#and to a child him that is subject to experiments as implied in noise. that's a blessing. it's a blessing to be alone and unbothered

[radioactivepeasant]

Snippets: Free Day Thursday

Warnings for this oneshot: some blood/gore/horror elements, implied unethical experiments, brief description of a panic attack. The ----- line will mark the end of that scene. TWs will be tagged below.

(Also I stole some fake swear words from Star Wars because they still roll off the tongue well)

"Awww crap. No no no no-"

Jak looked away from the arguing Samoses to see Daxter peering up at the next level of the prison. The one he'd been trying not to think about.

"What?"

Daxter looked back at him with a terrible expression. "...Praxis doesn't have the kid, right? He'd be bragging all over the city about it if he had the kid."

Jak swallowed, but it felt like there was a rock in his throat. "He'd never shut up about it if he'd hurt Mar."

His own voice was shaky a Daxter's fear spread to him.

Not the kid, not Mar, please please, anything but that-!

"Then he got somebody else's kid. Or something else's kid." Daxter climbed up to the pipes between floors and pointed to a sickly glow. "And uh...it didn't like the guards much."

Jak was through the hole in seconds, even as every cell in his body told him that he didn't want to look. Didn't want to know what couldn't be unknown. He gagged as the stench of blood and meat hit him like a wall. This...this wasn't the sweaty antiseptic smell of the Chair.

Two dead KG lay crumpled on the floor, barely recognizable as human beneath the clotted gore obscuring what little remained of their faces. Deep furrows had been clawed into the skin, deep enough to expose bone. The stench of offal did not quite cover the acid pulse of dark eco. Jak could guess what kind of being had inflicted these wounds.

Had Praxis continued the experiment after he'd escaped? Had he finally been successful?

Jak’s stomach lurched as he recognized a third body -- or the uniform and rank insignia hanging in tatters, at least -- slumped against an open tank of some kind. Ignoring the whispered shouts of Samos down below, Jak gingerly stepped over the corpses to examine the tank.

Subject 0401-B its label read, 304 days gestation.

Bile burned in Jak’s throat.

0401 was the number they'd applied to him in the DWP. What was 0401-B? What had they started growing ten months ago?

Wet, smacking noises drew his eyes unwillingly to the dark space beneath an examination table. A trail of dark blood painted a streak all the way to...something's...hiding place. In and out of the mess, tiny footprints peppered the floor. They were no bigger than the Kid's.

Jak coughed and gagged, desperately holding back what little was in his stomach. He didn't want to look, but he did.

Something was hunched over beneath the table, covered in the leathery scales of a metalhead. A long, spiked tail twitched restlessly as shark-black eyes stared back at Jak emotionlessly. The figure had the proportions of a small child, almost like Mar -- thick, stubby limbs, a large head with soft, round cheeks -- but there the similarities ended. Ghost-white hide peeked out beneath cracked and flaking red-brown stains that covered the majority of 0401-B's face and torso. It cocked its head like a little bird, examining Jak, and slit nostrils flared.

"Oh my gods," Jak heard himself whisper, as if from miles away. "No no no no-"

The thing made an ungainly hop towards Jak, coming further into the light. A mane of pale gray hair, matted and tangled, fell across a narrow back, and an all too familiar pair of tiny black horns rose from the thing's head.

It was Dark Jak. It was a monster. A demon.

It was a child.

"What the hell?" Daxter croaked, skittering back towards the hole they'd come up from.

"Hell" was putting it mildly.

The dark eco creature's long ears twitched -- notched ears, Jak’s ears -- and it chirped. Carelessly, it dropped the half eaten head of what had once been Commander Errol and took a tentative step into the light.

It was -- he was -- naked, digitigrade. A hybrid of a human and a Centurion metalhead. In place of a skull gem, his horns pulsed with whatever eco he'd consumed from his prey.

Jak felt lightheaded.

"Prrp?"

The little monster dropped to a crouch, and hopped closer, balanced on tiptoe and fat clawed fingers. He sniffed at Jak, and a disturbingly innocent smile spread across his face.

There were a lot of fangs in that smile.

"What do we do?"

Daxter's voice echoed strangely.

"What do we- ohboy. Jak? Jak, stay with me. Don't look at the evil baby. Look at me. Look at me, pal."

Too late.

"I ca- I can't," Jak gasped, "I can't breathe-"

He curled into a protective ball as dark eco rushed to fill his skin like a protective layer, broadening his shoulders with the crack of joints. It didn't completely cancel the pain of growing a foot taller and a pair of horns in the span of three seconds, but it mitigated it somewhat. Now as pale as the...the not-Jak, he huddled with his hands over his ears. Block out the noise. Block out the lights. Focus on something small. Breathe, breathe, breathe-

"Urr?"

The creature looked different through Dark Jak’s eyes. He would have expected it -- him -- to register as a threat the way other metalheads did. To activate his hunting instincts. But the experiment just felt...familiar. Like someone he'd seen before but didn't really know. He also was very clearly not a threat. Not to Jak.

The child reached up with bloodied hands, instinct driving him to seek comfort. Trembling violently, Dark Jak lowered his arms and let the child use them to climb up to his chest and settle there. Blank-faced and hollow-eyed, he was motionless.

What had Praxis done?

What had he done?!

"Oh kriff, is that Errol?"

Daxter began to retch as he lifted a paw to avoid stepping on...well, he couldn't readily identify the body part anymore, but it certainly wasn't attached to its owner.

"Or...was, I guess."

He didn't feel too badly about vomiting on it.

______________________________________

"Jak? What's happening up there? We have to go! Now! What did you-"

Tess shrieked and jumped back when Jak dropped through the ceiling with something covered in blood in his arms. He was pale, pupils larger than they should've been. Tess knew that meant something up there had made him transform. And it probably had to do with the thing squirming in his arms.

"What is that?!"

"It's a kid."

Jak tucked the scarf closer around the child, hoping against hope no one would notice the tail -- the dead giveaway that the poor thing was part metalhead. "Praxis...he t- he tried to make another Dark Warrior. We have to get him out of here."

His voice was flat. Almost expressionless. There was a lot going on behind those eyes.

"And the guards?" Tess asked, eyeing the gap in the ceiling.

It was Daxter who answered in Jak’s stead, in a colder voice than any of them had ever heard.

"Errol will never hurt my pal again. He'll never hurt anyone again."

Ohhh. Oh that was going to shake up the Baron’s plans. Errol was both his meanest guard dog and his designated racing champion to keep the nobles pacified. Without the useless nobleman scion, he'd already lost control of the races. The Krimzon Guard would break down in organization too. Or at least, they would if Tess had anything to say about it.

"Good," she breathed, "Good. Thank the Precursors. Did he- did he hurt the- the baby?"

A tiny spark of life kindled in Jak’s eyes.

"It didn't end well for him," he rasped, and fell silent again.

Samos the Elder tiptoed to look at the toddler's face, then immediately began to howl about dark eco contamination. Samos the Younger simply looked uncomfortable with the presence of a child. Neither of them were going to be of any use in a crisis, clearly.

Tess sprang into action.

"Okay! Here's what we're going to do! Daxter, get Jak and this poor baby to Safehouse 8. I'll take these two back to HQ and deal with Torn. Check the kid for injuries, and we'll figure out what to do from there. Okay? Okay. Let's move, people."

Daxter sighed dreamily as he climbed up onto Jak’s shoulder. "Gods, I love a woman who takes charge in a crisis," he cooed.

It was almost enough to distract him from the extreme amount of blood covering the too-small kid with Jak's ears.

Nobody wanted to think about how he'd come to be.

If Jak was more violent than usual on the way out of the prison, Daxter didn't point it out. All he did was stay out of the way when Dark Jak came out to get hands-on with the idiot guarding their exit. The monster kid got very excited when Jak transformed the second time, chirping and squealing like a possessed bird.

When they'd broken out once more, pelting through the streets in pouring rain, they didn't stop to think. Jak knew if he pondered this little...person's...existence beyond cursory knowledge, it would shatter the pieces of himself he'd managed to put back together so far. So he just wouldn't think about it.

It was a kid. Errol hurt it. It killed Errol. End of story.

"Hang on kid. We're out of here."

A glance down revealed the beginnings of a far less sinister face as the rain finally began to break through the blood caked on the child’s skin. He blinked up at Jak with wide eyes.

"It's- it's not your fault. Okay? No matter- whatever people say, it isn't your fault," Jak croaked as they ran. "You didn't choose this. You're just a kid. It's not your fault."

He wasn't sure if he was talking to the kid, or to himself.

___[Three Hours Later, in the safe house]___

"Eep?"

"Wha- no! No, you can't eat that!"

Jak dropped his gun and dove for the kid, snatching a Scattergun cartridge from his chubby fingers.

The child looked at him with complete betrayal, opened his wide little mouth, and began to scream.

The boys looked at each other in panic. Someone was bound to hear that racket.

"Just let him have it!" Daxter yelped, covering his ears, "Metalheads eat eco, don't they?!"

"I don't know how much of him is metalhead!" Jak argued, "I don't want him to get hurt- Ow!"

The demon baby had decided to lodge a complaint with management in the form of locking his jaws around Jak’s forearm. He couldn’t penetrate the gauntlet fully, but there would definitely be bruises.

Without stopping to think, Jak grabbed the tot's cheeks and squeezed.

"Getoff!"

The demon baby growled at him.

"Let go, you little croc!" Jak increased the pressure. "Knock it off, or I'll bite you! See how you like it!'

He had absolutely no idea if the kid could understand a word he said. He certainly didn't act like he was listening.

So he shrugged and bit the kid's finger.

It wasn't hard. It didn't even dent the skin! But the kid yowled and fell back like he'd been struck a mortal blow. He wailed, holding up the afflicted finger to Jak.

"Well that's what happens," Jak scoffed. "You bite me, I'll bite you right back. Don't like it? Keep your teeth to yourself!"

The toddler sniffled, and in spite of himself, Jak softened. He groaned and gingerly lifted the kid under the armpits to set him on the cot beside him.

"Look. Just don't do it again, okay, Croc?"

"Ah," said the hybrid solemnly. The gurgling sound almost mimicked speech, as if he were copying Jak.

"Huh. You're kind of cold. Are you supposed to be that temperature?" Jak frowned.

He had absolutely no idea what counted as "normal" for something that had probably never existed before. Mar was always a little space heater-

Jak stubbornly buried thoughts of the kid deep in his mind. Not now. He needed to focus, and be able to keep his mind in the fight. He could let the "what-ifs" paralyze him later.

"Uh...here. I guess we should give you something to wear," Jak finally decided, "You are pretty naked. You...probably don't know what that means, though."

Daxter grimaced and slowly took his fingers out of his ears. "I am not babyproofing this safe house without coffee and financial compensation," he announced, "But if you can keep the little chomper busy for a couple minutes, I can see what passes for the sacred bean juice around here."

In the five minutes it took Daxter to brew some burnt, dark roast sludge, Jak had come up with a solution for the toddler's temperature.

It was not the solution Daxter had hoped for.

"No. Absolutely not. We have to find some clothes for him."

Daxter slammed a fist into his palm the second he put the foam coffee cups down. "One involuntary nudist in this family is bad enough! And he doesn't have strategic fur like I do!"

"What's wrong with what he's wearing?" Jak groused.

Daxter stared at him until his left eye began to twitch.

"What's wrong with-? HE'S WEARING A PILLOWCASE!"

The newly named Croc paused in his endless game of trying to catch his own tail to chirp questioningly. His limbs stuck haphazardly out of the pillowcase Jak had cut holes in, but it was more than he'd worn in the lab.

Daxter dropped his face into his palm. "Do you think that little menace is potty-trained? Do you? Because I can almost guarantee he is not!"

That hadn't occurred to Jak. He cringed and glanced at the hybrid. "Uh...how...do you potty-train a kid? Mar already knows how to go by himself, I think. But he's not. Like. A baby...thing."

Daxter huffed and began digging through drawers. "Short answer? You don't. Not in the middle of a war you don't. We're gonna need diapers. So many diapers. Do they make diapers with tail holes? Probably not. Oh- and wipes. I don't know if scaly butts get rashes but I don't wanna find out."

Jak groaned. "I don't know how to take care of a kid this little! We are kids!"

"Well do you wanna leave him with the Underground after their stellar show of babysitting skills thus far?" asked Daxter sarcastically.

"Kriff no!" Jak spat. He dragged grimy fingers down his cheeks and growled in frustration. "Can't ask Sig, he'd probably think the kid was a metalhead and try to hunt him or something."

"Eep! Ooooo!" Croc gathered himself, tail lashing, then made a leap for the bed.

He hit the edge and bounced off with an indignant squeak.

"Well," Jak said after examining him for a second, "He's durable, at least."

Far less angsty Croc Shenanigans to follow later this afternoon

[dippiin-dops]

Pork Pie Hat Kid

Personal Character Reference for Writing

Pork Pie Hat Kid’s personality is mainly manifested as a collection of traits making up the “weird kid” archetype; a tendency to do straightforwards tasks in unpredictable ways, consuming non-edible substances, and a partly defining speech impediment. Furthermore, his strong association with an object like winches (that does not only encompass his stand ability; think of how he also mimics the noises of metal, such as that a winch may make. “ka-chaang’, “gweeeee-gachang") could be inferred as a possible fixation, as is common for many neurodivergent people to have, and who are usually the misrepresentated subjects of such a trope.

**I should make this clear before continuing, however; my knowledge in matters relating to neurodivergent traits are very limited-- as is any deeper understanding of issues in the “weird kid” trope. As such, I’ll avoid exploring both this trope and comparisons to possible specific nuerodivergent alignments besides the singular mention above and focus solely on his character and his relevance to the themes and plot of Steel Ball Run.

Seperate from his relation to the archetype, Pork Pie Kid absolutely has defining characteristics of his own-- most noteably in his child-like appearance and motivations. He is clearly portrayed on the younger side of age-- perhaps around 15 years old –and largely acts according to it, only really straying from whats expected through the bloodlust typical of Valentine’s assassins. Some of his “childish” qualities are as follows:

Most likely in either an act of self-consciousness or an effort to conform, he hides his bald head with a make-shift solution (bamboo and stone), which furthermore suggests an unawarness in how doing so only makes him stand out more

He’s much more prone to swearing then many of the other assassins, which may be expected of a kid/young teen whose suddenly got a lot of new power

He lacks a great understanding of his emotions– specifically, why he might be having fun fighting. This also implies a lack of experience, possibly due to age

Lastly, in regards to his character, are his motivations for working under Presidenet Valentine; a want for recgonition:

When this motivation is revealed, it’s shown to be so intrinsic as to even deny temptation into corruption after gaining access to the corpse hand, which was a feat not even the devoted Blackmore could accomplish so effortlessly. On the contrary, Pork Pie Kid ecstatically focuses in on the exaggerated rewards people will give to him; how admirable others will find him to be now. He doesn't have a solid grasp on *why* he fought, and only acts out of an idealization for the rewards he'll get. Of course, the rewards that are promised play a part in plenty of the assassin's motivations, but none are so disconnected from reward and the fight as Pork Pie Kid is. He just doesn't have a philosophy like the others do; he only has the desire to be recognized.

It is also with this understanding that previously mentioned aspects of his become framed in a different light; hiding his lack of hair, a lack of emotional understanding, and a lack of knowledge concerning the situation he’s become a part of (ie, not grasping what the corpse he’s been sent after truly represents) are all reflections of neglect.

His motivation is also what makes his character all the more tragic; he is incapable of conforming, as apperant in his deviation from normalcy in the most basic actions, for it’s simply not in his personality to do otherwise. Regrettably, vying for attention and acceptance through “usefullness” so that others may put in the effort to, at the very least, tolerate his behavior might’ve truly been his only course. However he got himself aligned with the people he did, it’s unlikely he had anyone to look out or care for him regardless of proved use.

He is a character marked by childhood and the desires thereof. He is, in maybe it’s most intense manifestation, a child in need of validation.

[greatgigintheskiess]

With Me

Chapter 1: Trust

CW: Broken Bones, (Implied) Child Abuse, Lab Whump

Word Count: 2.4 k

--

He felt warmth, when he was blinking his eyes open, waking up from a deep doze. As he stirred slowly, the boy felt a soft blanket nestling tenderly around his injured body. Usually, when he woke up, he was feeling only cold solid metal on his back; a filthy disgusting operation table, often covered in dried blood of other 'subjects'. But now, for the first time ever, it wasn't something cold and unpleasant on which the boy lay, on the contrary, it was a soft mattress, a bed. The child had shifted his shoulders once more before he was fully awake and moved on his back, tilting his head to the side. Where even was he? He was staring at a night stand, which was only a few inches away from him. Soon, he began to recognize his surroundings. A wooden dresser stood beside a window, shutters down, so that only a bit of daylight fell through them and illuminated the room in a warm pleasant light. On the dresser the boy saw a radio, next to it some cassettes alongside with deodorant and other everyday stuff like creams and handkerchiefs. Beside the door, a dark green hunting jacket hang over a chair. The boy wondered. It didn't appear to be some kind of medical room. No plain white tiles on the walls, no medical devices, no IV sticking to his arm, no appliance to check his vitals, if his body had overcome the last experiment, no surgical lighthead blending his eyes. He also wasn't tied so tightly to a metal table, that he couldn't move or struggle, if some doctors came in to inspect whether their experiment was successful or had failed.

But there was still pain. As the child moved his right leg, he felt a stitch and right after such an unbearable pain in his ankle and above it, that he had to prevent himself from letting out an agonizing cry, like he so often had to do in the past. Instead, he whimpered quietly and hoped that nobody heard him. If he had cried or screamed back there, it meant more pain, more torture. Once it had come to the point, that one of the scientists was so mad and annoyed by the boy's weeping, he threatened the child by telling him, he'd sew his mouth together if he wouldn't shut up. That threat had burned into his mind since, no matter how awful and painful the latest experiment was, the boy didn't even dare to make a noise.

The child startled and flinched as suddenly someone opened the door and stepped inside. Please, no more pain, the boy pleaded in his mind, peering at the man, who came to the bed.

"Hey, kid. You're awake. Did you sleep well?" The man asked with a slight smile and sat down on the bed's edge.

In an instant, the boy moved further away from him as he was still terrified the guy would hurt him. He didn't dare to respond to the question, so he remained silent and stared right into the man's light blue eyes. One could see his brown hair had already started to become grey, same for the beard on his chin and above the lips. He didn't wear a white smock, like all the other scientists, so that the child began to wonder why he hurt him then. He remembered last stepping into something very sharp and painful as he stumbled through the forest last night- everything after was blurred. He only remembered having a conversation with the guy, that he wanted to bring him back to the hospital he had just escaped from. He believed that the man had even told him his name but, by god, he couldn't recall that one.

And it was strange, usually the boy woke up in pain, all alone; it used to be cold and dark. Never did he lay in a bed, never was he wrapped in a warm blanket and never did someone ask him how he had slept. So the whole situation was completely new to him- yet, he was still afraid of what would happen next.

There had to be a threat somewhere.

"In case you're wonderin' where you are, this is my house." The guy explained, interrupting the boy's intrusive thoughts. "I got you out of my jeep last night, it was hella uncomfortable sleeping in there."

Still no reaction.

The man's face turned into a frown, as he was running out of words to keep up the conversation. Well, one could call this merely a conversation as he was the only one speaking and the boy just stared at him, like a deer in the headlights. He already wasn't that socially gifted and the kid sure didn't make things easier for him.

So Don stood up from the bed and grabbed a few things from the dresser, standing across the room. As he was holding a bottle of disinfectant and few cotton pads in his hands, coming back with them to the bed, the boy recoiled instantly, recognizing these things from there. He knew it hurt. It burned. Pulling the blanket closer to his upper body as a shield, the child knew exactly what would happen.

There it is, the threat.

Noticing the boy's strange reaction, Don hesitated for a moment. Right, medical stuff, he concluded and sighed in his mind. In his head, he thought how to deal with this situation. He believed he had gained the child's trust yesterday, and in the end, the boy even told him his name. Now all this trust seemed to be gone, only because Don held this bottle in his hand. But this again showed him, how much the kid has been traumatized that he would be scared of such a simple object.

Don tried to ease the whole situation by sitting next to the startled boy on the bed again, putting the bottle of disinfectant out of the kid's sight.

"Hey, everything is fine. There's no need to be scared." He said to the child and lay one hand on his leg, which was still covered by the blanket.

First, the boy winced by the sudden touch, but eventually pressed his first words of today out of his mouth.

"Please, no more pain..."

Finally, the kid replied something, Don thought, but right after became aware of what he had actually said. Also the child had lowered his gaze, when speaking out these few but bitter words, as if he was ashamed of even saying them. Don shook his head in disbelief. The kid still thinks I'm the bad guy.

"Boy, your name was Six, right?" Don tilted his chin until he met the kid's eyes. The boy nodded without looking up. "Six, listen, I need to disinfect that wound on your foot or else it will hurt even more. And both you and I don't want that. Would you let me do it then?"

Silence.

Don pursed his lips, still looking down on the child's lowered head.

"Six?" He asked once again, came a bit closer and hesitantly lay one hand on the boy's head, touching his blonde curly hair as gently as possible.

Six didn't recoil, instead stared into the vastness, not fully understanding what was happening right now. No one has ever touched him like that. They had always dragged him, pushed him, grabbed his arms so roughly that it left bruises for days. Whenever any of them had touched him, they also hurt him. Always. But now it was different. The hand just lay there on his head. It didn't grab him by his hair, the man didn't beat him - nothing, just a slight touch.

Don realized how that little touch seemed to overwhelm the boy. When he slowly raised his head, Don believed to see some kind of affirmation in the kid's eyes, telling him it's alright what he is doing. And that only gaze met a whole lot to Don. It showed him that he didn't completely fuck up with the kid, that there maybe is some way to gain his trust and it isn't hopeless. Don never had any children of his own. His girlfriend left him 18 years ago, since then he dedicated his life completely to hunting. There wasn't a single day where he didn't drive out in the woods and only came back in the middle of the night. It was some kind of meditation to him or else he would just drink his problems away and wait for the day when he finally would die. Hunting gave him a purpose, something that was worth living for. So how could he tell if he was doing it right? How should he know if he was doing the right thing with the boy?

Don had eyed the kid for a while and his lips curved into a smile.

"There we go. Now I want you to be brave, okay?" He said with his hand still resting on the child's head, thinking to himself in the meantime, as if you weren't that already after all the pain you experienced, kid…

Six nodded slightly in response and the man took away his hand to get the bottle again. He shoved away the blanket from the boy's injured leg, revealing the terrible wound on his ankle. When he had to unwind the bandage, Don saw how the wound was already starting to get infected. Sure, leaving it like it was for a whole night wasn't good, but Don didn't know what else to do, after the boy had refused to get any kind of medical help. He only hoped that it wasn't too infected. The ankle bone, however, was broken. Don didn't need to be a medic to see that. A bear trap was fucking dangerous, especially for humans- not to mention children.

Don pressed a pad of cotton on the bottle's opening and slightly shook it, so that the ethanol spread all over the fabric and flooded it, making it usable for disinfection. He had done that already a few times after he accidentally cut himself in the hand while slicing up his hunted prey. It was a nasty process that really sucked. And Don could only imagine how the boy felt now when he had to do that to him. The child's face contorted at the sight of Don's hand reaching for his ankle. He winced when the man's fingers wrapped around his leg, grabbing it gently, while, in the other hand, he was holding the cotton pad only a few inches above the wound. Six gave him a fearful glance, his jaw tightened and he drew his lower lip between his teeth. Don hesitated briefly, when he saw the kid was fighting back tears. He really would've renounced doing that but there wasn't any other way. Or else the boy will suffer only more.

So the man sighed and started carefully padding the wound around the destroyed bone where the trap's jaws had dug deeply into. At first Six only felt the cold liquid on his ankle, cooling it pleasantly as it was throbbing and heated. But shortly after, a severe sting set in, spreading everywhere in the ankle, biting. Pain overtook the boy's face, he gritted his teeth, clenched his jaw in agony. Suddenly, he felt like his mind was playing tricks on him. He heard voices, beeping devices, echoing in his head. Hold it still. Prevent it from moving.

He was there again.

The sound of latex medical gloves being snapped on, echoes in his ringing ears, muted and dulled. All awhile he's writhing in agony, begging for it to stop.

Please. Make it stop. Screaming, as his throat hurt, feeling like he was losing his voice by every second.

"Stop it! Please!" The boy pleaded in pain as he was thrown back into reality, his eyes flooded with tears.

Don heard a sob leaving the kid's throat while he tried to hold him still. On one hand, he tried to focus on disinfecting the wound, which- of course- would be much easier for him, if the boy would stop moving that much, on the other, he felt so very sorry for hurting the child, not only because of the bear trap, but also for what he was doing right now. So he ended the process as fast as he could to not torment the boy even more.

"It's fine, Six. You're good." Don told him in a soft tone. "See, it's over already."

He took another fresh bandage and wrapped it around the boy's ankle as gently as possible, sensing that the child now stopped squirming as he stopped disinfecting. As he finished the bandage, Don sighed and laid his hand on the boy's leg, rubbing it slightly with his thumb. His forehead creased and his gaze fell back on the boy, who was still sobbing under his breath, his little face still screwed up, turned crimson.

I'm sorry, little one. Sorry for all that pain.

Don peered at the sobbing child with concern and only hoped that the pain would go away soon. The kid batted his lashes and opened his eyelids, as tears shimmered in his light green eyes, when he saw Don's face right in front of him. Awe transformed the boy's face when he looked into the man's worried eyes and he just couldn't understand why that was the case. Why did he look like that? Usually none of the doctors or scientists had such a look on their faces, no one there had cared about him. About him being in pain, crying, pleading - not at all.

This one was different however. This one seemed to be concerned, he seemed to care.

After a while Don interrupted the silence in the room.

"You can rest now, boy." He said and covered the kid's leg with the blanket again.

The man stood up and walked out of the room without any further words, as the child looked after him, following each of his steps and wondered.

--

Taglist: @i-eat-worlds

[gaysimpsstuff]

Hawks Getting Y/n Pregnant After A Rut

This was a request but I can’t find the ask where it was requested, but it certainly was requested.

Genre: fluff

Type: headcannon/drabble

Word Count: 1.7K Words

Warnings: pregnancy, mentions of sex, mentions of rut, children, vomiting, Keigo being a bit of an asshole, doctors, mentions of sensory overload, mentions of blood, crying, reader calls Kei ‘daddy’ as a joke once,

Other: I did my best to keep it gender neutral, so there aren’t any gendered pronouns used for the reader, so they could be non binary or trans masc. Also, I do plan on never getting pregnant and have never been pregnant before so I really have no experience and no qualifications to be writing on this subject so let’s just see how this turns out.

Fluff Taglist: @smolchildfangirl @combat-wombatus @mandalorian-baby-bird @waffleareniceandfluffy @catcherisvibin @thesubtlewhore @popcatx0

“Kei.”

“Nope.”

“Kei.”

“I said no.”

“I said yes.”

“Well too damn bad. I’m not carrying you.”

“It’s your damn fault I can’t walk, you fucked me for five days straight this time around, I literally can’t feel my legs. You will carry me.”

“Except it isn’t my fault I have ruts, I’m not in control.”

“It was your dick fucking me, Kei. No one else’s, so it’s your fault.”

This was a normal occurrence in the springtime, right after Keigo’s ruts. The small fight over your capabilities. 

“You can walk to the bathroom yourself.” Keigo was in bed next to you, arms crossed. “It’s literally been a whole ass week.”

“You fucked me for five days!” you exclaimed. “Do you really expect me to be up and running the same amount of time after that?”

“Yes!” Keigo exclaimed. “It’s not like I hurt you or anything, you barely did anything the whole time, you’re fine!” 

You leaned across the bed to glare him in the eyes, examining his slitted pupils for any sign that he might back down. You found none.

“Ughhhh fiiiiiine I’ll walk.” you groaned, throwing the blankets aside and standing up. Your legs were still sore, but you could maneuver them well enough. “Asshole.” you grumbled

“Oh yes, I’m the asshole.” he smirked, sitting back. You rolled your eyes, pausing for a moment to hold onto the edge of the bed.

“Something doesn’t feel right...” you muttered. 

“Seriously, Y/n? I said I wasn’t carrying you so-”

“No, Kei I’m not joking, I feel sick.” 

“I’m sure you’re just hungry.” Keigo waved you off, seemingly uncaring about your situation. You shot him another glare that he totally missed. Suddenly, you felt something move up in your body, and you launched yourself into the bathroom to crouch over the toilet. 

“Babe?” Keigo sat up in bed, trying to peek into the bathroom. He blanched when he heard you gasp, and then a loud splat noise. He was on his feet in an instant, crouching next to you as you wiped your mouth with toilet paper. 

“I fuckin told you...” you grumbled, and he rubbed your back worriedly.

“Boy who cried wolf!” he exclaimed “I’m sorry, baby, are you okay?”

“Do I look okay?” you snapped, and he frowned. “I’m sorry, no, I’m not okay- hold up- more’s coming-”

You threw up the next day too. 

And the day after that. 

One the fourth day, Keigo was panicking, insisting he take you to the doctors.  

-

“I keep telling him I’m fine, I probably just caught a stomach bug or something.” you shrugged, sitting on the uncomfortable table bed thingie inside the doctor’s office. Keigo was in the chair behind you, holding your hand.

Not for your comfort, but for his.

He hated the sterile smell of the doctors, hated the smooth white walls with charts hanging from them, too bright lights stabbing at his eyes, and the smooth way the doctors spoke was all too similar to his handlers from the commission.

You wanted to get the visit over with and get Keigo out of here before he went into sensory overload, you knew just how much he hated hospitals and doctors, and while it was sweet that he would force himself to go through it for you, you didn’t want him to.

“I keep telling them they’re not fine,” Keigo grumbled. “Look at them, they don’t look fine and I keep telling them something’s wrong but-”

“Please don’t start to fight in my office,” the doctor sighed, she glanced between you and Keigo. “I understand Hawks goes through ‘ruts’ as you would call them in the springtime, and during that time he is much more fertile than usual. Have the two of you just finished one of those ruts?” 

“Yes,” you answered quickly. “It lasted five days this time.” Keigo nodded.

“DO you think maybe I got them sick?” Kei worried, squeezing your hand tighter.

“Keigo have you ever heard of someone getting sick after sex and not- oh oh, Doctor are you implying-”

“Yes, I am, you should probably get tested for it. We can do a blood test, they’re more accurate.”

“Thank you, Ma’am.” 

“I’ll send you to the Hematologist,” 

“The what?” 

“Blood doctor, Keigo. I need a blood test.”

“So I did get you sick!”

“Oh my god Keigo, no, just- we’ll see what happens.”

“Is it normal that I’m confused?” 

“Unfortunately, it’s very normal.”

-

Keigo continued to be confused and worried for the next few days, at least until you got an email. 

“Why’s this one so important?” Keigo pouted. “And why can’t I read it with you?”

“It’s the result of the blood test.” you explained, clicking on the email and scrolling past the formalities to get to the result

“So basically it’s the result of whether my cum is toxic or not...” Keigo was laying on the bed near your feet while you were sat up on your laptop.

“Your cum isn’t toxic, Kei.” you chuckled, reading through the email. “I would have gotten ‘sick’ much sooner if your cum was toxic.”

“How do you know my cum didn’t just- suddenly become toxic?” he exclaimed

“Keigo. Stop. Your cum is not toxic.” you sighed, finally reaching the results.

Your lips lifted up and you started to practically buzz with excitement. You cupped your hands over your mouth and squealed. Keigo lifted his head up, staring at you in confusion.

“Babe? What happened?” His wings twitched as you shut the laptop, setting it aside and flinging yourself at him. Your arms squeezing his midsection tight. “Ah shit- Y/n what’s going on? Why are you so happy?” He sat up, pulling you into his lap. “I’m not against you smiling and cuddling me but I am still very much confused.”

“Keigo, I’m pregnant!” you squealed, holding onto his shoulders, your face was stretched wide in a bright smile “We’re gonna have a baby!”

“Wait- what?” His face immediatelty lifted 

“Yes! We’re gonna have a kid!”

“Holy shit, really?” He hands flew to your stomach “My kid is in there?” He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth to keep it from quivering, his hands were shaking against your stomach.

“Yes, Keigo. You’re gonna be a dad!” He let out a warbled sort of chirp, pressing his face into your neck. His breath fanned out over your skin, and you could feel moisture against it. 

“I’m so happy!” he whispered, voice wavering slightly “Fuck I’m so happy with you, I- I’m gonna be a good dad for our little chick.” his hand rubbed circles against your belly. You traced your hand up to rub Keigo’s back.

“They’re lucky to have someone like you to be their dad, Kei. I love you, and I know you’ll raise our child right.” His grip in you tightened

“I- I can’t I’m just- fuck words can’t describe it, I-” He  pulled away from your neck and pressed his lips against yours, you closed your eyes and kisses back, enjoying his passion. It was like however close you could be wasn’t close enough, and he needed to just be with you.

You broke the kiss a few minutes later, pulling away to cup his face. His golden eyes were full of tears, and his smile was the brightest it had ever been. 

“I love you...” he whispered. “And I already love our kid.” You stroked his cheek with your finger, speechless. You kisses his nose, giggling a little.

“We’re gonna be a family,” you told him

“I can’t wait!” 

-

After that, Keigo just couldn’t keep his hands off you, especially your belly, even while it was small, he just couldn’t keep himself from holding your belly and talking to the baby.

“Goodnight, Y/n~” Keigo pressed a kiss to your cheek, a hand rubbing circles onto your growing belly. “And goodnight Akina!” 

“Keigo, we don’t know if it’s gonna be a girl, so don’t name it just yet!” you chuckled.

“But Akina’s just perfect, if it’s a girl then she’d be a lovely spring flower” he cooed, scooching down to your belly.

“Keigo, I’d be concerned if our baby was born in the springtime, that’s way late!”

“Well she was conceived in springtime!” Keigo exclaimed, pressing his cheek to your belly “Weren’t you, Akina? My beautiful daughter~” 

“You don’t know if it’s your daughter or your son yet, Kei! Seriously!” you laughed at the way he spoke to your belly, running your hands through his golden tresses. 

“Well if it’s a boy, what do you think his name should be?” he asked

“I was thinking Hajime, I mean this is a whole new beginning for both of us.”

“Hajime...” Keigo breathed, pressing a kiss to your belly. “My darling child, my Hajime, my Akina, my perfect child I already love you~” 

You buried your face in your hands, giggling, Keigo was just too precious sometimes, you couldn’t wait to have his and your child.

“Oh! Keigo I felt something!” you exclaimed, Keigo sat up, pressing his hand against your belly. 

“Was it a-”

“Yes! They’re kicking!” you placed your hand over Keigo’s, moving it so he could feel the small bursts of pressure. You heard him suck in a breath, vibrating with happiness.

“They’re so strong!” he was beaming with pride, feeling his child kick up against his hand. “I’m going to keep them so safe, they won’t cry like I have, like you have, they’ll know true happiness.” 

“We’ll protect them, and when our little birdie is ready, then one day they can fly away...”

“But we’ll always be there when they need us.” Keigo pressed himself against you, kissing your neck “We’ll all be so happy!”

“Keigo, that tickles!”

“I still can’t believe it, that little chick will call me ‘dad!’” 

“What, is me calling you ‘daddy’ not enough?” you joked and he laughed, pressing one more kiss to your skin before rolling onto his stomach and resting his head on your shoulder

“I love you Y/n, I love you Akina, Hajime,” he murmured, you settled into the blankets next to him, letting him cover your body with one of his wings as you absentmindedly wrapped an arm around his body.

“I love you too, Keigo. And you, my child.” 

Oh my gosh

I wanna do a part two

But like- angsty?

Idfk this is just v fun-

It’s either gonna be fluffy Hajime/Akina being born and living life to the fullest

A miscarriage

Or maybe the reader dies and Keigo has to raise the child alone- which could very well result in Keigo abusing the child- AHHH SO MANY POSSIBILITIESS

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Mia Deserved Better: An Analysis of RE8's Themes/Symbolism

Foreword: I would like to thank @lepusrufus for posting about both Mia and Miranda, and at one point directly saying that Mia deserved better, which is a large part of what caused me to start examining her role in the canon story. Now, I will say that this post, like some of my previous explorations of Village (such as my attempt to determine Donna's age), will not be the best organized. My ADHD makes such things rather difficult for me. However, I have tried more than usual, and have broken up this "essay" into several distinct sections. Still, I am worried that my thoughts will not be as concise or coherent as they were inside my head.

Under read-more for length and spoilers for RE8: Village.

Introduction:

Village is, inarguably, about parenthood. Is it a horror game? Yes. Is it also science fiction? Also yes. But is it still, at its core, a story, and therefore contains imagery, symbolism, and themes? Yes. Now, you may be wondering what this has to do with Mia deserving better. My proposal is as follows: While Village is overall about parenthood, it is more about motherhood than fatherhood. Furthermore, Mia's background + actions from the previous game tie her story directly with Mother Miranda's, making their potential interactions massively important to the story... and could have served the theme beautifully. The missed potential in her involvement in the story is honestly a little bit absurd.

Now, let's examine each of the Four Lords + their sections, as the beginning of analyzing the game's theme.

Lady Dimitrescu + Castle:

Ah, perhaps the clearest (albeit unimportant) bits of theme within the whole game. We are immediately presented with another parent, with three daughters she loves very, very much. Initially they work as a team to capture Ethan, easily overpowering him. When they do split up, each still has dialogue regarding their family members. Each of the daughters expresses a desire to be like their mother/make their mother proud. Lady Dimitrescu herself gets very upset every time one of her daughters perishes, and delivers some important dialogue about this in her final confrontation with Ethan.

To paraphrase, Lady D says that Ethan has done something unforgiveable, caused damage that can never heal, and deserves to die before his daughter. That last part is interesting, in the sense that Lady D seems to believe that outlasting your own child is a fate so terrible that she would not wish it upon anyone, including the person who killed her daughters.

Throughout her dialogue and actions, Lady D serves as an important figure of a living mother. What do I mean by that? Well, the only other mothers we see in game are Mia and Miranda. The former doesn't show up until almost the end of the game (seeing as the "Mia" at the start is not actually the real Mia), while the latter does not have a living child, and her behavior has (presumably) changed quite a bit since that loss. As Ethan goes through Castle Dimitrescu, he watches (he causes) Lady D to go through what Miranda did all those decades ago. When we see her loss, when we experience her loss, it is something we connect with, even comparing it (as Lady D does) to Ethan's loss of Rose.

For the more visual side of symbolism, we can turn to Lady Dimitrescu herself. She is very tall, is visibly older than the majority of the Village cast, and has a fairly classic (old-school) motherly look. Everything about her reinforces her position as an example of a mother, especially when she's with her daughters and becomes such a strong figure of protection. Her height allows her to seem the caretaker for her children, even though they are scary/intimidating in their own right.

Donna Beneviento + Waterfall House:

Yes, the baby/fetus/monstrosity is part of this. No, it is not the only bit of thematic work in this section of the game.

To begin, you can find out that Donna is officially the adopted daughter of Mother Miranda. Her birth parents are dead, implied to be from especially tragic causes (more than is the norm when it comes to "orphan making"), and she has suffered greatly from it. We see that she has been seemingly neglected by Miranda, and is incredibly isolated. The tragedy of her loss, along with the consequences presented by it, are something to keep in mind further down the road, when we inevitably deal with Ethan's own death.

One of the consequences of the environment Donna was raised in is, arguably, her reliance on Angie. While interpretations of their exact relationship (aka how much control Donna actually has at any given point) vary, the two very clearly have something akin to a mother/daughter vibe. Alternatively an older sister/younger sister sort of thing. This shows in the way that Donna holds/carries Angie, as well as the contrast in their demeanors. Moreso, the fact that Donna gave a part of herself to create Angie is almost enough to make the symbolism nonnegotiable.

We also see that Donna has a strong understanding of family/family dynamics, through the way that she uses her powers to manipulate Ethan. She dissects his connections to Mia and Rose, taunts him with the lengths he's willing to go to save his child, then shows him a grotesque version of parenthood: The aforementioned fetus monster. Does the monster represent Ethan's fears, or Donna's?

What if the monster is how Donna sees herself, in some way, perhaps thinking that it's her fault her parents died? Bit of a stretch, but it's not a keystone of my theory, so I'm just throwing it out there. We could, however, go a step further and ask ourselves if Donna has noticed the way Miranda neglects her, and the fetus monster is how Donna thinks Miranda sees her. A baby, true, but grotesque, so terribly imperfect compared to her "real daughter" (Eva, obvs).

Regardless, the monster presents an ugly side of parenthood. It shows us the blood, the hunger (with the way it repeatedly attempts to swallow Ethan whole), the wailing. If Lady D shows us the love of parenthood, the bond, Donna in turn shows us the hate, the misery. Everything that one must endure to reap the rewards of family.

Lastly, we get one last bit of symbolism with Donna's death: We play a game with Angie. A childhood classic, hide and seek. Ethan chases her down repeatedly, stabbing away, seemingly only hurting the doll. But what happens when he kills Angie? It turns out that he killed Donna. You kill the child, you kill the parent. A reinforcement of the connection that comes with parenthood, along with another notch in Ethan's family-murdering belt (not saying that he's the "true antagonist" or anything, just keeping track for one of my later points).

Moreau + The Reservoir

Let's get the worst possibility out of the way: Moreau, weakest and sickest of the four lords, lives in a reservoir, where he is relatively safe. To defeat him, you have to drain the water, forcing him onto dry(ish) land. Paired with the main ideas of his section (which I will detail after this nightmare), one could theorize that he's meant to represent birth itself. Again, he's safe in his ("womb") water, and becomes vulnerable when he leaves (like a fragile newborn). Kinda gross, in my opinion, and also not a strong enough connection for me to care much about. It was merely an interesting (albeit horrifying) enough thought that I felt it warranted sharing.

Moving on to the big stuff with Moreau: He's a baby. Evidence: Whiny, has difficulty moving around, struggles to adapt to his growth, throws up a bunch, loves his mother very much, cries for his mother when he's in trouble, etc. Although Mother Miranda does not care for him, he clearly cares for her, and plays yet another role of an abandoned child (like Donna). Without Miranda there to protect him, he perishes terribly, crying out for someone who does not care to answer.

Hearing him cry out for Miranda, over and over, only for her to continue ignoring him is a key piece in the build-up to our confrontation between Ethan and Miranda. The game, in many ways, centers around the comparison between the two. In my humble opinion, Mia should have been involved in this comparison, as opposed to supplying the solution to the result of said comparison. Yes, I know that was a lot of words that don't mean much yet, but trust me, I'm getting there.

Heisenberg + The Factory

Ironically, of the four lords, Heisenberg is the most similar to Mother Miranda. In his massive factory, he is alone except for his numerous experiments, the results of decades of playing God. In comparison to Ethan + Mia, Heisenberg represents artificial parentage, or more accurately, the artificial creation of "life". While the others Lords also performed experiments, they used living subjects. Heisenberg instead chose to use corpses, which he then "brought back to life" with cybernetics + his powers, a somewhat futuristic version of Dr. Frankenstein.

Together, Miranda and him show a rotten side of parenthood (whereas Donna + Moreau showed us the uglier side of the children themselves). To put it simply, they are bad parents. They throw their "children"/experiments into the fray, uncaring, using them as pawns for their own greater gain. The most important part of this is that Heisenberg offers to "help" Ethan: By using Rose as a weapon. In his act of refusal, Ethan demonstrates one of several important distinctions between himself and Mother Miranda. Where she is willing to use her "children" (read: lives that she is responsible for) as tools, he is not.

Miscellaneous Symbolism/Imagery:

The old hag is one of my favorite parts of Village. She's seemingly nuts, has a crazy old lady laugh, wears bones that make soothing bone noises when she moves, and she draws lots of symbols in the dirt. If you look closely (I can provide screenshots if anyone desires, but it will take a bit of work to get them onto my computer), she's drawing one of the most iconic images in the titular village: The winged unborn. This symbol acts as the key you build up after every fight with a Lord, understandably called the Unborn Key (which turns into the Winged Unborn Key). Whether this counts as foreshadowing towards the hag's identity reveal is technically irrelevant, but I like to think it does.

In essence, you build up the key, this depiction of an infant, to progress in the game. The more wings it gains, the closer you are to your goal of rescuing your child.

The cadou itself is very clearly fetus-shaped. Furthermore, the only place within the human body that we know it ever gets implanted is in the "tummy" (thanks Moreau), aka roughly where someone's womb is/would be. Every infected person we see presumably had the Cadou implanted there (though I think it would be interesting if implanting it in different spots caused different mutations. of course, that is a discussion for another day). To become immortal, you have to "bear" a "child". Does it get more direct than that?

Mother Miranda gained her immortality in part for her grief at the loss of her child. She embodied the despair that Lady D spoke of, becoming an eternal source of anguish. Just as the loss of a child is a wound that lasts forever, so too would Miranda last forever (well, until Ethan comes along).

Mia is a loving mother, who puts up with the BSAA making her move across the world, deals with the complications of having a mold husband and mold baby, and has proved herself (see her section in RE7) to be an immense badass. Previously I had forgotten that, and even embarrassed myself in the comments of another person's post by implying she wasn't a tough, ass-kicking machine. Y'all remember feral Mia? People talk about "poor Ethan's arms", but sometimes we forget that Mia was one of the people who did a number on them. Furthermore, she's one of the only living people (from outside the village) to have any connections (pun intended) to Mother Miranda. They worked together, although possibly not directly, on Evelyn. If anyone in Village has a chance of really understanding Miranda's plight, or knowing the truth behind it, it would be Mia. Yet we don't see them interact a single time. Which leads me to the next section...

Conclusion On Theme + Missed Potential:

Okay, okay, so it's pretty obvious at this point that, as previously stated, the game's theme is parenthood. Every section has its symbolism, the story is very obviously about a man trying to rescue his daughter, etc, etc, but what's the point? Is there a lesson, or a more focused interpretation of the central theme? Let's take one last step back, and focus on something I've mentioned a few times now: The comparison between Ethan and Mother Miranda.

Recurring dialogue from Ethan, Alcina, and Mother Miranda all point towards the developers acknowledging that the characters are similar, but there's nowhere near as much conversation about it as I would like. Several times we have the antagonists ask Ethan how he's so willing to kill someone else's child, or prevent them from (essentially) doing what he's doing (aka saving his daughter). While Ethan responds with a mix of "well you started it" and "aghhh fuck-a-you, bitch", there's a much more solid, unspoken difference: Mother Miranda sends her underlings to kill, so that she may revive her daughter. Ethan kills (read: does the work himself) to get his daughter. The difference is much bigger, and more important, at the end of the game, when we realize just how far it goes. Ethan dies to save his daughter. Time and time again Mother Miranda has killed others for her work, but in the end she is stopped when someone willingly dies to stop her.

Where does Mia come in? Mia, the badass mother, the one who once worked alongside Mother Miranda, should have been the nail in the coffin. She is the one who survives, who lives on to raise Rose, she is the silent solution to Ethan's sacrifice. Miranda, you fool, what could you have accomplished if you had held onto your makeshift family? Through Mia (and Chris, to a lesser degree), his "loss" becomes a victory. There's a certain poetic justice that comes with Rose's full family being instrumental in saving her, when Miranda so readily spurned her own family.

Mia could have had an actual conversation with Miranda, their history giving the latter a reason to actually listen. I'm not saying that Miranda would have changed her mind/plans, but the conversation would have been a well-needed contrast to Ethan's "arggg what the fuck is happening, I only have two reactions to things. agg fuck you". Additionally, I feel that Mia (who was captured and had to endure who-knows-what) deserves the opportunity to be the one who points out Miranda's mistakes, who delivers the final "fuck you" to her. More than that, she's the one at the end who can say that hey, maybe she can understand some of what Miranda did. Was there anything her and Ethan wouldn't have done to save Rose? As much as Ethan is a foil to Miranda, Mia could (and should) have played a similar role.

When so much of the story and symbolism revolves around Miranda's experience as a mother, it only would have been fair to shine a light on her equivalent. Her better.

There's more I wanted to say/feel like I didn't properly get across, and I might add more to this at some point, but it's 5:40 AM right now, and I'm starting to feel like my brain is slowing down, so... Feel free to reblog/comment and add your own thoughts!

[mythicamagic]

Enemies to Lovers - Sesshoumaru is injured - "Lean on me" prompt

AN: Because there’s a lot of prompts to get through I probably should have/could have spent more time on this one due to the heavy subject matter buuut since in the anime Sesshoumaru only gets 11 episodes to recover from the loss of his arm, I don’t feel too guilty XD

Warning: body trauma

---

Inuyasha's wench had found him around an hour ago. Unlike Rin, she'd deliberated approaching for a few moments. Unsurprising. They were still foes after all. Crimson eyes remained burning, glaring listlessly at her face.

She'd seemed to silently decide something, determination steeling her expression. The yellow nekomata he vaguely recalled belonging to the slayer was her sole companion, who growled at him warningly not to try anything. As if he would.

The miko carried a large cumbersome bag, so he assumed she'd been headed somewhere before running into him within the forest.

Kagome cleaned his wound as best she could, before binding it to try and stop the excessive blood loss. She'd then approached with the beast, proceeding to kneel beside his bloody form. Sesshoumaru remained where he was, reclined against a tree and settled at its base.

Kagome winced, arm secured around his waist after having removed his armour.

"I can't just leave you like this. Lean on me. I'll take your weight enough to move you onto Kirara."

Sesshoumaru turned his head, gazing at nothing.

His lips moved, speaking too softly for her to hear.

"What?"

He repeated himself in a tight voice. "What is the point?"

Kagome stiffened against him. Her heart thudded quicker, fear brushing his senses.

Sesshoumaru allowed his hazy red eyes to dull into empty gold, staring right at the woman.

He could survive a missing arm. Had adjusted his fighting style enough to manage.

But the Killing Perfection could not survive the loss of a leg too. His body would save him from blood loss, but his spirit lay broken, irreparable.

Kagome swallowed loudly, resting a hand on his upper thigh. His leg ended below the knee.

"T-this… it's nothing for you," she mumbled quietly. "You're going to be okay. You'll find a way to walk again."

Sesshoumaru chuckled dryly, resting his head back against the trunk. "Why do you care, wench?" he flashed sharp teeth at her. "We are not allies. Leave me."

"I won't," Kagome moved closer, grabbing a handful of his hankimono. "Listen, I might not be your friend and you've tried to kill Inuyasha more than a few times, but…" her hand shook. "But you're the strongest person I've met. If you fall, then what hope do the rest of us have?" she questioned softly. "Despite myself, I admire people like you and Kikyo. Always so crazy strong."

Sesshoumaru scoffed, gripping her hard by the hair and forcing her head down to look at the stump of his right leg. "Do I look strong to you, miko?" he hissed in her ear.

Kagome braced her hands on his available leg, twisting in his grip to look at him.

Sesshoumaru stilled.

Unshed tears lay in her eyes.

"Yes," she muttered with conviction. "So long as you don't give up now."

Sesshoumaru stared. Inky black hair slowly fell limp around his fingers. He settled back against the tree.

Kagome straightened, winding an arm around his waist again. "At least come with me to find shelter. You can't stay like this out in the open."

Sesshoumaru remained dead weight. He did not see the point in trying.

He could not hope to recover from this.

Kagome tugged and heaved at his body, his mass much too big for her to hope to move.

She sighed with frustration, blowing air at her bangs. "I'll tell Inuyasha about this," she grumbled.

Sesshoumaru blinked, sliding his gaze back to her. "I would kill you before you managed to leave."

Kagome smiled a little, patting his shoulder. "That's better. You look a bit more like yourself when you're threatening someone."

He wanted to snap at her. To snarl and bite the soft looking skin of her neck, frighten her enough to leave.

He was tired. A part of him felt content to die after his pride lay in such shattered tiny pieces.

And yet…

And yet a part of him, instinctive, strong and indomitable, refused to lay down and perish. It appreciated her continued efforts.

The thought of him hobbling about so pathetically was almost too much to bear, but Sesshoumaru closed his eyes, realising very wretchedly that this meant he did not in fact wish to die.

"We can do this," Kagome was muttering, trying to angle him enough to lay on Kirara, who pressed in close, offering assistance.

Sesshoumaru stifled a sigh, making a silent choice. He begrudgingly leaned against her, shifting his remaining leg beneath him.

Kagome gasped, "that's it!" she encouraged, helping him into a crouching position before he fell forward onto the beast. Kagome adjusted his leg, ensuring he was steady, before nodding for Kirara to stand.

Sesshoumaru did not pay attention to their surroundings, the forest passing in a blur.

If he'd just been quicker, the bull demon who had humiliated him would have perished sooner. The beast had produced a second weapon out of thin air, axe cleaving through muscle and bone. All he could do was pull back- lest he lose his entire lower half.

He felt no pain. Surprisingly, everything remained numb. His flesh was cold and clammy, and he lay as if outside of his own body.

Sesshoumaru closed his eyes, lapsing into unconsciousness.

---

The scent of rain stirred his senses.

Sesshoumaru turned his head, finding himself laying down upon a strange futon that resembled a squashed cocoon. The nekomata lay behind him, keeping him warm.

Sesshoumaru blinked. The miko had found them shelter. He soon located her sitting at the mouth of the cave, looking out at the rain while a fire lay in the centre of the cool space.

When she noticed he’d regained consciousness, Kagome rose and offered some water from her strange water container.

She’d changed clothes, donning more unusual clothing Sesshoumaru was unfamiliar with. Her pants clung to her form distractingly.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, hovering close.

He tsked, passing back the water after taking a swig. “Like I have one leg and one arm. How do you think I am feeling, mortal?”

She winced, “shitty.”

“Indeed,” Sesshoumaru lay back down, staring at the cave ceiling soberly.

“Do you want something to eat?” a crunchy noise rustled from her pocket as the woman produced a rectangular bar of some kind.

He couldn’t keep the disgust out of his voice, eyeing a picture of the food on its strange packaging. “What is it?”

“A peanut butter and chocolate energy bar,” Kagome winced. “Look I don’t know how to hunt-” he scoffed, “-so this is the best I’ve got. Sorry, your Highness.”

Sesshoumaru sneered, “you may keep it. I do not eat human food. Least of all bizarre creations such as that.”

“Fine but it's your loss.”

His expression became blank, noticing her wince and start apologising for the wording. He wasn’t listening anymore though. The initial shock was beginning to wear off, and now he was more than painfully aware of the shooting pains running up and down the remainder of his leg, from stump to upper thigh. Sweat began to bead on his forehead, refusing to show his discomfort.

“...You’ve used a human arm before,” Kagome said carefully, sitting beside him and crossing her legs. “And what looked like a dragon one. By that logic, you could attach a demon leg to yours, right?”

Sesshoumaru slid his gaze to her, silently thankful for the distraction. The coming agony would be something he’d already dealt with due to the loss of his arm. Phantom limb pain was a real bitch.

“Yes,” he managed, before taking a steadying breath. He managed to arrange his features into something smirking and lofty. “Are you implying you will fetch me a new limb, little miko? How very generous.”

Kagome’s eyes turned flat. “I’m not about to go out and lop off some poor demon’s foot just to help you. But...if…” she said slowly, “if I’m attacked- which happens often because of the jewel shards- maybe I’d…”

Sesshoumaru dropped his smug expression, frowning softly.

The rain continued to pour, pelting the ground hard. It was a sobering reminder that if she’d left him to the mercy of the elements, he’d be in a much worse state.

He ran careful attention over her features. “Why?”

Kagome’s deep blue eyes held his probing stare, not a flicker of deceit in them. “I don’t know,” she admitted softly, “things can’t go back to normal for you right away- or at least, they shouldn’t. You should take the time to recover. I don’t know how the hell you managed to come after us so quickly after losing your arm. It likely wasn’t healthy for you.”

He arched a brow. Repressing every single fibre of the experience and any feelings about the fate that had befallen his left arm had worked wonders for his recovery. Granted it made sleep difficult at times, but none had ever had the audacity to lecture him about his decisions before.

“But- I also don’t want you to be vulnerable to attacks or starvation,” Kagome kept rambling. “Giving you a leg won’t solve everything but it’ll help- ah, are you burning up?” she noticed a bead of sweat roll down his temple, reaching out automatically.

Sesshoumaru snatched it mid-air, pushing up with a burst of speed and yanking Kagome down, simultaneously rolling atop her. Her back hit the ground, punctuated with a squeak from her startled lips.

Silver hair hung down, creating a curtain that blocked out the rest of the world. Those blue eyes widened, breath hitching. Their lower halves pressed intimately together, stomachs meeting as Sesshoumaru leaned closer, using his hand to brace his weight above her. A fire burned within the back of his throat, ancient, tattered pride stinging. He found that he resented her slightly. Resented her for seeing him so weak. It hadn’t mattered when Rin had found him wounded. A battered child had no relation to him. But this girl, Kagome- was an enemy. She should not have seen him thus.

“Do I seem so very vulnerable to you?” he asked in a hushed voice, mouth inches from hers. The fire crackled, rain pouring. Her breathing sounded a touch quicker, heartbeat loud in his ears. Drumming.

Against all logic, he felt her body relax beneath his. She even smiled a little, “no,” she muttered.

“Is something amusing?”

“I’m just glad you proved me wrong. I’d rather you kept acting like a jerk than look so...defeated like you did earlier,” Kagome gave a nervous giggle, gesturing between them, “uh...if you could let me up now though that would be great.”

She tried to rise, but he let more of his weight sink down upon her soft, warm body. “No, I do not think I will.”

Kagome gasped, drawing a knee up and inadvertently opening her legs, allowing him to fit snugly against her. If he hadn’t lost a limb several hours earlier that same day and wasn’t experiencing agonising, blinding pain, Sesshoumaru had to say, the feeling was enough to make him...consider something previously thought impossible between himself and humans.

As it was, he hissed a breath through grit teeth, the stump licking phantom flames of blazing fire around the wound.

“Sesshoumaru? Sesshoumaru!”

He shuddered, trying to prevent himself from crushing her beneath his weight, arm shaking.

It hurt. It suddenly hurt like hell- and nothing was working. No distraction could take him from the blistering, lonely, maddening sensation that holy fuck his leg was missing. He wanted to do something as meaningless as wriggle his toes and he could not-

Suddenly, her arms were around him. Pleasant fresh scents assaulted his fractured senses, citrusy and clean. Kagome pulled him down while rolling herself, flipping their positions.

“I don’t have anything for the pain,” her voice strained apologetically. She quickly moved off him, but Sesshoumaru wasn’t paying attention anymore. He panted, temples pounding. His body shook, pain shooting through the nerve endings in the remainder of his leg.

Something cold and wet lay over his marked forehead. Cracking the burning suns of pained golden eyes open, he watched Kagome adjust the cold compress, before checking his leg.

“You heal quick, but you need new bandages. M-maybe that’ll help until I can go home for painkillers,” she muttered, grabbing her bag and digging through it.

Sesshoumaru panted softly, seizing the fretting miko’s wrist.

“Your...scent,” he grunted.

“What?”

If he were sober he’d never request something so undignified, but Sesshoumaru kept talking, somewhat delirious now that all sense of shock had worn off. “Come here...again. I want your scent.”

Kagome’s shocked features were lost to him as the Daiyoukai hissed, squeezing his eyes shut.

The scent of citrus returned after a moment. Soft, curling locks of dark hair brushed his nose as Kagome gingerly embraced him.

Sesshoumaru wrapped an arm around her shoulders, burying his face into the black fall of citrus-scented strands. He lost himself to instinct, gripping onto the stable, pleasant sensations that took the form of Inuyasha’s wench. She let out a tense breath but soon relaxed against him, verbally assuring Kirara when the nekomata growled.

For the second time that day, Sesshoumaru unwillingly lost the battle for consciousness.

----

She was gone by the time he awoke in the morning, but the nekomata remained. She growled and hissed softly whenever he looked at the beast for longer than necessary. Kagome left a note, explaining that she’d be back soon.

Sesshoumaru had little to do except wait. The pain had become a continuous throb, which was easier to deal with but equally as irritating, exhausting him.

When Kagome returned several hours later, she produced wrapped pieces of cooked chicken from her bag, cheerfully explaining that she’d returned home. Sesshoumaru turned his nose up slightly at the food.

“I would have preferred the bird...raw.”

“Wait like freshly dead?”

“Alive, favourably.”

Kagome gaped, leaving the lunchbox with him. “That's terrible!”

Sesshoumaru stared at her flatly, opening his mouth and drawing out his tongue, transforming his features into something more monstrous and canine while placing the food into his mouth and eating it in one quick snap of his jaws. “Demon,” he muttered pointedly.

She rolled her eyes and let him finish his meal in peace.

---

They fell into an odd routine of planned visits for several days, talking about the strange things she brought back from home. He came to learn she was from the Future, of all places. They discussed its advanced technologies while she bandaged his leg.

He suspected the miko felt some sense of responsibility for him now. The thought set his teeth on edge, mildly humiliated.

When he brought up the subject of his vassal, ward and steed, Kagome shrugged and told him they’d been accepted into Inuyasha’s group for the time being. They worried about his continued absence and Inuyasha complained about having to share a space with Jaken, but bared with it. Not one person knew about his situation except Kagome, for which he was thankful.

By the end of five days though, Sesshoumaru needed to move. He began by pulling himself along the ground via his hand and knee, which proved awkward but not impossible. Next came standing, which- after many failed attempts- he finally managed to do, gripping onto the cave wall.

Walking was impossible, of course. And by the time Sesshoumaru realised the very sobering truth that he’d have to hop everywhere the rest of his life or walk with the use of a cane or crutch unless he could grab a demon leg- he wondered why he’d bothered moving at all.

“You’re standing!”

Dulled golden eyes slid to the miko, who stood at the mouth of the cave. In her arms was a large sack faintly marred with blood, and he could tell from the wrinkle of her nose exactly what it was. Surprise slammed into his gut.

“Miko-”

Kagome set the bundle down, hurrying over and steadying him when he tipped too much to one side. “Are you alright? You should be resting-”

“Give me the leg, miko.”

Kagome fell silent, eyeing his stump. He’d stopped needing bandages two days ago. She didn’t protest, merely looking at him carefully. “Are you sure?”

Sesshoumaru leaned against her, allowing her to help ease him down into a sitting position. He briefly touched her cheek, gliding a thumb there and watching it redden. His heart thudded with gladness. “I am sure.”

She nodded, soon bringing the bloodied sack over. She explained that he’d gotten lucky, as while the first two demons they’d faced in a group of three had been too large and bulky to fit his build, the third had been smaller. Inuyasha had been extremely disturbed and suspicious when she’d asked him to hack their leg off once all three were dead.

“It’s not been easy, avoiding his questions, you know. He’s tried to follow me here more than once. I managed to convince him that this leg was for my weird Grandpa.”

Sesshoumaru blinked, finding himself watching her instead of studying the leg as it was revealed to him. The miko had been astronomically helpful and considerate in all the ways one could to a demon lord. His chest felt strange. Warm, upon realising the extent of her actions for his sake.

“Well, do you like it?”

Sesshoumaru jolted, focusing on the red-scaled leg laying before him. From its scent, he knew it to be from a lizard demon. Not his first choice, but this was no time to be picky. Sesshoumaru grabbed it and pressed the severed end to his stump after aligning it. He didn’t so much as flinch as muscle and bone wove together, the process over in seconds. Kagome gaped with amazement.

When he moved to stand, she quickly assisted, pulling him to his feet. Sesshoumaru took a step and staggered, looking downwards.

Ah.

Kagome’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh. Oh no...it's too short isn’t it?”

The height was off by a few inches.

He made to reply- before stiffening, scenting salt. “Why are you crying about it, foolish woman?”

“I-I’m sorry,” she waved it off, some tears escaping down her cheeks before she roughly brushed them away. “I just wanted it to be perfect but now you’re kind of...tilted.”

Despite the situation, a smile tugged at his mouth. A noise bubbled up from the back of his throat, escaping as a quiet laugh.

Kagome froze, tears clinging to her lashes.

“It is fine, miko. More than...fine.”

Sesshoumaru held onto the wall for support, feeling the bite of putting weight onto the leg, his stump flaring. It would take time for his body to adjust. Despite this, his warrior heart filled with purpose again, powers working to heal him. Just having the ability to walk after having it stolen away renewed his spirits.

Kagome watched him with a smile, occasionally offering aid but largely keeping her hands off. He could sense various soft emotions rolling off her in waves. Admiration, relief and something else. Something he could not name. It remained untouched and unnamed long after he left the cave behind one afternoon.

He had no writing utensils to leave a note, instead carefully tearing out a segment of his sleeve, leaving the red and white flower symbol of his family crest for her to find.

---

Kagome panted hard, catching her breath and folding down into a crouch, gripping her bow tight.

“Are you alright, Kagome?” Rin asked, closely followed by Shippo as they approached from Ah-Un, having kept away from the random attack on the village. Thankfully the hoard of boar demons had finally been dealt with, but Kagome’s nerves were shot to hell after racing around so much, trying to protect villagers.

“I-I’m fine, guys, thanks,” she smiled, looking between them both. The orphans had bonded quickly, and she felt a surge of warmth, happy they had a companion their age to talk with. It had been two weeks since she’d last seen Sesshoumaru since his disappearance, and while she loved having Rin around, it did make her worry. Sesshoumaru always returned to his group. Where had he run off too?

Maybe he went to find a better leg, she thought, taking the children’s hands and walking towards Miroku- who was helping up an old man from where he’d fallen. Perhaps he needed time to get used to walking on what’s essentially a prosthetic.

For humans- such a thing took up to one year. Demons really are something else.

Kagome’s lips curved, picturing the burning, determined gaze of the Daiyoukai.

Or rather, Sesshoumaru is something else.

“Kagome, look out!” Miroku yelled.

Jerking, Kagome sensed a lone boar youkai barrelling towards her through the forest, knocking trees aside. It was quicker than anticipated- and despite Kagome grabbing the children and trying to run out of its way, it charged straight for her, grunting, throwing its head wildly.

People were screaming her name, but they were too far away. Kagome twisted her body, pushing the kids aside and in order for her to take the brunt of the hit-

Red light exploded to life, consuming the boar demon before it could reach them. Hide and blood were caught up in the attack, leaving Kagome mercifully free from the boar's flying carnage.

She panted, shaking a little and gazing at the steaming remains of the demon. A pale figure floated to the ground, landing elegantly.

“Lord Sesshoumaru!” Rin cried happily.

“Lord Sesshoumaru?!” Jaken’s distant yell could be heard.

Kagome straightened, heart doing a funny thing in her chest. She immediately looked at his leg- finding him clad in white hakama pants and black boots. The same as always.

Blue eyes widened. He appeared completely unchanged. Somehow, he must’ve found an inhuman demon and took their leg so that he could masquerade as his usual self.

His tiny group circled around him joyously, while Kagome’s friends gathered together a little ways away. Inuyasha’s ears pinned back to his head with displeasure.

Jaken hopped up and down. “Where have you BEEN, mi lord!”

“Nowhere."

“Tch, bastard,” grumbling, Inuyasha raised his voice a touch. “Hey- you could at least thank us for babysitting your damn group while you were probably out doing power-hungry shit.”

Sesshoumaru’s gaze slid over the Hanyou dismissively, stopping on Kagome. Her breathing hitched.

“I am not here to thank you, Inuyasha.”

Kagome remained frozen as a shadow fell over her face, his head of silver hair blocking out the sun. Golden eyes replaced the burning circle in the sky, blazing and intent. Slit pupils pinned her in place.

She was vaguely aware of her friends exclaiming in surprise and alarm, thinking he meant to harm her. The sound of Inuyasha drawing his sword was enough to make her mutter ‘sit boy’ absentmindedly, paying no attention to his subsequent impact with the ground.

Sesshoumaru raised a hand, resting pale knuckles against her cheek in a slow drag down to her jaw, skin cool, clashing against her warmth. White lashes lowered, becoming half-mast.

“You’re okay?” she breathed.

“Hn, I merely needed some time,” Sesshoumaru’s low rumble melted her insides.

She cleared her throat, cheeks tinging red because of his proximity, his dark youki brushing her senses, his touch- his everything. Reaching into her pocket, she produced the segment of his clothing, the pattern of his clan. “Did you want this back-?”

“Keep it,” he closed her fingers over it, catching her eye. “You have my loyalty for what you have done for this one, miko. Keep it,” he said softer.

Kagome nodded slowly, opening her mouth to ask more-

Firm lips slanted over her own. Stiffening, she became deaf to her friend’s even louder exclamations of surprise, Miroku quietly voicing his awe, impressed.

The miko inhaled sharply through her nose, feeling Sesshoumaru’s mouth move, brushing against her own in several lingering kisses. Blushing, it took a moment for Kagome to get over her stupefaction. But then she pressed a little closer, kissing him back perhaps a little nonsensically. But it felt right. Her toes curled at the feel of him.

A low groan rumbled in his throat and his lips softened against hers, mouth parting to brush his sinuous tongue against hers.

Kagome shivered and wondered if he could hear how her heart hammered in her chest. His palm felt steady upon her back, arm encircling her waist. When they finally pulled away, their lips lingered close.

“What...what was that?” she breathed, cheeks flushed.

Sesshoumaru’s lips quirked, “that was this Sesshoumaru conveying my deep sense of gratitude, miko.”

“Funny way of thanking someone, but I’ll take it,” Kagome’s eyes glittered. She could think about the consequences of such an action later. For now, she was content to hold his gaze and keep his secret safe- for however long the prideful Daiyoukai needed.

[mephistagain]

Everything, or Nothing At All

Hello good, sweet, kind, wonderful friends who follow Flawed by Design.

Here is an epilogue which will not appear in the actual story, but which I*gleefully embraced and ran, ran so far away*toyed with the idea of at one point a few months ago. 

If you’d prefer to wait for me to finish FbD prior to reading any spoilerish content, abort reading now.

John parked the warthog in the usual spot at the edge of the redwoods. He retrieved his pack, slung it over his shoulder, and hauled the camo tarp atop the vehicle so that it didn’t stand out like a sore thumb against the backdrop of the verdant mountainside. Then he turned and started into the forest. The trek generally took him two hours, and while the warthog could handle the terrain for part of the way, he preferred the solitude of travelling on foot. 

Briar had also complained on the one occasion he had driven closer that the approach had been about as inconspicuous as he was - which was evidently not very, he’d been given to understand. 

The hike gave him time to clear his head of the latest sim test results, the monotony of base life, and the lingering impotency of being involuntarily removed from active duty. He was still a highly functioning tactical asset, so while he understood the decision as it had been explained to him by Brass as a matter of PR, he didn’t like it. Linda didn’t either, but she never complained. Unsurprisingly, Fred and Kelly were transitioning from life in the field with the most ease. They were anticipating instructional appointments as an opportunity to guide and shape the next generation of Spartan-IVs. 

Not him.

Pausing, John examined the trunk of one of the towering trees - more specifically the scarred markings some animal’s claws had torn into its bark. She’d informed him when he’d last left that there was a cougar lurking in the area. He continued on, the familiar weight of the M6H2 strapped to his thigh precluding any concerns about crossing paths with the predator. The territorial scorings didn’t appear recent, sap had already wept over the abrasions and hardened, but he still recentred his focus. Which wasn’t easily done as he tallied up just how long it’d been since he’d last left base. 

An unfamiliar weight settled in his gut, but he knew it for what it was - guilt. Seven weeks was not inconsiderable. And while it hadn’t been his intention to avoid returning, neither had he sought rec time or leave in order to do so. Hadn’t even given it much thought between the day in, day out routine trials Blue team had been selected to participate in for the Gen3 MJOLNIR platform.

He now had to wonder if that had been subconsciously purposeful because of his conflicted feelings over the pregnancy. Briar had encouraged him to seek the input of Fred, Linda, and Kelly, and yet he’d not done that either. Not even when Fred had noted that he was behaving more introvertedly than was characteristic of him. The reason for that, at least, was logical. As Blue team’s leader, undermining the others’ confidence in him by requisitioning advice on a subject none of them were more likely to have experience with than he did was irrational. Fred and Kelly may be more sociable than he was, but he doubted they were concealing clandestine children out there in the systems somewhere. The thought nearly made him snort, in fact. 

The elevation increase and time elapsed since he’d set out from the warthog suggested he was better than halfway there now. 

Would she be displeased with him? He hadn’t gotten the sense his initial reaction had caused her to be so. If anything, she’d seemed as uncertain about the development as he’d been. She hadn’t questioned him when he’d prepared to head back to base earlier than planned. Just requested that he speak with his fellow Spartan-IIs. 

The issue stemmed from the fact John had never factored children into his future. He’d factored another few decades of service in. But not much beyond that. And now, here he was; forced into semi-retirement for all intents and purposes, and staring fatherhood down the barrel. What that even involved, he couldn’t begin to fathom. His memories of his own childhood were so watered down and repressed that it took a Herculean effort just to recall that he’d possessed one at some distant point in the past. He would have a duty to protect the child, that much was obvious. And provide for it - though with the healthy settlement he’d been saddled with as compensation from the UNSC, there should prove no barrier to that. 

What would life for a child born to two Spartans even look like? It had never been explicitly expressed, but there wasn’t a shadow of doubt in his mind they’d never been expected to produce offspring. And while the inquisition into Orion and the subsequent Spartan programs had clued up, and public perception had shifted dramatically in light of its innumerable findings, it still didn’t feel as though society was prepared for Spartans to fully re-integrate. At least, not IIs and IIIs. The IVs had been regular enlisted before being recruited into their program. They’d led normal lives. Had families. No so for his and Briar’s generation. Despite having been stationed there for six months now, Blue team still received a variety of conspicuous reactions from the base’s other personnel as they went about their assigned duties. He ignored them, but the relief of leaving it all behind when he drove past the last checkpoint and the wild landscape opened up before the warthog had been palpable. 

The fact he looked forward to Briar’s company wasn’t the enigmatic response it had initially presented as to him any longer. With her, he was just John. And whatever that entailed, she took in stride. No expectations. 

He smelled it before he saw it. The copper tang of blood hung heavy in the air as he approached the clearing the cottage occupied on the ridge. Through the foliage, tawny hide could be glimpsed. Brandishing his sidearm, he strained his honed senses for further signs of intrusion as he stalked in towards his quarry. Within twenty metres, John could detect the error in his assessment. The once-predator’s pelt hung from a make-shift frame of pliable branches, stretched out wide in a curious display of victory. So, she’d taken care of the cougar. Bypassing the trophy, he was returning the magnum to its holster when he noted the smear on the doorframe. Briar wasn’t as fastidiously tidy and organized as he was wont to be, but a bloody handprint seemed grisly even for her to disregard cleaning up. 

John glanced back to the hide. The dark stain from blood which had pooled beneath it seemed to indicate it’d been hung there for some time. Hours, probably. His attention returned to the smeared handprint. Was it possibly not the result of the animal’s blood, but her own? Had she been injured?

“Briar?” he called not without apprehension as he pushed through the door and inside. Crimson droplets led directly across the rustic floorboards towards the lav. His heart rate kicked up a notch. She hadn’t responded. Dropping the pack with a thud, he stepped over the trail as he strode to the open doorway. No light spilled out, so he wasn’t surprised not to find her within, but the open med kit, mess of bandaging supplies, and blood ringing the sink did alarm him more than he cared to admit. She’d treated herself for whatever wound she’d received, he reasoned with himself. Everything was likely fine. 

Noise outside pulled John away from the chaos which had been unleashed in the lav. He re-emerged from the cottage just as Briar was latching the door on the small tool shed he’d insisted they erect during his last visit, to remove the clutter of equipment from the limited space offered in the main living structure. 

She looked about as bewildered by his presence as he felt about the scene he’d witnessed upon arrival, but as usual, recovered first. “Could have used your help earlier,” she commented while wiping her dirty hands on her already soiled pants. A combination of blood and grime interrupted their dark green camo patterning. 

“With the cougar?” he surmised, having paused just outside the door.

“With burying it.”

That explained the mud, anyway. “Are you alright?” She appeared whole, but the med kit had been rummaged through for a purpose. Her black t-shirt revealed a few shallow lacerations on her arms, but none of them were bandaged.

Briar shrugged, or began to, though the motion was cut short by a grimace. “It got the jump on me, nothing serious.” She lingered by the shed, her gaze having shifted to the hide. “Should have driven it off a while ago.” It didn’t seem a conscious action, but one of her hands drifted briefly to her abdomen before falling back to her side.

It hit him with the sheer, unrestrained force of a NOVA. She’d been in danger - the child she carried, his child, had been in danger - and he hadn’t even known. No matter his uncertainty, the overwhelming and fierce instinct to protect that precious unborn life consumed him with an abruptness he’d never before experienced in his 48 years. He didn’t know what to expect from fatherhood, but the fear of having that opportunity snatched away by variables outside his control was perhaps the realest he’d ever known. 

She was eying him pensively as he closed the distance between them. Dark strands of hair had escaped her braid and smudges on her cheek and temple implied she’d probably been pushing the loose locks out of her eyes. He reached up to do so for her now after she’d unsuccessfully attempted to blow them out of her line of sight. 

“Are you going to tell me what you’re thinking, or should I stand here waiting like an idiot for you to say something for another ten minutes first?”

“I’m thinking that cougar chose its prey unwisely.” 

She rolled her eyes, but they then shot down to where his hand had come to rest over her stomach before she could reply. 

“And that I shouldn’t have waited so long to come back,” he supplied with regret. Not only did he now comprehend how cowardly it had been, even if it shamed him to ascribe such a trait to himself, it had nearly cost him more than he’d at first understood. 

Briar was regarding him with an unreadable expression. She hadn’t stepped back, but neither did she seem particularly welcoming of his proximity. What must she have thought of him as the weeks had stretched on in his absence? “I knew you would,” she said after some time. “Eventually.” It didn’t sound as though that certainty had reassured her much, it was more of a statement of fact.

“I didn’t speak to the others about it.” She deserved to know he’d disregarded her request along with leaving her out here alone without explanation.

“John-”

“But I’m going to. When I go back.”

“It was just a suggestion-”

“What were the bandages for?” he cut her off, having already made up his mind on the matter. Blue team might not be able to offer parenting advice, but they would give him their honest assessment of the situation. And since the added responsibility could potentially affect his performance as team leader, they needed to be aware of that. 

Sighing, she turned around and lifted her shirt to reveal the gauze padding haphazardly taped to her back. Blood had already seeped through several wads, suggesting the wounds they covered were deeper than those on her arms. “I’m going to clean up the shitstorm in there, I just wanted to deal with that asshole before dark,” she said while shooting the pelt a miffed glare and dropping her shirt again. 

“So you decided to skin it.”

“Only after it tried to eat me.” 

John took her by the arm to gently propel her inside. Fortunately, she didn’t resist. In the lav, he again turned her so that she faced the opposite direction and pulled the t-shirt up and over her head, prompting her to lift her arms in the process. Then he began the painstaking process of peeling the medical tape off, doing so slowly so as not to aggravate the injuries beneath. 

All of this, Briar endured cooperatively in silence. Even when he applied the biogel, which he knew from plenty of personal experience, stung owing to its antiseptic component. Once he’d reapplied the bandaging in plush squares, he returned the supplies to the med kit and rinsed out the sink. 

She was still standing in the same spot, shirt held in one hand as she faced the shower unit. Her posture didn’t point towards being receptive to physical contact, so he leaned against the doorframe to give her some space.

“Listen, I’ve been thinking… if this isn’t something you want to go through with, I understand.”

The sudden remark set him on edge almost as swiftly as the cougar pelt had. “Explain,” he prompted her when no further information was offered. 

“Explain what - that neither one of us would have any clue how to raise a kid?” She was shaking her head and he knew without needing her to say more exactly where her doubts stemmed from. She’d confessed before to having no memory of her parents, and his own were vague impressions in the few flashbacks he’d experienced over the years.

“I want to try.”

When she turned around finally, she was frowning. “It’s not something you ‘try’, John. There are no trial runs. No sims. You can’t fuck it up, you don’t get to reset to alpha position.”

Jaw setting with determination, he pushed away from the doorway. “Then we don’t fail.” They’d been forged with a will to succeed at all costs as ingrained as the fundamental functions of breathing, eating, or sleeping. 

“And we’re going to base it off of what? How Mendez treated us? The other drill instructors? AIs?” Briar moved to bypass him, but he prevented her by blocking her path. It wasn’t difficult in the confined space. “I won’t be responsible for screwing some kid up as badly as we were.”

“Some kid?” John repeated, chest tightening at the description of the child even now developing in her womb. He searched her features for some sign she held no attachment whatsoever to the new life they’d inadvertently created. All he saw was diffidence and frustration. This time when she tried to squeeze past, he caged her in against the cabinet the sink was built into, an arm to either side to keep her there. “I see you,” he told her, voice even despite his own inner turmoil. He couldn’t pressure her into a role she wasn’t prepared to undertake. Even if he’d come to the conclusion it was what he wanted. One of the few things he’d ever wanted - not because it was a duty he’d been trained and groomed to carry out, but because it was one he desired the privilege of fulfilling.

Dropping her gaze, she balled up the shirt. Her shoulders rose and fell with shallow breaths, another indication of her state of agitation. 

It wasn’t something that came naturally to him, but he brought one hand up to cup her face nonetheless, offering her the comfort he perceived she required in that moment. He still recalled the light and foreign touch of her own fingers upon his cheek in ‘Vadam’s keep. It’d been the first time anyone other than Fred, Kelly, Sam, or Linda had laid a hand on him for a purpose other than addressing an injury, delivering punishment, or examining his MJOLNIR since he’d been conscripted into the Spartan program. She’d advised him not to analyze it, but that’d proven impossible when, from that moment forth, a steadily growing part of him he hadn’t previously known existed had craved that contact. Expressing that hadn’t been something he’d been aware of how to do, or even whether he should do. 

“What’s going on in there?” she asked quietly.

Chagrined to have lost focus, his brow furrowed. He ran his thumb over the dirt smudged across her cheekbone, but it didn’t remove the blemish. Neither did it diminish her appeal, however. “Thinking,” he answered. “About you.” About how much had changed for him in the time they’d known each other, none of it anything he could have ever predicted.

She was waiting for him to elaborate, he could tell.

“And about being something other than a Spartan.” Something more. Something he chose. “But only if it’s what you want.” 

Her lips grazed his palm as she turned her head. She pressed a kiss there. “I want you.” Rising up onto the balls of her feet, she gripped his shoulders, the t-shirt slipping to the floor. “I want everything. With you. And it scares me, John.” And he could see it in her eyes. That terror. The fear of daring to want something. 

Carefully drawing her in close with an arm around the small of her back, which hadn’t sustained any gouges, John held her gaze. “Someone told me being human can be like that.” He was expecting physical repercussions for the cheeky reminder, namely a punch, but gladly obliged when Briar instead tugged on his tags. Lowering his head, he released a pained grunt when her mouth only briefly met his before she captured his lower lip between her teeth. 

“Smartass,” she scolded him with relish and then kissed him - properly this time. 

[flowercrown-bard]

A new us will begin (3/ 11)

AO3

part 1  / part 2   / part 4  / part 5 / part 6

word count: 2.6k

Content warnings: Implied self-harm, guilt, child-death, character death, alcohol

Four decades.

Four decades since Geralt had buried his best friend and the man he loved more than anything.

It was too long without him. Geralt had never spent more than a couple of months without Jaskier. He had always known he would get to see him again some day. His smile, his eyes, his ridiculously bright doublets that he had worn even in old age. Now he knew he wouldn’t see any of that ever again. Not tomorrow, not in spring, not even another four decades from now.

Four decades were too long.

At the same time, four decades were far too little time. They said time healed all wounds. When would enough time have passed to heal the wound that Jaskier had ripped into his chest when he had left him? That hole that kept bleeding and aching even after all this time?

The answer was a cold certainty inside Geralt’s chest. Never. There would never come a time when Geralt wouldn’t announce that he was about to make camp, as if Jaskier were there to hear. There would never come a day when Geralt wouldn’t point at a pretty bird or flower, as if Jaskier were still there to delight in the thing he saw.

Those brief moments in which Geralt forgot however briefly that he was alone were exhilarating, only to have him crash down when reality set back in and forced images of Jaskier’s lifeless body into his mind.

Geralt had promised himself that never again would he watch anyone die if he could prevent it.

He couldn’t prevent it. Far too often was he too slow, too weak, too late. He had watched far too many people to count die and yet they all stayed in his memory, seared into his mind like a brand marking him as the one who had failed them all. Peasants, merchants, hunters. A mother and her son that had probably been too young to even understand what was going on. Perhaps that had been a mercy.

No. There was no such thing as mercy. It had been on Geralt to save them and he had failed.

For a brief moment, Geralt had been foolish enough to hope. Relief had roared through him like a blazing fire when he had heard found the beast, had heard the boy’s heartbeat and thought for just a moment that he hadn’t been too late, that he’d still be able to save the child. It would have been ugly to get him to understand that his mother was dead and that he had to come with Geralt, that he would bring him back to his father where he was safe. Because Geralt wouldn’t have been able to promise him safety with him. Maybe the boy would have started crying then. Maybe he would have wanted to stay with his mother, not understanding why she wouldn’t get up again. Geralt would have told him not to look at her, not to do that to himself. Maybe he would have told the boy to look at him instead, but that would have only made it worse for the child, wouldn’t it? He had been so brave. No screaming, no crying, no stench of fear. Or perhaps there had been fear. Perhaps the boy had been terrified, of the beast, of Geralt but the coppery smell of his blood had drowned that out.

It didn’t matter now whether the boy would have been afraid if he had seen Geralt’s eyes. Geralt would never get to find out how that brave little child would have reacted. He had failed. He had let him die.

He could have just gone back to the town and told the man that had begged him to bring his child back safely where their bodies lay and be done with it. Instead, he had carried them back to the small hut at the edge of town. He had watched the man’s face twist into a grimace of pain as he had laid eyes on his dead family.

Geralt hadn’t been able to look away as the stranger, who in that moment felt like a mirror image of Geralt, cried and clutched his son’s small body to his chest.

When the man had looked back up at Geralt, he hadn’t shouted, hadn’t screamed and spat at him. He had been too broken for that. But Geralt had seen it in his eyes. The man had blamed Geralt, hated him, wished he would have been the one to die instead.

If Jaskier knew that Geralt agreed, he would have hated Geralt as well.

But Jaskier wasn’t here and Geralt was left to carry the weight of what he hadn’t been able to do on his own.

For so long Geralt had carried it, but it didn’t get any lighter, if anything the weight of his guilt got heavier and heavier the longer he lived, the more people he let die. The memory of the child – the light in its eyes dying before Geralt was even close enough to discern the colour of them – stayed with him, accusing him of things he wished he could deny.

There was only one way for Geralt to repent, for him to make this better. He threw himself into contract after contract. Recklessness and desperation, that Vesemir would have been angry to see him succumb to, were guiding his sword.

The weight of the guilt that was threatening to crush him didn’t subside.

The only thing that changed, was the tapestry of scars littering his body, each angry red line like a tally torn into his skin keeping count of his failings. All the times he could and should have died instead of letting that fate befall someone else. No matter how many monsters he slew and how many people he saved, those marks would still be there. Never fading. Never letting him forget.

Nothing could make him forget. He knew that. He knew it was impossible to get drunk enough on human ale to free himself of the guilt. That didn’t stop him from trying.

It made things worse. All it did was make him pathetically wish there was someone there trying to steal a sip of his drink or sing to him while Geralt used the ale to hide his smile.

There was no smile on Geralt’s face now. Neither was there anyone who would have given him one.

Instead of music, frustrated voices filled the tavern. Geralt didn’t know why he listened in. Perhaps it was years of experience telling him that raised voices meant trouble for him. Or maybe it was the insistent voice in the back of his mind telling him that Jaskier would be disappointed if Geralt didn’t bring him the latest gossip.

The more he listened, the more his heart ached. Oh, Jaskier would have loved this. Tales of an earl or viscount or something like that, who was utterly unfit to rule for being a dreamer. Rumours about how he kept humming to himself instead of listening to his advisors when they brought forth the grievances of the people. One woman even said that she heard the lord had the habit of doodling horses of all things onto important documents.

Maybe Jaskier would have laughed at this and nudged Geralt in the ribs claiming that Geralt had met his match when it came to his love for horses. Maybe Jaskier would have thought these rumours romantic and spun a bittersweet ballad out of it about a trapped lord yearning for life outside of his castle walls. Or perhaps he would have composed a sharp-tongued ditty insulting the lord for how little he seemed to care about his subjects. Either way, Geralt was sure he would have been able to make everyone in this tavern sigh and smile and forget their worries for a while.

As it were, there was no one here to make anyone forget their worries. The air grew thick as frustration turned into anger. Geralt had witnessed this change often enough to know that it was better to leave now before the contempt for an untouchable lord turned towards someone – a witcher - a mob would be able to insult and hurt without anyone batting an eye.

So Geralt downed the last of his ale and left the tavern. He had just lead Roach out of the stables she had been in, when his retreat was stopped. Not by a mob, not even by a single drunken man who itched for a fight and got reckless in his drunkenness. No, he was halted by a man with slicked back hair, fanciful clothes and an air of importance about him.

Geralt scowled at him. It didn’t seem to deter the man, though he did let his eyes wander disdainfully over Geralt’s appearance.

“Sir Witcher?”

Geralt snorted. He didn’t know what was more ridiculous: The honourable or the fact that the man thought it necessary to ask whether the slit-pupiled freak in front of him really was a witcher.

Geralt didn’t give an answer, but evidently one wasn’t needed anyway.

“I have come to summon you to Viscount Alfred Pa-“

“No,” Geralt cut him off harshly.

This time, the man stumbled a bit over his words, evidently not used to being interrupted. His brows drew together and his eyes narrowed.

“Sir, I must ask you to come to –“

“You can ask but the answer is no. Unless there is a contract for me, but I haven’t heard anyone speak of monsters, so I doubt it.”

The tension in the face of what must be some sort of page or messenger - or whatever fancy title those people had – eased at that and bled into relief.

“As it happens, the Viscount does have a contract.” He left a pause, giving Geralt a chance to bid him to continue. Geralt let the opportunity pass but the messenger continued even so. “There has been conflict brewing with the neighbouring earldom. They demand – “

“I don’t care.” Geralt turned to Roach.

“But sir! Viscount Alfred the fifth requests that you speak with him personally. I assure you you would receive adequate pay. Perhaps you could –“

“Don’t care,” Geralt repeated, more harshly this time. He swung himself up onto Roach’s saddle. By the outraged noise the messenger made, he must have had to jump back to not get hit by Geralt’s leg. Geralt took the reins in hand and looked down on the messenger who was glaring daggers at him. “You can tell this Viscount of yours that witchers won’t solve his problems. We are neutral. Don’t care about petty human affairs or politics.”

Something almost desperate flashed through the messenger’s eyes. “How can you not care? There must be something that makes you have a little compassion. If not money, then you must have a conscience.”

It took every ounce of self-control not to make Geralt flinch. He had cared once, had been made to care. There had been someone who he hadn’t minded getting involved in petty affairs for.

See where that had gotten him.

“I don’t. Maybe you haven’t heard, but Witchers don’t feel.”

With that, Geralt pressed his heels into Roach’s flanks and fled Lettenhove, leaving behind houses and roads and making his way to the forest bordering the viscounty. As soon as he was surrounded by the trees and the sounds of forest creatures flitting about, he felt some tension ease away, yet a strange chill crept up his spine, the unsettling feeling that he should know this place. Geralt couldn’t put his finger on it, but something about this place felt achingly familiar.

It was only when he decided to make camp beneath an old oak tree with branches reaching higher into the sky than any other tree, that he realised why he seemed to know this place.

Jaskier had never spoken much of the place he had grown up in and if he did, it had always been with a tenseness around his eyes and lips. It had only left when Jaskier mentioned the woods he sometimes ran away to, when everything became too much. In great detail and with shining eyes Jaskier had told him about the small river he had waded through during summer, the clearings where he had laid down and dreamed of far off places and the great oak tree he used to climb as if he was a bird trying to reach the sky. He had told Geralt how he-

Without meaning to, Geralt’s feet carried him to the tree, searching and fearing, though he didn’t know whether he feared more what he might find or what he wouldn’t find.

He didn’t need to wonder for long. Right there was the mark Jaskier had told him about so long ago. A clumsy J carved into the bark. Geralt traced the letter as tenderly as if it was Jaskier’s skin. There was no mistaking that over a century had passed since the letter had been carved, but it was still there, never forgotten.

Geralt’s hands moved on their own. Before he knew it, he held his hunting knife in hand and put it to the bark right next to the J.

He hesitated, drew back at the last minute. He had no right to carve his own mark into the bark as if he was still beside Jaskier, as if his presence next to Jaskier’s had ever done the bard any good.

He dropped the knife. His eyes were burning and he had to squeeze them shut.

“I miss you,” he whispered, a rough, choked sound. “I miss you so much. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Jask.”

He pressed his forehead against the tree, wondering if at a different time, Jaskier had done the same before leaving this place to find a better life.

Geralt’s breath came in shudders and his shoulders wrecked with dry sobs.

Witchers didn’t feel. They didn’t cry. They didn’t shatter.

There was no one around to witness Geralt do just that.

--

It wasn’t until months later that he heard rumours again of the viscounty he had left without a second thought.

Rumours about how the Viscount had tried and failed to come to an agreement with his foes. Of how in the end a battle had ensued that the dreamer hadn’t been prepared for. He had lost his estate, his title, his land and at with that every last shred of sympathy his people had had left for him. The only thing he had gained had been seething hatred from those he had been supposed to protect.

Geralt had been at the wrong end of a mob too many times not to know how the story would go. He didn’t need to listen to the rumours to know that the Viscount hadn’t survived.

Geralt…Geralt didn’t care. He didn’t care that he had sealed the Viscounts – the dreamer’s – fate when he had left without even hearing him out. Maybe the Viscount had still been waiting for help when his estate had gone up in flames, when the earl he had fought had taken everything from him and the people had paid the Viscounts incompetency back with pitchforks and torches.

Perhaps it would have all gone differently if Geralt had followed the messenger and spoken face to face with the lord. Perhaps it would have even been better, if he had looked the Viscount in the eyes and explained why he wouldn’t help. Or maybe seeing the Viscounts desperation in his eyes would have changed Geralt’s mind and he would have been able to prevent the bloodshed after all.

But he didn’t care. He couldn’t allow himself to.

He told himself that the violent fate of the Viscount wasn’t the reason why he sought out a contract that he knew he wouldn’t be able to finish without gaining at least one new scar. One new mark on his too long lists of lives taken by his choices.

[josy57]

Philosophy 101

You asked me why I wanted to attend your class. Again. To sit in the back row, silent and watchful The proverbial fly on the wall Only half-welcomed and sourly out of place

I said it was interesting, full of things that could be transferred Transferred yes, but not to what I was implying I have no professional use for my careful observation I am feeding a more private need So, having no plans to lie I added what you must have taken as mere flattery That it was also for my pleasure -The ever-fleeting pleasure of nostalgia Always a receding wave- You nodded, but I don't think you fully understood And I of course couldn't fully explain I loved your class, with all my heart, with all my aching brain As a child, I used to writhe and wrestle with my sheets With my thoughts too I couldn't sleep, so I debated the great questions As though I was the first to ever think of them Why do we use the words we do? Why do certain sounds signify, While others are only noise? Who are we to decide, to categorize, to dissect? And why are we even here? For how long? And since we do die, why does it matter? Does anything matter? And why all those questions? Can one ever reach certainty? Or is this world only quicksand and moving goalposts?

This place, this room, This air filled with your booming voice, your constant pacing That's where I found, not answers, but echoes to all my questioning Where I knew it was not insane to wonder Where I could voice it Argue, point, prod Feel for the nodes and knots of human experience Do all that and hear someone who cared too, Who would engage with those concepts, each wide as a precipice And so thorny it stung on all sides

I found some piece of myself here, I put it together And it's been useful ever since But I've also left something behind Something like youth, or innocence Some years when I was afforded the luxury Of sitting and listening to you for nine hours a week Just pouring knowledge and effort on us all Whether or not we deserved it I hope I did. I tried very hard to I was only one of the many mayflies You nurse for a while and let go, year after year, Usually never to hear from again But I never wanted you to feel I was a waste of your time A disappointment What it is like, looking at me now? Am I not less than what you had wished for? Or are you proud? Comforted that one of your frail paper boats Made it back to your shore Not across to some new territory But safely back on dryland Not wrecked nor wayward, at least from the outside

Perhaps that's what I miss That someone would look at me with pride That someone would talk to me about all those things So deeply important to me So seemingly weightless in our modern lives You spoke and you listened, you valued what I had to say That made a difference in my life More than I could ever express Because that's not a thing people do, right? Not even in philosophy We speak of love and attachment and identity But one must never say “I”

 Today the subject was truth and knowledge And while you promised to soon tackle desire I scanned the backs of all those bored faces Do they not know, do they not feel, How vital it all is? Beyond the formal exercise, the pages of clumsy essays, How burning those questions are? "Am I what I am aware of being?" "Does awareness impede or lead to happiness?" "Can any person ever be fully known?"

He alone loved this place as I do Felt its soul settle into his bones Like the dampness seeping from the walls And he too, I know, wondered, questioned, struggled Ached for more than surface can offer Him. That’s another thing you don’t know about me Another thing that even in philosophy, you can’t quite discuss Though it permeated all the pages of my old copybooks Darker and messier than a spilled inkpot Especially at certain points When Plato spoke of humans cut in halves Lost and searching When Stendhal said that desire strews all things with salt crystals I, for one, have certainly jeweled my late adolescence Candied it in a melancholy glaze

Still, my memory is not so short that I have forgotten The thousand little hells, the many small agonies of this age But I do envy it I remember when the world still had a sharp edge When it hurt in earnest, instead of pressing dully, as it does now Piling stones upon stones on my chest Back then, I had hope my life would begin soon There was still time Now I only wonder: Is it really all that comes of potential, of effort -Of all those words grown-ups lecture you with-? I played their games and reaped meager rewards A ticket for another trip round the revolving door This time looking through a thick pane of glass Lingering on the threshold of two phases Both of which I am ill-equipped for

I’ve always had an uneasy concept of chronology My internal clock spinning like a broken compass First too stern, too mature for my years And then, suddenly, unripe and lagging Then and now. It all bleeds into one here. So it is safe, this in-between, this hour out of the hourglass A gasp of air, a break in the slow drowning The constant march towards the void For that’s what it comes down to The passing of time and our human perception of it An enigma that no numbers game can settle

Nowadays, I don’t just peek over my shoulders anymore I walk through this gilded cage holding the keys of the castle I open and close doors, I stand on the wrong side of the dais Of what once was my kingdom Not one I ruled but one I belonged in I was more than a trespasser then I existed in a certain time and place This 'dasein" escapes me now As it escaped me in childhood Then too, I watched the world through a tainted window I was never fully real but for those two years or so That’s why I have no good answer: I came here today in a vain attempt Even in those halls, in this class I can't recapture it I only glance at your present students With the sourness of heartburn like a fist under my ribs

I can't help but look at them haughtily, thinking: "This is not what we were At least not him and I" I bite my tongue, not wanting to say what I feel That ours was a golden age One they could never reproduce, never fully understand Because, of course, it's false, it's myopic This bright mist has settled on my eyes The same milky film that blurs old folks' sight "Back in my days..." As if those days were ever ours You see, Kant was right about one thing, None of us lives in the real world Like tiny planets, prideful little gods We view the whole of existence as revolving around us Dimming as we lose light Dying once we die The truth is 'our' world survives our passing We visit it only as ghosts.

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Anonymous asked: As a staunch royalist I would be interested to hear your views about Prince Harry and Meghan Markle deciding to quit the British royal family. Did they do the right thing or are they just being selfish and ‘woke’? Does this ‘Megxit’ the British royal family is in crisis and its future looks bleak by this act of betrayal to the Queen?

Short answer:

I have been avoiding answering this question precisely because I became tired of hearing about it around the family dinner table or with friends when I visited England recently or now with French friends here in Paris who can’t fathom what is going on. But too many have asked about this in my blog inbox.

I don’t mean to sound so dismissive but to me it’s just a passing storm in a tea cup rather than some cataclysmic crisis of the British monarchy. Everyone should stop take a deep breath.

After the joint press statement by Prince Harry and the Duchess of Sussex statement came out on 8 January 2020 it set in motion the usual hilarious pastiche of Cold War Kremlinology by the British press.  So at any one time you had sensationalist and sanctimonious headlines such as the fury of the palace press knew no bounds. How dare they? The Queen humiliated. The palace insulted. And so on and so on.

Every newspaper editor knows there is a yawning gulf between the “public interest” and what interests the public. By any standards, Harry and Meghan have become huge celebrities. They were idolised, their charities blessed, their presence craved. Unfortunately such is human nature, the public invest something of themselves in their heroes. They see in their idols a reflection of their own fantasies and delights, hopes and fears. When they witness celebrities traumatised it can be unsettling, as the death of Princess Diana vividly showed. People cried in the street.

As Harry knew from his mother’s tragic experience, all this is par for the royal course. The British newspapers - or rather those peddling in royal tittle tattle such as the Sun, Mirror, and the Daily Mail - have a habit of erecting pedestals one minute and then the next minute they enjoy destroying the icon in the name of the public interest. Andrew’s former wife, Sarah Ferguson, was appallingly treated. So at times were Princess Anne, and Prince Edward’s wife, Sophie. Press attention should be water off the royal duck’s back. Prince Philip’s advice was reportedly: “Don’t read the bloody papers.”

While Harry was brought up surrounded by the furies of the celebrity media, Meghan’s career was the opposite. In her profession as a known actor (albeit a middling TV actor at that), image is an artifice, daily crafted and laundered by publicists.

This does not work with British royalty, which comes with its own carefully minted image attached. Its rituals are those of mind-numbing deference. It has no accountability. The only mirror it has is the press. The tabloids are the price that must be paid for adulation. They honour no discretion and have no sense of fairness. The press is a memento mori, whispering into the victor’s ear that he – or she – is only mortal. And gosh do they take that role on with sanctimonious glee. 

To be daily compared to the Duchess of Cambridge, from an utterly different social background, must have been intolerable for Meghan: the dress comparisons, the stuffiness of the court, its hyper-caution and obsession with precedence and procedure, added to the impossibility of contact with ordinary people. As a self-made millionaire already perhaps she wanted to be more than a mere civil servant in a tiara. Perhaps it proved too much but who really knows? But then I don’t know what else she expected when she decided to marry into the British royal family.

Similarly one can only speculate how much it was really Prince Harry who wanted to drop out riding on the royal carousel as he has been since birth. Regardless of who he married perhaps this was always the plan. His loathing of the British press and paparazzi is well known - he still blames them for his mother’s tragic death in Paris. It’s well known the paparazzi have tried to catch him out in manufactured scandals as he grew up. He has refreshingly come clean and has talked about how he still goes to therapy over his mother’s death. It’s no wonder he would ever subject a future wife and especially a child to the level of press intrusion that he had endured.

Prince Harry is nobody’s fool. I won’t say a bad word about him because - unlike previous and present royals with the exception of his grandfather, Prince Philip, who did active naval service during the Second World War and his uncle Prince Andrew, who as a naval officer flew Sea King helicopters during the Falklands War - he didn’t play the ceremonial toy soldier. After Eton he worked his arse off to get through Sandhurst and got commissioned with the Blues and Royals regiment. Upon the outbreak of war in Iraq, he was alleged to have said around 2006, “There's no way I'm going to put myself through Sandhurst and then sit on my arse back home while my boys are out fighting for their country.”

As it was the military chiefs got cold feet and pulled him out. But he did see active service with the British forces in Afghanistan with two tours. By all accounts he acquitted himself very well as a Forward Air Controller in Helmand Province and later as a co-pilot and gunner on Apache helicopters. He was widely respected and accepted by rank and file because he was down to earth and never asked for special treatment.  He wasn’t a typical ‘Rupert’ - a squaddie’s nickname given to British army officers who typically came from privileged aristocratic backgrounds but were also ‘nice but dim witted’.

Overall I sympathise that the Sussexes’ predicament was clearly desperate, and it is perhaps to their credit that they have brought it to a head early and not let it drag on. I feel they are sincere in their reasons to ’step back’ from the royal family and frenzied media circus around it. The fact they want to pay their own way and pay back any outstanding sums back to the royal household is perhaps a sign of that sincerity.

Instead some sections of the British press rolled out the tired old trope of the parallels between the Duke of Sussex and his great-great uncle, the Duke of Windsor, are overwhelming. Once again, a dashing, sporting, ex-military prince leaves royal life for the love of an American divorcée. This is exactly the opposite of what Edward and Mrs Wallace Simpson did when they bit the hand that fed them. They took money to support their lavish lifestyle in exile from the Queen and all the while took every opportunity to snark the fledgling young Queen from their own alternative royal court in Paris. Harry no doubt loves his grandmother and his family and would try not sully the Windsor name.

Where I would be critical a little is in their handling of it which appears naive at best and inept at worst. I suspect - since verified - that having a transatlantic split of publicists, and in addition didn’t understand the full import of how this would play out, would inevitably drop the ball. But I would extend a finger of blame to the palace courtiers who were involved in their own games of intrigue with a whispering campaign to selected journalists of the press. Indeed multiple newspapers, including the Daily Telegraph in the UK, reported that the queen was “disappointed” with the surprise announcement, and had asked the Sussexes to hold off on issuing a public statement. When The gossip mongering Sun newspaper published a front-page story that the couple was contemplating a move to Canada, the Sussexes pushed the button on their statement.

I do think the Sussexes  and their advisors were fooling themselves into thinking that they could have their cake and eat it - in other words keep the royal titles but cut back on the public and ceremonial duties. The blunt truth is if you want to stay on the books, you do so by the leave of the firm and its boss i.e. The Queen. The contract is for life. If not, you resign. There is no half in and half out. This seems to have been the gist of the family only summit at Sandringham in January 2020, with media attention worthy of the Treaty of Versailles.

I am frankly surprised how worked up people are about this. Cut out the white noise and the picture is more prosaic.

The first point is that when all is said and done, none of this drama really matters. Politically, constitutionally, it is an irrelevance. Harry, at number six, is not seriously in line to the throne. The British monarchy has long shown itself immune to crisis; indeed I wonder sometimes if it welcomes crises as implying continued importance. The divorce and death of Princess Diana were awfully tragic, as was the very public shaming of Prince Andrew and his questionable friendship with billionaire paedophile Jeffrey Epstein. But how Harry leads his life is between himself, his wife and his father, Prince Charles. That is the point of heredity. It is immune to character, as it is to merit.

The second point is we should remember that other European royal families, of the same constitutional status as Britain, have been down sizing for many years now. These royal families balanced privacy and discretion whilst holding down ordinary professions. The King of the Netherlands, Willem-Alexander, is still an airline pilot. He occasionally flies KLM jets, safe in the knowledge that few people recognise him. In 2001 Prince Haakon, heir to the Norwegian throne, married a single mother with a drug-fuelled past. Despite some controversy, he survived incognito. 

The King of Sweden, Carl XVI Gustaf, has reigned for 46 inconspicuous years as a nine-to-five job, his family merged into the Swedish bourgeoisie. The Crown Princess, Victoria, works intermittently for the UN. The King of Spain, Felipe VI, may have taken after his philandering father, Juan Carlos, but he became king without fuss on his father’s retirement in 2014. None of these “houses” has an extended state-subsidised royal family. None has grown unstable as a result.

There is no doubt that the exploitation of the British royal family celebrity by palace courtiers as PR handlers has worked. The royal family recognises that truth for itself when HRH King George VI famously quipped, “We are not a family, we are a firm”. The Queen is regularly cited as central to “UK plc” and to tourism. The British people remain overwhelmingly in favour of retaining monarchy as the focus of their patriotism, even during the wobble over Diana’s death. Republicanism is dead. The last ostentatious republican, the Fife MP Willie Hamilton, left parliament in 1987. If Scotland ever went independent it would almost certainly retain the Queen as head of state.

As for how royalty behaves, a constitutional monarchy should be beyond all controversy. As the great political and constitutional commentator (and founder of the Economist magazine) Walter Bagehot put it, “the monarch should be a dignified rather than efficient element of the constitution”. In other words, the monarchy as personified in its reigning king or queen can represent the whole nation in an emotionally satisfying way - everything else is but pure embellishment.

The Queen must be a glorious anthropomorphism of the nation as a whole. If she has opinions, she keeps them to herself - much to her credit. The contrast is clear with countries where state headship is combined with an elected executive presidency. The state risks being tainted by partisanship: witness the embarrassment many Americans feel at having their national loyalty identified with any president based on divided partisan feelings e.g. from FDR to Obama and Nixon to Trump.

A rare occasion when the monarch might overstep the mark was conjectured by Mike Bartlett in his ingenious play, King Charles III, in 2014. It was based on the present Prince of Wales as king, refusing formally to sign a bill censoring the press (good on him). In the resulting crisis, William and Kate engineer Charles’s abdication, while the tearaway Harry takes up with a republican girlfriend. It was not wholly implausible. When Belgium faced a similar crisis over King Baudouin’s refusal to sign an abortion bill in 1990, he was allowed to abdicate for a day.

How the monarchy conducts itself is not wholly irrelevant. It is part of the collective context in which the nation’s politics are enacted. It represents tradition and upholds precedent. It sets boundaries and dictates a courtesy in the conduct of public affairs - however often that courtesy is infringed. What outsiders forget (especially our American friends) is that the British political system is gloriously resilient, as the past three years of Brexit hell have shown. It can tolerate the odd eccentricity, such as the blatant purchase of parliamentary seats in the House of Lords. But the question is how far such eccentricity can extend. 

The present heir to the throne, Prince Charles, is deft at stepping mildly out of line. His views on architecture, health and the environment are not overtly partisan. But it does not matter as he is no more “powerful” than a newspaper or television commentator. His influence is that of celebrity. I would rather have the heir to throne engage intelligently in public debate than arrogantly indulge in the sordid sexual antics of his younger brother, Andrew.

For all his perceived faults, Prince Charles knows his limits. To expect such controlled nuances in the constitutional mystique of royalty to apply to an ever larger family has always been an accident waiting to happen. More prescient is the fact that the current system will impose the same disciplines and direct the same public exposure on an ever widening array of royal offspring as the years go by. I feel genuine sympathy for the royal children. Most British minors have their faces blanked out on camera, but not royal ones. They are sentenced to be recognised for life.

As a nation then we are extremely fortunate that Prince Harry is no more militant than in defence of the planet, wild animals and injured military veterans - all worthy causes if we are honest to admit it. Full disclosure: as an ex-veteran, I do give charitable donations to Invictus Games Foundation, the multi-sports event put on for wounded, injured or sick armed services personnel and their associated veterans. Prince Harry was instrumental in founding the Invictus Games in 2014 on his own initiative so that we never forget the courage and sacrifice of our military veterans.

What is already clear is that the Sussexes intend forthwith to redraw the lines of engagement with the press. They are opting out of the Royal Rota, the arrangement whereby, for decades, the royals have given access to a pool reporter from the national papers; instead, they will invite coverage from personally selected media outlets and will use their own social-media accounts, especially Instagram, to communicate directly with the public. Having railed against the media’s commodification of his wife, Prince Harry now seems prepared to take its commodification into his own hands: it was reported in January 2020 that he and the Duchess have lately submitted a trademark application for hundreds of items, from clothing to printed items, that may be issued with the couple’s personal brand, Sussex Royal.

This step is unfortunate and unedifying. To my mind, Sussex is a title, not a brand name. It is no more Harry and Meghan’s to exploit than Buckingham Palace is the Queen’s to sell off. Even if they distance themselves from the monarchy by being financially independent (as well as disowning their titles) by pursuing other commercial opportunities it only takes one scandal - e.g. a goods with their brand made from sweat shop labour or some other unforeseen PR disaster - to reflect badly on the Queen and the British monarchy solely because of Harry’s proximity to the throne. Harry may not be a Prince but he is a Windsor.

We are back to Bagehot again. For it was he who argued that the constitution was divided into two branches. The monarchy represents the “dignified” branch. Its job is to symbolise the state through pomp and ceremony. The government -Parliament, the cabinet and the civil service - represents the “efficient” branch. Its job is to run the country by passing laws and providing public services. The dignified branch governs through poetry, and the efficient branch through prose. The monarchy certainly doesn’t govern through commercial exploitation of its brand as an end in itself.

Today, the dignified branch is trying to adapt to an age of populism and until recently it’s been doing a much better job than the efficient branch. But the monarchy must never lower itself to the lowest common denominator to satisfy the base instincts of populism. As Bagehot aptly said, “An element of exaggeration clings to the popular judgment: great vices are made greater, great virtues greater also; interesting incidents are made more interesting, softer legends more soft.”

A family spat of no public importance is obsessing the nation and the world. Everyone should sit down and have a nice relaxing cup of tea.

[all-things-skam]

Title: Staying strong together | TW: mention of violence 

Ship: Wtfock | Robbe Ijzerman + Sander Driesen (Sobbe)

_______________

The date was Sander's idea. He decided they should get drinks and come back on their bikes. And, most importantly, he initiated the kiss in the street.

They hadn't been fast enough when unlocking their bikes. Even if they had, with the amount of alcohol in their blood, they would've never been able to escape them.

Sander watched as Robbe slept in his bed, the angry bruise on his face getting darker and bigger with time. The ice Zoe had gotten him earlier had fully melted, now only a bag of water. He had put it on the table to prevent its content from spilling on the mattress during Robbe's sleep.

He had gotten hurt so much worse than Sander, being smaller, therefore weaker to those guys's eyes. Sander had done everything that he could to push them away, to try to prevent them from hurting Robbe any way that he could, but they were far too strong - and outnumbered.

Robbe's eyebrows twitched, a small wince escaping as he shifted in the bed. Sander, immediately alert, craned his neck, checking if Robbe was okay. He sighed, hearing soft snores.

A part of Sander couldn't help but feel like he was responsible for what had happened. He was the older one, he was supposed to take care of Robbe - in a way. He was supposed to protect him, yet he drove him into the wolves's den by drinking and kissing in the middle of the street on a Friday night.

Had he been thinking? Maybe this was what Britt meant when she said he never thinks before acting?

Sander's eyes filled with tears, physically sick to his stomach as flashbacks of Robbe getting kicked by those homophobes hit him. He could hear Robbe's pained moans every time he closed his eyes. It was haunting him.

He should've been more careful. He should've been more on his guard and watched his surroundings before letting his pulsions kiss Robbe. Sander put their lives in jeopardy tonight and he'll have to live with that. He'll have to live with knowing that he had been the stretched cause of the pain the boy he cared so dearly about was in.

Sander pulled his knees to his chest. Just sitting in Robbe's bed and watching him sleep was difficult. How will he live and continue with his life, their relationship, knowing that he was responsible for one of the most traumatic event in Robbe's life?

His eyes welled with tears, threatening to fall. Sander shook his head, trying to chase his thoughts from his head, and his heartbeat started to pick up. He felt the tears before he knew they were falling, a sliding sensation on his left cheek.

There was a light knock on the door, but Sander didn't hear it. A creaking followed and someone poking their head in to check on them.

The streetlamp was creating a dim cast of light in Robbe's room, Milan's thin grey curtains preventing the harsh light from blinding them. It was still dark, but Milan could make out Sander's figure, awake with his knees pulled up like a small child.

Milan pulled his eyebrows. ''Sander? You okay, kitten?''

When he heard about what happened, Milan's heart broke. He had been so worried when Zoe informed him that Robbe and his boyfriend had gotten jumped in the street. Although a part of him was still mad at Robbe for saying ignorant things and assuming others about the gay community, it wasn't a reason to turn his back on him. Robbe needed him right now. Cert, Zoe was a good untrained nurse. Milan didn't doubt she'd take care of them good, but Milan was better placed to talk to Robbe about the subject matter.

Without any second thoughts, Milan had ditched his date and came to the flat to check on them. He didn't care if his date was pissed. Family came first, family takes care of each other, and Robbe was family - and so was Sander, by default.

''My fault. It's my fault.''

''What?'' Then, it clicked. Milan caught on what Sander was implying and invited himself in, refusing to let the young boy drill dark - and untrue - thoughts in his head. ''No, no, no.''

He sat on the free end of the bed, facing Sander, careful to not crush Robbe's feet under the covers. He didn't need to be in more pain at the moment.

''Robbe. It's my fault he's hurting. It's-''

''Don't,'' Milan said sternly, abruptly interrupting the blond. ''What happened wasn't your fault, Sander. If we're going to blame it on anyone, it's them. You were just living your life and acting like young people in love. It's their fault that they are so closed minded and have a problem with two boys kissing in the street.''

Sander shook his head stubbornly not falling for what Milan was saying. He wasn't willing to accept that what had happened wasn't his fault. ''I initiated the kiss. I-I leaned in and- I should've controlled myself. I should've waited to be somewhere safe, I-''

''What are you gonna do now, uh? Forbid yourself from kissing the boy you like in the street by fear someone sees and doesn't like it?'' Milan asked, cocking an eyebrow, waiting for an answer. None came. Sander kept his eyes down. ''Violence toward the LGBTQ+ community is sadly still a huge issue in Belgium, but we can't live our lives with the constant fear that something might happen. We have to be aware of the danger, not hide ourselves so we don't trigger people.''

Milan was right. And, Sander knew it. But, a part of him would've preferred that he was in the wrong. Sander didn't want to admit it, but he was scared. Knowing that he isn't easily scared, this was big. He was scared of having to go through this a second time. It would be his worst nightmare. He wouldn't be able to handle hearing Robbe's pained moans as someone kicked him in the stomach.

A tear slipped again and Sander wiped it with the back of his hand. He wished he could get these images out of his head. Forgetting would be so much easier than seeing the terror on Robbe's bleeding face.

''I suggested to leave. I was annoyed by the lack of intimacy in the bar that prevented me from kissing and touching Robbe, so we left. Despite drinking a similar amount of alcohol, Robbe was far drunker than I was. He was all smiles and giggles on the sidewalk, hugging me and even jumping on my back like a baby koala.'' Sander smiled at the happy memory, the only one from the night.

Something most ignored about Robbe was that he was an extremely cuddly and clingy person. To most, he appeared as closed off and distant, but not with Sander. On the contrary, he always had to touch Sander. Even a kiss wasn't enough, Robbe had to have at least one hand on him, touching his face, shoulder - anything. Maybe it was a proximity need or just because it was Robbe's first relationship experience. Lucky for Robbe, Sander liked his clinginess. He found it adorable.

''I kissed him before grabbing our bikes, eager to get home- I mean, here, but this group of guys started yelling slurs at us. It was gross stuff. I chose to be the bigger person and ignore them. We tried to hurry, unlock our bikes fast, alas we weren't fast enough... They caught Robbe first and, when I tried to go and help him, another guy grabbed me by my hood from the back and-'' Sander's bottom lip trembled, incapable to finish.

Milan reached out and put a comforting hand on his knee, not knowing Sander's limits. Robbe had grown accustomed to Milan's touchiness, but it was Sander's first time meeting him. He didn't know what the boundaries between them were yet.

''I can't imagine how traumatic tonight must've been for you. It's normal to be scared right now and it's normal to feel a bit paranoid too. Dealing with the aftermath of an attack isn't a piece of cake, but you have each other. Allow yourself to have each other. I know you want to be strong in front of Robbe, but you don't have to carry all this weight on you. Don't let a distance form between you two because of this; let it pull you closer.'' Milan paused, seeing some movement from Robbe's side of the bed.

By reflex, Sander glanced at him, looking so small under the blanket. He'll admit, leaving had been tempting. If he left, he wouldn't hurt Robbe anymore, but Milan's perspective made him realize that leaving would cause more pain to Robbe. So, he wasn't going anywhere.

''I have been lucky and never got into a similar situation, but Robbe's kind of my little protege and seeing him in pain because some conceited assholes couldn't stand seeing a different kind of love than theirs hurts me. He never told me, but I know he's struggling to accept his sexuality and this attack just made it more difficult for him. So many have gone back into the closet after being attacked, I hope it doesn't happen to Robbe.''

Robbe made a whining noise and rubbed his nose, a sign that he was waking up. Seeing this, Milan took this as his queue to part, leaving the young lovers to themselves.

''Sander?'' he said in a soft, sleepy voice. Robbe gently reached out to him, knowing that Sander was behind him, and hissed, the bruises on his stomach and chest throbbing at the stretch.

''I'm here. Don't hurt yourself.'' Sander took his hand, gently placing a kiss on the back of his hand. ''Do you need anything?'' the guilt left inside him asked.

For the past hours, everyone at the flatshare has been at his bedside, constantly asking if he - or Sander - needed anything like a glass of water, painkillers or another pillow. It was heartwarming to see everyone being there for him and caring. Even Senne, whom Robbe barely interacted with.

Robbe shook his head. ''Just lay down with me. I need you close.''

Sander nodded, more than happy to do that. He slid down under the covers and pulled Robbe into his arms, carefully wrapping his arms around him, trying to not touch where he was hurt. ''Is this okay? I'm not hurting you, am I?''

''No.'' The brunet leaned back into his boyfriend, a blanket of safety enveloping him. A small smile settled on Robbe's lips when he felt Sander's platinum hair tickle his neck where he hid his face. ''This is perfect.''

[rukafais]

so about how like. grimm does seem to be the "healthiest" god for lack of a better way to put it, and his ritual seems to involve change rather than stagnation, but brumm seems to think it Is stagnant and like futilely cyclical/unending? could you talk about this a bit or direct me to where you have if i missed it please? :0 i'm not trying to be negative about grimm ftr i just think that's interesting and have no idea what to do w/ it

Oh I absolutely don’t mind talking about it this is my FAVOURITE SUBJECT, it is so fun!

This is all my personal interpretation to some extent backed up by as much canon as there is but basically, here’s some stuff to think about:

- Grimm’s cycle of death and rebirth and having a child that is clearly separate from him and their own person implies that Grimm works in incarnations, not reincarnations - once the current Grimm dies, they’re dead forever, and the child that grows up to be the next Grimm is their own person.

- Grimm dying and the Nightmare King dying along with him is clearly a painful experience - the Nightmare King shatters/is torn to pieces upon defeat, Grimm himself does actually cry out and make noises of pain when defeated.

- This ritual has gone on for a very long time, which means the Nightmare King is eternally being torn to pieces and each incarnation of Grimm is eventually destined to die and go wherever dead incarnations of Grimm go (likely into the Nightmare Heart).

- Even despite the Nightmare King playing a necessary role (cleaning out the last remnants of dead kingdoms as a kind of supernatural scavenger so that something new is able to grow in place of the old), it’s clear that death and rebirth and passing the torch this way is painful.

- Brumm is clearly an outsider to the Troupe given that he is able to leave it (and have his memories erased so he’s not attached to it/regretting his decision any more) and has probably known Grimm for a while. They seem to be quite close given the way Brumm talks about him and the Grimmchild.

- Brumm is understandably quite upset about the idea that someone he loves and is strongly attached to (and you could read that love as platonic or romantic, obviously i view it as romantic but i’m sure some people have other views on it, this is just mine) will die, and probably in a fairly painful way, even if Grimm himself has accepted it.

- Understandably, he wants to save or spare his master and his child from that kind of pain (since his child will inherit that burden when they grow old enough to take it on, and presumably start their own troupe).

From Brumm’s viewpoint, it is in fact an understandably upsetting thing to witness, especially if Brumm has only known this incarnation of Grimm and joined the troupe for him as his musician - the knowledge that he will someday die, that his death is predetermined and painful, is incredibly heavy, especially given that there’s the implication that the troupe is…probably very long-lived, or at least those who join it don’t seem to obey normal laws of time and space and that probably accounts to age.

- so Grimm looks at it from a perspective of being the vessel, and this being his responsibility - not his entire life, but it’s his duty to carry the flame. Whether he has the ability to choose his time of death is ambiguous (he may very well be able to) but that, in itself, is a heavy burden that he accepts, even if acceptance doesn’t make it less painful or sad or emotionally heavy.

- Brumm looks at it from a perspective of wanting to save someone he cares about from something he only views as a perpetual cycle of suffering, even if he likely understands that the Nightmare King’s duty is important. It doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt him to know that Grimm will die and his child will carry on the cycle.

- Both views can be held simultaneously, and they can still care about one another to the point that it hurts them both.

- Therefore, there is no ‘good’ or ‘bad’ ending, because your choice is to fulfill the personal desires of one person or another. Something is lost, something is gained. No matter what you choose, Grimm and Brumm will be separated forever, either through Brumm becoming Nymm and effectively ceasing to exist*, or Grimm dying and passing on the flame to his child (and Brumm having to make his peace with the master he followed being irretrievably dead, and likely in a place he can’t follow him to even in dying himself.)

* fun theory i’ve discussed with friends is that the Carefree Melody charm you get from Nymm is made from Brumm’s dying wish, and the person you met as the Troupe’s musician is effectively dead

So, there we go! There’s some stuff about how the Nightmare King can be the ‘healthiest’ and most balanced god in the setting and is essentially just doing his job  and also Brumm still viewing it as stagnation/futility. It’s all very tangly and sad basically.

[whisker-biscuit]

In the Name of Science: Chapter 2

Fandom: Sonic Movie (2020)

Rating: T for unethical experimentation, implied violence and gore, and implied torture

Summary: Tom and Maddie didn’t make it in time to rescue Sonic from Robotnik. Hopefully it’s not too late to save him now.  Unfortunately, hope is hard to come by in the labs of the mad doctor himself.

Note: things are going to start getting really unpleasant from here on out. This chapter is still pretty tame, but proceed with caution.

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

Dr. Ivo Robotnik, M.D. Log 2

Subject regained consciousness at 10:12 MST during initial quill examination, and was verbally hostile upon contact with lead scientist (Dr. Ivo Robotnik, M.D., PhDx5). Subject placed in temporary holding enclosure for injury recovery as well as spoken interview, which was conducted at 10:30 MST. Transcript attached below.

…….

Sonic is brought into a much larger room than the one he’d woken up in. From his position between the two floating egg-robots, he can see that this one is set up with a lot of strange machines and tables and equipment that he couldn’t possibly hope to recognize, much less name. It almost looks like a secret evil lab from one of Tom and Maddie’s movies.

This association is what really makes the reality of the situation sink in.

“Hey, uh, what’s that?” He stares at a giant tube-looking thing in the corner, trying to distract himself from darker thoughts.

Robotnik ignores him, fiddling with his recording equipment, but Agent Stone follows his gaze.

“That’s an MRI machine.”

“Oh. What’s that do?”

“It’s a –”

“I know you’re having a splendid time fraternizing with the alien lifeform, Stone, but the most important homo sapiens in your life would very much enjoy your full attention.”

“Of course Doctor, sorry!” The assistant practically prances to his boss’ side, a goofy smile on his face. Sonic doesn’t understand any of it.

Turns out it doesn’t matter either way, because the hedgehog is suddenly carried above a large metal container with an open top. With another flick of the scientist’s wrist, the robots drop Sonic and he hits the inside of the pen, hissing as all his bruises are aggravated. The ceiling door closes automatically with a whoosh.

The teen makes a few pained noises while he tries to reorient himself. He’s always healed pretty quickly but this hasn’t been nearly enough time since the fight, and his entire body is revolting. He picks himself up into a sitting position as best he can to get a better look at his situation.

He’s in a cage large enough for him to lay down and stretch in any angle, but it’s not much bigger than that. Most of the walls barring one are thick mesh with thick metal reinforcing them from behind, and half the floor is the same. The other half is covered in something that looks suspiciously like a dog bed. The ceiling is just solid metal with no mesh, and it’s roughly the same proportion as the length and width.

Sonic scoots to the front of the cage so he can watch his human captors through the single “open” wall, if bars he can only stick one finger between counts as open. His restraints are weird – they sort of resemble his rings, circled around each individual wrist and ankle and keeping them together in a way he hasn’t quite figured out yet. He tries to pull them apart without much luck.

Robotnik seems to notice the attempt, because he waves a hand in the air without turning towards the hedgehog.

“Don’t bother! Those are highly magnetic and in tune only with each other.”

“….What’s ‘magnetic’?”

“Ugh, never mind.” The scientist does a little whirl to face the cage, holding a microphone connected to the machine behind him. He taps the mic and nods in satisfaction when it echoes. “Agent Stone, start the recording procedure please.”

The assistant gives affirmation as he flips a switch. Mechanical humming fills the air. Robotnik clears his throat.

“Log date: May 14th, 2020, 10:30 am MST. First official verbal interview with extraterrestrial subject, serial designation 06231991. It is unknown whether subject will be verbally hostile, so any redacted statements during this recording will be result of vulgarity and/or dialogue irrelevant to scientific development.”

He steps up to the cage, which sits just below his eyelevel, and observes Sonic a moment. The teen stares warily back.

“Subject, do you have a title you refer to yourself as?”

“Um…”

The man heaves a giant, put-upon sigh. “A name?”

“Oh. S-Sonic. I’m Sonic.” He kicks himself for tripping over his own name. This is just talking, why is it making him nervous?

“Sonic.” Robotnik says the word like he’s about to rip it to shreds. “So, Sonic, what would you say you are?”

“A hedgehog.”

“Did you base that name on the Earth creature sharing similar features?”

“No? I’ve always been a hedgehog.” Sonic lets himself relax a little bit. It really is just talking; he can do that just fine. “S’not my fault you guys named something after me.”

“I see. How long have you been on Earth?”

“Ten years.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirteen, I think.”

The scientist pauses at that, tilting his head down a little bit in a way that’s hard to read. “Really? You’ve been on Earth for most of your life?”

“Yeah…”

“Remarkable. Living here all this time right under our noses.” He strokes his mustache with a glint in his eye. “If only I’d discovered your presence sooner, everything would have been so much cleaner.”

Sonic’s fingers curl together.

“Oh well, no need to dwell on what could’ve been, until I finally unravel the science behind time travel at least.” Robotnik lets out an arrogant laugh. Stone mirrors him from behind. “So my elusive little subject, what’s the maturation rate of your kind?”

“What?”

“Hmm. You really don’t know much of anything, do you?”

It’s said with such a belittling sneer that the teen averts his eyes for a moment, feeling his face flush.

“Least I don’t dress like a bad guy from the Matrix,” he can’t help but mumble. His captor’s eyebrow twitches.

“My aesthetic is downright prodigious, thank you very much. But we’re getting off-topic! I asked about your maturation rate, you’re not smart enough to figure out what that means from the context clues, and frankly I’m getting bored by all this hands-off interaction for the sake of formal procedure. Would you say you’re closer in relative age to a child, adolescent, or adult?”

“I don’t – I don’t know, maybe teenager? Maybe?” Sonic hates that he doesn’t know, that he has no reference for knowing. He doesn’t even have the confidence to pretend that he does.

“Oh, really. That’s very interesting.”

The hedgehog feels every quill stand up on end at Robotnik’s suddenly subdued voice. He watches as the man’s expression morphs into manic contemplation. Agent Stone seems to sense the change, because he turns off the machine that’s recording their conversation.

“You’re an adolescent then. Thirteen years old, hiding here on this planet for whatever reason, honestly I don’t really care what sort of sob story you’re peddling but I have no doubt it exists. It’s no wonder you’re so ignorant.”

“I’m not ignorant!” He raises his voice like that will help prove his point.

“Oh, but you are. An obtuse, uneducated little creature that exists in a place it does not belong. Tell me, how many humans have you made direct contact with? Let someone see the real you, had a two-way conversation on equal footing…given physical contact.”

Robotnik lifts his hand and presses one finger against the bars, as if pretending he’s petting Sonic’s head again. The teen inches away towards the back of the cage, practically baring his teeth.

“Stop it.”

“Answer the question, hedgehog.”

“No! It’s none of your beeswax anyway, so back off!”

The scientist throws back his head and cackles. He comes down from his mirth fairly quickly and wipes a tear from his eye. “Everything about you is my ‘beeswax’, my pokey little fellow. I own you. I own your powers, your thoughts, your feelings, all of it. I’m astounded it hasn’t sunk in yet.”

“Cause it’s not true, Eggman! I’m me, and that’s it!”

The air around Sonic starts crackling. Robotnik places a hand in his pocket.

“Is that what your flatfoot nursemaid told you? Thank god I got you away from such fictitious foolishness, who knows what other absurdities he was filling your spiky little head with.”

“I told you not to talk about him like that!”

Full of angry energy, Sonic launches off of his heel and rams into the front bars in the same moment Robotnik pulls out a remote and presses a single button. Electricity that doesn’t belong to the hedgehog lights up the entire cage, leaving Sonic to experience the full brunt of it with his whole body pressed against metal. He stiffens up with a wordless cry and loses both his momentum and the power coursing through him.

It discharges outward and short-circuits whatever was generating the voltage running through the pen, saving the convulsing teen from further pain. He’s twitching so much that he doesn’t even notice the ceiling door open up again, nor the floating robot that drops inside to pull away several more quills. They’re still pulsing with energy.

Robotnik closes the door behind the robot as it leaves, then turns to regard his subject who’s making little mewling noises as his muscles seize against his will. He rolls his eyes at the display because really, the voltage was not that high. It didn’t even last more than a few seconds because of the creature’s rude outburst creating that blackout in his beautiful container.

He signals to Agent Stone, who is quick to turn on the recorder again.

“Note: next question involved reasons for subject’s existence on Earth and opinion on humans, at which time subject became hostile and attempted assault. No harm came to present researchers due to precautionary measures, and subject has been successfully and safely contained. Verbal interview will be postponed for later date until subject recovers and is more willing to discuss reasons for coming here without becoming violent.”

The man shuts off his mic and passes it to his assistant, yawning with a hand pressed to his mouth.

“Walk with me, Stone. I do believe it’s a fine time for sleep, now that all the immediate excitement is over.”

“Yes, sir!”

They leave the quivering hedgehog alone with the hum of a million machines and state-of-the-art security. Halfway down the hallway, Robotnik stops.

“Oh, just a moment.” He taps his gloves a few times and something whirrs to life back in the room. “There we go!”

“Sir?”

“Almost forgot to set up a sustenance bot for the little thing. I’m so used to wonderful, unfeeling robots with no need for constant nourishment, it’s easy to forgot that these fragile organic bodies require food and water, ha!”

“Uh…but Doctor, you’re also –”

“Don’t remind me of things I don’t like being reminded of, Stone!” The scientist snaps. He runs a careful hand through his hair and straightens his jacket rather prissily. “Anyway, you said something earlier about dinner being Argentina-inspired?”

Stone beams and his shoulders lift with pride. “Yep! Milanesa a la napolitana with a sprinkling of oregano and curry powder. Should be done within an hour.”

“God, that sounds lovely. In the mean time I’ll be setting up some analysis programs for the blood and quill samples and making another written log report. Do not disturb me unless I either call you directly or dinner’s done.”

“Of course, sir.” Stone hustles down the hall and makes a right turn. Robotnik turns left.

“Now then,” he says gleefully to himself, rubbing his hands together as he plops down in his Important Analysis Chair. “Let’s get this spiky ball rolling!”

…….

Additional quill samples taken after verbal interview to compare dormant and active power input of subject. It is predicted that while the active quills contain infinitely higher levels of energy, dormant quills are still capable of significant power.

After full physical recovery is reached, more thorough examinations of anatomy will be administered as well as analysis of speed, endurance, and power production. In the interim, behavioral training will begin in earnest. Subject has demonstrated capability to defer to proper authority with enough prompting.

Goal by end of week is to not need prompting. 

End log

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

A/N: Sorry for the wait, I’ve been SUPER busy this week. Hope the longer chapter made up for it though! As stated above, things are going to get a lot worse before they get better, so just make sure you’re aware of that going in.

Also, originally I was going to have a side-by-side of Tom and Maddie working to find Sonic, but then I realized I have no idea how to make that work. If anyone has suggestions feel free to let me know, otherwise it’s going to be solely Sonic and Robotnik focus until (if) he’s rescued.

Thanks for reading, and have a good one!

Chapter 1

Chapter 3

[blukrown]

Not Meant To Be Chapter - 5

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4

Also available on AO3

WARNING! This pic contains: implied/referenced sexual assault

If any of these upset you, please do not read!

Remarks Which Sting

Faris had woken to another morning in Hyrule castle roused by Tebanam's peppered kisses and hugs. Opening his eyes, the bodyguard quickly closed them again as the sunlight shining through the window stung his retinas. He let out a grunt, as if annoyed to be awoken. Stretching his arms to wrap around the prince's shoulders, who hovered over the bed.

"Good morning, Faris." Tebanam said with a large amount of energy for someone awake this early in the morning. Halfway to dressed, his hair was unkempt and overall looked pleasingly disheveled from what Faris could see through his squinting eyelids.

Faris only let out another noise of displeasure as a response. This not mirrored in his single kiss he pressed to his lover's cheek.

Tebanam left Faris to get up, his footsteps the only sound in the large bedchamber.

"What are you doing today?" Faris finally spoke, wiping his eyes of sleep to watch Tebanam go about his business.

"I'm going to talk to Papa today, which'll only take a few hours." The prince answered as he tried to clean up the scattered piles of clothing that had been thrown aside the night before. "After that, I should be free for the rest of the day."

"Good to know," Faris murmured, combing a hand through his messy dreads.

Tebanam looked over and smiled. Clearly seeing something he liked, he sat on the edge of the bed. "At midday, I'll be checking up on Atem." The prince said, pulling on a shirt and beginning to button it closed. "We can meet from there."

Faris nodded, "I'll probably train."

Tebanam pouted, "And I don't get to watch?"

"No," Faris answered curtly, "You're distracting."

Noticing Tebanam's buttons were offset, Faris reached out and replaced the prince's fingers with his own. Doing the arduous process of undoing them all and realigning them. Tebanam watched with a soft smile. Waiting for his partner to finish before leaning to give him a peck on the lips as thanks.

Being in private, Faris felt more than comfortable to show his prince that he wanted him to stay. His scarred and calloused hand going to hold at the other man's chin in an effort to hold him still for a longer kiss. The prince let out a sigh, noticeably wanting to stay too but he still pulled away.

"Don't tempt me," Tebanam muttered, his own hand going to caress Faris' where it held his face. "I don't want to keep Papa waiting."

Faris licked his lips, pondering his words before he spoke, "We have time." Trying to at least copy the charismatic tone Tebanam always used when he wanted something.

Tebanam's wistful smile turned to one of mischief, "Faris, are you suggesting . . . ?" His tone playful as he left out the very subject Faris was proposing.

Faris blushed, even with having the words down he did not have the control to restrain his embarrassment. But before he could take back his words, Tebanam had his answer.

It had turned out that, no, they did not have enough time. But it was not like the men had realised this in the moment. In fact, it was only after they're steamy embrace had ended that Tebanam had chanced a look at the clock above the fireplace. Although his shirt was still buttoned, his bottoms had vanished once more. So once finding himself in decent attire, the prince had left. Although not without blowing a kiss to Faris on the way out.

Faris took his time getting ready. As he still needed time to figure out how to bind, buckle and arrange the clothes he had been given as a present when arriving in the castle. At least he did not need Tebanam's help this time. And felt, overall proud if his progress in dressing himself. He doubted he would need all the layers once getting to the training grounds, he also did not wish to give the Hyrule castle residences anymore reason to gossip about him.

Leaving the quarters, it was a decent walk to the gatehouse where the knights occupied, but Faris felt he could manage it this time and not get lost. But in Faris' defence, you couldn't blame him for it. The incredibly ornate building was awe-inspiring, certainly, but to manage your way through the identical halls was a talent he had not yet attained.

The bodyguard forgot just how quiet their section of the castle was. Being part of the royal family, Tebanam's room was separated from the normal hustle and bustle of castle life. Although there was still room for more noise in the empty halls, chatter of servants, clanking of armour and clattering of cleaning gave life to the castle. Faris noticed it did seem louder than usual, probably due to the servants packing everything away after the festivaties the night before. But even with the added din, he could still hear them.

The whispers.

In Faris' normal life, even with a prince of Hyrule by his side, they were very much seen as strangers wherever they had travelled. They had a shocking amount of anonymity. In fact, for the first few months of Faris knowing Tebanam, he had not even known he was a prince. 

In Hyrule castle, however, Faris would walk and find that each person who saw him, recognised him. Whether he was training in the grounds or dancing in great hall, everyone knew - to some capacity - of who he was.

Although the hushed words rang loudly whenever he heard them, Faris had thought he had gotten used to them. Knew all the rumours and all the knowledge that was being carried around. But Goddesses, was he wrong.

Away from the safe and quiet of the royal quarters, servants did not show much shame in murmuring all around him. He even saw a knight patrolling, lean to his counterpart as they passed him. Eyes tailed him, all keeping their distant, yet ever aware of his presence.

"It's one thing to be attracted to men, but something like him?"

"Surely our prince is only interested in him for the rarity."

"Or maybe just for his experience."

"And in return he lives a life of luxury."

"He's damaged goods, he's not worth a single rupee."

Avoiding the knight's grounds, Faris had opted to go to the stables to pay a visit to his and Tebanam's horses. Even the small stablehand appeared to have opinions of him, scampering past him to grab the other child servant and dashing out of the horse's enclosure.

"From being with a noble before, his standards have really gone down."

"He's a brute, you know. I heard he killed hundreds in the coliseum."

"His name is Skullcrusher, what did you expect?"

"Did you see him just the other day? He almost killed a nobleman!"

"A brute in all regards."

Escaping to one of the many gardens was no use as well. Gardeners sherring the grass and clipping the flowers looked at him like he was lower than the worms that wriggled in the unearthed ground.

"Do you think he had another name in the whorehourse?"

"I heard he was so desirable the prince had to bid against a local noble."

"He's worth a whole ship's worth of rupees, supposedly."

"Poor prince, played like a fool."

"No different from your common whore."

"Just go to your local brothel. At least those ones know how to dress."

For the whole morning, Faris did not find freedom from the assumptions, rumours and disgusted looks that stalked him wherever he went.

What was going on?

Tebanam had told him the people of the castle were starting to see him favourably just the other day. As honest word of the couple's adventures and Faris' dedication to the prince. This, this was something entirely different. What could have changed in the last day, no, hours, since the pleasant reception he had received the night before at the party? And more importantly, how did they all know? Details of Faris' past were tightly constrained to merely being a colosseum warrior. It wasn't supposed to be known as a slave or a slut.

One would think, rumours were just rumours. Tebanam seemed unbothered by all the things said about him after all. And Faris had found his way of tolerating them. But these simple whispers, they were so near to the truth that they dug up memories. Memories Faris and Tebanam had worked hard to forget. Memories that Faris had found peace with after all those years.

The eyes looked at him the way people did in Al-Daida. Just a monster, a slave, a toy, something below human. It had Faris uncomfortable and almost sick. And there was no way he could escape it.

Atem chirped cheerily as Tebanam let his ungloved hand scratch under his chin, just below his sharp beak. The bird of prey clearly missed him, acting more like a touch starved cat than a hawk.

"Have you been behaving, Atem?" Tebanam cooed to his pet. Even with the docile way the predator was acting currently, the fresh scratches of the castles' pigeon messenger and caretaker said otherwise. Tebanam had to note mentally to compensate the young man for his effort in caring for the hawk while he was busy.

The prince didn't trust the normal falconers of Hyrule castle to Atem's care. Although he knew the bird would be fed and housed well, they were strict and disliked how Tebanam spoiled his dear hawk. But he couldn't help it. Atem had been a gift from Ralnor when he left Hyrule for the first time and although he was supposed to be a messenger, he had also become an important companion. An emotional crutch and pillar of support very early on after leaving his royal life behind. Of course, he now found that in Faris but that did not mean he did not want Atem to ever feel left out.

The noise of fear-stricken pigeons, ruffling and flaring up their wings in their cages at the sight of the hawk kept Tebanam's ears occupied. But he still noticed Faris entering the small castle turret room before he could announce himself.

"Faris," Tebanam said cheerily, more than happy to see his lover up and dressed, although he did not much hate the sight of him when he had left him that morning. "How was training? You better not have shown off too much in front of the knights."

Faris was silent, which was normal for him. It was more the cautious look Faris adorned, sizing up the pigeon carer - who cast a wary look from where he fed a very rowdy cage of pigeons -, that had Tebanam concerned.

Faris joined him at Atem's perch without giving the bird a single glance. Which was surprising as Faris and Atem had this unstated loathing for each other. Tebanam would think he would at least give the needy hawk some sort of glare.

Tebanam frowned, he could tell something was wrong. "What's the matter?" He enquired, reaching out to touch his shoulder.

But the bodygaurd kept out of his reach, his eyes darting to the young man who still watched them. As if he felt some sort of shame by the servant knowing of their relationship.

"Atalph," The prince called, grabbing the pigeon carer's attention. "Can you please leave us for a moment? I'm sure that there's someone who needs to send a letter."

The young Hyrulian stiffened, his eyes darting between the two men before bowing. Leaving the room without saying a word, the patter of his footsteps down the turret steps soon vanished.

"Faris?" Tebanam asked, hoping to at least know what was bothering him.

The bodygaurd's jaw visibly clenched. His eyes looking around the room in case there was no one else apart from them, the pigeons and Atem to hear him.

"Have you been listening to what they've been saying?" Faris asked. His voice low, weighed with what sounded like anger.

"What?" Tebanam frowned, "Who? What have they been saying?"

Faris was not one to speak straight, his cautious nature had him stepping lightly both with body and words. But clearly, he was so troubled and his forgivings did not stop him.

"The people, the knights, the servants . . . Everyone. They've been talking about us all morning."

The prince tried to recall the behaviour of the Hyrulians. Apart from being with his father, walking the halls he had thought the servants were more talkative than usual. But he had thought it harmless, rumours were things that were common place in such an environment. Especially after the festivities the night before.

"What have they been saying?"

Faris paused, the words were on his tongue, Tebanam could tell. But those words seemed to bite back, making the man cautious to affirm them by even vocalising them.

Faris listed them, from being a brute, to a whore, to a murderer, to a slave. Tebanam openly refuted each and everyone of them, not even bothering to give it a second thought. Yet although Faris did not voice it, Tebanam's objections did not seem to matter to him. The words appeared to have cut him in a place no sword could reach. Tebanam could almost see it in his eyes, his mind surely recalling all the memories he had worked so hard to forget. He was reliving them, every bout in the coliseum, every night in the whorehouse and every whip strike.

Tebanam could not care less about rumours about himself. But to see his lover so badly wounded by the bites of whispers had an anger begin to bubble. Apart from word of his prowess in the colosseum, not much was known of Faris. And his mother and older brother had promised to keep it that way. So then how did all of Faris' past get spread? Even with the lies that matched the usual absurdities of gossip, truths were woven in to tell a realistic picture of it all as it had been.

"I'll tell Mama," Tebanam stated, holding his lover by both shoulders to get his full attention. "I'll make this right, Faris. I promise you."

Queen Zelda sat in her office, scouring over her usual load of paperwork. She was just beginning to ponder about having lunch in her office, or find her husband and eat together, when the doors of her private office burst open.

The queen jumped, glowering and ready to begin accosting the intruder. But paused at the sight of her youngest son, Tebanam.

"Don't scare me like that. You wouldn't want me to have a heart attack, would you?" The queen chided and was about to ask whether he would want to eat lunch with her. But she then saw the anger in the prince's eyes. "What's the matter?"

"The people are finding out about Faris' past mama." Tebanam began, getting to his mother's desk and almost towering over her where she sat. "He's been hearing it all morning. The most horrible things."

"Teb," Zelda began, trying to be patient and calm the man's anguish by using his childhood nickname. "You know that people talk. Surely it's nothing too-"

"They know about the brothel," Tebanam interupted. Zelda would castrate him for his rudeness but the declaration shocked her. She let her son continue on, "They know about the truth of the coliseum, the slavery. Everything."

Zelda was rather surprised. She stayed silent, pondering over her words but not quick enough before Tebanam began his accusations.

"Only family is supposed to know about this, Mama. You and Ralnor promised that the investigation you were going to do was only a precaution. That all you found would never be revealed to the public!"

For one, it was rare for anyone, apart from her husband to yell and condemn the Queen. But she was shocked by the predicament. This wasn't good. Of course, Faris' well fair was a priority but her family, her rule, her country was going to be under a great deal of grief with this revelation. She could almost hear her nobleman confronting her for it. It was bad enough Faris was a foreigner, like Zarazu and Vul'kar before him, but a freed slave?

"I did so Teb," Zelda replied, defending herself as she tried to think the whole situation through. "Apart from the Dragmire, only the spy knew. And he has sworn an oath of loyalty bound to the crown."

Tebanam clearly wanted to spit on such an oath, but he knew he had no evidence to prove otherwise. "Do you know where all of these whispers would have come from?"

"No," Zelda said, thinking for a moment. "I haven't noticed these rumours myself but . . . It has to be a nobleman, or at least someone who is knowledgeable of the customs of Al-Daida." The Queen then sighed, messaging her forehead, "But by now there will be so many divergents from the original that surely it would be impossible to track them. This sort of gossip would spread like wildfire, after all."

She stood up, walking around her desk. Standing in front of her youngest child, she took his large hands in her own.

"Whoever did this meant to cause a stir." The queen continued, squeezing the man's fingers. "They've done it well and fast. The rumours will surely reach the outer parts of the castle city by nightfall."

"Is there anyway we could stop it?" Tebanam implored, reciprocating the squeeze with his own. A custom the two did since he was a young child.

Zelda could see the desperation in her dear's eyes. Clearly he must've seen his lover's reaction to this whole debacle. It hurt her to see him like this. For all the cordialness and authority she tried to uphold, she adored her children, Tebanam included. She would do anything for him, so it pained her so much to know she was powerless.

"My sweet Teb," Keeping one hand in his, she cupped the other at his cheek. "You know just as well as I do that stopping whispers is like holding sand in your hands. There's always someway they will seep through." The saying was Ganondorf's and had been spoken many times since the King and Queen had wed. It was part of the reality of the Dragmire family. Being royals did not stop the rumours of being dirty, ill-mannered and barbaric from being uttered. Zelda was proud to see such accusations did not leave a harsh scar on any of her children, but for an outsider, this was a world full of a different sort of cruelty. "The best thing you could do is ignore them. Let actions prove doubters wrong."

"But that's us, Mama." Tebanam said, his tone heavy with frustration. "Faris is different. He's never lived like this before. This'll hurt him more than it would hurt me or you."

Zelda knew fretting would get them nowhere, squeezing her princling's fingers, she tried to calm him. "Tebanam, you know I am the least likely person to call a surrender - well, apart from your father - but the best thing you can do is be by poor Faris' side. Prove all rumours wrong, that your love is true and Faris is a good man. Only with time will such talk fade." While Zelda may try to summon Ralnor's talents to uncover the criminal who began speculation, her advice was the only resolute way to solve this problem. After all, it had worked for all other situations like it. "I am sorry this is all I can do for you. But I promise you, I will find the perpetrator."

Tebanam looked to understand, although anger still glistened in his amber eyes. At least his anger was not towards the Queen anymore.

He squeezed his mother's hand one final time. Saying his thanks, he had made quick progress in leaving. Surely returning to Faris to comfort and decide on their next more.

Chapter 6

This fic is based on the Zelgan au by @figmentforms

The Zelgan babies, as well as Faris and Jozah, are created by @s-kinnaly

And special thanks to @ridersoftheapocalypse  for writing the main fanfic about Tebanam and Faris, which inspired this fic

I highly recommend you look at their content on this to have a better understanding of the story

[anagentinwriting]

Subscribe - Part 14

Summary: (Modern AU) Peter was your college sweetheart until a certain event led to your break up. Seven years later another event brings you two back together, but this time a little girl is in the picture. Will listening to your podcasts be the reason you two get back together or be another reason to keep you apart?

Pairing: Peter Quill x Reader

Word Count: 4655 (ooftah!!)

Warnings: Angst, fluff, swearing, implied sexy times

Subscribe Masterlist / Main Masterlist

AN: Again, Podcast is in italics and the flashback is indented and in italics. Hopefully, this works on all platforms. 

Peter got back home from dropping Mer off and knew he needed to clean up the kitchen. He was going to be finding rogue sprinkles for the foreseeable future, but he figured it could wait a few hours. He laid on his couch and turned on Netflix, but he couldn’t settle on what to watch. Instead, he switched off the TV and grabbed his headphones off the coffee table. As soon as he found episode #93, he pressed play.

“Hey, my loves, this is your charismatic host, Wanda Maximoff. In today’s episode, we tackle breakups, divorce, and co-parenting. Our guest today is recent divorcee, Scott Lang. We’re going to be talking about these subjects among others as he shares his experience on co-parenting over his daughter Cassie.  Play that intro.”

“Hi Scott, Welcome to our little show,” Wanda stated with enthusiasm.

“I am honored to be here.  This may surprise some people, but I do listen to this show from time to time. There is so much good advice and tips on here, and the banter between you and YN is hilarious.”

“We aim to please,” Wanda chuckled. “We know you’re divorced and from what I understand you and your ex-wife get along really well.”

“We do, yes, but it takes time to figure out the right schedule and who gets her on what holidays. It’s all about collaborating and working together. It’s not a competition, but what is best for your child. Sometimes it’s tough.”

“Life is. Let’s get into it shall we, so what happened with you and your ex-wife Maggie?”

“It all started……..

....and then we got a divorce. She ended up marrying this asshat cop. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a nice guy and all, but I often wonder where it all went wrong. I thought me and Maggie were going to be forever, but some people just don’t work together,” Scott stated. 

“How do you and your ex-wife do it?

“Well, we don't anymore,” Scott laughed. “Oh right, you meant co-parenting with Cassie, well, when it's my time with her she's all I focus on. I have to be there for her because before I know it, she will be all grown up. I'm an open book around her, and I try to be as honest as I can with her."

“Does she want you and her mom to get back together?”

“No, no, I don't think so. I’m happy for Maggie and Jim. What they have together, I hope I can find one day. I’m not mad at her because our marriage didn’t work. To tell you the truth, it was probably for the best. I wasn’t going to try and make it work because it would have done more harm than good. Sure, I miss seeing and hanging out with Cassie every day, but Maggie allows me to visit her whenever I can and I can’t thank her enough for that.”  

“You sound like you have an understanding ex-wife.”

“I do! Some of us don't get so lucky. How about you YN?” Scott paused. “That’s right, get in here.”

You chuckled, “I'm amazed how Wanda keeps asking the guests to invite me in and talk. It’s like she thinks I won't say no to them.”

“Well, are you going to say no?” Scott asked.

“How could I say no to you, Scott?”

“You’re too sweet, YN.”

“Ooo...you’re too kind Scott.”

“Oh my god, are you two done flirting? We do have a show to finish first,” Wanda joked.

“Yeah we’re done,” you chuckled. 

“You can answer this or not, but what led to the events of Star-lord and your breakup?” Scott questioned.

“I will answer this.” You cleared your throat. “It all started when he applied for this internship in Los Angeles on a whim and got it. If you all remember right, we were attending college in Missouri so it would have been a long trip to visit him. Anyways, I was proud of him, so I helped move him there. I got to meet his fellow intern and roommate, let’s call him…Buck, he was a good guy.”

“Would you say the distance is what drove you two apart?” Scott asked. 

“Part of it and our communication dwindled down.” You took a deep breath. “Once I found out I was pregnant, I wanted to tell him, but I didn’t know how to bring it up. When I called him, I focused on him and kept the attention off me. I didn’t want him to think something was wrong, so I stayed my happy self when we talked. 

At the time, I was still trying to find a solid job. It’s hard enough, job searching right out of college, let alone pregnant and job searching, because they always say you lack experience. I thought about moving to LA to find a job and be near Peter, but when I moved him out there I didn’t like it; the traffic, the noise, I couldn’t handle it.

Anyways, it got to the point where we only talked a few nights a week and texts turned into short replies. Once I started to show, I knew I needed to tell him, so I went out there to surprise him, and we broke up. As for the reason why it will remain a mystery to our listeners.”

“Just when it was getting good, am I right? I respect your decision, but I can’t speak for the fans,” Wanda commented.

“As much as I love hearing about Star-lord, I understand you're allowed to keep private things…well private,” Scott agreed. “Things like breakups are hard to talk about.”

Peter remembered the day of the breakup all too vividly because he knew you were the one and he fucked it all up. 

Peter slept on his bed after a long night out partying. He stirred awake at the sound of someone knocking on his door. Each pound on the door only made his headache worse. As his door creaked open, he put his pillow over his head. 

“You had another admirer stop by,” Nat joked with her arms across her chest. Peter lifted the pillow off his head only enough to see her. 

“Oh, great,” he scoffed. “Who was it this time? Tina, Cara, Sarah, Nickel,” he yawned still half asleep. 

“She was a new one but she told me to tell you, 'Goodbye, Star-Lord.' I don’t know what kind of kinky stuff you're into, but I don’t want to know about it.”

He lifted his head out from under the pillow and narrowed his eyes, trying to think it over. “Goodbye, Starlord?” His eyes snapped open once he realized it was you and jumped out of bed. “Shit. No, no, no!” He ran to the window and saw you walking down the sidewalk rubbing your eyes. “Dammit.” He scrambled to throw on a shirt and shorts. Nat stared at him in confusion and amusement.

“Who is she?” Nat asked with a smirk on her face.

“I’ll explain when I get back. Can’t you wear more around the house,” he asked, rushing to his closet to slip on his shoes.

“I have Bucky’s robe on.”

“No, it’s my robe, but I am pretty sure my girlfriend thought something different when she saw YOU wearing it,” he replied, rolling his eyes.

“Shit,” Nat cursed as he went after you.  

He ran down the stairs two to three at a time. He jumped the last four steps and ran out the front entrance. He turned right, seeing the coat you were wearing from earlier and shouted your name. You stopped dead in your tracks.

“Hey, I didn't--” 

“Save it,” you shouted, turning around to face him. Tears were flowing from your eyes, and all he wanted to do was make you feel better. “Clearly, you have found time to preoccupy yourself with some blonde. I knew this long-distance thing was a bad idea.”

“Hold on,” he whispered, trying to reach out to you, but you stepped back. “Let me explain.”

“No, you don’t get to explain what you did, or better yet, what you have been doing.” You shake your head, wiping away the tears on your cheeks. “I should have known something like this was going to happen. I’m done, Peter. We’re over. I never want to see you again,” you sniffled, turning on your heels and walking away from him. 

Peter watched you walk away until he couldn’t see you anymore. You were gone. Gone from his life, and the future he wanted to share with you. He decided to head back to his apartment as tears started to creep into the corners of his eyes. He opened the door to find Nat and Bucky in the kitchen.

“How'd it go? Nat asked, stacking pancakes on a plate.

“It’s over.”

“Wait, what happened?” Bucky questioned, staring at him mid-bite.

“YN thinks I have been cheating on her with Nat.”

“Fuck! I’m sorry, Pete. I can go talk to her.”

“NO! JUST......don't. You've already done enough harm today,” he huffed, slamming his bedroom door shut. 

Why did he let you slip through his fingers? Why didn’t he chase after you? Why didn’t he make you listen to him? You walked away from him, and all he did was watch. He didn’t even try to fight for you or get you to listen to him. You disappeared from his life, and he didn’t do anything to stop you.

“Did the breakup affect you?” Wanda questioned.

“Yes,” you breathed. “When I found out what he was doing, I hated him for it. I was so frustrated with him because I thought I did something wrong in our relationship to provoke this,” you paused, remaining silence before you continued. “Breakups are hard. Some are easy to get over, some take time, but the real ones stick with you no matter how hard you try to forget them.”

“Where do you fall in those categories?”

“Are you trying to get me to confess to something, Mrs. Maximoff?”

“Counter question, do you still care about him?” Scott asked.

“Yes, I don’t think I will ever stop caring about him. I will always have a soft spot for him. I mean, when someone makes that big of an impression on your life it’s hard to forget them and move on. I could, but I have a daughter with him, and I see him in her every day.”

“Hypothetically, if this Star-Lord character came back into the picture and wanted to be a part of his daughter’s life, how would you handle it?” Scott asked. 

“I would let him be a part of her life.”

“Wow, just like that?”

“Yes,” you replied. “When Star-lord was growing up, his dad was never in his life. He ran out on him and his mother when he was young, and he despised him for it. I remember Star-Lord telling me that if he ever had a child, he would want to be apart of their life. Given those circumstances, I would let him see her. She always wants me to tell stories about him, and I can tell she wants to meet him. And she will when the time is right.”

“Well said,” Scott said. “I like this podcast thing. It's so much fun.”

“It can be,” you chuckled.

“Try doing it every week with an uncooperative co-host,” Wanda added.

“Ooooh, YN, I bet you felt that sting,” Scott joked, making you laugh.

“And with that listeners, this has been another info filled episode with Wanda Maximoff signing off until next time on Everyday's a Monday. Don’t forget to rate, comment, and subscribe to our podcast or wherever you get your podcasts. Have a good week, everybody! Be sure to check out our new Instagram account for new updates on the show and behind the scenes looks as we film our podcast.”

How did he not see the signs? How did he not notice something was off about you when they talked? How were you going through all this, and he didn’t know a thing about it? Did that make him a bad boyfriend? A terrible friend? He needed to talk to you about this. It was the only way he was going to get answers.

______

It’s been about a month since you and Wanda went to New York, and Potts of Honey finally got all the right permits to begin construction. We would be hitting ground as early as next week, and you couldn’t be more excited for the company. Pepper was heading there later this week for a big press conference and a ribbon-cutting. It was all the fancy stuff you didn't care about. She wished you would go with her, but you had a podcast episode to figure out, and someone needed to stay back and be in charge while she was away. 

You enjoyed stepping in for Pepper when the need arised. It was fun to negotiate with people and figure out the next course of action. You never realized how much Pepper did until she took a two-week-long vacation. It was hectic the first couple days, but then you got used to it. It became pretty easy, and it turned out you really enjoyed it. Whenever Pepper went away, she could always count on you to take over for her. 

A routine set in with you and Peter. He would pick Mer up every day after school and one day each weekend Mer would stay with him. Mer loved the setup and this way she could have the best of both worlds. There were still some arguments you had with Peter about him buying her things you told her she couldn’t have. Or the time he gave her candy for breakfast. He was learning, but so were you at the beginning, too. 

You continued to change the subject when you knew he was going to bring up the breakup. He never point-blank mentioned it, but from the look in his eyes, it told you he wanted to talk about it. It was something you didn’t want to bring back to light. It was something you would rather forget. You didn’t want all those feelings from the past coming back and hurting you all over again. 

You finished the last thing on your to-do list before you left work for the day. You entered Walkman Records, greeting Mantis with a smile as you replied to a last minute email you forgot about. 

“Hey Mantis, any new messages for me?” You glanced up to see a familiar looking woman with red hair, but you couldn’t place where you’ve seen her before.

“No nothing, but it has been a very slow day.”

“Understandable,” She smirked at you. “Hi, you must be Meredith’s mother, YN. I’m Natasha but call me Nat.” She held out your hand and you took it. 

“That’s me.” You forced a smile, shaking her hand. She eyed you almost as if she knew something you didn’t.

“Hey, babe. Can you look over this bio for me?” Bucky asked, walking up beside her. He gave her the clipboard and flashed you a smile once he noticed you. “Hey, YN. How’s it going?”

“Good,” you said, clearing your throat. “Has Mer been behaving around here?

“Oh yes, she is like our little mascot, and the artists love her input even if it is crazy ridiculous,” Bucky replied, making you crack a smile. 

“Buck. Are we still considering this girl? She's still in high school, do you think she has what it takes?” Nat asked, flipping through the file. 

“Meredith likes her, and I don’t think this girl's boyfriend is gonna stop sending us demos until we tell them no to their faces. That is if we do decide to go that route. Besides, I'll do that thing you like tonight,” Bucky winked, speaking close to her ear. 

“Who said I liked that move in the first place,” Nat scoffed with a playful smile. 

“Oh, you didn’t need to tell me,” Bucky teased, winking at her before giving her a quick kiss and headed back to his office. 

You couldn’t help but smile at their playful exchange. The teasing and playful behavior in a relationship was always your favorite part. It kept things interesting and fun. What Bucky and Nat had was love, and it was going to last. It’s not like you stopped believing in love because you experience it every day. You loved your little girl unconditionally, but romantic love was always harder to grasp.

“Men. Am I right?”

“You don’t have to tell me. How do you think I ended up pregnant,” you breathed a soft chuckle. “How long have you been together?”

“I trapped his ass about 8 years ago, and I even tricked him into marrying me,” she smirked. “It was nice to meet you, YN, but duty calls.”

“Nice meeting you, too.” 

Peter and Mer came out of the hallway, passing Nat. You didn’t miss Peter narrowing his eyes at her as Nat shrugged in his direction. What was that about?

Mer ran to you and gave you a big hug. “How was spending time with your dad?”

“The best,” she grinned.

“Are you ready to go?”

“No, but if I have to,” she groaned. “I’m going to go say goodbye to Nat and Bucky.”

“Okay, but make it quick,” you said as she ran back down the hallway. “How was she?”

“She was great,” Peter smirked with a slight nod. He bit his bottom lip as his eyes met yours. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Are we ever going to talk about what happ…”

“Okay, I’m ready to go.” Meredith ran back into the room interrupting Peter.

“That was fast, Mer,” You paused, looking at Peter. “What was it you wanted to ask me?”

“Another time,” he waved it off like it wasn’t a big deal.

“Love you, daddy.” Mer pulled him into a hug, squeezing him tight.

“Love you, too. See you tomorrow, Twig!” He pulled away and ruffled her hair, smiling down at her. “Goodbye, YN.” 

“Bye, Peter."

______

It felt like dishes were a never ending job in your house, but it did give you some time to think. You were positive you’ve seen Natasha or Nat before, but you couldn’t remember. She looked so familiar, but maybe you met her once before or perhaps Peter mentioned her. Did Bucky introduce you to her when you helped them move in? They’ve been together for eight years so you could only assume you met her at their apartment. Either way, she seemed like the type of woman you could get along with. 

There was a solid knock on the door, making you flinch and slice your palm open with the knife you were washing. “Fuck,” you cursed. You grabbed a towel, putting pressure on it as you went to the door.

You peeked out the window, seeing Peter standing there. “Hey, come on in.” You opened the door and went back into the kitchen.

“You okay?”

“Yeah fine...cut my hand while washing dishes.” You pulled out a first aid kit from the cabinet struggling to open it.

“Here let me help.” He opened it and pulled out some antibiotics and a band-aid. “Let me see.” You hide it from him as he let out an annoyed scoff and rolled his eyes. He grabbed your hand, and you finally gave in. He removed the towel, noticing a small two-inch gash. He led you to the sink and held it under the faucet, cleaning it for you. You watch him take your hand and rub the ointment on it before placing the band-aid over it. “All set.”

“Thanks.”

“Don't mention it. I like taking care of you.”

You feel your face heat up as your eyes met his. “What brings you here?” You cleared your throat.

“I needed to come clean about a few things.”

“About what?”

“The day you came to LA to surprise me….” You nodded as your mind drifted to that dreadful day. 

You stood outside Peter’s apartment door in LA. You were nervous about how he was going to react. You were two in a half months pregnant, and your stomach was starting to show. This wasn’t the type of information to share over the phone. Would he leave you for this? You take a deep breath and knock on the door. You could feel your hands start to shake, and your palms begin to tingle. You tucked a few loose strands of hair behind your ear when the door opens. In front of you stood a blonde haired woman with red roots peeking through her scalp, and she was wearing Peter’s space robe that you got him for his birthday.

“Um...hi,” you gulped, eyeing the robe she was wearing. “I don’t know if this…nevermind...Is Peter here?”

“Seriously,” she chuckled, shaking her head. “You know what, let me go wake his ass up. What’s your name?”

“Um,” you mumbled, trying to find your voice. You could feel the tears tickling behind your eyes. You wanted to cry, but not in front of this woman you didn't even know. “Will you tell him...tell him goodbye, Star-Lord for me. He’ll know who I am.”

“Okay, but are you sure you don’t want to talk to him? It’s no trouble for me to go get him.” She eyed you over as if she was judging you, especially for wearing a jacket in the middle of July. 

“Thanks, but--” you cleared your throat, fighting back tears "--it’s not necessary. Thank you for passing along the message.” She nodded as you walked away, feeling her eyes dig into your back. Once you were in the elevator, you let the tears fall. 

“...truth is, I never cheated. Were their girls lining up to get with me, sure, but I never did anything with them. I already had everything I needed. I had you. The woman who answered the door that day was Natasha, my business partner and Bucky’s wife, she put on the wrong robe.” 

Your eyes widened as you realized that's how you recognized Natasha. Back then her hair was different, but she was the same person. “Excuse me?”

“I never cheated on you, YN.”

You stared at him with wide eyes, shaking your head. “Why did you fucking lie to me then? Why did you make me believe you cheated on me this whole fucking time?”

“I didn’t lie, you just assumed I did.”

“So what if I did. How would you react to seeing a woman in your boyfriend's robe? I was pissed and upset like I did something to provoke you to cheat. I thought I was the problem. I thought it was my fault. Oh my god, Peter!” You ran your hands down your face as Peter tried to say something, but you continued. “Why didn’t you try and make me listen to you? Fight for me or something? Why didn’t you chase after me and explain it? ”

“I thought--” he stammered “--I thought you came to LA to break up with me.” You stared at him in shock. 

“Break up with you! Are you fucking kidding me, Peter? I loved you. Why would your head even go there?”

“The distance between us wasn’t doing us any favors. We didn’t talk on the phone like we used to, barely texted, and any other source of contact stopped. I thought our relationship was dwindling down to nothing and thought you were mad at me for leaving you behind. I thought you were having doubts about our relationship, so I figured if you hated me, it would be easier for you to move on.”

“I was pregnant, Peter! I was trying to figure out how to tell you, but I didn’t want to break up with you.” 

“I realize that now,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?” you shouted a little louder than you planned. 

“Why didn’t you tell me we had a daughter together?” 

“I wanted to, I tried, but then you got the internship. You were finally accomplishing what you set out to do, and you were living your childhood dreams. I didn't want to be the one to ruin it for you, Peter. You loved it; I could hear it in your voice every time we talked. I watched how hard you worked to get there, and I didn't want you resenting me and Mer for taking that opportunity away from you."

“I never would’ve resented you or Mer.”

“You say that now,” you exasperated, running your bandaged hand through your hair. “But you don’t know what would’ve happened back then.” 

“Yes, I do. It’s me. I’m the same person, only better looking and far more mature. Sort of.” You shake your head, rolling your eyes. “You’re right. Maybe, I don’t know what I would’ve done, but I know I wouldn’t have left you behind,” he acknowledged, furrowing his eyebrows together. “The truth is I regret everything I didn’t do that day. I didn’t stop you. I didn’t fight for you. I didn’t even try.” He shrugged, biting his bottom lip. “I acted like a fucking child,” he cursed with a deep breath. “I watched you walk away knowing I lost the best thing I ever had. The only thing I ever needed. You. It was always you,” he swallowed as your eyes widened. “If I could give up everything to go back in time and be with you? I would do it in a heartbeat.”

Without even thinking, you grabbed his face and kissed him. You pulled back once you realized what you did. “Shit! That was…” 

He interrupted as his lips collided with yours. You wrapped your arms around his neck, and he grabbed your thighs, lifting you up onto the counter. You pushed his jacket off, letting it hit the floor without breaking contact with his lips. He grabbed your shirt, pulling it over your head, and in a split second, your lips were back together. It felt like you were two eager teenagers trying to get to home base. 

He lifted you off the counter and carried you down the hall. For once, you were glad your bedroom was on the first floor. Breaking contact with your lips, you mumbled what door was your bedroom as he stumbled on a rug almost dropping you. You both laughed as Peter caught himself. He finally reached your door, pushing it open and kicking it softly shut behind him. He laid you down near the end of the bed, kissing you as you melted into the mattress. Your hands skimmed the hem of his shirt, and you slowly started pulling it over his head.

He started placing soft kisses down your neck to your collarbone, sending goosebumps to the surface of your skin. His lips left your skin as his face hovered over yours almost like he didn’t know what to do next. You felt his breath on your lips, making your insides twist with anticipation. You reached up to cup his cheek as he leaned into your touch, closing his eyes. Your hand moved to his chest over his heart, and his eyes fluttered open, gazing down at you. He licked his lips, drawing your eyes to them before drifting back to his lust filled eyes. 

His eyes etched with worry as he watched you. He was waiting; waiting to see what you were going to do next; waiting to see how you were going to react; waiting for your next move. Your breath quickened, feeling his rapid heartbeat underneath your hand. You couldn't help, but feel how this could be the start of something great; a new beginning; a second chance. Without a second thought, you leaned up brushing your lips against his.

________

AN: Well, that escalated quickly! But damn, emotions, am I right?! Did some of your questions finally get answered? I hope so, but maybe there are still a few left unanswered. Where do you think their relationship will go after this? Will they finally become a happy family, or is there one thing that still stands in the way. Guess you’ll have to wait and find out! And I hope you all enjoyed Scott's cameo on the podcast! Right away, I knew he would be on an episode because who doesn't love Cassie! Thanks for reading.

[al-uqdah]

Damian asks Nick to move in with him: a thread.

Nick sticks his hands in his pockets, then takes the one nearest Damian out again, leaving it hanging conspicuously between them.  They're on their way back from Val's, the kids running laps around them as they walk through the twilit streets of Godwin.   There's still flour streaked across the thighs of Nick's black jeans he notices, despite the well worn apron he wears in the store, and, sneaking a glance at Damian from the corner of his eye, he feels a just a little bit grubby.

The good thing about having worked on a farm for the past decade and have 4 kids under the age of 10 is that "grubby" has no meaning to Damian anymore. He takes Nick's hand, casting a smile his way. It's getting quiet now, people starting to lock up their stores for the night - they catch Yasmeena leaving her office, and pass by Rudrama, who naturally doesn't acknowledge them, heading on her what to wherever she's heading. The kids squeal in excitement at both, and Yasmeena is gracious enough to whirl Filly around in the air once. "The bread was good," Damian says, glancing towards him. "And you should buy some of their honey for your teas, it was wonderful."

Nick does a double take up at Damian, his thoughts having wandered away from their meeting with Val and towards the flight capacity of the triplets. "Yeah," he says.  "Yeah.  I read something once about how supermarket honey is like, 95% imitation and they for some reason don't have to tell you.  Like the extra virgin olive oil that's not real, since the mafia controls the exports.  A honey mafia.  Actually that would probably just be Noah anyway, huh?  What was Val talking about?" Nick asks suddenly.  "A new abode.  You're not.  You'd tell me if you were leaving Godwin, right?"(edited)

Damian pays thorough enough attention to track this line of thought all the way down, though he does wonder about the extra virgin olive oil mafia and Nick's experience with them. "Noah is too kind to be part of organized crime," he said thoughtfully, then added, "Though, I'm sure that's exactly what he wants us to think. Then he glances over at Nick, an eyebrow raised. "Believe me, I have no plans to leave any time soon. I like it here," he continues, peering down the lane as they wander past the edge of town, out towards the farm. "It's quiet, but I'm not sure I could go back to anything else at this point. Plus it's a wonderful place to raise kids." He doesn't look at Nick, very pointedly. "How about you?"

Nick swings their hands a little, looking out over the fields, the sky orange darkening to deep blue overhead.  The horizon seems to stretch forever out here, even though Nick knows that if he just turns around the familiar skyline--such as it is--of Godwin will  be etched black against the sky.

"I miss the city," he admits.  "But rent is better out here.  No way I could afford to have a store anywhere with its own, like, exit on the interstate.  Maybe someday."  He shrugs.  The thought sits uncomfortable with him though--much as he had complained about moving here with Skye and Thiren when he was a kid, he's happy in Godwin.  Moving back to the city doesn't have the allure that it once did.

Not exactly the angle Damian was hoping for, but sure. "I'll have to take your word about the rent," he says, with a self-effacing smile. "But, I can see what you mean. Maybe someday, when the kids are older." This time he does glance at Nick. As always, he doesn't want to scare Nick off, but he does want Nick to get the picture, just so they can figure out where they stand.

Nick does another double take at Damian.  Maybe when the kids are--.  Maybe When The Kids Are Older.

Hmm. Nick knows how Damian is--he's all in, and quick.  Well.  It's not exactly quick at this point, Nick guesses.  But he's been kind of--avoiding thinking about it, floating in this bubble of now-ness, where everything's going to stay like this, exactly like this, forever.

"Maybe someday," Nick says.  "Can't picture you without some dirt to dig in, though."

With a shrug, Damian responds, "You can find dirt all over the world, albeit with different soil properties and water levels. I'm sure I could find something. Eden!" he called, raising his voice so his daughter, running past her siblings, could hear. "Slow down, please! Let us catch up!" She did so, but only to run backwards and run around Nick and Damian a few times, the triplets screaming in laughter as they followed her. "Nick!" she called at him, as she tagged her siblings on the head. "Are you gonna have a sleepover tonight? We can bake cookies again!!" She was off without waiting for a reply. Damian leaned over slightly. "I was wondering that myself," he muttered.

Nick twists to the left, then to the right, trying to follow Eden's trajectory.  "What--yeah? Cookies--What kind--she's gone."  Nick shakes his head, grinning.

"Yeah," he says, and he leans up to meet Damian, kissing the corner of his mouth.  "I mean, if you're inviting me."

"Of course," replied Damian. "You're welcome anytime, Nick. Any day, whenever - you're ready." He returns the kiss, and immediately the triplets start screaming and pretending to vomit - meanwhile Eden screeches in delight, cheering them on.

Nick kisses Damian for a moment longer, ignoring the kids--just for like, a second, come on-- then flashes the triplets a thumbs down, and immediately starts making gross horrible wet kissing noises while kissing Damian on the cheek, grinning at the kids and watching out of the corner of his eye.April 14, 2020

Damian laughs and lets Nick continue, then pushes him away. "Shhh, kids, cut it out!" he calls to the kids. "You better be nice to Nick, or else he won't want to sleepover ever again!"

"That's true," Nick says gravely, wiping his own spit off his face.  "And then you'll have to eat dad's cookies."

There was a very satisfying chorus of Ewwwwwws, and Damian grinned. "Perish the thought," he said. "We'll just have to have Nick stay and make cookies so none of you are ever subjected to such a punishment ever again."

Nick actually giggles, a quiet, unselfconscious sound.  "I'll do what I have to do," he says.  "to prevent child abuse."

They turn onto a country lane, the farmhouse before them. Damian is starting to think he's going to have to be real direct. "Such a saint," he sighs. "I'm sure the kids are very grateful." He nudges Nick in the ribs. "I'm grateful too."

Nick catches his arm and loops his through it.  "For the cookies?" he says, laughing.  "You're welcome.  Not even Thiren gets my baking for free."

"For you, habibi. Coming home to you. With you," he corrects, catching himself. "Coming home with you. It's... well. It's something I looked for for a long time."

Nick's such a sucker for pet names he almost misses that really, really important preposition.  But not quite.  He hides his face against Damian's shoulder and kisses it.   "Yeah?" he asks, smiling up at  him.  "I'm glad you found me."

"Niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiick!" shouts Eden, swinging the front door open. "I'm turning the oven on so we can make cookies!" She disappeared into the house. Damian grinned sidelong at Nick. "So are the kids."

Nick hangs back on the porch for a moment, hand in Damian's.  "So am I," he says.  He lingers for a moment, because it feels like there's something else one of them should say, but Nick's just on the edge of not believing what Damian seems to be implying.

Damian takes his other hand, leans down and presses a kiss on Nick's cheek. "You just said that," he said quietly, the corner of his lip quirked upwards in a smile. "But the point bears repeating, so I'll let it go." He hesitates, then continues, "There's...another point that bears repeating, though I'm not sure it's been explicitly spoken aloud first."

Nick sticks his tongue out.  "I'll say it as many times as I want," he says.  The smile melts off his face--Damian sounds Very Serious, so Nick takes his other hand too.  The sun is setting behind him, making Nick squint up at him and obscuring some of his features in shadow.  "What's up, D?"

Damian takes one of Nick's hands, brings it up to his lips and gently lays a kiss on his fingers. "You stay over plenty often as is," he says, quietly. "I - and the kids - would... be even more extraordinarily grateful, if you might consider... the idea of making it more permanent?"

Nick just.  Lights up.  He jumps up on his toes, head almost colliding with Damian's nose, and wraps his arms around his neck, kissing him a dozen times before Damian can even respond.  He pulls back for a second, long enough to say "Okay," in an offhand voice, like he didn't just almost take Damian down in his happiness.  "Sure."  He goes back to kissing him for a moment then stops abruptly.  "You're asking me to move in, right?  Not marry me?"April 15, 2020

"Move in, yes," laughs Damian. "I'll refrain from speaking the other thing into existence until at least we've had a few more non-conversations about it. No need to worry," he adds, squeezing Nick's hands. "First thing's first. The kids will be overjoyed."

Nick dips his head and presses his forehead against their joined hands.  "First thing's first," he says, relieved, mostly.  "I'm gonna have to break my lease.  And pack.  And get a moving van.  And sell my furniture."  He looks up at Damian and his face softens.  "First thing's first," he says again.  "They started the cookie chant inside."

"They did," agrees Damian, nodding his head seriously. "You know what that means. We can't possibly keep them waiting any longer, Nick, or they will cast the cookie pox upon our house. Eden knows where all the Sharpies are. She won't hesitate."

Nick gasps.  "The cookie pox!  Why didn't you hide the Sharpies!" He giggles and lets go of Damian's hands, just to reach up and around Damian's neck to pull him down into another kiss.  He's still absolutely glowing, and maybe a few of the tattoos on his hands are wiggling happily, but he doesn't notice that.  "One more second won't hurt."

"She always finds them," sighs Damian. "Always. A little genius, and yet she uses her powers for evil." He returns the kiss. "But, yes," he adds lightly. "One more second." Then he pulls back slightly, and pointedly tells Nick, "But you'll be cleaning up the Sharpie'd walls."