#cw: mentions of wartime | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

willsdreamgirl · 1 year

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“morning mr. shelby.” — tommy shelby x reader ⋆｡˚

tommy shelby x fem!reader

you meet tommy as a nurse during the war, but happens when he realizes that he’s known you all along? (loosely based around some s1 plot points, but all set before the war)

18+ minors dni please! angst, fluff and smut

cw: mentions of war, shooting, stabbing, suturing, ptsd, friends to lovers, eventual smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!!), slight breeding kink

word count: 5.4k+ (sorry lmao)

a/n: ahh first fic alert!! i’m so excited for you guys to read this! don’t be a ghost reader and lmk if you want to be added to my tag list for future tommy/cillian stuff!! 💌

you met tommy shelby during the war. he was a soldier, you were a wartime nurse. before the war, you had obviously heard of him. tommy shelby, leader of the fucking peaky blinders. arrogant bastards.

you lived in small heath, and everyday you’d pass him on the street. and everyday, you’d smile and say, “morning, mr. shelby.” and everyday, he would barely look up at you. you were sure he wasn’t even aware of your existence. prick.

your parents had always told you to stay away from the shelby boys. your dad would say that “they’re dangerous and make whores out of innocent girls” and your mum would make some comment about “the shelby men and their stupid cocks and their stupid judgements”.

they were the most intimidating people in all of small heath, possibly in all of birmingham. truth be told, there was a certain charm to them that you couldn’t shake off. well, to one of them. tommy shelby. you couldn’t tell if it was because he was your age, or because he was powerful and strong, or simply because he was strictly off limits. or because of his piercing blue eyes.

everyone in small heath knew tommy. but you knew tommy. he didn’t know you, though. you could tell if was him by the way he exhaled or by the sound of his footsteps or by the way he held a cigarette in his hand, the peaked cap on his head, a hand in his coat pocket. you despised tommy shelby, but god, was he fucking irresistible.

when men were drafted for the war in france, it was common sense that they’d need someone to tend to their cuts and bruises. you’d decided to volunteer, and after a couple weeks of training, you were right there, in the field. practicing on dolls and bags of rice and flour was nothing compared to what you saw. what you heard.

your first day in france was… eventful, to say the least. some commander had led you to the medical tent, and you were welcomed by the screams of hurt soldiers, blood and panic. you were immediately assigned to a patient, who’d been shot in the chest. you tried your best, did everything you could have, but ultimately, he had just lost too much blood. you didn’t sleep that night, haunted by the bloodshed, by the pleas of the soldier to keep him alive, by the feeling of someone else’s blood on your hands. over time, however, you grew accustomed to having your pristine white uniform soiled with blood and mud.

a month or so after you’d started, you heard shouts outside the tent. “help! someone HELP, for FUCK’s SAKE!” this was a regular occurrence, but the voice the shouts came from didn’t sound wounded. you felt an instinctual need to go see what it was.

what you saw, though, was something you never expected to see. tommy shelby, with a comrade’s head in his lap, putting pressure on a wound in his shoulder. without hesitating, you helped tommy drag the soldier to a vacant bed in the tent. “what happened?” you asked, hurriedly. tommy was visibly panicked. “i- he- um, he got st-stabbed by… one of the germans… his name’s danny- daniel.” you looked in tommy’s eyes, trying to give him some semblance of comfort. “he’ll be okay.” you applied pressure on the wound, and luckily, the blood stopped flowing soon. you cleaned the wound up and looked to tommy. “i’m gonna have to disinfect the wound with alcohol, you might want to hold daniel down for this.” daniel was still delirious from the blood loss, but the pain would be excruciating. tommy braced himself. his hands firmly holding down daniel’s. you nodded before tipping the bottle over on the wound. danny thrashed around on the bed, screaming and cursing, struggling against tommy’s hold. you heard his voice over danny’s. “you’re alright, lad! y’er gonna be fine!”

tommy sat by his friend’s bedside as he came to. you tended to other patients in the meantime but eventually went over to talk to him. “i want to keep him here for the night, mr. shelby. make sure there’s no infection.” he looked at you, surprised you knew him. “you know who i am?” “of course i do, all of small heath knows you. what i didn’t expect was to have a run-in with you, here in france.” he scoffed at his own misery and spoke. “you don’t belong here. you should be home.” you rolled your eyes, even in his state, he managed to be cocky. “if i wasn’t here today, mr. shelby, who would save danny?” that seemed to shut him up. he was about to speak, before you heard your name from the other side of the tent. “y/n, we need you!” after having helped a soldier who looked like he had been mauled, you looked out to see it was nightfall, and tommy had left.

a couple days later, at about noon, john shelby, the youngest of the shelby brothers walked in, clutching his arm tightly. “do you need help, mr. shelby?” you called out. “yes, i-i’ve been shot.” he all but whispered. you rushed over with a tray of distilled alcohol, forceps and bandages. after an afternoon of agony and pain, you had finally managed to pull out the bullet form his arm, john’s face a clear representation of his relief. “oh my god love, if we were home, i’d marry you right now.” you laughed at the proposition. “mr. shelby, i think you’re still a bit delirious from the anaesthesia. besides, i’m your brother’s age.” he looked shocked. “what, you’re arthur’s age? really?? you look nothing like that old prick.” you couldn’t help but laugh yet again. “i’m not that old, jesus. i’m tommy’s age.” he sighed. “marry him then. lord knows he needs a girl.” you giggled as you gathered your things and walked away. “you amuse me far too much, mr. shelby.”

it felt like ages had passed before you saw tommy again. your back was towards the tent entrance but you knew who had walked in. his breath trembled and his footsteps felt a bit unsteady, but it was undoubtedly him. you waited to turn until he called out your name. “y/n, is it?” you turned around, to find his face and shirt covered in blood. “mr. shelby! what happened?” you rushed over to him, taking his hand and sitting his down on a bed. “i- i… killed a man today, y/n.” he looked down, he couldn’t bring himself to look at you. you didn’t respond, simply got up and grabbed a stitching kit and a bowl of warm water. “is all this blood yours?” was your first question. “no. most of it is his.” you sighed and searched his face to find a cut on his cheekbone, the source of his own bleeding. “i’m wiping away the blood now, okay?” tommy gulped and nodded, his eyes still trained on the ground. “mr. shelby, i want you to look at me.” it was as if he didn’t hear you. you spoke again, softer yet more authoritative this time. “tommy. look at me.” he finally brought himself to look into your eyes. in his eyes, you saw guilt, regret and fear. in yours, he saw compassion, love and a warmth that could engulf all his pain. “good.” you whispered. you wrung out a washcloth and began wiping the blood away from his face, using your other hand to hold his chin in place. his arms found themselves wrapped around your waist, in an attempt to ground himself. you didn’t say anything, but your eyes told him that you didn’t mind. in that moment, you saw a different version of tommy shelby. you didn’t see ‘tommy, the criminal’, ‘tommy, the gangster’ or ‘tommy, the womanizer’. you saw tommy, a good man, an honest man. you felt his arms tighten around your waist as you pulled your hands away from his face, as if he was afraid you would dissipate into thin air. “tommy.” you whispered. “i’m gonna have to stich that wound up. it might hurt.” but he didn’t mind pain, not if you were the one inflicting it. “okay.” he spoke, his voice deep. he rubbed circles into your skin with his thumbs, the pain making him hum. “sorry, almost done.” you finished the last stitch. “there. you’re all fixed.” tommy held you like that, his hands around your waist, icy blue eyes staring into yours. your arms rested on his shoulders and you leaned down to whisper to him. “tommy. people are staring.” “so? let them.” eventually, he reluctantly pulled away from you. “it’s time for dinner, and then lights out.” he smiled as he spoke, and slowly exited the tent, catching a glimpse of you as he left.

needless to say, you only grew closer over the next few weeks. you were inseparable. whenever tommy had free time, he’d make his way to the familiar tent, and talk to you. it was wartime. you were left hurt and traumatized and so was he, but you both found solace in each other’s company. you told him how you knew him, and how you’d wish him good morning every day, only to receive complete silence from him each time. he chuckled and apologized. he told you about the peaky blinders, what they did, how they ran their business. you bonded over your shared hunger for knowledge and stories. you told him everything you knew about art, history and literature; and he told you stories of fighting gangs in the streets and stealing contraband. his stories were always more thrilling than yours. you’d try to set each other up with people for fun. you’d introduce him to every nurse, telling them how he was fighting for his country, and of course, they fell prey to his charming eyes and dashing smile. they’d ask what he did back home, and as soon as you said the words ‘gangster’, they’d run in the opposite direction. he’d done the same for you. introduced you to other soldiers, and when you spoke to them, about art and literature, they’d call you ‘unladylike’ or ‘too ambitious for a man’. you both secretly liked it this way, it was like you were his and he was yours.

when he became sergeant major, you both celebrated together. he’d brought you a bottle of whiskey, and you spent the night, talking and giggling drunkenly. but soon, he was assigned to be a sapper and dig tunnels. you both knew that the germans were going to dig their own tunnels, and at some unfortunate point, the tunnels would converge. both of you realized the danger it held, but he had to do it. you tried to talk him out of it, though. “tommy, please!” “y/n, calm down.” “goddamn it tommy, think! you’re gonna get yourself killed! what the fuck are you doing?” “i’ll be alright.” “no, you won’t! what if you get hurt? what if they shoot at you, huh? i won’t be there underground to make sure you’re okay!” “y/n, i have to serve my country. i have to do this.” “tommy. i’m begging you, don’t do this.” he simply sighed and kissed your forehead and held your face in his hands. you held tightly onto his wrists as tears threatened to spill from your eyes. “shhh, i’ll be alright. in fact, i’ll write you.” you seemed to calm down at the idea of him writing you. at least you’d be updated on his condition.

the morning he went down to the tunnels, he came to see you. you were sorting gauze and bandages when you felt his presence near you. you turned around and ran to hug him. he buried his face in your neck and breathed you in. you could feel tears brimming your eyes. neither of you knew why you felt like this. you were just friends, right? “tommy michael shelby, i swear to god if you die, i’ll kill you myself.” you heard him chuckle. he took a step back and caressed your cheek. “you take care, darling.” you wished he wouldn’t leave, but in your heart, you knew he had to. a few hours after, you found a letter tucked under a book on your desk. you curiously pulled it out and opened it.

dearest y/n,

i know how much you hate that i’m going to be a sapper now. i want you to know, no matter what happens down there, i care for you, and i love you, unconditionally. i’ve loved you since the day i first met you. i can’t believe i was looking for love in whores and prostitutes when the love of my fucking life was saying the sweetest good morning to me every morning. i’ll protect myself, and i want you to protect yourself too since i can’t do that for the time being. if we survive this wretched war, i want to take you home, ask your father for your hand and marry you, sweetheart. you take care of yourself, alright?

all my love,

tommy shelby.

you couldn’t help but gasp at what you read. he loved you. tommy shelby loved you. the same tommy shelby that was too arrogant to say a word to you, the same tommy shelby that your parents told you to stay away from, the same tommy shelby was head over heels for you. you immediately looked for a piece of paper, a pen and some ink. you wrote a letter back and sent it with one of the workers heading down to the tunnels. you didn’t know what it was like down there, but you hoped your letters would keep him sane. meanwhile, tommy received your letter and opened it with the same enthusiasm you showed his letter. however, he was also filled with nervous energy. he had confessed his love for you, which was so incredibly out of character for him, but with shaky hands, he proceeded to open the letter.

dearest tommy,

to say that your letter was shocking would be an understatement. i never knew you felt this way for me. like i’ve told you on several occasions, my parents always told me to stay away from ‘your kind’ and as a good catholic girl, i obeyed them. but tommy, in these few months, i’ve seen a side of you i can’t ever forget. i love you too tommy, the real you. the honest, raw, genuine tommy that i get to see on late nights and in random moments on busy days. i’d love to marry you, just make it out alive of that damn tunnel, you prick.

only yours,

y/n.

tommy felt his eyes welling up as he read the words you had penned on the paper. it had been so long since he’d seen you, or heard your voice. he wanted you. he needed you. to keep him stable and sane. as the days passed, your and tommy’s letter exchange became more and more frequent, and you felt like even if you were in this goddamned lawless land of blood and chaos, you had tommy. and he was all you needed.

that was, until the letters slowed down. you kept writing him, but to no avail. he hadn’t sent you a letter in days, or weeks, you weren’t sure anymore. you’d almost lost hope, and spent entire nights grieving him. trying to remember the sound of his voice, the feeling of his hands on your waist, the smell of his cologne. you hadn’t heard his breath or felt his footsteps in a long time. the pain was almost unbearable, and some days felt like decades. but the only thought that kept you going was that you saw tommy in all the wounded soldiers you treated. they were someone’s tommy. and they needed to get home alive.

4 months. 4 whole months since you heard from tommy. you were convinced he was dead now. you spent your days bandaging and stitching wounds, yet you could never fix the wound tommy left in your heart. it was one of the hottest afternoons, the french sun blazing unmercifully. you were insanely busy with patients today, the war was almost ending, and the soldiers needed to be fixed up before they could go home. yet, no sign of tommy. you sighed, cursing yourself for holding out hope now for someone who would not return.

“can i have a nurse here?” you could recognize that damn voice anywhere. the deep voice that filled your ears, smooth like honey, you’d recognize that voice at the end of the world. you turned around. tommy. “hi, love.” he smiled. but his smile quickly changed into a frown when he saw your sobs. you took him to a quieter corner of the tent. you stepped closer to him. he went to put his arms around you. you slapped him across the face. “where. the FUCK were you, thomas michael shelby?!” he was incredibly confused. “l- love, what?” “i thought YOU DIED, YOU BASTARD. where were you?” the time you spent apart had changed you, and from his response, you could tell it clearly changed him. “i was TRYING to fucking STAY ALIVE for YOU.” he raised his voice at you. he never raised his voice. neither of you spoke for a while and tension filled the air between the two of you. “i should leave.” he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. he left, and you let him.

after a few weeks, news broke that britain had won the war, and everyone went home. five years had passed since you last saw the familiar streets of small heath, and you were no longer a girl, but a woman. a woman who needed to get a job to survive in this city. you walked around and saw a flyer on the doors of the garrison. ‘BARMAID NEEDED.’ you walked in to find harry. he looked up pleasantly surprised. “y/n! haven’t seen you in a while, eh? what can i do you for?” “i’m here to get the barmaid job, harry.” he sighed.” y/n, this job isn’t suitable for a girl like you. these men, they’ve just come back from war, they haven’t seen a girl, let alone a pretty one like yourself, in ages. they’ll have you up against a wall within the first hour of your shift.” you looked at him desperately. “harry, please. i need this job, otherwise i’ll be out on the streets, which are surely worse than this pub. i was a nurse in france, i’ve dealt with these men. please?” he sighed again before nodding. “alright then, you start tomorrow.”

your first shift consisted of the usual alcoholics, men with ptsd, everything that was to be expected after a war. you hear the bells at the door ring as the familiar footsteps walk closer to the bar. without turning around, you ask, “what do you want?” he replies, “whiskey, scotc- y/n?” you finally turn around at the sound of your name falling from his lips. “yes, mr. shelby. so, scotch? on the house right?” he leans over so that just the two of you can hear. “don’t mr. shelby me. come on, love, talk to me.” “i have nothing to talk to you about.” as you poured him a glass of whiskey, he held your wrist assertively. “y/n. come.” you rolled your eyes and went to the shelby’s private booth. “what is it that you want, tommy?” “what the fuck do you mean ‘what do i want’? you, i want YOU. i need you. did ya lose your fucking mind in france like danny whiz-bang?” you felt your bottom lip trembling and your throat choking up. “i… i thought y- you were fucking dead. i mourned you. for MONTHS. i grieved over the death of the love of my life. of my future husband. of my future children that i’d have with him. and then, just as i’m making my peace with it, YOU have the fucking audacity to show up? you have some bloody nerve, tommy shelby.” the look in his eyes softened as he took a step closer to you. “no. don’t you dare come any closer to me, tommy, i’ll kill you.” you said, holding up the bottle of whiskey as a weapon. he embraced you, holding you tightly, his fingers stroking your hair. you resisted the hug and tried to push him away, only to find his grip on you getting tighter. “g- get away… from me, p- please… i- just” your voice came out muffled between sobs. tommy felt hot tears rolling down his own cheeks. “shhh, sweetheart. i’m okay, eh? i’m fine. i’m here, with you.” you dropped the bottle you were holding and it shattered into a million pieces on the ground. you stood there in his arms, crying for what felt like an eternity. you finally pulled away from him, and he wiped your tears with his thumbs. you laughed, but then lightly slapped his arm. “you scare me like that again, tommy, i swear i’ll kill ya.” “i’ll hold you to it, sweetheart.” he kissed your forehead, and you rested your forehead against his. he tentatively closed the gap between your lips and his, and you pulled him by the collar and kissed him with enough force to make him trip and fall. he managed to stay steady and kissed you back with equal fervour. he spoke between kisses. “i *kiss* spent *kiss* every *kiss* second *kiss* thinking *kiss* of you.” you giggled. “i missed you too, tommy.”

he told harry that you’d be leaving the bar early that day, and dragged you out the bar while holding your hand, a smile on his face for the first time in a long time. “the great thomas shelby isn’t embarrassed to have a barmaid as his girlfriend?” you giggled. “never. and those who think i should be embarrassed can suck me cock.” he spoke proudly. he opened the car door for you, and you sat inside and waited for him to turn the ignition on. “where are we going, tommy?” “i want you to meet my family, love.” during the countless hours you spent together chatting, he told you about his family’s idiosyncrasies and stories about them. how arthur needed to be protected the most during fights because he was just as likely to hurt himself as he was to hurt someone else, how aunty pol’s instincts about love were never wrong, how john once fell in love with a prostitute and everyone laughed at him, how ada was the most rebellious and married a communist (who happened to be in of his best mates), and how finn always pretended to act like tommy, doing whatever his big brother did. you were excited to meet them of course, but anxious. they would be your family one day too.

he held your hand as he brought you in, everyone sitting around a table waiting for him. “does everyone just sit together like this?” you asked. “uh, no i called a family meeting for 3 pm.” tommy replied simply. “how did you know you’d be able to have me here by 3?” he winked at you. “i have my ways. and i know how much you love me.” he spoke in a singsong voice. you rolled your eyes at his schoolboy behaviour and waited for him to speak. “shelby’s, this is my girlfriend and soon to be fiancé, y/n.” he held his arm around your waist proudly, and you leaned up to kiss his cheek. you recognized arthur and john immediately from your time in the war. you assumed that the older woman was aunt polly, and the younger with the baby in her arms would be ada, leaving the youngest member of the family, finn. john came up to talk to you first, while tommy spoke with polly. “you know i didn’t really mean the ‘marry tommy’ thing?” you laughed as you replied, “i didn’t either, but fate works in weird ways, eh?” he agreed with you before talking to tommy. arthur was the next one to see you. “you and tommy, eh? if it wasn’t for the war, you two would probably never have met. i s’pose war isn’t all bad then.” “perhaps you’re right. i did find your brother to be arrogant before the war.” “that he is, y/n. that he is.” both of you looked over at him, engaged in conversation with everyone else. you fussed over the baby in ada’s arms. “awww, he’s precious! what’s his name?” “karl, after karl marx.” you shot her a look. “it’s unconventional, i know. but freddie really wanted it.” “it’s lovely.” finn rushed over to you and kissed your hand. you gushed exaggeratedly. “what a gentleman you are, finn!” “if tommy wasn’t here, you’d be my girlfriend, miss y/n.” you laughed at his childishness and ruffled his hair. “sure i would, finn.” the only person you hadn’t spoken to yet was aunt polly, arguably the most intimidating person of the family. “i have one question for you, y/n. how you answer it will determine if you’re fit for being a shelby. how do you think i kept this business up and running during the war?” you felt put on the spot but tried your best to answer. “um, well, to be quite frank, i’ve believed that women are better at business anyway. we know how to settle deals with whiskey and not fists or guns. and you seem like twice the man than most men i know anyway.” her lips twitched up into a smile as she looked to tommy. “oh, i like her already.” he held your hand in hers, and addressed tommy. “she seems like a lovely girl, do not fuck this up tommy.” tommy shook his head and laughed. “i’ll try, pol. i’ll try.”

you ate dinner with the shelby’s before you headed up to his house. “you sure you don’t want me to walk you home?” he asked for the hundredth time that night. “no tommy, i’m perfectly content spending the night with you. unless you’d like me to leave?” you questioned. “no no, stay, please!” he said, almost pleadingly. you looked around his bedroom when you reached his home. it was obviously a house, but it didn’t feel like a home. you frowned at your observation. “what’s wrong, y/n?” “this house isn’t a home yet, tommy.” “that’s because i want my first home to be with you. with our children. and as far as i’m concerned, you are my home.”

“care to dance?” he asked, holding out his hand. you looked at the gramophone in the corner. “that doesn’t look like it works, love.” you placed your hand in his. “so what? we can dance without music.” he said, holding your waist close to him, your hand on his shoulder. you leaned your head on his shoulder, both of you dancing in the silence, listening to the sound of each other’s breathing. “kiss me, tommy.” you whispered. he obeyed probably for the first time in his life and kissed your soft lips.

things escalated and you were now on tommy’s bed, tracing the sun tattoo on his chest, with him on top of you. “fuck me, tommy, please.” “your cunt wants this cock?” he growled. you moaned in his ear. “fuck, yes tommy, make me yours.” he stretched you out in the most blissful way. of course, you had used your fingers before, but nothing could replace the feeling of his cock. “god, please!” you moaned out, words slowly turning into incoherent sounds. tommy chuckled. “god can’t hear you now, sweetheart. not here.” he pistoned his hips into you just right and it wasn’t long before he found the spot inside you that made you scream. “t- tommy fuck! right there, please don’t stop!” “i wouldn’t dream of stopping, darling. my girl, so pretty all spread out for me. take it, love. take that cock.” the feeling of your impending orgasm coursed through your entire body, making you writhe in pleasure. “god, i’m so close tommy!” “good fucking girl.” his hand reached down to rub circles on your clit while he fucked you so good. “oh god, tommy, i’m not gonna be able to walk tomorrow…” “that’s the plan, sweetheart.” he spoke as he kissed hickeys on your neck, matching the ones you’d given him earlier. “come on love, make a mess on my cock.” as soon as he said that, you felt yourself falling apart, the tight band in your stomach snapping, uncontrollable moans of his name falling from your lips. “thank you tommy, thank you so much.” you moaned, drunk on the feeling of his cock inside you. “such an angel. who do you belong to, sweets?” he said, still pounding your cunt. “y- you, tommy. i belong to you!” “that’s right, sweetheart.” he whispered in your ear, “i love you, darling.” you moaned as you felt your second orgasm approaching. “tommy, fuck! i- i love you too!” “god i’m gonna cum inside you! you’d like that, eh? me getting you pregnant, all nice and round with my baby?” you felt your orgasm pulsing through you at his words. “yes, tommy! fill my womb up, please! i need it!” you heard tommy’s loud moans as he came inside you. “oh, such a good girl. took my cock so well, love.” tommy stayed on top of you for a while, his cock still inside you. “i’ve wanted to do that for five fucking years.” he spoke, voice muffled since his head was buried between your tits. you laughed, but the laughs quickly turned to moans as your sensitive cunt felt friction from tommy’s cock rubbing up against its walls. he pulled out of you slowly, watching his seed spill out of you. he eventually got up to get a warm washcloth and a glass of water for you. you drank the water as he cleaned you and himself up and pulled you into his chest. you pulled the covers over both of you, feeling your body flush against his. “that was amazing tommy, thank you.” “the pleasure is all mine, sweetheart.” he kissed your forehead.

ever since tommy came back from france, he had these recurring nightmares every night. of his time in the tunnels. the germans. his comrades. how he had to kill people with his bare hands. he could still hear the shovels digging the tunnels when he closed his eyes. when he was with you though, he could finally fall asleep. or so he thought.

you were awoken in the middle of the night by the sounds of a gasping tommy, suddenly sitting up. you felt groggy for a moment, having just woken up, but quickly sprung into action. you sat next to him, rubbing his back. “tommy, what’s wrong?” he didn’t speak. but he didn’t need to. you’d seen enough cases of ptsd from your time in the war to know what was happening to him. “you still see it, eh?” he only nodded. you laid back down and pulled him into your chest. he protested. “what are y-” “shut up.” you could tell, he was still a bit frantic, his breath still heavy. you spoke to him in a soft tone and you played with his fingers, his head on your chest. “listen to me. listen to the sound of my voice. feel my body against yours. you are home. you are safe. the war is over. the nightmares are just parts of your mind trying to scare you. but you’re stronger than that, eh? i’m here with you, and you don’t need to be scared. alright? i’m here with you, always.” he hummed, heavy eyelids slowly closing shut. being able to smell the scent of your perfume helped ground him. “good job, tommy. now sleep. i’ll be here with you when you wake up.” you managed to get him to go to sleep, but somehow convinced your mind to let you sleep light enough that if tommy were to have another nightmare, you’d be up immediately. fortunately, he didn’t wake up during the night.

he woke up to the sight of a sleeping you, the sun rays hitting you just right. he swore he could look at you forever. you felt his gaze on you and slowly opened your eyes. “how’d you sleep?” you asked. “like i hadn’t slept in years.” he replied.

“morning, mr. shelby.” you wished him, as you did, every day before the war. except this time, you were in his arms, in his bed. you kissed his lips softly. except this time, he finally wished you back.

“mornin’, sweetheart.”

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jester-lover · 1 year

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Hi!

Can I please request Malleus and Lilia finding out that their girlfriend, the Ramshackle Prefect, is secretly a vampire (that's a centuries old immortal like them)?

Vampire Girlfriend!

Hello to you too! Thank you for requesting!

Feat/Malleus, Lilia

Cw/ blood, fluff, mentions of war, death mentioned, mostly fluff tho!

Malleus

He is elated!

the one fear Malleus had about his relationship with you was the idea that you were a mortal woman

He would give you his blood if you asked, happily and joyfully

the two of you discuss the centuries you two have lived through, and bond over a shared disconnect with technology

He would love it if you wanted to court him the old fashioned way, and he'd happily give you a lock of his hair

If you turn into any other animal, he'll put you on his shoulder and carry you around all day

Malleus is so content at the thought of living his immortal existence beside you, happily fulfilling your blood cravings (don't ask where he gets it from)

"Beastie, do you remember that old fad from the 1700s where we wore powdered wigs? Perhaps some change is for the best.."

Lilia

Wholeheartedly, the first thing he'd ask is if you could turn into a bat (research purposes)

now the two of you hang upside down from walls and terrify passerby!

Lilia, besides being happy he won't have to see your demise anytime soon, is rather non questioning with your vampire identity

He knows some parts of a longer life can be touchy subjects, which is why you'll only hear of his wartime activities at a far deeper point in your relationship

But if you yourself, an endless vampire, have fought in battle...

he'd share the more savory stories with you, trading them like playing cards over a glass of wine (and your glass of blood)

Overall, Lilia's stoked to have a vampire girlfriend, and the mischief the two of you create will last for centuries

"Perhaps... when Sebek crosses to his history class, we could ambush him and give him a real scare!"

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liminalpebble · 1 year

Note

Sorry you’re dealing with travel delays! When you mentioned Domhnall Gleeson, though, it reminded me of when I first switched my Siri voice to the British male one. (I was going to say “don’t ask why” but I’m sure you don’t need to.) And my husband and I used my Siri to direct us to the science museum…

My husband looked at me like 😒

“Why is Hux directing us to the butterfly conservatory? 😒”

(It’s just the slightest vocal similarity, and maybe just to him and me, but it made me laugh)

Hello there sweet Lady!

And thank you for the fun prompt. It definitely kept my imagination occupied during the travel blues. I hope you enjoy this little bit of swooning over villainous British voices. This is new for me. I've never written Hux, second-person perspective, gender neutral reader, or a short drabble before, so lots of firsts!

Much love!

Peb

-----

The Sound of Your Cold Voice

Pairing: General Hux x gender neutral reader, second-person insert (no use of y/n)

CW: wartime violence, reader is wounded and captured, implied later smut but none described, implied future dubcon situation. Minors DNI

Word count: 500-600

---

Drifting back from unconsciousness, the first thing you heard was that voice; crisp, cold, polished, sharp enough to enact death by a thousand subtle, strategic, cuts. It was mesmerizing, pulling you back to wakefulness with an iron grip. Your eyelids flutter open to a mere squint under the bright lights and shiny black surfaces. There's something covering your mouth, pushing air into your lungs and you breathe it in desperately.

A mirthless chuckle. “Ah. There you are. Welcome back.” He gives an order and the mask is gone, the air is gone, and his threatening presence seems to steal all of it from the room. “Leave us,” he commands the medical technicians, and you hear them funnel out with a hiss of the door.

It comes back to you; the research station you were working on marred by flames and swarming with storm troopers. You were injured badly and so were your colleagues (the ones who were still alive, anyway). You were shoved before him, hands cuffed behind your back, and soot staining your white lab uniform. His shiny boots striding purposefully towards you were all you could see as your head hung in shock and grief.

“And what have we here?” he inquired, lifting your chin with one long, leather-clad finger.

He didn't expect to be struck by how beautiful your face was; compassionate and clever eyes, a bravery in them despite overwhelming fear. Even covered in soot and abrasions, hair disheveled, it only made him want you more. It jostled his immaculate composure and made him warm under the crisp black uniform, but he would never show it.

You spoke, though your voice shook with fear and anger. “A scientist...just a scientist. This was a peaceful operation, a research facility...Why? Why did you have to do this?”

Hux wasn't accustomed to emotion breaching his Teflon coating of ambition, but something about the vulnerability in your voice made him ache to touch you, soothe you with that hypnotic voice telling you it was all for a greater good, of course, all for order in the galaxy, you sweet innocent darling. He settled on doing so, but with a shield of sardonic teasing.

He tutted, yanking your face to meet his eyes with that icy, gloved hand. Hux peaked his brows in mock sympathy, though his piercing green eyes held none. “Oh, but it is all for the greater good, my dear. You'll see.” His voice dropped to a deep whisper, as his face moved closer. “And it will be my pleasure to personally show you.” As the implication of his words set in, you felt horrified at the unbidden heat rising in your body; the unmistakable fizzle of arousal snaking its way between your legs. He loomed, tall and thin, that brilliant red hair and green eyes reminding you of a fox playing with an injured rodent.

Now, with your back against the cold medical slab, prone and vulnerable and isolated with the dreaded General Hux, terror and temptation swirled within your body. His face, that beautiful lethal face, moved to a hair's breadth form your own as your breaths became shorter and quicker. His hand cupped your cheek gently, this time without the wall of leather between your skin. A tear slid from your eye and he brushed over it gently with his thumb.

“Now, darling,” the general said, with surprising tenderness, “Where were we?”

@ladyofthestayingpower @cloudyfacewithjam @lemongingerart @huxs-side-part

#general hux fanfic #general hux x reader #general hux x gn reader #armitage hux #lovely mutuals #lovely asks #lovely fanfic friends #lovely prompts

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yomogi-mogi-mochi · 2 years

Text

Spolia (IV)

Parings: Malleus/(Light Fae) MC // Slight Rook/Vil // Trein/MC (Parental)

Summary: You wondered why you ever got accepted into NRC but never bothered to look back when the infamous black carriage whisked you away from a place you could never call home. Having been handed an opportunity of freedom, of solitude, of hope- how come you're paralyzed with fear rather than excitement? Your sunny plein air sessions and nightly walks contemplating this has attracted a certain dragon fae with an affinity for your nimble gargoyle sketches and magnificent paintings.

Notes: Rn I’m re-reading Nishi Kanako’s Fukuwarai so I’ve been inspired by her writing style/concepts in this work overall‒ it’s a story about defining “yourself” within the murky conception of “you”/what it means to “know” someone, and it uses a lot of sensory/bodily/interoceptive imagery to do so, but it’s kinda hard translating it to my native language to English. Also realized some errors regarding in-game knowledge because I have no working memory. Like actually none. But notes at the end for that lol. Lots of made up lore I vomited out enjoy! Comments, likes, and reblogs appreciated as always :)

CW: None

AO3 Link Here.

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 (Here) // Part 5 // Part 6 // Part 7

Masterlist

————————————————

The rest of the cultural festival went smoothly, and though the anxiety from actually confronting the instructions of the letter you received buzzed inside of you, your discussions with Malleus on your passions and theories on Gothic architecture grounded you to the present. You were also pleased to find that the mystery student Trein mentioned was him, which gave you all the more reason to trust him with your adorations that tethered you back to life.

“That’s definitely an interesting theory…I could definitely appropriation being used as a psychological strategy during the wartime efforts and translating postwar with the rise of decorative statuary…” The both of you sat at the foot of a tree in the campus courtyard, leaning onto the sturdy trunk side by side, enjoying the sunny warmth that wove itself into the light breeze.

“My thoughts exactly, child of man. However I still need more material regarding wartime sentiments and society of both the fae and humans.”

You hummed in response. “I wish I could help you with that but unfortunately that falls a bit out of my specialization…I guess all we have is the knowledge in the library. Besides, first hand accounts are hard to find during many wartime eras.”

Malleus paused for a second, putting his slender fingers to his lips. “Hm…I believe actually have a proposition to this issue.” He paused, piercing his gaze into yours, as if to look straight through you. “Do you trust me, (name)?”

Your eyes twitched at the sound of your name on his tongue, before flickering down at your hands. “Always, Malleus.” The heaviness at the root of your wings formed a doubt in your mind.

Why do you trust me?

You dreaded the sturdy kindness, the benevolence of his words to follow. Opposed to you, who kept their heart tucked under sorry smiles and an eternal distance from living things, Malleus always presented his heart in the palms of his hands like a fluttering bird, ready to share its warmth with his friends. Warmth so foreign to your skin, to yourself, that you felt like you were carving the same cold emptiness into him as life had done to you, stealing the brilliant warmth from inside of him. But he was always warm.

“Repent, repent, repent”

“Then I trust you.” Those simple words almost shattered you. He rose from his spot on the ground, and offered you his open hand.

For once you did not flinch, or back away‒ as much as you wanted to turn and run and run and run from his kindness, his warmth, to spare him from yourself. You prayed for discipline , a resistance inside of you that would prevent you from camping next to his warmth, yet, everytime he offered his open hand like this, your body moved on its own, drinking the mulled sweetness that you yearned. In the palm of your hand, you memorized the heat that pumped through his veins, swallowing it with the pain that struck your heart whenever you looked into those eyes that gazed far into you, unraveling the tight knot that strung every piece of yourself that you had cleaved off for other people. You were the first to pull away, afraid that you could become undone if you allowed yourself to revel in his divine warmth any longer.

Find me, find me, find me

He smiled so gently when you accepted his hand. It burned. “I want you to meet someone.”

————————————————

You didn’t expect for Malleus to bring you to the Diasmonia dorm. As you walked on the cobblestone path, you noticed it was one of those rare days where sunlight grazed the rocky mountains the dorm was perched on top of. A perfect day for painting, you thought. However, you had more urgent matters. Malleus seemed eager to take you to his “someone”, but despite his enthusiasm, he made sure to slow his long strides with your small ones.

When the two of you arrived at a wooden door, Malleus gave a few knocks. A beat a silence before it creaks open.

“Oh! Malleus. And a friend…?” You recognized the short man as Lilia Vanrouge, the vice dorm leader of the Diasmonia dorm.

Malleus gestured towards him. “(Name), this is Lilia, Lilia, this is (Name), my dear friend.” Your throat choked on his words. Quickly you bowed to hide the bashful smile on your face, introducing yourself by your full name and title, like you were taught by your mother.

“(Name) D’aramitz, of the D’aramitz skincare and potions company. A pleasure sir.” Lilia giggled at your stiffness.

“We’re the same year aren’t we? No need for formalities, any friend of Malleus’ is my own. Come in, come in.” Lilia stepped aside, allowing the two of you to enter the colorful chaos that was his room.

Ah, such a messy room. We’ll be fast friends.

“So what brings you here?” The vice dorm leader cleared a pile of extravagant looking clothes with a flick of the wrist, before levitating a tin box of cookies towards the table he urged you to sit at. He instantly nibbled on a thumbprint cookie filled with red jam.

“We had a question that I thought you could enlighten us about. Regarding wartime sentiments between humans and fae?” Malleus explained.

You continued. “We’re doing research on gothic architecture and its reflection of cultural and social shifts in both fae and human culture.” The playful grin on Lilia’s face dropped a bit.

“Ah…It’s not a happy story. If you’re okay with that, I’ll tell you all I can.”

Malleus looked towards you for confirmation. “Yes, please, to whatever extent you’re comfortable with.” You said.

“Well, again, it’s nothing happy.” He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms to cradle himself. “Tensions were rising between the two species because of a standstill in the battlefield. Though we fae generally stuck to physical attacks because of our overpowering abilities in magic, however, the humans tended to go for cultural or psychological damages. One way they did that was the complete destruction of fae species.”

“There are many species of fae, and most have specializations based on their magical or physiological make-up. For example, you Malleus, are capable of breathing fire as a dragon fae.” Malleus nodded in acknowledgement. Lilia continued.

“Because the humans could not overpower us physically, they tried to go for psychological and cultural attacks‒ mainly targeting fae species which were especially prevalent in important cultural rituals and roles. Like the celestial fae, born from stardust, and often taking up roles in spiritualty because of their natural inclination with the stars and astrology. But the most gruesome… genocide …I saw, was the extinction of the light fae.”

Your breath caught in your throat. Suddenly, the ache at the root of your wings, and the itchy wig bristling against your pointed ears became heightened. You had read somewhere during your childhood, that light fae had, for the most part, been extinct for decades. That was of course all you could remember, as your mother burned the books you had gotten from the school’s library that had any relation to the fae. But, you didn’t think they were actually completely extinct.

“Light fae‒ blessed by the spirits of the sun‒ have, or, had a particular artistic affinity because they were able to distinguish more colors of the light. So they had a sensibility when it came to tactile and creative pursuits like painting, architecture, or sculpting. Though for centuries they often stood at the center of the art world, during the gothic era right before the war, they gained even more religious, cultural, and political power because of their role in producing stained glass. Further, because of their natural affinity with light, they also attract it. So often in their presence, the walls covered head to toe in stained glass would shine brilliantly. It’s truly beautiful.”* Lilia pauses, gazing far beyond the present moment and space as if to remember its radiance.

“When they were exterminated by the humans, it not only destroyed us psychologically and religiously, but we also lost much of the technical and symbolic traditions of gothic architecture. Without anyone to teach the techniques born from the light fae, the original intentions, meanings, and practices were gone, forever.”

You almost teared up at that. Gone, forever? Lost, never to be found? You dug your nails into the scabs in your palms.

“And the worst part is…what we know of the techniques currently comes from not fae and human writing. They claimed the knowledge as their own, and used it to structurally reinforce their palaces. Gothic architecture was originally born out of militaristic necessity, to strengthen defense. So they used that knowledge gained from the extinction of one of our kind against us.” With a somber expression Lilia mindlessly bit into another cookie.

“That must be what led to the decorative phase postwar, as well as the appropriation of architecture by humans…interesting.”

“Spolia.” You merely stated, starting to feel waves of numbness wash over you. Really, you were doomed from the start. The pain, abuse, and manipulation was just a cycle of what happened before, it was just being repeated over and over throughout history, then passed onto you like a pathetic family heirloom celebrating your growth into an agonizing skin which beckoned destruction. Why wasn’t your bloodline killed off during the war? Why did your parents swap you with a human child? Why did they leave you with your barbaric family? Why? Why? Why?

“Actually, Lilia, I have something to show you.” You barely registered Malleus leaving his seat out of the room, dazed in a nauseating trance.

“…(me)? (Name)?” Lilia’s voice fazed in, as he stuck his hand in front of your glazed eyes, waving it with a concerned look on his face.

“Oh. Sorry. I zoned out.” You quickly replied. The vice dorm leader shot a questionable look at you. He kept his eyes trained on you as he leaned back into his chair.

“You’re not human, are you?”

Despite there being no ill intent behind that question, you felt an icy chill drench your head at that question. You shrunk into yourself, praying that you would continue to become smaller and smaller, and disappear from that moment.

“I…I…” you blubbered. Anxiety buzzed to your hands and feet, and you squeezed your first further, drawing blood from your palms.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to tell little ol’ me.” Lilia tittered, offering you a cookie. “Fae are common here, there’s no need to hide it.” Internally, you signed in relief. It also seemed he had not caught on that you were a light fae of all things, perhaps because he spoke like he witnessed their extinction first hand.

“No, i-it’s…” you struggled for formulate words as your throat constricted. “It’s different. I’m a changeling. I was raised human, and my family…desires that I keep it that way.” The words you chose were curated carefully. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

Lilia gives you a sympathetic smile. “I won’t. I promise. We’re friends, are we not?”

“A-ah, yes, yes…thank you.” You accepted the cookie that he wiggled in front of you.

He looks you dead in the eyes with a serious expression. “However, I would give anything that’s diminishing your magic a break when you can. Without being able to properly absorb your natural source of life, you’ll surely become drained,“ he paused with a playful smile “mad, even.”

Despite the lightness in his last words, those words struck your gut, swirling a nausea in your intestines that almost rose to the back of your throat. Through that absolutely vomit inducing quip, you let out a nervous smile to assure him that you were in fact, definitely not going mad. You thanked the great seven when Malleus entered the room again, canvas in hand. However, your nausea increased tenfold when he revealed the panting. Your painting. Your gargoyle painting.

Really need to get that exorcism asap. Because what the fuck

Malleus handled the canvas with extreme care, careful not to touch the surface.

“This painting…I’ve never seen such beauty and sensibility in the colors. I was wondering, could it be modeled after any light fae painting techniques?”

Lilia adorned an unreadable expression as he peered at the piece. He took a slow breath through his mouth.

“This…” He paused, gazing at the rare light that poured in from the windows. “This reminds me of a painting I came across during the war, once.” His chest rose as he took in another gulp of air. “Paintings by light fae circulated around the fae world, especially as their numbers dwindled. Even with their extinction imminent, they created, and created, and created, piece after piece, leaving remnants of their existence in the world.” Lilia softly brushed his fingers against the raised mountains of paint on the canvas.

“They were often heralded in the fae as a symbol of incredible strength, a stubbornness to live and create and see beauty despite the ever present death that was instilled in their existence during the time. The death of their friends, the death of their children, the death of their kind…” Both you and Malleus were entranced by his words.

“It was when morale was low‒ humans had succeeded in their psychological attacks and even with our physical capabilities, we weren’t recovering fast enough to get back to our full potential. We received word that a cathedral was being attacked for the search of light fae, so we ran as fast as we could.” Lilia paused for a second. “When we arrived, all we found was a demolished building. But there was one painting, still attached to an upright wall of the building that was otherwise completely obliterated. It was a painting of prayer hands. The form was simple, and the colors brilliant as usual‒ but the way that it handled light was so vibrant, ethereal even, and most of all soft, tender, and loving. These paintings were born of love. Love for the sun, love for their people, love for beauty, love for life. In its presence, I felt rejuvenated. I made me shiver in my skin and bones‒ in a good way.” Lilia drew his eyes across the entirety of the canvas, you were nervous to watch his expression.

“This painting reminds me a lot of that time. But I doubt it was actually made from a light fae, they were pretty thoroughly wiped out, you can even look at the surveys done in Briar Valley after the war if you want to confirm. Ah but the way this painting makes me feel…I feel an undeniable love from it.” Lilia’s lips were graced in a smile as he pulled his hands away from the surface of the painting. Your heart swelled at that, had you been painting with love? What did you even love? Had you felt it before? What did it feel like? You weren’t sure.

You looked at Mallus, curious of his expression. Sweetness spread on your tongue when you saw the enthralled look in his eyes. You drank his expression in, the same way his eyes consumed the painting.

Wait…if he purchased the painting, did he leave a note?

Your heart jumped at that. No, no, it couldn’t possibly be. Something so good couldn’t be true. There’s no way you could handle the reality of that situation. After all, who would love a damned creature like you? Still, you are reminded of the contents of the letter. You lull your heart with a prayer,

Find me, find me, find me.

“Thank you Lilia, for sharing that. I am…further in love with this painting.”

Find me, find me, find me.

“I should get going soon. It’s late.” You rose to your feet, averting your gaze from your creation. Malleus also stood.

“In that case, allow me to walk you home, child of man.”

You bid your goodbyes to Lilia, and before you knew it, you set foot once more into the front lawn of the Pomefiore dorm.

“Thank you for walking me back. And I had a lot of fun today! Please tell Lilia I loved his stories, and that his knowledge will be great for our future research!”

Malleus let out a airy chuckle at that. “You can tell him when we meet again in the future. He’s your friend now, you’ll probably be seeing more of him, especially with his pranks…” You returned his laugh with one of your own.

“Good night, Malleus.”

“Good night, (Name).” You felt like your body swelled with a million bubbles at the sound of your name. You watched his form slowly disappear, and you stood at the entrance of the Pomefiore dorm to confirm that he was likely on his way back to his own. The paper felt soft in between your fingers as you pulled it out of your pocket, worn out from you folding and opening it over and over.

“I wish to find you,

Spolia, 1001.”

Find me, find me, find me.

Your heart drummed along with those words. As you sang them in your head like a mantra, your legs carried you towards the direction of the library.

Find me, find me, find me.

The cool breeze in the library stained your cheeks with red. You trotted your way over to the bookshelf you scoured a few weeks ago, grazing your hand against the spine of each book, fearing that you’d somehow miss it.

Spolia, Appropriation, and Victory: Decorative Statues Throughout the Ages.

Spolia, you think again. Sought after its destruction. The new founded on the old. The cycle of annihilation you bear with your existence. You held your breath, hooking your finger into the spine of the book. With a quick release of air, you swiftly dragged it out.

Your hand trembles slightly, having no issue turning to page 1001 with the nervous sweat sticking to your fingers. 1001. A folded parchment nestled in the pages. Opening the paper, you shivered as you trace your feather light touch onto the elegant crimson cursive, raised slightly from the thin parchment soaking the ink. Finally, you allow your eyes to take in the contents of the paper, transforming meaningless shapes into words.

“Everything you are to me is that beauty I saw in your hands.

The hands that inscribed your thoughts, the hands that drafted your sketches, and hands that tenderly painted brilliant colors onto the canvas. Your hands create such soft gentleness, life, and a depth that pierced right into my soul when I gazed upon your inner world coloring the canvas.

Though I do not know you, what color your hair is, how the rumble of your voice echos upon my ears, or the warmth of your touch, what truly is “knowing” a person? When we think we “know” a person, we may imagine such things as the shape of their lips, or the hum of their voice, but I, who remain blind to these things, can only imagine the beautiful things which make up your existence. That is everything to me.

Though the world I imagine within you may seem small, everything that you are to me is beautiful. Your entirety to me in this moment is just that.

You are beautiful. So, so beautiful it hurts my heart.

If I may find you, gaze these eyes upon your hair, your eyes, your hands, and feel your warmth‒ I would like to expand this small world of beauty inside you that I know into something bigger. I would like to change the “everything” you are to me. I know that for certain, it would be magnificent.

Please let me find you.”

You didn’t even have time to stop the tears that were gushing from your eyes.

Oh great seven, you pleaded. Please, oh great seven, please find me, find me, find me. Your knees gave in from under you, and you knot your hands into a prayer with the letter still in your grasp. They shook from the power, the desperation, the hunger .

Find me, find me, find me.

You satiated that appetite with your tears that night, from the walk to your dorm, to the moment you sat in front of a canvas, painting with such ferocity you felt like you would drop dead if you stopped creating. The moonlight kept you company as you shed the layers which restrained your natural features, scrapping anything that slowed your furious movements.

Find me, find me, find me

————————————————

Notes:

Sorry this chapter is a bit short ,._. I’m gonna make up for it next chapter I promise

Just noticed while looking through the Wikipedia for the Diasmonia dorm that it’s on a literal fucking cliff so there’s really not much space to paint from afar, but I’m just gonna pretend that there’s some grassy areas around the mountain that the dorm is on, which is where I guess the character would go to paint IDK lol I totally forgot to put that into consideration because I completely forgot that the dorms are in their own dimensions because of fucking course they are lmao ALSO I realize most of the times it’s like cloudy and rainy and generally dreary there but I was like FUCK and added in the tidbit that light fae attract sunlight and their extinction made it less likely for Briar Valley/Diasmonia dorm realm to have less sunlight

AUGH I’ve forgotten how hard worldbuilding/creative writing is I should just go back to writing about the power in believing the futility of life depicted in art or whatever

Light is such an important aspect especially in Christian/catholic architecture. “Let there be light” holds a completely different meaning when you consider that technology was not developed enough to provide much light during the night, or to enable big windows to let in huge amounts of light in the early Byzantine era. So candlelight was predominantly used within religious rituals, the flickering of which animated mosaic Christian icons that decorated the walls of early churches in the Byzantine era. Then in the gothic era, light continues to be very important in a different way, as technology enables windows to become taller and taller, and more abundant. Stained glass often depicts religious images/narratives, paired with symbols of the ruling elite in order to strengthen secular, religious, political, and social power, so this light is a way of showing their power and influence in a direct way in the imagery of the windows, but also the existence of the windows as a testament of technological advancement made possible by the royal family (at least this is the case in France)

I wanted to emphasize hands not ONLY because I have a thing for hands but also because of their importance within the art world, and the human experience in general. Hands and hand motifs especially if they are the artists’ hand illustrate their creative soul and devotion to the craft, such as Goltzius Maximus The Artist’s Right Hand (1588). Though the hand is crippled, it holds incredible beauty in its ability, and stubbornness to create. Really, I was stuck between this, or Praying Hands by Albrecht Dürer (1508). But I went with Praying Hands because of the story behind it. To keep it short, Dürer and his brother wanted to go to art school but it was too expensive so the brothers decided to take turns working at a coal mine to afford it. With a flip of a coin, Dürer’s brother was the one determined to work at a coal mine, while his brother used the funds to go to art school, and they planned to switch in some years time. Dürer became quite the prodigy in woodcarving, painting, drawing, and some years later, it was finally his brother’s turn at the gig. But because of the harsh conditions of the coal mines, his brother’s hands were arthritic, and horribly disfigured, rendering him unable to do the delicate work of an artist. I think this piece tells tragedy, devotion, but most of all, love. The love between brothers, the love between people with the same goal. There’s longing, futility, and love in this piece and I think it would make sense for him, as someone who is sending his friends, his brothers, his sisters, and his kind into a pointless thing called war, he would be greatly touched at something like this

We hold hands to touch each other, to prove that we are in fact here, to bring ourselves closer. We use hands to prepare food for each other, to take each others pulses, to reach out to each other when there’s a distance. Though there are many hands that hurt us, there are hands with incredible love in them. The warmth we feel when we touch palms, touch flesh, is transferring that love from one human to another.

I’ll also be referencing this stuff in the next chapter

Also working on another fic with Rook based on the myth of Pygmalion. His character has such depth I think it tends to be overlooked because his avoidant attachment techniques are working lmao. But stay the fuck tuned goobers <3

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lya-dustin · 1 year

Text

All is bliss

Chapter 34

Cw: mentions of depression, racism(use of a slur), severed heads

Gif by @bonniebird

Taglist: @darylandbethfanforever9 @mercedesdecorazon @aemondx @watercolorskyy @sweethoneyblossom1 @ewanmitchellcrumbs

A day after Ser Otto’s demise, Aemma received a black brocade gown made to match the famous green dress Alicent wore at Aemma’s mother’s wedding feast.

I am your humble servant; the white silk ribbon had written in an elegant Valyrian script.

The handmaiden had been instructed to press her hair with a hot comb and arrange it exactly as Queen Alicent wore it that evening twenty years ago.

Her mysterious ally had gotten the matching jewelry done in silver and rubies that matched her crown.

The Beacon of the Hightower shone green when calling its banners and during wartime.

The symbolism of the queen’s gown had given name to their faction and become her signature color.

And tonight, Aemma rubs salt in the wound by taking her glorious moment and using it as weapon against her.

“Tell your mistress I will do all I possibly can to repay her kindness, May.” Aemma whispered as May, her handmaiden, dressed her.

It was an insult to House Hightower and the Queen Mother especially. And what better way than to wear it for tonight’s feast done in honor of Ser Otto’s memory and as a show of strength on Aegon’s part.

The entirety of Otto Hightower’s household ---including his longtime mistress--- is put to the sword for their negligence.

Their heads will be displayed at tonight’s feast just as Daemon allegedly displayed Ser Otto’s head at Harrenhal yesterday.

Aegon doesn’t care about people seeing him as weak as he is brought to court in his father’s own chair, after all, the heads will distract them all.

At dawn, Daeron Targaryen, Alicent and Alicent’s two brothers were to escort the bones to Oldtown along with most members of their house leaving court ripe for the taking.

Tomorrow Aemma and Jena will begin turning the court against Alicent and turn all those cloaks from green to black while she buried her loathed father.

It would not be easy, but the journey to and from Oldtown would take at least two or three moons given all the fighting still going on in the Reach. A shame Samantha had to go; she was quite fun even Baela liked her, but her husband demanded she go and her stepson/lover as well especially now that word has gotten around about little Ellyn’s toy dragon being the only thing left by his killers.

The most credible and circulated rumor was that Daemon had known who the true killer of the bastard girl was and did not like being framed for it.

There were others, but all of them fell apart when word came that Daemon had been presented Ser Otto’s head by a ratcatcher who claims he saw who killed the little girl.

The real killer is the blood of the king, he had allegedly said.

After that all ratcatchers were arrested and put to death. Cats were to replace them, and most households will have to kill their vermin themselves if they do not have a cat or a dog.

Some had wondered what would happen to all the rat poisons the rat catchers had.

The first toast is interrupted when the ballroom’s doors are opened to her.

No one knew she was coming, and it made it all the better.

“All rise, for Queen Aemma Targaryen.”

Whoever made that dress had a death wish.

Aemma had mentioned it earlier, but seeing how perfectly it was replicated in black, silver and rubies was an entirely different beast.

The feast had yet to begin and yet when Queen Alicent gave her thanks for their condolences, her speech was interrupted by the arrival of her rival.

“If my position were not on the line, I would be the first to compliment her on this.” Jasper tries not to look proud at this scene he thinks she helped orchestrate. “Who knew the two of you would pull it off so well, darling.”

“She looks like---” someone down the table said and Jena decided to let the court know where her loyalties now lied.

“She looks like a queen.” Jena smiled as her friend passed by them and Aemma nodded in return.

Jena cannot tell who is more spellbound by the sight of Aemma, both Targaryen men cannot seem to care how insulted their maternal family is about it.

Queen Alicent had been told her gooddaughter may be attending and wisely left the chair available. It would have been doubly humiliating to be asked to move.

“I am sorry for your loss, goodmother.” Aemma says the words genuinely which makes it all even worse.

It was common knowledge that the Queen Mother had yet to give her condolences to her gooddaughter.

Jena had been amongst the first to tell her, using her status as the Master of Laws’ wife and Aegon’s mistress to see her.

It had been a shocking sight, Aemma looking so dead inside as she sat by the window contemplating gravity.

I am sorry for your loss, your mother was a good woman, those words had made the young queen turn and give her a look that was in itself a loud cry for help.

Jena was relieved to see her return to life, even if the naïve girl was long gone.

And the woman born from her ashes had come with a vengeance.

“The law says a son comes before a daughter, “Jasper reminds her.

“The law went out the window when Aegon was put on the throne, dearest.”

Aemma’s confidence lasts up until Aegon speaks and announced he would kill Daemon and his men just as he had killed those who had turned a blind eye to his grandfather’s murder.

Aemond winced at the turn of phrase, but that had not been the source of their greater discomfort.

Every single head had been put on a platter and left at every table like a centerpiece.

Alicent gets the head of Ser Otto’s mistress, Victaria Bulwer, while Aemond got Hightower’s steward and Aegon the head of his grandfather’s sworn shield.

Aemma gets the head of his housekeeper.

It was disgusting to say the least.

“I thought you might like it, Goodwife Megga loved to call you a darkie behind your back.” Aegon said as if Aemma would appreciate it.

But Jena told her that to get Aegon out of the way the moment she is made co-ruler she must be the perfect wife.

“I can feel her prejudice from her stare, thank you.” Aemma swallows her disgust and finds herself losing her appetite.

“Your lady wife should not see such things lest the babe be born stillborn” his mother warned as she tried to drink her wine while Lady Victaria’s green eyes stared at her in horror.

Death before Disgrace.

The words of House Bulwer who hoped Ser Otto would wed the young widow and give her that sought after heir to keep her cousins from taking the keep and lands.

Now that will never happen.

The woman had been disgraced before her death and even after.

“I am sorry, I did not know.” Aegon apologized and had the heads taken away making all of them breathe easier. “Let us hope little Aenys was unaffected by that fuck up.”

Why was he being nice?

“You look beautiful.” Aegon adds with a genuine smile. Aemond narrowed his eyes and hid his irritation with a sip of wine. He will need the whole pitcher if Aegon keeps this show of gentlemanliness up.

What the fuck was going on with him?

Was he giving Aemond and Criston’s advice a try still?

“How did you get your hands on such a dress, your grace?” Alicent asked with a sharp edge to her style of address.

“A gift from a merchant guild to sweeten the pot, they seem to have had trouble getting their petitions acknowledged by the late hand. Something about children being sold to rat pits and brothels.” Aemma answered and set right to work.

With a few well-placed words and a caress ---as Jena taught her yesterday--- she could get Mysaria’s list done before the quickening occurs.

#aemma velaryon #aemond targaryen x velaryon!oc #all is bliss(in the court of aemma the great) fic #all is bliss fic #aemond targayen x oc #aegon ii x oc x aemond #aegon ii x oc #ewan mitchell #tom glynn carney

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bieups · 1 year

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6월 - June

A new month means I'm that much closer to summer vacation~

What's going on this month?

6일 - 현충일: Memorial Day; a day to remember those who died for their country (this is a "red day"/public holiday)

6일 - 망종: barley harvest season (one of the 24 seasonal divisions)

10일 - 6.10민주항쟁기념일: Anniversary of the June 10th Democracy Movement; this was a period of nationwide pro-democracy demonstrations that lasted from June 10~29th, 1987.

A Brief Overview of the June Democratic Struggle [CW: police brutality, death] January 14th, 1987 - 21 year old SNU student Park Jong-Cheol was tortured to death by police because he refused to give up information about fellow activists. (The Korean CIA ran the "Anti Communist Investigative Office" where many activists were tortured.) May 18th - the Catholic Priest Association for Justice revealed that the government had been covering up the details of Park's death. In response, a nationwide protest in his honor was planned for June 10th. June 9th - as more people started protesting, Yonsei student Lee Han-Yeol was hit in the head by a tear gas grenade during a protest at Yonsei Uni. He became another symbol of the pro-democracy movement. Lee died from his injuries on July 5th and over 1 million people attended his funeral. June 10th - over 200,000 people attended nationwide demonstrations against the government's use & concealment of torture. On the same day, President Chun Doo-hwan (responsible for the Gwangju Massacre in 1980) announced the nomination of his ally Roh Tae-Woo as the candidate for the ruling Democratic Justice Party (essentially naming him as the next president). During the next three weeks, over a million people took to the streets to fight for democracy. June 29th - Roh Tae-Woo issued the June 29th Declaration (6.29 선언), where he promised democratic reforms such as direct presidential elections and freedom of the press. He ended up being elected as president at the end of the year, leading to the Sixth Republic (the current government). (The movie 1987: When the Day Comes is based on the events leading up to June 10th and is worth checking out)

21일 - 하지: the summer solstice (one of the 24 seasonal divisions)

22일 - 단오: the 5th day of the 5th lunar month; this used to be celebrated with traditional games & wrestling (씨름) and women washed their hair with sweet flag (the plant) water...probably some people still observe this day, but it's not a public holiday

25일 - 6.25 한국전쟁일: Day of the Korean War ("육이오 전쟁")

The Korean War was/is a war between South Korea & North Korea. It's also sometimes seen as a kind of proxy war between the US & China/the Soviet Union. It officially began on June 25th, 1950 with North Korean forces invading the South, and it "ended" when an armistice agreement (not a peace treaty) was signed on July 27th, 1953. So technically, the two countries are still at war and this fact influences the politics & culture of South Korea today. (For example, yesterday at 6:41 am the Seoul gov. sent out a "wartime alert" and sirens were blaring telling people to take shelter. Plenty of people just silenced their phones and ignored it due to being desensitized to news about NK missiles or whatever, but others worried we were truly about to be bombed. Then 30 min later another alert came out to say "sorry, false alarm" and life just went on as usual.) I know war is quite a complicated topic, but I recommend learning at least the main events along the timeline of Korea's liberation from Japan in 1945 up to the war and the ceasefire. People often mention how Korea developed into a capitalist hell Joseon 1st world country so quickly, but learning about the impact of the war and the conditions people endured really helps put into perspective just how amazing it is. I think this video is a good introduction/summary.

#korean #korea #korean history #korean war #June #6월 #역사 #life in korea

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romioneficfest · 3 years

Text

Valeria

Title: Valeria

Prompt: Photo

Tumblr name:

Rating: GA

Word Count: 1392

Brief summary: Sometimes someone steps into your life when you least expect it. Ron and Hermione had made a lot of life changing decisions together, and this is the beginning of another.

Any content warning: None

*******

When the first ray of sunlight appeared on the horizon, marking the start of this new day, a very tall, red-headed man walked through the streets of London with a confident stride. His burgundy-red robes billowed behind him and his tired, unshaven face painted the picture of a somehow shady individual roaming the streets in these early morning hours. This, however, contrasted with the spring in his steps, the spark in his eyes and the huge smile lighting up the ginger’s fatigued face.

Ron Weasley was dealing with a whirlwind of emotions right now. His heartbeat raced as fast as his mind, causing his chest to fill with both anxiety and excitement.

He was on his way home from one of his Auror missions. Although Ron retired from this kind of work many years ago, he couldn’t say no when Harry asked him to help out in one of his cases, only one day after Hugo went off to Hogwarts for the first time.

Destiny and fate weren’t a concept Ron believed in, but if he did, he might think it was meant to be that he got asked to join this particular mission. Two weeks ago, he accompanied a ten-year-old Squib girl to an orphanage. She had not said a single word that day, but kept holding Ron’s hand from the moment they had found her at the crime scene right until it had been time for Ron to leave for home.

The following evenings, he’d kept visiting Valeria before his night shifts started. Her silence remained for several more days and Ron just sat with her, talking about the weather, chess and the newest invention sold at the joke shop. One day though, she suddenly reached for the wedding band on his left hand, briefly grazing over the gold ring.

“Can you tell me about your family?” Valeria asked, her voice quiet and barely audible.

He’d deliberately avoided the topic so far because he assumed talking about his wife and kids would only inflict pain. “What do you want to know?”

Valeria thought about it for a second before her curious eyes flitted to his hand again.

“Is she pretty?” she asked, smiling a little at Ron’s amused expression.

“Very,” Ron told her as he fished out a photograph from his wallet and gave it to her.

It was an old picture his mother-in-law had taken of them when Rose and Hugo were 6 and 4. Instead of looking into the camera, Rose, despite laughing, had her eyes squeezed shut as their dog Jeff licked across her face. And while Ron and Hermione dutifully smiled into the camera, Hugo had not sat still in his mother’s arms. The boy had gifted his grandmother a toothy smile while his upper body was hanging upside down, causing Hermione's smile to waver a bit as she struggled to hold Hugo.

“Hermione and I accepted a long time ago that a perfect family picture will most likely never happen,” Ron chuckled, causing Valeria to smile too as she stared at the photograph.

“I think it is perfect,” she said and Ron couldn't help but agree.

Ron shifted in his seat to make himself more comfortable before narrating the adventures of the Granger-Weasley family.

Valeria listened with rapt attention, smiling and laughing and gasping at Ron's stories, and not once did she let go of the photograph.

*******

Hermione sat at the kitchen table, remaining silent after Ron had finished his little speech.

He knew that what he was proposing was crazy. The plan he came up with within the last few hours contained everything they needed to do in order to adopt Valeria. From how they could manage their working hours over therapy possibilities to Muggle school options.

Still, he was well aware that this came out of the blue, even to himself. This would, without a doubt, change their lives forever. But when Ron had to leave for work that night, Valeria had reluctantly given the photograph of his family back to him. And right at that moment, something suddenly clicked into place.

All throughout his shift that night he had been thinking about his idea. Would Hermione agree? Would they be fit to care for this girl? Would Hugo and Rose be okay with this? And most of all, would Valeria even want to be a part of their family? But the idea cemented itself both inside his mind and heart.

“She's probably traumatized and needs professional help,” Hermione broke her silence.

“She's definitely traumatized. And yes.”

“She might not want to live with us. Maybe she wants to right now but later decide she doesn't want to anymore.”

“Yes.”

“We might not be fit to handle a traumatized child,” Hermione voiced his own concerns.

“Possibly.”

“She might become sad and angry about her not being able to do magic when she'll see it performed around her every day.”

Ron nodded. He thought about this too, wincing when he remembered how his family, him included, kept talking about their Squib relative from his Mum’s side.

“The adoption process is probably not that easy. I assume there’s a lot of paper work to go through and take care of. Maybe we can be her foster parents for a while before we adopt. Are foster parents a thing in the magical world?” Hermione frowned at the thought of bureaucracy making this harder for them.

Without giving Ron the chance to reply she kept talking, “The kids could not get along with her. Although I'm quite sure Hugo will stop at nothing to make her like him. And Rose will probably take her on broom rides and try to coax her into this book club her brother and all her cousins refuse to take part in. Would she be okay with Jeff? He can be very overwhelming sometimes, after all. Should we make Valeria and Rose share a room? Rose won't be home for-”

Ron cut her off with a sound kiss on her lips. Emotions threatened to overwhelm him as he cradled his wife's face between his hands and found that certain glint he loved lighting up in her dark eyes.

“So, we'll do it?”

Hermione stood up on her tiptoes, kissing the tip of Ron's nose. “Yes,” she said, “Ron, I think this is wonderful. This is scary and risky and unexpected but I really want to do this. I can’t wait to meet Valeria and ask her if she wants to live with us.”

“Brilliant,” Ron murmured as he showered her face with kisses, “Let's write the kids.”

*******

Hermione traced one of Ron's brain scars, letting her fingers glide over the skin of his right shoulder. Goosebumps appeared underneath her touch and for a smug second she marvelled about the effect she still had on him after over 20 years.

She lifted her head from his shoulder to look at him, “I love you!”

He gave her one of his lopsided smiles, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief, “I'm quite the catch, aren't I?”

Usually, she would join the banter, but not today. Today she needed him to know how brilliant he was.

“No, Ron, I mean it.” Soppy love declarations were never her forte but tonight she could not let it be with a simple I love you.

“I never thought I could love you more than I already did,” she said as her eyes flitted to the framed photograph on Ron's nightstand where younger versions of themselves smiled and waved into the camera as newlyweds,

“Today you proved me wrong, though. I have never loved you more than I do right now.”

#Hpfic #romione ficfest 2021 #Romione #Ron Weasley #Hermione Granger #Rated G #Ace Safe #cw:#cw: mentions of wartime

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phoebe-delia · 3 years

Text

some things you just can't speak about

Hi okay. I. Um. So the thing is, when I don't have any particular inspiration for something, I look through Taylor's songs, because she has a song for everything fucking ever. So yeah. it's "epiphany" by Taylor Swift because. I. *sigh* I wrote a War AU? But like, Muggle. And I sorta imagine it to be like WW1 era, but I really didn't write it with one war in mind, so imagine what you want. Just. here you go, okay? I have too many feelings about this. At least the ending is hopeful! I think it is, anyway.

For the @drarrymicrofic prompt: "dystopia," and also the old prompt "better than fighting"

CW: war, mention of guns and death, but no character death

It took a week before the gray-eyed boy would tell Harry his name. "Call me Draco," he'd whispered, because hushed conversations were all they allowed themselves during these stolen moments in no man's land, where the lines between enemy and lover could be blurred, where Harry's uniform and Draco's scrubs could be shed, piled to the side so they could feel each other's skin, warm and soft and alive.

Every time Harry had to fire his gun, every time he saw bodies carted off to the tent in the distance, far beyond enemy lines, his mind would fill with images of Draco, face ashen and jaw firm as he tried to save a life Harry'd been drafted to end.

But none of it mattered when it was just the two of them, in the thick forest, lying on dried leaves and trading lingering kisses and gentle touches.

Nothing else mattered when they looked one another in the eye and made promises of "one day" and "anywhere, with you" and "it's not your fault," and "I'll wait for you."

Not when Harry brushed Draco's sweaty hair from his forehead, or when Draco pressed his lips to the inside of Harry's wrist.

Not when they let themselves sleep as if wrapped in each other's arms was the safest place for them to be.

Harry lifted his eyes from Draco's head resting on his clavicle, matching his breathing to the slow rise and fall of the other boy's chest, and stared up at the stars, wondering if the sky looked the same beyond the battlefield.

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redd956 · 9 months

Note

Military/Postapo whump with whumpee getting help from a member(s) of a unfamiliar group or fraction.

I spent an entire day deciding if I wanted to write something based on this, or provide promts

For now: I'll provide prompts and continue an discontinued whump story that would explore this concept

Ask Based Whump Prompts

CW: Wartime/Post-Apocalypse, Violence, Torture, Captivity, Death Mention, Mass Death, Militaristic Whumpee, Militaristic Caretaker

Whumpee stirred awake, finding themselves in the bed of a clinic's tent. They shimmied back down into a comfortable position. Smiling to themselves, they assured a familiar face would come to greet them. Their little happiness fled from them at the masked and armored figure that entered.

The exhausted screech released from the heavy steel door. Opening and closing it was no longer enough to get whumpee to budge. They remained in their chains, head hung low and glazed over eyes fixated on the ground. It was only when a more than one pair of combat boots entered their peripheral vision did they truly awake.

The largest member wandered over, forcing whumpee's face towards them with a cautious movement of their hand.

"This isn't him." The stranger accepted aloud. They stood there for a moment analyzing whumpee, taking note of every bruise, their too visible ribs, and sunken eyes. "We'll take them anyway."

"What's that over there?" Caretaker's voice echoed through the abandoned corridors.

"Looks dead."

Caretaker lowered their gun, the blinding trace of their flashlight beaming through whumpee's eyelids. Whumpee thrashed awake, quickly bearing their combat knife in the air.

"Looks dead my ass."

After forcing a gas mask onto paralyzed whumpee's head, Caretaker haphazardly slung around their limp rescue trying to get a new bullet proof vest onto them. They threw the previous tattered one aside.

Barely giving whumpee a chance to understand what's going on, Caretaker dug their thumb against a bleeding puffy cluster of puncture wounds, rubbing in a fine yellowy powder. Whumpee tried to howl but their face barely moved, and a half-hearted whimper escaped from them instead.

It was then whumpee realized their every fiber felt heavy. Their fingertips twitched when they tried to move their arms. Their ankles wobbled when they tried to thrash their legs.

Caretaker hefted whumpee over their shoulder. The whole world spun into view, the unknown flag patch etched into Caretaker's shoulder, their similar looking comrades strung throughout the field, and the countless bodies dead of full body paralysis.

"This one's still kicking." Caretaker's accented voice shouted.

#postapo whump #apocalyptic whump #military whump #military whumpee #military caretaker #whump #whump prompt #whump prompts #whump prompt list #these were so hecking fun to write actually #caretaker #whumpee #whump ideas #cw death

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gintrinsic-writing · 2 years

Text

For @anthemxix because I felt like it. Enjoy your favorite boy suffering. CW mentions of wartime violence

Image was everything.

Image allowed a teenager—still growing, his father’s boots stuffed with extra socks, his voice still cracking randomly—to enlist in Hyrule’s army early. It allowed him to idealize duty over small town gossip. It allowed his family to ration a little less.

Image burdened a captain—sword too heavy at his side, hands too red with blood he couldn’t wash away—with the devoutness of loyal soldiers and the fear-stained resentment of traitors. It burdened him with confidence when others shook. It burdened him with a reputation to uphold for the kingdom’s sake, if not for his own.

Image gave a Hero—one among nine, a pawn and knight both at once on a board he couldn’t see the other side of—a sense of self when he felt more like a cog. It gave him the opportunity to empathize and commiserate. It gave him moments to smile and be given smiles that were horribly, wonderfully honest.

Image was everything, Warriors thought. It was a shame his was being ruined by a harmless hot spring.

Hands shaking, he wrapped a comforter around himself and buried his nose in the scratchy, woolen folds, seeking the smell of soap; but the sulfuric fumes above the Elde Inn were too strong, inundating him with dizzying flashbacks to his first campaign at the Central Keep. His chest felt too tight, heart pounding like a Goron’s drum behind his ribs. Terror hovered at the edge of his mind, kept only in bay by slow, steady breaths and a sense of denial perfected over many torturous years.

Sitting next to him on the bed, hovering without touching, was Legend. “Link, talk to me,” he said, not for the first time. His words were hushed, at odds with the afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows.

Warriors opened his mouth, then swallowed against the rush of nausea that filled his throat. In his mind, he couldn’t escape vivid flashbacks from the blaze of that first battle, when trepidation and naivete cost hundreds of lives. Under the weight of every too-fast breath, he recalled King Dodongo rolling through the Keep, fire licking across golden scales. He could still remember the sound of his soldiers screaming as the molten dragon rolled over them, the sickening crunch of limbs and the pungent hiss of boiling blood. Goddess, the smell, the smell.

Warriors closed his eyes and tried counting to ten, to fifteen, to twenty... When that failed, when the nausea brought with it more memories of sizzling and popping and wailing, when his breathing only grew harsher and his panic more vicious, he dug his thumbnail into the space between his opposite thumb and forefinger. The pain helped some.

Of course, it wasn’t allowed to last.

“No, don’t do that,” Legend chided quietly, taking Warriors’ now-bleeding hand in both of his. He began lightly scratching Warriors’ knuckles, slowly at first, then faster and faster, until the sensation was just prickly and unpredictable enough to be distracting. Warriors’ fear slowly began to ebb—an inferno reduced to a simmer. His mind settled, memories pushed to the edge of thought. He slumped forward, trembling, and wondered how he’d ever salvage his dignity.

“You back with me yet?” Legend asked. His tone was gruffer than before, but his touch was far softer.

“Sorry,” Warriors answered, refusing to look up. He shoved the blanket more tightly over his mouth and nose.

Legend snorted loudly. It was uncultured and crass and everything Warriors needed right then. “Don’t be,” he said dryly.

“I just need a minute to collect myself.” Every word, smoothly delivered, took effort.

“Fat fuckin’ chance,” Legend replied. He leaned forward, squinting up at Warriors’ eyes, then hummed thoughtfully. A second later, he placed an arm over Warriors’ shoulders and snuggled up against him firmly. “We’re not pretending this didn’t happen.”

Warriors was thankful that the comforter hid the worst of his blush. “A lapse in judgement,” he answered stiffly, leaning away from Legend’s stubborn grip. “It won’t happen again. There’s no need for the others—”

“No, stop, stop.” Legend shook his head, pulling Warriors even closer. “Fuck the others, they’re not going to know. I mean between you and me.”

Warriors felt his skin prickle uneasily. “I’d hardly call this appropriate blackmail.”

“Blackmail?” Legend blurted, twisting around until he could face Warriors better without losing his grip entirely. “This isn’t blackmail, idiot. It’s just... You shouldn’t bottle this shit up. Obviously, something about this place set off some serious post-traumatic stress, so.” He motioned between them with his free hand. “It’ll be our secret. For no ulterior purposes. ” He shrugged.

“And in exchange?’ Warriors asked, too bone-deep tired to continue feeling wary.

“Were you not listening to me?” Legend griped. “I said ‘no ulterior purposes’.”

The warmth from Legend’s arm began to break through the chill on Warriors’ skin. He told himself it wasn’t enough to let his guard down. “Then why?”

Legend sighed, frowning up at the inn’s ceiling. “I guess because I wish someone had ever done the same for me, even once.”

“So I’m not the only Hero with the occasional mental breakdown?” Warriors joked bitterly.

“Are you kidding?” Legend answered, gently shaking him by the shoulder. “Wars, you were the last to join our stupid little group, so you may not have noticed... We’re all kind of fucked up.”

Warriors laughed, and if the sound was wetter than it should’ve been, Legend had the decency not to comment on it. “Is that right?”

“Sure is, dummy.”

#this was originally going to be like..... 500 words #warriors suffering BecauseTM #i know warriors is your no. 1 but legend is still your no. 2 right???? hope so #after this scene legend called room service and they ate a ton and griped about the greasy food in twilight's world while secretly enjoying #and then legend bitched about mundane things #until they both felt more confident and wnet out to explore the town away from the springs #if anyone asked they still hated each other #on principle #lu fic #lu warriors #lu legend #linked universe #gintrinsic writing

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whumpofdory · 2 years

Text

The Spoiled Prince, Part 3

CW: ransom note, mentions of torture, death and mutilation threats, brief mention of suicide attempt

The king reappeared in his chambers, directly in front of his desk. Now to write the letter to King Caelex. It was important it be done soon so the people wouldn’t think the prince had died. He sat down at the ornately carved workspace, mindlessly moving aside the various clutter and important papers.

He picked up the pen and parchment and began writing:

King Caelex,

I heard that your third son, Callum, went missing recently. I have him in my dungeon, safe and sound. He and his manservant are unharmed, at least for the moment.

In exchange for you son I want my sister retuned home. As you intimately know, she is my only remaining relative. Upon her return I will release Callum and his manservant to your custody.

Should you refuse to accept this offer, your son will be returned regardless, but piece by piece. You know my talents and how eager I would be to use them on someone close to you. Respond quickly or risk receiving the first bit of him.

Regards,

King Alvard of Slivgrad

He poured hot wax next to his name and pressed the signet into it. It was in poor taste to throw around power this way, he knew, but there were precious few alternatives.

He didn’t feel pity for Caelex, and after how the boy had spoken he had little sympathy there either. The manservant seemed quite put off though; perhaps he should have him transferred to a small guest room. It wasn’t his fault, after all, and he was no threat. Perhaps they could meet and discuss things. He likely had ample information to give.

His reputation had perhaps gotten out of hand. During the war between kingdoms, he had been the Grand Inquisitor after what happened to his family. A king couldn’t fight on the battlefield when he had no heirs, and it wasn’t easy to find one during wartime. He couldn’t sit idle either, so he set to ripping secrets from prisoners of war. He had a natural talent for it, and he let a few prisoners go after Slivgrad won. Truth slowly morphed into fable, which transformed into infamy. Now he couldn’t so much as look at a foreigner without them running. But it had its conveniences.

Yes, he decided, in a few days he would allow the servant some freedom and see what happened.

What was a manservant going to do, kill him? Many had tried, including himself, but nothing ever worked. It was fabled that if a magic-adept line was concentrated enough it could produce an immortal. He certainly fit the criteria.

Tag list: @whumpy-butterflies

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stirringwinds · 4 years

Note

I really enjoy reading and looking through your blog and I believe this has not been asked yet, but have the dirt children ever been jealous of each other?

thank you for your ask! my answer is yes, and these are two of my headcanons of the hetalia nations being jealous of another nation (in both cases, of alfred). cw: serious history, war, mentions of violence, injury.

Ivan, of Alfred: the historical dynamic i’m attempting to translate into these characters here is the cold war rivalry & ‘how would ivan have responded to news of the trinity bomb (the first successful atomic bomb test in new mexico)?’ —the soviets had spies inside the manhattan project. basically, these are centuries-old immortal beings, who have fought hard to survive throughout history, whom have gone into battle with swords and spears before switching to muskets and then machine-guns. they’ve lived through harsh times where strength is everything. how do they react to the terrible might of the nuclear age? to the period where america held the monopoly on nuclear power? what is ivan’s view, as the wartime ‘Grand Alliance’ (USSR/US/UK) decays & it’s clear he and alfred will be duelling for the mantle of global dominance?

so, i’m thinking ivan’s perspective in 1945 is ‘he has barely endured a fraction of the centuries and misery i have had to live through—and yet he is the one rewarded with the fire of the gods.’ it stems from ivan’s perspective of young alfred being raised under arthur’s protection—which he sees as a luxury that most nations lacked (‘so what if the humans thought he was an illegitimate son and sneered about it? it is protection all the same.’). as ivan sees it, alfred quickly gained independence with the help of other empires, and then surmounted the peak of global power in a blink of an eye. so, it’s all skewed by how ivan also does not really perceive all the specific hardship and precarious situations alfred himself faced in his beginnings. ivan would often be the first one to say life isn’t fair, but he can’t help feeling jealousy all the same (and he’s probably not the only one feeling this way)—because this power dwarfs all the past measures nations have used to measure their strength—the invincibility it grants is something that most of them have craved throughout history. and alfred got it, despite being so young.

Australia/Jack, of Alfred: though i’d say this one is less “jealousy” and more like envy, however (so less resentment, but more of a ‘i wish i had what this person has too’). the history i’m trying to translate here is comparing the different status of america as an emerging power vs. australia as a colonial dominion in the 19th—20th century. basically, Jack is not so much resentful of Alfred—he’s just envious that Alfred is treated as an equal by Arthur in the way he is not—because my headcanon is that young Jack kind of admires Alfred. all those times Arthur grumbles telling Jack not to follow Alfred’s bad example: it’s Jack hearing of the estranged older brother who managed to give Lord Father the middle finger, got away with it—and actually managed to force the old man to respect him on some level. even as Arthur dramatically retells how Alfred had the nerve to shoot him in the jaw at the Battle of Yorktown over his whiskey or how he went and collected money from all of Arthur’s enemies ( ‘utterly disgraceful behaviour!—but oh, well-played, if i must say. well-played indeed. he does take after me. because that is exactly what i would do.’)

Alfred’s independence and strength is something I think Jack feels acutely during WWI, as the war grew increasingly bloody and protracted. it’s like, i don’t see Alfred being an asshole or anything to Jack when he finally enters WWI—in fact Jack probably liked him. Alfred is by nature gregarious and warm, and far more casual & informal (and lord knows Jack hates stuffed up pompousness and formality)—and probably came laden with food (peaches! chocolates! instead of that god-awful cold canned maconochie stew ration) that he probably gave out really freely. but—it also highlights the difference between jack (and india/aditya, matthew, nz/eleanor) and alfred. alfred is independent, wealthy and powerful. while the dominions and colonies automatically ended up at war the moment Arthur declared so. Alfred gets to choose, gets to decide how and when he will join in, untethered to the obligations of the british empire or “”King and Country™””.

#coffeeenergytea #hetalia #aph america #aph australia #hws america #aph russia #hetalia headcanons #long post #hws russia #hws australia #death mention #injury

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tunedtostatic · 3 years

Text

ain’t no safety coats, raft or river boats

Brian & Sana (plus a dash of Brian & Arkady and pre-Brian/Krejjh), 1.5k

This was supposed to be another triple drabble. It is not! Title is from “Can’t Be Too Careful” by Jennah Bell.

CW: Food, mention of minor injury, descriptions of deep bodies of water

Brian suppresses a sleepy morning yawn as he makes his way down the dim corridor of the starship Rumor. After two nights aboard, this path between the bathroom and the kitchen is still unfamiliar in a way that brings back memories of waking up in new apartments and the odd adjustment periods of still packed boxes and unfamiliar sinks and cabinets in new spaces that had abruptly become “home.”

Right. Just another new apartment. New bed. New shower. New, borrowed clothing—no boxes to unpack this time. New microwave. New cargo hold with thirty-five cases of bulk gourmet chocolate destined for the intergalactic black market. New bath mat.

In the kitchen, Captain Tripathi is at the stove, boiling a kettle.

New roommates.

“Morning, Brian.” Tripathi smiles at him, one of her dimples showing. “Tea?”

“I wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea?” Brian steps up to the counter next to her, opening the cabinet that he now knows holds the cereal. “Thanks, Captain.”

As Sana methodically unseals a package of vacuum-sealed bread, Brian realizes that this is the first time he’s been alone with her. Krejjh has been spending hours with her, learning the Rumor’s cockpit, and Brian’s first hour aboard included First Mate Arkady Patel walking him to the Rumor’s tiny medbay and carefully cleaning the cut on his cheek with a taciturnity that did not come across as unkind. But this is the first time Brian and Sana have been in a room together without the rest of their tiny new crew.

The toaster slot in the wall dings, and Brian watches Sana out of the corner of his eye as she spreads butter substitute on her toast. He’s known her for three days, two life-threatening calamities, and one crew dinner. He trusts her with his life. He doesn’t think he knows her better than he did the hour they met.

“Have you and Krejjh been settling into your cabins okay? I told them to let me know if they needed the temperature lower in there. As it is, one reg controls the whole ship, but I should be able to rig something up.”

“You can ask them when they wake up. But their energy levels seem pretty normal to me.” Brian smiles.

Sana smiles back, but as Brian pulls the milk out of the fridge, he has the feeling that she’s watching him, too.

He doesn’t think her question about Krejjh was, like, a test, with a right/wrong answer where she was seeing if he was…willing to speak for them, or something. He doesn’t really think it was any kind of deliberate probe, even to scope out something as general as how much he and Krejjh trust or know about each other. But he does feel like, every time they interact, Tripathi has been quietly getting the measure of him.

He doesn’t have the measure of her yet. He’s known other people who are both kind and tough. That isn’t a heavy lift. But there is another dimension to Sana’s kindness, something deep and quiet that undulates like an underground river.

“It has been nice to have some enthusiasm in the cockpit, I have to say.” There’s a twinkle in her eye, now. Right, Brian’s almost-joke about Krejjh’s energy levels. “It’s been a while since I’ve gotten to teach the Rumor’s quirks to someone new.”

As she reseals the butter substitute, she glances at him with a canny expression. “You know, she might not come out and say this, but I think Arkady is looking forward to have someone who might be doing, say, translation work at the kitchen table while she’s on one of her coding marathons, too.”

Brian smiles and nods, wondering if Sana, for all her perspicacity, has realized yet that her subtle skid-greasing in this realm isn’t necessary. You met some interesting folks in academia, even if most of them didn’t carry at least three guns at all times and have biceps the size of Brian’s undergrad coffee thermos, and you definitely met some interesting folks on Neuzo. Resultantly, some types of weirdness are easier for Brian to parse than others.

A few hours after a sweaty, out of breath Sana, Arkady, Krejjh and Brian had made it aboard the Rumor and into space, Sana was still flying and Arkady had vanished after her into the cockpit to help liaise with their contacts. Unfamiliar with the ship, Brian and Krejjh had stuck to the kitchen, talking quietly.

Arkady had appeared in the doorway with a faint scowl, looking Brian and Krejjh over for a second before going to the sink and silently filling two glasses with water. She’d walked to the table and set the glasses down, remaining standing.

“Important to stay hydrated.”

“Thanks, dude,” Brian said hesitantly.

Arkady grunted, staring impassively down at them for another few seconds. “We did a pot of pasta last night. Leftovers are in the fridge. It has rehydrated shellfish powder. Allergies?”

Brian shook his head.

“Microwave’s there.” Arkady pointed to the very obvious microwave. “Fridge.” The even more obvious fridge. “Cabinets. Help yourself to whatever, except the chamomile tea, that’s for Sana’s headaches.”

“Roger dodger,” Krejjh replied, in a cadence Brian could recognize as false cheer.

Arkady turned to look directly at Krejjh, and Brian tensed.

Arkady must have noticed that, because she turned and looked at him for a long second. Her eyes, he realized, reminded him of a deep mountain lake he had seen once on a visit to Earth. The water had been impossibly clear; you could see through it all the way down to the point where light no longer filtered through.

She reached for a chair and swiveled it in an easy motion, sinking down to straddle it backwards.

“I’m this ship’s security officer,” she said, as though this wasn’t functionally obvious from the five holstered guns, the two sheathed knives, the events that had introduced the two halves of the new crew to each other, or her thorough sweep for bugs when they finally made it to the Rumor. “That means that while you are part of this crew, you are under my protection.”

Brian had felt his shoulders relax, and Arkady had dropped her lakewater gaze, mumbled something about Sana assigning them cabins later, and spun the chair back around.

Then she’d bolted. Brian had smiled and squeezed Krejjh’s hand—trying to ignore the way this seemed to make his heart flip a little more every time—and gotten up to microwave the pasta.

The kettle starts to whistle, and Sana reaches a nonchalant hand to set it on a cool burner as deftly as if it was a teacup. Her arm musculature situation isn’t exactly shabby, either, which…yeah, working as a mechanic in the wartime shipyards would probably do that.

Then add ‘building a secret starship with your own two hands.’ Brian is still trying to wrap his head around that one. Becoming one of the only humans fluent in Standard Exo-Dwarnian after shiphopping to Neuzo for fieldwork, and then getting in the ill graces of the Dwarnian mafia and falling in l—becoming excellent friends with a deserting Dwarnian pilot probably wouldn’t be considered, like, that normal by most people? But Brian has never built anything larger or more secret than a poprocket that time in third grade, unless you count the less physical large-ness of his research, which was technically also a secret once the war broke out, and now that he’s thinking about it, if you gave each sentence of his thesis the weight of a rivet, it actually might be up there with the mass of a starship? Ha, he’s totally telling Krejjh that just to see the look on their face. No doubt they’ll have opinions on whether a chapter section is equivalent to one or two hull subsections.

“Mugs are in that cabinet,” Sana says easily, gesturing toward it.

“Got it, dude,” Brian replies, equally easily.

You don’t comfortably exist in a place like Neuzo, or for that matter a place like academia, if you expect everyone to present their whole self at all times. Besides, since Brian is now in effect depending on Tripathi’s astuteness for his own safety and Krejjh’s, it’s comforting to know that she knows how to keep an eye on layers of social interactions, even when that includes her interactions with him.

He hands off the mugs in a brush of cracked porcelain and calloused hands. The domesticity of working beside someone at a kitchen counter is unexpectedly comforting, too. He could almost be in the cramped galley kitchen of his last shared grad school apartment, or behind the bar with Alvie, getting ready for a shift.

He isn’t.

Sana drops the teabags into the mugs, pouring the steaming water carefully. “If you take sugar, I think it was last seen in the cabinet next to the fridge.”

Brian chuckles at her almost-joke about the dynamic chaos of her kitchen. The kitchen. Their kitchen. He’s going to be spending the next few days getting used to that. If Sana is an early riser, maybe he’ll spend the next few days getting used to mornings like this with her, too.

#tscosi #the strange case of starship iris #brian jeeter #sana tripathi #my writing #fic #crossposted to ao3 link in the notes

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oldguardsideblog · 4 years

Text

I uhhh kept thinking about Quynh and so here’s another take on the “we dream of each other. They stop when we meet.” regarding her, Booker, and Nile.

cw: canon adjacent depictions of death and emotional distress.

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

“Booker,” said a voice of a woman who by all logical reason shouldn't be able to exist across from him, “It’s nice to finally meet you”

She leaned casually against the counter of his latest safe house, eyes trained on him rather than the gun he had pointed at her, and took a sip of water out of one of the only two glasses that he owned. She shouldn’t be here, and it wasn't simply because of the newly reinforced need for anonymity after his latest betrayal.

Last time he had seen her had been when he last slept two days ago. Waking from another nightmare of her eternal imprisonment, her constant and never ending pain, he had a renewed energy to go and get blackout drunk. Wandering from bar to bar to park, he finally resigned himself to the idea of going home. Only his house wasn’t empty when he got there.

He keeps his gun trained on her. The logistics of her ability to be here run through his head. He notes her modern state of dress, her well mannequired and healed hands. Her eyes, so similar to Andy’s in the way they spoke volumes of years lived and died. Two days wasn’t enough to escape and get to him. Was he out for longer than he thought?

“You shouldn't be here.” He says stupidly.

She looks between him and his weapon with a raised eyebrow, “Now, is that anyway to treat one of your oldest friends?”

He laughs bitterly, “If you’re looking for revenge you’re a bit too late.”

She tilts her head at him and pushes herself off from the counter “Now, what is it that you think I know of you?

He shoots for honesty. If she wanted to kill or capture him he’d be dead already. “I’ve betrayed the others. I let them get captured. I let Andy get hurt.”

At the mention of Andy her facade breaks and she inhales as if pained.

He looks clearly into Quynhs eyes, “Any punishment you seek to give them, please know that they’ve suffered enough.” Then, he looks away in shame, “They've escaped but I haven’t done anything good.”

Her voice cuts through his deprecation and brings his gaze back to her face. She’s kept her reaction neutral but if he didn’t know any better he’d say she looks sympathetic “I know of your betrayal Booker.”

He looks at her guilty “How is that?”

‘Why don’t we sit down for this.” she says, moving towards him. The grip on his gun tightens on instinct before he remembers himself and gestures for Quynh to sit, tucking his gun into the back of his pants. He takes a seat as well and then freezes at Quynhs piercing stare.

She searches his face quite seriously then, nodding like she’s found something acceptable in there, she leans forward, both hands resting gently around her glass.

“You and I have a connection, as we all do before we meet. I wish I could say that feeling what you felt was what kept me alive all these years. But that would be a lie.” She smiles carefully at him, and Booker is hit with another reflection of Andy when she meant to break bad news to him. “In fact, you made me feel worse.”

Booker swallows “Alright,”

“You have to recognize that the absolute absurdity of our situation is something that I got over years ago. Dying as I did absolutely alone before she found me. I had decided nothing seemed to make sense anymore and if I was cursed to die forever, well, there was comfort in that certainty”

She considers him, “We heal, but that may just be the problem.”

“Booker, I’m here because I want to tell you a story few people on earth know, with a conclusion that I’ve never shared with anyone else. After all, I think that you owe me at least that.” Her gaze pierces through him.

He nods, pained that she knows him in this way and honored that she trusts him even marginally “I understand”

She looks off into the distance and he watches as she circles the top of her glass with a well manicured nail, healed without a blemish after 500 years of clawing at metal. She takes her time starting but he knows better than to interrupt. Finally she speaks.

“I know that you have worries but in many ways I have had too much of my time wasted to aim for revenge.

I know that she’s sorry. I have seen her. You forget that while my nightmares plagued you, I was the one living them. you forget that you were my only eyes into the world and you were the only one who knew anything about me. What were you planning on doing once your gamble paid off? Dying? Leaving a poor old woman to lose all sense of connection to the real world”

Booker swallows “I-”

Quynh holds a hand up, “Again Booker, I am not here for revenge and I am not here for an apology. I am here so someone, anyone, knows what happened to me. Give me that, give me a voice, Booker.”

He looks her over. Here was the woman that he tried so hard to replace. He knew he never wanted to be her, after the fate she had, but there was an emptiness where she should be among the group, one that over the years he began to realize that he would never live up to filling.

Realizing she was waiting for an answer he clears his throat and croaks out “Of course.”

She looks relieved. “Good.” She looks back out past him and begins

“I have had many beginnings, my birth, my first death, and then my first life.

My first life was remarkable only in the sense that any mortal life it’s; it was a gift filled with opportunity that you had to be lucky enough to come by or to die trying. I was married, I had a number of children who lived well into adulthood and I was amazing in battle.

But as it is for all warriors it’s a double edged blade. The more battles you fight the better you become, the more invincible you believe you are and the more mistakes you make. Like us all I died in a fight for my life. And like us all, I lost.

But then I came back to life. I became amazing in battle in wartime and I had a beautiful family in times of peace. I dreamt of a woman, who like me would not stay down. And when enough of my family had passed on, so many generations having passed that my memory was all that held them to that present, I moved on. I continued my battle elsewhere, but at once I was betrayed. For a few bits of gold I was left out in the desert to die. Only I could not do it only once and be done with. I had to keep dying over and over, and likely forever.”

Quynh felt herself have difficulty continuing but knew this may be her only chance and pressed on.

“My only hope was this woman who I had dreamt of, one who I wasn’t even sure was real. Our dreams were our only connection and my only key to the outside world. Additionally, as you well know Booker, we don’t see things exactly or clearly through the dreams, we sense strong emotions, feats and disasters. There are near images but not many to tell us someone's exact location.

After decades had passed and I had tired of dying, I had begun to no longer care. Yes my body wanted me to live but my mind did not. Staying in that state the two began to fracture, and I found my mind began to wander very far away from my body. I began to see her during my deaths as well as during my dreams.”

She had all the time in the world to consider them, but still she searched for the right words.

“These two experiences were... different. The dreams were hazy, they were feelings and impressions of the world as Andromache saw them. The deaths however, they were as if I was standing there next to her. I couldn’t say how long I would spend with her during each death, as time had lost all meaning out in the desert. And at the time. I didn't know if I was simply watching Andy’s memories or if I was truly there with her. I liked to imagine that I was there, though I could affect no change in her world. But in these deaths I could watch time pass, from the changing of the sun over her head. I would wander the world near her, searching for me.

I myself didn't know if this search would come to fruition, but I traveled alongside her nonetheless. I rode horseback beside her, I climbed mountains and walked paths and ran quickly beside her. I laid beside her as she slept and I waited for her to find me.

Before these travels with her I had no interest in finding her but I was truly fascinated with this woman who seemed so hardened by the world but filled with a flicker of hope at the prospect of finding me. It made me more willing to be found. As I gained my resolve I would try new things, I would send her images of where I was, but as I could only see sand for miles it seemed to do no good. The images we dream of are without sound. During my deaths I started to whisper around her. I told her the names of the desert I had entered, I told her my last known place, I told her my name. And with that last reveal she seemed to have heard me.

While she could not see me and we could not hold a conversation, something had finally gotten through to her. With that I was pulled back to myself, I could no longer reach her because I had expended too much energy. So I continued to die for many decades, unable to see her in my deaths, but I had felt her hope and knew she would prevail.

Until finally, Andromache’s face appeared above me. And this was so different from before. When I could see her in my deaths I wasn’t really there. But this time, she looked straight at me. When Andy stepped between me and the burning sun, casting blissful shade after so long without and looked me directly in the eye, I knew I would take her here with me any day over simply haunting her. (and I swore to myself that I would never haunt her again). And when I coughed up at Andy and died one more time for good measure, I did not picture myself following Andy, unseen, in fact I did not dream at all.”

Quynh smiles and then sighs, bringing herself back to reality and Booker, looking at her from across the table, far too knowing for one so young. Here was the only one who’s mind she’d been able to see into for years.

She smiles sadly at him “I think you understand by now what has happened but as I said, I needed to tell my story so I will ask you to listen to the rest.”

“When Lykon became like us Andromache and I both dreamt of him and he of us, but during that time with Andromache at my back, our deaths were few and far between. Even after his loss and with the addition of Yusuf and Niccolò I did not experience what I had with Andromache.”

Quynh takes a deep breath, “And then I was lost. And all I had for 300 years were my own thoughts and my own silent screams. My own anger and my own rage at the world, at my family, at myself. I have died without revive far more than anyone ever in existence. You are an anomaly but I am a tragedy.

All I had was silence for what I now know to be 300 years, I saw a young man betray his nation and fail at his escape and my apologies, Booker, but more importantly than you, I saw Andromache again.”

Quynh recalls these facts clinically but she is certain that Booker doesn’t miss the tremor in her voice.

“She was different than I remembered. Harder. More removed from the world. Similar to the woman I had first seen in my dreams but now aimless, with no real destination in mind.

When I had been lost I thought she must have died. Why else would she not have found me. I pictured her in a fate similar to my own, separated and imprisoned. One unable to reach the other as much as her soul yearned for her to do so, trapped as we both were. But when you were reborn I saw that was not the case.

And for many years I didn’t get the opportunity to discover why, trapped as I were alongside you, who had chosen to forsake our drive to save the world and remain with your family. I cannot blame you too harshly, for I did the same in your place. But after years of drowning you had denied me air by choosing to remain separate from my family.

I spent much of that time, wondering why, if she had not been trapped similarly, did she not find me. Of course the first time she had insight to my thoughts and thereby my location. She did not even know of my existence until your exile from your last remaining family member when you finally asked about the woman you were dreaming about. I remember she was cold to you for years for that, pained as she was during that time. What I now see as anger at herself for not asking more questions when you first met.

I waited with you for a long time and I tried to whisper to you my last known place, but unlike Andromache you never seemed to see me.”

So after years with you I disappeared to go back to drowning. There was nothing for me on the surface as I had been all but forgotten.”

Booker shakes his head vigorously “You were never forgotten Quynh, we never forgot you for a moment”

She smiles lightly back at him “Still I thought what was the point of calling for help if no one else cared to find you?

“I would’ve believed that you had forgotten for the rest of my eternity but as always fate has other plans. Trapped in my grief and rage as I was, the rebirth of Nile was no more than a wisp of recognition against my subconscious. And when she fell asleep and I saw the faces of my oldest friends through new eyes I could give her nothing back but my desperation.

And whether I meant to or not, I appeared beside her as she asked about me. Perhaps now I had met someone who would not give up on me like you all had. I didn’t want to get my hopes up but I watched with a certain sort of desperation while Andy forsook me. Lying about me to Nile. Calling me no more than a soldier while she still wore my life around her neck.

I wanted to follow, I wanted to demand the answers I so deserved. Why, if they loved me, had they abandoned me? But my bond was not as strong to Nile and I felt myself rooted to spot, looking at you, Booker. Who looked to regret something deeply. I didn't understand, so I stayed with you and looked upon my old friends faces. And, when soldiers burst the door open and shot a grenade into you I was all of a sudden in two places at once. Watching in front of you and also inside of you. Sensing your true feelings. Your betrayal.”

Quynh let out a ragged breath, “I thought few things could hurt me after so long imprisoned but the fact that not only had all forgotten of me but you would subject the others to the same fate that cursed me for eternity

I screamed like I never had before. There isn't much worse than losing that which you didn’t even know you had left .

I stayed with you. I watched Andromache in the abandoned mine we had found with Yusuf and Niccolò once we had pulled them from their battle grounds, so young were they yet. And now here was Nile undergoing the same initiation. Yusuf Niccolò and myself, nowhere to be found. Your doing. So I did not truly desire to follow Andy while she left a place, previously a home to me, now filled with items I found unrecognizable. For they were gathered in my absence. I stayed because I did not trust you with Nile. If you would betray your oldest friends then what might you do to a girl you’ve just met. Who had no more in common with you than not being able to die.

I have felt many times over the years that that is the way you perceive many of us. You let jealousy feed you when you see Joe and Nicky, as you refer to them, together. Not realizing the sacrifices that they’ve had to make to remain together. You look at my Andromache and you feel a kinship because you have both betrayed your wives by living longer lives than them. But neither of you realize that our biggest curse is simply that you are unreachable.

In that cave I was so far removed from in time, I saw your remorse. I heard you say that your family thought you weak and selfish and that you didn’t love them enough. I realized the grudge I had been holding and knew that there must be reasons I was not privy to as to why Andy would refuse to speak of me honestly.

And ask and you shall receive, you hid in trees surrounding the area Nile and Andromache leaned against their vehicle and discussed what was next and we watched Andromache admit that she had broken her promise to me. With her renewed determination to not let that happen to anyone else, I realized that that was all I had needed to hear. After all this time, I needed an acknowledgement that she had given up and that she was sorry. And with that I had found a new sense of stress that you had betrayed them. But, unable to help, I found that I no longer wanted to see what had happened. I sunk back into myself, only to be ripped out of my torment once more as Nile was shot down in the stark white hallways of your prison. She held her breath as they searched her, pretending to still be dead, and I willed them to not notice her gentle breathing, But she's good, she knew not to gasp back to life, but to center herself before destroying the rest.

I floated again until she, deciding that Andy’s axe wasn't fast enough, pushed the man who you had been captured by out of the window using her own body. She came to in the remains of a vehicle and you all helped her recover from such a gruesome yet heroic death. You were exiled, I take it, and now I am here.”

“But how,” Booker asks disbelieving “How if you couldn’t even get a message to me, are we able to talk now?”

She leans back, the tension she had held relaying the story, all but zapped from her, “With there being two of you who I haven’t met yet, I have a more tangible connection to the outside world.

He nods, thinking it over.

“You are also now lonely enough to see me.” Quynh adds amusedly.

Booker starts, embarrassed.

“I think you can see me now because the idea no longer upsets you like it did before. You are willing to see me because you have no one else left.” She expands, though seemingly not insulted.

Booker can see a visible difference about Quynh now that she has finished her story. She looks as if a weight has been lifted off of her both metaphorically and physically, for the edges around her have started to blur.

“Please, tell me where I can find you.” he begs.

She shakes her head “I still do not know. It’s dark and it’s painful. The sheer pressure of the water is enough to keep me down, if not just the chamber I’m trapped in.”

‘Do you not see when you leave to come here?”

“No, I am simply there and now here. I don’t try to betray myself with hope when I know there is none. I will spend the rest of my days drowning. I know this because I am well acquainted with death, even with Andromache’s years before me. I still have experienced the most deaths and rebirths of any person in all of human history.”

“You can’t just give up.”

“Booker…”

“No, listen to me, I’ve already gone down that path, just waiting for it to end isn’t an option. Yes I will tell your story, yes I will remember you but what do you think the others will do when I tell them I saw you and did nothing?”

She laughs “I am sorry to give you this burden but I believe it is just penance. I would appreciate it if you tell Yusuf and Niccolò that I do not blame them and I wish them all the best. Nile that she while she is still new she will be better than all the rest of us. And Andromache… if you could tell her, that I’m still with her until the end.” she closes her eyes remorsefully “That would be very helpful, Booker.”

“Wait, Andy. Do you know?” Booker asks in a panic.

“Do I know what?” she says eyes still closed

“She’s lost her immortality”

Quynhs eyes fly open.

“She’s mortal” he chokes out.

And Quynh disappears.

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

shout out especially to this post in particular for inspiring my ability to write the last bit of this

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