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inkstaineddove · 4 years ago

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Man as Mirror

Ships: PruAus if you wish; background PruHun and FraAus

Characters: Roderich, Gilbert; mentioned Erzsi + Francis

Summary: Arriving home early from Paris, Roderich encounters a shirtless Gilbert in his kitchen, leading them to have a conversation Roderich could've gone without.

Vienna, 1774.

Once his carriage safely rolled to a stop, Austria stepped out of it and stretched. While even he could not deny the beauty of Paris, nothing pleased the heart quite like home. Servants rushed about him, ushering in his extensive luggage. Sidestepping away from them, he gazed up at the early-morning sky and allowed himself the luxury of taking it all in. The fading purple of night, the sun shyly poking its face out through his hedges, and the birds singing their daily hymns. Truly, there was nowhere quite like home.

Feeling sufficiently uplifted, he entered the home and mindlessly made his way up the stairs. He froze once his hand hovered above the doorknob to his bedroom. He had been burned once before doing this and while, thankfully, all other parties had been asleep, the event had caused him enough mental anguish to power him through another three decades. Still, the desire to change out of his travel clothes was nigh impossible to dismiss. Leaning an ear against the door, his decision was made for him when he heard something like a moan come from Erzsébet. Changing could wait.

All remnants of his good mood dissipated as he silently grumbled to himself about their guest. While it certainly came as no surprise – Erzsébet did this every time he was out of town and, honestly, Roderich had grown to expect it – but hearing them was different. Sure, he was no fool and they made no effort to pretend but having indisputable proof of their trysts was another. Roderich was cursed to have found a spouse and enemy full of cunning. He noted that, if the two of them ever put their powers to good use, he’d have to compliment them for it. For now, while he was their target, any appreciation was out of the question.

He felt his body yearning for caffeine and knew what the next item on his agenda must be. Still lost in his thoughts, he was completely caught off guard at the sight of a bare-chested Gilbert standing over the kitchen counter. It was comical, really, watching such a brutish man delicately pour cream into two dainty mugs, mentally measuring out the right amounts. Roderich stood back and watched the whole performance in domesticity, studying the man before him as he never had before. The way his back and shoulder muscles shifted with each movement; how he never slouched even when it would be far more comfortable to; how the whole time, he never stopped humming marches to himself.

This scene felt too intimate and Roderich understood that he was not its intended audience. What he needed most from his rival now was hostility and not misguided fantasies of marital bliss. He cleared his throat and stepped into Gilbert’s line of sight. “For me? How sweet of you.” He snatched the mug closest to him and added in his usual five spoonsful of sugar. He held up a finger when he felt Gilbert gearing up to protest. “She’s still asleep. Besides, no one likes waking up to cold coffee. It sets such a tone for the day.”

They settled into a tense silence, neither one wanting to acknowledge the other. It was childish, Roderich understood, but failing to will the other out of his existence was better than devolving into petty insults or a physical altercation. And, if he ignored all rational thoughts, he didn’t even care. When around each other, what else were they but ancient children? There was no reason for them to speak, why invent one?

“Paris again? How many times have you been there over the last three months?” There almost appeared to be a hint of affectionate teasing in Gilbert’s words.

Roderich turned to face him and was surprised to find Gilbert already observing him with mild interest. What a strange morning, one he wished he could find some escape in by returning to bed but felt certain would provide him with no real escape. If anything, the pair would wake him up and demand he leave his own damn bed for another room, that’s how selfish they were. Against his will, he felt himself noticing the strength in Gilbert’s body, all broad shoulders and muscle, the physique of the ideal warrior. All suddenly clicked on why Roderich always found himself flat on his ass whenever they’d begin to trade blows. His arrogance had blinded him to the fact that imperial power mattered little when they weren’t trying to kill each other on the battlefield. With biceps like that, his only chance to get the upper hand would be a swift kick to the groin, which even at his worst he was too principled to resort to.

He was brought back to reality when Gilbert began snapping his fingers in his face. “Jesus, has anyone ever told you how creepy that staring thing you do is? Like you were trying to undress me with your eyes.” He straightened up and shivered. “Commission a portrait, it’ll last longer.”

“Please, don’t be so crass. This,” Roderich flippantly pointed to Gilbert’s outfit, “is already enough. If I imagined you in any less, I’d be ill for at least a month.”

Gilbert smirked as he took a sip. “Funny, most people have the opposite reaction.” He leaned his hips back against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. “Now, how much more stalling can you do? What’s kept you in Paris so much? I don’t recall most treaties taking that much time to…hammer out.” He bit his lip, trying to suppress his snickering.

“It’s rude to talk work at breakfast.” Austria couldn’t be bothered to mask his irritation. Things such as ‘politeness’ and ‘civility’ always seemed to go to waste on Prussia. “And, if you’re fishing for what’s in our agreement, you’ll have no such luck from me. You’re wasting your time.”

“You think I give a damn about what’s on a fucking piece of paper? As if I’d be wasting my time on that. I don’t know who blabs more for the right price, your officials or France’s.” Gilbert’s demeanor was too casual. “Most of the time, we don’t have to go to those damn meetings anyways. We’re little more than decorations, the bureaucrats have everything written before they even breathe a word to us. We know that, they know that. There are always ulterior motives for our little business trips. Whenever I come here, I tell my current minder I’ll be off doing a diplomatic something-or-other in Vienna for a week, don’t wait up. They buy it even though they know the real reason I come to this shrine of gaudy antiques.”

“Your point, Gilbert?”

“My point is that you’re no different. Sure, you tell everyone that you’re renegotiating this or that little detail and maybe your officials believe it. And you tell it to Erzsi, and she believes it since it’s easier than thinking the husband she loathes so much is just as miserable as her. And maybe you believe it too because you have to lie to yourself first to lie to everyone else. But you can’t fool me.”

The whole time he spoke, Roderich was staring down into the contents of his mug. When all was quiet between them was when he finally looked up, laughing. “You must be desperate if you’re begging to get a morsel of gossip on me from me.”

Gilbert scoffed. “I’m not fishing for gossip. If I was, I would’ve gone through your letters while you were gone. And, before you ask, I’ve never done that. Not for lack of trying, I’m just not good at picking locks.”

The vein behind Roderich’s left eye began pulsating. He rubbed his temple gingerly, wincing. “I think I prefer it when you act like you can’t stand to be in the same room with me. Why the annoying younger brother schtick?”

“Maybe I’m making up for lost time.” For added emphasis, Gilbert made sure to loudly schlurp down a sip. Roderich’s wince at such a noise caused him to snort some coffee out his nose. Wiping it away, he grinned. “Or maybe I just want you to stop thinking you’re any better than me. Get you when you’re unguarded.”

“There’s a glaring hole in your plan. You’ve forgotten that I would never allow myself to be so vulnerable around you, no matter what time of day it is.” He mockingly shook his head, tutting. “I understand that, for now, we’re officially getting along just fine, but don’t mistake that for camaraderie. The first chance either of us gets, we’ll be back to stabbing each other in the back for sport. It’s who we are.”

“Well, aren’t you a pessimist.”

“Hardly. I simply know our natures too well,” Roderich sighed, growing weary at this line of conversation. “So, if this is only temporary, why should I feign tolerance towards you? Quite honestly, you’re not important enough to me for that sort of performance. Even if you were, you would see right through it. No, my energy is better spent on nobler pursuits.”

Gilbert had set his mug down, now drumming his fingers on the countertop. “I’m not asking for friendship; I’m asking for honesty.” He rolled his eyes with the temperament of a teenager. “Whatever. You got me sidetracked. It’s pointless anyways; you’re too delusional.”

“Excuse me?” That was quite the accusation from an unusual source. “At this point, you may as well come right out and say it.”

“If you insist,” Gilbert’s tone lilted up, songlike and jeering. “What you won’t admit is what I started this whole conversation with. All these trips to Paris, they’re not about work or diplomacy or any of your other shitty excuses. I know and you know that the only purpose is to blow a load in Francis’ ass and get away from your miserable life.”

Roderich set his mug down gently. There was no need for it to spill, to make a mess all over the clean marble. “For a moment, I’m going to ignore the vulgar insinuation you’ve made about my relationship with Francis.” He looked up, not breaking eye contact with Gilbert. “You know nothing about my life and my contentment with it. I understand that you are a deeply unhappy and wretched creature and why shouldn’t you be? There is nothing for you to go home and boast about, no shining accomplishments of yours not bathed in the blood of an innocent people, but do not project your misery onto me. For all your crowing to the contrary, we have never been, nor will we ever be, the same.”

Gilbert scoffed. “And everything you’ve ever done, there was only glory to be found there? All the princes you absorbed into your own lands, they were willing? The Bohemians, the Hungarians, they love your rulers? Are you pretending that only Russia and I invaded Poland because I remember seeing you at the table, carving out portions for yourself.”

“I’m not so naïve to believe I haven’t picked up the sword before. And, if necessary, I would again. You’d be wise to remember that.” Roderich straightened up, pulling his shoulders back. “But I’ve achieved just as much without force as with. The home we’re currently standing is a monument to such.”

“Please. It’s a monument to other people’s power and what it can get you. We don’t impact change, we just ride the waves of it,” Gilbert sneered. “This house is a prison for all who come in it. A golden cage is still a cage, Roderich, even for the largest bird.”

Roderich sighed with a roll of his eyes. “Mixing your metaphors doesn’t make you sound wiser, I’ve told you this before.” Needing caffeine for his growing headache, he took a sip. “I assume you’re including yourself among the captives.”

“To a degree. I can leave whenever I want – as you love to point out, I do have my own house – but where would one of us be without the other two? We are the protagonists of our own tragedy.”

“I sincerely regret that old king of yours got you into theater. Next you’ll be telling me how all the world’s a stage and we are but merely players.” When Gilbert opened his mouth to comment on that, Roderich held up his hand. “That wasn’t an invitation for your Shakespearean theories!” He rubbed the bridge between his nose, his prior weariness intensifying. “Why does it matter to you so much? Why must I parade my discontent as you and Erzsébet do? If you make your life’s purpose revenge against an unjust world – there you go! I admit it’s unjust! – you are sure to become more miserable than ever before. Perhaps you should learn that before it destroys you like one of your dear tragedies.”

“It matters because you act like you’re superior to us in every way when, really, you’re no different. And I don’t think I’ll ever understand that,” Gilbert’s voice softened with something akin to regret.

Something in his tone of voice, in his posturing, lit a fire within Roderich. His eyes hardened and he pressed his lips into a scowl. “Understanding is what you want? If it’ll get the defiling power of your pity off me, then so be it! I am better than you in every conceivable way. If I am to you but a mirror, peer close and you’ll realize it too. Where you feel trapped by the circumstances life has thrown us in, with a life that can never truly be our own, I’ve taken what you’ve failed to grasp. While you were slaughtering pagan Easterners in your little bog, I was here, accumulating wealth and power you’ve only fantasized about. I am the seat of an empire that you only have access to through Brandenburg.

“But those are meaningless things, aren’t they? Because here’s what really matters to you – the only thing, isn’t it? I’ve seen how you stare; I know that look – I’ve got what a childhood spent pining among the monks prevented you from getting. Did you ever mention it to them? How young love made that vow of celibacy torturous? How close did you come to breaking it? How many Hail Mary’s did they make you perform for every impure thought? Do you wonder what they’d think of you now, going through all this because you’re in love with your brother’s wife? Phrased just so, they would burn you at the stake again. Ah, but the hellfire is familiar, isn’t it?” Roderich glanced at the clock hanging behind Gilbert’s shoulder. “Erzsébet should be waking now. Go play domestic and bring my wife some coffee.”

Roderich forced himself away from Gilbert, who was left crestfallen with his wide eyes and gaping mouth. He had said enough, gloating would be overkill. He entered his study and locked the door. If there would be consequences for his monologue, let them come later.

The day was still new. Roderich stared out the window. Despite checking the clock, his adrenaline had made him forget the time. He approximated it was no more than nine. He began pouring himself a glass of brandy, but stopped, preferring to drink from the bottle. He gazed around the vast emptiness of the room beyond its sole occupant. He raised the bottle for a toast:

“To the prison of my own making. There is no place quite like home.”

#aph prussia #hws prussia #aph austria #hws austria #pruaus

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sigurdjarlson · 5 years ago

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Soulmate animal au has my heart in a tizzy i just..imagining it with Diily and Khadgar. And in this universe it’s almost a manifestation of your soulmate’s soul. A piece of their soul sent to protect and guide you. So, who else could be his companion but Wildheart? (which leaves Diily without her in this au but I’m sure she has another feline companion as well as Brightheart. As well as a bunch more as time goes on. She doesn’t have a problem she can stop whenever she wants) and of course they will meet one day and it’ll be all good.

Diily’s is a white raven you can’t change my mind.

But ahhh just imagine

—

Khadgar has a soul companion from the moment he’s born. His parents find the animal curled up in his crib, no one knows how she appeared but no one ever does when it comes to these soulful creatures. She’s just there, sleeping soundly beside him.

It’s an odd animal. She looks like a cat but her fangs are enormous. Her pelt is dark and silver and her eyes a beautiful amber.

He names her Wildheart when he’s old enough to speak of such things.

She grows up to be four times the size of a standard house cat and twice the size of a hunter’s hound. She looks intimidating to the humans who’ve never seen anything like her but she never raises a claw against him. Not him. Never him.

No, she curls around him at night and purrs. She doesn’t even bite when hes too young to know better and pulls on her fur and tail. She follows him everywhere, a silent guardian of her human charge.

When he’s six his parents drop him off at the Kirin Tor and she goes with him. There’s no separating someone from their soul companion. It’s too cruel even for the Kirin Tor.

Wildheart curls around the crying little boy and hisses at the men in strange robes who try to take him away. Her amber eyes blaze with rage and even the Kirin Tor’s strongest mage’s are reluctant to attempt to separate the two.

So, they wisely decide to keep them together even as she hisses, spits and lashes out at the hands that try to touch him.

It’s a lonely childhood but she’s always there. She’s the only one who ever stays.

He has to wonder who his soulmate is. What does the choice in animal say about them? He thinks about it more often than he wants to admit.

His companion is loving, protective and brave. So, his soulmate must be too. She protects him with a ferocity he can’t describe in words. Yet she nurses his wounds (even the ones that can’t been seen) with a gentleness he’s never gotten from anyone else.

He takes her to a forest near Dalaran one day because he sees her sometimes looking over the edge of the city sometimes, staring off into the woods. He can’t ask her but the look in her eyes seems a lot like yearning.

She races through the trees and undergrowth like she’s known these woods her entire life. They spend the entire day like that. She leaps, climbs and runs and he laughs and laughs.

She chases the small furry creatures that call the forest home and shoves her face into the water in a misguided attempt to catch the little silver fish.

And when it’s dark and time to go he can see her look back at the woods, amber eyes bright and wild.

It’s easy for him to forget with how gentle she is with him. She reminds him sometimes; when someone threatens him and she leaps at them, all razor sharp claws and enormous teeth and amber eyes full of fire.

And he realizes how easily she could kill him but she doesn’t. She never would.

And he feels almost guilty, keeping her from the forest. She’s a wild thing. And you can befriend a wild thing, you can break one but you can never tame one.

And he can see how much she adores it. It makes him wonder about his soulmate. We’re they an outdoorsy type? Did they like the forest?

And time passes. He’s sent to Karazhan and meets someone who he thinks could be his soulmate in another time and place but seemingly not this one. He loves him nonetheless. He’s happy here. No one has ever cared for him like this except for Wildheart.

Then it all falls apart.

He gets cursed. He’s only eighteen and he looks like he’s sixty. He convinces himself that even if he ever meets his soulmate they would be appalled, horrified by the old man they’ve been tied too

And more time passes. He gives up on meeting his soulmate. He tells himself it’s okay. He just so happens to be one of those unfortunate people who never meet their soulmate. It’s just his luck and is it not what he deserves? He has failed every person he’s ever loved, why should he damn another person to that fate?

His soulmate is better off without him.

And something breaks inside him when he watches Turalyon and Alleria meet, her beautiful golden eagle and his faithful hound bounding to the other’s charge and greeting them with the fondness of someone who’s known them for their entire life

It’s not the first or the last time he’s seen it but he snaps at them both when they argue and fight over such petty things because they should be thankful to even have a soulmate. Not everyone is lucky enough to meet theirs.

He pretends not to see pity in their eyes.

Something strange happens, many years later, long after he’s given up all hope of ever meeting his soulmate.

A white raven soars into Shattrath, and lands on his shoulder. The bird caws softly and regards him curiously with uncomfortably intelligent eyes.

He’s baffled but Wildheart is purring so loud he can hear her from her place at his side.

And then her ears perk up and she bounds towards the entrance and towards a night elf woman. She greets the purple haired elf with the warmth of an old friend and suddenly he understands.

He understands why Wildheart was with him since birth. He understands why he hasn’t met her yet. (They didn’t even know the Kaldorei existed for half his life) Why it took so damn long. Why his spirit animal is a nightsaber.

He watches, holding his breath as her eyes travel around the room, almost certainly searching for her soul companion and they find him quickly. Her ears perk up and her shoulders slump with relief and she almost reminds him of a cat herself with the way her ears betray her emotions. It’s very endearing.

Then their eyes meet and he braces himself for her reaction. He waits for her to recoil as the realization hits her.

Oh..this is my soulmate

Why would a beautiful woman ever want a broken old man like him? How horrible must it be? To wait what must have been thousands of years and then see that their soulmate was..well him.

But the stranger, no, his soulmate, slowly smiles and it’s a small thing at first, tentative and unsure, as if she’s worried he’ll find her lacking.

The thought is so laughable he’d laugh aloud if his breath wasn’t currently being held captive by the very sight of her.

Then her smile widens and for the first time in a very long time he smiles too.

“There you are.” She says and her voice is warm and everything he always thought it would be. “I’ve been wondering when I would find you.”

“Here I am.” He croaks and he wishes he could say something clever but it’s like his brain has stopped working completely.

And all the while Wildheart winds around her legs and purrs in delight. Her raven gently nibbles at his hair, preening him perhaps? He isn’t sure but it seems like an affectionate gesture. It makes him smile either way.

“Would you like a um..tour of the city?” He blurts out and gods, he has no idea what to say and before he knows it he’s babbling. “I normally send an arcane assistant out to do tours with newcomers but I wouldn’t mind giving you one myself..considering the circumstances- if you want, of course! No hard feelings if you’d rather not, this is very overwhelming so I understand if you need time to process-“

“I would love one.” She cuts him off gently and oh, she’s still smiling. Smiling like she finds his babbling endearing and he can’t wrap his mind around how freely she’s smiling at him.

Because of all the reactions he’d expected this was not one of them.

She holds out a hand as if to lead him on the tour and with a trembling hand he takes it.

#sort of a fic i guess #wow blogging #nikki writes fic #ch: diily wintermoon #otp: my sweetest friend #khadgar #wrote it in the middle of the night and havent edited it so take that as you will #it was fun to write tho

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aion-rsa · 5 years ago

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Infinity Train and Manifestations of Trauma and Abuse

https://ift.tt/3b40KOO

In the third season of Infinity Train (subtitled Book 3), one single aspect among many sticks out: the shots of characters placing their hands on each other’s shoulders. In the crazy, random events that occur on this grandiose, mysterious train, characters reach out to each other, eager for connection, longing for trust, pining for affection.

Then when certain revelations disrupt understood and accepted relationships, the�� meaning and of these gestures shift. Suddenly, reaching out for others is dangerous, portrayed as movements of panic, fear, control, and manipulation. They become violations of personal space. These denials devolve into warnings, then threats, then all-out violence. Such events exemplify the theme and power of Infinity Train season 3. The show depicts the ways trauma and abuse manifest themselves, even in those we love, and the harrowing ways people have to elude the brunt of it.

Infinity Train’s overall development has been shocking, ingenious, and powerfully clever. It began as a broadly vague but character-specific fairytale of a young girl who had to face the truth of her past, and her relationship with her parents’ divorce, in which the train’s purpose could be distilled down into creating distinct worlds within each train car that provide assistance to help its troubled passengers become their best selves. The second season tore apart the premise and saw a mirrored doppelganger of the first season’s protagonists break free of their original train-car world, only to be confronted with the raw truth that the denizens of each car world serve no purpose but to advocate for the progress of the passengers.

The third season pushes this notion even further by taking a closer look at Apex, a group of passengers who have in effect tossed aside the story, who thrive in the train with little concern for the denizens of the train worlds–the “nulls.” They aren’t looking to get better; or, more accurately, they believe the act of getting better consists of increasing their number (humans who arrive on the train are assigned a number that glows on their hands; as they perform acts of generosity, bravery, compassion, or overall acts of goodness, that number goes down. Once it reaches zero, they can go back home). To them, improving one’s moral or ethical perspectives towards a self-actualized sense of peace isn’t how one gets better. To the Apex, becoming a raw, primal, carefree agent of chaos is true Enlightenment. (The Apex also have a complicated belief system where the conductor of the train, a small robot named One-One, is “fake,” and the “real” conductor, a human that took over the train way back in season one, is the One True conductor.)

Grace and Simon, the leaders of the Apex, take their wards on occasional missions to other train cars where they loot, pillage, and destroy the world within them with glee. It’s brutal to watch, even if the denizens–the nulls”–are just anthropomorphic objects. On one particular mission, the train “shifts” (relocating the entire car, basically), leaving Grace and Simon to traverse the cars to get back to the Apex HQ. Along the way they meet a young girl named Hazel and her large, powerful, protective companion, a gorilla named Tuba, who has literal tubas connected to her. Hazel intrigues the Apex leads, partly because she’s human, and the Apex recruits humans, but partly because the number on her hand doesn’t glow, while the others humans’ numbers do. The course of the season at first is about venturing back to the Apex car while figuring out a way to get Hazel on the Apex side and ditch/dispose of Tuba.

In the course of this mission, however, Grace grows more and more affectionate towards Hazel, opening up to her about her past and establishing an “older sister” dynamic to the girl. Grace’s careful manipulations to pull Hazel away from Tuba and towards her ends up also bridging Hazel and Grace closer. Simon, however, gradually starts to feel pushed away, particularly in an episode where they meet Simon’s former companion, a cat named Samantha, who ran away from him when he was younger and at his most helpless. Grace apologizes to Simon for her neglect, but this moment also plants the seed in which Simon’s broken, vicious downfall begins. In the following episode, Simon begins to step up his direct challenges to Tuba, and while Grace tries her best to maintain some kind of peace, Simon finds a way to “wheel” Tuba–to essentially kill her.

It’s an explicit, horrifying moment, and Simon expresses no remorse. Hazel, completely distraught, rushes out, but when Grace follows, Hazel transforms into a strange, turtle hyrbid. Hazel is not human but a “null,” and the revelation instantly makes Simon a real, vicious threat if he were to find out. Now Grace has to use her skill for manipulation less as a mechanism for weaponizing and control, but as a tool for protection and survival. It’s genuinely nerve-wracking to watch Grace wrack her brain in subsequent episodes to keep Hazel’s truth a secret and to keep Simon off guard. It’s even harder as Hazel struggles to keep her true emotions at bay, bottled up due to the direct fear that Simon will kill her.

The human characters that traverse this train all struggle with some kind of personal failing or struggle, but the Apex’s worldview only exacerbates the issues. Grace, for her part, channelled her loneliness and isolation into crafty acts of desire and attention, and directing that towards Hazel inadvertently starting on the path to healing. But Simon never was afforded any potential outlet for compassion or empathy. We don’t get a backstory about him, but it doesn’t matter. Samantha “leaving” him traumatized him, and seeing her again triggers him in the very direct and honest sense of the word. With no real outlet to cope or learn (Simon doesn’t get a chance to really venture the cars to even somewhat develop; Grace at least seems to explore a bit), his trauma and pains festers, solidifying into three unhealthy, self-rewarding truths: a quasi-love for Grace, a power/status role in the Apex, and a misguided understanding in the purpose of the “true” conductor.

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So it’s inevitable that Simon wouldn’t care at all about Hazel’s loss, pain, and/or fear. Simon’s inability to provide support or empathy towards Hazel, not two episodes after Grace shows sympathy towards Simon’s traumatic relapse over losing his past “null” partner, is telling. Simon’s pain is based on what he believed to be his past partner’s betrayal and abandonment, which partly explains why he doesn’t trust nulls, but he also weaponizes his pain and trauma, wielding it the very ways abusers often do: guilt trips, passive-aggressive behaviors, snide and unsympathetic remarks (“I got through it, you should be able to, too” – never mind that no, Simon clearly has not “got through it”.)

Simon’s more committed belief into the “real conductor” narrative suggests he copes with trauma through this belief structure (and also by pouring a deep amount of meaning and vulnerability into a quasi-romantic pursuit of Grace’s heart). Other people who interfere with either of those two things are automatic threats, and ultimately disposable. It explains why when Simon sees the memory of Grace telling Hazel to keep her secret under wraps, to keep it from Simon, he doesn’t see the raw threat of real violence he has become, but the victim of some kind of audacious conspiracy against him, particularly from the person he loves.

Simon discovers the ability to “see” this memory by returning to Samantha and asking for help (Samantha possesses keener insights and access to the machinations of the train than most denizens). An uneasy, fraught alliance between them occurs when Samantha explains her past actions; while not ideal, at least had a reason. Simon asks her “why” Grace is shutting him out, but it’s remarkable how he literally can’t see–or refuses to see–the obvious: he “wheeled” someone, he terrorizes their new ward, his aggressive behavior, once proudly thrown at the nulls and worlds around him, has turned towards the one person he supposedly cares about. He’s become dangerous, but can’t grasp why people would be scared of him.

It’s the ultimate in abuser mentality. It was always burgeoning in him: a white, male nerd-type (he is introduced painting figurines and writing a fantasy novel), epitomized in his ability to manipulate his own emotions and then callously kill Tuba. Simon’s surging toxic sense of masculine control builds in a slow-moving trainwreck manner: he’s made vulnerable when he sees his original betrayer (so he thinks), he challenges himself with a unnecessary wager (“I bet I can take Tuba”), faking new found affection for her until the point he can finish her off, and when not provided with the praise he thinks he deserves, believes everyone else is wrong to react this way. Amelia’s presence (the human who once took over the train but now finds herself wandering about to try and “fix” things to make amends), destroys his entire belief structure behind the false and true conductors, specifically, the very point of the numbers. “Numbers are power,” Simon says, ruefully. “Numbers are numbers,” Samantha shoots back, calmly. But to Simon, that can’t be. Simon is humiliated, but Grace is scared. That line about men’s biggest fear is being laughed at and women’s biggest fear is being killed? It feels apt.

Watching Simon become more hostile is difficult, but at the very least, Hazel is able to escape, leaving with Amelia to learn about herself. Grace is clearly hurt, but like with Hazel, Simon doesn’t understand why. And so he gets “grabby,” in the kind of possessive, jaw-dropping, cringey way that signals instant trouble. He snatches and pulls at her arm in one deeply dark moment; in the next episode, he shakes her by grabbing at her shoulders. The following episode, he callously tries to grab at her shoulder again for her attention, and this is the point where Grace swats his hand away and unloads on him. The argument is cut short though when Simon attacks her with her own memories, a sort of specific, literal type of gaslighting that nevertheless Grace manages to overcome (“So my memories are real until you don’t like them, then they’re fake?” Grace shoots at Simon at one point during the memory venture).

Yet here is where my singular criticism of this season occurs. Grace relives both her distant and recent past and the show portrays Grace’s behavior and actions as personal fears of self-honesty instead of inherited techniques and actions to minimize and avoid Simon’s abusive reactions. Grace is far from infallible: her manipulations were self-serving early on, but she also recognized Simon as a threat at some level, so to portray this as a failing, even a little, feels disingenuous. Simon was kicking and punching at Amelia just one episode earlier, and it was a sound waves shield that protected the viewer from what very much would have been brutal. Grace was protecting all the parties involved to the best of her ability and to the best of her understanding of everything that she learned up until this point.

The final episode does address this, somewhat. Grace returns to Apex HQ a new, honest, introspective person (her number has shrunk considerably). But she finds herself at odds with the entire Apex crew, manipulated by Simon against her. They almost “wheel” her, but the Apex crew is mostly children, so they demure. But Simon confronts Grace with the uncontrolled anger he cultivated all this time. He says the words that all abusers say: “You made me do this,” attempting to force Grace to apologize for doing the very things she needed to do to ensure her and Hazel’s survival. Powerfully, Grace does say that while she made mistakes, the choices she made to lie to Simon to protect Hazel were not among them, and she stands by those, even when directly confronted with Simon at his most dangerous. She also refuses to apologize for Simon’s pain and conflicting emotional/violence state. Those two beats should have hit a bit harder though. This narrative beat emphasized what those moments for Grace really meant, not just for her, but as a broader response to the ways in which abusers justify their abuse.

Simon and Grace fight, and their battle is up-close and personal. Grace bests Simon but still saves him from being wheeled, but in the season’s most shocking moment, he pushes Grace off the train anyway. Grace, miraculously (and somewhat randomly, as it’s not common for random train denizens to leave their train worlds) is saved by a few nulls she helped restore to life; Simon, his number so high that it covers his entire face and body, is killed by a monstrous bug-creature that lives outside the wastelands that surround the train.. Grace, a changed woman whose number is now much lower than where it was when we are first introduced to her, tells her young Apex wards to seek out their own unique, special truths, and work to be better people so they themselves can be free.

Infinity Train’s greatness stems from its ability to open up its characters in the kind of ways that a lot of weighty, rich shows these days can do, like Bojack Horseman and Steven Universe, but it also possesses an inherent flaw that the writers are actually utilizing as a narrative crutch in rich, clever ways. From the question of how its train worlds portray and think of its denizens, to the question of whether the train’s purpose is genuinely beneficial, Infinity Train makes the argument that maybe it’s not.

One-One, in past seasons, fixates on the humans’ pain, trauma, and problems as algorithms, as numbers that need to be solved. But as the Apex, Simon, and Grace showed, humans are messy, complex beings that can disrupt any premise or belief or narrative to justify their behavior and actions. Simon, prior to his final fight, yells to Grace, “Why would I ever want to change, when I’m always right!?” Trauma, pain, and abuse cannot always be solved with whimsy. One of the last shots of the season has Grace crying over Simon’s body. An Apex member places his hand on her shoulder. Perhaps an honest connection like that is truly what’s needed to be better people.

Infinity Train is available to stream on HBO Max now.

The post Infinity Train and Manifestations of Trauma and Abuse appeared first on Den of Geek.

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pikapeppa · 6 years ago

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Fenris/f!Hawke modern AU: Rivain

A wild vacation oneshot appears! This little epilogue for Damned Spot was inspired by BEAUTIFUL fan art by @schoute and @essequamvideri20, which can be found here and here.

In which Fenris and Hawke go to the beach, and Hawke negotiates with Fenris to get more naked. 😎

For @dadrunkwriting Friday. ~2000 words. Read here on AO3 instead.

*******************

Hawke tossed her bag down on her beach chair and stretched her arms. “What a perfect day,” she said happily, then sat down and started rifling through her bag.

“It does seem rather perfect for the tanning activity you were hoping for,” Fenris said. He adjusted the umbrella, then settled himself in the shade of the second beach chair and leisurely stretched out his legs. The sun was blazing bright, and even through his sunglasses, he could tell the Rivaini sky was a perfect azure blue. The white-sand beach faded into the ocean in an exquisite gradient of cerulean and emerald, and Fenris had never seen anything like it in his life.

He straightened his black t-shirt, then contentedly folded his hands over his abdomen. Meanwhile, Hawke had pulled a bottle of sunscreen from her bag, and she began applying it to her legs in brisk practiced strokes. In contrast with the brilliant blues and sandy white of the beach, Hawke was a display of bright warm colours: golden skin and chestnut hair and those raspberry-red lips of hers, and Fenris watched with shameless appreciation as she rubbed the sunscreen in around the edges of her bikini.

She hummed to herself as she slathered herself in sunscreen up to her neck, then turned to Fenris with a smile. “Can you do my back?”

He held out his hand for the bottle and shifted his legs so she could sit between them. She continued to hum cheerfully as Fenris smoothed the sunscreen into her skin.

Then she glanced at him over her shoulder. “Once you’re done with my back, then I can do yours,” she said brightly.

Her expression was a picture of fake innocence, and Fenris eyed her with fond exasperation. “No, Hawke. The shirt stays on,” he told her for the third time today.

She groaned. “Come on, Fenris. No one else on this beach is wearing a shirt.”

Fenris didn’t bother to look. He knew she was correct. Even the women were mostly bare from the waist up; Hawke’s little bikini top was one of the few tops on this beach. But this fact wouldn’t change Fenris’s mind.

He smoothed the last dab of sunscreen under the clasp of her bikini. “No one else on this beach is covered from neck to toe in tattoos, either,” he said.

At this, Hawke turned around halfway and met his eye. “You’re wrong about that,” she said seriously, then jerked her head to the side. “Look around.”

He raised one eyebrow, then finally gave the other beachgoers a more careful look. And to his surprise, he noticed that she was right.

The beach was peppered with people whose skin ranged in colour from ivory to ebony. Most of the skin he saw was patterned with ink of varying intricacy spanning the full range of colours, from white to black, to gold and red and green and indigo and every shade in between. And exactly as Hawke had said, Fenris’s tattoos were hardly the most ornate on the beach.

One man’s entire chest, back, and legs were patterned with an intricate web of tattoos that seemed to tell a story. A dark-skinned woman had an exquisite pattern of golden triangles and whorls on her forehead and cheekbones that would have made any Dalish elf weep with envy. Another young woman who couldn’t have been older than Varania had a fine tracing of red and black dots and lines from the angles of her jaw to the tips of her middle fingers, and from her hipbones to the knuckles of her toes.

Fenris pushed up his sunglasses in wonder, then turned to Hawke. “Did you know…?”

“...that body art is a huge deal in Rivain?” she finished. “Yes, of course.”

He gazed speechlessly around the beach for a moment more, then looked at Hawke again. “Is this why you thought to bring me here?”

She laughed and awkwardly scratched the back of her neck. “Ah, I wish I could say I had that much forethought. But you know I was planning a trip here anyway, before we met. But this is why I didn’t change my travel plans once I knew you’d be coming with me.” She affectionately stroked the white lines on his chin, then lifted her own tattooed left shoulder coquettishly. “We fit right in, wouldn’t you say?”

“I… Yes, so it would seem,” he said dumbly. He tipped his sunglasses back down so he wouldn't be caught staring so blatantly, but he couldn’t help but gaze around the beach with wide eyes. He’d genuinely never seen so many heavily tattooed people in his life, and in Tevinter, Fenris had most certainly been the most heavily tattooed of all.

But it’s not the same, he thought. These tattoos aren’t like mine. The people on this beach had chosen their tattoos of their own free will. Every one of them probably had a story for where their ink came from, and their reasons for getting inked likely ranged from mundane to wild to purely aesthetic. But Fenris was sure no one else’s story involved an ugly combination of grief mixed with a misguided need to show fealty to a now-dead Tevinter mob boss.

Fenris’s tattoos weren’t art. He didn’t wear them out of pride. They were a constant reminder of the lies Danarius had told him and the life he’d suffered under Danarius’s thumb.

But… nobody on this beach would know that. For once in his life, Fenris might actually blend in.

He turned back to Hawke to find her studying him with a soft little smile. “So?” she said. “Are you willing to take your shirt off now?” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Kaffas, she was single-minded. He smirked and raised one eyebrow at her, but before he could speak, she laughed and pinched his chin. “Think about it,” she said. “I’m going in the water.” She kissed him quickly on the lips, then rose from the beach chair and bolted down the beach toward the ocean.

As soon as her feet hit the water, she let out a joyful peal of laughter, then promptly fell hands-first into the waves. She clumsily rose to her feet, then shook her head like a mabari until her short dark hair was standing out around her head like a spiky halo.

She smoothed her hands over her wet hair and grinned at him. “Come on in, the water’s fine!” she yelled.

Fenris chuckled. He could barely hear her over the hissing crash of water on sand, but her message was clear. He waved a dismissive hand at her, then chuckled again when she turned her back on him and playfully shimmied her butt.

She laughed once more, then dove back into the water and rose to the surface to float on the easy wax and wane of the ocean waves, and Fenris simply watched her for a moment. Then he dropped his gaze to his black t-shirt.

He idly rubbed the hem of the shirt between his tattooed fingers. There was an odd feeling in his chest, like a simmering mix of anxiety and excitement. It should be easy to take his shirt off; it was just a brisk motion, no different than undressing for a shower or undressing before stretching Hawke’s naked body across his bed. But it did not feel easy or simple. The more Fenris thought about it, the more momentous it seemed to be - almost as though he’d be shedding something far heavier than a simple cotton garment.

He lifted his eyes back to the ocean. Hawke was standing knee-deep in the water, her expression happy but focused as she dug around in the sand for some thing or another: shells or sand dollars, perhaps. Her dark spiky bangs were dripping into her eyes, and the sun was shimmering on her salt-dewed skin, and Fenris could easily imagine her humming to herself in a sweet and slightly out-of-tune voice.

He pushed himself to his feet. Then, before he could think about it any longer, before the thought of it paralyzed him with nerves, he fisted his hands in the back of his shirt and pulled it off.

A warm, playful breeze unfurled across his bare shoulders and belly and back. Fenris dropped his shirt on the beach chair and adjusted his sunglasses, then took a deep breath and surreptitiously looked around.

No one was staring at him. Nobody was gaping at him in fear or unflattering curiosity. A few people briefly glanced at him then casually looked away, as though he was just any other person on the beach.

“Nice ink,” someone said.

He whipped his head around, but the girl who had commented on his tattoos was already walking away hand-in-hand with her equally tattooed girlfriend.

“Uh… thank you,” Fenris said, feeling utterly nonplussed. The girl glanced back and gave him a friendly wave, then continued on her way.

Fenris released a deep exhale, then slowly removed his sunglasses and placed them on the beach chair with his discarded shirt. Then, very slowly, feeling as though he was stepping toward the edge of a precipice, he stepped out of the shade and into the bright Rivaini sun.

The sand was hot beneath his bare feet - almost unbearably hot. Fenris burrowed his toes into the sand, relishing the damp cool feel of it squishing between his toes. Then he closed his eyes and lifted his chin.

Behind his closed eyelids, the world became a blank but brilliant orange blur. Fenris breathed in the salty sea air, then simply sank into the strange familiarity of the sun’s brilliant rays warming his skin.

For the first time in years, the sun was beating down on Fenris’s bare shoulders. And for the first time in decades, he was actually enjoying it.

He smiled and opened his eyes. Hawke was watching him, standing in the ocean with her hands on her hips, and the smile on her face was the most joyful thing he’d ever seen.

He unearthed his half-buried feet from the sand and took one step toward her, then another. Suddenly he was running, running across the hot sand, running toward Hawke and leaving his black t-shirt behind, and then the salty ocean waves were licking at his calves and splashing up over his knees until he couldn’t run anymore.

Hawke grinned as he trampled awkwardly through the water toward her. Fenris reached out and grasped her hand, and a moment later, she was in his arms with her legs wrapped around his waist.

“I knew you’d like the beach,” she chirped. “I had a feeling.”

“I like being at the beach with you,” he said. He admired her brilliant smile, then lifted his chin and brushed her lips with a featherlight kiss. “Thank you for bringing me here,” he whispered.

She pressed her forehead to his. Her fingers toyed with the damp hair at the nape of his neck. “I’ll bring you anywhere you want, you handsome fool,” she told him. “I would go anywhere with you.”

Her words were guileless and candid and positively bursting with possibility. Hawke tilted her head slightly and kissed the corner of his lips, and as Fenris eagerly returned her kiss, his imagination floated away into the sultry sun-drenched sky.

Fenris was not much of one for travelling, not after his forced cross-country flight from Danarius. But this road trip with Hawke was nothing like that. There was nothing rushed or forced about this trip; ever since they’d left Kirkwall, it had been a seamless flow of sun and sky and winding roads.

Perhaps Rivain was just the beginning. Perhaps he and Hawke could start saving their money for a bigger, longer trip: one that would carry them from one corner of Thedas to the other. With Hawke by his side, he would happily go anywhere.

With Hawke by his side, Fenris could do anything.

#fenris #fenris fic #fenris modern au #damned spot #fenhawke #hawris #fenris/hawke #fenris x hawke #fenris/femhawke #fenris x femhawke #fenris/f!hawke #fenris x f!hawke #pikapeppa writes #THANK YOU BOTH FOR THE BEAUTIFUL ART #I'LL NEVER GET OVER IT

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paranetics · 6 years ago

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3 and drarry please :)

3. “Please don’t leave.”

Draco pushes his hair out of his eyes and turns up the volume on his Muggle music device. It’s got curious orange foam things that slide over his ears (quite like earmuffs, but unlike earmuffs, the orange things beam music directly into Draco’s brain) and a wire that connects to a player thing. The little player thing eats the squares (Weasley calls them cassettes) and they will only play Muggle music but – and don’t tell anyone this – Draco thinks Muggle music is much better than, say, The Weird Sisters.

The Tube slows to a stop and opens its doors with a woosh. Draco doesn’t move from where he’s standing, perfectly content to hold onto one of the hanging straps in the corner of the train. He watches, with little interest, an elderly woman stumble off.

Draco’s been living in Muggle London for five years now. Don’t ask why; the real reason is embarrassing. He likes to tell people it’s because he wanted to unlearn his prejudices – and he definitely has, but that’s not really why he came – and he simply adores their weird coffee contraptions.

“Oh, hello, Ferret-face,” Weasley says, appearing from somewhere to Draco’s left.

“Weasel,” Draco returns flatly, giving no indication that he’d been startled at all.

“I scared you, didn’t I?” Weasley asks. He’s smirking. Draco scowls.

“You absolutely did not.”

“Sure,” he says. Lets a moment of silence pass. “So, have you seen-”

“No,” Draco interrupts. “I haven’t.”

“You don’t know what I was going to say.”

“I do,” Draco says. “And I’d appreciate that you wouldn’t.”

Draco hadn’t repaired his relationship with the Weasel easily, or, in fact, on purpose. He’d done it quite by accident, only intending to apologize to Hermione for his behaviour (purism), and he’d accidentally become her friend in the process and then Weasley’s friend and then… well. Whoops.

It’s only a little inconvenient that Weasley travels the same way as Draco to their respective workplaces, and only slightly aggravating that they work on the same street of Diagon Alley – but what’s really infuriating, really absolutely humiliating, is the fact that Harry Potter (yes, yes, the Harry Potter, the golden boy, the Savior of the Wizarding World, Potter, and other such affectionate nicknames) likes to take lunch breaks from working with Weasley at Draco’s shop, because “it’s much quieter than over there, don’t you think?”

(NO, Draco does NOT think his apothecary is quieter than the joke shop, not if it means Harry bloody Potter comes in every day at twelve-thirty, sits on the green shag carpet among Draco’s potion shelves in his purple robes, and eats.)

And, no, Draco has not seen Pansy Parkinson since she was rumored to be back in London for the simple fact that he has no desire to see her. Not after last Christmas.

“Well,” Weasel-face says, apologetic. “I won’t, then.”

Draco lets a moment pass, then two. “Thank you,” he says. It comes out stiffly. He hadn’t meant it to.

He gets off the train with Weasley, and they unlock their doors – well, okay, Draco unlocks his door, Weasley walks into an open shop – and part ways.

It is quiet in Draco’s shop, and cold winter sunlight filters through the few windows he has, putting funny shadows on the walls. They’re high up, and only allow light in at certain times of the day. Draco did that so most of the apothecary’s stock would remain undamaged for as long as he could manage. The door shuts behind him, triggering the little bell (and the charm Draco has attached to it). Draco breathes in the scent of potions and earth and feels, very instantly, at home.

His shop would seem strange to an outsider. Dark mahogany bookshelves take up a majority of the shop’s floor, stocked with books and glass bottles alike, every label handwritten and carefully organized. There are giant potted plants that overshadow the shelves, and along the top of them, shrunken cauldrons and stir sticks sit patiently. The rest of the floor is taken up by a garden. it’s roped off with wooden stakes and twine, but Draco had built a small stone path for customers to wander through and browse. There’s a bucket by the opening that has shears and wicker baskets stacked beside. It’s enchanted to be larger once you step past the ropes, and Draco stays late, late, late every single night caring for it.

He ducks behind the counter and into the little room at the back, shrugging off his coat and scarf. He wraps his Muggle music player in his scarf and sets it aside, so nothing could happen to it. He opens his doors, settles behind the counter, and opens his ledgers and one of the copies of the new potions books. Draco makes notes in both books, copies the ones on the new deliveries onto the rest of the stock and sells them with shortcuts inside. His ledger is an enchanted book that keeps track of every instance Draco has ever done this.

Really, it’s no trouble, and it keeps the boredom at bay.

See, apothecaries aren’t busy businesses, not like the joke shop next door, they’re just necessary. The joke shop is always filled with kids, teenagers, and adults in need of a laugh. It’s filled with nostalgic friends and families and – it’s noisy. Nothing else. It’s a bright, noisy place, and Draco has never been inside.

So, Draco spends most of his days alone (save for Potter, but does he really count as civilized company, he walks in, sits down, eats and leaves) much like Draco imagines the old wandmaker does. Kindred spirits, he and Ollivander are, only needed on some occasions, but without them, the world could very well collapse.

The door chimes and Draco looks up, startled. It’s Potter, standing there in his purple robes, with messy hair, and green (green, green, green – Draco has always liked green) eyes behind big circular frames.

“It’s not twelve-thirty,” is the only intelligent thing Draco can think to say.

“I get two breaks sometimes,” Potter says briskly.

Then, they just stay there, staring at each other. It’s very quiet. Next door, Draco thinks he hears something explode.

“Uh,” Potter says. He gestures vaguely toward the direction of the shelves. “I’ll just be… browsing.”

Draco nods numbly, staring after him as his wild mop of hair ducks and weaves throughout Draco’s store. Only a little discomfited, he goes back to his books. He tracks Potter anyway, he can’t help it. He’s got green, green, green eyes. And he’s got soft-looking hair and a crooked smile and – okay. Draco might be a little bit in love with the git, but Potter in 2004 is very different from Potter at school, and it just seemed like the thing to do when he first went and fell in love.

But Draco is a coward, and no matter how many years he sits in this apothecary across from Weasley’s, he will never say a word.

–

“How are you,” Miriam asks, “you seem so bright-eyed lately.”

Draco offers the receptionist a smile. “I’m very good, thank you.” And he is. Potter’s been coming in twice a day recently, and he spent forty-five minutes this morning carefully asking questions about plants before purchasing a blue-green aloe. As per every Sunday, Draco had closed just after lunch and headed to Melbay London Hospital.

Miriam is on duty every Sunday, and in her misguided elderly friendliness, she had decided to make Draco fond of her. Or something.

“Your mum is an absolute riot this morning. Quite the hit. She’s in the game room.” She points down the hall.

“Thank you, Miriam,” Draco says, and heads down the hall to the room with the rickety card table, old black and white TV and numerous poker games.

“Draco!” His mother cries, delighted, at the sight of him.

“Mother,” he returns, and smiles at her. She’s sitting alone in a large plushy armchair, knitting needles and her oxygen tank on the floor by her feet. He takes the fold out lawn chair across from her and smiles.

Melbay isn’t expensive, which is why she is here. When this series of tests are over, he will take her home again. That won’t be for another month. He uses what’s left of the Malfoy fortune to keep her healthy and to get her the best treatment but life is often… exhausting.

“How’s Harry?” she asks first, like she always does.

He knows she suspects that Draco is… feels… things, but she has no proof, other than Draco’s tirades about Potter on his carpet, in his store, browsing his shelves. She did point out, once, that he’s never kicked Potter out.

They didn’t discuss it after that.

“He’s alright. He bought a blue-green aloe this morning.”

“Oh,” she says. She smiles. “That’s lovely.” Her smile fades. “Darling, I have bad news.”

Draco’s heart rate increases. He leans forward in his seat, lacing his fingers tightly together, hoping that her next words will be mundane, like spilled pudding, no leftover paninis, terrible coffee in the lounge, or that the hospital cook doesn’t do sunny side up.

“Tilly Gardner in room 1015 died last night.”

Draco, treacherously, feels nothing but relief.

“She was alone, darling. I thought about it all week, up right until she passed. She had us here, yes, but the rest of us have visitors. Husbands. Sons. Daughters, grandchildren. We have family, and memories, and love stored up.”

Her eyes meet Draco’s with a fearful glint.

“What will happen to you when I pass? Draco, I don’t want you to be alone.”

–

Harry comes in Monday morning, chipper and bright. Draco doesn’t feel it. It must show in his face, because Harry’s expression shifts into something searching.

“Are you all right?”

Draco, thinking about his mother basically calling him a spinster, decides that no, he is not. “I’m quite fine, thank you,” is what his mouth says instead.

Harry - oh, God, he is Harry now, isn’t he - looks unconvinced. “Okay. I’m just looking for books on aloe veras.”

Draco watches Harry’s retreating back and sighs to himself. He turns back to his desk, and presses the quill to the paper, only, he must press too hard because the tip snaps off the quill. “Bugger,” he mutters to himself. He ducks under the table and starts rummaging for a new one, only they’re not where he usually puts them. He opens and closes the three same compartments over and over, flattening his hand against the wood, looking, and then, finally, aha, he’s got one.

He must’ve forgotten how to straighten up effectively because he bumps his shoulder, hard, crawling out from under his desk. “Fuck,” he says this time. It’s loud in the quiet of the apothecary. And the little ink bottle rolls over the side of the desk and breaks all over the hardwood, splattering on Draco’s shoes.

Exhausted, irritated, and nursing a sore shoulder, Draco just stares at the offensive ink bottle with a blank expression. He’s having quite a morning.

“Erm,” Harry says. Draco looks up at him.

“What do you want?” Draco says. It sounds snapish. He didn’t want it to.

Harry’s face contorts into something resembling hurt. “Oh, okay. I’ll just… uh. I’ll just go.”

Harry’s halfway to the door when Draco draws in a deep breath and says, “No. Wait. Please. Don’t leave.”

And Harry turns back around.

“It’s just… my mother. She’s got this disease. Her lungs… they’re bad.”

“Draco…” Harry says, face twisting into something unbearably kind.

“She’ll be alright,” Draco interrupts. He hates the pity. “But she has no illusions about her health or her life. We talked yesterday and she…” Draco’s mouth twists and his face contorts into disgust. “she called me a spinster. She thinks I need to get married, or have someone I can marry.”

Harry smiles. “And that upsets you?”

Draco sniffs. “I’m not old, Potter.”

“I didn’t say you were,” Harry returns.

Draco shrugs.

“Anyways. Ron’s been bugging me about it, since you’re friends with him and Hermione, and I’m… uh,” Harry’s cheeks tinge red. Interesting. “You’re invited to the Weasley’s Summer solstice party. At the burrow. Molly says it’s okay.”

Draco, being Draco, can only manages the stiffest nod in the world. He feels like a complete wanker doing it.

“Thank you,” he adds, feeling inadequate. “I’ll try to see if I’m free that day.”

“Bring your mother, too, if she feels well.”

“I’ll ask her.”

Harry, being Harry, smiles at him one last time and then leaves back to the joke shop. Draco sighs to himself, spells the spilled ink back into the repaired bottle and sits down to finish his ledger.

–

First thing he does is make the mistake of actually asking his mother. She’s overjoyed. She’s overexcited. Draco has to force her to sit down so she doesn’t spontaneously stop breathing. Second thing he does is go out and buy an outfit that fits the occasion appropriately. The third thing he does is turn to Weasley on the train and tell him, awkwardly and too formally, that his mother and him would love to attend on Saturday.

Weasley grins.

“Thanks mate, cheers.”

That’s the list of things that lands Draco right here, right now, sitting on the edge of a conjured dancefloor, watching his mother and Charlie Weasley navigate the floor and her oxygen tank, sipping an orange-y drink. The lawn furniture is mismatched but comfortable, and he’s slightly too dressed up, but it’s alright. He doesn’t feel like a recluse or an outcast, if only because his mother is dancing with the dragon-tamer and having a grand time. Ginny Weasley is the most attractive Weasley present, long red hair plaited into twin braids that end at her waist, shoes discarded somewhere on the lawn as she laughs, twirling her father around.

Draco watches her absentmindedly, wonders what she ever saw in Pansy Parkinson.

All the history between him and the people he’s surrounded with. So much history and so little understanding between them all.

“You look thoughtful.”

Draco looks up. It’s Harry, wearing a soft green jumper, tailored black trousers and an old, beat up Hogwarts hat, too small and slightly askew on his head. He’s got the remnants of a laugh in his eyes, and the faintest upturn at the corner of his mouth.

“I was just thinking about Pansy,” Draco says, startled into an honest confession. Harry’s face does a series of complicated things.

“Well,” he says, finally. “We can’t have that, can we?” He offers Draco his hand. “I know a really fast dance.”

“It’s a slow song,” Draco points out.

Harry shrugs. “We can alter it.”

Draco hesitates. He thinks of his mother, sitting in the armchair, frail and small, and Draco, I don’t want you to be alone. He takes Harry’s hand.

—

you ABSOLUTELY requested this so long ago (and it was during a Real Bad Writer’s Block of mine, so I never got around to finishing it up) I’m so sorry it’s so late, I hope it’s good enough that it makes up for the stupid amount of time it took? I didn’t beta it, just wrote it in 3 hours and posted. sorry.

send me a prompt and a ship + i’ll write a drabble!

#answer #drarry

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yunohawkeye · 6 years ago

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Memories of you pt.5

Sorry that it took so long but my final exams are coming up and I have a lot to do at the moment... I’ll try to keep it up though!

Tagging: @lilster360 @datemasamunemaiwaifu @juminly and @aromantic-misguide-to-romance (I remember you talking about it ^^)

Word count: 2793

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

The muffled sound of a shot could be heard all over the deck. But none of the crewmembers cared. This had become normal since MCs gun training had started.

The next shot hit the target right in the middle followed by some body shots. Just the last one missed.

With a disappointed sigh on her lips MC lowered the guns and muttered, “The last one didn’t hit it again. And I thought I was getting better...”

But before she could continue her self-loathing Kojuro interrupted her, “You are getting better. But you’re also getting too excited after hitting a shot. Try to keep your body relaxed. Don’t stiffen up.”

After a short acknowledging nod MC started to visibly relax and took a deep breath. Kojuro took the time to move closer to her and started to give further instructions, “Keep your feet steady. Control your breathing. Like I showed you.” MC rearranged her stance and aimed her pistols again. She did this many times before. Easy. Target. Hold your breath. Shoot... and hit. Right between the eyes. She wasn’t able to contain the massive grin spreading over her face but kept the stance as she kept pulling the trigger hitting other critical shots. Only the empty magazine was able to stop her roll.

A hand on her shoulder brought her back to reality, “Good job. But I think that’s enough for today. You improved a lot over the last week. Go take a break.” Content and cheerful MC answered, “Sure thing! And thank you for training me! I know you neglected your duties for that.”

Before the quartermaster was able to answer her, the girl pulled him into a tight hug not noticing pair of eyes lingering on them.

Masamune was standing in the doorway facing MCs back frowning at the display in front of him. Especially the content expression on Kojuros face left a bitter aftertaste. He wasn’t able to keep the despised feeling of jealousy down his chest. It felt like a knife was stabbing right through his heart as he cursed himself for feeling that way.

He hated it. He had no right to feel that way. She wasn’t his property or anything like that. Hell, he didn’t even know if she saw him anything close to a friend. So why was he feeling like that if he had no right to do so?

The moment Kojuro and MC loosened their embrace Masamune swallowed these negative feelings and composed himself again. But his best friend was able to get a glance of the captains shifting expression stunning him for a moment.

Thinking it was just in his imagination he greeted him, “Hello Masamune! Any news about Marayuki?”

“Yes, we’ll arrive in a few hours and meet up with Mitsuhide. So get ready”, the cold touch to his friends’ voice left Kojuro slightly confused but before he was able to give his answer MC replied, “Okay, I’ll go and freshen up a bit and join you guys later. So excuse me.”

As soon as she finished her sentence she made her way to her room, leaving a deafening silence between the two men.

Trying to break it Kojuro spoke up, “She improved fast. I’m actually impressed she’s that good at aiming. When I started I didn’t even hit anything close to the targets until about half a month. She’s got talent.”

The only reply he got was a grumbled, “Aha...” from Masamune which caused him to eye his friend curiously, “Everything allright?”

The only monotone answer he got was, “Yes... Everything is marvellous”, as his friend turned around to make his way back onto the deck. Just as he was about to leave through the door Masamune turned around a last time, “I need you to make a list of the supplies we’re lacking so we can get them at the island.” As he finally vanished he left behind a fairly confused and stunned Kojuro. What just happened? He normally isn’t in such a foul mood.

Was it because of MC? He didn’t think that-? He wasn’t-?

No, that wouldn’t be like him.

Banning those thoughts out of his head he started to clean up the training room before he joined the others on deck.

A few hours later the crew gathered on deck and MC went up to Masamune who was standing on the railing, acknowledging her with a quick glance.

As he spoke up after a deafening silence spread between them she was ripped out of her thoughts and startled for a moment, “Are you sure?”, he kept his gaze on the growing island before them, “You really want to go out there with us and fight? Nobody is going to judge you if you decide to stay behind.”

Joining his focus on the island MC replied with the same determination in her eyes as the day she stood in his cabin, “Yes, that’s what I prepared for the last week. I didn’t learn how to shoot for nothing, you know?”

Masamune turned his gaze to her and showed her a gentle smile even though her focus was still on the growing mountains in front of her, “Yes, I know...” There was an affectionate glimmer in his eye as he got lost in thought.

She’s so beautiful. And her spirit didn’t change a bit over the years. She’s still as level-headed as before... yes... before...

He wasn’t able to keep off his eyes off her for a few seconds longer than necessary but his thoughts were interrupted the moment MC looked him directly in the eye.

The thing was that this situation left MC fairly confused. She couldn’t shake off the familiarity that came with this scenario but at the same time she wasn’t able to recall to ever have been in a situation like that.

But before she was able to think further about it Masamune returned the favour and ripped her out of her trance by turning his gaze back to the island while giving her a piece of advice, “When we meet Mitsuhide I suggest you put on thick fur.”

With a cheeky grin on her face MC replied jokingly, “I hope you didn’t mean that literally. Otherwise I’m just going to melt before we even have a chance to set foot on land.”

Masamune chuckled as he continued, “I mean that more like... mentally. He’s got a silver tongue and has used his skills to get information out of statues. Otherwise I can’t explain how he does it. SO better keep your guard up.”

The moment he looked down at her he was met with a confident grin, “I’ll be able to handle it!”

His features softened as he gave her a warm smile and added with unusual softness to his voice, “I bet you will. Just... be careful.”

MC on the other hand just nodded because before she was able to say something a crewmember ran up to them and handed Masamune a scroll, “The map to the meeting point. It was just delivered.”

He looked over the papyrus for a moment until he dismissed the messenger and excused himself to get the information to the helmsman.

MC took the chance to lean on the railing and get lost in thoughts.

What am I doing here?

What was that strange moment I just had with the captain?

I... ugh... I don’t even know why I’m actually doing this... it just... feels right?

Hmm... this sounds more like I’m trying to convince myself... but what do I want to convince myself to do?

At least the people here are nice... I didn’t think that pirates could be so dorky at times, but hey! Everyday a new experience!

Ugh... what am I thinking about?

What is my relation to them?

I don’t really have a place among them so I’m not a member... but I’m not a hostage either...

What am I to them?

A friend? No, can’t be.

The closest thing I could have as a friend here would be Kojuro. But he was probably just nice to me because he was assigned to be...

And the captain, Masamune... I always have that weird familiar feeling when I’m with him. As if I’d know him. As if there is some deeper connection between the two of us.

But in the end he’s just the captain of the pirate ship that kidnapped me for no reason at all. – So not really friends I’d say.

Yeah, right. They kidnapped me.

They aren’t nice people. They plunder and murder. They took everything from the villagers.

But on the other hand they did shed some light upon some things about our society that aren’t as bright and happy as they are always displayed.

Ughh... this is too much... my head hurts...

I’ll just leave it here and maybe I should investigate further... Some pieces still don’t fit...

She became aware of her surroundings again as the ship came to an halt in a seemingly hidden and abandoned cave.

From the size and shape of it and with some evidence of scratching marks on the stones it seemed like an old smuggler entrance.

Only as MC turned around she saw another ship docked there with a pirate flag on top.

As her eyes roamed around they kept stuck at a shady figure standing on the deck. It was a man with intimidating, bright and observing yellow eyes piercing right through her, enchanting her with some kind of spell that immobilized her. She was so lost to stare back into those soul mirrors that she didn’t notice a figure walking up behind her. Only as a voice was to be heard she jumped and turned around to see Masamune towering above her, “Don’t worry. He’s just putting on a show.”

Still a little bit uncomfortable she replied, “I imagined... but he’s good...”

“That he is”, Masamune gave a small laugh and gestured her to follow him, “But now you’re going to meet him face to face.”

As they walked down the plank Mitsuhide was already standing at the beach between the two ships, awaiting the three figures as Kojuro joined them. The moment they came into earshot the white haired man spoke up, “Oh my~ I didn’t know you take your mermaids on your journey, Masamune”, he came closer and eyed MC from head to toe, making her kind of uncomfortable, “Although I have to admit that I understand why. She undoubtedly catches the eye.”

“Oh, she is no mere nix I picked up during my journey”, Masamune quickly replied, giving her a quick glance and continued after short pause with truthfulness in his voice as he looked directly into his accomplices eyes, “She’s a friend.”

The moment that felt from his lips MC looked at him with nothing less than pure confusion decorating her face and even Mitsuhide seemed speechless for a moment as he eyed the girl.

And when should we have become friends? Between the kidnapping and trying to get rid of me by leaving me on a strange island?

Breaking the deafening silence that actually lasted only a few seconds but felt like hours gone by Kojuro spoke up, “But this isn’t the reason we met, right? You said in your letter that there was a problem with the kingdom being overthrown? Do the citizens know about anything?”

Regaining his cool again Mitsuhide answered, “No, they don’t. But there are suspicions. I wasn’t able to gather much information.”

Raising his eyebrows Masamune quickly asked, “That doesn’t sound like you. What happened?”

“They vanished. From one day to another they were nowhere to be found. Probably got arrested and probably tortured or killed”, the indifference in Mitsuhides voice made MC flinch but the male didn’t react to that and continued, “And I can’t gather information myself because my face is known around here.” Now turning directly to MC he suggested, “But maybe your little friend can be of use here.”

The girl just stood her ground and looked into his eyes with all the strength she could muster as Mitsuhide analyzed further, “She seems to be fierce enough to handle the pressure.”

Immediately protesting Masamune spoke up, “No, she can’t-”

“I’ll do it!”

Her statement gained her the attention and confused looks from everyone until Kojuro decided to speak up again, “Look, I know you’re not completely helpless, but-”

“-but I can defend myself”, not backing down MC defended her point.

“Not against these foes!”, Masamune couldn’t hold back the flame of anger that started to flame up inside of him as he continued, “They’re on a level you can only dream of right now! What if anything happens to you?”

Not able to contain her anger and frustration any longer MC almost screamed while feeling her eyes starting to burn from tears that threatened to form, “And what do I have to lose? My whole life turned out to be a lie! I don’t even know who I am exactly!”

There was a short and intense pause between them as her facial expression turned from anger into desperation and the lost look in her eyes made Masamune regret any feeling of anger he contained up to this moment and cursing himself for being that careless again.

After a deep inhale MC continued with a stern look in her eyes, “And since when are you my captain? I don’t recall joining your crew.”

Feeling the hurt and weight in her words Masamune stood there shocked as he watched her walking up to Mitsuhide.

Right, she’s the one here who doesn’t know me...

How stupid am I?

Everything we’ve gone through never happened to her... until she gets her memory back that is...

Mitsuhides voice ripped him out of his thoughts, “Then it’s settled. You’ll come with me to gather information in town. You two go, take a few men and scout the area. I would love to give you more information about the situation but we don’t have much time. I have a feeling something big is coming. Sooner than I figured as well.”

With a nod and putting his hand on his friends shoulder Kojuro murmured, “Let’s go Masamune.”

At the same time Mitsuhide gestured MC to his ship she walked there without looking back.

As the man turned to follow her he was stopped by a grumble, “If she has even one scratch on her I’ll be the one to carve out your heart.”

“I’ll keep an eye on her. I don’t want a raging dragon to wreck my ship”, Mitsuhide answered with a hearted grin on his face as he continued to follow MC into his ship.

Masamune was standing there conflicted to just let her wander off while on the other hand was the other mans word trustworthy. He would protect her if needed.

He wasn’t able to move until she vanished into the ship and even then he didn’t move.

She really doesn’t remember a thing. She is a completely new person.

Then I’ll just have to get her to trust me again.

Finally starting to move again he didn’t look back, he couldn’t look back. If he did there was a high chance of him getting lost in thought again.

As soon as he saw his captains troubled expression Kojuro asked him, “What is up with you? You don’t seem like yourself.”

Eyeing his quartermaster with an unusual vulnerability in his eye Masamune answered truthfully, “I... I don’t know...”

And he really didn’t. There was a part of him that wanted everything to play out while another part of him wanted it to be like the time before he found her again and another one wanted it to go back to the time even before that.

Seeing his friend in time of distress Kojuro sighed and advised, “I would never have thought that I’ll be the one to cheer you up but... you know her. Better than anyone else. She’s capable of taking care herself. And it’s not like you to be possessive. Of anyone.”

Giving his friend a quick smile Masamune answered, “Yes, you’re right. I... I just don’t want to lose her... again... I guess my paranoia was taking over.”

He put a hand over his face and through his hair. Paranoia. Anxiety. The fear of losing someone. Everything came back at once even though he said goodbye to those thoughts a long time ago, “I just can’t stand the thought of being responsible for another death of another loved one.”

After hearing those sentences Kojuro laid his hand on Masamunes shoulder, “You won’t. She’s stronger than you think.”

After waiting for an acknowledging nod from his captain the quartermaster spoke up again, “And now, let’s go to work.”

#ikemen sengoku #ikesen #ikesen masamune #masamune date #pirateAU

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bored-fan-bs-thoughts · 6 years ago

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muffy fic please ! can be them reconciling, jealous buffy, how u imagine the bowling alley scene, whatever !

Sorry this is super late! This is Muffy reconciling and it takes place at Buffy’s first basketball game. Hope you enjoy!

AO3

Despite Andi’s best (although very misguided) efforts, Buffy’s basketball team is crushed. Buffy doesn’t mind though. While it would have been nice to win, she is happy with the work her team has put into their game and understands that there’s literally nowhere else to go but up.

Buffy is so focused in her celebrating that she hardly notices the familiar face of her virtual-ex-boyfriend as he approaches her. When he greets her from behind, Buffy whirls around (all too eagerly) to see a smiling brunette boy.

“Marty,” Buffy says, “It’s been quite a while.”

Buffy can feel her cheeks heat up, and she’s aware that it’s definitely not because of the physical exertion. Marty looks down at his feet as Buffy slyly runs her gaze up and down the boy. He is wearing a button-down, short-sleeve shirt and a pair of smooth khaki pants, with his hair perfectly coiffed. Buffy has to resist the urge to let out an admiring sigh.

“Listen, I’m really sorry about how I acted when you…rejected me,” Marty says, “I just didn’t know how to react.”

“I understand,” Buffy says. “I didn’t handle it the best either.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’d rather not talk about it here,” Buffy says, feeling self-conscious of all the people around them. “Do you…want to come over tomorrow?” Heat rises in her cheeks.

“I’d love to,” Marty says smiling. Buffy swears she can see a hint of blush gracing his cheeks. “I’ll see you then.”

“Yeah,” Buffy says. Marty walks backwards keeping an affectionate eye on Buffy. In his distracted state, he backs up into a group of celebrating kids from the opposing team. Thankfully, when he looks back, Buffy has already turned back to her friends saving him the embarrassment from the girl he likes.

“I see you were talking to Marty,” Andi says with a smirk.

“Celebratory baby taters?” Buffy responds, trying to change the subject.

“But we lost,” Andi says.

“You tried though that’s what matters” Cyrus says.

“Okay, but this Marty thing is not over.” Andi says, looking suspiciously towards Buffy and causing her to let out an exasperated groan.

—————

The next day, Buffy feels strangely frantic as she prepares for Marty to come over. She did not take the messy state of her room into account when she invited the boy over and she scrambled around to put her clothes away that had been strewn out all over her floor. She has just finished stuffing the rest of her clothes into her closet to put away later when she hears a knock on the door. She rushes to the door and takes a deep breath.

“Hey, Marty,” Buffy says.

“Hey, Mr. TheParty at your service,” the bright-eyed boy says beaming.

“Oh God,” Buffy groans, “I thought that nickname was a thing in the past.”

Marty giggles and Buffy feels her stomach lurch. The sound is just as adorable and joyful as she remembers.

“Well, why don’t you just call me 11.5 and I’ll call you 11.8?” Marty banters back.

Buffy sighs, unable to wipe the adoring grin off her face. “Come in, Mr. TheParty.”

Buffy steps aside to let Marty in and he walks through the door. Buffy has trouble getting the words out of her mouth, so her and Marty stand in the entry way to her house in a moment of tense silence.

“So?” Marty says after a while, “Do you have something to say?”

“What I meant yesterday was that I…I had a realization,” Buffy says. “As much as I hate to admit this, I made a mistake when I turned you down. I know you have a girlfriend—“

“I don’t actually,” he says cutting her off, “We broke up,”

“Oh. When?” Buffy asks, internally cursing herself about her lack of subtleness

“A few weeks ago,” he says. “She knew that I…liked someone else.” His sentence ends with a smirking wink.

“I had a person in my life that understood me and liked me back and I couldn’t reciprocate it,” Buffy explains, “But now I can. So, Marty from the Party, will you be my real boyfriend?”

“As in, not virtual?” Marty questions, feeling a blush “I’m not sure if I’m familiar with that?”

“You know you get this sparkle in your eye when you’re overconfident?”

“Now you’re just stealing my lines,” Marty says.

“Shut up and kiss me, you idiot!” Buffy shouts, taking a step closer to her new boyfriend.

Marty happily obliges.

#andi mack #muffy #buffy driscoll #marty from the party

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unholyforged · 6 years ago

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⤻ * IIIIIIIIIIT’S EDIE !!!! : back at it again & here to introduce you to my lil #irishaccentaf , #vsmol , #butvstrong , HENRIETTA FIGG !!!!!!!

unlike my intros for siri sadboi black & frankleface longbooty , this intro post will ( hopefully ) not be , like , 1000000000000 words long b/c ,,,,,,,,,, like ,,,,,,,,,, i’m trying to turn over a new leaf ?? and am tryna live a life where i don’t spend 30 days and 30 nights pouring out my heart and soul into my muses backstories whilst crying into a pack of tim tams ?? :’) ajisodjeiowoew . so ANYWAY , without further ado , here’s the loml , henri ♡♡♡

** TRIGGERS : death , religious extremism , physical and emotional abuse .

—— MOBILE VIEW FOR EASIER READING !

⤻ * APPLICATION —— !

* ╰ ( KANG MINA )┋have you met ( HENRIETTA FIGG ) ? ( she ) reminds me of ( holy water and incense ; a girl nailed to a burning crucifix . sorrow burdened , unholy forged —— magic mistaken for sin . could you speak through embraces rather than speaking with words ? it’s easier for her to understand the language of touch . there are brutal fists and the bloom of black bruises , she dreams of liberation ; she can find it if she chooses . so defying god , she closes her eyes , and with broken bones she refuses to cry —— she is divinity unto her own sacred self ; a girl reborn , all evil repelled . she dwells in that hazy in-between world which sits some place between where she’s escaped from , and who she’s yet to become —— an angel that fell , her tears are undone , she’s not holy , she’s no one ). a ( nineteen ) year old ( ninth ) year ( slytherin ), the ( unholy ) is known to be ( + adroit & + compassionate ), yet ( — feckless & — impervious ). that explains why they’re majoring in ( wizarding law ). rumour has it, ( henri ) is siding with ( the order ) in the solemn war that blazes just beyond the horizon. ( admin edie, 22, aedt, she/her )

⤻ * THE BAD BEGINNING —— !!

YEAH , SO , HENRI !!!!!!!!

was born with the name delilah healy .

v religious parents

v religious upbringing

HAD a lot of faith in GOD before THINGS happened

“ what things though , edie ???? ” you may ask

VERY GOOD QUESTION. A++++ , my loves

my cupcakes , i shall tell you :~)

delilah grew up in the irish countryside . devout catholics , delilah’s parents had moved to ireland from korea when they were newlyweds , having heard of the large catholic population there . upon arrival , they changed their korean surname of ‘ hwang ’ to the irish surname of ‘ healy ’ ; the name change helping them feel more a part of the irish catholic church community .

when delilah was a little bub , her parents just thought that she was the most perfect thing in the world ! with silken black hair & bright brown eyes eyes , delilah seemed like god’s gift to the healy’s , tbh .

delilah ( let’s just call her delilah until we get to why she changed her name to henrietta !!!!! ) was practically christined AS SOON AS her umbilical cord was cut tbh . all like *pops out into the world* *has umbilical cord cut* *CHRISTENED* !!!!

“ what a holy child !!!!!! an angel !!!!!!!! ” —— everyone would say this to the healy’s , and the healy’s were like HECK YA our angel faced cute patootie is the gr8est !

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, and then , one day , STRANGE THINGS started happening .

only three years of age , flowers would BLOOM beneath delilah’s feet during moments of happiness , while during moments of distress , melancholy & anger , the ground stirred and shifted where she stood , as if it were about to SWALLOW HER WHOLE.

“ WOAH , DEVIL CHILD , OUR CHILD HAS THE DEVIL IN HER !!! ” —— the healy’s . smh .

a man who belonged deeply & FIRSTLY to god, his OWN SELF SECOND, and his WIFE AND CHILD THIRD , these mystical ( MAGICAL —— but normal WIZARDING WORLD ) happenings were painted by delilah’s father as evidence of his daughter’s DEMONIC POSSESSION . with misguided love & brutal hands , delilah’s father fully intended to cleanse delilah of the devil’s influence .

^ mr. healy began to beat delilah every time somethingmagical strange would happen

for a small while ???? this actually seemed ???? to solve everything ????? :(

a religious girl herself , delilah believed that the magic , the BEATINGS , and MISERY that had consumed her life were all part of some GRAND TEST . all she needed to do , SHE KNEW , was PROVE HER FAITH IN GOD & SHOW that she was worthy , strong and true , and her hardships would be over . GOD would reward delilah for her love and devotion with kindness and fortune, and everything would be fine in the end .

with this belief in mind , delilah ENDURED ALL OF HER FATHER’S BRUTALITIES for years —— she BELIEVED that she deserved the tattooed bruises of deep purple and blue that covered every inch her soft skin , and she spent day after day crying in the darkest corners of her room —— scarcely even daring to believe that she was even deserving of being touched by the rays of sunlight that crept in through her cracked bedroom window . SHE WAS WRONG , SHE WAS IMPURE , SHE WAS UNHOLY .

until one day around the age of 8 delilah turned around and was like “ NOT TODAY SATAN ” @ mr. healy :o & after a particularly harrowing beating , delilah decided to fight back .

DELILAH WASN’T IN CONTROL as the furniture began to hover above ground , kitchen knives and chairs and cupboards levitating in an unnatural manner that foretold the DISASTER about to unfurl . as delilah let a wail rip through the air ( girl broken , girl afraid ) , a cupboard SLAMMED mr . healy to the wall —— CRUSHING & SWIFT . after a moment of pure terror ; the world grew SILENT once more . wood splintering , knives clattering to the floor , dust settling , and delilah held her father’s lifeless body in her arms until strange people called aurors showed up , obliviating her mother , and escorting delilah out from the premises .

six months after the incident, the wizengamot try delilah’s hearing . ultimately, the verdict was that delilah had killed her father ( unintentionally , through a burst of uncontrolled , pre-adolescent magic ) in self-defence —— an event that was built up over a lifetime of emotional and physical abuse at the hands of a cruel muggle mother and father . rather than being locked up , delilah was sent to a rehabilitative ward at st. mungo’s to receive physical treatments from healers , as well as emotional counselling .

it is at st. mungo’s that delilah meets a healer by the name of fenella figg —— and , after establishing a relationship of trust and friendship , fenella and her husband ( ernest ) decide to adopt delilah into their family .

⤻ * SHE DEFIES GOD —— !!

the figg household is the exact opposite of the healy household ; filled with strange but affectionate creatures called kneazles , filled with magic and pumpkin pasties , and filled with love for the sake of people , not for the sake of god . best of all , the figg household isn’t lonely —— for more than finding the love of two new parents , delilah also finds the love of a sister , five years older than her : arabella figg .

in the busy figg household , crowded with commotion , kneazles , and love , delilah finds the strength to defy god , and believe in herself instead . as a promise to herself ( a promise of never faltering again , and never fearing again ) , the girl changes her name to HENRIETTA ( derived from heimiric —— meaning home & power ) —— leaving delilah in her past with her fears & scars .

⤻ * LIL TIDBITS —— !!

cool cool cool , TOIT !!!

so henri is a pretty sweet chick

she’s very capable

exceedingly kind

but pretty sharp most of the time

she will hex u real good if you’re mean

* mushu vc * she’ll hex u , she’ll hex ur cow , she’ll hex ur whole family

dw tho , she will hex her own housemates when they’re being asses too ( and NOT TO STEREOTYPE OR ANYTHING , but being in slytherin , there are ,,, a LOT ,,, of assholes in her house )

equal opportunity amirite ??

henri loves : quidditch ( is slytherin team’s keeper ) , duelling , kneazles , cats, owls, rats, dogs , dragons , octopi , pandas , unicorns , elephants , tigers , chickens , ANIMALS !!!!!!!!!!! , people are okay too ...... !!!!!!!!!! , firewhiskey , bonfires , fireplaces , the colour red ( shoulda been a gryffindor , sorting hat wyd ??? ) , muggle films , kidding around with arabella , hanging out with arabella , arabella (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ , watching the sunset , watching the sunrise , hexing nasty ppl , healing kind ppl , knitting , speaking her mind , starting fights , winning fights , watching the stars at night , her family & those that she holds dear .

henri abhors : clichés, norms, being painted as a damsel in distress , the patriarchy, blood supremacy / and its gross supremacists , people telling her what to do , organised religion , dark magic , tuesdays , arithmancy , losing , being wrong , being woken up , lukewarm baths , peeves , bullies , food that’s gone cold , when it’s cold but not cold enough to snow , when her owl doesn’t come back to the owlery by nightfall , hard beds , disco , condescension , malice & the ones she cares about being hurt .

henri eats a lot . food is her friend . yorkshire puddings are yummo & they are her fave [ assorted devouring sounds ] . she’s also one helluva cook :~))))))))))))

henri has no chill when it comes to her values i.e. fighting against blood supremacists , fighting for gender equality , fighting for equal rights for centaurs ..... EQUALITY THINGS IN GENERAL !!!!!!!! -— henri has a teeny tiny short fuse when issues of equality are concerned & she is always ready to smite any sonuvabeech who crosses her on these issues . she’s also pretty aggro on the quidditch field yo’ . that’s the unholy 4 u .

my babe can drink more firewhiskey than the whole student body at hogwarts combined , but she never gets drunk . she has the alcohol tolerance of a large blue whale tbH ???? she’s the #mumfriend at parties because she’s the only one sober enough to be .

henri honestly really kind when she lets herself be ????? she finds happiness in watching the stars , in flying , in climbing trees and caring for others —— she finds knitting , and cleaning cathartic , and wants nothing more than to lie down in bed for the rest of her life , surrounded by fluffy duvets and warmth :~))))) however , amidst trying to escape from the clutches of her past , make headway as slytherin keeper in a sport that’s still predominantly played and spectated by men , and trying to come to terms with the fact that there’s a very real war on the horizon , henri hasn’t been left with much room for softness . she is , though —— ... she has the softest of hearts , which is exactly why she needs to make sure her exterior is impenetrable .

OKAY I LIED THIS GOT P LONG BUT PLS COME LOVE MY BABE HENRIETTA !!!!!! :~)

#solemnly:intros #mY BABY !!#is finally here !!! :')

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englass · 6 years ago

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Ichor - Bliss

Warning(s): Terrible title. Bit of angst; low mood.

A/N(s): This has been sitting in my documents for ages. Finally decided to actually post the thing.

——————————————————

The Bliss. You have heard many things about it, how it opens your mind and frees you from the troubles of a harsh reality. How it is nothing but an elaborate lie developed in makeshift labs to force compliancy, and how high exposure can rot the brain into something only really pictured in the medium of horror.

Already you have been subjected to its wicked workings, once being shot as if an animal needed under anaesthetic and the other was once you had woken up, under a polluted bulwark of water that coated your vision in a perverted pixie dust. You had not known it at the time, never having experienced the hallucinogenic agent until that point, but it was enough of a taste to know that whatever the substance was it was beyond bad news for you.

It’s why you made it a conscious effort to stay well clear of the stuff. The moment it’s name was even uttered you’d tense, body aching at the sheer memory of what it could and has very well done to you. You’ve seen the effect it has on others, seen their distant gazes and heard their murmured prayers. It actually looks quite peaceful from what you’ve seen.

Too bad it’s effect on you is nothing short of hell-inducing.

You have an assumption as to why that is, why the Bliss instills an itching paranoia and an all-to-real terror and physicality to your languid companion, but you’d rather not dwell. Sadly, despite where you’ve looked and who you have spoken too, you lack the means to potentially aid your crumbling situation. Although you suspect the items you search for may only bring about a different sort of effect; something less fear inducing, but just as equally terrifying.

You give a heavy sigh, fingers brushing through your hair, as already you are regretting your decision to journey into the land of nightmare fuel. Just why the Sheriff had decided to set up base in the heart of such a hell zone was absolute madness to you. True, you understood the reasoning for it - it was well defendable, much like a modern fort - but that didn’t mean you appreciated it just as the others did. All you could think about was the long drive back to the borders and into less, although arguably more, dangerous territory.

It’s pretty safe to say though that you’d rather face off against the war-torn werewolf and inhuman incubus with a brother complex than deal with this scheming siren.

Regrettably though you’re in a bit of a bind; too nice for your own good some would say. You’d be somewhat inclined to agree with them too. You just can’t bring yourself to say ‘no’ to people. Not that they give you the opportunity to say anything else mind you. In fact you’re actually starting to wonder if you even have a voice anymore; it hardly gets used nowadays - what with you being shoved from task to tedious task without so much as a tea break.

Thinking about it the only ones who even know what you sound like (other than distant family and friends) are either being tortured, conditioned, drugged up or are just too busy to have something even remotely related to a normal conversation with you. Then again...

You straighten up, head tilted toward the concrete heavens as the chair squeals at the casual shift in weight.

There is one other person that knows what you sound like, but you’re actually not too sure if she’s even still alive at this point. Although you’re certain she is, considering she sold you all out quicker than a swindler can swindle ice from an Eskimo.

Nancy. Fucking Nancy. In all honesty though you can’t say you’re actually angry with the women. Sure, you’re hurt and more than a little disappointed in her, but you don’t have the strength for something as draining as anger. It’s too much stress. Besides, if you want your ever-loving companion to stay weak and well away from you then you’re going to need to stay as calm as you possibly can. You don’t need it looking for an early supper; you’re still recovering from the last bite it took.

It’s getting stronger, you think idly, rolling your aching wrist with an answering snapping sound, much like the popping of bubble wrap; only this isn’t fun. With an anxious gaze, lip worried between your teeth, you trace the faintest of blotches, an irritated red that lingers under the skin, on the back of your hand and just kissing the start of your arm.

Physically it does nothing to you, no itching or tingling sensation to be felt, but mentally it has the warning bells ringing a harrowed toll. You know from years of experience that the moment you start to have marks, red like a flush with no heat or a rash with no bite, that it’s rearing it’s head; gearing up for a new attempt at dominance.

Thankfully it’s not around, skulking off to wherever it goes once you got yourself through the doors of the prison, taking a jab of that anti-Bliss stuff without a second thought. It stung as an injection does, heads turned worryingly in your direction at your hurried form and brash action, but it relieved the paranoia; banished the fear, even if only for a little while.

Really you should be honest and tell Whitehorse what’s wrong, let him know that the Bliss has had a truly nasty effect on you and that you can’t - don’t want to stay because of it. You can’t be of help. You’re sure he’d understand. He knows about your condition, so you’re sure he would. He has to. Wouldn’t he?

You suddenly feel hollow, as though every other emotion and feeling inside of you is being emptied like a full glass turned on it’s head. All that’s left is an empty space. Echoes of feelings and emotions tap on the glass, vying for your attention, but they are merely dull sounds that carry no weight to them.

Any anger that you once held like a tempered weapon now lacks drive or enthusiasm in its swing, your sadness now cold and still like a frozen lake without the warm comfort of tears. Your mood has taken a sudden dive and for a moment you wonder if it’s okay for you to drown yourself in it. It’s not like anyone really cares anyway.

You’re just ‘Rook’; a poster-child for the resistance, the one that got away, a piece to be played and sacrificed. That’s all you are, and it breaks your heart to know - despite how much you may deny it you know - that that’s all you are now. That is what you have been reduced too.

With a sharp inhale your hand comes to fall across your face, shielding you away from the hectic world outside as your eyes start to sting.

You jump at the feeling of something against your leg, a heavy pressure that nudges purposefully against you. You don’t have to remove your hand from over your eyes to know what it is.

It feels warm against your leg, a thick dampness that seeps into the material of your pants and onto the skin of your leg. Your stomach squirms at the contact, a nervous reaction that is gradually eased as It remains against you, unmoving and unthreatening.

Slowly you look down, suspecting to maybe see It’s foreboding gaze cast up in warning to your anxious form or It’s maw pulled into a mocking smile that is filled with menacing razors, but that is not what you see. The sight before you is not a common one.

It’s head is bowed forward, long ears pulled back submissively, as It presses into the bone of your leg with a pressure that comes across more reassuring than anything else.

You don’t even realise your free hand has placed itself on the back of It’s exposed neck, fingers and palm painted a bitter obsidian, until It leans into the contact. Such a small and innocent gesture suddenly turns the monster of your waking dreams into a lost puppy seeking an affectionate touch. Absently your fingers trace invisible lines into It’s swampy form, soothingly rubbing back and forth into the ichor of It’s hide.

As if in response It’s head mirrors your fingers movements, nuzzling into your leg with a distorted purr that isn’t there. Your hand and leg ache at It’s touch. However, even when the lights in It’s dark sockets come to life, white and as luminescent as the stars in the night sky, looking up at you with a steady aura, you don’t pull away from It. Instead, you meet It’s endless stare.

Sadly you smile at It, watching as It’s head tilts lazily at you in a silent question. You know It doesn’t truly mean to hurt you, only wanting to protect you in It’s own misguided and painful way, yet right now you can’t bring yourself to care. Your hand tingles as though on the cusp of cramping up, yet still you continue to stroke through the black of It’s liquid-like body.

It does nothing but watch, lights unblinking and still like a focused predator stalking it’s prey. Strangely enough though it doesn’t feel as if you’re being hunted, or even watched in a sick and knowing anticipation as is normally the case. There is a softness in It’s gesture, a comfort in It’s harmful warmth, and a reassurance in It’s abyssal sockets.

And, oddly enough, as though It’s nonexistent eyes speak words that can’t be heard, you realise something quite profound; a thought that holds more weight on your heavy shoulders than is already there.

Right, you think with the slow dawn of a sorrowfully tight smile, it’s just the two us, isn’t it? Till death... and maybe longer still.

#fc5 #far cry 5 #far cry rook #far cry deputy #far cry oc #thoughts and feelings #what is the monster?#is it real?#ichor #bliss #writing #fanfic #reader insert

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marigoldbaker · 7 years ago

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imperfections (44/?)

read it on ao3!

spoiler alert: xander is bi. but we all knew that already

Xander honestly wasn’t sure how to feel about the whole Angel thing. It had been easy, earlier on, when it had just been all jealousy and anger and too much time spent thinking about the guy’s impressive physique. But the very real consequences of Angelus, and the visible effect Angel’s return had had on both Willow and Ms. Calendar, left him with the sense that this was something he was angry about for all the wrong reasons. “Why do you think he showed up?” he asked.

“I don’t care,” said Willow matter-of-factly, who was pouring milk into a mug. “He hurt Ms. Calendar. He doesn’t get to show up without calling ahead until she says she’s okay with that.”

“Seconded,” said Faith grimly. She pulled out a chair, sitting down at the kitchen table. Xander followed suit. “Last time I saw Jen like that was at Homecoming, and—” She stopped, a strange expression on her face. “So that’s why they were being all hush-hush the next day,” she said thoughtfully, and turned her attention to Willow. “Marshmallows in mine, all right?”

Willow was gripping the counter so hard that her knuckles had gone white. She didn’t answer.

“Will?” said Xander quietly.

“He hurt Ms. Calendar,” said Willow, “and he’s acting like an apology is going to fix that. Nothing’s going to fix her fingers or her neck or any of that stuff he did to her. She had nightmares, I know she did, ‘cause one night last summer I stayed over and I heard, I heard this scream, and then she came out and made me tea like nothing was wrong but her hands wouldn’t stop shaking and I hate him, Xander, I hate hating him because it wasn’t his fault but I hate him and I don’t want to—”

Xander wasn’t really sure when Ms. Calendar had shown up in the room. All he knew was that one moment Willow was shouting and the next Willow was sobbing into Ms. Calendar’s shoulder, holding tightly to her like a small child. “Oh, god, Willow,” Ms. Calendar was whispering. She was crying too. “Willow, I’m so sorry.”

Giles stepped into the kitchen, too. This was new. Usually when loud, emotional stuff was going down, Giles made some kind of excuse and ran for the hills. But Giles drew up a chair next to Xander and Faith, cast a slightly nervous glance over at Willow and Ms. Calendar, and said awkwardly, “Um. Are you—that is—do you two need anything?”

Faith blinked. “Uh, I’m good,” she said. “Guess I missed out on a boatload of trauma, huh?”

“To say the least,” said Giles. “Xander?”

“What?” Xander was taken aback. Giles hadn’t been paying him all that much attention up until recently, and the sudden shift was still pretty hard to get used to. “Uh, actually—yeah,” he said, surprising both of them. “Yeah, I kinda—want—to talk to someone, right now.”

He was sort of expecting Giles to turn him down. Then Giles said, “All right,” and stood up. “Faith, if you’ll excuse us—”

“Go right the fuck ahead,” said Faith, looking a little overwhelmed. “Honestly, it’s kinda nice to not be the cause of the crying for once. Or, y’know, the one crying.” She pulled herself up, crossed the kitchen, awkwardly patted Willow’s head (Willow giggled wetly), and headed in the direction of her room.

“Willow,” said Jenny, once she was done crying. They were sitting at the table, the kitchen lights dimmed. It reminded her in a sweetly painful way of the summer after Angelus, and their long talks at her kitchen table. “I had no idea I put you through all that.”

“Stop doing that,” said Willow fiercely. “This one’s not on you. You always act like these things are on you, Ms. Calendar, and they’re not.”

“I’m the adult,” said Jenny matter-of-factly. “And anyway, this conversation isn’t about me. Do you really hate Angel?”

“I hate his face,” said Willow helplessly. “I looked at him and I thought that’s the guy who broke Ms. Calendar’s fingers and made her cry. That’s the guy who made Giles leave.”

“Okay, whoa, slow down there,” Jenny interjected, unnerved. “You think Angelus was the reason Rupert left?”

“You guys were happy,” said Willow, sniffling. “And then he tortured you, and after that Giles left—”

“You more than anyone should know it was more complicated than that,” said Jenny simply.

Willow hesitated. Then she nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “I know that. Logically, I do. But part of me still feels like it’s easier to blame him than—”

“Than Giles,” said Jenny, smiling wryly. “Or me.”

“It wasn’t your fault—”

“Do you know why I always tell you,” said Jenny, reaching across the table to take Willow’s hand, “that communication is an important part of a healthy relationship?”

Willow shook her head.

“It’s because that was a lesson I had to learn three times before it stuck,” said Jenny. “Over and over again, I didn’t share things with Rupert that I should have, and he didn’t share stuff with me, and it all ended up culminating in a messy summer-long breakup that drove him out of Sunnydale in a misguided attempt to protect me.” She squeezed Willow’s hand. “It feels a lot nicer to blame Angelus, I know,” she said. “I fell into that trap a lot myself last summer, thinking if he hadn’t done this to me—” She stopped. “But the point is that Giles and I were a mess,” she said, “and with or without Angelus, we still would have been a mess.”

“He still hurt you,” said Willow, sniffling. “He still hurt Buffy.”

Jenny let out a tired breath. “Yeah,” she said. “That one I can’t explain away. But I don’t want you hating him because he hurt me, Willow. I—” She stopped, stunned by her own realization. “I forgave him a long time ago,” she finished.

“I don’t know if I’m good at forgiving,” said Willow quietly. “All I saw when I looked at him was the guy who let a world of hurt happen to people I love.”

“He didn’t let—he wasn’t there,” said Jenny firmly. “Okay? Be mad at me, if you wanna be mad at somebody, but don’t take it out on Angel. Even if you’re justified in being angry—” She smiled a little sadly. “That kind of vengeance always takes a toll on you,” she said. “You don’t have to forgive him. Just don’t hurt yourself being mad at him.”

Willow considered this. Then she said, “Okay. For you,” and scooted her chair over, resting her head on Jenny’s shoulder.

“So,” said Giles, tilting his head up and looking at the sky. “What do you want to talk about?”

Xander let out a shaky breath, not entirely able to look over at Giles. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s just—Faith’s pretty cool, and it’s kind of amazing to stay with you guys, but adding Angel back into the mix feels like everything’s gonna fall apart all over again. Every time that guy shows up, something goes wrong.”

“I can’t say I disagree,” said Giles, looking at Xander with a quiet, affectionate expression. Giles very rarely gave him that look, and Xander kind of felt like he hadn’t earned it. Slamming Angel didn’t seem like the right way to gain points with Giles. “Xander, it really isn’t about Buffy for you anymore, is it?”

Xander blinked, honestly surprised. “What?”

“Well,” said Giles, “it was always rather clear to me that you resented Angel at least in part because—”

“Because he was hot,” said Xander a little too loudly, then felt a terrified blush rise in his cheeks. “And. Uh. Because of Buffy. Obviously.”

Giles blinked. Slowly, he said, “Not just because Angel was dating Buffy?”

Xander looked hesitantly up at Giles. There was something strange in Giles’s eyes, a kind of recognition, and it made Xander brave enough to say quietly, “It was because Angel was dating Buffy. But it was also because Buffy was dating Angel.”

Giles inclined his head very slightly, then gently bumped Xander’s shoulder. “Well,” he said. “I must say I never imagined that this would be what we two had in common, but it’s…not at all an intolerable thing to share.”

“Huh?” said Xander stupidly.

Giles was blushing, too, now. “I, um,” he said, and directed his gaze to his feet, uncertain in a way that he hadn’t been since before he started dating Ms. Calendar. “Well. Unless I misinterpreted?”

“One of us should just come right out and say it, right?” Xander asked reluctantly.

“You were the one who brought it up,” said Giles immediately.

“Hey, no fair—” Off Giles’s look, Xander exhaled. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah. Uh, I like guys. Like, really like guys. But I also really like girls, so—I mean, there isn’t really a category for that, right?”

“Good lord, the school systems really are failing America’s youth,” said Giles. “Not that England was much better in my day. Much worse, as it happened.” He grinned a bit, looking proudly up at Xander. “Though it means the world to me that you trust me enough to share this with me. You’re a braver man than I, Xander.”

It suddenly clicked. “Hold on,” said Xander, disbelieving. “But you’re dating Ms. Calendar!”

“Yes, I am, and I love her very much,” Giles agreed. “That doesn’t at all invalidate the attraction I might feel towards other men.”

“So what, this is just the way all guys feel and we don’t talk about it?” Xander finally managed.

Giles snorted. “Decidedly not,” he said. “Being bisexual is much like being gay. Not all men are gay, and not all men are bisexual.”

The word rang a bell with Xander. He first felt the warm sensation of being recognized, and then the usual half-exasperated sensation of being very stupid. “Oh,” he said. “Huh.” Then, “But you’re bisexual. And you’re, like—I mean, you’re normal about it.”

“I fight demons for a living, I train a preternaturally strong teenager, and my girlfriend was once tortured by a master vampire,” said Giles, mouth twitching. “Normal is quite overrated, Xander. Kindly never believe you are anything less than extraordinary.”

“Seriously?” said Jenny disbelievingly, looking at Rupert to see if he was joking. “You and Xander bonded?”

“A bit unexpected, but certainly not unwelcome,” said Rupert, who looked very quietly happy. “We, um, have a bit more in common than I anticipated.”

“Oh?”

Rupert hesitated. “He’ll tell you when he’s ready, I think,” he said finally.

Jenny tugged off her sweater, tossing it unceremoniously onto a chair. Off Rupert’s look, she rolled her eyes, picking it up and pointedly folding it before properly putting it away. “Willow’s staying with us for the night,” she said. “She says her parents won’t notice, and after the kind of night we’ve had, I think it might be good for her to be with people she cares about.” She winced a little. “Not that she doesn’t care about her parents, just—”

“Just that she needs people who do notice her absence,” Rupert finished, smiling slightly as he buttoned his pajama top. “I understand, Jenny, don’t worry.” He hesitated. “How are you doing?”

“Kind of okay, surprisingly enough,” said Jenny wryly, slipping a nightshirt over her head. She hesitated, then added uncertainly, “Enough so that I think we should try and talk to Angel.”

Rupert’s smile slipped. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s not doing the kids any good to watch me worry about him,” said Jenny, becoming more decisive as she continued, “and—and it’s putting them in a position where they feel like they have to protect me. And it’s sweet of them, but it isn’t healthy, so I think you and I need to be adults and find out what Angel wants. We can turn him away, just—we need to find out what he wants.”

Rupert’s easy happiness was all but gone. “Jenny, I very much dislike this idea,” he said quietly. “The last time you and I were alone with Angelus—” He swallowed, hard. “I am sure that you would be able to handle a meeting,” he said. “I am not quite as sure about my own ability to be—civil—with that monster.”

The dangerous anger lurking underneath Rupert’s careful words was unlike anything Jenny had ever heard from him before. The closest he’d come to that level of controlled fury was with Ethan, and Eyghon, and that she had understood, but this— “He’s not Angelus,” Jenny reminded him.

“I cannot forgive him for what he did to you,” said Rupert, and his voice was shaking with fury. “It was hard enough not to rip his throat out, talking to him this evening. He had the audacity to ask me for help, Jenny, and I told him no, and—and I am able to control myself when it is between him and myself, but I don’t ever want him anywhere near you again.”

“That’s not your choice to make,” said Jenny, disbelieving. “And where is all this coming from? You’ve been all about giving me space—”

“It was easier when your meeting him was clearly not on the table,” said Rupert stiffly. The anger, Jenny realized, wasn’t directed at her, but at Angel, and at himself.“And—damn it, Jenny, I know it isn’t my choice to make, I just—you have to know, before you make any decisions, you must know that I don’t think I will be able to control myself around him, seeing him so much as look at you with guilt in his eyes. He seems to think his repentance means something to me, to us, and it means absolutely fucking nothing, Jenny, not after what he did to you in front of me—”

“Rupert,” said Jenny, horrified. He’d been so calm, these last few months, so accommodating and gentle. She’d had no idea he was hurting this much.

In two strides, Rupert was kissing her. Passionately, and hard enough to bruise. His hands on her waist, he lifted her effortlessly up onto the dresser, placing her down so that her face was level with his. He kissed her, and kissed her, and kissed her, and then he pulled back, breathing hard. “Seeing him,” he said. “You have no idea what it awoke in me.”

“Hey,” whispered Jenny, cupping his face in her hands. “Hey. It’s okay.”

“You are a kind and forgiving soul,” said Rupert, looking at her with haunted eyes. “I cannot give Angel the same mercy you give him, Jenny, and I feel as though I have failed you.”

Jenny shook her head. “You haven’t,” she said. “You’re telling me your limits and we’re just gonna have to work around them. I’m not the only one Angelus tortured.”

“You’re the only one he hurt—”

“Rupert,” said Jenny, and placed her hand on his heart. He stilled. “I can talk big talk all I want, but if I had seen him torture you—” The thought made her stomach twist into knots. “I would have killed him myself,” she said finally, and knew it was true.

“That doesn’t make my reaction just,” said Rupert quietly. “I know it isn’t Angel who deserves my wrath.”

“I don’t know if there’s an easy fix for that one,” said Jenny with a tired smile. “But what I do know is I’m tired, and I think you are too, and as much as I’d love you to fuck me into next Tuesday—”

“Jenny, really, there are three children in the house—”

“—this seems like something we both need to sleep on,” Jenny finished. “Okay?”

Rupert gave her a wobbly smile, resting his forehead against hers. “You ground me, my love,” he said. “I’m ever grateful.”

Jenny woke up before sunrise the next morning. She pulled herself out of bed, kissed Rupert’s temple, scribbled a quick note to leave on the dresser, threw on a t-shirt and jeans, and left the house, trying not to think too hard about what she was about to do. She’d had a thousand and one nightmares about this exact chain of events, but if Angel needed their help, there had to be someone besides Buffy who’d be willing and able to give it. It wouldn’t be the children, and it clearly wasn’t Rupert—so. It fell to her. And she could be brave for them.

“Okay,” she said, and started the car, heading towards Buffy’s house. Buffy would know where Angel was, and then… Jenny would talk to him, for what felt like the first time.

#fic #the braveryverse #imperfections #we now enter the more recently written part of the fic!!#this was such a fun chapter to write....it gave me so many Ideas

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sending-the-message · 7 years ago

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Has anyone heard of the Bell Witch? by BelkiraHoTep

When I was a kid I was a bit gullible. My friends would spin a tale and I'd fall for it. I was about seven when my friends started talking about Bloody Mary.

"You stand in the bathroom with the lights off and say her name three times. She either appears as a young woman and smiles at you or as a witch and she tries to claw your eyes out!"

"My cousin goes to another school and she knew this girl who tried it. Bloody Mary nearly killed her, and she got one of her eyes! She has to wear this shitty eye patch now. It's freaky."

"My brother's friend knew someone who did it, too. Nothing happened in the bathroom, but Bloody Mary showed up in her room later and her arm got all cut up! She had to wear a sling for like a week!"

The stories went on and on, and I lapped it all up. Apparently, you can make the spirit mad by saying "Bloody Mary, come get your baby" three times. Why you would want to guarantee a vengeful spirit showing up in your bathroom was beyond me, but they seemed to think it was cool. I was terrified of our upstairs bathroom, only going in there if one of my parents or my older brother was already upstairs. After a shower, I would turn off the water, snake my arm outside the curtain to snatch the towel, and dry myself off with the curtain still pulled, certain that Bloody Mary would be there, waiting to murder me. Maybe just THINKING her name while in the bathroom was enough! I would squeeze my eyes shut and throw the curtain back, jumping out to sit, shivering, on the toilet with the towel over my head thinking over and over, "If I can't see it, it can't see me."

Yeah, I was a stupid kid.

Eventually my mother caught on to my paralyzing fear. She got so angry with me one night when she told me to go upstairs and get ready for bed, but I was wasting time trying to stall until my brother, Brad, had to go up, too.

"Goddammit, Elizabeth. It's fake! Watch." She grabbed me and Brad by the arm and hauled us upstairs into the bathroom. She slammed the door, plunging us into darkness.

"Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary!" She probably said it at a normal volume, even if in an irritated and angry way, but in my memory, she's practically screaming it. I'm standing there with tears running down my cheeks petrified into immobility. This was it. She was going to show up and kill my mother for being so disrespectful! I honestly don't remember what Brad was doing, probably trying not to laugh too hard, I just stared at my pale reflection waiting for the undead bitch to show up and kill us all.

We stood like that for a while, then my mother shouted, "See?? Now wash your damn face and brush your teeth and go to bed." She flung the door open and stomped back down the stairs.

I'm sure that demonstration didn't exactly cure me, but that's the last memory I have of stressing about Bloody Mary.

When I was ten, my family packed up everything and moved from Michigan to Tennessee for my dad's job. I made a close group of friends quickly, and slumber parties became the highlight of my life.

I remember being at one small sleepover and the girls were trying to scare each other, but the stories were so lame. I decided to bust out the old Bloody Mary stories, but the other girls just laughed at me.

"Bloody Mary is fake," Sarah told me. "It's the Bell Witch you have to be afraid of." Then she promptly pulled all of us into the downstairs bathroom to call her. The four of us crowded in and shut the door. We linked hands and Sarah flipped the light off. I was standing next to her, holding her hand. Jessica was next to me, clutching my hand with a sweaty little palm, and next to her was Kacy.

Once the light was turned off, we all chanted together, "Bell Witch, Bell Witch, Bell Witch," then stood in silence, staring back into the mirror waiting.

The next thing I knew, Jessica screamed, Sarah wrenched the door open, and I was simultaneously pulled and shoved out of the bathroom and back into Sarah’s room. Jessica was pale, and she swore up and down that something pinched her arm. Sarah nodded solemnly and said she was sure she'd seen a face or something in the mirror moving toward us. Kacy and I just looked at each other in awe.

We all let out some undignified little girl squeals when Sarah's mom came in the room wearing her bathrobe with her hair in curlers looking sleepy and squinting in the harsh light of the bedroom. She scolded us for still being up and for making such a ruckus, reminding us that Sarah's dad had to work in the morning and didn't we all just feel so bad for having fun? She glared at us until we were all in our sleeping bags, then she turned off the light.

The next week in school the story had spread through our little group of friends. The last time I heard it, Sarah had seen a bloody skull with glowing eyes and snapping teeth glaring at us in the mirror, and Jessica's hair had been mysteriously pulled so hard that she had strands fall out in her hairbrush the next morning. Like good friends, Kacy and I corroborated every single story, and we were instant celebrities in our little circle. At least until Tiffany let Bobby Pullham put his hand up her shirt under the bleachers at a football game, and the Bell Witch was mostly forgotten.

In case you've never heard of her, the Bell Witch plagued the Bell Family with terrifying paranormal activity, making it known that it was her life's work to see old John Bell dead. She got her wish in 1821 when John Bell died, and she promised that she'd return in 107 years to visit John Bell's direct descendant. Whether she kept her word or not no one knows.

After I graduated from college and got an office job, the Bell Witch popped back into my life. A group of the ladies at work and I were discussing Halloween two years ago, and I mentioned that I'd always wanted to visit the Bell Witch Cave in Adams, Tennessee and take one of their tours. The other women in the office thought that sounded like a lot of fun, but we'd left it too long and all the tours were booked solid.

I finally got my shit together this past year and booked a tour in advance with three of the other women in the office who were still around and remembered talking about it. Adams, Tennessee, is fairly close to Nashville, so we didn’t need to worry about finding a hotel and I didn’t need to worry about getting someone to check in on Pickles, my cat. She’s a sweet little ten-year-old cat that I found outside of a dumpster when she was just tiny little kitten. A lot of people don’t like cats because they say they aren’t as affectionate as dogs, but Pickles is different. She loves to cuddle with me and she greets me at the door every night after work, winding her lithe body between my legs and purring like crazy.

Okay, I’m sorry, I’m stalling.

The four of us piled into my car the Saturday evening before Halloween and headed to Adams. It was a pretty boring drive. We stopped off for an early dinner and got to the farm around 5:30, as it was just starting to get dark.

We all were a little nervous and we joked about who had to go first and who had to bring up the rear. It didn’t really matter, there wasn’t a corridor in the cave that was small enough that we had to walk single file.

The tour guide gave me a funny look when I gave him my name for the reservation, but Elizabeth Gardner isn’t THAT uncommon, so I wasn’t sure why he was acting so weird. At least, not until the tour started. He gave us some background that I had already known and shared with the girls, so him telling the story of Andrew Jackson’s run in with the Bell Witch fell a little flat and he seemed disappointed that we weren’t as impressed as he’d hoped. Then he told us about John Bell’s youngest daughter.

Her name was Elizabeth, and the witch had a bit of a fascination with her. Elizabeth Bell complained regularly of phantom hands slapping her and pulling her hair. At one point, Elizabeth fell in love with a young man named Joshua Gardner, and they were eventually engaged to be married. The witch was having none of that, however, and tormented the young couple until finally Joshua called off the engagement.

Other than that, the tour was pretty uneventful. We were laughing as we made our way back to the car when I heard the tour guide call out to me. I turned to see him stalking toward me looking annoyed. He thrust an object into my hands and I instinctively caught it so that it wouldn’t hit the ground.

“You left this behind, and we don’t accept or appreciate our tourists redecorating for us,” he snapped.

I looked down at the object in my hands. It was an old doll with a porcelain head, arms, and legs but a soft body that felt like it was filled with rags. The doll was a bit dirty, but it wasn’t the ugliest doll I’d ever seen. It had this strange smile on its face, almost a smirk.

“You’re mistaken,” I said, holding the doll back out to him. “This isn’t mine.”

The tour guide took a step back, his hands going to his hips. “You left it sitting right behind where you were standing, Ms. Gardner, if that’s even your real name. I mean, you’re a bit old for this kind of thing, aren’t you? I don’t know why you people insist on trying to do things like this.”

I thrust the doll at him again, but he ignored me. He was on a roll and he wouldn’t be stopped.

“If it’s some weird, misguided offering to the Witch, or you’re just trying to be an asshole, I have no idea. But take your trash and get off of our property. I’ve got enough to deal with without having to go back through that damn cave after every tour to clean up after you ungrateful little shits.”

With that said, he spun on his heel and walked back toward the next group of tourists who were all openly staring at me at this point.

“You comin’, Liz?” Janice called from the car.

I hurried back over to them and tossed the doll in the trunk, too embarrassed to do anything other than leave as quickly as possible.

On the drive back, the other girls were sympathetic about how unfair the tour guide had been “just because the creeptastic douche-canoe thinks your name slightly resembles the chick in his story,” as Janice put it. But they seemed to forget about it rather easily as they discussed what a let down the tour had been.

“Hey, at least you got a free souvenir and an interesting story out of it,” Katie said as I dropped her off. “Leave them a nasty Yelp review.” She gave me a wicked grin and slammed the car door shut.

I retrieved the doll from the trunk when I got home and went inside. Pickles jumped off of her perch on the back of the sofa and made her way over to greet me, until she saw the doll in my hands. She gave the strangest hissing snarl I’ve ever heard and streaked past me to tear up the stairs.

“Well, hello to you, too,” I called after her. I put the doll on my bookshelf and plopped down on the couch to watch some TV before bed. Pickles didn’t come back downstairs to join me, which I found odd and left me feeling weirdly rejected.

I got up momentarily to wriggle out of my pants and grab a glass of whiskey-infused coke and a blanket. “This is why you’re single,” I muttered to myself before plopping back down on the sofa.

I woke up around 2:00 am to find Netflix asking if I was still alive. I turned everything off and shambled my way up the stairs. Pickles was still nowhere to be found, but I was too tired to do more than curse her with a “fucking cat” before I collapsed on the bed. I felt her thump up on to the bed and curl up on the pillow next to me shortly afterwards.

That night, I dreamt that I was outside my home, which was a farm on a few acres of land. The boy a few farms over had come over to take a picnic lunch together down by the river.

We had just reached the fence that denoted the edge of my father’s property when the boy dropped the basket and raised his hands to my face. I looked deep into his hazel eyes, and he pressed his lips against mine. The kiss was sweet and unexpected, and I found myself lost in his touch, my hands raising to rest on his shoulders. His tongue darted forward and parted my own lips as he shifted closer to me, pressing me back against the fence, his body covering mine. I could feel how much he wanted me as I raised my hands further, twining my fingers in his hair. His kiss deepened, and he pressed his leg between my thighs, gently nudging them apart, applying pressure that swiftly turned to pleasure. I pulled out of the kiss and tilted my head back as I gasped.

“Elizabeth,” he murmured in a thick southern accent as his lips traveled over my cheek and down my neck. He ground his thigh between my legs as he kissed, sucked, and licked on my neck and the sweet place where my neck met my shoulder. His lips traveled up to my earlobe and he took that between his teeth as I moaned and melted against him. “Elizabeth,” he panted in my ear, licking my lobe and causing me to shiver and press myself harder against his thigh.

“Elizabeth,” he hissed in my ear and his tone held so much hatred I jerked backward. He reared back, his hand fisted in my hair, pulling my head further back and slapped me across the face so hard that I sat straight up in my bed, jolted awake.

I pressed my fingers to my cheek, wincing at the sharp pain. Throwing the covers back, I stumbled into the bathroom on weak legs. I flipped the switch on and squinted into the mirror against the harsh light, and for a moment my reflection appeared to be doubled, as though there was a face just behind my right shoulder. I blinked and the face seemed to meld back with mine. I turned my face and could see a slightly red outline of a handprint on my cheek. I watched as it faded away quickly, leaving me questioning my own eyes.

I shook my head and ran some cold water onto a washrag. I scrubbed the rag over my face and dried off with a hand towel, glancing back into the mirror.

“I’ve got to stop drinking before bed,” I whispered, shaking my head again. I turned off the light and shuffled back toward my bed. The clock on my nightstand read 5:35 am. I climbed back in bed and rolled over, reaching out to Pickles’ pillow so I could stroke her silky fur before I fell back asleep.

Instead of her soft coat, my hand was met with cold, hard porcelain and fake, straw like hair. I jerked backwards, my hand flying out to the bedside lamp and twisting the switch to turn it on. Laying next to me on the other pillow was the old doll that the tour guide had forced on me at the Bell Witch Cave.

“What the fuck!” I cried out, rolling out of bed and almost falling on my ass. I backed up against the wall, staring at the doll. There was no way in hell I had gotten so drunk last night that I brought that THING up to bed with me.

I backed into the corner and slid down to the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees and staring at the doll. As I watched, it seemed to slowly turn its head until those painted eyes were staring at me, and that smirk that I found almost cute and sassy earlier seemed mocking and sinister now.

I sat that way for a while, I’m not sure how long. A few minutes? An hour? I must have dozed off because when I looked back at my beside clock, it was 7:00 am and the doll was no longer on my pillow. I whimpered a little and scrubbed my hands over my face. What a fucked-up dream.

I’m not usually up before ten on a Sunday, especially when I’ve had a drink or two the night before, but there was no way I was getting back into that bed. I pulled myself up and retrieved my pajama pants and decided to go ahead and get the day started.

Downstairs, I saw the doll sitting on my bookshelf where I’d left her the night before. I heard a thump behind me and saw Pickles pause halfway down the stairs, peering through the bannister.

“Yeah, you better be embarrassed. I can’t believe you ignored me all night,” I said, wagging a finger in her direction. But her gaze never moved from a point just over my right shoulder. I turned to look behind me, seeing nothing, and when I turned back she had scampered back up the stairs. “Fucking cat,” I muttered shaking my head.

I microwaved some bacon and popped a few slices of bread in the toaster, slathering them with plenty of butter once they were toasty warm. I took my greasy, buttery breakfast back out into the living room and booted Hulu to watch Saturday Night Live. I loved it when they made fun of Trump.

Later in the morning, when I felt a little more alive, I stripped my bed to do laundry and I found a weird brown streak on the pillow case of Pickles’ pillow. “Damn cat better not be leaving poop streaks on my sheets,” I muttered.

A few weeks later, I had pretty much forgotten my weird dream. Pickles was making short appearances into the downstairs, mostly to eat and use her litterbox, and my usual routine was mostly uninterrupted. I had a few more dreams about the farm, but the boy didn’t make an appearance. It was mostly about wide open fields, farm animals, and freedom. I figured it had more to do with the stress of my job and my subconscious telling me I needed a break.

Thanksgiving was swiftly approaching and, while I would usually go home to my mother’s house for the holiday, this year I had a Hungry Man turkey dinner with my name on it, a full bottle of whiskey, and a full Netflix queue waiting for me. My mom and my step-dad had decided that a Caribbean cruise sounded better than a full turkey dinner with a sink full of dirty dishes waiting afterwards. I couldn’t blame them.

I ate my single-girl Thanksgiving meal and was just about to start my third Netflix movie when I heard a thump near my bookcase. I pushed myself to my feet and looked around my recliner. The weird doll had fallen off of the shelf and was laying on the carpet, staring up at me. I reached down to pick it up, but it seemed to almost scurry away from my hand. I shook my head, thinking maybe I’d had a drink too many, and stepped forward, leaning down to pick it up again. This time I was able to set it back on the bookshelf. I stared at it for a moment before returning to my well-worn spot on the sofa and my next Netflix movie.

That night, I went to bed pretty late and felt Pickles climb up onto the bed to curl up on her pillow. I fell asleep and started to dream about the farm again.

I was standing in a field, the grass and wildflowers as tall as my knees, and there was another young woman staring at me from across the field. I started to walk toward her, and at the same moment, she started to walk toward me. We met in the middle of the field.

The look she gave me as she stared into my eyes had me taking a step back. There was so much hatred in her eyes. “Why did you take it?” she demanded. “Why did you bring it inside?”

I looked down at the bouquet of wildflowers in my hand and looked back up at the young woman. “I don’t know what you mean,” I whispered.

“Why did you take it?!” she screamed at me. “Why did you bring it inside??” She stepped toward me and reached out to grasp my shoulders. I screamed and twisted away, turning to run away from her. “It’s evil!” she screamed after me. “You stupid girl!”

I ran to the fence-line toward the river, tears streaming down my cheeks. I had lost my bouquet that I was going to give my father. I reached the gap between the fence posts and as I was about to squeeze through, someone grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked me back into the field.

“Oh no you don’t,” a female voice whispered.

I jerked around to face my assailant and found only empty air. The young woman I had run away from was still standing in the middle of the field, staring after me. I saw her lift her apron to her eyes as if she were wiping away tears.

“You’re mine now,” the voice hissed. I felt another yank on my hair, and a phantom hand slapped me across the face.

The pain forced me to wake up, hand clutched to my cheek. Once again, I ran into the bathroom to examine my face in the mirror. As I turned on the light, I saw again a doubling up in the mirror, my pale face with a pink hand print on one cheek, and another woman standing just slightly behind me. I didn’t blink this time, I stared at her face. Her hands were on my shoulders and her dark hair was pulled back in a severe bun that seemed to stretch the skin across the bones of her face. She grinned at me, and her lips pulled back over teeth that seemed jagged, broken, and yellow. Her lips moved, and I heard a faint voice in my ear, “Elizabeth….”

I spun around, my fists raised to ward off my attacker, but there was no one behind me. When I turned back to the mirror I was alone again, and the handprint on my cheek had faded.

I turned to the doorway between my bathroom and my bedroom to look at my bed, already sure what I would see. The doll from the cave sat on the other pillow, smirking at me.

“Fuck this shit,” I snapped. I kept one eye on the doll as I yanked a pair of jeans out of my dresser and pulled them on. I strode over to the bed and yanked the doll off of the pillow by its leg.

The next thing that happened had me questioning my sanity, but the doll, I swear to god, that doll fought back. It’s porcelain hands clawed at my arm, it battered its porcelain head against my elbow, it fought and it was making inhuman sounds, growling and spitting at me. I ignored it, and marched straight down the stairs, blood from the scratches it was inflicting staining my carpet.

I had enough presence of mind to turn off my alarm system before I opened my back door. I lifted the writhing doll and slammed it down into the firepit. The force of the slam must have stunned it, because it moved sluggishly, trying to crawl off of the dead coals, but before it could get too far, I snatched up the lighter fluid and the elongated lighter I kept near the fire pit. I quickly doused the creature in the lighter fluid, then pushed the ignite button on the lighter and thrust it toward the fire pit, turning my face away from the blaring heat as the flame caught and ignited.

It screamed and writhed, and I could smell the fake hair burning with a horrible stench. I backed away, my eyes slanted into slits against the heat, and watched it as it burned. I felt a light, weak smack against my cheek, an ineffectual tug on my hair, but I stood firm and watched the creature in my fire pit burn until all that was left were ashes.

I didn’t realize I was crying until I reached up to rub my face and I felt the wetness against my fingertips. With the fire out now, I realized how chilly it was outside, and I shuffled back into the house.

I set the lighter down on my counter top as I shut the back door. I leaned heavily against it as I locked it, and I felt a relief surge through me.

I made my way back into the living room and sunk down into my recliner. I wiped my face off on the sleeve of my nightshirt and looked around the living room. A small shaft of sunlight fell through the front window. I turned toward my bookcase, and I felt the blood in my veins freeze.

There, on the middle shelf, smirking at me, was the doll from the cave.

“No,” I whispered. I looked down at my arms, at the scratches that the doll had inflicted. The bruises from the heavy head as it had battered against me. My stomach turned, and I made a mad dash into the downstairs bathroom and heaved my guts into the toilet. I heaved until nothing but bile would come out, then I collapsed onto the floor, feeling weak and dirty.

I crawled on my hands and knees back into my living room and looked back up to the bookshelf. The doll was still staring at me somehow. I felt my hair, pulled back onto a ponytail, being lifted off of my neck. I heard a harsh whisper, “Elizabeth…” then my hair was yanked so hard, I flew back up onto my knees into a kneeling position, crying out.

I heard the crack as a phantom hand slapped my cheek hard enough to twist my head to the side. Tears formed in my eyes as my cheek began to sting. The phantom hand in my hair held my head up as another hand smacked into my other cheek, causing my head to twist back the other way, back toward the doll, whose smile seemed to grow wider. The hand in my hair suddenly let go, and I feel onto my hands, a sob escaping my throat. I felt something kick me in the ass, and my face smashed into the carpet, causing the stinging skin on my cheek to burst into fire as it rubbed against the carpet.

I rolled onto my side, covering my head with my arms to ward off any more blows, but they never came. When I finally lowered my hands and looked up, the doll was in the same position it had always been in, and no more phantom blows rained down on me.

I continued to lay on the floor, gathering my strength and courage to rise. One last, fearful glance back toward the bookshelf and the doll, and I pulled myself to my feet and scampered up the stairs.

Once in my room, I slammed the door, locking it. I turned to my closet and called for Pickles. There was no answer. I looked on the shelves where I kept my sweaters, I peered through the clothes I had hanging up. I couldn’t find her.

I turned from the closet back to the bedroom and fell to my hands and knees, peering under the bed, calling for my cat and making kissing noises to entice her. There was no answering purr, no shadows shifting under the bed to greet me.

I stood and gathered my courage once more to head back downstairs. I walked briskly past the bookshelf, not able to stifle a wince as I avoided looking at the doll. I unlocked and opened the back door, hesitating a little before walked up to the firepit.

There was a charred figure on the still-glowing coals. I could make out four legs, a small skull. The bones were blackened, but I could easily make out the cat-shape that they made. I fell to my knees, my eyes wide in horror and shock. The evidence was clear, I had somehow burned my poor cat to death.

I buried Pickles in the backyard. Since that day, I have gone to work and come home to hold up in my bedroom. Some nights, I dream about the girl in the field, and sometimes she’s sympathetic. Other nights, I think I feel Pickles curling up on her pillow. On those nights, the girl in the field screams at me, telling me how stupid I am, and phantom hands slap me, pull my hair, and pummel my body. I avoid looking in mirrors these days. Even when I can’t see her over my shoulder, hunching over my back, her fingers digging into my shoulders and her lips parting to show me those jagged teeth, I can’t stand to look myself in the eye. My pale face, with the bags under the eyes, looks haggard and run down.

I want to try to try to destroy the doll again, but I’m so terrified of what I might actually end up doing that I don’t dare try again.

#reddit #nosleep #scary #story

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bleep-blop-lizard-hop · 7 years ago

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Femslash February 2018 #1

Well here you go, my first entry for Femslash February of twentyGAYteen! Technically this was a last minute Christmas story idea that I had loooong after Christmas is over, but better late than never I guess. Enjoy!

@idemandaspinoff Especially written with you in mind, my friend =)

Jenny’s first Christmas in 13 Paternoster Row was significantly different compared to her previous experiences as a child. Instead of being with her family in their small dingy tenement flat, she was now co-inhabiting a large luxurious townhouse with an ancient lizard woman from the dawn of time. Ever since her parents threw her out into the streets after they discovered her “preferences in companionship”, Jenny had spent several Christmases desperately huddling inside a hovel to protect herself from the severe winter weather, while fighting hunger and disease. Fortunately, things eventually changed when a fateful series of events led to her being rescued from the squalor of homelessness by a Silurian called Madame Vastra, who begrudgingly hired Jenny to be her resident maid at the urgings of a strange man known as the Doctor. Jenny was utmost grateful to have a roof over her head once again, but it was difficult to adjust in the beginning due to the fact that her new reptilian housemate was the equivalent of a raging racist, towards humans at least, and would always treat her like an inferior animal. The Silurian had also loudly expressed her intense disdain regarding the human holiday of Christmas, which was the reason why Jenny had opted to celebrate it privately in her own room with a miniature Christmas tree, some tinsel, candles, and cookies that she bought from the local bakery. This year, however, it was the complete opposite as the rocky relationship between Jenny and Vastra gradually became smoother to the point where Vastra finally granted Jenny her permission to openly practice the traditions of Christmas. So with the entire house freely at her disposal, it was with great gusto that Jenny dedicated all of her time and energy to setting up the necessary decorations on Christmas Eve. Firstly, she erected a real genuine Norwegian Spruce tree in the middle of the sitting room before strewning it with abundant ornaments and tinsel. Secondly, she then got to work hanging intricately woven wreaths on the walls of the house, attaching stockings to the fireplace, and lining the whole length of the stairway banister with shiny glittering garland. Next, she went into the kitchen to mix batter from scratch for cookies, and popped them into the oven before heading off to another task. The last remaining thing on her list was to hang a piece of mistletoe at the very top of the living room doorway, which she was able to accomplish using a wooden ladder and a hammer. Jenny smiled triumphantly as she looked around at everything she did to successfully create a proper festive and joyous atmosphere in their usually drab home. Fully satisfied, Jenny then figured that she deserved a reward and walked back into the kitchen for a glass of delicious, refreshing eggnog.

It was close to noon when Madame Vastra herself emerged from her bedroom, adorned in her typical attire consisting of a sumptuous dark purple taffeta gown with black lace trimmings that was well suited for a lady of her stature, and began to make her way downstairs to the ground floor. Moving down along the stairway, the keen-eyed detective’s attention soon got caught on the vast array of jubilant decorations that was displayed throughout the house; Bright tinsel, green wreaths, golden bells, red bows and holly, it was unlike anything that the culturally unaware Silurian had ever seen before. Truth be told, Vastra had no idea what to expect when she gave Jenny her consent to beautify the house for Christmas, but was nonetheless delightfully curious at what she found that morning. She was also greatly pleased by all the visual evidence of her young maid’s stellar work ethic, as she was most certain that Jenny had been awake since the crack of dawn to get everything in correct ready order. Vastra then reached the bottom of the stairs just in time to spot Jenny as she was leaving the kitchen, and immediately proceeded to approach her.

“I see that you’ve been awfully busy this morning, Miss Flint,” said Vastra genially, which was a marked improvement from her earlier hostility toward the human girl. “I must say that I’m rather impressed.”

Jenny was quick to greet her mistress with a warm smile, and replied, “Aye, and good morning to you, ma’am! I’ve already put the kettle on in the kitchen and tea should be ready any minute now.” Suddenly, for a brief moment, the girl’s cheerful demeanor faltered as she nervously bit her lip and fiddled with her fingers as if contemplating something. There was a note of reserved hopefulness in her tone when she said, “If you don’t mind me asking, ma’am…..what do you think of the Christmas tree I brought?”

Vastra merely responded by slightly tilting her head aside and raising a hairless eyeridge in puzzlement at her maid’s question, before following Jenny into the sitting room where the fully bedecked Christmas tree was standing in all its splendid glory.

After soaking in the dazzling sight, Vastra then turned to Jenny and regretfully spoke,“Hmm, well, I must admit that I really don’t have the first clue as to what dictates a proper, or improper Christmas tree.” The Silurian could see the acute desire for her validation clearly written on Jenny’s face, and decided to try her best anyway. “However, from what I can observe of it, this particular tree is of the ideal height, with proportional symmetry throughout its body, and possesses a faintly pleasant aroma of spruce. I will also add that you, Miss Flint, have a very keen eye when it comes to decorating and the strategic placement of ornaments for maximum aesthetic beauty,” concluded Vastra while giving Jenny a broad, indulgent smile.

“Thank you….I’m so glad you like it, ma’am,” proclaimed Jenny who was practically beaming with pure joy at receiving her mistress’s approval. She had prided her haggling abilities in order to get the tree for a good bargain at the market. “ This would’ve never happened if you didn’t allow me to…..I’ve missed this, Christmas and everything.”

A wistful expression flitted across Jenny’s face as she found herself reminiscing about old memories of long gone Christmases from her distant childhood past. Jenny’s parents were deeply religious, god-fearing people who raised their brood of children with a strict and disciplinary hand. Christmas was the sole exception, however, as it was always the one time of year where her parents became more lenient and affectionate with their children in the spirit of the holidays. Jenny and her siblings would spend an entire day crafting makeshift ornaments with various spare materials that they scavenged from around the house, which they then hung on the modest sized Christmas tree that their father would bring home. They also had to improvise by using their own dirty tattered socks as stockings, but it never failed to excite them when jumping out of bed on Christmas morning to discover that their socks had been stuffed with treats of tangerine and peppermint candy. Soon, the real fun began with the arrival of numerous different relatives who would come bearing gifts, food, and interesting stories. All packed tightly in the Flint’s small tenement apartment, Jenny’s family feasted and drank the night away while uniting their collective voices into loudly singing Christmas carols, with varying degrees of pitch quality. Although her family didn’t possess much wealth, it was Christmas that provided them with an opportunity to simply forget about their worries and celebrate the positive things in their lives. A painful aching sensation occured within Jenny’s heart as she remembered the simpler, happier times of her former life before losing everything that she knew and loved. It was too late to change the past, and the scars will remain forever permanent.

Expertly sensing her young maid’s somber mood, Vastra reached over to gently hold her hand and said, “Oh my dear girl, who am I to play the….”, the Silurian momentarily paused to search for the right term before continuing with, “.... Scrooge, and prevent you from celebrating your own sacred holiday? I will apologize for my misguided and prejudicial remarks about your human customs of Christmas in the past.” Vastra’s gaze never left Jenny with every word that she spoke, as she was genuinely remorseful and willing to make amends. “ I’ve learned the error of my ways, and only want you to be happy in your festivities.”

Visibly touched by her mistress’s kind words of reassurance, Jenny was able to produce a watery smile as she replied,“Thank you, ma’am, you have no idea how much this means to me! Let me go to the kitchen and pour you a cup of tea with breakfast, eh.”

Before Jenny could step foot outside the sitting room, Vastra commanded her stop after noticing something peculiar on the doorway.

“Not so fast, Miss Flint….,” exclaimed Vastra, who then moved forward and craned her neck to get a better view of the doorway. “That is mistletoe, if I’m not mistaken?”

Jenny’s eyes subsequently followed Vastra’s line of sight before she answered,“Umm….er, y-yes it is, ma’am.”

“Mmm, how very interesting…..the Doctor once told me about your people’s strange tradition of engaging in romantic physical contact under these mistletoe,” remarked a newly intrigued Vastra, whose curiosity prompted her to ask Jenny, “Why is that exactly?”

“I-I don't really know, ma’am, that’s just how things have always been done,” responded Jenny to the best of her ability, being not quite sure of it herself. Suddenly realizing what the presence of mistletoe entailed, Jenny hastily scrambled to explain her mistake. “ I….God, that was bloody stupid of me to put that up there…..It’s not as if anybody in this house is going to walk underneath it….Except for us, you and me, I reckon,”acknowledged Jenny in a quiet tone, her mouth becoming surprisingly dry.

Confused by her maid’s strange behavior, Vastra tilted her head at an angle and inquired, “Miss Flint, are you trying to say that this rule doesn’t apply to two women standing under the mistletoe?”

A part of Jenny knew that the liberally inclined Silurian would ask that question, coming from an exceptionally more tolerant and open-minded society that held none of the Victorian stigma against same-sex relationships. Ever since Jenny had confessed to Vastra about her “preferences in companionship”, the lizard woman would often express her frustration at how backwards and foolish the rest of humanity was to be offended by something as trivial as homosexual love. Although Vastra had already proven herself to be a trustworthy ally, homosexuality was still a highly sensitive subject that Jenny would prefer to avoid discussing with her employer.

“I...um...that...Aye, ma’am, it’s simply unheard of, I’m afraid,” Jenny haltingly uttered.

“Ah, I should have guessed! You primitive humans and your equally limited definition of love,”Vastra hissed indignantly before boldly declaring, “Poppycock….I suppose that we have no choice, but to start our own tradition and tear down that wholly unnecessary gender barrier!”

“W-What?”

Jenny could hardly believe her ears at what her mistress was suggesting! Here was this ridiculously eccentric lizard woman, who had the absolute gall to demolish centuries of formally established societal conventions in the name of what….sexual equality? Furthermore, what really worried Jenny about this whole scenario, was the fact that Vastra had just basically implied the idea that the two of them should kiss under the mistletoe. Jenny hadn’t forget how much trouble that got her in, the last time she did that with another girl; She had been forced to carry that heavy burden of shame and self-loathing everywhere she went, but she couldn’t stop her relentlessly unnatural attraction to the fairer sex of her species, no matter how hard she tried. Then Madame Vastra came along, and despite her shockingly alien appearance, Jenny had considered her to be extraordinarily beautiful. Indeed, Jenny could feel herself being inexplicably drawn to the mysterious Silurian from the very first moment that they met. The memory of a green, sword-wielding reptilian humanoid charging into an alleyway, and slicing through a gang of violent thugs to rescue Jenny was like something straight out of a fairytale. Jenny’s admiration for Vastra continued to grow with each passing day as she got to learn more about her elusive employer, being able to witness the strength, intelligence, and honesty of her character firsthand. Although Vastra eventually dispelled her anti-mammal prejudices to truly respect Jenny as a human, and accepted her queer identity as a “Tom”, the realist within Jenny was convinced that there was absolutely no chance of Vastra ever reciprocating the same feelings for her. However, now that she know Vastra wouldn’t be opposed to the prospect of kissing her, that caused a small yet precious sliver of hope to form in Jenny’s mind. On the other hand, Jenny was also certain that she wouldn’t be able to handle it if Vastra actually kissed her, and the mere thought of it was enough to make her face blush crimson with embarrassment.

Picking up on her maid’s apparent bewilderment, Vastra acquired a benevolent smile as she moved closer to Jenny’s side, and held onto both her hands.“I want to share this holiday with you, Miss Flint, and it would please me immensely if you could bestow a kiss upon me.,” clarified Vastra in a smoothly earnest tone.“It wouldn’t do us well to defy the bidding of the mistletoe, don’t you agree?”

The Silurian’s superior height enabled her to effectively crowd Jenny within the doorway, whose body was becoming increasingly hot and bothered in her flustered state.

Realizing that she had been trapped between the advances of a lizard woman and a hard place, Jenny had no choice, but to comply with her mistress’s request. “Err, yes, of course….if you’re really sure about this, ma’am,”said Jenny, which earned her an affirmative nod from Vastra who then closed her eyes. Lavishing her parched lips with her tounge, it took Jenny several minutes to muster the courage that allowed her to lean over and plant a quick, chaste kiss onto Vastra’s scaly cheek.“There, was that good enough for you, ma'am?”

“It would seem that you’ve missed your mark, dear girl,”spoke Vastra cryptically with a mischievous gleam in her blue eyes.

“P-Pardon, ma’am?”

Vastra didn’t say a word, but gently raised her hand to the back of Jenny’s neck before suddenly pulling her into a sensuous kiss that could be described as a firm press of their lips. As soon as their mouths made contact, Jenny could’ve sworn that the entire world had abruptly stopped rotating on its axis, along with her heart.The young girl herself was equally as frozen, a wide-eyed expression of pure shock on her face while her muddled brain struggled to register her reptilian mistress’s brazen action. In truth, Jenny had often dreamed about this exact situation during those especially restless nights where her longing for the Silurian would manifest into visual fantasies within her subconscious. They were supposed to only be hopeless fabrications of her imagination, and Jenny would’ve been a fool to label them as more than that. Never in a million years did Jenny expect that Vastra would make such a bold move towards her when she was just a human, seemingly unworthy of the proud Silurian’s attentions; Surely this didn’t mean anything other than a platonically enthusiastic gesture of goodwill for the Christmas holiday. The fog that clouded Jenny’s mind eventually disappeared within minutes, thus allowing her to actually feel how cool and smooth Vastra’s lips were against her own. The wet tip of Vastra’s forked tongue slipped out to briefly tease the entrance of Jenny’s mouth, which resulted in a pleasurable sensation of heat spreading across Jenny’s chest as her eyes fluttered shut, and she began to simply enjoy the moment for what it was. The two women remained in that blissfully intimate position for a little while longer, before Vastra withdrew her head and they became separated.

“That was a rather….enlightening experience,” Vastra surmised, sounding most delighted as she observed her young maid’s countenance. Wearing a charming grin, she then extended her hand to tuck a loose strand of dark hair behind Jenny’s ear, and lightly spoke, “This tradition of kissing under the mistletoe, I think I actually quite like it. We should certainly partake in it again next year, if it’s alright with you, Miss Flint?”

Still considerably lightheaded from the kiss, Jenny could only respond with a vigorous nod of her head, secretly craving to repeat the gratifying experiment with her mistress.

Pleased with that answer, Vastra’s eyes twinkled as she exclaimed,“Excellent! I’ll be looking most forward to that.”

That said, Vastra then exited the sitting room to embark in the direction of the kitchen, leaving a stunned and speechless Jenny standing there in her wake. Slowly, the girl brought up her hand to graze her fingers over her tingling lips, while the warmth of a fire continued to linger within her belly. Realization soon dawned upon her that celebrating Christmas with the lizard woman of Paternoster Row was going to involve one hell of a twist that she never saw coming…..not that she’s complaining, of course.

#västra and jenny #madame vastra #Jenny flint #dw femslash #paternoster gang #Femslash February 2018 #My fanfic #My story #My writings #13 Paternoster Row Oneshots

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betweensceneswriter · 8 years ago

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Second Wife-Chapter 11 : Blind With Need

Second Wife Table of Contents

Second Wife on AO3

Previously - Chapter 10 : Scarred The pains of Jamie’s past come bubbling to the surface.

“I didna think I should ever laugh again in a woman’s bed, Sassenach,” he said. “Or even come to a woman, save as a brute, blind with need…..”

“I willna say that I have lived a monk,” he said quietly. “When I had to—when I felt that I must or go mad—“

I laid my finger against his lips, to stop him. “Neither did I,” I said (Voyager 332, 330).

Arousal was foreign to Laoghaire. She felt hyper-aware of her body, the way her lower abdomen felt full and heavy, with a dull cramping that was almost like having her courses. Her breasts and nipples ached slightly, making her want to either press her arms against them or to take off her corset, one of the two. It made her recall when Joan and Marsali were infants and slept longer than usual, the way she would peek into their room to see if they were awake, desperate to put them to her breasts to ease the pressure.

The most disconcerting thing, though, was the wetness between her legs. She had actually gone to the privy to see if her flow had begun again. It shouldn’t be time—she’d only finished a week ago. But there was no blood, just a copious clear fluid, and her parts had felt extremely sensitive when she wiped herself with a cloth.

And all this, just from thinking about being with Jamie in the alcove those many years ago.

She had wanted him once, back at Leoch, with a fierce hunger that made her wish to sneak into his quarters and offer herself; with a desperate need that drew her to seek him out and watch him wherever he was; with a possessiveness that turned her into a jealous fiend.

But their marriage did not resemble those days of youth at all—they had been married for four months now, and they had really only been together as husband and wife once. Jamie never approached her anymore, and she had become comfortable knowing that she was safe from his advances, his touches, and his body. He had seemed fine as well.

During their argument a night ago, he had made her clearly aware of how he felt. He was not fine; he was furious. Jamie had declared that he would rather sleep on a cold prison cell floor than in bed with her. He considered her an icy bitch.

And now he’d left the house, in what seemed a strange response to the girls asking him about his scars. He hadn’t come back yet, and it was getting late. She wasn’t certain he would even sleep in their bedroom at all tonight. He had crept into the bedchamber just before dawn that morning, probably to keep up appearances for the girls, but walking past the guest room during the day Laoghaire had seen that the bed had been slept in. He might sleep there again.

What an irony, she thought bitterly, that the one time she might have responded to him, Jamie was nowhere to be found.

It wasn’t like him to be gone this long, though. Whatever flaws there might be in their bedroom, he was a good partner. She’d gotten so used to Jamie’s active involvement in parenting that it seemed strange to have to tuck the girls into bed.

Joanie had been confused. “Mama, where is Daddy?” she asked mournfully. “Did I really upset him as Marsali said? I didna mean to.” She started crying and clung to Laoghaire's neck. “If Da comes in when I’m already asleep, will you tell him I’m sorry?”

Marsali was also still teary and emotional. “What happened, Marsali?” Laoghaire asked. “You were talking, and Joan was looking at Jamie’s hands, and then he got upset. Do you know why?”

“I don’t, Ma,” said Marsali, pulling her covers up to her chin. “But the look on his face...He wasn’t mad. I can’t even say it was sadness. He seemed upset, or maybe afraid, or just very empty. All I know is that whoever did that to him is a very bad person.”

Laoghaire was still sitting there, thinking, when she heard the latch quietly click open.

It was Jamie, tip-toeing in. He was surprised to see her up and sitting on the bed.

“Laoghaire?” He said. “You are still awake?”

“I was worried, James,” she said. “And the girls were very sad—Joanie told me to make sure...”

“I ken,” he said, regretfully. “I stopped in and kissed Marsali goodnight, but Joanie needed me longer. Poor wee thing is sleeping now.” He stretched and laughed ruefully, seeming to work out a kink in his back. “Her bed isna big enough for her and me as well.”

Jamie looked haggard. His eyes were red and slightly sunken, his face scruffy, it having been some time since his last shaving.

Laoghaire felt a strong sense of pity for him. He was not a whole man. The thoughts of the afternoon, the response of her body, his love for the girls, and the tug at her heart inspired her to reach out. “Will you come to bed, then?” she asked. Jamie stood by his wardrobe, silent. Laoghaire began to think he must have meant just to come in to get his clothing, and then to sleep in the spare room.

But he turned to her, a look in his eye—just like Marsali had said—of bereft emptiness. “Please, lass?” he said.

Perhaps it would hurt less, as wet as she was, Laoghaire thought, looking down at herself, considering. She was tired, but Jamie was always offering to help her undress. Maybe it was because he wanted to be a part of the slow reveal, not just that he wanted to be helpful. But tonight his reason did not matter.

“Will you help me?” she asked. She had unlaced the stiff bodice of her dress, but it was a relief to have assistance with the skirts and petticoats. She unlaced her corset herself, not ready for him to be that close to her yet.

Jamie removed his jacket and vest, then boots and breeks, until he was just in his shirt, and she was in her shift.

She felt aroused still, but very shy. Being with child had changed the shape of her body, and she never felt as beautiful now as she had been as a young lady.

“Can we blow out the candles?” she asked. Jamie obliged, until the room was dark save for the light of a sliver-thin new moon gently sifting through the window.

Jamie reached for her, and the years faded away. Under the cover of darkness, Laoghaire felt as if they were not two wounded middle-aged widowers in their second and third marriages. He was Jamie MacTavish, dashing outlaw and brave rescuer, and she was Laoghaire MacKenzie, newly ripening castle beauty with a well-deserved reputation and a way with the lads. His touch was familiar, but he was not particularly gentle. And she did not need him to be.

Jamie awoke to find the other side of the bed empty. He had slept like the dead. The draining emotions of the previous evening, paired with an oddly undramatic episode of copulation with his wife, and he hadn’t tossed and turned like he did many a night.

It was probably the release. God, it had been a long time. He cringed slightly as he remembered their coupling. There were definitely awkward moments. They didn’t know each other’s bodies, so they kept clashing and bumping into each other. She didn’t move with him, respond to him like Claire did, but she had invited him to her bed, and she was clearly ready for him—that was miracle enough.

She was also silent, which in their case was an improvement, for her sounds their previous time had been in response to actual pain, not the pain-pleasure groans, moans, and sighs he remembered when making love to Claire. And she was not aggressive or rough with him—but that he had been grateful for as well. With the girls pointing out his scars and bringing Black Jack Randall to his mind, he had needed nothing to even hint of violence.

Jamie wondered what it meant for the future. Had Laoghaire finally warmed to him? Was it seeing him with the girls and having him compliment her cooking? Was it hearing him finally speak his anger out loud? Or was it that he had seemingly respected her wishes by sending Fergus away? She had no way of knowing that in the back of his mind he sent the lad away because he needed an escape plan. As much as he loved Joan and Marsali, the marriage to Laoghaire had been a misguided attempt to give himself what he was missing. But nothing could replace Claire, their child, or Willie.

It seemed grim to foretell the future, but Jamie knew nothing ever lasted in his life. It was as if there was a bomb buried deep in his soul. Once again, the fuse had been lit, and though every once in a while it appeared that the spark had been quelled, moments would fan the flame, and he would again see his life destructing around him.

But that was enough of thinking. There was work to be done. Jamie dressed and headed down the stairs. He could smell Laoghaire’s cooking wafting all the way up to greet him before he even neared the kitchen.

Laoghaire was standing at the wash basin in the kitchen when he arrived downstairs. The table showed the evidence of two young ladies having already eaten—Joanie’s spot with its spilled milk, and Marsali’s with its neatly cleared and wiped surface.

The girls were nowhere to be seen. In a moment of magnanimous gratitude, Jamie approached Laoghaire and patted her affectionately on the rump.

Laoghaire whirled around, her hands sopping wet, held up defensively in front of her body. “Don’t touch me,” she hissed. Her nose and eyes were red and puffy.

Jamie stepped back, stunned. “Lass?” he asked. She turned back to the dishes, and started sobbing, almost wailing. He reached to pat her shoulder, but she must have seen his reflection in the glass, because she dodged him with a jerk before he could even brush against her.

“Laoghaire,” he begged. “What is wrong?”

She shook her head, and kept weeping.

Laoghaire didn’t speak to Jamie for the next three days. She would speak to the girls. But if he entered the room, she would turn away, looking out the window. She would not meet his eyes. In their bedroom at night, she clung so tightly to the edge of the bed that Jamie wondered how she was managing not to fall off.

He was bewildered, but beyond that he was frustrated. When he went for a long while without bedding a woman, his body would forget. But just one night with Laoghaire, and once again he was waking up with raging cockstands and an urgency to reach over to his wife, hoping for her to be warm and welcoming. All that met him as he looked next to him was a form clad innocently in white muslin, guarded by an impenetrable wall of hatred.

They had made love, Laoghaire thought. It was tender and sweet and almost good. She was glad he needed her, even if it was only mild pleasure she personally gained from the experience. When he had spent himself, Jamie had kissed her one last time before he rolled off of her. And before they fell asleep, he had put his arm over her and pulled her close. For once, she didn’t mind.

But in the hour before daybreak, he had cried out, awakening her. He had clung to her, and she could hear him sobbing. Speaking. What was he crying out? She turned her face toward him so she could hear her husband, so she could comfort him. His eyes were closed, but tears were streaming down his face, his forehead wrinkled in pain. And then she heard the words that cut her to the depths of her soul.

“Claire…” her husband moaned, sobbing. “Claire. Claire. Oh, God, Claire.”

On to Chapter 12: The Invisible Girl From the day Claire arrived, Laoghaire was invisible to Jamie.

#Jamie fraser #Laoghaire MacKenzie #CanonCompliant #Why did Jamie marry Laoghaire?#Why did their marriage fall apart?#Outlander fanfic #BetweenSceneswriter

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focsle · 8 years ago

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Updated Dishonored OC Meme

Here is Anson’s updated everything, since I ended up shifting his storyline, which was incongruous given where DotO falls in Dishonored’s narrative. Blank one is here. Eyyy!

Name: Anson Lydstern, born Anson Townson. He hated the name. Nickname(s): None Age: 33 in his peak glory days, 38 during the events of DH1, 52 during the events of DH2. Gender: Male Sexuality: Bisexual Height/Build: 5’8”, 120 lbs. A reed.

Personality description: Anson is a cordial fellow. He cares a great deal about his reputation, and as a result takes care not to make enemies and is generally easy to get along with. He’s incredibly passionate about his work, and in certain circles reveals a lot of strange but more-or-less harmless eccentricity. While he’s friendly, he keeps people at an emotional distance. He tends to be leery about people learning too much about him. He has a carefully curated image that is several lies stacked on top of each other, and goes through a lot of self protection to maintain that image.

While he is nonjudgemental and considerate in many areas, doesn’t participate in gossip, and is welcoming of other people’s oddities, he also can be quite classist. He has misguided ideas about poverty (along the lines of ‘work hard and you won’t be poor’), that he holds largely because he forgets where he came from, doesn’t acknowledge that part of his success came from getting lucky, and holds on to those ideas to distance himself from his own background. Sometimes he takes on pieces of worldview from others in his social circle to fit in, so he can have some shitty mindsets. If challenged on those however, he realizes they don’t hold water and he’s easily cowed.

Physical description: He’s slight and lanky, fairly wasp-waisted and always impeccably dressed. He has a boyish facial structure, but a haggard pock-marked complexion that makes his age difficult to place. While he’s well put together, he always is a bit exhausted looking, with dark circles under his eyes. He’s nearsighted, wears pince nez. He’s missing his right premolar and has a gold one in its place. The palm of his left hand is covered in scarring. He doesn’t end up aging well.

Everything else is under the cut. It’s so long...I got carried away...cos I love him...

CHARACTER DETAILS

Introduce your OC and their backstory.

He has a working class background, born in a one room tenement at the outskirts of Drapers Ward. His mother died of illness when he was a toddler, and he was otherwise raised by his father who worked as a contract tailor, piecing together standardize sized clothing orders for ordinary folk. Anson didn’t have an affectionate relationship with his father and was treated more like an employee than anything else, but he was always very matter-of-fact about this as a child. When he was a boy he would be sent on delivery and supply pick up errands throughout the day. As he got older, his dad showed him the tools and skillset of the trade. He respected his father, but also knew that he didn’t want to become him. By the time he was 12 or so, he started to take interest in the wealthier parts of Drapers Ward, but knew this was a world that was inaccessible to him.

When he was 12 he found a rune in an abandoned suitcase washed up by the river, and that’s what first sparked his interest in the occult. He never showed his father.

When he was 15 he got his own sewing machine.

His father died when he was 19. Wanting to find a different life, Anson crafted a pseudo identity by stealing the surname of a wealthy Karnacan textile merchant who had passed away and left no other family, and claiming to be a son coming into Dunwall.

Anson tried to start up his own corsetry business under his new name. It created some tension between him and the Hatters, as Anson was trying to compete with Mortimer Hat, and it led to him getting roughed up a bit in the process when he was younger and didn’t have any protection. Gets a tooth knocked out and a fractured rib.

Anson’s business didn’t really pick up until he started playing into the occultist market, and found a patron in a wealthy oil baroness named Emma Lytton. She saw all the obvious holes in his backstory, but, taking a liking to him and his craftsmanship, said nothing, and pushed his name forward. He quickly became a secret novelty among the elite, a conversation piece at parties, and was elevated to significant social heights by the age of 26.

What’s their occupation? How did they get into that profession?

He’s a corsetier with a respectable front making nice things for the well-to-do, but takes weird occult commissions on the side making corsets with rune-carved boning.

Where in the Empire does your OC live? If they live in Dunwall or Karnaca, what district do they live/work in?

He lives in Dunwall for most of his life, and during the plague ends up fleeing for Karnaca. In Dunwall, as an adult he lives in a nice apartment in the more picture-esque part of Drapers Ward, overlooking the river.

In Karnaca, he lives in the Campo Seta Dockyards, next to the fish vendors.

How do they feel about where they live? Where do they feel safe or “at home”? Is there a place they’re afraid of or that they avoid?

He felt very comfortable in Drapers Ward once he obtained his wealth. He really loved his life. He rarely went to the distillery district, because he had misguided ideas about the people living there and he also didn’t like being in close proximity to Holgers Square.

In Karnaca, he hates where he lives for a long time. It is a far cry from his old home in Dunwall, and he just misses Dunwall in general. It takes a while for him to not feel displaced there. Again, out of fears of the Abbey, he avoids the canal in that neighborhood.

What social class do they belong to? How well educated are they?

He was from a working class background, but as an adult people think he’s a wealthy craftsman, newer money, but of ~good breeding~. He didn’t have any formal schooling, which is something he’s still fairly sensitive about. But he’s got a head for business, numbers, and is definitely skilled in his trade. But definitely not book-smart.

How do they dress for work? For the everyday? For special occasions? Do they carry any weapons or other special items?

He always dresses sharply. Tends to favor streamlined silhouettes and color blocking. When he gets older and lives in Karnaca though, he lets himself slide and ends up just wearing a lot of gaudy banyans so no one can tell he’s getting paunchy.

Who are their friends? Do they belong to any political or social factions (the City Watch, the Abbey, Whalers, street gangs, the aristocracy, occult societies, etc)? Anson has many acquaintances, but few friends. He avoids close relationships because that would require someone getting to know him and he’s nervous about that. He walks in the same circles as the social elite now, and doesn’t want anyone there to know about his working class background. Alternatively, as someone playing at being part of the social elite, he feels like he can’t establish real relationships with someone from the working class. He doesn’t fit in either social world and as a result has a difficult time forming relationships beyond casual friendships.

He does have a few weird occultists he chills with, but even with them he feels like he’s putting on a persona.

Once he feels at peace in Karnaca, he does develop genuine friendships with similar eccentric folk.

Are they in a relationship? If so, with whom? No, for the above reason.

Do they have any connection to the canon characters? Friendships? Rivalries? Relatives? Brief encounters? Not exactly. He probably has clients from the named noble families in game though. I’m sure he has hung out with the Brimsleys afterhours.

What do they think of the Outsider and the Void? Of magic and its practitioners? He’s more interested in the Void itself and the powers that come from it and the history of it, than the Outsider himself. He strives to access the more abstract…of the void, rather than the actual entity. Not that he’d be disappointed if he ever had a brush with the outsider. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself.

He cares so much about magic though. He LIVES for magic. From the age of 12 to the end of his days, he tries desperately to access it. Sometimes it works. Often it doesn’t.

What do they think of the Overseers? Do they adhere to the Abbey or do they have a different belief system? If they’re not devout, what do they value or prioritize in life? He’s deeply afraid of the Abbey, and it takes a great deal of focus for him to not appear visibly uncomfortable around overseers. He hates the wolfhounds too—perhaps more than the overseers.

His values lie in success. It’s what he admires in other people, and what he strives for in himself. He thinks building a name for oneself is the highest good.

How do they feel about technology and science (whale oil, tallboys, walls of light, the Academy of Natural Philosophy, clockwork soldiers, etc)? Anson doesn’t understand the ins and outs of science, but he is fascinated with it. He has a tendency to conflate science with magic, and really thinks they’re one in the same.

DISHONORED

What do they think of Empress Jessamine as a ruler? Or do they not care?He was fond of Jessamine because he was doing well under her. But he’s also not very politically minded. When he is doing well, he has no complaints.

How are they affected by the rat plague? Poorly. At first, he’s able to skirt around the troubles, until Drapers Ward sinks further into decline. However, his immediate concerns and difficulties are a result of the gang wars happening in his neighborhood, rather than the rat plague. But eventually he falls from his social circle, and is back in the survival mode he found himself living in when he was a boy in the neighborhood. The entrance to his apartment is barricaded, and he makes his way out of it using only the fire escape. He leaves mostly to find supplies, stashes them in the apartment, and then hides out in there. He doesn’t have much of a means to defend himself, so a lot of his time is spent in sleepless anxiety in his apartment. It’s not a good time.

Do they have an opinion about Corvo? Do they believe he’s guilty or innocent? His opinion changes based on who he’s talking to. He doesn’t have very strong feelings about it.

If they live in Dunwall, how do they feel about the Lord Regent’s government and the authoritarian City Watch? At first it’s INCONVENIENCING and he gets very uppity about it. And then as things get worse in Dunwall and Anson loses his influence, he feels less inconvenienced and more genuinely afraid.

What is their fate in a Low Chaos ending? What about High Chaos? In Low Chaos (canonical), his eventual heretical activities catch up to him, and he’s captured by Overseers and tortured into confessing said heresy. However, he manages to escape before his slated execution, and runs off to Karnaca with barely anything. He freeloads off friends for a while before starting to get into the bonecharm market over there. He never encounters the same level of success or influence he had in Dunwall, but ends up feeling freer as a person because he doesn’t have a false image to uphold.

In High Chaos he does not escape from said overseers and is executed.

DISHONORED 2

Do they support Empress Emily and Lord Protector Corvo or their critics? Or do they not care? Do they believe the Crown Killer stories? He doesn’t care much. At this point, he’s kicking back with his cheap cocktails in the dockyards. The affairs of the royal family across the ocean aren’t his concern. He’s heard the Crown Killer stories, but he thinks they’re sensational rumors and doesn’t pay them much mind.

How are they affected by Delilah and Duke Abele’s coup? He’s not particularly affected. He hears about it with mild interest, but doesn’t concern himself very much.

If they live in Karnaca, how do they feel about Duke Abele’s government? Are they affected by bloodfly infestations or silver dust storms? He does have bloodfly issues to deal with, and he gets increasingly unhappy about the number of infestations in his neighborhood, as well as the aggression of the Grand Guard towards civilians during Duke Abele’s reign. But he isn’t very vocal about it. He picks and chooses his battles, and the wars he wages are more on the people playing loud card games in the alley beneath his bedroom window at night, than the government.

If they live in Dunwall, how do they feel about the city being controlled by Delilah’s Brigmore Witches? He’s not living in Dunwall, though when he hears about what’s happening over there he is FASCINATED. Anson would trip over himself for a witch friend.

What is their fate in a Low Chaos ending? What about High Chaos? He has the same fate either way. Eventually dies of a black lung from his chain smoking and Karnaca’s poor air quality, is loved by a circle of weird occultist friends, and he wills away his human remains to them because he is strange and knows someone will appreciate his jawbone.

IF YOUR OC WAS AN NPC…

What would the Heart say about them?

A bolt of silk from Drapers Ward. A bundle of whalebone from Slaughterhouse Row, cheaper in bulk. And a stop at Wyrmwood Way, to purchase the books that will bring him to ruin.

He studies the runes until his eyes ache and his candles gutter out, but what he truly seeks skirts along the edge of his comprehension.

He longs to have a portrait painted of himself. He knows just what to wear.

Now he moves in the circles of the social elite. He will never speak of his late father, hunched over a sewing machine working late into the night, or the leaks in the ceiling of his childhood home.

The woman commissioned a corset with secret symbols carved on every rib. He didn’t think his work would have any effect, but the strange dreams plague her every night that she wears it.

To think he once stood on a fruit crate, selling his skill with all the bluster and theatrics of a street hawker. He holds the key to his own storefront, now.

For those looking for a simple tailor, his business card suffices. His other clients come through word of mouth, his name held in hushed whispers at parties, when the hour grows long and the conversations grow stranger.

He wonders if his father would be proud of him, or repelled by him.

In the Month of Rain, the Overseers will drag him from his home. They’ll take three fingers, before he starts confessing.

Where could they be found in-game? In his apartment. That looks like every other rich person’s apartment because he’s just trying to follow the standard of taste everyone else has to fit in. Til you get to the secret little back room through the crawlspace that has all his weird heretical shit.

What lines would they say when idle or not on alert? “Let’s see, I’ll need a bobbin of thread. Silk damask. Baleen. Oxrush. Hagfish bone. A decent knife.”

And just general tuneless humming.

What lines would they say when reacting to the player? “What finely cut clothing. Who is your tailor?”

If they use magic around him they’d just get like. A breathless “My…”

(If hostile):

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave now.”

“Please, I’m unarmed—take whatever you want and go.”

Would there be any rewards, consequences, or special events dependent on your character (like Callista giving you an heirloom for saving Geoff Curnow, Granny Rags giving sidequests, etc)? He’d probably ask the player to pick up weird ingredients around the level for a vague, cryptic purpose, and then give a rune in exchange as a reward.

Is there anything else you’d like to share about your OC? Anson’s trajectory is working class garment boy, to well cut socialite, to small-time fugitive running off to karnaca, to bitter man who lost everything he worked for and found himself in the same position he tried to escape from in his childhood, to resident curmudgeon who is kind of a pain in the ass but also a fixture of the neighborhood and therefore somewhat endearing, to eccentric pseudo-mystic who realizes he has nothing left to lose and so he can actually be himself and live his life…and even though it doesn’t have the same kind of prestige or material value as his life in Dunwall, he’s ultimately happier in Karnaca. And I luv him.

#charlatan corsetier #dishonored oc meme

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