officials about what the king was doing to address these issues. Cecily struggled to not clap her hands over her ears as the noise reached a deafening pitch.

“Your papers were pre-cleared, Moya Tsarevna, ” One of the soldiers murmured as he lifted a velvet cord and passed her off to his partner, who brought Cecily through a wooden side door. Quiet murmurs followed in her footsteps as the general Ravkans cast words over their new queen’s attire and hesitancy. Cecily turned to look back at them, noting the gold-work and architecture of a station built on the blind hopes of the Sun Summoner tearing down the Fold. The waiting refugees noted her in more detail, seeing the stag emblems on her coat and the armband at her arm. Some crossed themselves and murmured the royal prayer of Ravka, while others made signs of warding. 

She was a pariah and a Queen in one moment. How the tables turned. 

“W-what’s he like?” Cecily asked as she was nudged into a motor-car. The taller of the two soldiers, wearing a uniform more ornate than the other, asked;

“Who?”

“His Majesty, The Tsar.”

“Ah.” The man’s eyes glittered. “Eccentric. But, I sense you’ll be a good match.”

Cecily’s stomach twisted into knots as the car lurched forward in a cloud of blue smoke and roared through the streets. Cars hadn’t come fully to Ravka yet, and as such many peasants and nobles alike preferred horse and carriages as transport and conveyance. 

“The capital is set to get trams by the new year. See, Moya Tsarevna .” 

“Really?” Cecily breathed, craning her head. Her hat, affixed with a simple peacock feather and tilted brim, was clamped tight in her hand. She didn’t want it to blow off, and muss up her hair. She leaned out of the car and noted the cobbled streets that were being laid with tram-track. Her eyes widened in joy and delight at the blatant communist hammer and sickle draped from an apartment building and she looked out again for any signs of fascism. 

She finally remembered the officer’s name at last - Dominik Vertov, and turned to him, asking innocently: “Has fascism made its way to Ravka?”

“Not before you, your highness.” 

Cecily’s lips thinned and her hand slipped to the silver boar pin on her lapel. Of course. She wasn’t here just for marriage or to escape. Fascism had to spread to the people in order for this to work. But Nikolai must’ve had to know of her dissidence…

Unless he too harbored ideas of fascism? That thought made her shudder with barely contained fear. Returning her gaze to the window, Cecily watched walls of white stone rise up around them. They clattered through a former portcullis, over a stone bridge of the same dazzling white, and entered a whole different world. Where the outer ring of the city was similar to many of the villages her train had passed through, this was a city of well-paved streets, gardens and parks. Fountains gushing clean water marked central squares and she could see the signs and advertisements of department stores in the corner of her eye. No telephone poles reached skywards, nor telegraph lines, and she saw many homes with quiet mews behind their houses to store cars and buggies. 

“The palace gates are just ahead.” 

“Is this a Vauban construction?” Cecily craned her head up to regard the walls of this older city, noting the structure and almost star-like shape of the outer wall. Dominik’s gaze slid to the driver, who blinked in welcome surprise. 

“Yes, Moya Tsarevna. It was constructed sometime in the late 17th century, before Vauban died.” 

“He came this far east? Remarkable.” Cecily adjusted her cape’s collar. At her side, Lehzen squeezed her hand forcefully. Cecily smoothed over a yelp of pain and shot her governess a dark glare. She had been behind Cecily since they’d stepped off the train. She had no idea where her two friends from Berlin had gone. “I thought you were supposed to stay in London.” She murmured softly. Lehzen’s eyes glittered as she leaned forward and tapped Cecily’s chin with a clawed finger. Forget the dragon of a nursery story - Lehzen was a Goliath creature that would drag Cecily-Anne kicking and screaming into this Fascist idealization of a wedding. What was worst of all, however, awaited her in her trunks.

Staring down at the black uniform, Cecily bit back nausea. At her side, the two people she’d made the stop in Berlin to collect regarded the uniform with varying levels of disgust and horror. The man at her left lit a cigarette and tugged it from his lips. The woman to her right knelt before the trunk and fidgeted with the birch-wood edging. 

“Did… you pack this?” 

“No.” Cecily shook her head. “I didn’t ask for this. It’s…” She sighed and pinched her nose-bridge, causing her glasses to fall to the floor with a clatter . The man bent down to pick them up and Cecily smiled.

“Thank you, Gereon.” She murmured, wishing for the ability to speak German with no one able to understand them. Yet, Lehzen did, and her maids that she’d brought for Cecily did too. Gereon gave her a half smile, and returned to smoking his cigarette. At Cecily’s side, the woman - Charlotte - lifted the uniform from the trunk between her thumb and forefinger. 

“Well.” She examined the jacket and the skirt, noting the collar points on the jacket. Disgust marred her face. If any of them had their way, this would be kindling in the fireplace. Cecily longed to throw it there, but she knew exactly what would happen if Lehzen found out. Her back hurt enough already. More wounds would only worsen the mess that this was.

She examined herself in the mirror as Charlotte held up the offensive uniform. She’d worn the armband before, and hated it. Yet, this… this was different. The symbol wasn’t the flash. It wasn’t blue on white.

It was black on a white circle.

There was no lightning bolt, no reassurance of the monstrous that she wore was familiar. Fear curdled her tongue. Looking at Gereon, she whipped off her glasses and pressed her palms to her stinging eyes. She wavered on her feet for a moment, then almost pitched sideways.

Charlotte’s hand to her arm caught her. Cecily fell against the taller woman, sobbing. “I-I-” She breathed. “I can’t do this.” She wept. “I can’t meet him wearing that ! He’ll think I'm a monster, already corrupted.” Hysteria crept into her voice and she pressed her streaming eyes against Charlotte’s shoulder blade. 

“Or not.” Gereon reminded. “He has been writing to you since you were children.” He lifted her face and wiped her streaming eyes with a tissue. “I’m certain that he knows deep down, instinctively, that you wear a monster’s pelt because not out of following orders or some other benign, innate excuse to uphold the status quo.” He paused to give the armband a dirty, rage-filled look. 

“But because you, until now, have been offered no other choice .”

“No other choice?” She breathed.

“You were twenty-one when your father took the throne, yes?”

“Yes.” Cecily hiccuped as Charlotte fed her sips of tea from a crystal glass. “It was a few months after you and I met.” She turned her head to let Charlotte wipe her eyes more clearly, and stared at herself in the mirror. 

“Why does the flash not invoke the same response?”

“I believe you know why.” Charlotte murmured. Cecily nodded mutely. Of course she knew why . The fact it had been the symbol of English Fascism after the white rose was derided by her father wasn’t lost on her. She’d grown used to the symbol slowly. Like being boiled alive in a cooking pot as if she was some sort of amphibious creature. Too hot, and the panic would set in. A slow boil, and she would be dead before she could even scream. 

It had taken her mother, her grandmother, and her siblings. She was the last surviving woman in her family, the last child of her father’s lineage. 

And by that record, if she died, the female Plantagenet line died with her. So, she once more tempered the rage that roared within her to become banked coals, and steered herself to be dressed. The uniform was laid at the foot of her bed and she watched out of the corner of her eye as Gereon and Charlotte beat a hasty retreat. Lehzen and her ladies came in from the dressing room mere moments later.

“Now then.” Lehzen clapped her hands together. “Let’s get this over with.”

Loyalty binds me . Cecily thought numbly as she cast her gaze to the massive gold double-headed Eagle of Ravka that stood over the fireplace. She examined its claws, which held three arrows in one claw and the Tsar’s mace in the other. She wondered if the arrows being tied with the three ribbons of the Grisha orders meant anything. 

I am the monster. The monster is me .

I have brought Ravka’s darkness upon us.

Cecily did not open her eyes as Lehzen and her maids dressed her. She felt her hair being lifted from the nape of her neck to be crimped and waved. The sharp stink of aerosol spray hit her nose and she winced. A smack to her face stilled her. Her eyes popped open. Between the gaggle of liveried servants and Lehzen’s sharp face, Cecily caught sight of a ginger-haired woman pacing the expanse of her sitting room.

“W-who’s that?” She coughed.

Lehzen froze dead. Her face turned the color of spoiled milk, and she looked at the head maid in wide-eyed fear. Speaking rapidly in German, she hastened to the other maids. “Who let her in?”

“I did.” A voice rang out, distinctly masculine.

Cecily’s eyes, which she’d squeezed shut again, popped open. Standing in the doorway to her sitting room was none other than Nikolai Lantsov. He wore a simple black linen shirt and a richly embroidered waistcoat that hugged his waist nicely. His legs were clad in black velvet breeches embroidered with fire-lilies that flowed up the sides. He didn’t wear any stockings, allowing his calves to show off nicely in the summer warmth, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up past his elbows. Standing where he was with his hands pushing the doors of her room open, anyone would have swooned dead away.

Cecily merely grimaced.

She allowed Lehzen to button up the blasted coat and to stick her feet into a pair of jackboots. She couldn’t look him in the eye as the maid tightened the armband around her arm. Yet, she saw the way Nikolai’s jaw locked and his eyes smoldered with rage.

“Please, leave.” Cecily ordered the maids and Lehzen, who gave her a dark glare. However, amazingly, she assented . Cecily watched Lehzen reach for her sewing kit and sweep the maids out. As soon as the pocket doors had snapped shut, Cecily tugged the armband off, and kicked off the jackboots. 

Gereon’s words swam in her mind. 

Until now, You have been offered no other choice.

Looking him finally in the eye, Cecily calculated the mental load that seeing his betrothed wearing the uniform of the national socialists would cause. Nikolai’s eyes narrowed as he watched her throw the armband across the room, and his face cracked just enough for a smile.

“I had a suspicion that the portrait of you with your father wasn’t all you.” He murmured. Cecily’s eyes widened in welcome, if somewhat shocked surprise. He suspected beyond mere imagery? She was going to faint if he continued down this line of flattery that would have her no doubt throwing the engagement ring at his feet. 

“Who is that with you?” She asked as she cleared her throat to distract him from the rising blush on her cheeks. She leaned slightly to catch sight of the ginger-haired woman, wondering briefly if it was the Tailor Genya Safin or someone of the palace servants. Her gaze however, did not deceive her with created lies. As Nikolai stepped aside, Cecily found herself face to face with an almost mirror image of herself, yet with ginger hair instead of inky black, and emerald eyes instead of blue. Her face was set the same as Cecily’s, with the same small lips and fragile features, though the woman’s eyes burned with the same fire of small-sized righteousness.

“Cecily?” The woman whispered. “Cecily-Anne?” She came forward with the hesitant steps of one unsure of herself, and fell still at Cecily’s wide-eyed glance. Some part of her burned with angry tears, for it recognized the woman ‘ere her. That recognition was wrong , of someone she had not seen since her 5th nameday, a woman and name cursed never to be spoken or seen of again. She briefly remembered the sight of images of the woman before her being put to the torch, and her father’s tears over such a crime. But, then came the rewritings of love ballads containing her name, and even whole histories. “Anne Neville.” Cecily breathed wordlessly. “Mama.” The word slid from her lips without any attempts to check herself, and she startled at the sound. She’d not once cried for her mother since she had been five. Now… she was faced with the sight of her, clad in this monstrosity of cloth.

“My sweet, darling girl.” Anne reached up to touch Cecily’s face and Cecily jerked back, frightened. What was this all meaning? Had Nikolai captured her mother as a bargaining chip to ensure her marriage, had she hurt her? Had he gotten her grandmother as well? Had he tortured them? Hurt them in any way?

“Y-you monster!” She screamed, light crackling across her flesh like a whip-crack. She lurched forward, intent on doing anything, something to the Tsar. Maybe ripping his eyes out? Yes . Tear those pretty eyes from his skull and run him through with your knife . The monstrous voice within her chorused, baying for blood. The light within her surged and she rushed Nikolai, her hands locking around his throat, when the light within her exploded out in a blinding flash , and suddenly all went black. Looking down into his face, her fingers so close to the pupils she could see them dilate, her eyes widened as his eyes bloomed black , and his teeth sharpened to become jagged shadows.

What in the hell am I getting myself into? She thought hopelessly as the light exploded out of her a second time, and sent her flying through the air. She hit the ceiling with a sickening crunch , and fell back to the floor. Inky darkness swooped in on her, cradling her form with tender fingers, and she gave in easily. The pain of it all was simply too much to handle.

Distantly, she was conscious of two things - the first being that her mother was alive, and the second being that Nikolai was not all he seemed.

End of Chapter 3. 

[anonymouslydisabled]

I don't think non-disabled people realize how much goes into socializing when you're disabled. I'm not even talking about disabilities that cause social difficulties when I say this. Besides my autistic social difficulties, here are some of the things I have to think about that ableds don't in social situations.

mild TW: short mentions of violence and eugenics and a lot of fear of ableism.

Great, I'm making a new friend. But will they attempt to harm me when my disabilities cause me to lose control? Do they know the basics about my symptoms? Will they call 911 if I have a seizure in front of them? Will they laugh at my symptoms? Will they fake claim me? Will they treat me differently when I use a mobility aid? Will they infantilize me? Will they question my disabilities behind my back? Will they ask me invasive questions? Do they use outdated and/or offensive language to refer to disabled people?

Great I'm in a really fun class at my homeschool co-op. But is the teacher educated on disabilities? Will we have a classroom discussion on the ethics of eugenics against disabled people? (yes that really happened to me). Will I have a seizure in front of the entire class? Will the teacher be willing to accommodate me? Will I hear my classmates mocking disability or using disability-related slurs? How will they treat me on a day when I have to use my cane? How will they treat me when I have to leave class for a seizure cluster? How will they treat me if they see me tic? Will they talk about my disabilities behind my back?

Great I'm making plans to hang out with a friend. But are they educated on seizures? Will they mock my stimming? Will the place we're going have flashing lights? Will they not want to be around me anymore if I can't do certain activities due to my disabilities? Will they understand my sensory issues? Will I have a seizure or medical episode in public with them? Will they fake-claim me once we're alone together? Will they mock my comfort objects or stim toys? Will I get weird looks because of my disability aid(s)? Will the judgement of strangers make them embarrassed to be around me? Will they exclude me from social events because they assume I cannot do something without asking? Will they understand if I lose speech? Will they mock me if I tic or stutter? Will they compare my chronic pain to their injury? Will they think essential oils or exercise will cure my psychical disabilities? Will they disrespect my disabled Mother? Will they touch my disability aids without asking or treat them like toys? Will they judge me for using disability aids? Will they not understand why sometimes I need certain disability aids and sometimes I don't?

This is all inside the mind of myself who is a low support needs disabled person. It's incredibly hard to be social when you 1. have a disability that causes you to miss fundamental social cues and 2. are constantly worried about common ableist judgements and 3. have unpredictable symptoms.

This fear of ableism is both common and valid among disabled people! We often fear this because we've either experienced it ourselves or heard about another person in our community experiencing it!

Non-disabled people can help by educating themselves on ableist language, comments not to make, and brief knowledge on the specific conditions of their disabled acquaintance or loved one. But most importantly being non-judgemental and open-minded goes a really long way!

TL;DR It's hard to socialize when you're disabled, be non-judgemental towards disabled folks in your life and educate yourself when you can!

[antigonenikk]

do i dare//disturb the universe?

chapter 1/2/3/4

pairing: Eugene Sledge/John “Bucky” Egan

tags: crossover, post-war AU

summary: Eugene Sledge and John Egan are both adrift in the wake of the War. They find each other in a small bar in a small corner of Chinatown. And the rest, as they say, is history.

(tw: brief attempted SA)

“At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;

Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,

But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,

Where past and future are gathered.”

…

“Here is a place of disaffection

Time before and time after

In a dim light”

-TS Eliot, Burnt Norton

——————————————————————

All night he thinks about it. John’s smile. He lies in bed thumbing through Four Quartets, trying to concentrate on the page. He can’t for the life of him get past the line, “At the still point of the turning world.” He feels stupid. Around one in the morning he stops thinking at all. Stares at a crack in the wall.

It feels alien to be anything resembling happy. But he is. He feels less lonely, which makes absolutely no sense. He doesn’t know anything about John. He knows he was an officer. He knows he likes jazz. He knows he likes to hear himself talk. The type of information you learn about someone over a dinner party. Not anything you could base a real connection off of. Not like he had with Merriell.

Except that’s not true. He hadn’t really known Merriell any better than he knows John now. Loving someone and knowing them are two very different things. Try as he might never could break through. Walls on top of walls. Every time he got close he was shut out into the cold, Snafu’s mask of cold cruelty coming back with vengeance.

This feels different. John is nothing like Merriell. John’s not like anyone he’s ever met. He can’t figure out why that is. Maybe it’s the way he seems a bit too large for life. Always looking like he’s trying to crawl out of his own skin. Like he might shoot up ten feet tall and swallow up the whole room. Trying to touch something outside of himself that’s real. Something that reminds him he, himself, is real. Eugene understands the feeling. Seeing it reflected back on the face of another patches over that deep dark hole in his chest that started expanding ever since he first fired his first 60mm mortar.

I’m projecting, he thinks. But the feeling persists. He hears a baby cry next door and falls asleep with a pillow crushing his head into the mattress. He thinks about John’s smile and makes everything else go away.

It takes two weeks for them to meet again.

Eugene spends the days in between loitering around Central Park. He gets up every morning, with a birding manual he picked up at the library and notes every new species he finds in his small moleskin notebook. At first it isn’t about avoidance. Not for that first day at least.

On the first day he writes names down. Mourning Dove. Song Sparrow. Northern Cardinal. Blackpoll Warbler. The thought that he used to hunt these types of creatures for sport fills him with unease, a probing guilt he can’t shake even as their beauty overwhelms him. He thinks again of Four Quartets.

“Here is a place of disaffection.”

He thinks of finding an empty tent, his book of poetry left behind. Sid had thrown it away. Thrown it all away. He remembers how Sid’s friend had ribbed him for carrying a Bible. He remembers asking the man, Lucky maybe, what he believed in.

“I believe in ammunition.”

Two and a half years later the words still stick with him. Lucky, Leckie, had been shipped off at Pelelieu. Was home now, last he heard from Sid. Probably didn’t remember Eugene at all. And yet the words stuck with him through two campaigns, through three countries. Two continents. The truth of them.

Somewhere when the days melted into weeks and he stopped caring about eating with dirty hands. Somewhere around there the law of survival had become his new God. And the law of survival demanded sacrifice at its altar. It demanded violence from its people, it demanded priests of ammunition.

All these beautiful birds, all these fine feathered things. And here he was lumbering amongst them out of sight, a creature of violence. A thing that is tied in horrible knots between two wavering faiths. A thing who hates himself for it.

Here is a place of disaffection. Here.

He has killed birds and now loves them, eats besides a Mourning Dove, tossing it little pieces of sourdough. Thinks. I have loved man and I killed him too. And I enjoyed it.

John flew a plane. That he knows. It’s not the same. Killing from afar and not knowing. Different from watching the life leave another’s eyes. And wanting more. Feeling that deep wrath take hold of you. John, for all his great size and large smile and air of danger is just like the rest of them, the doves that fly about his head heedless to the fact that they are in the company of a hunter. That he could snap their neck in an instant. With complete and utter disregard for their right to life. It’s better for everybody if he stays away. That way he won’t get hurt. Eugene lies down amongst the sound of birdsong, and rustling leaves.

And so; for the next two weeks, he dedicates himself to the careful art of avoidance.

————————————————————

John is admittedly very, very drunk. He didn’t mean to be. It just happened. The night had started at the pictures. But he started to itch. Needed to get out. Halfway through Gene Tierney crying to the ghost of a dead Sea Captain he was legging it to the bar. It had been two weeks since he had seen Eugene. He had tried to find him, but the kid was damned slippery. Like a cat burglar. Turned sideways and just disappeared into the shadows. Couldn’t spot him at Church or at the Grocer’s or even on the block outside their buildings.

As shameful as it was to admit. John didn’t have many people to talk to these days. Not any who would want to talk to him. Gale had promised him. In the Stalag. That he would be worth knowing. That someone would think he was worth knowing, the version of himself he had deteriorated into. But that was a lie. A sick of a lie as any Buck had told him. No one wanted to know the new John. Not even John himself. If he could run out of himself into the street. Find a new face a new set of skin to step into. Someone, anyone else. But he was trapped.

And then came the disgust. Self-pity was the recourse of the cowardly. It wasn’t for soldiers. It wasn’t for men who had led others into battle and survived to tell the tale. His father never acted with self-pity. No, he got up and he shut his trap and he went to work twelve hours a day without a singular complaint. He would feel sick if he could see John now. His father’s cross around his neck burns.

Instead of self-pity John got too drunk and lost his money at dice and took the long way home, down darkened alleys. Hoping for something. Maybe. Hoping for a chance to feel someone else’s skin beneath his own.

And then he heard it. Soft noise, the sound of someone speaking. A southern drawl. He picked up his pace. Something inside him recognized the voice even from blocks away. Little cat burglar wasn’t gonna slip through his fingers this time.

He rounded the corner and had to stop for a second. Eugene was there, pushed up against the wall, broken glass bottle to his neck. His lip was bloody and so was his eye. But he looked completely calm. Soft brown eyes had become a cold, dead black. Their gaze met above the assailant’s head. John could hear the man as if through water, “Fucking faggot—“

And then John was leaping forward. Grabbing the man by the back of his collar and slamming him into the ground. The action came so naturally he barely even registered he was doing it at all. He looked up, trying to assess the damage. To see how bad Eugene was hurt. But Gene wasn’t looking at him. Instead he was stepping forward, slowly. And leaning down into the shitty little punk’s face. And then he was hitting him. With those cold dead eyes not looking at anything not wanting anything in particular. Like a walking ghost he hit the man without feeling, again and again. Until a tooth came loose and hit Eugene in the face. And then John was grabbing him instead, holding his bony spine steady against his chest, wrapping his arms around his stomach as Eugene struggled to get free. Shouting out in rage, battling against him. If John were any shorter, he would have been forced to let go. Instead he held on for dear life. He held on as the robber ran out of the alleyway. As Eugene finally realized where he was and went limp. As he collapsed and took John with him. As John sat there in complete darkness, until he felt brave enough to raise a hand and drag it through Eugene’s hair, like he might have for his little sister.

Like a damn bursting Eugene began to cry. John let him have his privacy. Was going to. But then Eugene grabbed onto him. And it had been so long since anyone wanted to hold him, since a person had touched him with anything but violence in mind, that he found himself grabbing back. Pulling Eugene into his lap and running his hand again through dark red hair.

He didn’t have anything to say. He was never good at comforting people. His mother would say it was one of his worst habits. Instead of speaking they sat there and he imagined the swing outside his childhood home to pass the time.

How he would sit there waiting for his father every day after work. Time passed slow back then. There was the worry of course that if John didn’t wait then his dad wouldn’t come home at all. But it was an easy worry. The worry any child might have. And for a while there his dad did come home every day. And the relief of it all, of not being left behind, left him smiling for hours. The two of them would swing back and forth, back and forth, watching the cows in the distance. Not speaking.

Time passed slow then. But now everything seemed to last forever. The good and the bad.

Eugene pulled away from him, hand over his face. John recognized the emotion. The shame over crying in front of a stranger was hitting him fast. He didn’t want to see Gene ashamed. Drunk and dizzy and quick he stood up and grabbed Gene with him.

“Listen, kid. I ain’t gonna make it home alone. Probably fuckin’ brain myself. Be obliged if you could, you know, help a fella out.”

Eugene dragged a bloody hand across his nose and eyes and then grew a bit colder again. Wasn’t a cruel cold feeling though. Not like before. More like the feeling of cool water from Lake Erie. Soothing. Sure of itself. Still water that you could wade in up to your waist without fear of being dragged into a riptide. Lake Erie was always John’s favorite.

“Alright.”

————————————————————

He didn’t know how he did it. But he’d got Eugene back up to his apartment. Drunken giddiness was coursing through him. He could see the kid sat on the rotting wood, next to John’s camping cot and pile of blankets, flipping through his copy of Maltese Falcon. John grabbed a passably clean glass and filled it with water.

He looked at home. If you could call a place like this a home. A cave seemed more accurate.

“You like detective stories?”

John sat the glass in front of him. Sat himself crisscross so they could really get a look at each other. Gene’s hands were bruising but it didn’t seem to bother him. His eye was swelling.

“What can I say? I’m a man of taste.”

After a silence he forced himself not to break Eugene answered.

“Thank you. I…I’m sorry.”

It didn’t seem like he had anything to be sorry for. Not really.

“Don’t be. No harm in fighting back when someone’s robbing you—“

“He wasn’t—“

“Wasn’t what?”

Eugene looked frustrated.

“He wasn’t robbing me.”

It took a second, watching the blush rise up on Eugene’s neck, to realize what he meant. Oh. Oh shit. He had thought or hoped maybe, that they were of the same sort. But not in any real way. His type were few and far between. And he was pretty shit at finding them. And none of them had ever…and then he realized what Eugene was implying.

“He. Was he hurting you?”

————————————————————

Eugene felt small, sitting on the floor, worn paperback in his hands. John was pacing, reeking of whiskey and lavender scented aftershave and cement. He had just wanted to go to a place where he could….just without worrying about being judged for it. He liked going to the queer bars. It was one of the few times he felt truly honest and at home inside his own skin. He’d gone outside for a smoke, trying to avoid this ginger asshole who kept trying to chat him up. Except that hadn’t worked out very well. Instead he ended up pinned to the wall by that same prick, screaming in his face when he wouldn’t bend over and give in like he wanted him to. He was a goddamn Marine. He wasn’t gonna let himself go down without a fight. He would have had the guy too. He knows he would have. Could have killed him if John hadn’t turned up.

John runs his hand through his hair and sits down again across from him. He grabs Eugene’s wrist, softly. It reminds him of being back in between those large wooden church doors. The touch this time is so soft he doesn’t even think to flinch.

“Are you okay?”

The fear. Being alone in an apartment with someone so much better than you in every conceivable way. Someone so beautiful. Someone you could tell should hate you for your very nature. John was a ladies man. Even if they had maybe sort of flirted one time a few weeks ago. Or he looked like one. But he didn’t seem disgusted with Eugene. He held his wrist gently. Wasn’t afraid to touch him.

“You…I don’t.”

It was hard to put into words. John shuffled closer, put his fingers to Eugene’s eye. All the air in his chest choked out. He couldn’t breathe. That line from Four Quartets. At the center point of the turning world.

“I should get you ice but I don’t have any.”

“You’re not disgusted by me?”

Eugene placed his hand above John’s wrist, lightly. He couldn’t help himself. Now they were connected. Wrist to eye to wrist and back again. Knees touching.

“It would be pretty hard to be disgusted by you when I’m the same way.”

Men like John… they weren’t like him. He didn’t get to be lucky like this.

“I’m okay.”

John didn’t believe him. That was obvious. He fussed over him the rest of the night like a mother hen. Tucked extra blankets around him and kept forcing glasses of tepid water in his hands. Cleaned off his split lip with a damp rag. Eugene had to physically hold himself back at that. Just because they were both homosexual didn’t mean John would want someone like him, anyways. He didn’t try to but he ended up falling asleep on John’s shoulder. Listening to the man read from the Maltese Falcon.

“He said: "I'm going to send you over. The chances are you'll get off with life. That means you'll be out again in twenty years. You're an angel. I'll wait for you." He cleared his throat. "If they hang you I'll always remember you….”

Words like ammunition and survival seemed so far away when you were warm, and comfortable, and you could feel another person’s stubble on your cheek scratching, the ever lively traffic outside a calming white noise.