#i mean most would Assume eleven and river seeing as they were married but i dont recall anything directly mentioning it and its not like

[capaldiera]

the thing about being forced to marry someone (she's the queen) (you proposed bc you thought she was a shapeshifting alien. long story) is that if you fly away in a magic box you can just not go back. this apparently did not cross the mind of our friend "so much for the virgin queen" the doctor

[iiraven]

Odyssey

Pairing: Poseidon!Armin x Reader

Genre: romance, smut

Warnings: slow-burn, minor character death, manipulation, stalking, possessiveness, Yandere behaviour, puppy play, piss play, body worship, throne sex, implied age-gap, oral(male receiving), hair pulling, collaring (without consent)

Word count: 9.8K

Synopsis: Armin’s quest for revenge leads him to you, daughter of a merchant and object of his infatuation.

Author’s note: thank you @bubbleteaimagines​ for hosting this collab and allowing me to join <3 Also, thank you @onyxoverride​ for teaching me how to write about pee!

Attack on Titan Masterlist

Present day:

If the river could speak, you wonder what it would say.

In the silence that surrounds the rushing of the water, you’re sure you would hear it. Sometimes, you’re sure you can hear it, but then you remember the dangers of trusting unfamiliar voices. Especially unfamiliar voices in a place like this.

No one goes near the river Shiganshina. And you forget the reasons why much too often.

It’s rocky, slippery, there’s no path to walk on, and the nymphs grow sharp teeth when men approach them, hissing and eyes glowing red. But that’s what makes it perfect for you.

Sasha first mentioned the river months ago, recalling the places on the island that her and her father avoided whenever they went hunting. You hadn’t paid much attention to it until days later, when Connie recounted with round eyes how Floch’s body was found beside the river Shiganshina, mouth full of water and eyes gouged out. You knew you needed to go there yourself.

A pearl necklace is what you stole. And under the guise of going to wash clothes at the well, you made your way south of your small island with only Sasha’s vague instructions and your intuition guiding you.

You could hear the ocean as you walked through the untouched woods, your heart hammering in your chest every time the waves crashed against the island’s cliffs. You weren’t allowed to see the ocean- you weren’t allowed to be around any large body of water, for that matter- but you still knew your island well enough to know that a step in the wrong place could lead you tumbling down the cliff.

You would die before you got to feel the water on your skin and that, you thought, would be the most tragic part.

As your feet began to sink into the muddy ground, you could smell the salty water, and a slight metallic scent behind it that only drew you in closer until you reached a clearing. It was small, crowded with foliage with only a few dead plants on the ground where you could only assume people had attempted to step foot.

And there was the river. It was small, its water emerging from underground before the tide pushed it to the edge of the island- to a waterfall. So loud that it could drown out any noise, any screams. You shivered. For a moment, you just stood back and watched. The water was was green, but so clear that you could still see the fish swimming beside the floating objects. Coins, silver, small statues, and whatever else hopefuls had tried to offer. You pulled out your own offering and whispered a short prayer before throwing the necklace in.

It could have been your imagination, but the water calmed. It was quieter. And, like that, you felt as if the river had opened up its arms to you. Strong arms that you have to be cautious not to spend too long within lest you get trapped.

Thankfully, you’ve learned to read the signs. You know when the river wants you to leave, when it wants you to keep your distance, when it wants to keep you close, and even when it wants you to bathe. Those are the special moments. It’s rare the river is calm enough for you to dip your naked body into, but surrounded by the cool water, you feel like you could stay their forever.

If the river could speak now, however, you’re sure it would tell you to fuck off.

Either that or it would tell you to come back when you have something more to offer its god than a single golden bead from your grandmother’s necklace. Only three are left on the thin string, though you think you might keep the last one to honour her death. After that, you’ll have to go back to offering coins and whatever other trinkets that will keep the god of this river sedated long enough for you to dip your feet into the cool water, maybe take a sip, and then return home before your father realises where you’ve been, much less where you’ve been unchaperoned.

The latter is hardly your fault. Sasha and Connie are too scared to step foot in the Shiganshina forest, let alone the river itself. And you can’t trust anyone else to accompany you, especially the servants whose tongue could slip at the drop of a golden coin. Your father would never forgive you for spending time in the territory of the God of the Ocean or- as he liked to call Armin- the destroyer of seas. And thus, being left alone seems to be the only way.

Well, that’s unless Mr Arlert decides to join you.

The owner of the stable who appeared on the island out of nowhere is the last person anyone would expect to be brave enough to spend time at the river Shiganshina. He mostly keeps to himself, only ever seen tending to his horses or immersed in scrolls of literature and poetry. And yet, he’s here almost as often as you are, almost as vulnerable as you are.

Despite his solitary nature, Mr Arlert has been quick to make himself adored. Mothers swoon over his charm, scholars constantly indulge in his curiosity, and sailors are fascinated by his knowledge of the world and its oceans. He’s no warrior, and already in his late twenties, but he’s still without a doubt one of the most eligible bachelors on Paradis. And, yet, to any marriage proposal sent his way, he declines with a polite “A husband is not what I am fated to become”. Even Annie Leonhardt- whose father Mr Arlert would constantly visit- had her heart broken. But no one blames Mr Arlert, of course, who was there to comfort Annie, to make her realise that she just needs to be a better person, that’s all. It’s not his fault her heart broke, Mr Arlert reassured.

Thinking about it now, you’re amongst the handful of women who haven’t been offered to the tall blond. And with that comes a sigh of relief as you drag your fingers through the water.

It’s not like you dislike him- the opposite, actually- but being with Mr Arlert is like taking the hand of an invisible man in the dark and letting him guide you.

His words constantly have your thoughts spiralling in directions that they shouldn’t be. Thoughts about leaving the island, thoughts about going to the ocean, thoughts about becoming a priestess. Thoughts you aren’t allowed to have.

You fate is bound to the home you were born in, a thick rope tied to your ankle, only letting you go as far as this very river. And Mr Arlert sits beside that rope, a knife in his hand, blue eyes staring into your soul, waiting. You’re not sure what he’s waiting for. But what you’re sure of is that to be taken away from the life you know of is an inconceivable fantasy. The unknown is a dangerous thing, after all.

The small island of Paradis may lie far away from the rest of the world, but their core values remain the same. A woman must grow up to either serve her father or her husband. Your fate has already been decided for you. And, frankly, if it means not having to share a bed with an old man who marries you for your dowry, you’re very happy with taking care of your father until the day that he’ll be put into the ground.

But then there’s always the third option. A woman who serves neither her father nor her husband will serve her god. 

You had never been given that option by your god-hating kin. Simply suggesting a future as priestess would earn you at least five lashes, so why… why can’t you stop thinking about it? Your instincts have you blame Mr Arlert, but you know that your fixation began before he arrived on the island; all he’s done is vocalise your thoughts.

As a gust of wind blows the leaves and the salt from the sea gently caresses your cheek, you wonder who your god would be. Do you resonate with Pieck’s beauty, or Zeke’s creativity? Maybe. But as you look into your reflection, you know that your god is no other than Armin, the god of the ocean. The fates must think this is hilarious, but you just want to scream.

“It’s getting late. I wouldn’t want your father worrying about you.”

You jump at the sudden voice, turning around at the familiar face, leaning against a tree with a gentle smile.

“Thank you, Mr Arlert.”

His footsteps are so gentle, as are his apologies.

“You don’t need to thank me. I’ve come to invade your space, after all.”

“It’s not my space, it’s Armin’s. The god is only letting me stay here.”

He smiles a knowing smile, one that you would usually find patronising on any other man. But Armin is charming, too charming for you ever to think that of him. “I suppose you’re right.”

He comes to sit down beside you, taking his usual place at your right- the voice of reason. It’s quiet for a moment, before you remember.

“Lemnos,” you say.

The blond smiles. “I’m not named after a place.”

And you roll your eyes, as you’ve done every time he’s given you a useless hint. “That hardly narrows it down.”

“Well, I can’t make it too easy of a game.”

“You can’t make it impossible either!”

“It seems like I already have.” And you’re not sure if you want to wipe the smirk off his face or just stare at it.

“What about Tree?”

Arlert laughs. “No, but you have one guess left.”

“What?!” You sit up straight, eyes wide. Now you really want to wipe the smirk off his face.

“You have seven guesses, and in the eleven months we’ve known each other, you’ve used up six.” His explanation is calm and rational enough for you to almost convince yourself that the rule has been there from the start.

“Wait- wait. I never knew about this!”

“I thought everyone did. It’s traditional wager rules.” Mr Arlert’s tone is sorry, but you know he’s everything but. So, you cross your arms and pout, hoping that staring him down might at least give you the smallest chance of winning your wager.

He leans forward, mirthful and you feel a shiver go down your spine. “What is it, little puppy, sulking because you’re afraid you can’t win?”

You flush at the implication of your loss- “No- no not at all- no”- before registering his actual words are and only then can you feel the heat rise and you’re sure it’s doing you no service. “I know I can win!”

“I know you can too,” he assures you.

You frown. “Are you being sarcastic?”

It’s his turn to flush. “No, not at all! You can win- the water god favours you, after all.”

And although you shrug, his words stick. They always do.

Before you go home, you pass by Armin’s temple and place at the foot of his statue the remainder of your grandmother’s necklace.

A year ago:

Amrin knew how fickle the gods were and he thought that this knowledge made him impervious to those feelings. He watched how Eren jumped from woman to woman daily, how Reiner picked and chose his battles without a care, how every single fixation a deity would have never lasted more than a year. He thought of how stupid it was to spend a life of immortality indulging in such temporary pleasures. And he looked down on his kin for that very reason.

It was only after one argument too many that Armin finally let it slip. The god of the sea was usually quiet, offering soft smiles, casual conversation, and minimal conflict. That was his only rule: keeps quiet before the gods of the pantheon as he takes his anger out on the humans below. But that day, he forgot about his rule.

Maybe it was the years of silence that caused the Eathshaker’s outburst, or maybe it was just Eren’s bored expression as he talked about his mistresses in front of Mikasa. Armin couldn’t take it. Gathered at a marble table beside all the Olympians, he scowled and told them how stupid they all were.

“Don’t you realise? You’re all wasting your immortality by being so idiotic, so fickle! Everything you touch becomes a temporary pleasure, ruined by your inability to act like real gods.”

He should have stopped; he really should have stopped. But the crack in the glass bridge had been there for years, and now the shards of glass were dropping down into the sea. “You might as well be human!”

The room went silent. Eyes went wide, and mouths gaped, but the gods opted for silence. Every deity wanted to speak up, maybe even draw their swords, but they were more intelligent than Armin was in that moment, which was more unusual than one might think. He had never snapped so violently before. Armin may have been aggressive, but he knew his place. Knew when to be docile. Now, he felt like he could crumble Olympus itself with his rage and bury the Olympians with their dead parents.

The king of the gods, however, leaned forward. His emerald eyes were unmoving, devoid of emotion though his lips tilted into a monstrous grin.

“You’re just as fickle as the rest of us, brother,” was all Eren said.

When Armin lunged at him, knocking the fine glass off the table, it was Mikasa who pinned him down. Arms locked behind his back, all Armin could do was watch as mirth flooded Eren’s face, and the god of the sky laughed. The bastard laughed and laughed and licked the small wound on his hand from a shard of glass. It healed immediately. Even their pain was temporary.

And like he had been doing for the past millennia, Armin found solice in his only rule: if he couldn’t take out his rage on his brother, Armin would take out his frustration elsewhere.

His first instinct was to find a woman, but the thought of seeking out temporary pleasure, from a mistress no less, reminded him too much of Eren. So, he descended to earth, trident in one hand as the other gripped the reigns of his horse and they rode for three days and three nights. That’s all it took for the god of the sea to find what he was looking for- someone deserving of his hatred.

There are many humans like the merchant. But most of their hatred is silent. And when it’s not, blasphemy often falls upon deaf ears. The merchant just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time when his drunk rambles led him up on the deck screaming out Armin’s name like it was venom in his throat, until he could scream no more. He was drunk, but the merchant’s hatred for the god of the sea did not cease when he was sober.

And when Armin heard his name, the god wasted no time calling forth a storm to sink the merchant’s ship. He took care to ensure that the arrogant man watched each and every one of his men be swallowed whole, their bodies only resurfacing lifeless, before the storm calmed.

It took five days for the merchant to swim back to his island.

He never returned to the sea.

As the weeks passed, he relocated his home to help him stay away from any body of water and made sure that his family followed suit.

But Armin followed, and the merchant’s father died weeks later with saltwater water found in his lungs.  

Unfortunately, that was not enough to sedate the god of the sea’s need for vengeance. Fortunately, it was not enough to sedate the merchant’s hatred either. The hubris didn’t leave him. Instead, it just grew and grew and grew until the merchant considered himself more of a god than Armin would ever be.

“Oh, oh.” Armin couldn’t help but smile as he watched the man urinate before his temple. “This is perfect, so perfect.”

Armin was going to show his uncaring brother how different he was from the rest of the miserable Olympians. As he stood above the island of Paradis, golden hair blowing in the ocean wind, the god vowed to begin his Odyssey. An eternal Odyssey. A journey that would last longer than the ten fleeting years he had with the Greek hero- a journey that would last longer than the universe itself.

And he knew exactly where to begin. A man’s most valuable possession: his child.

It was only after your grandfather’s death that Armin noticed you. When he first began watching the merchant’s household, under the guise of either a guest or a bird, he had been surprised to learn that the blasphemous man had no wife, nor children. Armin only realised his mistake one night, when you came to lay a blanket on the drunk man’s barely conscious body. The merchant had pulled you towards him, muttering apologies and you had wrinkled your nose before offering him a soft smile. “It’s okay, papa”.

A daughter sheltered from the world, it seemed.

The god had initially thought you were one of the servants. There were only two in the house, and your tasks were all similar. But as Armin began to watch you closer, he saw how you did have a life outside your home with friends, interests, men- a life your father was blissfully unaware of.

The merchant hardly left home- playing the part of the sick man- and you took care of him- playing the part of your dead mother- in a happy sort of agreement.

You didn’t speak about it to your friends, but you detested your doting role. Armin could tell. The way you wrinkled your nose every time your father walked through the door, the eye-roll when you were given a load of laundry. The god couldn’t help by laugh at how pathetic the merchant was that not even his only daughter- his lifeline- cared for him. The merchant didn’t know, of course. Your fake smiles and gentle hands were enough to deceive him, keep him sane. But Armin was going to break that pattern.

The merchant didn’t deserve the care of a woman. He didn’t deserve anything. So, Armin was going to take you away from him.

His initial plan was to kill you. Simple, efficient, quick. And then he thought of dumping your body somewhere far so that the search for you would break your father’s spirit even more. He hesitated, though, he wasn’t sure why, but he did. And then, you changed your routine.

After meeting up with the two individuals you called your friends at the Sunday market- instead of going back home- you carried on walking. Through the houses on the outskirts and into the dense trees, you almost stung your sandal-clad feet twice before reaching a river. The river had no god of itself, but you still threw in an offering and muttered. Stupid human. And then you sat beside the river and- nothing. Your routine was boring, obviously a ritual to let you escape from reality. Yet, he couldn’t tear away from you. The woman at the river Shiganshina was a different one than the woman who served her father. The one here relaxed her shoulders, cursed at the world around her, smiled- albeit randomly but it was real. He decided there that he would kill you tomorrow.

But when, the next day, you led him back to the river, Armin was lost in you again. Lost in your honestly, lost in your need to escape. He wanted to see more, he needed to see more. Metaphorically, of course. But when you began undressing, the pleated robes dropping to reveal soft skin and tender curves, the god of the sea realised that he wouldn’t mind literally seeing more of you. Armin had been with goddesses and nymphs and, hell, even Aphrodite herself, but never had he been this awestruck. He had to hold himself back. Even though the way you were bathing made it seem like you were worshipping him, water dripping from your body, wet hair hiding the swell of your breasts. Armin’s breath stuttered. He couldn’t reveal himself. He couldn’t.

So, he watched, and watched. Trying desperately to take in everything you were from a distance. Armin didn’t count the number of times he visited you before finally decided that killing you was no longer an option. He told himself that his change of mind was progressive. A practical choice to draw out his revenge into the most painful and convoluted Odyssey. To do that, he couldn’t kill you. No. He was going to take you for himself. Armin was going to turn the daughter of the merchant into a servant of the one God he detested.

Putting the thought into your mind was pathetically easy. As you walked past his temple on your way home, an echo of laughter emerged from the marble building. You paused for only a moment, but it was enough for Armin to catch the look in your eyes. It was one of longing, mixed with a curiosity that threatened to pull you in. But you seemed to catch yourself in the act and hastened yourself home.

And so, Armin’s true Odyssey began. 

For his journey to progress, he had to meet you. Not as a bird or a horse or through glances as a guest. He had to meet you properly. This was the only way to draw you in, he told himself. The only way for you to submit completely and willingly.

Armin could have forced you too your knees, but he had to ensure that your father watched has his daughter chose Armin over him. And chose Armin you would. Every piece was in perfect place. The fates seemed to have woven a beautiful cloth of gold for the god of the sea.

What he failed to realise was that the cloth was in fact a snare- a trap which he will never be able to escape from.

Eleven months ago:

A short gust of wind had the pears in your thin basket tumbling down onto the rocky ground. You rushed after the fruit, crouching down to pick it up when a shadow appeared, and a hand reached out to pick it up for you. The sandal-clad feet were pale- paler than anyone living on this warm island and the robes a fine, ironed white. He somehow seemed to glow brighter than his clothes, and you purposefully let your fingers graze his as you picked up the fruit.

“Thank you,” you said, standing up.

You were hoping that he wouldn’t catch your staring. But even if he did, you couldn’t tear your eyes off him. He was lean, taller than you but not intimidatingly so and his eyes were like oceans that you found yourself staring into as he introduced himself as Mr Arlert. Just Mr Arlert. The new owner of the stables with a voice so soft, it took a moment before you remembered to introduce yourself.

“Y/N. And thank you, again.” It isn’t appropriate for an unmarried woman to be talking to a man on her own, but you couldn’t help but ask. “Do you have a first name Mr Arlert?”

His smile was contagious. “I do. But names are a powerful thing. I’m afraid I can’t give mine up freely.”

“Oh.” You scrunched your nose. “Can I pay for it then?”

You were dead serious, but the blond man laughed. How can someone look so pretty when they laugh? You wondered.

“I’m serious! I can pay you; name your price.”

Mr Arlert looked down at you, blue eyes twinkling. “I’ll think about it.”

“So, is that a no?”

“It’s a no, for now. One day I’ll tell you my name.”

He was sweet, so sweet, but you still gave him a sceptical frown, nose scrunching and eyebrows furrowing. Mr Arlert in turn gave you a sorry look before his eyes lit up and he pulled out from his brown satchel a small book of yellowed pages and a dusty blue cover, the gold embossing hardly visible. You nose only scrunched further.

“My name is in this story. It’s mentioned few times, but it’s an important one,” he said to you.

You took the book and flipped through the worn pages, immediately recognising the tale of Aphrodite and Ares. The lovers.

Why the challenge? You wanted to ask Mr Arlert but you knew the answer you your get would be too cryptic. Besides, you think, I like a challenge.

“How long do I have?” You asked instead.

“A year and a day.”

“And what will I get if I figure it out?”

At this, he pondered. But it seemed feigned, and you wondered, just for a split second, if the man had planned this from the beginning. But why? This was another one of your questions that went unanswered that day. Because before you could say anything more, Mr Arlert leaned forward and said, “Your reward will be divine”. And he walked away.

Nine months ago:

Life was well after Armin arrived. There was no other way to put it. Your father was confining himself to his room more often than before, and you were finding more opportunities to visit the river, leave the house and, eventually, you met the handsome baker’s son. Jean was kind, a gentleman, but not the arrogant type like most the men your age. You didn’t even feel too much guilt when you thought that spending a future with Jean- taking care of him and his home- wouldn’t be too bad. It’s quite pathetic that your life had been reduced to not being “too bad”, but the idea of marrying Jean sat on the comfortable line between reality and fantasy. Safety.

And then you were visited at the river.

Mr Arlert wasn’t even surprised to find you there, he had just smiled and sat beside you as you clenched your fists and forced yourself to smile back at him. You had always enjoyed him, his company, his challenges, but now it was like he was provoking you. The river Shiganshina was your river, your special place away from the hellscape that was the town. And now Mr Arlert had brought himself and his ordinary life into it.

You pulled your sandals back on, the crease in your brow evident. He clearly couldn’t get the hint. But before you could stand up, he spoke, and you paused.

“I wish I could jump in and swim away,” he said.

Curiosity got the best of you, as it often did with the man.

“The waterfall would kill you.”

The awkward laugh again. It had an effect on you so that your jaw couldn’t help but unclench. “If it means that I get to touch a waterfall, I wouldn’t mind, you know?”

You knew. You knew exactly what he meant. But you didn’t tell him.

“Didn’t take you as the suicidal type,” you said.

“I might get saved, who knows.”

“If you’re counting on me to jump after you, I’m letting you know I won’t.”

“I know,” he laughed. “I was thinking of more of a divine rescue.”

You finally looked at him, and- unsurprisingly- his blue eyes were glued to yours. What was surprising was his unwavering tone, his straight face. Mr Arlert was being serious. Why was he opening up to you this suddenly? So far, your interactions had consisted of him staring, you trying to guess his name, and him continuing to stare. In that order. You knew there was more to him, but it’s only now that you found yourself wanting to seek that out.

“You think Armin would save you?” You didn’t miss Arlert’s smile.

“I’m hoping I’ve gained his favour- done enough for him to allow me freedom via waterfall.”

It was your turn to smile. “You probably have, You’re at the temple often.”

“Thank you.” He blushed and you quickly pushed down the thought of how cute he looked. Sitting beside you, trousers rolled up and feet in the water, Mr Arlert looked more than cute. He looked like he belonged. You weren’t sure how that made you feel but, in that moment, you didn’t mind him entering your world.

“I think you would also be saved if you jumped into the waterfall,” Mr Arlert said.

You laughed. “Is that your way of saying I’m a nice person?”

“Something like that.” He paused. “I think Armin would appreciate your- uh- honesty. You’re like a priestess.” He laughs nervously at your expression. “You know, they have this personal affinity with the water and such.”

You knew exactly what he meant. How a stranger could read you so perfectly, you weren’t sure. But as you hid your smile between your hands, you wondered whether you were prepared to face the fear of the unknown. Maybe, with Mr Arlert, it would be a bit less unknown.

A few days later, Jean was announced missing. A search party was sent out and even Mr Arlert, on his recently acquired brown horse, couldn’t find him.

Present day:

Armin isn’t sure if he likes playing the part of the nice boy or not. Humans are simple creatures who praise him continuously and, without divine responsibilities, there is no need to take his rage out anywhere. But a god is who he is, and every day, he yearns to be seen as one. To be seen as one by you. He watches as you worship him, but you never look at him- not like you do the statues, or even the small river which you think is your only true connection to the god of the ocean.

You both want more, and you both know that, but you only ever admit it to each other when you sit beside that very river. There, in those moments, Armin feels a bit more like a god. Whenever he’s around you, he feels a bit more like a god.  

He’s told you before, but your perfect honesty has made it easy for him to unravel around you. He wants to unravel around you in other ways, too, and he wants you to unravel around him. Armin can’t count the number of times he’s sat beside you at the riverside and wanted to do nothing more than to kiss those lips of yours, to press the hard cock that he hides inside of you and watch as your eyes roll back, and you call out his name.  

But the God of the Sea is not Eren. Armin will earn you. And he’s very close to doing so. Not Mr Arlert. You have no interest in human men, that much is clear. You yearn for something more powerful. And you’re right. Only a god is worthy enough to stand beside you, lay between your legs, be in your arms. Mr Arlert is simply a means to push you to realising that the god in question is Armin.

In the meantime, he’s been nothing but patient.

It’s only when you come to his door one night, eyes puffy and red, that he lays his hands on you for the first time. He rubs your back as you cry and cry, fat tears refusing stop falling. You tell him about bout your father. About how, since he got better, he’s been refusing to let you out of the house, snapping at every moment and accusing you of being a filthy god-worshipper.

“He s-sai-d- he said we’re ‘gonna move away- said we’re gonna get as far away from the s-sea as possible.” You can hardly speak, though the tears have stopped, your voice still shakes violently. But Armin listens, he holds you close to him and repeats that everything is going to be fine.

You can’t stop thanking him as you leave, and he promises that his door is always open for you. “Whenever you call for me, I’m here,” Armin tells you. “Right beside you, always,” he adds as he watches you walk away.

He’s reached a new chapter of this Odyssey.

Present day:

You suppose your father’s death should have been expected. He was an old man, obviously depressed, and his only lifeline was his daughter who hated him.

You also suppose you should feel guilty. You don’t.

Familiar faces give their condolences and whisper questions of what is to happen to you now. You only pay heed to Sasha and Connie, though, who give you a soft hug before Sasha tells you that her family would be happy to take you in. You reassure her and everyone else that you have a plan, though your best friends are the only ones who seem to believe you.

“I heard Marie has a son who’s single, maybe they can-“

“You’re not actually talking about marriage here are you?”

“Well, the girl is all alone in the world, now! She needs a man to lead her on the right path.”

The old women are wrong, so very wrong. You don’t need a man. You’re fucking sick of men- sick of them all- everything they’ve created and everything they stand for.

What you need is a god.

The head priestess of Armin’s temple in unsurprised when you knock on her door with nothing but a bag and the clothes on your body. Those clothes are burned soon after, along with many of your other things, leaving your old life behind.

She tells you that you’re lucky there’s a place for you. The last priestess left running off with a man, “Which is a cardinal sin”, she makes sure to repeat every-so-often. The head priestess seems to hate men more than you do, sneering whenever Connie comes by.

Sasha and Connie are unsurprisingly shocked at your choice of work and even if they visit almost every day, they always tell you that they miss you. They think you’ve come the temple out of desperation- everyone does- and you let them believe. Because despite cleaning the marble floors or whatever other arduous duty you’ve been given, a smile is never far as you realise that you’re free from man. Indeed, explaining the truth to anyone would be far too difficult.

Well, except one person.

You’ve never missed anyone before. Not with your father keeping you so sheltered for most of your life. But as you push through the Head Priestess’ relentless schedule, you can’t help but miss Mr Arlert. He disappears after your father’s funeral, so you leave him a note at the empty stable with your final guess. You like to think he decided to follow his own path, you also like to think that he too wishes you were beside him, a guide in the unknown.

Present day:

The room is a box of marble, with a throne sat upon a dais at the centre and one fountain at every corner, each one sculped into a horse. The object of your interests, however, is the large bowl of water on the floor in front of the throne.

This is your initiation. You will emerge from this room not as an apprentice, but a Priestess.

You kneel down and lift the pot of clay to your lips. The head priestess kept on repeating how important it is to not put it down until you’re finished. So, you gulp the water down until you can see the image of Armin. You’re the one who selected the pot, with its faded paint depicting Armin and Hange’s fight for patronage of Sina. It’s a powerful image, but when you put the pot down, you come face to face with something very different. Armin is standing in a room-this room, you realise- and crouched down before him is a young woman, looking up in awe. It takes bit longer of a moment for you to realise that the woman is you.

Looking up slowly from the pot, the first thing you see is sandal-clad feet. Golden sandals, just as fine as the robes he wears, draped in perfect waves. The first word you think of to describe him is divine and it’s indeed accurate because-

“Mr Arlert.” Your voice is barely above a whisper.

But you know that’s not correct. The man- no, not a man- before you is taller than Mr Arlert, by a foot and a half at least. His muscles are more prominent that the stable boy’s ever were, strong legs visible through the large slit between the layers of fabric draped over the god’s figure. Half of his shoulder-length hair is tied back using a golden pin whilst the rest frames his perfect, perfect face. You can’t help but think that Armin looks nothing like his statues- no medium of art could capture the ocean within his eyes, glowing in the dull light of the room. Then again, the stories didn’t capture the way the god acts either.

“Armin,” you say, this time your voice louder.

Now, you know.

His sad smile is familiar, but there’s something there that never was. “Oh dear,” he says. “I’m afraid you’ve lost out wager.”

Armin can’t help but compare you to a puppy, with large eyes staring up at him from your crouched position and an expression a perfect mix of excitement, curiosity, and shock.

You reach out a hand tentatively, but it hovers in the air between the two of you once you notice Armin’s raised brow. But he doesn’t rebuke you for it. After all, it’s only your first encounter with the god. He can’t expect you to behave perfectly, to adopt the right etiquette- no, he’ll have to train you first. Like he would a baby mutt. The thought makes him smile.

“I’ll accept any consequences, my god,” you say. Your voice sounds so sure of itself, so unlike your usual ramblings, those that Armin could and would listen to for hours. Right now, though, the certainty, it’s laced with desire that sends blood rushing south. You don’t notice. You’re too lost in his eyes to notice anything.

When he places his hand on your chin to hold it up, he can feel you shiver. “Such a perfect little worshipper,” he says. “I couldn’t possibly punish you.”

Armin can swear he sees disappointment in your eyes before he turns around and walks up the dais. The marble of the throne is cold beneath him, but the sight of you looking up at him with such longing is enough to warm him up. Now, Armin is sure you’ve noticed his growing erection because you crawl towards the dais, not yet climbing it, but close enough to see and lick your lips.

“Let me thank you at least, Armin.” He almost groans at the sound of his name. God, he wants to hear you say it over and over.

“Come here.”

And you climb up the dais only to pause before Armin leans forward and grabs your hips. Two lips, as if led by an invisible string, meet. You kiss like you’ve been waiting years for Armin and, in a way, you have. His tongue is inside your mouth quickly and he’s kissing, sucking, letting his teeth gently graze your lips as he revels in the feeling of you. As your bodies lean against each other, you can feel his heart hammering against your own. His chest is stone, but his lips are so soft and your hands find his golden hair. It’s also softer than it looks, and Armin can’t help but let out a moan as you gently tug.

When you pull back, his pupils are blown. “Thank me, then,” Armin says, breathless.

Sitting between his legs, your hand is tiny compared to his cock, and you can’t stop staring at it. Long and somewhat slender, but veiny with a flushed red top- he can see you gulp before you take an experimental lick at him. Armin’s hold on your hair only tightens and you look up at him, doe eyed and seemingly innocent.

“Put it in your mouth, pretty girl,” he says, guiding your head gently. “So obedient- Yes, exactly, just like-ah- just like that.”

But he doesn’t need to push down- no- he lets you set your own pace only because you do it so perfectly, almost as perfect as the wet noises you make. Armin doesn’t have time to be surprised, he’s just able to react fast enough to suppress his own moans so he can hear your wet tongue caress the base of his cock, as your lips create the perfect o-shape to accommodate him. Your drool is everywhere in a matter of seconds- his balls are coated with it, and so is your lap, where the spit seeps through the thin white fabric you call a robe.

“Like a puppy,” he murmurs. And you look up quizzically. “You’re drooling over me like a desperate puppy- a puppy in heat,” he grunts. “You just want to please me, don’t you? ‘S alright, puppy, I’ll let you do that.”

If you could nod your head, you would. Instead, your cheeks burn, and Armin is so lost in the way that you look- not even able to take his entire cock in his mouth- that his hips begin to buck unconsciously. He hits the back of your throat, and you gag at the sudden impact, but he hisses and murmurs “What a good, wet hole. So good, good-”

The earthshaker is afraid that if he speaks any louder, his voice will slur into incomprehensible sultry sounds. But as you struggle to take his cock even deeper into his mouth, he lets out groans that go straight between your own legs. You moan around him, and the reverberations make his head roll back. God, you could stare at him forever. And he would let you.

“Look at me,” he says whenever your eyes go astray. “Look at your god.”

As his hips buck more violently, Armin can feel the pressure in his lower stomach, the impending orgasm and he wants to stop- wants to hold out the way he always has. But he can’t, it’s too much and he just cannot pull out of you. He simply pushes further and further into your tight throat, repeating your name like it’s a blessing. “fuck, puppy, ‘m going to- I’m going to cum down your throat. You want that, do you you’re your god’s cum- ah, fuck, ahhh”-

Pushing your head down to the base, both of his hands at the back of your head, Armin cries out you name and you can feel the warm liquid go down your throat, thick ropes filling up your mouth, some of it dribbling out. Armin reflexively pushes it back in your mouth, ordering you to swallow it all, to show how grateful you are. Of course, you oblige. But before you can even regain your breath, Armin suddenly pulls you off his cock. His pupils are dilated, and he wears an expression- anger? Shock?

“You’re not a virgin,” he hisses, teeth gritting against each other. His breath is frantic, uneven. It’s not a question and you begin to recognise his expression. Rage. “You’ve done this before.”

Fuck.

The God of the sea has his fair share of consorts and mistresses. Some of them virgins- though he never chases them the way Eren does- some of them not, but none have made him cum so fast. He would like to blame it on the year of pining, of restraint, but he knows better. It’s you. You do this him. You make him so wild, so willing, so pliant even. 

In that moment, as he looks your worried face, so desperate to please, he thinks that he’ll never be able to let it go. You’ve consumed Armin and he wants to do nothing more than burn eternally. You must understand that- that you exist as his beacon, that’s where you’ll be your happiest, but those thoughts are too complex for a human. You, in your fragile state, can’t understand. It’s alright, he’ll just have to show you bit by bit that you’re his. But to do so, he must first take on the role he’s familiar with. That of the punisher.

“Who is he?” Armin snaps.

“It was only-“

“Who is he?”

You pause. Memories of nights spent together, huddled close and trying to keep quiet already fading. “Berthrolt Hoover.”

Armin’s shoulders relax, “I see.”

His breathing slowly goes back to normal, and, at the back of your mind, you know you’ve signed the young warrior’s death. But your worry is fleeting as Armin grabs you by the neck and hoists you over his knees, laying you down on your stomach effortlessly. “A priestess who isn’t a virgin?”

You look up as see Armin’s familiar sweet smile, but it’s laced with mirth that makes you forget the Mr Arlert he was before. You cry out at the first slap of his hand on your ass, more out of surprise than pain.

“I don’t think the people of Paradis will be very happy to hear that,” he says. “An unmarried woman giving herself away to a pathetic boy.”

Slap!

“I’m sorry!” you cry out. “It was a mis-”

He slaps you thrice.

“No excuses, dumb little puppy. I’m afraid you’ll have to endure this punishment.” His voice is deceptively soft, as if he is actually sorry. And when you look back up at Armin, his face betrays no malice. But it doesn’t show any cruelty either. Instead, there’s a fascination.

Armin has you sprawled across his lap, at his mercy and he is discovering you bit by bit. As a god. His cock twitches and then suddenly he tugs off the fabric of your robes and they disappear.

The way you squirm is half- hearted, and Armin has to laugh. “Embarrassed? Now of all times? I didn’t know you were such a prude. Or is this all just to compensate for the fact that you’re a whore in my temple?”

You shake your head, “I swear, I’ve never belonged to any man!”

Fingers trace the expanse of your naked body, soft enough to send shivers down your spine. “Oh? Really?”

“Yes yes, I swear, ah!” His fingers find your naked ass and they grab onto the flesh, massaging, groping, feeling you. Armin’s other hand rests on top of your head, stroking it gently and you’re so lost in his touch that you almost forget to speak.

“I belong to no man, I never have. Only you. It’s always been you, Armin.”

The god’s eyes widen, and he gently pulls you up from his lap only to seat you on it, upright and, this time, there’s so much more to admire. “You’re right,” he says. Armin captures your lips and this time, it’s longer, rougher. He doesn’t want to pull back, doesn’t want to lose the feeling of your soft lips against his, but his hands have already found your breasts and soon, his tongue joins them. You moan as he begins to lap at your breasts, leaving hickeys and spit in his wake as his finally finds your nipples and begins sucking them like a child as you whine and lean into him.

“You do belong to me,” he finally says, his voice partially muffled as he loses himself in the worship your breasts. “You’ve always belonged to me.”

And you can do nothing more than nod your head as your fingers tangle in Armin’s hair and you’re pulled into another kiss. His hand goes down your body, squeezing every single mound of flesh as if it needs to be touched so that when he finds your cunt, Armin can’t help but smile at how wet you are.

“Already, but I’ve hardly done anything to you?”

What a liar, but you don’t have a chance to tell him before he plunges a finger inside of you. “Oh, puppy, my puppy,” he groans at the contact the same time you moan, pushing your hips against his digits. “You like my fingers like that inside of you?”

“Yes, yes, I do, I really love them- it feels, oh my god, it feels too good!” you grip his shoulders, unable to do anything but desperately buck your hips at the smiling Armin. He knows what he’s doing, he knows that his fingers are giving you just that satisfaction, but it’s still not enough to bring you over the edge.

“Please Armin, please.” You squeeze his shoulders.

“Tell me what you want, tell me, I’ll give it to you- I swear.”

“I want to feel you, all- ah- all of you. I need to feel you inside of me!”

You’re not sure at which moment Armin removes his robes, but as he moves both of your legs so that you’re straddling him, your hands are on his bare, lean chest. The god’s nipples are flushed pink and pert, practically calling to you and you respond by brushing your fingers over them and watching him twitch ever-so-slightly in response. You withhold the urge to take them into your mouth, even as Armin rubs his cock against your cunt, releasing the sweetest of sounds.

He’s already leaking precum and it mixes with your juices so perfectly, his cock being dragged back and forth, only making you gush even more. “So messy,” he mumbles as he uses his tip to spreads your juices across your thighs. At this point, you can practically feel it throbbing, ready to be sheathed inside of you and the whimpers of your desperation echo against the temple walls.

When Armin slips inside of you, simultaneous gasps escape your lips. The god pulls your body closer to his as you throw your head back, stars in your eyes.

“Look,” he whispers. “Look how easily I slip in- it’s- it’s like your cunt is made for me.”

“Armin,” you whisper back. “Armin, Armin- ah- Armin.”

He sinks you down slowly, the stretch hitting every single spot that leaves your legs practically limp. The god is holding you up, whispering his own mantra that you can’t hear over your bliss. Once inside, your eyes look lock with Armin’s and he’s staring at you in a way he’s never done before. You’ve never seen pupils so dilated and the two of you stay like that as if making up for the moments when you should have been connected in this way. An eternity, it seems, the two of you have needed each other.

“I’m your god,” Armin finally says. “I’m your god and- hng ah-” He begins moving you up and down his shaft. “And I’m going to make you cum all over this cock- okay? All over your god’s cock.”

You nod your head pathetically as he lifts your hips and slams them down against his own. He is strong, ruthless in the way he bucks his hips up every time he lifts you from his cock, as if he can’t bare the empty feeling of not having your tight pussy clamped around him. At this relentless pace, you’re sure that the sound of your connecting bodies could penetrate even these marble walls. And yet, you don’t hold back. Thanks and praises spill from your swollen lips and Armin can’t help but lean forward and push his tongue between your mouth, as if he can absorb all of your word. “So good, so good, it’s- uah- I just want more, more of your cock, you fill me up so good!”

Armin can’t deny you. He pushes your thighs to your chest and picks up your entire body to fuck himself. He manoeuvres your body like a toy and as your tongue rolls out and your eyes become glassy, you begin to look like one too. The only sounds coming out of your mouth are incomprehensible, even as Armin attaches his mouth to one of your bouncing tits, you can only squeal.

“Such a good puppy,” he says between kisses. “Letting me use her holes like this. A god using a puppy’s holes- you should be- you should be grateful! Tell me, tell me you’re grateful!”

“I am!” you cry out. “I am grateful!”

“Good girl, good puppygirl.”

When Armin flips you over, you’re sat on his throne and he fucks into you harder, harder than he was doing before, and you swear his moans are louder too. He’s looking down at the movement of your stomach as if hypnotized by the way his cock disappears into you. And, in a way, he is. The fascination of being inside of you- just the idea even- is enough to make him want to cum.

The sudden position has him hitting new spots and the build-up is so fast, you hardly have the time to warn him. “Armin, Armin I’m cum-“

He grabs your face as you release around his cock, body spasming but unable to look away as Armin’s gaze burns through you. “Good girl,” he says. “Show me, show me how you cum. Just like that, just like that.”

He continues to plough his hips into yours and the spasms of your pussy leave him unable to hold back. “Inside of you,” he practically growls. “I’m going to cum inside of you- yes, yes, yes I am puppy. I’m going to cum inside of you and you’re going to show me how you take it yeah?”

You’re too far gone to even register the implications of what he’s saying, but he buries his cock in your warm walls and releases his cum inside of you with a heavy groan. “Just like that, just like that- I’m going to fill you up with my seed, puppy, my puppy.”

Armin feels like he’s emptied his balls- two powerful orgasms which leave his legs shaking violently. And yet, he pulls out of you slowly and stands back up to his full height, cock in front of your face. Almost instinctively, you rub your cheek against it, giving Armin soft kitten licks and he coos at you, stroking your hair. But he doesn’t push, he just holds his cock there and pumps softly as he stares at your fucked out face. Messy, covered in his spit, his hickeys, his bites, his cum- you look perfect, divine. Only one thing is missing. “I’m going to give you everything I have, puppy. And you’re going to take it, okay?” You nod and open your mouth for him and, immediately, a strong stream of pee emerges.

At the bitter taste on your tongue, your eyes roll back, and you spread your legs even wider, a welcome to the mess he is about to make. Armin accepts and angles his cock to release his pee over your chest, then your stomach, and then your already-throbbing cunt. He lifts a foot to rest on the throne and Armin doesn’t think he’s even seen such a beautiful sight in his life.

As if guided by an implicit will, Armin’s foot hovers on top of you and suddenly, he presses against your lower stomach. Your eyes snap back into focus as you whine out for him to wait, wait just a moment “I just had water,” you cry out. “It’s gonna- It’s gonna come out!”

But Armin simply grins. “Let it come out,” he says and presses his foot down harder. “Pee yourself dumb little mutt, be a good puppy for your owner.” The trickle that emerges is involuntary, but Armin’s grin is wider. “Yes, good girl, just like that. Let me see more, let me see more of you.”

The pressure that was holding the bowl of water back broke and you felt the warm liquid against your thighs before you realise what’s happening. Armin practically moans as he watches you whimper and struggle to hold your pee back as it spreads over the throne, the dais, and even Armin himself. He doesn’t stop until you’ve given it all to him.

You expect Armin to disappear. 

You’ve given him everything. His goal is complete, you think, he has nothing more to do with you. But, as he has done many times before, the god surprises you. Armin’s body is heavy against yours when he collapses on top of you, but the weight is comforting. Despite the malaise of urine and cum rubbing against both of your bodies, you wrap your arms around the god of the ocean and hold him close. 

Even as you close your eyes and lean your head back on the marble throne, Armin doesn’t leave you. Even as you open your eyes back up and see blue ones staring back at you, the look he gives you is so familiar and long hair in such unfamiliar disarray that you can’t help but smile.

He doesn’t ask why. Instead, Armin calls forth a stream of warm water from the adjacent fountain to clean the both of you. It feels like a fever dream the way floating droplets caress your bodies, and when Armin stands you up, his hands not leaving you, the perfume that suddenly envelops you is heavenly.

“Can I give you a last kiss, please?” you ask when your robe appears once again. And Armin leans forward to capture your lips, dragging his tongue on your bottom lip as if to taste you.

It doesn’t feel like a final kiss. You’ve had many of them- Jean, Sasha, Berthrold, your father, and even your mother, though you can’t remember it. This kiss is different. It feels less like a kiss and more like a promise, a vow. a shiver runs down your spine. 

“I am your god,” he says and lifts his both of his hands slowly to wrap around your neck. “And you’re my worshipper.” You gasp as a cold sensation spreads around your neck, just below Armin’s fingers. It’s sudden, and heavy and when he removes his hands, yours fly to your neck and there’s a metal band there where there was none before.

“It’s sculpted from Hephaestus’ gold,” Armin says as he strokes his fingers along the metal. But he’s not looking at his gift, instead he looks at you. 

“Armin- I- this is. But why?”

For the first time, he can’t read your expression. But it doesn’t matter. You belong to him. You always have, but now you know. And if it takes time for you to understand, Armin can wait. He’ll wait right beside you, always, always there to guide you.

“This is not the end of my Odyssey. My Odyssey is eternal,” he says before giving you another short kiss and disappearing, the warmth of his lips still present.

The gods might not all be fickle, you think, so you just smile sadly. But the gods are all selfish, so you touch the collar around your neck.

A/N: This is my first ever collab and I was- as still am- a bit insecure about how this story turned out so I appreciate all of your support ❤️. I would also like to apologise to my fellow history nerds for the historical inaccuracies. 

[ourimpavidheroine]

I’ve gotta say, I’m really enjoying these stories. Also, your late father sounds like an amazing man. I can really see the inspiration for LoLo come out in your mentions of him.

When my mother got pregnant with me - a planned pregnancy, they were young when they married but I was born 16 months later - my father knew from the get-go that he wanted a girl.

This was (and, I am sad to say, still is) an unusual thing for a father to wish for. Most fathers wish for a son. My Dad, however, was raised by a drunken, abusive, narcissistic man and he was afraid that if he had a son he’d just turn into his father. He thought a daughter would help him break that cycle of abuse. 

When I was born he told the nurse who brought me out to him in the waiting room that I was an angel, and Angel was the nickname that he alone called me.

He and I were very, very close, something that made my mother and younger brother jealous. (I didn’t really see or understand that until after he died when I was 26.)  There was nothing whatsoever or remotely sexual about it, which is what people usually assume when a father and daughter are very close. As my girlhood best friend said to me a few months ago, my father thought the sun rose and set on me, thought that I was his fairy princess. All of my odd, Autistic/ADHD weirdness was something he loved. I always knew he loved me not just despite my weirdness but because of it. (Something that my late wife did as well.)

My father was a brilliant man. He graduated high school at 15 and went into university to study architecture. Academically he handled it, but he was way too young to handle the social aspects as well as the responsibility of it and so he dropped out a year later. Things were apparently hellish with my grandfather and my Dad enlisted in the Army on his 18th birthday. This was 1965 and the US started sending soldiers to Vietnam. Not my Dad, though. He took some tests the military gave him and after boot camp spent his entire three years on a Nike missle base in the middle of Milwaukee, working on one of those huge old mainframe computers (you know, the kind with punch cards). I’m guessing they didn’t send the really smart ones off to be killed.

He taught himself how to be an architect through reading books at the library, including textbooks that he would sit and read at UC Berkeley’s library, even though he wasn’t a student there any longer. Then, after he had learned that, he read through engineering and physics textbooks. Then he read through every single book he could find that taught him how to actually build the structures he had learned to draw. He was completely self-taught, and the man not only designed and built complicated, Broadway-worthy theater sets he also designed and built houses from the ground up. He wanted to build a rock retaining wall at our house (which was located at the base of a hill and was on an incline) and so he went to the library and got a book about how Romans built walls and spent three years going to the local river to source variously-sized river rocks to build that retaining wall, which he did completely without any kind of mortar, just balancing the rocks perfectly. It’s still standing, 40 years later.

He always worked at very menial jobs - he was a line cook, a stocker in a supermarket produce department, an RV park manager, etc. He was terrible with money, didn’t understand it at all. We lived right on top of the poverty line. He had zero executive functioning and that caused a lot of problems for all of us and meant a lot of broken promises, too.

I am completely sure that like me, like both of his grandchildren, he had Autism and ADHD. Not diagnosed of course, they weren’t in those days, But he had them nevertheless.

He was a voracious reader and introduced me to sci fi and fantasy. On my eighth birthday he gave me his copies of The Lord of the Rings and had me read them. (This was 1977, trust me when I tell you those books were not a household name at that point.)  He’d wake me up at 3:30 am and we’d go fishing together, him with a thermos of black coffee, me with a bottle of orange juice and a box of Entenmann’s mixed donuts and we’d sit there in happy silence together, fishing and enjoying each other’s company. He was a wonderful storyteller and only once did he get angry with me. He never laid a hand on me or my brother but the one time he got angry with me he slapped me across the face and then the both of us cried.

He taught me many useful skills, like how to jimmy locks and how to walk through people unseen and how to learn on my own how to do things and how to make the world’s best pie. He always told me that I could absolutely anything I put my mind to. When I asked him once if that meant I could be a father - I was joking - he looked me straight in the eye and asked me if I actually wanted to be a father. When I told him no he responded that he had said if I had put my mind to it, and he wasn’t vouching for anything I pulled when I didn’t care.

He also told me that I was the strongest person he’d ever met and when I scoffed at that he shook his head and said, “Angel, most people see you and they have no idea at all what’s inside of you and what you are capable of. There is nothing in this life you won’t overcome. Someday, when we’re both dead, you come find me and tell me I’m wrong.” (So far, he has not been wrong.)

He was a functioning drunk; he only drank after 8 at night, however. Just enough to make sure he’d not be hungover in the morning. He was a night person and all his life only needed about 4 hours of sleep to be completely rested.

He loved movies but he hated to go alone and usually took me. Not all of these movies were appropriate for kids my age but there it was. When I was eleven he took me with him to see The Elephant Man and I broke down completely, devastated and sobbing, horrified at how cruel people were to the lead character, just because he was different. After the movie we sat in the car and he held me until I was done crying and when I was all done he told me to never forget how the movie had made me feel and to remember that no matter how different people were from me they were all human and deserved kindness, compassion and understanding. This was a lesson I have tried very hard to live throughout my life. He took people at face value, and that included everyone. I don’t think he was particularly woke based on 2021 sentiments but he tried very hard to treat people equally and that included queer people during the AIDS crisis, too.

He was a feminist and believed women should be equal to men. He walked the walk, too: he cooked, he cleaned, he changed diapers, etc. And by that I mean he did them as par for the course, as part of his daily life. He did not rely on my mother’s emotional labor to remind him to do shit. He just did it because things needed doing and he was a grownass man, not a man-child. He did not consider caring for his children as babysitting, either.

He liked to sing. My mother and brother have opera-quality singing voices - for real, both of them are quite gifted - but his wasn’t like that, it was just a perfectly ordinary, passable baritone, just like mine is a perfectly ordinary, passable alto. He sang and he whistled when he was happy and I do the same. He used to make up funny little songs and rhymes on the spot, he had a gift for improvisation that way. I wish I had inherited that but alas! No.

Even when he was a boy all of the neighborhood kids would come to him with broken toys to be fixed. He quite genuinely liked kids and even teenagers and spent a lot of time working with the local high school drama department, building the sets, working as the stage manager and setting up and working the lights and soundboard (he taught himself to do that as well) and even directing some of the plays when the drama teacher was out on maternity leave. To this day I still get contacted by people who were in school with me or my brother who tell me what an influence my father was on them, the special things he did for them to make sure they knew he was paying attention and cared. One guy a couple of years ago contacted me on Facebook and told me that he got into some trouble after high school, even got imprisoned for a few months. My father visited him in prison and afterwards took him to AA with him, became his sponsor, helped keep on the straight and narrow. He named his oldest son after my father, in fact. I hear a lot of those stories.

He loved books and he loved music and he taught me to love those things as well. He fell in love with my mother when he was seventeen and married her five years later and came to regret it - like his father, his wife was an abusive, narcissistic person. He stayed with her, though, until my second year of university, when he abruptly walked out on her, went to AA and quit drinking. I asked him about it later; he told me that he had wanted to leave her for years but knew that if he did he’d never see me or my younger brother again. The courts in those days automatically gave kids to the mother and my mother was an accomplished liar and would have told the courts anything and they would have believed her. Once I was out of the house and secure, then he was done. (The fact that my brother was only fifteen and left to fend for himself with my mother was...not good. Not good at all. My father was not perfect and he was not a saint and that was a mistake that still has repercussions today.) He did not do enough to protect me from my mother while I was growing up, however. He regretted it, he told me later. I understand now that he was constantly walking a knife’s edge, trying to keep her satisfied enough so she wouldn’t try to take me away from him, but it took therapy long after he died for me to really understand that.

His special interest was model railroading and he built these amazing, intricate landscapes, all by hand and by scratch. The man took latex molds off the sides of rocks to build mountains with and built buildings out of tiny pieces of wood and such. I spent many hours with him as he built, listening to music and reading or just laying there, thinking my thinks, or sometimes chattering nonstop to him.

He called me, every single Friday night, right after the X-Files ended, right after the child’s voice said “I made this.” My phone would ring and we’d chat for hours, talking about the show (we both loved it) and whatever else. He lived about 5 hours away from me at the time and we did talk at other times during the week but that was our standard date. He died in the middle of Season 2 and to this very goddamn fucking day whenever I hear that “I made this” I wait for my phone to ring. And I cry every single time because he will never call me again.

I absolutely think that meeting my late wife via the X-Files was my father, watching out for me. When my twins were newborn and pretty much all I did 24x7 was breastfeed them I re-watched the entirety of X-Files on the DVDs I had and I’d talk to my father in my head, telling him about his grandchildren.

He’d always buy the new Stephen King books in hardcover and read them and then give them to me to keep. He especially loved the Dark Tower series but I haven’t finished the ones that were published after he died. I bought them myself but they are still sitting on my bookshelf, unread. I just can’t.

He died in the hospital after being in a coma for a week. The ICU nurses were very kind and showed me how I could turn off the life support machine if I wanted to and told me that I could be in there with him as long as I needed. They very considerately closed all of the curtains and closed the door to the room. I was alone with him in there and I turned off the machine and I held his hand and I sang to him as he died. I didn’t want him to be alone. 

He was right. I was strong enough to do that. It hurt, though. It still hurts.

He’s buried in California with a free military headstone because my comfortably upper middle class grandfather refused to shell out for a headstone and I was flat broke. Many years later I had a regular stone engraved with the words, “Go then, there are other worlds than these” and I placed it at our summer cottage here in Finland for him. I like to think that he and my late wife are keeping company. They never met here, but they would have liked each other very much, that I do know.

[rhosyn-du]

Title: A Wonderful Institution Artist: @bidnezz​​ Pairings: Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood, various background pairings Word Count: ~53k Warnings: graphic depictions of violence, discrimination against Downworlders, reference to rape, Clave-typical homophobia, implied character death, minor character death Summary: Magnus doesn’t have time for this bullshit. Warlocks are disappearing in New York City—five people in less than three months—and Magnus is determined to find them and protect the rest of his people from whatever took them. He doesn’t have time for politics, and he certainly doesn’t have time for whatever nonsense the Clave is proposing about marrying a Shadowhunter to a Downworlder as part of the new Accords. He doesn’t really have time for a pretty Shadowhunter who’s surprisingly kind to warlock children, either, but, well, he’s always been good at multitasking.

Alec always knew he couldn’t have what he wanted, but he’s spent the nearly four years since the newly-appointed Consul recalled his parents to Idris without explanation making the best of what he can have. When life suddenly offers up almost everything Alec actually wants on a silver platter, he can’t quite bring himself to trust it, especially when it comes with a million caveats and a side of impending disaster. But he knows how to handle disasters, even if the return of the Circle on top of Clave secrets that could destroy the Accords is way beyond the disasters he’s used to fielding. Hope, on the other hand? He doesn’t know what to do with that.

This fic was created for the @malecdiscordserver​ Mini Bang 2020.

Chapter Eleven

The floor of the cell was steel, Magnus knew that much. He thought it was maybe four feet by four feet wide, not long enough to stretch out fully lying down, but almost long enough corner to corner. He was fairly certain he was on a boat of some sort. He didn’t know how long he’d been there. He couldn’t see the sun, and no one spoke to him. The door and walls were opaque, so he couldn’t see out. If they were feeding him regular meals, and Magnus suspected they were, since they’d been very careful to tend his injuries and keep him from further injuring himself, then he’d been there for maybe two days.

When he’d been taken by the Circle, when Valentine insisted on keeping him alive, Magnus had assumed that Valentine or one of his cronies would eventually explain why they needed him alive. He’d expected to be questioned, at least. He hadn’t been. He’d merely been put in this cell and forgotten, other than to have his basic needs met. No one even bothered to gloat. Whatever the Circle needed him for, he was nothing to them.

He tried not to think of Alexander, of the way Alexander’s screams echoed in his ears as his captors dragged him through the portal. He tried not to think of Alexander’s blood staining the rug on their dining room floor. He tried not to think of Ragnor, captured by Valentine and forced to commit this awful act. He tried not to think of the wards on his loft he hadn’t thought to update after Ragnor had been taken. The wards that had allowed the Circle into his loft, allowed them to take him. Allowed them to kill Alexander.

No, he wouldn’t think about Alec. Not now. He couldn’t. He needed to keep his wits about him because he was going to escape. He was going to escape and kill every single person responsible.

It was the same circle of thoughts he’d been through for the past however many hours he’d been here. It was his fault, and he was going to kill everyone who’d been responsible for hurting Alexander, and then... He never got past that part.

The sound of approaching footsteps signaled what was likely another meal. Magnus thought it must be too soon. He was sure he’d only just finished breakfast (or was it lunch?), but no one ever came to his cell for any other reason, so clearly that’s what was going on. Except the footsteps didn’t sound like the heavy boots most Shadowhunters favored, or the dress shoes some of the more dapper Circle members were prone to. Personally, Magnus thought it made them look like mobsters, but in a sense, they kind of were, so he didn’t question it.

These footsteps, though, were soft, almost cautious. It was only somewhat of a surprise, then, when there was a quick tap on the door of his cell, and a familiar voice called softly, “Magnus? Are you there?”

“Dorothea!” Magnus jumped to his feet, pushing as close to the door as his restraints would allow.

“Oh, thank god I got the right cell,” Dot breathed. “We’ve been trying to figure out where they were keeping you for days.”

“Dot, do you know what’s happening?” Magnus questioned. “Where are we? Are the other warlocks who were taken here, too? What does Valentine want from me?”

“I don’t have much time,” Dot told him, “but I’ll tell you what I can. We’re in a cargo ship on the East River. We only come and go by portal, so I never know the exact location. At least some of the Downworlders Valentine has kidnapped are here. I don’t know if he’s keeping others at another location, or if they’re all dead. Not everyone survives his experiments.”  Her voice dropped. “One of the little girls they brought in didn’t.”

“I’m glad you’re alive,” Magnus told her. He couldn’t bring himself to ask about Ragnor, although Dot had mentioned him. He knew what happened to Alexander wasn’t Ragnor’s fault, not really, but he couldn’t get the image out of his mind of Ragnor’s magic ripping Alec’s skin open, spraying blood across the table and floor. “And that you were able to find me. Dot, we have to find a way out of here.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Dot told him. “There’s not much Ragnor and I can do. Whatever Valentine injected us with, we can’t disobey a direct order from him, and it’s hard enough even getting around what he hasn’t told us. There’s powerful magic protecting this place, too. Anyone trying to leave on foot or going over the side is killed instantly, and all of the warlocks have been ordered not to open any portals except under Valentine’s explicit command.”

“I don’t supposed Valentine conveniently forgot to tell you not to release me?” Magnus asked.

“No, but Jocelyn is awake, and she thinks if Valentine is distracted enough, she might be able to get you free.”

Magnus snorted. “No offense to Jocelyn’s clearly amazing and well-considered plan, but I sincerely doubt after everything that’s happened, Valentine is going to trust Jocelyn enough to let her out of his sight.”

“That’s where the distraction comes in,” Dot told him. “Valentine is planning to contact Clary and offer to trade Jocelyn for the Mortal Cup. He’s not actually planning to make the trade, of course. He wants Jocelyn and the Cup. And Clary. But when Clary shows up, he’ll be distracted, and Jocelyn thinks she’s figured out a way to use that distraction to get you free.”

“What makes any of you think Clary is going to agree to the trade?” Magnus asked. “Even if she did, the Clave isn’t going to just agree to hand over the Cup.”

“Magnus, I’ve known Clary since she was a child. If there’s any chance of getting her mother back, she’ll take it, no matter what the cost is. I know it and Jocelyn knows it, and unfortunately Valentine knows it.”

“But the Clave—” Magnus protested.

“Are distracted right now,” Dot said gently. “It’s all part of Valentine’s plan to start a war between the Clave and the Downworld. He killed Alec Lightwood and made it look like you did it.”

The words hit Magnus like a blow to the chest, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe. He’d known, of course. He’d seen. But there had been some tiny spark of hope left, deep in his heart, that Alexander had somehow managed to survive. Dorothea’s words snuffed that spark like it was a cheap candle.

He had to remind himself that Dot didn’t mean to be callous. She’d never met Alec. She didn’t know—couldn’t know—what he’d meant to Magnus.

“That’s why you’re here,” Dot continued. “Valentine plans to kill you in a couple more days and leave your body somewhere conspicuous, to make it look like you were killed by Shadowhunters in retaliation. Even the people who don’t believe you’re responsible for the murder will believe that.”

“But why?” Magnus asked, swallowing down his grief and trying to focus. “Surely, even Valentine knows what a disaster a war between the Clave and the Downworld would be. It would be a bloodbath!”

“He doesn’t care about Downworlders dying—he wants us all dead—and he sees the Shadowhunters who would die as necessary casualties. He thinks this will convince the Clave that he was right all along, that it will open them up to being taken over by the Circle. He thinks it will destroy the Accords.”

“He’s insane.” Magnus said. It all made a horrible kind of sense, and Magnus hated it. He wondered how long Valentine had been planning this. Was this his plan even before he and Alexander had been chosen to make the marriage for the Accords, or was this plan specific to the two of them? It might not have worked with someone less well-known than he was, at least not as well. It was just one more thing to feel guilty for. If not for him and his ridiculous, spur of the moment decision to volunteer, the Downworld might not be in danger. Alexander might still be alive.

“He’s beyond insane,” Dot agreed. “I think he actually believes that he and Jocelyn and Clary can be a happy family once they’re all together again.”

“At least,” Magnus said, “a madman is more likely to make mistakes. Tell Jocelyn that I’m being held in manacles that bind me from using my magic. If she can get me free of these, then I’ll do everything in my power to take Valentine down.”

“We’ll try to get word to you about when the exchange is going to happen, but I don’t know if we’ll be able to, so you’ll have to be ready.”

“I don’t exactly have a good way of keeping track of time anyway,” Magnus said. “Be careful, all of you. And Dorothea?” He took a deep breath, needing to say the words, needing to mean them. “Tell Ragnor I don’t blame him.”

There was a beat of silence before Dot promised, “I will.”

Magnus listened to her soft footsteps fade away down the hallway, leaving him alone in his cell with his thoughts once again.

Consciousness returned in fits and starts. Alec was aware of voices first. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but he recognized Jace and Izzy and a third voice he knew but couldn’t place. He knew the third voice was friendly, though, so he let it go, let everything go and slipped back into unconsciousness.

The second time he woke, sort of woke, it was to touch. On his arm, on his face. This time, he recognized the voice, the third voice from before. Catarina. She must be healing him, he realized. He was injured. That was why he was unconscious. Semi-conscious. Whatever. But he was with Catarina, and Jace, and Izzy, and he was safe. He let himself drift again. 

The third time, he was aware that something was missing. Someone was missing. Something was deeply, deeply. Wrong. Catarina was there again, and Izzy. He could hear them talking, but still couldn’t tell what they were saying. He recognized one word, though. Magnus. That’s what was missing. Who was missing. Magnus. And then he remembered. The portal, the Shadowhunters and warlocks and pain and blood and Magnus. God, they’d taken Magnus. This time, he fought unconsciousness tooth and nail, but he was no match for it, and it pulled him under once again. 

The fourth time Alec woke, he was determined to stay awake. There were no voices this time, but he was aware of a presence sitting beside him. Jace. With great effort, Alec forced his eyes open. He was lying on his side, facing a small, wooden table. From the table, a folded paper frog stared back at him.

His eyes flickered to where Jace was sitting beside the bed. “Where’s Magnus?”

“You’re at Catarina’s,” Jace told him. “We brought you here after we found you bleeding out at the loft, and then Lydia thought it was best if you stayed here instead of the Institute. I'll explain everything in a minute, but I have to call Izzy and Lydia and tell them you’re awake, and Catarina will probably want to look you over again.”

Alec reached out to grab Jace’s arm, even that small movement making his head spin. “Jace,” he said as evenly as he could manage, “where’s Magnus?”

“I don’t know,” Jace said, shaking his head. “You were alone when we found you.”

“Alec?” came a small voice from the doorway.

“Madzie,” he said, struggling into a sitting position and forcing a smile. “Hey.”

“You got hurt again,” she told him, walking over to the bed. She had Mr. Flopsy clutched tight in her arms.

“I’m going to call Iz and let Catarina know you’re awake,” Jace said.

Alec gave him a quick nod, then turned back to Madzie. “I did,” he agreed, “but Catarina healed me and now I’m all better.”

“You were asleep for a long time. I couldn’t stay all the time, but I left a frog to watch you while I was gone,” she added, pointing at the paper frog on the table.

“Thank you,” Alec told her. “He did a very good job guarding me.”

“I wanted to make you a dragon, but it’s not finished yet.”

“Maybe you could work on it some more while I check Alec’s injuries,” Catarina suggested as she entered the room, Jace following behind her.

“I want to stay with Alec,” Madzie insisted.

“We’re going to be doing boring, adult stuff," Alec told her. "You should work on that dragon so you can show it to me when I’m done being boring.”

Madzie stared at him for a long moment, considering. “Okay,” she said finally. “You’re not allowed to get hurt while I’m gone, though.”

“It’s a deal,” Alec told her. He waited until he heard a door open and close elsewhere in the house before demanding, “What happened? How did I get here? Why am I here instead of the Institute?” 

“I felt you dying,” Jace said. “I felt you get hurt, and I knew that you were dying, and I just. I grabbed Iz and Clary, and we ran to the loft. We got there as fast as we could, and you were still hanging on when we got there. And then Catarina showed up.” 

“Someone made a very obvious, very loud mess of Magnus’s wards,” Catarina explained. “On purpose, I suspect. I couldn’t help but notice.”

“Ragnor,” Alec said. “Valentine and the Circle attacked us at the loft. They had warlocks with them under the influence of that mind-control serum, and Ragnor was one of them. If someone was trying to attract attention, it was probably him.”

“That sounds like something he’d do,” Catarina agreed. “You were close to dying when I got there, but I was able to stabilize you. You lost a lot of blood.” 

“We brought you back here,” Jace explained. “We weren’t sure what had happened, and we didn’t know where Magnus was, so we brought you here. And this is where Catarina keeps all of her healing supplies. We called Lydia to let her know you’d been attacked, and she told us to stay where we were.” 

“I was worried about moving you,” Catarina said. “Along with the blood loss, you had some spinal injuries.” 

Alec remembered that searing flash of pain through his middle. Yeah, spinal injuries would definitely explain that. 

“How long have I been out?” Alec wanted to know. 

“Almost three days,” Catarina told him.

Three days. He’d been unconscious for three days. Magnus had been in Valentine’s hands for three days .

“We have to find Magnus,” Alec said. “Valentine took him. They took him and they left me to die. We have to find him.” 

He tried ineffectually to get out of bed, but he was weak enough that Jace was able to hold him back with one hand. He was weak enough that Jace didn’t even flinch when Alec tried to throw a punch. 

“Dude, relax,” Jace said. “You’re not strong enough to get out of bed, let alone go after the entire Circle by yourself.” 

“Believe me,” Catarina said, “no one is planning on leaving Magnus in Valentine’s hands.” 

“Right now, we don’t know what Valentine is planning,” Lydia said, striding into the room with Izzy and Clary trailing behind her, “but we do have some clues. I heard rumors of your supposed murder before Jace and Izzy even told me you’d been attacked. It seemed pretty suspicious, which is why we decided to keep you here while you healed instead of taking you back to the Institute.” 

“You wanted to keep it a secret that I’m alive?” Alec nodded in understanding. “That was a good plan. The Consul warned me there was a possibility that the Circle might have infiltrated the Institute.” 

Lydia’s eyebrows shot up at that. “The Consul never felt the need to tell me anything about that.” 

“She kept it under pretty tight wraps,” Alec told her. “Only a few people knew, and I’m only one of them because the Circle chose to make its reappearance in New York.”

“And you’ve deemed me trustworthy now that I haven’t killed you when I had the chance?” Lydia guessed. 

“Pretty much,” Alec told her. “No offense.” 

“None taken. You barely know me, so of course you didn’t trust me. I’m just glad you do now because we have a serious problem on our hands.” 

“No kidding,” Alec agreed. “Do you know why Valentine wants me dead?” 

“We’re pretty sure he’s the one who started the rumors that Magnus killed you,” Izzy chimed in. 

Alec stared at her. “That’s ridiculous. Who would even believe that?” 

“People who don’t know you,” Lydia said. “People who don’t know Magnus. There are plenty in the Clave who thought this marriage was a mistake from the start. Those people are more than happy to believe that it ended in murder.” 

“Then we need to tell them that I’m alive,” Alec said. “The Accords—” 

“The Accords will survive another day,” Izzy said. “Until you’re healed enough to protect yourself, we couldn’t risk it. Consul Penhallow knows you’re alive, and so do Mom and Dad. They all agreed keeping it quiet was the best choice.” 

“We didn’t know who to trust, either,” Lydia said. 

“And as long as Valentine thinks you’re dead, then he still has the incentive to keep Magnus alive for whatever scheme he’s working on,” Catarina said. 

“That’s good thinking,” Alec agreed. “What do we know?” 

“We know that Jocelyn Fairchild is awake,” Jace said. “Valentine used the portal shard to contact Clary a couple hours ago. He offered to make a trade, Jocelyn for the Mortal Cup.” 

Alec looked at Clary. “Did you tell him to fuck off?” 

“I told him I needed time to think about it,” Clary said. “If there’s even a chance we could get my mother back, we have to try.”

“But we’re not actually planning to give him the Cup,” Jace said quickly. Alec appreciated the clarification, even if he’d figured that was the case. Even if Clary was reckless enough to do so, even if she’d managed to weave whatever her magic of persuasion was to convince Jace and Izzy, there was no way Lydia would have agreed to any such thing.

“We can trade a fake,” Clary said, “and get my mom back.”

“And then follow Valentine back to his hideout,” Catarina added, “so we know where he's keeping the missing Downworlders.”

“Then we raid the hideout, rescue the Downworlders, and take Valentine and the rest of Circle into custody,” Alec concluded. “It's a good plan. I'm leading the raid on Valentine's hideout.”

This pronouncement was met with a chorus of disagreement, but Alec held up a hand to forestall them. “The only reason I'm not out there looking for Magnus right now is that this plan is probably the fastest way to find him.”

“And because you can't stand up without falling over,” Jace muttered.

Alec threw him a fierce glare, but Jace glared right back.

“Dude, you almost died. You're in no shape to go back into the field yet.”

It was a conversation they'd had before, more than once. Alec distinctly disliked being on this side of it.

“How long before I'm fully recovered?” he asked Catarina.

“Four days if you're lucky. A week or two if you're not.”

“That's too long,” Alec said, shaking his head. “How long until I can stand up without getting dizzy?”

“You'll probably be walking again by tomorrow, but—”

“Good,” Alec said, cutting her off. “Clary, contact Valentine. Tell him you need time to get the Cup, but you can make the exchange tomorrow night.”

He turned to Catarina. “You know any warlocks who might be willing to help take down the Circle?”

She gave him a grim smile. “I don't have the kind of connections Magnus does, but I know a few. And I know Raphael would be willing to conscript the entire New York vampire clan to help rescue Ragnor and Magnus.”

“Can he do that?” Alec asked.

“Yeah,” Jace said slowly, “There was kind of this whole thing while you were out where Camille illegally turned Clary's mundie friend—”

“His name is Simon!” Clary interjected.

“—and her clan didn't take too kindly to her breaking the Accords, so Raphael is in charge now.”

Alec blinked. “Okay. Any other major political upheavals I missed while I was unconscious?”

He meant it as sarcasm, but Clary piped up, “Luke is the Alpha of the New York pack now. And I know he'll want to be involved in rescuing Mom.”

“Sure,” Alec said. “Fine. Anything else?” He looked at Izzy, half expecting her to tell him a goat was the new Seelie Queen.

Izzy grinned. “Isn't that enough? I can ask Meliorn if any seelies want in on the action, though.”

“Might as well make it a party,” Alec said. “Lydia, I can give you a list of Shadowhunters I'm pretty sure we can trust on this mission. Can you get them ready without letting in what we’re actually doing? I don't want them to know what the mission is, or that I'm alive, until the last minute, just in case.”

“Not a problem,” Lydia said. “What do we tell the Council?”

“What have you told them already?”

“Not much,” Lydia admitted. “Just the message I sent to Consul Penhallow letting her know you’re alive and that we were keeping you hidden. I haven't exactly had time to make detailed reports with everything that's going on.”

“Good,” Alec told her. “I think you'll be too busy for the next couple days, too, don't you?”

Lydia made a face. “If this doesn't work, the Council will have our asses for not clearing it with them first.”

“If we make a report to the Council and any of it gets back to Valentine, our plan is shot,” Alec argued. “If the mission goes south, I'll take full responsibility. My Institute, my fuck-up.”

“All right,” Lydia relented.

Alec glanced around the room. “What are the rest of you still standing around for? I gave you jobs, go do them.”

For a wonder, they actually did.

[nothingeverlost]

Fic: Henry Gold (9/?)

Summary: Regina asked for Gold’s help in procuring a child, but when he held the wee boy in his arms he couldn’t give the child up.  Ten years later it’s Henry Gold who arrives in Boston, looking for Emma.

This chapter: A storm comes to Storybrooke.  Emma meets the stranger.  Gold looks at dogs

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3/ Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 /  Chapter 8

II

“You alright?”  Emma waited until Henry was out of the room, carrying his breakfast to the dining room, before asking.  Gold had been limping around the kitchen more than usual.

“Storms make my ankle ache more than usual. It’s going to be a brutal one.”  Gold carried his cup of tea and toast into the dining room.  “Henry, not stopping at your castle today.  It’s straight home, and I’ll close up early.  We can do a movie night, if you like.”

“With popcorn?” he asked hopefully.

“Popcorn and a lake of butter, as long as there’s no complaints about vegetables with dinner,” Gold promised.

“Speaking of storms Graham said something about sandbags.  I better get going if I’m going to pick up coffee before meeting him at the station.”  At some point she was going to have to buy a coffee pot, but that felt like assuming a little too much.  Her own brand of toothpaste in the bathroom was one thing, but an appliance on the counter was something else entirely.  Now that she was staying in town they were going to have to have a serious conversation about her finding a place of her own, or at least paying rent.

“You’re invited to join us for movies, but I’m going to assume you’ll find yourself otherwise occupied.  Storms generally mean extra work for Graham.”  Gold glanced at his son.  “If you’re not able to come home tonight I’m sure Henry would appreciate a call at bedtime.”

“Will do.”  She wondered if she would have thought of it without prompting.  She wasn’t used to anyone waiting up for her, but somehow the last couple of times she’d been out late Gold had always been waiting.

She got to the diner just before seven-fifteen, plenty of time to order coffee and a couple of muffins before she had to meet up with Graham.  Bran muffins had to be better for the heart than donuts.  She was surprised to see Mary Margaret at one of the tables, considering she didn’t have long to get to school if there was anything to set up for class.  She was about to go over to say hi when the door opened and David came in, ordering two coffees.  It was too bad she hadn’t gotten to Mary Margaret first because the exchange she had to observe between her and David was painful.  It also wasn’t the first time she’d seen them staring at each other.

“Good book?”  Emma had enough time to slide into the chair across the table from Mary Margaret.  The teacher looked almost surprised to find a book on the table, as if she’d forgotten it completely.  Not surprising, since it seemed little more than a prop. 

“What?”   The lack of food on the table was telling too.

“Graham mentioned that David got a job at the animal shelter now.  He looks like he’s doing better.”  He wasn’t unconscious anymore, which was points in his favor.

“He starts work at eight and works until five.”  Mary Margaret glanced over her shoulder, where the street was now empty.  “Except on Friday he left early.  I saw him picking up Chinese food for him and Kathryn.”

“You don’t seem like the stalking type.”  Emma raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not a stalker.  I just know his routine.  It’s a small town.”  Mary Margaret looked down at the book she hadn’t actually been reading.  “Maybe I’m a little bit of a stalker.  I can’t stop thinking about him, not since that night at the river.”

“He’s married.  I know things were pretty intense that night but he has a wife and he’s chosen to be with her.”  He seemed to settle into the life he’d had before the coma with surprising speed.  

“I don’t know how to get him out of my head.”

“Maybe the first step is not getting coffee here tomorrow.  Do something different.  If you don’t see him every day maybe you’ll think about him less.”  If out of sight out of mind worked she would have forgotten almost everyone she even knew, but it was the most practical advice she had to offer.

“If only there was a magic cure to make you stop loving someone,” she said with a sigh.

II

“If only there was a magic cure to stop hating someone.”  Emma sat at her desk trying to look like she was busy, which was hard given that she only had a couple of pieces of paper to shuffle.  Regina had come in a few minutes ago to ‘find out’ how preparations for the storm were going.  While Emma had actual things she needed to do she wasn’t leaving Graham alone in the same building with Regina.  She was leaning over the desk in a way that was clearly meant to offer a view of her chest; her outfit was not designed for keeping her warm in a storm.

She knew enough about Graham to be able to see that he was beyond uncomfortable and rounding the corner to high blood pressure.  Regina didn’t know how to take a hint.  “Hey Graham, if you’re ready we have that thing we need to do.”

“I’m sure whatever it is you can handle on your own, deputy.”  

“We have a storm coming, Mayor.  I’m sure it’s in your best interest if the town is prepared for any possible problems.  Wouldn’t want you to have to field questions about why there weren’t any sandbags available or why no one was monitoring for potential flooding of the river.”  Graham looked noticeably relieved when Regina stood up and turned her attention to Emma.

“When you’re done playing with sand there’s a new man in town.  I want to know who he is and why he’s here.  And how long he’s staying.”

“Why?  It’s not against the law to visit Storybrooke is it?”  Emma thought of the stranger they’d seen on the motorcycle.  

“I didn’t say to arrest him, I said find out why he’s here.  If he is here to cause trouble I would think you would want to know, especially since I saw him speaking with the young Gold boy this morning.  I would say that you should watch out for bad influences but I’m afraid it’s too late there.”  Regina smirked as she looked at Emma before leaving.

“Too bad this storm isn’t a tornado.  I know the perfect candidate to have a house fall on them.”  Emma wanted to ask Graham if he was alright, but they were still sorting out what it meant to work together and she didn’t want to bring up something so emotional at work.  Instead she started humming ‘ding dong the witch is dead’ as she headed out to check on the families that lived farthest from town.

II

The only dogs at the animal shelter were too small or too purebred.  When he’d still been a man, so many lifetimes ago, he’d owned large mutts meant to help with the sheep.  Bae had loved playing with them.  If he was going to get a dog for Henry it was going to be something that could go for walks and keep up with a ten year old.  If it also happened to be big enough to attack an evil queen all the better.  Regina had never been very fond of dogs.

“I can take any of them out if you want a closer look,” David Nolan offered.  He’d settled into his new job quickly, his years on a farm tending animals showing even though he didn’t have the memories.

“No, thank you.  None of them suit.”

“Perhaps if you tell me what you’re looking for I can give you a call when we get new dogs?”

“My son is turning eleven in a few months.  It seems like a good age to learn responsibility with a pet.  I don’t want anything so small it could be confused with an overgrown hamster or so over bred it doesn’t know it’s a dog.  Something that doesn’t like to chew on leather shoes would be a plus,” he smiled wryly, knowing he would sacrifice any item in his closet if it made his boy happy.

“That sounds like a wonderful idea.  I had a dog when I was his age.  Prince was my best friend,” David smiled nostalgically, remembering a dog that never existed.  Gold resisted rolling his name at the ironic name.  It was almost as ridiculous as Snow’s cursed name being Blanchard and his own given name being Gold.  Like Regina the spell she’d cast lacked subtlety. 

“I’m sure he was.  You may call me if anything suitable comes in, but don’t leave a message.  I don’t want my boy to find out and ruin the surprise.”  It had been a while since Henry had mentioned a dog, but he begged Archie to walk Pongo often.

“Of course Mr. Gold.  I…”

“David.”  A gust of wind came into the room when the front door was opened, rustling papers and bringing a reminder of the coming storm.  It also brought in Mary Margaret, carrying a shoebox.  Gold looked down at his watch; Henry would be walking home from school, and he needed to head for home.

“I think we understand each other, Mr. Nolan.” He might as well have been talking to the walls, for all the attention he was getting.  Charming only had eyes for his true wife.  Gold stepped back.

“There was a dove caught in wire.  It’s hurt.”  She held out the box in offering, but neither of them were looking at the box.  Outside there was a storm brewing but it didn’t seem anything compared to the electricity between them.  It took a lot of power to keep true love apart.  For the present, though, there was nothing he could do to bring Emma’s parents back together except leave them alone and wait. He quietly left, walking out just as the rain began.

II

The high school gym was a designated shelter.  Emma stopped by to make sure it was unlocked.  She found Leroy inside, grumbling as he unfolded cots.  Since he was drinking coffee and not alcohol she left him alone. Graham had already arrested him twice since she’d become deputy; apparently he was the jail cell’s most frequent visitor.  Emma didn’t have time to find out if there was a story behind his frequent drinking.  As she was walking away from the school she saw Kathryn Nolan out in her yard, hand on her fence.

“Looking for something?” she asked.

“My husband.  David should have been home from the shelter an hour ago.  He’s not answering his phone, but he has trouble remembering it.  He didn’t carry one regularly before the coma.”  Kathryn frowned, one hand holding up her umbrella and the other holding her coat closed.  “I need to go look for him.”

“He’s probably still at work calming the animals or something.  I’ll look, okay?  You getting caught in this storm isn’t going to do anyone any good.”  Emma worried that David had wandered off again.  She couldn’t deny that she was also worried that when she found him he wouldn’t be alone.  She’d seen the way he looked at Mary Margaret; it was too similar to the way Mary Margaret looked at him.

“Thank you, Deputy Swan.  That would mean a lot to me.”  Kathryn sounded worried.  She sounded like a wife.  Emma felt guilty knowing that her relationship might not be as solid as she hoped.

“It’s Emma.  Just Emma.”  Titles never did sit well on her.  “Why don’t you give me your number; it will save me having to call dispatch to get it later.”

She left a minute later, waiting to make sure Kathryn went inside.  The rain was coming down harder and the wind was picking up; the fewer people outside the better.  Emma headed straight for the animal shelter only to find the doors locked and only a few dim lights on.  She checked at Granny’s, picking up a couple of coffees for herself and Graham.  No David.  On her drive back to the sheriff’s station she tried calling his cell, but it went directly to voicemail.  She tried not to make assumptions when Mary Margaret didn’t answer either. 

“Everything alright?”  She observed Graham carefully before handing him the coffee.  He wasn’t that long out of the hospital and she wasn’t crazy about the fact that he had to be running around in a storm.  His jacked was dripping from its place on the coat rack.

“The river is starting to rise.  I think we should go check on Michael Tillman and a couple of other families that live close to there.  They might need to spend the night at the school.”  He wrapped his hands around the paper cup.  “Thanks.”

“Give me just a minute.”  It was hard to tell the time with the storm darkening the sky earlier than usual, but when Emma looked at the clock she could see that dinner time had come and passed.  If they were heading out again phone calls were going to get harder to make, and she had a promise to keep.  “I need to say goodnight to Henry.”

“Tell him I said goodnight too.”  Graham went back to his desk, giving Emma space to make her call.  She wouldn’t have minded if he’d stayed closer.

II

The storm raged until the early hours of the morning.  At least three trees were reported down, one of them crushing a Ford Pinto.  Kathryn Nolan had called to let her know that David had come home just before midnight.  Five families had been evacuated to the school, including Michael and the twins.  Fortunately the power held, which kept things from getting too hard to manage.  By four am Emma and Graham were both able to crash for a few hours of sleep on the beds in the cells.  It was almost eight when Emma woke to find Graham already up.

“Breakfast?”  Dinner the night before had been hastily eaten sandwiches, and Emma was starving.  The single stale donut she found in a box wasn’t appealing.

“There’s a couple of things I need to check on.  Meet you there in a little bit.”  Graham pulled a clean shirt out of his file cabinet, not bothering to turn around when he stripped off the one he’d slept in.  Emma had seen him without a shirt, but when doctors were trying to save someone’s life their bare chest didn’t have the same meaning.  How he managed to keep so nicely toned when he ate donuts and frozen meals she didn’t know.  It was a good thing she’d already made plans to leave, because it would be easy to stick around and the last thing either of them needed was a make out session at work.

“Sure.”  Granny’s was close enough to the station to walk as long as she wasn’t going anywhere right after.  Emma figured it was a good chance to survey Main Street and make sure nothing was damaged.  It was a good chance to call Gold and see if he and Henry were interested in breakfast too.  He promised they would meet her at the diner in fifteen minutes, which meant she had enough time to drink a cup of coffee and wake up a bit.

“Coffee’s on the house, Emma.”  Ruby started pouring her a cup the moment she walked into the door.

“You’re a saint.”  She hadn’t realized how cold she was until she picked up the mug.  

“Not something people usually call me.  The opposite, maybe.”  Ruby grinned and pushed the cream in Emma’s direction.  

While she doctored her coffee Emma glanced over at Sidney Glass who was sitting at the counter, but rather than coffee he was nursing a drink.  “You going to order a side of bacon for that whiskey?”  

“Didn’t sleep yet,” Sidney muttered before throwing back the rest of his drink and stumbling for the door.  Emma had to wonder how many drinks he’d had.

“He’s walking,” Ruby commented as she watched him leave.  

“Are you sure?”  Glass didn’t look in any condition to be behind a wheel.  She might hate the article he'd written but that didn’t mean she wanted him in an accident.

“Positive.”  Ruby held up a key that dangled off a Storybrooke Mirror keychain. 

“Thanks, I would have worried.  I’m going to grab a booth, alright?  Henry, Gold, and Graham are joining me.”

“Take any place you like.  I’ll start on the hot chocolate with cinnamon.”  Ruby headed for the cash register when someone came up with their bill.  Emma headed for the window; Henry liked the booths overseeing the street best.  Sitting in the first booth was the stranger she’d seen the other night, the same one that was bothering Regina with his presence.  Emma paused at his table.

“So you decided to stay.”

“For the time being.”  The stranger leaned back to look up at her. “So you’re a cop, huh?”

“Yeah.”  The title deputy settled easier on her than cop, but she supposed there wasn’t really a difference.  If only her social worker could see her now.  

“Am I breaking some law I don’t know about?  You seem very curious.”  He seemed very smug.  She wasn’t sure if it amused her or annoyed her.

“Just wondering what you were doing talking to Henry yesterday morning.”  She wondered, too, why the Mayor had been paying so much attention, but he couldn’t answer that.

“Is that the kid you were with the other night?  The one that came up asking me questions about my bike and why I was in town?  Is he always that curious and precocious?  Reminds me of someone else I’ve met recently.”  He looked pointedly at her.

“Aren’t most kids curious?” she asked without caring about the answer.  She didn’t need a stranger speculating about how similar she was to Henry.

“My bike broke down and I was fixing it.  I didn’t go looking for him.”  The stranger took a sip of his coffee.

“What are you looking for?  You came to Storybrooke for a reason.  The box on your bike, it looks like it was designed for something specific.”  It was clearly important enough to him that he’d taken it off his box and brought it into the diner.  It sat on the seat next to him.

“It’s awfully frustrating not knowing, isn’t it?”  Annoying, Emma decided.  The smug thing was definitely annoying.

“Only if it’s something I need to worry about.  Like you said I’m a cop and this is my town.”  She said it before thinking about just what the words meant.  Her town.  It was true and it was weird.  She’d never belonged in a place before.

“Is it illegal to carry around a box in these parts?”

“Yeah, totally,”  Emma said with an eyeroll.  “I don’t really care, as long as I know it’s nothing dangerous.”

“Depends on how you look at it.  Some people might say it’s one of the most dangerous things in the world.  I’ll make you a deal, though.”  He set down his coffee and turned more in the booth so he was looking straight at her.

“What?

“Let me buy you a drink sometime and I’ll tell you what’s inside.”

“You want to buy me a drink?”  He wasn’t bad looking, and was probably close to her age.  Not long ago the leather jacket and the air of impermanence might have been worth a drink and even a few nights before moving on.  Now, though, she thought of another leather jacket dripping dry on a coat rack and a ‘thank you’ that had almost been a goodbye.  Still, a promise to have a drink didn’t mean she was promising anything more.  Hell, it didn’t even mean she was drinking alone with him.

“Yes.”  His grin was amused and shallow.

“Okay. A drink it is.”  She crossed her arms, looking pointedly at the box beside him.  He lifted it up, took a key from his pocket and unlocked it.  Emma wasn’t sure what she was expecting but it wasn’t a typewriter.

“Really?  Sometimes dangerous?”  She shook her head.

“The power of the written word can change history and topple kingdoms.”  The line sounded rehearsed.

“So you’re a writer?  What does that have to do with Storybrooke?”  He didn’t look like her idea of a writer, but she’d never given it much thought.  Still she would have pegged someone like Archie as more of a writer, based on sweater vests alone.

“I find this place provides…” he glanced out the window.  “...inspiration. Don’t you?

“Wait. Have you been here before?”  She wasn’t sure she was comfortable with that.  Stranger wandering through and stopping for a bit was one thing.  Someone with a plan was another.

“I didn’t say that.”  It was a cagy answer.

“But…”

“Hey Emma.”  Focused on her conversation Emma didn’t hear Henry until he was running up to her, wrapping his arms around her waist.

“Hey kid.”  She wrapped one arm around him.  

“Did you see the tree that fell on Moncton Street?  Dad says it’s lucky it didn’t fall on a house or anything.”  

“Pretty lucky.”  Emma picked up her coffee cup.  “Let’s go get a table.  I’m starving.  Graham should be here soon.”

“Awesome.”  Henry dashed off to claim a booth.

“Don’t forget that drink,” the stranger said as she started to walk away.  Emma was sitting in her booth before she realized she hadn’t gotten his name.

II

“Dad let me have popcorn and ice cream last night.  And I got to stay up late to finish a second movie.  It was awesome.”  They walked home after breakfast, Henry chattering most of the way.  Emma was glad to see that Gold seemed to be walking easier now that the storm had passed.

“That sounds pretty cool.  Did you…”  Emma stopped as they turned the corner.  Henry’s castle was gone.  Two tall posts remained, but the rest of the boards were on the ground under a fallen tree.  Crap.

“Dad.”  Henry froze, color draining from his face.  “My castle.”

“I’m sorry, son.”  Gold wrapped his arms around the boy, cradling Henry’s head to his chest.  “We can build something new.  I know it won’t be the same but you can have a new castle.”

“I’m so sorry Henry.”  Emma stayed back, unsure what she should do.  After a moment she stepped forward and rested a hand on his shoulder.  They stood together until Henry was ready to continue home.

[asksaltwaterprince-blog]

T1 - About me

Basics. What is your full name?  River Leif Ericson. I think Leif was supposed to be a joke, but it made it in my name anyway.

What is the meaning/story behind your name? River is a body of water... My father loves to sail, my mother was born underwater. Go figure.

Do you have any nicknames? Fishboy, Riv, whatever Fern might call me when she feels like it.

When and where were you born? Born in Auradon somewhere, never thought to ask.

Current age? thirteen but most people like to joke I’m twelve or eleven

Physical. What is your eye color? Hazel

Do you ever wear glasses/contacts? Nah.

Hair color? Black.

Have you ever dyed your hair? Nah, I’d need to bleach it first and that would only damage it

Height and body type? 5′5 thereabouts. Pretty lanky, I guess.

Do you have any birthmarks? Yeah, a trident on my left butt cheek. Wanna see? (he’s joking)

Any scars or other markings? Scar on the cheek from an accident years ago.

What is your favorite and least favorite feature? Feature? I’m pretty happy with everything. Though it’d be cool to see what kind of tail I would have if I could.

How would you describe your style? You have to be more specific. Style of what? Fashion? Killing? Personality?

Personality. Positive traits? I see and say things as how it is, ya know?

Negative traits? My words can easily be misunderstood. I come across rather blunt and insensitive. Apparently

Are you more introverted or extroverted? Bit in the middle. Guess it depends on the situation

Do you have any talents? Nothing special.

Do you have a good memory? I think so?

Any fears/phobias? Not that I know of. Haven’t tried anything that might set it off at least.

What do you have a soft spot for? A soft spot? What do you mean by that

Any pet peeves? People who chew with their mouths open. 

Are you a good student? Nope, but I’m working on it. 

What is your favorite/least favorite subject? I want to like chemistry but it’s too hard for me to understand. I don’t particularly have a favourite subject.

Family and Relationships. Who are your parents? Ariel and Eric

How would you describe them? One’s a mermaid, one’s a sailor. Oh, and they’re both rulers of a kingdom.

Who is your best friend/Who are some of your close friends? Uh, Fern. Nels. Cora, I guess?

What do you look for in a friend? Someone who understands me and shares my interests :)

If you’re comfortable answering, what is your orientation? Homisexual. It’s whatever.

Have you ever been in a relationship? Don’t really see myself being in one.

Have you ever been in love? Oh, absolutely. (it’s sarcasm)

What do you look for in a partner? Bold of you to assume I look for one.

Do you believe in love at first sight or soulmates? I guess? I mean my parents did, so I don’t think it’s completely improbable.

Do you see getting married and/or having children in the future? Gross, no thank you.

Favorites. Top 3 books: Animal farm, 1984,  Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?

Top 3 movies: Blue velvet, The Butterfly Effect, Let the Right One In

Top 3 foods: Sushi, potato bake, chocolate sundae

[brookefordsinclair-blog]

b i o g r a p h y

basic ic details

NAMES: Brooke Yvette Ford-Sinclair

FACECLAIM: Olivia Wilde, I have no others, really.

GENDER & PRONOUNS: Cisgender female & she/her/hers

DATE OF BIRTH & AGE: Thirty-five, march fifth, 1983

ORIENTATION: Homosexual

HOMETOWN: Three Rivers

LENGTH OF STAY: Their whole life, only leaving for a few years to go to university out of state

NEIGHBORHOOD: Sugar Pointe

OCCUPATION: They are the high school counselor and so most people who have been in high school for the last eleven years, have had her as their school counselor and have had the pleasure of having her give them sexual education as well.

TRAITS: open-minded, generous and caring but also possessive, stubborn and overprotective

the interrogation

1. Good afternoon, first off I have to ask, are you comfortable? The room isn't too cold, is it? Did anyone offer you something to drink? Water, coffee, perhaps tea?

Brooke shifted on the uncomfortable chair and looked at the plastic cup, filled half way with water. “Good afternoon.” she greeted the officers and swallowed thickly. She knew what this was about and she didn’t want to talk about it. She barely ever did. “Thank you for your concern, but I am fine.” She told them, as she answered their question about the temperature of the room and the drinks. They could see she had water, right? So, why ask? Also, who asked about the temperature of a room. What were they going to do? Bring her a blanket? She had the urge to roll her eyes but decided not to.

2. And if you don't mind, could you please state your name for the record? Is that your birth name? Any aliases we should be aware of?

She wanted to sigh. Hadn’t they just asked for her ID? She patiently answered though. “My name is Brooke Yvette Ford-Sinclair. I was born as Brooke Sinclair, but when I got married, my wife and I hyphenated our last names. I don’t have any nicknames or aliases.” She told them, just wanting to get out of there as quickly as possible. She didn’t want to talk about the murders. She had children, she had a wife. She was worried and talking about the tragic events that were happening and those that had happened in the past, only made her want to hold them close and never let them go. Especially because of what happened to Dahlia.

3. Now then, let's begin with your childhood. What was growing up like for you?

She had no idea why this was relevant, but she chose to answer as honestly as she could. They were trying to piece the truth together, they were trying to solve this and make Three Rivers a safe place to live again. Maybe something in her memories could help them and could help stop this nutcase before they hurt her family. So, she took a deep breath and answered: “I had a fairly normal childhood, I think.” she started and shrugged. “I had a pretty stern father who had very clear expectations but my mother’s warmth made up for that, I suppose. I have an older brother who always looked out for me and I loved school. I had everything I needed growing up and honestly, that is why I still live here. I want to give my children the same great upbringing that I had.” She simply said, nothing really noteworthy happened. Surely, they wouldn’t be interested in the deaths of her grandparents of cancer or natural causes. They wouldn’t be interested in her tomboyish ways. She assumed what she said was enough information.

4. And what about your relationship with your family? Were you close with your parents, or guardians? Any siblings?

She nodded and with a sad smile, she replied: “I did, especially with my mother. She passed away last year and it still... is really difficult to deal with.” She answered and lifted the plastic cup to her lips to take a sip. She didn’t like getting emotional in front of strangers. “My father and I... we got along... alright. He preferred to spend time with my brother though. I didn’t mind too much. We never had much in common anyway.” She clarified. “And my brother... he’s my big teddy bear, honestly.” She said with a smile. “He’s always there for me and I am always there for him. It’s that simple.”

5. What was your high school experience like? Did you enjoy it? Did you have a lot of friends, or were you more of a loner? Somewhere in between, maybe?

She bit her lip and looked at the table. High school. Dahlia. “It was fine. I wasn’t popular, but I wasn’t picked on either. I just had a small group of friends and that was that. I was part of the basketball team and I loved that.” She said with a small smile before she looked up and sighed. “Daliah went to my school. Daliah Jackson.” She had to swallow. Thinking about her always made her emotional. “No one but my wife knows that... she was my first girlfriend. She didn’t want to come out. It was the nineties, it wasn’t like it is today, so I haven’t told anyone that she was into girls. That should have been her decision to reveal. The day she was murdered,” she choked on the word and took a few deep breaths. “my childhood stopped, I think.” she managed to finish. “I was only sixteen and no one knew that I’d just lost my girlfriend. My first love, my first everything.” She explained and shook her head, trying to not let the memories take over right now because she’d just end up crying. She absolutely wanted to avoid that. She hadn’t wanted to talk about Dahlia when she came in, but now as she started to talk, it felt a little better. A little lighter. “After that... I guess I became more of a loner. I just... I don’t know. No one understood what I went through, no one got it and so I just focussed on basketball and studying.” She finished, hoping that there would be no follow up questions to that. She wasn’t sure she could handle it.

6. So, did you go to college? If so, what for and if not, why? What was your post-high school life like?

She nodded. “I was glad to get out of Three Rivers, after Dahlia passed away. I went to the university of Arizona and got qualified to be a counselor. Six years I studied, in which I met my wife, I told her that I wanted to move back here and even though the town had a dark past, with the murders, she agreed to come here with me. We got married, I got the job at the high school and we had three wonderful children. I mean, I live a pretty normal life I think. I am happy... the only worry I have is this murderer. He terrifies me and not a lot really scares me.” She admitted and shivered, thinking about him and what he could do to her friends and family.

7. Do you have a reputation around town? How would you say others perceive you?

She chuckled, finding the question quite funny. Her having a reputation? She was pretty ordinary, really, except: “I think that I am confusing to people. I mean, I don’t think that they would expect the school counselor and mother of three to be riding a Harley and yet I do, so that sometimes makes people frown a bit but other than that, I don’t think I really have any type of ‘reputation’. Maybe as a helicopter parent? Could be possible.” she said, smiling a little to lighten the mood a bit. The air in here felt oppressive to say the least.

8. Can you help me understand your personality? What are you like, both on the surface and deep down? What about in public versus in private?

She raised her eyebrows a little and looked a bit lost for words. “Uhm... God, I don’t know. I mean, I think that at work I am punctual, my office is always tidy and I really try to be there for the kids who want to speak to me and to find the students who need me the most, even though they don’t approach me. I’d say I am open-minded, as I get students in my office with all kinds of questions and problems, and I try to help them as best as I can.” She explained before continuing. “Privately, I think I am a very caring partner and mother. I make my family their lunch every morning, I make sure that everyone has what they need but I can be a bit overprotective of my children. I just really don’t like the idea of them getting hurt, so I do grill their friends and the parents of said friends. I am a little much, I know that but I just can’t even imagine having my children play out in the street, especially with what is going on.” She told them before she licked her lips. “I have also been told I am a little possessive over my wife and friends, but honestly, I think that is an exaggeration. Other than that... I like knowledge, I like being around people, going to the occasional party... I mean, I am really pretty run of the mill, I think.” She explained, not entirely sure why this was necessary because she could have told them anything really, but if they deemed it necessary, she wanted to help. She wanted these people to catch that guy. She wanted to see the face of the monster that killed her high school sweetheart.

9. Leading off of that, what would you consider to be your greatest strengths and weaknesses?

"This is sounding more and more like a job interview.” She said, chuckling slightly and taking another sip of her water. All of this talking was making her mouth go dry. “I think my greatest weakness is that I overthink and can be a little neurotic. That is no fun for the people you live with and it’s mentally exhausting. Oh, and I can’t resist the occasional cigarette.” She explained and then continued: “But I think that I am pretty resillient and I am intelligent, as well as quite fun to be around in general. I am also very good at caculating risks, even though that does annoy some people.”

10. Why don't you tell me some of your greatest regrets? And what about your greatest hopes?

"It’s not really a regret about something I did but I regret that my mother didn’t get to meet our youngest son, Reign. She always wanted us to have another child. To be honest, I don’t think she would have ever been satisfied with the number of grandchildren she had. Anyway, I do also regret not standing up for some kids back in high school. I see what bullying does to children now as a counselor and honestly, I should have spoken up back then.” She told them, but didn’t talk about the regrets she had regarding Dahlia. That she didn’t close the bedroom curtains before they were intimate, still convinced that the killer saw them. How she regrets not walking her home from school the next day, because then maybe nothing would have happened. She didn’t talk about how she regrets having spilled water over Dahlia’s love letters to her, making them now smeared and some parts barely readable - even though she knows them all by heart. She didn’t want to say that. Those were private sorrows and regrets, ones she couldn’t even share with her wife.

11. A bit heavier, I know, but I have to ask if anything has happened to you personally in your life that drastically changed you as a person?

"Well, obviously Dahlia and my mother’s deaths affected me greatly and have mostly created my overprotective nature but not all of the impactful moments have been bad. I mean, getting married and having children had an enormous impact on me, especially when Marcus joined the family. Having a child whose seeing is impaired really makes you look at the world and accessibility in general a lot differently. So... yes, I think those really are the events, really.” She told them, those being the only events she could think of, right at this moment.

12. And of course, I have to ask, were you in town when the Preacher Man was drowning people between '95 and '98? Did you happen to know any of the original seven victims? What was your life like during those tragic years? What was the aftermath?

She frowned, a little offended that he asked this again after she’d told him about Dahlia already. “I told you, didn’t I? I knew Dahlia. Losing her absolutely destroyed me and terrified me. I mean, he kills sinners. We’d just-” she cut herself off and looked up at the officer. He had to know. She had to tell him, even though it felt like something so private she’d feel naked speaking about it. It could be important. “the night before she disappeared, we’d... we’d slept together. t-the first time.” She told him, a bit embarrassed. “It was like he knew what we’d done and that is why she died. I... I feel like he might have seen us, which is... incredibly disturbing. I mean, maybe. That is just how it feels. Sometimes.” She clarified. “Maybe that’s not true. Maybe she was... hiding something else. I don’t know. Maybe she did nothing wrong. I... I just... it’s all a little much to think back to. I never talked about it much afterwards, so... I haven’t really processed it, I think.” She told them, as honestly as she could.

13. That said, did you know either Xavier Bordelon or Sara Mears personally? If so, what was your relationship to them? How much have their deaths affected you?

She nodded. “Sara was a student at the high school, until she left. I’ve worked as a couselor there for around eleven years, so... I mean, I talked to her occasionally. Her death rocked me to my core. It brought back memories, as you probably can understand. I didn’t know personally Xavier, though but... the return of the Preacher Man... it’s... it’s terrifying. I have three children, I have a wife and... and he has taken someone I loved from me once before. What if he does it again?” She asked, knowing that the absolute fear she felt must be obvious in her eyes. She couldn’t lose them. She’d probably go insane.

14. Lastly, Where were you on the nights of March 10th and July 24th and is there anyone that can corroborate your alibi?

She raised her eyebrows. “You think I was involved?” She wondered, a little flabergasted but after shaking her head in disbelief, she answered easily. “My youngest son was born on the 9th of March and I was with my wife in the hospital. I paid for one of those rooms with a second bed, so I could sleep in there with her. I think the night nurse can confirm we were there. My two other kids were at their grandparents’ house.” She explained before she said: “and on the 24th of July, I was in Los Angeles with my family on holiday. I can show you the booking confirmation and the dated pictures of us on holiday.” She explained, still annoyed that she actually needed an alibi. “So, can I please go now? I have to go pick Rey up from school.”

headcanons

She had a commitment ceremony with her wife eleven years ago but got married to her when same-sex marriage became legal in the state. They have three children together. Their oldest is a daughter, whom was carried by Brooke. Her name is Rey and she’s seven years old. They always wanted to adopt and four years ago, they did adopt a boy named Marcus who is of South African decent and is legally blind. Their youngest son was born on the 9th of March and his name is Reign. He is now around five months old.

Brooke owns a Harley Davidson 2015 Fat Boy and it is her baby. She is not handy at all, so when something is wrong with it she does need to get it fixed by someone else but she absolutely adores riding around on it and the sense of freedom and power it gives her. Her wife calls it a death trap, but has admitted that seeing Brooke take her helmet off after riding does have it’s allure.

She still has a box in the attick that is hidden in an old wardrobe which contains love letters, pictures and a diary that are all detailing her relationship with Dahlia. No one knows it’s there and Brooke rarely looks inside of it but does, on the date of when she first kissed Dahlia and when Dahlia was discovered dead. She is still in love with the memory of her and she isn’t sure if her wife would cope knowing that.

extra ic details

I really want her to get closure surrounding Dahlia and the guilt she feels because it honestly isn’t healthy, especially now that the killer is back. It is bringing up so many memories and old feelings for a girl who has been dead for so long. It’s almost hero worship in her mind and she is the one who, aside from the killer, is responsible for the death of Dahlia. She is convinced that the killer took her because they had sex and that maybe, Dahlia would be alive if she’d just walked her home on the day she disappeared.

I think that all of this also would lead to struggles in her otherwise calm marriage. It will probably be obvious that Brooke is struggling and she will probably become distant from her wife, because having sex with her could mean that she might be killed to - in her mind, it is almost a cause and effect type of deal. I am really interested in exploring that.

Aside from that, she does have a child whose sight is impaired, which I think is somehting that they knew when they adopted him but I think it’s quite hard for Brooke. She is a worrier and she wonders how well her child will be able to cope and be a productive member of society. Of course that is ignorant, so I would love for her to really delve into finding a support group for herself and her wife, as well as meet blind people who can show her that success and happiness are possible.

There is also the issue that her father has never accepted her sexuality and doesn’t believe two women can raise children, especially boys so to see her deal with that is certainly something I will be dedicating self-para’s to. It’s complicated because the father has only outright said it just before their commitment ceremony and then never again, he just shows that he doesn’t agree quite subtly. It is torture to Brooke and it is something her children are starting to notice to, which makes it even worse. Should they really be around someone who doesn’t approve of their family?

She is a guidance counselor and one of her students has just been murdered, so I think that helping the students cope and hearing their stories, might have quite an effect on her. It will remind her of how she was when Dahlia died, so that makes it even heavier.

I think Brooke also needs to pick up a hobby, because she honestly just has her work, her motorcycle and her children so seeing her really try and get a friend group and explore what she likes to do will be interesting because aside from a few select friends, she’s pretty alone in the world, I think.