#tw: badly mended injury

[bloop-im-a-frog-now]

If The Gods Were Kind — cave pt.1

Hello! Welcome to the first part of this massive fic I have been writing for the past 3 months. This was part of the @lifefanworkexch and I had a ton of fun writing this! The prompt (given by the lovely Jupiter, my secret soulmate) was Desert duo Hurt/Comfort in Third Life, following canon closely. This first batch focuses on me playing with Minecraft world-building and adding some headcanons about the life series, since I’m following canon. I just can’t help myself, following the content creators’ videos.

Enjoy!

Master Post

—    —  

Content warnings: graphic description of animal death and dissecting process, gore, graphic description of violence, description of tending injury done badly and blood.

If the stars were aligned, maybe he wouldn’t be in this mess. If the universe had any pity for him (which he was certain it did for making him live this long), he would be sitting, looking at the sunset—looking at him. If the gods above wanted kindness, he shouldn’t remember what happened, shouldn’t remember a yearning that will never be fulfilled. A hole in his chest, forever empty, and an underlined anger, bubbling closer to the surface every day. Then, and only then, did the gods deserve his kindness.

He woke up in a clearing, full of colorful flowers. Some red, some yellow, but most were purple. He couldn’t name them all, even if he tried. He couldn’t remember how he got in this clearing. He couldn’t remember why he wasn’t wearing a shirt, and where all these scars in many shapes and forms came from. Actually, his mind was drawing on a blank when he tried to dig deep in his memories. The only certain thing he knew was his name.

Well, not really, but he did find a sort of communicator with a name engraved in the back.

GoodTimesWithScar.

He figured his name was Scar, if the engraved name indicated anything. The communicator itself was quite bland, a metallic shine to it. There was a keyboard, but he didn’t look at it for very long. The letters seemed to change shape every time he looked at it, and the back of his eyes ached. While the device wasn’t a box, it wasn’t thin either. He wondered how it fitted perfectly in his pockets.

The screen was black, making him search for a power button. How did he know he needed to find a power button was beyond him, but he needed to find one. He looked back at the keyboard and saw a button with a circle and a line cutting across half way. He pressed it. The screen became white, then gray.

There were two things written on the screen. “Punch a tree” and “You have no contacts”. First off, it took him an embarrassing amount of time to read those two things (not to mention the slight ache behind his eyes spreading to his temples), and second, he did not understand them. Punching a tree? Was that even possible? Scar looked around him, searching for trees, and saw some up on a hill. Might as well try.

As he climbed the hill, he was often losing his balance, almost falling every time. He kept looking at his hips, thinking maybe he was wearing something heavy, as his hips felt like they weren’t able to move to their complete capability, held back, but he was only wearing a belt with brown cargo pants. He had to take breaks, mostly to not fall over. When he arrived at the top, a wave of fatigue submerged him, and a sharp but short ache pierced his lower back. Scar stretched his back, hoping it would dim down, and was only left half satisfied. He slightly frowned, wondering what was up with his body.

He brought his focus back to the tree in front of him. He rolled his shoulders, glad he didn’t feel anything out of the ordinary (though, how would he know what was normal and what was not), and started punching the brown tree’s bark. He felt incredibly stupid when punching the trunk, but after a couple of punches, a part of it disappeared.

Scar yelped when the wood vanished. Where did it go? He ignored how heavy his shoulders felt, and walked frantically around the tree to find the wood he’d been punching.

“C’mon, c’mon, where are you?” he singsonged, desperately looking, even tearing grass. Maybe it shrunk. Maybe it was still stuck on the tree.

Scar got up from his crouched position with great difficulty. He had to sit down on his butt, and try again to hoist himself up with the help of the trunk. He looked inside the hole he punched and couldn’t see any wood hanging around. He groaned.

He took his communicator out of his pocket. He really didn’t want to touch the thing often, but he had no choice. He opened it and saw that the first message on his communicator changed. Scar took a deep breath and closed his eyes, bracing himself to read. This first message read: “Punch a tree: Achieved”. Scar’s eyebrows shot up. Did he get the wood? Where would he find the wood he supposedly got?

His communicator buzzed, drawing his attention back to the text. While the letters were still jumbled, he recognized certain shapes of certain letters and was able to get “Taking Inventory”. Inventory? As in, having a secret pocket dimension on his person? How would he find that? He patted himself, hoping it would activate something, but he got nothing except a dull ache in his calves, heavy and trembling.

He looked around. He couldn’t rest, he needed to understand what was going on. Or, at least, have a basic understanding of how this world worked, not that he had any previous knowledge of its rules.

Then, something clicked. He instinctively searched in his inventory for the piece of wood he just punched. Scar sighed, relieved he wasn’t as hopeless as he thought he’d be. He put the wood in his hand, feeling the rough structure of the bark. He wondered if he could do anything with this. Why did his communicator feel it was necessary to indicate to him he needed to do that? He looked at the tree with a hole. What other treasures did this tree hide?

He continued his punching, even punching the leafs to find some sticks, saplings and rarely, some apples. Scar looked back to the clearing. He went deeper into the forest than he originally thought. He should probably head back, who knows what this world would be beyond it. His eyes squinted when he saw a flash of blue, deeper than the color of the sky.

He went back to the clearing, wanting to know what this flash of blue was. He tried to step down, but immediately lost his balance. He grunted, a dull ache on his butt blossomed. He had to figure out how to go down the valley, into the clearing without losing some of his gait and feeling like his legs were gonna give out. Scar sat on the hill and started slowly sledding down. It wasn’t the most comfortable, but it was better than falling and rolling without any control.

When his butt reached a flat surface, he used the hill to hoist himself on his feet. He limped his way to the flash of blue, who has grown more prominent and frequent. His eyes fell on a little pond close to it, but he turned his attention back in front of him. It was a transparent wall, oscillations of blue and white moved in tandem. He could see the other side of the wall, a whole landscape before him. He was stuck inside a world. Whatever put him here didn’t want him to go very far.

He huffed and decided to check his inventory out of curiosity and boredom. In it, he saw crafting recipes. This might be useful, he could craft something to protect himself or even something to sleep on. His legs were wobbly underneath him, and he noticed a cliffside, filled with coal and different types of stone. He could maybe settle close to it before he went to explore the world. He circled the pond and sat close to the cliff, his back to the rock. He shimmed into a more comfortable sitting position and looked at the crafting recipes.

As Scar tried to craft something to protect himself, his communicator buzzed in his pocket. He stopped his crafting—which was growing less fruitful than he hoped it’d be—and looked at the screen. A key word he could decipher was “crafting table”, and the feeling of foolishness came crawling back, realizing what he needed to do. He went back to his crafting, this time making planks with the wood he collected. It was easier to manipulate planks than the trunk of a tree. With the planks, he used some of it to make the crafting table.

Scar placed it right beside him and swiveled to face the cliff. One of the recipes he looked at said he needed charcoal for torches. He figured torches were important, especially to see in the dark. He stood up, using the grip of the rock to help him, and feeling a soreness in his shoulders. After rolling them back, he made the necessary tools to survive, with the help of the crafting table and crafting recipes: a sword, an ax, and a pickaxe. He mined the coal and some stone. Could he use the stone to make better tools?

He heard an oink behind him. He turned around swiftly, and inhaled sharply. It was only a family of pigs. He sighed of relief and glanced at his stone ax, then back at the pigs. He slowly approached them, ready to swing. His calves spasmed and made him wince, forcing him to stop and wait for it to pass before swinging his ax to the animals.

“Aaaaand, gotcha,” he said as his ax cut one of the pigs’ heads off. The other two squealed and ran away from him. “Oh no, you won’t you little—” he chased them and raised his ax to chop one of their heads, “—rapscallion.”

One of them managed to escape while the other’s head was rolling on the grass, almost landing in the little pond. As he bent down to grab the head, Scar saw a mop of brown hair reflected in the water. He fell to his knees when he couldn’t stay in his crouched position, and decided to look at his reflection as he waited for the ache and the soreness that took over his lower body to pass.

He carded his short brown hair with his hand, fluorescent green eyes darting around his face. His hand went down to brush the jagged scar that ran from his temple to his jaw and traced the one on his nose to his cheekbone, surprised he didn’t feel any pinching sensation while he was talking to himself. His skin was sun-kissed, his arms were quite muscular, he had broad shoulders and quite a large form. Not to mention the beginnings of well-toned abs. He wondered what he did in his other life to end up in a shape like this.

When he could get up, Scar took the bodies of the two beheaded pigs to the cliffside, and placed them on the ground close to the crafting table. He sat down and poked at the dead animals.

How could he make them edible? He snacked on the apples he found, feeling energized every time he ate one, even making his lower body feel weightless. He poked the skin of one of the dead pigs, wondering how he could make them edible while munching his apple. He wanted the meat of the pigs, so he had to find a way to have access to said meat.

  He took his stone sword and cut the body of the pigs in half. His knees cracked when he crouched and almost fell, as if his hips could not hold him in this position. But nausea caught in his throat as coagulated blood ended up everywhere before he could focus on the instability of his hips.

His ankles were shaking, it was getting harder to keep his position, so he placed his knees on the ground, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath before continuing this awful process. He needed food, the apples weren’t going to last him long, and he’d need to find a shelter before the night came.

Scar took out the organs he could see. They were covered in blood, squishy in his hands. He swallowed the bile that threatened to come up. The pigs were quite big, he ate an apple in order to use the little energy he had to skin them and make them edible.

He turned the dead animals around while getting rid of the skin that protected them, placed the organs to the side, and got as much meat as he could from the bones.

He sat on his butt with a big sigh, taking a breather from the horrid smell and the vicious sight. It’s only when the sun had passed its zenith that he put the meat on the stone. His hands were bloody and his pants dirtied.

He groaned and tried to get up. Nothing moved except his arms, and even then, it was hard to get them to grasp the rocks on the cliff to help him stand up. The last apple he ate was probably a couple of hours ago, and no way he was gonna eat raw meat.

He tried a second time, his legs buckled underneath him, landing on his butt harshly. He needed to cook the chops he made. He looked at the recipes, chanting “c’mon” under his breath to find something that would help him cook the meat. His eyes landed on the word “Furnace”.

“A-ha! Furnace!” He grinned at his victory.

The description was exactly what he was looking for. He rolled his shoulders back to soothe the soreness and tenderness he felt, closed his eyes to dim the ache behind them, and brought his focus back on the recipe, mumbling the instructions to himself. He needed the stone he mined earlier and his crafting table.

Scar glanced at the crafting table beside him. It would be hard for him to use it while sitting down, but getting up wasn’t an option when he knew his legs would buckle underneath him and wouldn’t be able to hold his body weight. He tried getting on his knees to at least see what he was doing.

He used the cliff and the crafting bench to help him, and with great difficulty, managed to be on his knees. He crafted the furnace and placed it beside the crafting table, using its support to scooch around. He put the coal he mined earlier and the pork chops in the furnace, waiting for them to cook.

Scar observed his surroundings, finding something to occupy his hands. Maybe getting more stone wouldn’t hurt anyone. He took his stone pickaxe in one hand and tried to raise it above his head to break the stone. Before he could even do that, the pickaxe became heavy in his grip, making it almost impossible to raise it above his head. Like his arm couldn’t go further than a certain angle. He rolled his shoulders, massaged them a bit and tried again.

Fool him once, shame on him. Fool him twice, shame on him again, apparently, because his arms still couldn’t reach above his head in order to swing at full force against the stone.

He groaned, giving up, and crafted more tools with the stone he managed to mine. He sat down close to the warmth of the furnace. He looked at the sky and couldn’t see the sun anymore. He saw hues of orange and a cool blue submerging most of the sky. Night was coming soon and he didn’t even have a shelter. But first, he needed something to stabilize himself, to help him move around with minimum energy.

Scar searched in his inventory for anything and found a couple of sticks from the branches of the tree he punched. He took them in his hand, inspecting them. He used them to stand up and measured every one of them to see which one would be best for his height. The one he chose was just below his waist, but it’d do for now.

He inspected the stick, unconsciously sitting on the crafting table. He couldn’t wrap his hand around the stick, it was too short for that, he would need something on top of it to hold it properly. How could he attach two different pieces together? He checked his inventory and found some residual leafs, some long enough to wrap around.

He winced. It wouldn’t stay for long, but it was all he had, so until he could find a better way to attach them together, this would have to do. He placed a small stick on top of the longest stick he had, wrapping leafs around it to temporarily secure it. He used the wall and the stick to stand up, legs trembling slightly at the weight on them. He grunted, stabbed the stick to the ground, and tested his balance. Scar had to bend in order to use his walking stick correctly, but not to the extreme that it would bother his movements.

He wondered how he managed to hurt himself so badly. He dug and dug in his memories, but just couldn’t grasp the reason. Did he get stung by an insect that affected muscles' articulation? He hadn’t seen any insects so far, it wasn’t a likely possibility. Clearly, he had a life before appearing in this clearing. A life that still affected him and left him clueless about what was going on with his body.

A burning smell reached his nostrils, and he sniffed the air to identify it. It smelled strong and sweet, like something tender and juicy was being cooked.

“Oh my gosh,” he realized out loud, “the pork!”

He landed on his knees in front of the furnace (much to the detriment of his calves), and searched inside for the pork chops. He let out a “a-ha!” when he found them and took them out with his bare hands.

Big mistake.

“Ow!” he yelled, dropping the burning meat on the ground. He put his fingers in his mouth, salivating around them to cool down the burn.

Scar cursed at himself for not thinking clearly and took one of the last sticks in his inventory to bring the pork chops closer to him. He took the coal out of the furnace, stepping on it to minimize a fire risk. It was a beautiful clearing, it would be sad for all of it to burn down. He waited for his food to cool before eating it with his non-burnt hand, landing on his butt after finding it difficult to sit on his knees for too long.

A wave of energy engulfed him, relaxing the tension around his lower neck and relieving some ache in his hips and shoulders. He could start working on his shelter if he felt better. He put the other three pork chops he managed to make edible in his inventory and took his walking stick.

Much to his dismay, with his frantic movements, the two pieces that were barely holding together separated. He groaned, and put them back where they were, wrapping the long and lean leaf around them, tying a knot. He stood up, still using the furnace and the stick to help him.

When he found his balance (even when the small stick was threatening to fall off at any moment), the sky became darker. Night was coming, and he forgot to craft torches and still didn’t have a shelter. He mentally slapped himself and quickly made some as the world submerged in twilight.

Scar placed one torch when he heard a groan. He looked behind him and couldn’t believe his eyes. Was that a zombie? It was slowly approaching him. He froze, not knowing what to do. Then, something sharp pierced his shoulder. He grunted, shoulder pushed back, and used the torch to see who shot an arrow at him.

His eyes widened.

A skeleton was on top of the hill, readying its bow once again. The zombie was getting closer, and he needed to get out of here. He hastily grabbed his crafting bench and his furnace, put them in his inventory, and began mining a hole in the cliff. It’d have to do as a shelter for now.

Something grabbed him and ate a piece of his flesh, right on his injured shoulder. He screamed and elbowed the thing behind him with as much force as he could muster. The zombie backed away with a sharp groan. Scar took out his stone sword and plunged it in the monster’s stomach. Another arrow hit his bitten shoulder. Again.

His legs were shaking, his hands trembled, and he forgot how to breathe. He took out his sword from the monster, not looking at it to see if it was dead, and quickly dug himself in a hole. He closed it when he had enough space for his body, dodging the arrows the skeleton shot mercilessly at him. He tried to bring his breathing back to normal, but it took him much more time than he would’ve liked.

After composing himself, Scar placed a torch, mined a larger hole (with great difficulty), and looked at his shoulder. Blood trailed down his chest, and he regretted not getting water from the pond. He didn’t have anything to clean the wound. He looked down, questioning why he wasn’t wearing a shirt, and saw his ripped pants. It was the best thing he had for the job.

Scar sat down, his body stiffen with tension, feeling every bit of pain the injury inflicted on him as he tried to cut the bottom of his pants. With laborious efforts (it was a feat and a half to bring his legs up towards him), he managed to get a piece and cleaned the blood off of himself. The piece of clothing was immediately soaked the closer it got to the wound. He also needed to get the arrows out of his wounded shoulder.

It was a painful process. Cutting the bottom of his pants, trying his best to clean the wound, pulling the arrow out, screaming, using the cloth to hold the blood in. Repeat.

In the end, his body slumped against the harsh stone wall, exhausted, adrenaline drained. He let out a big exhale and ate a pork chop. His mind wandered. If there were zombies, that meant there was civilization somewhere. That meant having supplies to heal his wound. That meant getting better materials for his walking stick.

His eyes landed on an iron ore. Could he collect the iron and forge armor? He really needed protection after that encounter, and tools weren’t gonna protect him from flying arrows and zombie bites. He gasped.

“Will I turn into a zombie?” he asked out loud. How did he know you could turn into a zombie if they bit you was beyond him, but he knew it. Scar figured if he was gonna turn into a zombie, he would’ve felt the effects by now. Fortunately, he didn’t turn into a brain-eating monster after minutes of holding his breath.

He ate another pork chop and felt his energy regenerated. He could mine, find out what sort of ore there was deep down, below him. He stood up, using his stick and the stone to help him up. His legs trembled, and he felt exhausted, but he needed to get out of this place, needed to find a village.

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[aftgficrec]

hi! i just read a fic where neil carries andrew because he hurt his leg, and i loved it so can you recommend something like that? andrew having to be helped physically by neil or the foxes. no major/ permanent career ending injuries though. just him being concussed or dizzy or hurt in his legs. i appreciate you guys so much!!! thank you!!

Usually it is Neil who gets hurt and Andrew who becomes protective, but we have managed to dig up some fics where the roles are reversed, although not all of them feature an injury, some of them are sickfics. There’s also a bit of twinyards bonding. Enjoy! - S

From previous posts:

Andrew gets hurt here

Andrew gets hurt & Neil worries here

People protective of Andrew here

Foxes protective of Andrew here

‘My Indelible Friend’ here

‘Something About The Sunshine’ here

‘Virus’ here

‘careful hands, mended hearts’ and ‘careful hands, mended hearts (the fever remix)’ here

‘Muscle Memory’ here

Neil carries Andrew:

‘And We’ll Be Running’ here

‘Your Heart is Safe Now’ here

‘RED, RISE, RULE’ here

clusterfuck by justdk [Rated T, 1170 words, complete, Twinyards Appreciation Week 2021]

After a freak car accident, Aaron and Andrew tell Wymack what happened

tw: car accident, tw: injuries, tw: burns

Accidents Happen by KevinsDay [Rated G, 2035 words, complete, 2020]

Andrew Minyard never gets hurt so when a mistake on his behalf, leaves him sidelined for almost a month … let’s just say he isn’t too pleased

Andrew’s unfortunate incident told through Neil’s pov

Call It What You Want by andrewminyqrd [Not Rated, 1494 words, complete, 2018]

Going after a goalie in Exy is one of the worst things you could do. One striker from an opposing team didn't quite get the memo... or he just didn't care.

tw: blood, tw: multiple injuries

Broken Hands & Bloody Noses by kayxpc [Rated G, 747 words, complete, 2017]

Abby rushed onto the court before the buzzer called time-out. She passed Neil in a flurry of red and white emergency kits, but before she could reach Andrew he had caught up with her, extending his arm to keep her back. Andrew looked up at them from where he was kneeling, arm folded against his chest, and with an unperturbed look, stood and strode past them.

Made for me by Side_effect_of_the_meds  [Rated T, 2481 words, Complete 2020]

Andrew sprains his ankle trying to impress a certain junkie :')

Wrecked by justdk [Rated T, 2673 words, complete, 2017]

He had one missed call. From Andrew. And one voicemail. With trembling fingers Neil tapped at the phone until he could hear Andrew’s voice, low and tense: “Can you come get me?”

tw: blood, tw: car accident

andreil + 69. “Why the hell are you bleeding!?” by @exyjunkies [tumblr, 2018]

Neil had been at this crossword puzzle for hours. The words were starting to bleed into one another, the blue ink combining with the black borders. Not that he had anybody but himself to blame - he was off the current season’s roster because, yet again, he just had to talk himself into trouble.

tw: blood, tw: vomit

Neil tries to help a hurt Andrew by @nickyhenmick [tumblr, 2016]

Any prompt with neil (trying) helping andrew who's got badly injured?

Sickfic:

the type to drive me up the wall all night by interstellarflowers [Rated G, 3303 words, complete, 2021]

Andrew comes down with a cold, and people take care of him

Safe with Neil by Autumnalpalmetto [Rated T, 2392 words, complete, Aftg Winter Exchange 2020]

For JostenLovesMinyard on tumblr

prompt: Andreil, sick with the other looking after them, cuddling in front of a fire, snowball fights, and staying at a winter cabin.

Andrew gets sick on their first night in the cabin, and Neil takes it upon himself to nurse Andrew until he's feeling better.

On a more humorous note:

How to Seduce Your Local Superhero by Paradoxolotl [Rated M, 9861 words, complete, 2021]

"The first time, Andrew blamed Nicky. His cousin had got it into his head that King was getting too big and needed to lose weight after a visit where the beast had jumped on him from her perch on top of the fridge. While he agreed, Andrew thought King’s real problem was sneaking into the trash to chew on chicken bones. But, much to his annoyance, he couldn’t seem to solve that either. So, he had listened to Nicky ramble about leashes and how to train your cat to go on walks without more than a hard glare. Two days later Andrew was the reluctant owner of a black cat leash and harness with tiny pink skulls printed on it. King, the traitor, didn’t even kick up a fuss when Andrew put it on her. Nicky had been thrilled, and wouldn’t leave until Andrew promised him that he would use it at least once.

Which had led to King being stuck twenty feet up in a tree at their local park."

~~

Or five time King had to be saved, and one time where Andrew did too.

tw: implied/referenced abuse, tw: scars, tw: fire

[mrs-gucci]

I’m going to try come up with other ideas lol but these jumped out at me. I would absolutely use these for something! I’m saving them too because I just might!

But if you feel like it, these combined scenarios could be really fun for a sarcastic, grouchy ass Flip or Kylo AU. It could be anything from enemies to antagonists to the guy being in trouble with you currently from doing stupid shit and trying to make up with you! Anything you think!

your enemy has been badly wounded, and somebody needs to bandage them up, so you agree to help them, and suddenly they're shirtless, and you can't help but admire their body, something this cheeky motherfucker takes notice of

there's only one bed, but this time, they're arguing over who should sleep on the floor, which nobody agrees to, so instead they end up sharing, incredibly annoyed over having to share their space (it’s not like friends to lovers, in which they both awkwardly get into bed. this is straight up just. i will set this bed on fire if you don’t stay on your side)

The Longest Knight {Sir Kylo Ren x Reader}

author's notes: hello, hello! shannon, dear, you always seem to know what I'm in need of when you send requests in. I've been dying for an excuse to write some medieval/knight Kylo, and this fits in perfectly with that AU, so thank you! <3

**THERE ARE SOME DARK(ER) THEMES IN THIS STORY, BUT ONLY AT THE VERY BEGINNING (there’s an indicator of when the dark content ends, in bold, you can’t miss it). PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS AND TW’S BEFORE PROCEEDING!**

warnings: some angst. some gore. some fluff. smut. enemies-with-benefits. sex w/o feelings. kylo is a huge douche (but in, like, a lowkey sexy way). 

tw's: (at the very beginning): dead bodies & blood, vivid depictions of wounds/injuries, brief depictions of battle, implied (battle-related) murder. mentions of sex work (later on in the story, not relating to the reader character).

word count: 4.4k

terms to know: loincloth: groin-covering cloth tied around the waist (literally just underwear). bedswerver: “adulterer” (an insult). mamillare: medieval breast band (bra).

When the sounds of marching footfall, deep cries of manly battle, and shod hooves pounding on the drought-hardened ground had ceased from the air, you saddle your horse and ride out to the far field of your property. 

The putrid smell of rotting flesh hits you before any bodies are even in view. Your prized stallion slows his trot, nostrils flaring and ears perked forward as the scene of battle presents itself to both of you.

He begins to snort and whinny in acute panic at the sight of so many corpses, both human and horse. Your stomach begins to churn, and you can barely bring yourself to look upon the scene as your heel encourages him onward, wanting to make sure there aren’t any surviving soldiers. 

Both sides seem to have suffered great loss, although you’re unsure which corpses belong to which side. The conflict betwixt Alderaan and Naboo has been dragging on much too long, and at the end of the day, is any conflict truly worth all of the lives lost?

You certainly didn’t think so, but perhaps you’re just too close to this war, incapable of having an unbiased opinion due to the loss of your beloved husband at the hands of Sir Kylo Ren, the Alderaanean calvary general and the most feared man across all five kingdoms. 

As you make your rounds to check for survivors, much to the dismay of your steed, you quickly lose almost all hope that anyone laid here ended up surviving the brutality apparently brought down upon them during the fight. 

Suddenly, your horse lifts himself up on hinds legs ever so slightly, jogging in place as a barely-audible groan comes from one of the men. His hand moves ever so slightly, and you quickly rush over to him, dismounting with a small first aid bag.

His helmet is that of a high-ranking official, but on which side he belongs, it’s too hard to tell. Not that it truly matters, you’d take just about any man with the courage to fight these battles.

“Sir?” You say, kneeling down beside the large man. “Do you remember what happened to you?”

He grunts lowly, winter-chapped lips opening in an attempt to speak. “S-Stomach.”

Once your mind registers his husky words, you look down at his abdomen and see that his armor seems to have been compromised in a spot right on the side of his stomach. Fresh blood seeps from the deep wound, and you cringe, grabbing one of the towels from your pack to gently wipe away some of the blood, but the tear in flesh is so deep, it’s impossible to do with just one towel. **dark content warnings ENDS**

“My estate is just a short ride from here. I cannot hold your weight myself, but if you can mount my horse, I will take you back and mend your wounds to the best of my ability.”

The mask nods softly, slowly but surely lifting himself up off the ground, wobbling towards your horse, who snorts nervously. He seemingly understands the severity of the situation, though, and stands still as the knight sits himself on his back. 

From there, he lays back, breath catching in his throat as his injuries are tweaked with each of the horses’ strides. You hold onto the reins, leading your stallion back to the house. 

After quite a bit of maneuvering and a lot of quarreling with the injured knight, you finally manage to set him up the cot in your spare bedroom. He sits down on the chair as you do so, mumbling and grumbling about his pain. You found it quite annoying, really, but you can’t really blame him for acting in such a way.

“You’ll need to remove your armor, sir. I cannot treat your wounds with it on.”

“By God’s bones.” He curses under his breath in annoyance, but stands and removes his body armor nonetheless.

Piece by piece is peeled from his body, his physically intimidating figure revealed slowly to your curious eyes. Only his under-layers were left, soon enough, and you found it a bit odd that he hadn’t taken his helmet off first. You would think that would be a great relief to have the proper air exposure on your face, but you’re not really in a place to make assumptions about that sort of thing.

His brilliantly alabaster skin is severely bloodied, bruised, and badly butchered. He would require quite some time to heal and recover, but if you learned anything from being married to an army man, it’s that they’re all stubborn bastards who never take the proper time to allow time for their bodies to properly heal.

He’s soon fully exposed to you, minus his helmet and threadbare loincloth, and you have to look away quickly as your cheeks heat up. The small garment left very little to the imagination, and this knight was...well endowed, to put it kindly.

Putting your own personal feelings aside for the betterment of the patient, you look back up at him with a small smile. “You may remove your helmet now, good sir.”

“I cannot reach up to grab it from my head.” He says in a flat, unamused voice.

“Of course.” You scold yourself for not thinking of that. “Well, if you lay down on the cot, I shall remove it for you.”

Instead of protest, which is what you expected, he complied with your instructions and laid down on the cot. He grunts satisfyingly at the comfort of a mattress, most likely used to sleeping on the ground.

When you reach for the bottoms of his helmet to pull it off, he suddenly snatches your wrist, stopping you instantly.

“If you need touch me, ask before doing so.” His voice is nothing more than a growl.

You almost roll your eyes, starting to truly become annoyed with this knight. You invited him into your home and you’re willing to be his bedside nurse...and he has the audacity to request something like this.

Again you’re forced to put your personal feelings aside for the sake of your patient and for the maintenance of your bedside manner, forcing a smile onto your face. “With all due respect, sir, I’m your nurse for the time being. I will be needing to touch you quite often. Am I really expected to ask each and every time?”

“Yes.” He replies.

Your jaw clenches and you wish nothing more in this moment than to smack this man right across the face.

“Fine. May I please remove your helmet?”

Sparing you the assurance of a vocal reply, the mask simply nods, and you pull it over his head. When the face of your patient is revealed to your eyes, you’re appalled.

It’s Sir Kylo Ren...the man that murdered your husband.

You drop the helmet onto the ground, metal clattering as it rocks back and forth once it’s settled in one spot on the hardwood. This can’t be real.

He snarls. “Why are you looking upon me with that expression? Have you never seen a man before? I have wounds that need tended to, girl, and I’d like to be out of here before sundown.”

Anger begins to boil your blood, tears burning in your eyes as you look down at the man before you.

“You bastard.” Your hand raises, ready to strike him clean against the cheek. He catches your fist in his hand before you can, though.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you.” Kylo warns, squeezing your fist. “I’ll have to have you beheaded for hitting an army man, and your head is much too pretty to be put to such waste.”

You snort, yanking yourself from his grip, teeth gritting as you walk out to fetch all the medical supplies. He’s wearing a cocky expression when you walk back in.

“I recognize you.” He says.

You huff, unamused. “How could you possibly recognize me? We’ve never met.”

His lips curl up into a devious smirk. “You’re right, we haven’t met before, but I recognize you from your husband’s description. I asked him what you looked like, since he was babbling on and on about you.”

You freeze up, bottom lip beginning to quiver as Sir Kylo continues.

“Then I drove my blade straight through his pathetic chest, and later that night, I touched myself as I thought of you.”

He chuckles deviously.

“Bedswerver!” You yell, cocking your fists once more and lunging at him, ready to strike once more. But then, you stop yourself, knowing the consequences you’d surely face should you actually hit him. 

Your fists lower and you simply say nothing, preparing the cloths in the warm water. The tears run down your cheeks on their own volition, but you quickly wipe them away before turning back towards him. 

“He wasn’t worthy of your company, Y/N.” Kylo says as you begin to clean the wounds on his stomach. “And he clearly didn’t satisfy you in the way you needed, considering the manner in which you looked over my body when I took my armor off.”

His hand reaches around and squeezes your ass, making you jump. 

“How long has it been, little lamb? A young woman like you shouldn’t have to live without a man to satisfy her aching need.”

You can’t pretend that you’re not aroused by his words, by his touch. But you’d never let him have you, not in a thousand years. So, you quickly swat his hand away and continue cleaning his wounds. “That’s none of your concern, Sir Kylo. I am perfectly content without a man and that’s all I’m going to say on the matter.”

He laughs. “That’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one. I bet you’re aching right now, just from my words and my simple touch.”

Before he can touch you further, you back away, limbs trembling with anger and frustration. You dunk the bloody rag back into the bowl of water, ring it out a bit, then throw it onto his chest.

“Clean the wounds yourself, since you can obviously move your hands and arms perfectly fine.” You say, wiping your own on a dry cloth. “I’ll be back to bandage you in a bit.”

“Don’t think of me too much, lamb. You’ll release too quickly.” He snickers as you slam the door shut behind you, bursting into tears the moment you step foot into your bedroom.

You sob quietly, the freshly-healed stitches of your heart popping open one at a time, the grief and pain of losing your beloved consuming you once more. 

And now you’re here, mending his killer.

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

It takes everything you have, every ounce of willpower, to wake up and face Sir Kylo every single day. You know you’re doing the right thing by helping him, but that doesn’t make dealing with him any easier.

He’s impossibly stubborn, arrogant beyond comprehension, and increasingly grumpy. But, you just have to keep going, keep pushing through, reminding yourself that each day brings you closer and closer to his inevitable departure.

You’ve all but blocked out his inappropriate and antagonizing comments or remarks, just getting his bandages replaced and then leaving the room as quickly as possible.

Today, though, he’s achieved a new level of jackassery, a thing you thought impossible until he did it. And boy, did he do it.

“I’ve made arrangements for a few whores to come and provide me some...company.”

Your fist tightens around the bandage in your hand. He smirks.

“You’re more than welcome to join us. There’s plenty of me to go around, little lamb. You’ll get your turn.”

“No, thanks. I think I’d rather stab myself with a sword.” You reply, beginning to switch out his bandages. “You’re lucky I’m even allowing it to occur in my house.”

He just chuckles. “You’d probably be bad, anyway.”

You suddenly rip the bandage off of his skin, causing him to cry out in pain. He looks at you, and you glare down at him. “Just...can you please just stop talking for once in your life? Must you always berate me when all I’ve done over the past few weeks is take care of you? Is this what kindness, genuine kindness, gets me?”

He suddenly seems to sober up, to let what he’s done to you sink in. It doesn’t last long, but you still see it. Perhaps he does have the capability to feel at least some sense of remorse.

Kylo stays quiet for the rest of the time you tend to his wounds, and when you turn to leave, the two words you’ve been convinced are not in his vocabulary, come from the behind you.

“Thank you.”

This sliver of empathy is short lived, especially after the girls from the local brothel make their way up to his room. 

“Oh! Oh! Sir Kylo!”

You shake your head, attempting to read in the study, which is located on the other side of house from the guest bedroom. Yet, their screams, cries and the various other lewd noises still manage to make their way to your ears.

“Ah! Ah! Ah!” “Take it, whore, take it!” “Kyloooooooo!”

The temptation to go up there and kick the girls out is increasing by the second, but you don’t. Maybe this will help mellow him out a bit, make him more manageable.  Plus, you’re pretty sure that you’d have to carve your eyes out after walking in on whatever they’re doing up behind that closed door.

Unfortunately for you, it becomes progressively more difficult to focus on your book as the burn between your thighs intensifies. It’s been almost two years since your husband was murdered, which means that it’s been a little over that since you were last intimate with someone.

Normally, and up until Sir Kylo entered your household, you were more than fine subduing your sexual desires. You haven’t once touched yourself, not that you’d really know how to anyway, and you certainly weren’t about to start now.

You cross your legs, hoping that’ll quell some of the burning, but it only makes it worse. Another half an hour passes and your hand now rests on your thigh, slowly inching down towards your soaked and quivering pussy.

Just a quick touch won’t hurt...he doesn’t have to know...

Luckily, a knock at the door brings your motions to a stop. You sigh in relief, walking over to open the door. When you do, you’re met with a bandaged bare torso, a very muscular bare torso. His skin glistens with sweat and the smell of sex radiates from his essence. 

He’s still breathing heavily as he stands in the doorway, looking down at you.

“We’re finished upstairs.” He says breathily. “I’m due for my afternoon bandage change, whenever you’re ready.”

You watch him saunter away, admiring the way his muscles stretch and tense with each stride. You’re burning up by now, both your skin and your arousal, and you wonder how you’re going to get through this next bandage change. 

When you enter the room, the musk of sex is thick in the air, humidity at a suffocating level. You try to ignore it, try not to let it get to you, but it’s just surrounding you. 

Your skin begins to glisten, brow furrowed as you focus on trying to change these bandages as quickly as possible. Kylo seems to take notice of your hurry, your sudden perspiring.

“Is something wrong?” He asks you, biting back a smirk. “You seem flustered.”

Nodding, you continue on with the bandaging.  “I’m fine, just a bit warm is all.”

Kylo hums, reaching down to grab your wrist as you reach up to re-bandage the wound on his chest. He brings your fingers up to his lips, sucking the tips into his mouth gently, tongue swiping over the pads of your digits.

You try to pull away, to leave before you do something you regret, but his hold on you is firm. And if you’re honest with yourself, you don’t actually want him to stop.

Oh lord, this is bad. It’s so wrong. You shouldn’t want this. He murdered your husband, the man you loved. He’s so smug and cocky and yet...it’s what you’ve been wanting this whole time, the thing you’ve tried to suppress, to not let yourself want.

But now, everything else be damned, you want this. You need this. And damnit, you’re gonna have it.

His lips release your fingertips with a lewd pop! sound, an arrogant smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You haven’t tried to pull away or tell me off in a minute or two. Is everything alright?”

You huff. “Just do it.”

He raises his eyebrows, sitting up a little. “Do what? What do you want me to do, little lamb?”

“You know what I want.”

“Oh yes, I’m fully aware of what you want.” He smirks. “But I want to hear you say it out loud.”

You cross your arms on your chest, trying to ignore the twang of guilt that shoots through you as you prepare to say the words aloud.

“Fine. I want you to f-fuck me.”

“That’s right. I knew you wanted it.” Kylo takes your hand and trails it down his muscular abdomen, stopping just above where his loincloth sits on his hips.

“Take it off.”

You’re chewing your lip numb as you reach down and undo the tie holding the garment on. Your breath hitches as you slide it off, exposing his member, which is hardening steadily.

“Instead of staring, perhaps you’d like to try touching it?” He smirks.

You shoot him a glare. “Stop talking, for once in your life, please spare my ears the sound of your constant squabble.”

Kylo chuckles, putting his hands behind his head.

Your hand wraps around the base of his length, and he grunts softly. It’s your turn to wear a smirk.

“Oh, do you like that, Sir Kylo?”

He huffs. “Every man likes their cock being touched. Don’t go thinking that it means anything.”

You squeeze his shaft, drawing a deep grunt from his lips and small buck of his hips. He looks away, jaw clenched in an attempt to prevent any further noises. 

This fact only makes you more determined, hand pumping his cock with more vigor, alternating between different paces and pressures to really drive him crazy.

You’re thoroughly enjoying this, drinking in the sight of him trying his absolute hardest not to react to the touches that so obviously arouse him. You tease him even more, using your fingers to touch certain parts of his length. 

Well, it’s fun for the few minutes it lasts, but suddenly, you find yourself in his position, laid back on the cot. He’s on top of you, now, pushing the skirts of your dress up, fingers yanking the laces on your bodice.

He quickly pulls it off, followed by your skirts, leaving you in only your mamillare and your loincloth. His eyes roam your newly exposed skin for a moment before his hand slips down between your thighs, fingers pressing up against the fabric.

“I knew it. Were you listening, little lamb? Were you listening to me fuck those whores and wishing it was you?”

Your breath hitches. “Well, it was sort of hard not to listen when the girls were screaming.”

His fingers wrap around the waist tie, pulling them down to fully expose your wet heat. He smirks, rubbing around until he finds that one spot that has your back arching and a gasp escaping your lips.

Before he can even say anything, you reiterate his words in a mocking tone. “Every woman likes being touched there. Don’t go thinking that it means anything.”

He huffs, rubbing you harder.

“Tell me how wet you got when you heard me fucking those whores. Tell me that you wanted a turn on my cock, wondered how good I’d feel inside you.”

“N-No.” You say, a stern expression on your face. “I’ll never say that to you.”

His jaw clenches as he bends down, lips next to your ear. “You'll be screaming it once I’m done with you.”

Your eyes widen when his fingers slowly press up into your entrance. 

“Kylo...” You’ve never been touched in this way before. It’s...different, and not necessarily unpleasant.

He sees your hesitation. “Trust me, you’ll like it.”

And you did.

His digits begin moving in and out of you, curling up occasionally to stimulate a certain tender spot inside you. You’re biting down on your lip, surely hard enough to break the skin, trying your darndest not to give him the privilege of hearing your noises.

As you did to him, seeing you suppress your noises only spurs him on more, movements becoming quicker, swifter. Your orgasm draws closer with each skilled stroke, but just before you reach your peak, he pulls out.

You thought you wanted to hit him before; now, you kind of want to pop some of his abdomen stitches. 

“Why did you do that?”

He laughs devilishly, reaching down to pump his cock, slicking it with the juices of your arousal. “You didn’t think I’d actually let you get off that easily, did you?”

“Well, I was sort of hoping...”

You’re brought to silence when he crawls on top of you, trapping you beneath his massive form. His mushroom head swirls around your entrance, collecting some of your slick before pressing it inside of you.

It’s been quite a while since you’ve had anyone, and you don’t think you’ve ever had someone of his size before, so you gasp softly as he presses forth. Soon, his entire length is seated in you, stretching and filling you to the brim.

His eyes are squeezed shut, jaw clenched as he tries to remain still in order to allow you an adjustment period. Once you’ve had some time, he begins moving his hips, rolling them at a steady pace. 

“Knew you’d have a nice little cunt,” He growls, teeth baring. “So wet and tight for me, little lamb.”

You bite your numbing lip in an attempt to prevent any of the desperate moans or cries that want to escape. He’s doing something similar, jaw clenched tightly. 

Only the wet squelch and sharp snapping of skin colliding can be heard between the two of you, minus the occasional grunt or sharp inhale from either of you, which is quickly shut down almost as soon as it slips out.

Soon, you feel your climax begin to appear on the horizon, walls clenching and pulsing around his cock. He takes notice, quickly speeding his rhythm up, exhaling loudly through his flared nostrils.

He’s getting close, too, balls pulling up as his body prepares itself for orgasm. The energy between you two, as well as your physical movements, quickly turn desperate. 

“Don’t release inside me.”

“I’m flattered that you think I’d even want to.” He says, smugly.

You huff, rolling your eyes. “I see that even the throws of passion and ecstasy is still not enough to tamper your unbearable attitude.”

“There is nothing that can stop me from taking the opportunity to get a rise out of you, milady.” He smirks before his brows knit in the center of his forehead. “If you’re gonna cum, I suggest you do it s-soon.”

Your eyes flutter shut, hips attempting to lift up off the mattress, wanting him to hit that certain spot inside you. As soon as you find the right angle, a choked sob leaves your lips as you’re quickly brought and tossed over the edge.

Kylo groans softly, thrusting rapidly before pulling out at the last minute, spilling his seed all over your abdomen.

Both of you are breathless as you ride out your climaxes, basking in the peaceful bliss that washes over your body, basking in the luxury of his utter and complete silence. It was a welcome change, a much-needed reprieve from the past few weeks of dealing with him.

He eventually flops down onto the mattress beside you, grabbing and re-securing his loincloth around his hips. You’re already a bit sore from being stretched for the first time in two years.

“May I just sleep here tonight, Sir Kylo? Unless you’d like to carry me back over to my bedroom.”

The side-eye he gives you is incredibly humorous, but you contain your laughter, not wanting to add oil to the flame.

“I won’t be a bother. I will stay on this side of the cot; you’ll barely even know I’m here.”

“Are you truly incapable of walking yourself back to your bedroom after one session of fucking? Was I really that amazing that I’ve left you unable to move about the house?” He laughs.

"And suddenly, the pain of walking over to my room seems less painful than staying here and listening to your vexing squabble.”

Kylo huffs. “If you stay here for the night, you may not breach the center of the mattress. I will kick you out if you even come close to bumping into me or making any sort of physical contact.”

Mocking his words from earlier, you smirk. “I’m flattered that you think I’d even want to touch you.”

“Very funny.” He says, flatly, rolling over to face away from you. “Just stay on your fucking side of the bed.”

You roll your eyes, sitting up to braid your hair for bed before fluffing the goose-feather pillow beneath your head, settling down for the night. Soon, Sir Kylo’s obnoxious snores bounce off the walls and you put your pillow over your head, hoping to muffle the noise.

God, even his snores are arrogant.

-

The next morning, when your eyes flutter open at the first sign of light through the window, you find the sheets next to you vacant.

You sit up, eyebrows furrowed as you look around the room, ears open to listen for any noise anywhere in the house. You don’t hear anything.

Then, you see a piece of rolled up parchment on his pillow along with a small satchel. When you open the pouch, you’re shocked to see a pile of shiny coins. You unrolled the note, reading the sloppy script.

For the medical supplies and for your trouble. Here’s hoping our paths never cross again.

-Kylo

As you read the very brief and to-the-point note, you can practically hear his snide voice in your head reciting it. The cold, cocky tone of his words shone through the parchment and ink, incredibly so. You huff, tossing the note back onto the pillow before getting up to begin the day. 

Well...at least you’ll never have to see him again.

[neverfalling]

☼ BASICS☼

NAME: Isra Siddiqui BIRTHDAY: 1 November 1990 ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Neutral AGE: 31 SPECIES: Witch (Air + Bone Manipulation) FACECLAIM: Aiysha Hart

Isra can be quick-witted, observant, and meticulous, but also cruel, judgmental, and selfish.

☼ BIOGRAPHY☼

tw alcoholism mention, parent death, abuse mention, animal bone mention

Shitty, shitty home life. Isra grew up in Birmingham, England with her father. Her mother died from childbirth complications and her father sort of blamed her for it, and took to alcohol and berating his only child as a means of coping. Isra was intended to be something of a savior of his family line, which was speckled with human blood and witches were weakening. He required perfection, and she was just a kid. Neither of them got what they wanted and Isra usually suffered for it.

His impossibly high standards and the disappointment that followed were amplified when her ability seemed to materialize late when instead it was simply not flashy or particularly useful. The only reason her father even noticed was because she absently mended a crack in an animal skull at a local natural history museum. She couldn’t seem to do it without actually seeing or touching the bone, and a healing spell could easily fix a broken bone anyway!

Such an ability wasn’t necessarily helpful to her father or to the local covens, and so all of them tended to treat her like a nuisance at best and a monster at worst. Friendless and lonely described most of her formative years as a result. 

As a lot of lonely kids do, Isra gravitated towards books. Being a witch with high expectations set by a belligerent father, her interest lied in raw power, and nothing was better for that than blood magic. She was pretty good at the small things she tried, but she was smart enough to keep those proclivities well hidden.

Isra started to stand up to her father in her teens, which culminated in a big physical fight when she was 17 wherein he hurt her and she came completely unglued. Isra lost control of her ability and it resulted in the sort of carnage one might expect of a witch who can crush and mangle bones with her mind. Her father didn’t survive, and Isra hurt herself badly enough to require a hospital stay to recover.

Her father’s death and her own injuries were bizarre enough to humans that no one pushed too much about how this happened, but she was smart enough to know the local covens would figure this out in no time. Before she’d fully recovered, Isra scraped together what little money she had and whatever she could carry and flew across the ocean to an island she’d read about off the coast of Maine.

She kept to herself for the most part but tried to ingratiate herself with the local coven as best she could. She’s good with the creation of physical magic objects, be they enchanted items and weapons or potions and tinctures. Birmingham had no small number of other supernatural folks, but seeing them all get along in relative peace on the island was a bit of a shock.

Power is safety, and so she’s trying to amass what she can by any means necessary. If that means helping the Whittakers, great. And if it involves learning more about blood magic? Better.

☼ OTHER☼

Isra’s surname was Adler, but she changed it to her mother’s--Siddiqui--when she moved to the island to further sever any ties to her father and Birmingham.

Because her ability requires either physical contact with a bone or visual on it to be 100% effective, she carries bones on her at all times. Combined with blood magic, she can manipulate them into fantastic shapes, whether they’re armor or weapons or simply fractals borne of boredom.

Magic pays the bills--Isra can enchant weapons or make interesting magical objects by commission. This includes cursed items made with blood magic, though she keeps them and her blood magic work under wraps for obvious reasons. There’s no storefront, but most local supernatural folks might know by word of mouth.

Complications from losing control as a teenager gave Isra scarring and lasting pain in her hands. Her fine motor skills are not great and doing things that require exact movements for long periods of time increases the pain. Sometimes magic helps, but mostly it’s just constant ache. 

[mommymooze]

In the Boughs of the Goddess

TW: Battle, blood, injury, collapsed lung

The Golden Deer are fighting for their lives. You are teamed with Ignatz for this fight. You like working with him, he is attentive and great at keeping enemies from sneaking up from behind. Of course, just as you think this you see 3 fighters sneaking up on him! Placing yourself between him and the enemies with lances and swords is your job. You attack with your blade, quickly taking out one, then the other of the enemy. As you engage with the lance fighter, a fourth enemy approaching you from the back screams as Ignatz fires an arrow into their neck. Just a second too late however as his lance goes through your chest and peeks through the top of your chest. You finish the guy in front of you as Ignatz panics a little bit.

“Tell me what to do, I will do whatever you tell me to!” The green haired archer babbles.

“I can’t move with this spear in me. I’m going to lay down face first, put your foot on my back and pull it out!” You order him as you loosen and drop your front of your breast plate, the back stuck to you by the spear.

“Okay. I can do this.” He tries to reassure himself as he watches you lie face down, the lance standing straight up in front of him.

“Foot.” You say waiting for his foot on your back. Finally it is there. “PULL!!”

A sickening sound, ‘Slork’ comes from you as the lance is pulled free. You roll on your back leaving the back panel of your chest plate behind.

“Poison?” You ask him.

“No.” Ignatz says as he studies the tip of the spear. He throws it to the side.

You look around, the battle is still going on. You spy a large evergreen with huge branches hanging out from around its base. “Ignatz, help me get under that evergreen, we won’t be so visible hiding there.”

“Sure thing.” He says, trying to help you stand. The more you move, the harder your heart pumps and the more blood seems to come from your wound. Breathing is very painful, the exertion is making you cough, and you hide the blood you are coughing up from your friend. The large wide evergreen gives you perfect cover.

“See if you can peek through the branches, is anyone near that can help?” You ask.

Ignatz weaves through the branches. He can move a limb here and there and still keep undercover. “I can’t see anyone on our side nearby.” He says after sitting next to you. There are several enemies close. Be quiet.”

You try to breathe quietly, but there is a crackling sound every time you breathe in. You want to cough so badly but you know that it would attract enemies. The pain is barely tolerable. You roll on your side, the injury is towards Ignatz who gasps.

“You’re bleeding pretty bad.” He is on his knees whispering to you.

“You’ve learned a basic heal, right? Byleth made us all learn.”

He looks at you concerned. “It’s been quite a while.” He frowns.

You grab his shirt and pull him closer. You whisper the steps to him, manipulating your fingers as he nods along. He finally sits up straight. You listen to him quietly whisper the incantation of the spell, the warmth of his touch on your back is proof the healing spell is working. Perhaps it will slow the blood enough that you will live until help comes. You reach for a handkerchief in a pocket, waving at him to get it. You tell him to wad it up and shove it in the hole. Anything to help stop the flow of blood.

You ask him to crawl to the front of you and have his bow ready, the sounds of movement through the woods is coming closer. He can use your body as a shield if anyone investigates your hiding place.

Ignatz brushes your hair out of your face. He can hear the crackling every time you breathe. You’re also making wheezing sounds. It sounds so painful he wants to cry for you.

Someone out there is yelling orders and a person runs past the tree. Your right hand grips tighter on the handle of your sword. It is then quiet for a few minutes.

Ignatz relaxes a bit. “I should go look.”

“No! I can’t back you up. Worst thing we can do is get up too early.”

You are gasping for every breath, so hard to breathe, the pain is coming back. Ignatz is up on his elbow, peeking out the tree as best he can from there.

His face is illuminated by the light peeking in through the tree branches, giving him an ethereal glow. “You look like an angel.” You whisper to him, closing your eyes. “Thank you for healing me.” You cough, and it shakes you as you keep coughing and coughing, blood definitely coming out of your mouth, dripping down your chin.

“No, you’re going to make it!” He declares as he stands up inside the tree checking for enemies. He then leaves the cover of the branches and looks skyward for Claude or anyone on a flying beast.

Ignatz spies someone on a wyvern, luckily it’s Claude. He gives their leader the signal for needing help and Claude acknowledges. The young man quickly checks around him, no signs or sounds of fighting nearby, he knows he needs to get you out in the open for rescue.

He helps pull you out from under the tree, lying you on the grass in the late afternoon sun.

You cough again, it crackles very loudly inside and outside of you.

Ignatz kneels over you, “Anything I can do?”

“No.” You begin, interrupted by a cough. “I need to *wheeze* confess something. *cough*. I might’ve snuck into the room that you paint in and *cough hack *saw your work. It’s so beautiful. *coughcoughcough* The way you paint a meadow I can almost smell the flowers and feel the gentle breeze.” You have a huge coughing fit, glad to confess your sin against him.

“I’m, I’m not mad.” He blushes. “J-just embarrassed.”

“When we get out of this I want to pay you *cough* to paint a picture...of me.*hackcoughbleed* I’m not that beautiful, but if you painted me I know I could be. In the m-morning s-sun, *coughbleedhack* in a yellow dress surrounded by trees and flowers. Feeding a fawn. *coughcracklehacklecough* When the war is over it can remind me of being in the Golden Deer, but especially of you. You are so amazing and talented. *cough gurgle*”

The sounds of a horse approaching redirects Ignatz’ attention. Leonie and Marianne arrive. Marianne finds that your punctured lung has collapsed and you have lost a lot of blood. She heals and cleans the wound dressing it quickly before they put you on the back of Dorte, returning you to camp.

You awaken with the dawn, pillows stuffed in front of and behind you, keeping you from lying on the healing wound and helping with breathing. You cough, alerting a healer that is nearby who runs over, rubbing your back until you are done. Taking your hand away you find little blood. That is a good sign.

Marianne soon comes to see how you are doing. She performs additional healing spells and you feel the pressure in your chest lessen. She advises that you are going to be out of it for a while, you need to strengthen your lungs. You can speak, but not much above a whisper, anything louder hurts too much. The bandage on the front of your chest is itching, a good sign that the healing magic is working. Byleth pokes his head around the corner and Marianne nods at him.

The former Professor comes to the side of the bed and sits in the chair. “You made it. We are all very happy.” You see a tiny bit of a smile on his face.

Reaching out you grab his hand and squeeze it. “Ignatz did a great job protecting me and helping me.”

“I will thank him again. Take care, you have several visitors waiting.” He says as he stands to leave. “Nice flowers. Your favorites, as I recall.” He notes as he brushes his finger against a yellow rose on the table next to you as he leaves.

After a pause, Ignatz steps hesitantly into the room. “Hi.” He says as he walks closer to you, as if he is approaching a wounded animal.

You smile widely at his presence. “Oh! Good to see you again.” You whisper.

“You’re looking much better now.” He smiles gently and nods.

You reach out your hand to take his in yours. It is warm. You place his palm on your cheek. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” You hope it sounds as heartfelt as you feel.

“You’re welcome. You would have done the same for me, the same for anyone. We’re all here together and need to help each other.” He smiles, brushing his hand on your cheek, then putting some loose strands of your hair back behind your ear.

“Did you give me the flowers? They’re beautiful.” You smile.

Ignatz blushes. “Maybe.” He says, looking away for a moment. “I should probably let the others come see you. I’ll be back later, okay?” He smiles as he stands.

You smile back. “I would really like it if you have time, please do visit me.”

He awkwardly bows, then nearly sprints from the room.

Claude marches in next. He smiles genuinely as he announces how happy he is now that one of his best swordsmen is on the mend. He asks for your version of the battle that day, filling you in on what you’ve missed as well as giving you information on the last war council meeting. He pats your head and wishes you well as he sends Raphael into the room.

“Hey! You’re looking great!” The boisterous brawler announces as he enters.

“Hey! I’m feeling pretty good.” You whisper back.

Suddenly Raphael’s shoulders drop a bit and he sits down. He whispers as softly as he can (which is not very soft but he’s trying) “I hope they’re treating you good in here. Let me know if I can bring you food or something.” He smiles widely.

“I’ll let you know. It is great to see you. Did you get hurt? I don’t see anyone else in here so I hope everyone is good.” You whisper, starting to feel tired.

“Aww, we’re great. You’ve been out for four days. Ignatz was in here every day until the kicked him out so he would sleep in his own bed. I’ve been keeping him eating regularly, can’t let your body suffer just because you’re worried. But I bet he’s back to himself now that you’re doing good.” The smile on his face is enough to cheer anyone, and it works very well on you.

“I’m glad you’re there to take care of him. I’ll be out and sparring with you as soon as Marianne says I can.” You answer, reaching out and squeezing his hand.

The rest of the Golden Deer filter in throughout the morning, all wanting to make sure they can see you alive and kicking after being out of commission for so many days. You doze between visits. The healers let you have some broth for lunch, then make you take an afternoon nap that you don’t argue about at all. Dinner is light and soft foods.

Once it is dark, Ignatz comes for another visit. You talk together for a while about what is going on, what everyone is doing. Then he finally pulls out his sketchbook. He wants to show you a drawing that came to him.

“It isn’t finished, this is just the raw base of it, but I wanted to know what you thought.” He shyly turns the page then hands the book to you.

There is a figure that resembles his image of the goddess. From the chest up, she is in her glorious, beautiful form. She has a peaceful look on her face. Then the dress flows out from her, becoming the boughs of an evergreen tree, opening up to provide sanctuary, her hands pull the front open like a curtain. There on the ground at her feet are two figures lying face to face huddled closely together.

“Oh. This is beautiful. I understand your thoughts completely about this work. I love the progression and change as she becomes the tree. I wish I had better words to describe it.” You smile back at him as a tear falls from your eye as you sigh.

“Thank you. I felt it really captured the moment.” He says softly as you hand his book back to him.

You talk a little longer then say good night.

After a few days you are finally released from the infirmary. Leonie helps you out for a few days, walking takes your breath away fairly quickly and you have to make frequent stops. She helps carrying things for you or just making sure you’re not overworking yourself. Finally you are strong enough to be on your own.

After dining with the rest of the Deer, Ignatz says he is headed off to do some painting. You ask if you can join him and he says yes.

He asks how you are feeling and your recovery progress. Marianne said that you can work on sword forms, but once you feel winded you have to sit and rest until your body completely calms and your breathing is normal. You’ve promised to follow her instructions to the letter.

Ignatz sets up his easel, getting his paints ready and the both of you become quiet. You bring a book to read with you and you settle yourself on the soft grass of the hill. Occasionally one of you will say something, but mostly just enjoy the time being quiet in each other’s company. Once the sun starts to set, you ask him to sit next to you so you can watch it together. Your shoulders brush up against each other occasionally making one of you blush. You sneak peeks at each other, somehow never quite getting caught by the other.

You can’t take this anymore, so you place your hand on top of his. When he doesn’t take his away, you weave your fingers through his as the last light of the sun flees from the horizon.

You sit there for a few minutes longer, until a bit of a breeze reminds you it’s going to get cold quickly now that the sun’s warmth is no longer there.

“We should get back while we have a little light.” You quietly murmer.

Ignatz packs up his things, you take the easel, which is fairly lightweight, so he can better hold his still wet painting. You walk side by side to the storage room turned painting workshop for him. He places the painting on a stand as you put the tripod on the wall next to another one, you start to turn but then notice it was not secure, so you turn back and rearrange it. You didn’t see Ignatz step up behind you to see if you needed help.

You turn around, bumping into his chest with yours. “Oh” you gasp.

“Oops.” he smiles.

The two of you stand there for a moment chest to chest, then you both lean in towards each other until your lips gently touch. You reach around his shoulders to gently pull him closer, his hands gripping you tightly at your waist.

Your face turns pink as you smile widely and look away.

“You’re so beautiful.” he whispers, his hand reaching under your chin to gently pull your lips back into his.

Pulling back to get a fresh breath of air, you whisper into his lips, “I find you handsome as well, my angel.”

[unfortunatemoth]

The Fox and The Hare

CHAPTER 1 - The Fox - Filicide

Read on AO3

TWs: Abuse, physical abuse, breaking bones, body horror, descriptions of violence, blood and gore, injuries, death, homophobia and use of slurs, hallucinations, bullying, mentions of prosthetics. Please tell me if I missed anything! Notes: Bonnie is nonbinary! Reynard/Rey = Foxy Maggie = Mangle Cher = Toy Chica

His mind felt numb. It always went blank when this happened. The smell of blood was too familiar at this point. It still stung at his eyes and clogged his senses, but it wasn’t new anymore. He felt like a shell, laying in his bed with his pillow over his ears to block out the cries coming from the next room. He knew it was painful to be the one in that chair. To take the beating while the blinking light recorded every second of it. Every hit, stab, slash, tear… It was all recorded for sick people to see. Scars littered his small body, broken bones left to mend on their own without ever going to a doctor, and he looked overall pitiful. His older sister was worse, though. Maggie had always been the one to take his punishments. Yes, he’d still get punished, but she’d take the worst of it for him. That added with her separate punishments led to her looking… like how she does. It didn’t help that she was so rebellious, always promising him that when she turns 18 she’ll break them out. Stealing them food, water, and extra clothes. She got in trouble, not just with Father. She was so skinny. She’d been denied food for a week now, her legs could barely keep her standing anymore. She could still have water, but her growling stomach never stopped. Her hand was broken when she tried to steal food for herself. He knew that soon enough she’d be fed, fed more than she can handle, as another punishment. The house smelled. Maggie’s hair was going grey early from all of the stress. Her once pretty red-brown hair had prominent grey streaks, and she had such dark bags under her eyes. Her left arm was completely useless and her eye was patched up, she had so many scars. Her broken bones weren’t like Reynard’s. His could actually be.. “Healed”. While her bones were broken so out of place, no way for them to mend themselves. She had missing teeth and a crooked nose. Her body wasn’t what it used to be. She used to be so pretty.

Father stopped bringing home victims to torture in favor of using Maggie as his personal punching bag. Reynard was always forced to watch, and listen to her suffering. He’s not sure why he’s so angry today. All he knew is that he wanted to throw up. His older sister’s blood was on his feet, and she laid twitching on the floor, slowly getting back up on her hands and knees. He doesn’t know how she could always get back up. She was strong. Despite her injuries, her useless arm, and her swollen legs, she still got up, albeit heaving and drooling. She was hit one last time with a metal bat to the side before Father left. As the door closes, he immediately rushes to his sister’s side. He was only a child, though, he didn’t know how to do this. He didn’t know how to even start with healing her. A bandaid couldn’t help this. His hands were shaking as he helps her sit against the wall. Her breathing was heavy, bruises forming on her quickly. He moves across the room, grabbing her shirt and skirt for her. She was left in her underwear. It was never anything sexual, it was more so for humiliation. Or for being able to harm her better. He struggles helping her into her clothing, her flinching every time she bends her limbs. Her dead arm was stiff from the beating it got. He noticed her torn ear, the blood matting her hair and staining her neck. She wasn’t as skinny, but he could still see her bones through her skin. Her neck was badly bruised, she’d been strangled. Her clothes did little to hide her injuries. She was breathing, but limp against the wall, eye glazed and unfocused. He holds her hand gently. He’s afraid he could break her with the slightest movement. He couldn’t shed tears, he’s so dehydrated. He’s so thirsty. Instead, he let out quiet sobs, trying to desperately contain them so Father doesn’t hear.

Then the fateful night happened. He was 13 and Maggie was 17, about to turn 18 in 4 weeks.

It was a mostly quiet night, the cicadas chirping being whitenoise in the background. He’d always been a light sleeper, coming in and out of consciousness. His sister had been gone for 3 days. He was worried, obviously. It plagued his mind, but he already spent two nights worrying himself to death, and he desperately needed to sleep. He had dark eye bags under his eyes, and bloodshot eyes. He was so tired. He would flinch awake whenever he heard a creak or a noise. But in the end, sleep overtook his body. He felt heavy. His sleep didn’t last long, though. He jolts awake when he hears a noise in the hallway. Father usually isn’t awake this late. And if he is, he’s outside. He sits up with bated breath, staring wide eyed at his bedroom door. His throat felt tight.

When the doorknob started moving, he felt as though it was moving in slow motion, but it was probably just in his tired mind. But relief washed over him, almost overwhelmingly so when he saw his sister poking her head in with a crooked smile. She walks in, followed by a girl she’s never seen before with blonde hair and blue eyes. She was really pretty. They shut the door as quietly as possible. “Rey, I need you… I need you to grab, uh, grab your things, okay? Gra- grab what you need, we can’t have t-too much that’ll slow us down, al-alright? I’ll be sure to get you.. I’ll be sure to get you, uh, get you new things.” She says, her voice croaky and slow from all of the abuse done to her throat. She clears her throat, muffling the sound with her sleeve. Reynard nods slowly, looking at the other woman who had a comforting hand on Maggie’s shoulder. She notices this and gives a pretty smile. “I’m Cher.” She says quietly, kneeling down next to him. “I’m your sister’s partner. I’m helping you get out of here, okay?” He didn’t completely understand what was happening, but he nodded silently once again. “G-Good.” Maggie smiles. “Get, get your things, Rey-rey.” He obeys her, getting up and grabbing a change of clothes, his water bottle, and other things he deemed important. Maggie kept guard at the door, and Cher was peeking out the window for anything. He puts everything into his beat up school backpack. They both look at him, soft smiles on their faces. It made his worry dispel, at least a little.

He grabs onto her useless hand, noticing how it’s been bandaged up. He wonders if a doctor did it or if someone else did. “Should be clear.” She whispers, slowly opening his bedroom door and looking around. His tension was high once again, and he grips a little tighter onto her hand, even though she can’t feel it. He gulps, anxiety buzzing inside of him. They walk slowly, making their way towards the front door. They all moved so slowly to not make any noise. His head was hurting from the amount of concentration it took just to not put too much weight on his feet. The tension was so high that it stressed him to no end. It was all going well, they were almost to the front door. His heart was racing, and his throat felt tight.

Then, he slipped. His stupid socks slipping on the polished wood floor, it was too dark to see where he was putting his feet. It felt like it was going in slow motion, Cher reaching to catch him and Maggie nearly falling with him. He hit the floor hard, and it was as if a gunshot went off. They all stare, wide eyed and pain bloomed in his arm. Cher quickly gets him to his feet and they race for the front door, stealth now out the window as Maggie works on the locks. She curses under her breath as loud, stomping footsteps come from down the hall. Then, Father turns the corner, seeing the three of them at the door. “Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He asks, voice low and rumbling. He was absolutely seething at what he was looking at. Reynard felt all of the color drain from his face. He felt cold, seeing the man before them. “I-I’m… I’m fucking taking R-Rey!” Maggie yells, voice hoarse. “No, you fucking wont!” He yells, walking forward and grabbing Reynard, forcefully stealing him from Cher’s grip. “Rey!” Maggie runs at him, but gets punched in the jaw, hitting the wall hard with a thump. “Babe!” Cher cries, looking between the door and Maggie. But she stands back up like she always does. “So first you try to take my son, and next you’re a fucking dyke?!” He screams, throwing Reynard aside like he was nothing but a doll. He slams into the floor, and he can feel his shoulder disconnect. He swallows his scream, tears prickling in his eyes as he breathes heavily, scooting back.

“Cher, go!” Maggie yells. Cher looks reluctant but quickly grabs Reynard and runs out the door, carrying him as if he were her own child. But, she doesn’t run far, setting him in the bushes and standing up. Her cheeks were stained with black tears from her makeup. “Stay here, please. I’m going back in there, just stay here and hide, okay?” She says, grabbing his smaller hand, practically pleading. He simply nods, and she gives a smile, running back into the house. Of course, though, he wasn’t going to just wait here. He peeks in through the window, getting a view of the living room where it was happening. In the living room, Father was beating her harder than he’s ever seen before. He throws her onto the floor, stomping and kicking her head. Cher runs in, pulling out a gun from her purse, pointing it at him with shaky hands. All of them are frozen in place, and Cher says something he can’t hear. Father steps back a bit, and Cher lowers her guard. He takes this opportunity to push her into the wall, the gun falling to the floor and sliding away. Cher groans, nose bleeding. Maggie tries to get back up but he kicks her again, stomping on her throat. He stops, breathing heavily as Cher once again tries to wrestle him, but he flicks her away like a bug. He grabs the metal bat from the corner, swinging it at the girl’s head and she falls over, unconscious on the floor now. Maggie scrambles to get on her feet, but is swiftly cut off by the bat hitting her knee. She screams in pain, her broken knee giving out as she tries to scoot away from him. Reynard is frozen. His muscles refuse to move and his eyes can’t look away. Dread builds inside of him. Father brings the bat down on her, not holding back at all. Her arm gets beaten, breaking and the bones splintering and sticking out through her skin in a way that makes him want to vomit. But he doesn’t stop, continuing to bring the bat down onto her already limp, weak body. Both of her kneecaps were shattered, her skin red and purple all over. She was heaving out blood, it pouring from her lips like vomit. He swings at her head again, and he sees her jaw dislocate, but he doesn’t stop. Smashing, hitting, and destroying her head. She didn’t even look alive anymore, her head somewhat caved in and clear fluids coming from her mouth and nose along with the blood. Her eye was wide open, glazed over, no light in them. But, Father still leans down and twists her neck, snapping it until it's in the complete wrong direction. He wants to vomit. He didn’t even notice Cher. She had inched towards the gun while Maggie was taking the beating, she probably hasn’t seen just how bad it is yet. She lifts up the gun, shooting him in the leg and he yells, dropping his bat and holding his leg. This gives her a clear view of Maggie. Her eyes land on her mangled lover. Shock spreads over her face. There was a beat of silence, and then she screams, such a primal, gut wrenching scream that he’s never heard before. She drops the gun, completely forgetting about what they were here for and goes for Maggie’s body. But Father turns around, grabbing her and wrapping his hands around her neck. She yells, kicks, screams, tries to fight back, but the fighting starts to stop and her yells get quieter until her hand drops limply to her side.

After that there was a chilling silence. The only sound being Father’s shuffling as he stands up, putting away the bat and lighting a cigarette as if it were any other day. Reynard finally feels time unpause, and he practically collapses, legs giving out on him and he heaves, vomiting onto the ground, only his stomach fluids coming from him. He hasn’t eaten in a while. He knows he needs to run. He needs to run as quickly as possible and get the fuck out of here. He needs to go, but he feels limp, just like his dead sister. Dead. That realization sinks in, hitting him like a train. He wants to scream. He wants to scream and cry and bash his head into a wall. Why is he alive?

And it’s his fault. His fault they got caught. That hurts more than any injury he’s ever received. He breathes quickly, gasping and shaking. It’s his fault. It’s his fault they both died. He killed them. He killed them and they’re gone forever and now he’s going to be a slave to his Father and their hard work and deaths would be for nothing. His head is pounding, and he wants to scream, but his throat feels swollen and his muscles are stiff. He doesn’t remember when or how he fainted.

The next day, he woke up in Father’s car. He felt so drowsy, his vision blurry as he slowly regained his consciousness. He smelled cigarette smoke, and heard the radio on. He blinks slowly, looking up at Father, who was staring ahead. “Finally awake, brat?” He asks, flicking his cigarette and turning to him. He frowns, looking around. In the back seat were two bodies. Cher and Maggie. Cher looked otherwise fine, though she was only wearing her underwear, he’s not sure why. But Maggie… Her poor body was practically mangled, none of her limbs were twisted the right way. Her head was almost completely backwards, and her body was laid awkwardly, her bones not really holding a human shape anymore from the amount of damage. Her mouth hung open from her broken jaw, her nose broken beyond repair and her neck splotchy and red. She looked so pale. He felt sick staring at her, so he looked away. “What… What’re we doing?” He asks, looking at Father with fearful eyes. He huffs, blowing out smoke slowly and putting out the cigarette on the dashboard. “We’re getting rid of the bodies.” He says simply. He then opens his door, getting out and going to the trunk, holding two large white sheets. He opens the back door, setting the sheets on top of the bodies. He then grabs filled trash bags, placing them on top, probably to make it look less suspicious. He then gets back in the car, buckling up. “But we’re not disposing them here. That dyke’s got a family that’ll be looking for her. If we go to a different state or county, the body won't be so easily identified.” He explains this, turning the car on. He glances at his child. “And this will also be an example to you if you ever think about misbehaving.” Reynard gulps, feeling a chill go down his spine at the icy tone. He simply nods, buckling his seatbelt and staring ahead out the window.

Everything seemed to start fading away after that. Nothing felt like it existed anymore. The music sounded like static to his ears. His entire body felt numb, light but at the same time so heavy. His eyes were unfocused. He just… shuts down. This tended to happen, usually when Father brought people home. His brain turning off to avoid the emotional meltdown he’d have to eventually face. Just bottle it up for a little longer. He’s not sure how long they’ve been in the car, his mental clock just stopping for him. They could’ve been here for hours, minutes, or maybe just a breath. He might’ve fallen asleep at one point, but he doesn’t really know. All of it was foggy. The time on the road all blended together. But, then they come to a stop. The road they were on was completely barren, and it’s now nighttime, but he’s not sure the exact time, it was just dark out. He pulls in, stopping the car and unbuckling his seatbelt. He gets out, the car chiming, lights blinking. “Get out, kid.” He says. Reynard follows suit, getting out of the car slowly. He feels his tension rising, his back feels stiff, almost, and his throat tight. He grips onto his shirt, biting his lip. Slowly, Father begins taking out the trash bags. They all drop onto the concrete, and the covered bodies become more visible. He adjusts his gloves, wetting his lips and grabbing a body, wrapping it up some more with the sheet. It was harder to wrap Maggie’s body. He huffs, pulling the bodies out, and chucking them into the shallow ditch. Rey felt a bit sick. Father goes to the trunk, pulling out two containers of gasoline. And, without a word, he dumps all of it onto the bodies. “This is what happens…” He throws the empty canisters out of the way, lighting a match, “To brats that misbehave.” And he throws the match into the ditch. It lit so much easier than he had expected. The smell made him want to vomit. He bites the inside of his cheek, trying to not seem as distressed as he actually is. The fire grew huge, he could see the sheets burning and holes forming, showing the now darkened, dry dead skin. They stand there, watching for a moment. The smoke made his eyes water. Or maybe it was his emotions. If his Father sees, he’ll just say it’s from the smoke either way. “Okay, get in the fucking car, we’re leaving.” He turns, going back to the driver’s seat. Reynard takes a second. This was the last time he’d ever see his sister. He bites his lip, tearing his eyes away and running back to the car.

That was the last time he ever saw his older sister.

The next day on the news, two unidentified female bodies were found. No one came forward to the police. They were marked as Jane Does, and the case went cold.

Skipping ahead, he was in school again. He’s not sure why Father allowed him to go back to school, but he appreciated it. Even if the people there were mean and made fun of him. They called him names, or were generally creeped out by him. He had a lazy eye now, which in itself caused a lot of bullying on top of the problems he already has with it. Then he’d get bullied for his name, too, being called Rey-tard by his peers. They seemed to think it was the funniest shit, for some reason. He wasn’t all that attractive, either. He had crooked teeth and an ugly scar on his nose. Most of his scars were covered, at least. His lazy eye would dry out a lot easier, he’s not sure why, but it’d look all red and gross. None of the bullying got physical, really. He suspects it's because he’s already got a prosthetic. Oh yeah, he has a prosthetic leg now. It was real ugly looking, and he covered it with pants all the time. So the bullying never extended to anything physical. Funny though how they still made fun of him. Some of them backed down when they learned about it, probably pity, but there were still people who picked on him. If they got especially rude, he’d detach his leg and it’d usually freak them out. So he was known as a weirdo, too. It wasn’t all bad, though. He had some.. Friends? Or, at least people who pitied him. It was better than being taunted. He wasn’t a great student, either. He had bad grades from always zoning out, he’d hear things that weren’t there and see stuff out of the corner of his eyes. They were mostly auditory. Once, when they were watching a documentary for class, all he could hear was the background music. It was much louder than anything else, and it sounded like it was coming from the floor rather than the speakers. He’d hear people say his name, or sometimes feel taps on his shoulder when people weren’t actually touching him. This would cause him to say things out loud in the middle of class, and get laughed at or scolded. On especially bad days, he’d hear his sister. But not just that. Whenever he’d see a bat, he’d hear her grunting and groaning coming from behind him. He’d also hear her panting and breathing right beside him in class sometimes, or her croaky voice whispering things that he can’t make out. And on the worst days, he’ll see her. Her mangled body. He’s never had a hallucination of her in her normal state. Always her mangled, disfigured dead body. Once the room started to get covered in blood. The first time he saw her, he began screaming in class, falling out of his chair. He was sent to the nurse and it took them an hour to snap him back to reality, and another 30 minutes to calm him down. He can’t get any medicine prescribed to him because his Father isn’t going to spend money on any sort of therapy or psychiatrist. But his hallucinations were getting worse. He doesn’t really remember when they started, but they’ve been getting worse and worse. His “bad days” were becoming more frequent and his grades were dropping tremendously. He’s been trying to ignore these hallucinations, though it was really hard when he could hear and feel it all. Even if others couldn’t experience them, it all felt real to him. He knows they’re not real, but they feel so real. He even smells things sometimes. He’ll smell blood a lot of the time. Sometimes, the noise around him gets turned down, sounding like he’s underwater, and he’ll see his arm detached on his desk. No one else sees it, no one else is even looking at him, but his arm is on the table, and he can’t feel anything. He feels like he’s going insane. Maybe he is. He knows next to nothing about mental health. Who knows what the fuck is going on in his brain? He sure doesn’t.

He wishes he could tell someone, anyone, about what happened to his sister and her girlfriend. But to everyone, he’s an only child. He’s not sure how Father was able to completely wipe his sister’s identity. But only they knew about the two Jane Doe cold cases. Not many other students really keep up with the news. Plus, at this point it's been a few years. He’s about 16 years old. The case was still being investigated, but at this point many officers have moved onto active cases. The Jane Doe cases faded into the background for everyone. Just another murder. It makes him feel sick. If he tells anyone, they’d contact Father and then he’d get beaten. Or maybe killed. He doesn’t know what punishment he’d get if he ever said anything about that murder. The thought alone scared him. He wants to scream it to the world. Maybe when he can leave his father he can safely go to the police. Just maybe. He just needs to wait a few more years.

When he became 19, he had enough money from his part time job to get an apartment in a completely different state. It was still close by, the next state over, but it was a long drive and he hoped that his Father wouldn’t be that dedicated to kill him. It was really hard, getting all the money without Father stealing any of it, and most of all finding a place he could afford and finding the time to be able to move. He didn’t tell his Father about it, either. He just wanted to get the fuck out of there. He used a bus instead of his car, and he planned to replace all of his electronics, just so he couldn’t be easily tracked. Maybe he was paranoid, but he doesn’t want to risk anything. Moving into his apartment was exhausting, but he made sure to only pack some suitcases and only two boxes of his things, just so it wouldn’t slow him down. It was still such an annoyance. He only had a couch, some chairs, and a mattress for now. It wasn’t a life of luxury, that’s for sure. In his new home, he works 2 different part time jobs. One as a cook, and another as a janitor. He’s not really allowed to be a cashier or anything that shows him much. He’s not exactly the most comforting presence to be around, that’s for sure. Nor was he really welcoming. He’s no good at talking, and his appearance was a little sketchy. He worked hard, though. Mostly because he needs money to actually live, and not so much out of passion.

After two months of living on his own, he decides to finally go to the police station. He was incredibly anxious, and he was surely looking suspicious just walking into the police station while acting this paranoid. He probably looks like a druggie or something, but he came to file a report, so that’s why he’s here. It took some time, but he’s eventually sat down with an officer, one who seemed tired and disinterested. He gulps, shifting in his seat. “Okay, Reynard…” She writes something down, looking at him. “What is it you’re reporting today?” “T.. The Jane Doe cases from… 6 years ago.” He begins, and the woman looks at him with a raised eyebrow. “Uh, I know who did it. M-My father.. He, uh… he killed them.” She hums, chewing on her pen as she types on her computer. It’s quiet for a few minutes. She then looks back at him. “We don’t have any unsolved Jane Doe cases here.” She says simply. “N-No the.. The case in California. Uh… Shasta County.” He gulps. She hums. “We can’t really do anything other than contact the police department over there.” She explains. She doesn’t seem to be taking his statement very seriously. He bites his lip, nodding. She writes something down. “We’ll contact the sheriff there, and inform him of your statement. Then you can call their police department, alright?” He frowns but nods. “Alright… Thank you.”

First try wasn’t great, but hopefully the next try will go well.

Calling the Shasta County Police Department was a little strange. He paced in his living room, trying to calm his nerves. “Y-Yes, I’d like to file a report.” He says, clearing his throat. “It’s about the Jane Doe cases from 6 years ago. The, uh, unsolved one.” There’s some typing on the other line. “Yes, what do you have to report?” He gulps, trying to calm his nerves. “Uh, my Father. He killed them.” “Your Father?” “Yes.”

There’s a bit of silence on the other line, before she begins speaking again. “Alright, what details do you know about the case, sir?” This was it. He gives a shaky breath. “Uh, all of it. I was, uh, there. One of them was, uh, my sister. We were heavily, a-abused as kids.” He says, voice beginning to shake. “He, uh, was always violent. Not just with us, h-he’d kidnap and torture and kill people o-on camera. U-Uh, he’d hit us with.. Ba… bats.” He’s starting to shake a little. “H-He uh, killed her and her girlfriend a-after she tried to, uh… escape with me. He killed them and… burned them in a ditch…” There’s typing on the other line, some occasional hums. When he finishes, she speaks again. “What’s your name again? And the victim's names?” He gives their names, but he can’t remember the girlfriend’s name, no matter how hard he tries.. Again, there’s a long silence. “Sorry, sir, there isn’t a ‘Maggie’ in our system. We can’t find any birth records, either… And we can’t do much about the other victim if you can’t remember her name.” She speaks slowly. “N-No, I swear she’s the one who died!” He sounds desperate now, gripping the phone tightly. “Sir, please calm down. I suggest… you see a therapist or psychiatrist, sir. I think you’re just imagining things… And to begin with, the victim’s injuries are more in line with a car crash than a bat.” She speaks slowly and carefully, as if she’s talking to a child. “She was killed by a bat! A-A metal one!” He’s breathing heavily now, one hand clutching his stomach. The woman sighs. “Sir, I’ll get you on line with a psychiatrist.” “No-!” The phone cuts off.

He didn’t have any luck after that. He's not sure why no one would believe him. He’s telling the honest truth. Is his story really that unbelievable? He feels sick. He’s on medication now, at least. That’s one plus. His hallucinations aren’t as frequent or bad as they used to be, but it still bugged him to no end that his story keeps getting disregarded. He wants to pull his hair out, it’s so frustrating. Talking to a therapist helps, but they just… don’t believe him. It doesn’t help that he has some gaps in his memory. It was so frustrating. He just… wants to give up. He doesn’t want his Father to get away with it, obviously, but he’s so… tired.

And there’s not a lot he can do when he’s not even in California anymore. He feels so helpless. He’s tried making many reports, but none of them went through. He wishes people would believe him, and he wishes he could remember more. He doesn’t know why his memory is so foggy… He needs to remember, but he just can’t.

So, for a while… He gives up. He gets a stable job as a mechanic, and continues seeing his therapist. That should be the end of his story, right? Well, not quite… It’s not over yet.

[angstyaches]

17, 32, 44, and 62 for any oc you wanna talk about

I went ahead and rambled about Lucy’s Boys.

CW: injuries, bullying, self-harm, low self-esteem issues

_____

17. Where were they born?

Henry (along with his twin sister) was a home birth. I don't talk geography too much, since my stories take place in a mix of British, Irish, and Japanese-style settings, but I imagine him being from Limerick or Galway in the west of Ireland.

Donnacha was born and raised in the city, probably outer Dublin or London if we wanna get geographical again.

Payton was also born out in the countryside, though the exact place isn't as clear as it is for Henry.

32. What is their self esteem like?

Henry's self-esteem is practically non-existent. He only feels worthy if he's producing work or gaining some kind of experience.

Donnacha has probably got the best self-esteem out of most of my male OCs, or maybe second-best to Kazu.

Payton's self-esteem depends on their interactions with other people, since making others feel comfortable and happy is a huge part of their personality.

44. Do they have any scars? If so, what are the stories behind those scars?

Henry has a few thin scars on the knuckles of his left hand, from where he punched the glass pane out of a doorframe when he was sixteen. It was during a fight with his sister, which was put on pause while she took him to the hospital.

Donnacha has no scars, but his nose is ever-so-slightly misaligned from where it was broken and left to mend by itself. It happened while he was playing rugby, but he's had so many minor injuries that he can't be sure exactly when it happened.

---TW: brief self-harm mention---

Payton has some light scarring on their right hip from where they self-harmed for a very short time.

62. Have they ever been betrayed? How did it affect their ability to trust others?

Henry experienced a lot of bullying and fake friendship growing up, so he finds it hard to be open or honest with many people. Coupled with their chronic pain and social anxiety, it's one of the reasons his agoraphobia is so intense (in the "present" timeline, Henry goes through periods of being unable to even leave the apartment).

Donnacha is one of those rare OCs who has had a life relatively free of toxicity or betrayal. The closest thing would be the fact that his best friends from school cut him out completely once they joined regional teams and he didn't. It hurt, but he also wasn't entirely surprised and it didn't affect him too badly. Luckily he met Autumn and Lucy not long after that happened!

Payton was hurt by their first crush, which made them very protective of their heart and their feelings from then on. They generally don’t have a problem making friends, but as soon as they start to feel something more for somebody, they manage to put those feelings away. (Until Autumn, of course!!)

[rosedavid]

Slip-Ups

A Merthur hurt/comfort fanfic

tw // blood and injury description //

Prompt: Merlin gets injured nothing too serious, but Arthur gets into super over protective mode and refuses to leave his side. Throughout the day people keep coming in to remind him of his princely duties, but Morgana ends up blocking them and sending them away so that Arthur can spend time helping Merlin.

...

             Usually, Merlin is more careful than this. Okay, well, careful to an extent. There’s a difference between being carefully reckless and just reckless all together. Today, though, he’s particularly on edge. It’s been a tedious week full of constant running about. Arthur’s seemed to be in an especially bad mood recently, as well, probably because he’s been just as busy as Merlin. With his duties as King starting to mount up to incredulous levels, Arthur’s been at wit’s end recently trying to manage his new role and duties. As a result, he’s been working everyone harder; his advisors, the knights, and of course Merlin himself. With every usual duty, Arthur decides to stack on three more for Merlin to do, with a quick grumble of, “Hurry it up!”

             Now, completely exhausted and frustrated, Merlin is in Arthur’s chambers at night haphazardly finishing the prat’s chores. All Merlin wants is to collapse into bed and sleep for the next few days, although he knows that won’t be possible. His stomach growls as he cleans up. Despite his previous reservations about Gaius’s meals, nothing sounds better right now than a big bowl of gruel.

             “Stupid King Prat,” Merlin growls to himself, scrubbing ruthlessly at Arthur’s filthy armor. “Merlin, you missed a speck of dust on my armor! I’ll have you thrown in the stocks! Merlin, my sword is getting rusty! I’ll show him.”

             The worst part is that before all of this, Arthur was actually starting to be (sort of) nice. Until this week, Merlin hadn’t been forced to muck out the stables in months. Although their constant bickering continued then, it was lighter than usual, more playful. Things had been going well, in other words. And now, Merlin feels like he’s been dragged through the mud.

             After sufficiently getting his anger out scrubbing Arthur’s already clean armor, Merlin switches to the sword resting on the table’s edge. This is where things go horribly wrong. So pent up with frustration and weariness, Merlin grapples above him blindly for the sword, still muttering insults. In that moment, he fails to grab the correct end of the sword. Instead, his hand slices against the sharp edges of the sword. He bites back a curse, yanking his hand away. Of course, since luck loves Merlin at the moment, the sword comes with it, slicing even further down to his wrist.

             Merlin clutches at his bleeding hand shakily. Blood pools in his palm, red tendrils slipping down his arm and dripping on the just washed floors. Still trying to comprehend what just happened, Merlin stares at the drops of blood, watching as they fall from his hand. This, of course, is when Arthur chooses to stumble into his chambers.

             “You would not believe the day I had!” Arthur groans, stomping through the doors. “I can’t even breathe without someone telling me I’m doing it wrong! Not to mention, my incompetent manservant doesn’t even have dinner ready for me!”

             Merlin continues staring at the blood numbly. Realizing that Merlin isn’t biting back like usual, Arthur finally turns toward him with an open mouth ready to berate Merlin yet again for something trivial. But the words die on his lips when he catches sight of the boy bleeding all over the floor.

             “Merlin!” He cries out, rushing over to the boy. “You idiot! You’re bleeding all over the place.”

             “Am I?” Merlin wonders, head going a bit fuzzy. Along with the blood loss and lack of food and sleep, his consciousness is gradually wavering.

             “What in God’s name happened?!”

             “Had to clean your sword, prat,” Merlin slurs, the conversation bringing him back a bit into reality. Also, the reality of his pain. “Ouch. That hurts a bit.”

             Arthur rolls his eyes, and if Merlin didn’t know any better, he would think Arthur looked scared behind his façade. But why would Arthur be scared? It may be a lot of blood, but it’s just a cut; Gaius will have him stitched up in no time at all. Besides, based on this week, Arthur didn’t seem to care too much about Merlin’s well-being. Why would he suddenly care now?

             “What did you do, gouge your hand open?” Arthur frowns, tearing off a piece of his own tunic before Merlin can protest. He then kneels by Merlin’s side.

             Merlin hisses as Arthur presses the tunic firmly into the crevice of his palm. “Now I hafta…mend that too, prat.”

             Arthur doesn’t respond; instead, he furrows his eyebrows and purses his lips as he applies more pressure to Merlin’s still bleeding wound. “Think you can stand?”

             “’Course I can stand!” Merlin argues. To prove his point, he abruptly pushes himself off the ground, only to find the world spinning around him. He gasps, tipping dangerously. Luckily, Arthur still has his firm grasp on Merlin’s bleeding hand, so the instant he starts swaying, he falls into Arthur’s side instead of back onto the floor. Merlin blinks away black spots and tries to ignore the pain lacing from his hand.

             “….almost fell, you idiot!” Arthur’s voice comes back into focus. “What if I hadn’t been here? Would you have just bled out on my floor?”

             “I’m fine,” Merlin stresses again.

             “You’re ridiculous, Merlin. Come on, let’s get you to Gaius.”

             With that, Arthur takes Merlin’s good arm and wraps it around his own neck. Then, he wraps one arm around Merlin’s waist while the other continues to hold the now soaked rag tightly to Merlin’s wound. It’s an awkward position that makes it hard to walk, but somehow they manage to make it all the way to Gaius without Merlin passing out (although they had to stop a few times to avoid it).

             Arthur yanks open the door, immediately alerting Gaius to their presence. With the combination of Arthur’s panicked expression and blood still dripping onto the floor beneath Merlin, Gaius stands up quickly to help.

             “My goodness, what happened?” Gaius asks, bringing Merlin over to the nearest patient cot. Arthur helps ease Merlin down into a sitting position while Gaius gathers supplies, including a clean rag to continue to staunch the flow of blood.

             “Sword fell,” Merlin mumbles grumpily, not wanting to hear Arthur’s recount of the tale complete with insults and jibes at his manservant.

             “Will he be okay?” Arthur buts in, holding the new rag to Merlin’s hand per Gaius’s instruction.

             Gaius briefly lifts the rag against Merlin’s cut up to inspect the wound. It’s still bleeding, but not quite as profusely as it was before. “Yes, sire. It will require some stiches and it will be sore for a few days, but you got him here fast enough that infection shouldn’t start in.”

             Arthur lets out a deep breath, stepping back to allow Gaius to clean Merlin’s wound. To Merlin’s credit, he only winces and hisses through his teeth as Gaius cleans up the wound. After all the excitement, though, Arthur can clearly see the fatigue covering Merlin. Guiltily, Arthur stares at him, suddenly realizing just how harsh he’s been to his manservant this week. It’s not like Arthur meant to, it’s just with all the pressures of his new duties as well as his newfound feelings…he thought it best to put Merlin away and to work. If he hadn’t made Merlin do so many chores, perhaps Merlin wouldn’t be injured so badly.

             “Drink this, Merlin, it will put you to sleep while I do your stitches,” Gaius coaxes, bringing a vial of probably foul-tasting liquid to his lips. Merlin doesn’t complain, though, simply swallowing it quickly. In an instant, his eyes begin to get heavy, world blurring around him, before he finally falls into a deep slumber.

             Arthur stares at Merlin for an unknown amount of time before Gaius clears his throat. When Arthur looks back up, he realizes that Merlin’s wound has been all stitched up. It gives him a clear view of the length of the cut, extending from the top of Merlin’s palm down to the bottom of his wrist.

             “He is okay, sire,” Gaius reassures him, placing one comforting hand on his shoulder. Arthur nods through clenched teeth. “Sire, if I may…the guards came by asking for you a few minutes ago. You have a meeting to attend soon. Perhaps you should get yourself cleaned up.”

             Arthur is confused at first because one, he doesn’t remember the guards coming by the physician’s chambers, and two, he doesn’t know why Gaius says he should clean himself up. He only begins to understand the second one when he finally takes a look at his hands, caked with dried blood. Merlin’s blood.

             He doesn’t want to leave Merlin’s side for a second, but he also knows that he can’t forget his duties as King. Conflicted, Arthur looks back at Merlin’s pale face tucked into the side of the pillow with a fondness he never knew he possessed.

             “I shouldn’t leave him,” Arthur decides. “Not like this.”

             “I understand your concerns, sire, but what if I had one of the knights sit with Merlin in your absence? Sir Gwaine would be willing, I’m sure.”

             Arthur considers it, but shakes his head. “No, I just…I can’t leave him like this, Gaius. W-what if this was my fault? It’s been a busy week, and I’ve been working him really hard, probably harder than he deserves—”

             “Arthur,” Gaius addresses kindly. “It’s been a busy week for us all. Everyone is tired and frustrated, including Merlin. It sounds to me like it was just an accident, nothing more. You couldn’t have prevented that.”

             Arthur purses his lips but says nothing. Meanwhile, Gaius pulls up a seat beside Arthur, gently coaxing him down into it. “Let me at least get you a fresh basin and rag to wash your hands off, sire.”

             “Yes, that would be good. Thank you,” Arthur clears his throat, not wanting to see this much of Merlin’s blood ever again.

             As Arthur sits there through the remainder of the evening, guards and members of the court come and go, trying to coax Arthur away with no success. Despite some of their glares toward Arthur’s manservant, and some frankly rude comments, Arthur refuses to budge. A few hours later, he thinks that the guards are about to forcefully drag him out of the room when an unlikely hero comes to his rescue.

             “Can’t you see the King is doing something important already?! He’s been at everyone’s beck and call all week, so I think you can survive without him for one goddamn night!” a feminine voice shouts outside the hallway. Then, there are determined footsteps before the door is being opened and closed gently, a large contrast to the tone mere seconds ago.

             Morgana stands in front of the doorway, as regal and snarky as ever. Even though Arthur tends to butt heads with Morgana more than he does anyone else, he suddenly feels a great relief for her actions. As much as he hates to admit it, he probably owes her one, but he’ll think about that later. Right now, as per Gaius’s instructions who left to take care of a woman giving birth in the lower town, Arthur needs to keep his eyes on Merlin to be sure an infection won’t take hold.

             Silently, Morgana strides over to the other side of Merlin’s cot, where the boy lies deathly still and pale. The only thing keeping Arthur from completely losing it is watching the steady rise and fall of Merlin’s chest. That, and clutching at Merlin’s uninjured hand, which he drops when Morgana comes into the room (although he’s pretty certain she saw since Morgana has eyes like a hawk).

             “He looks exhausted,” Morgana comments, glancing at the boy’s stitched up hand.

             “Yeah,” Arthur agrees quietly, eyes latched on Merlin.

             “You look exhausted too, Arthur.”

             Arthur waves her off. “I’m fine. It doesn’t matter anyway, I have to stay awake to take care of him.”

             “Well, you won’t be any use to him if you pass out.”

             “ But I can’t—”

             “I will watch over him, Arthur,” Morgana interrupts. “I am Merlin’s friend too, after all. Although I have a feeling that he may mean something more to you.”

             A red flush brightens on Arthur’s cheeks, a mix between embarrassment, anger, and thoughts of Merlin. “Morgana!”

             “Hush, I have eyes, you know. I can tell you’re both infatuated with each other. Please, Arthur, go lie down and rest.”

             “If you truly know, then you understand I can’t leave him.”

             Morgana purses her lips in thought. “Then take Merlin’s bed. I’m completely sure he wouldn’t mind. Gaius or myself will wake you when Merlin wakes up, himself.”

             The thought of sleeping in Merlin’s bed sends shivers down Arthur’s spine. It’s not like the bed is anything special based on when Arthur has seen it. In fact, it’s probably more uncomfortable than most of the beds in the castle. But because it’s Merlin’s bed, it won’t feel uncomfortable to Arthur. He hates to admit when Morgana is right, but she has a few good points. Too tired to argue anymore, Arthur takes Merlin’s hand again and squeezes it, bidding him goodnight. Morgana takes his place, hand lingering on Arthur’s forearm.

             “Promise you will wake me if anything at all happens?”

             “Yes, Arthur. I will. Now please, you look worse than Merlin. Get some rest. Merlin will be fine.”

             Arthur barely registers climbing up the steps to Merlin’s room. He practically collapses onto the bed. He breathes in a combination of the smell of soap and Merlin. It’s like home. Nuzzling his face into Merlin’s pillow, Arthur almost instantly falls asleep.

…

The sunlight is the first thing to wake him up, streaming through the window and lighting up the entire room. The second thing he registers is the sound of people moving about in the kitchen. Although Arthur wants nothing more than to curl back under the covers and fall asleep, his waking thoughts immediately drift once again to Merlin. What if Merlin is awake? Or what if he’s worse than before? Arthur shoots up out of the bed immediately while thoughts plague his head. He’s aware of how gross he probably looks and smells, still dressed in yesterday’s clothes, but he can’t bring himself to care.

Stumbling out of the room, his eyes search out the familiar black mop of hair. He finds it quickly, still tousled as Merlin sleeps on the cot. Morgana has now been replaced by Gwen, who is helping Gaius organize some herbs and medicines.

“Gaius, how is he?” Arthur clears his throat, trying to sound less worried than he really is. Based on Gaius’s raised eyebrow, it doesn’t work.

“He’s doing well, sire,” Gaius responds with a slight smile. “He stirred a bit in the night, but fell into a deeper sleep. But based on the medicine I gave him, I bet he’ll be waking up anytime now.”

Somewhat relieved, Arthur goes to take his place at Merlin’s side again, but Gwen coaxes him away. “Have some food, your majesty. Based on what Morgana told me, you haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon.”

Begrudgingly, Arthur sits down at the table, biting into an apple. He is hungry, but right now food just doesn’t sound appetizing. Still, he manages to eat a bit, even chatting with Gwen about random goings on in the town. It’s only about half an hour later when Merlin begins to fidget.

Arthur, of course, is the first one by his side. Merlin squirms, wincing as he rolls over on his stitched hand. Arthur rolls his eyes before helping un-trap Merlin’s hand. As he grabs Merlin’s hand, one finger traces beside the stitches in a delicate, almost not-there touch. Finally, Merlin’s eyes flutter open, looking dazed.

“ ‘Thur?” Merlin murmurs, squinting up at him.

“Yes, you dollop-head, it’s me,” Arthur teases, still stroking his hand.

“That’s my word.”

“Is it? Because I think it describes you much better.”

Gaius takes that moment to interrupt. “Merlin, how are you feeling?”

Merlin hums, sitting up more. “I feel fine. Hand’s a bit sore, but otherwise I’m okay. Can I get up, stretch my legs?”

“As long as you take care not to exhaust yourself, that should be fine.”

Arthur frowns, “Are you sure, Gaius? I mean, Merlin was just badly injured. Should he really be up and about already?”

“I’m okay Arthur, truly,” Merlin smiles. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were worried about me.”

In a rare moment of affection, Arthur blurts out, “Of course I was worried about you, idiot!”

Merlin gapes. “Y-you were?”

“Merlin—I found you dripping with your own blood, and it was my fault. I thought—I mean, what if I hadn’t been there in time? You could have bled out!”

Merlin’s face goes stern. “Arthur, this wasn’t your fault. If anything, it was my fault. I should have been more careful.”

“I should have noticed how exhausted you were, though. I’ve just been so caught up in everything…”

Arthur feels a hand intertwine with his own. His heart picks up speed, and Merlin looks at him hesitantly. Arthur makes no move to pull away, simply squeezing Merlin’s good hand with his own. Merlin softens at that, unconsciously leaning towards him.

“You were kind of being a prat,” Merlin admits, earning him a glare. “but I know you’ve been overwhelmed recently, too, with everything that’s been going on. I don’t blame you at all.”

Arthur swallows. “Yes, well, I suppose you deserve a day off after all this.”

At this, Merlin snorts. “How generous, my lord.”

“Hey, I can take that day away!”

Both of them are beaming by now, impossibly closer to each other. With a tenderness seldom shown to anyone else, Arthur brushes a stray strand of Merlin’s hair from out of his eyes, pressing a kiss to his forehead. Merlin leans into his touch.

“I’m glad you’re ok,” Arthur whispers, stroking his temple with one thumb. There’s so much they need to say, but right now isn’t the time. Instead, they both stand there, taking each other in. There will be time for sorting everything out properly later. Right now, they are content to relish each other’s company.

“Me, too.”

[sonicrainicorn]

Made of Love, Chapter 12

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Table of Contents

Ship(s): Logicality, (platonic) Prinxiety

All Characters: Thomas, Virgil, Roman, Logan, Patton, Dr. Picani, Joan, Talyn, and Deceit

Synopsis: Humans Roman and Virgil get wrapped up in some serious magic business without meaning to. Their other companions aren’t exactly as they seem, either. Together they all must defeat a great threat for the safety of humanity.

Chapter Desc.: After an interesting training session; Thomas, Roman, and Virgil discover an old photo in a bookshelf.

TW: Cursing

Prefer to read it on Ao3? Click here!

Despite their better judgment, both Roman and Virgil continued to keep their promise to Logan. It was stupid and careless, but they could never bring it up. They each tried to find a way to tell Patton with each time ending in failure. Anytime they worked up the courage, he just gave them his usual bright smile and then suddenly they couldn’t do it anymore. Maybe Logan had a point. Breaking that joy would have been cruel.

But it wasn’t fair to either of them. Patton had a right to know and Logan needed the help. Who knew what would happen the longer this went unchecked.

Then Virgil found out that Thomas had no idea, either. He didn’t even know it was going on at all until Virgil accidentally mentioned it in front of him. And boy, oh boy, did it make him feel terrible denying to explain it. It's Logan’s story to tell, he insisted, go bother him about it.

All in all, it was a rather rough few days.

Patton and Logan started to teach Roman and Virgil the basics of weapon fighting. How to hold said weapon(s) and the general way to use them. For the most part, Logan and Roman were together and Virgil and Patton were together. Rarely were all four of them in one place. Thomas would drop by either of their sessions every once in a while, but even his presence became scarce.

After two days, Patton had Virgil’s daggers enchanted. The day Patton came out holding two pens is the day Virgil became terrified of a writing utensil.

As promised, they worked very much like Percy Jackson’s Riptide. Well, the film version. But no one wanted to say it out loud. All Virgil had to do was click the pens and then they shifted into his daggers. To get them back to pens, he had to tap the end of the handles. It felt weird to be able to do it. This was something legitimately out of a fantasy novel happening in real life. Now Virgil understood what Roman meant.

He carried them in his pockets -- one on each side -- and made it his habit to have them there before leaving the house. Part of him was still cautious to have them so close to him. Weapons were meant to hurt and do damage -- why should they be anywhere near him? But there was something about them that he couldn’t quite place. Something that made him stick with them despite every other instinct telling him otherwise.

Many times Virgil found himself staring down at the pens as if they held the world’s secrets.

“Hello? Earth to Virgil?” Thomas waved a hand in front of Virgil’s face. “Come in, Virgil.”

Virgil pocketed the pens and looked up. “What?” He didn’t know how long he had been spacing out. Something about staring at magical pens made him lose track of time.

“I was gonna go watch Roman get his butt handed to him --”

“Thanks for the motivation,” Roman grumbled as he walked out the back door.

“-- and I wanted to know if you were gonna join.” He ended with a smile.

Virgil considered his options for a moment; stay inside and do nothing, or watch Logan totally school Roman the second he gets too cocky. “Yeah, alright.”

The two walked outside together.

Their relationship hadn’t mended all the way or anything, but Thomas still felt comfortable around Virgil. Neither of them liked to think about the incident, so they never brought it up again. Virgil continued to feel guilty about it, though. He could tell how much it still affected Thomas. Imagine if someone demanded you, a child, to spill your life’s secrets. You probably wouldn’t look at that person the same way again. Virgil wouldn’t.

But they were working around that. As long as Virgil didn’t fuck up more than he already had, then maybe they could return to how they once were. He was kind of getting tired of Thomas hesitantly telling him things.

Once the two reached the training grounds, they spotted Patton standing off to the side while Logan and Roman talked. Interesting. Patton didn’t show up to watch Roman get his butt kicked as often as Virgil and Thomas did. Why would he show up now?

“Patton?” Thomas decided to speak up Virgil’s questions. “What are you doing here?”

“Well jeez, if you don’t want to see me you can just say so.” He crossed his arms and smirked. “I’m here as a first-aid kit. And also to kinda do some magic stuff.”

“First-aid kit?” Virgil questioned.

“Magic stuff?” Thomas’s excitement overshadowed Virgil’s concern.

Patton smiled at Thomas’s enthusiasm. “It’s not as exciting as it sounds. Once Logan’s done then you’ll see.”

Thomas and Virgil sat on the usual log to wait. Eventually, Logan stopped talking to Roman and turned to Patton with a soft smile. Virgil wanted to vomit at the amount of love they looked at each other with. Even in short little glances, the two always looked like they were gazing at the stars. It was sickening.

“Are you ready?” Logan asked.

Patton shrugged. “As I'll ever be.”  He patted Logan's head as he moved past him to the center of the clearing. After slight visible hesitation, he placed his knees on the ground and put his hands over the dying grass. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a rustle of leaves and grass, nearby twigs began to move. They tumbled and rolled together until they started to stack up. Twigs wove themselves around each other in a similar manner to how Patton formed a staff many days ago. Instead of braids, they formed a thicker more intricate system. Twigs, branches, and other leftover vegetation continued to add and grow until two solid forms could be made out. Two humanoid forms, that is.

“Okay.” Patton stood up from the ground with a sigh. Virgil noticed that the patch of grass that had once been dead now flourished. “It's not mimicry or anything, but it's the best I can do.” He smiled at his two plant people. They were both of average height with no discernible features; a head, a body, two arms, and two legs.  Test dummies. “They'll respond to commands so just say ‘startup’ if you want them to activate and ‘objective complete’ when you're done.” They crumbled back to a pile of sticks. Patton chuckled nervously. “They're a little sensitive.”

“It’s perfect, Patton, thank you.” Logan gave him a swift peck on the lips.

Virgil and Thomas gagged in response.

“You two need to learn about love,” Roman sighed at them.

Shortly after, the training session had begun. This would be the first time Roman used his katana against something. Before, he had been learning with a wooden sword (and then getting his ass handed to him by a more skilled Logan) so this might have been considered a step up. In addition to that, this would be his first time sword fighting against someone that wasn’t Logan. Or, in this case, something.

One of the dummies created its own sword. It extended out more like an extension of its arm rather than an object it would hold in its hand. Its movements were slow enough for Roman to block and follow. If it got hit, it would crumple for a few seconds then regain its form. Level one, basically.

“Roman, are you scared of it?” Logan asked with a slight smirk. He had been walking around to examine how Roman did.

“W-what? No.” Roman laughed a bit to play it off. “I would never.” Despite his words, his actions were timid. He had a clear shot and gently took it, the sword sticking into the wood a little bit. The dummy fell into a pile of sticks.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of, Roman,” Patton said from beside Thomas on the log. “It’ll only go as hard as you do.”

Roman pouted. “I’m not afraid --” He squealed when the pile sprung to life and fell back on his butt.

“That’s believable,” Virgil scoffed.

“Why don't you show him how to do it, Logan?” Thomas suggested with a smile. “You're really good at this stuff.”

“Yeah, show him up.” Virgil smirked at Roman's glare.

Logan hesitated. “I don't know. I'm not really --”

“You can do it, Lo.” Patton beamed. “You set your own difficulty.”

With a sigh, Logan relented. He brought out the pommel which the rest of the sword appeared out of.

Roman pushed his bracelet down and his katana disappeared from his hand. He sent Virgil an annoyed scowl before sitting down in the grass. Virgil flicked the back of his head in retaliation. If he didn’t want to get hit, he shouldn’t have sat so close.

After taking a deep breath, Logan swung his sword. Right off the bat, the dummy blocked it. It matched Logan’s speed and skill almost instantly. Every parry, every swing had a reaction from both parties. Unlike Roman, Logan knew what he was doing. He could handle woven sticks. And he could handle them a lot better than Roman. As if to add insult to injury, once the opportunity arose, Logan sliced clean through the dummy’s torso -- splitting it in half. Whereas Roman only dared to poke it a little bit.

It fell into a pile and Logan twisted the pommel to retract his sword. Thomas cheered to celebrate the victory, making Virgil smile a bit.

“You went easy on it,” Patton commented, almost as if he were suspicious of something.

Logan rubbed his wrist. “Yes, well, I didn’t want to further damage Roman’s pride.” He gave a small smile that immediately felt off to Virgil.

Patton frowned as he eyed Logan’s wrist. Virgil had to physically restrain himself from saying anything. In fact, he ended up squeezing Roman’s shoulder with how badly he wanted to speak up. Why did he insist on keeping his promise to Logan?

Regardless, the session continued as normal. Logan made sure that Roman put a little more effort into his fighting and further emphasized that there was nothing to worry about. The dummy wouldn’t kill him or anything. His sword wasn’t anything to fear, either. He had control over it. It couldn’t do anything that he didn’t want it to.

Things went a lot better after that.

Unlike Logan, Roman ended up with a few injuries by the end of it. Minor cuts from where the dummy managed to hit him. No big deal. They were easily fixed by Patton, anyway.

“You did so well, Roman,” Patton cheered and Thomas agreed.

“Yeah, you didn’t get totally creamed today,” Virgil added with his usual sarcasm lacing every word.

“I always appreciate your input, Virgil,” Roman muttered.

Virgil responded with a silent thumbs up.

“For your first try, it wasn’t a complete failure.” Logan had similar styles of wording as Virgil did; if he meant something positive he usually didn’t make it sound that way. “You still have a lot to work on, but nothing that can’t be fixed.”

Roman gasped and put a hand to his chest. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

The rest of the day went by without much incident. Though, perhaps Virgil missed a good portion of the day due to a four-hour nap. In his defense, no loud noises woke him up. He depended on those so as to not oversleep. Most of the time they were yells from Roman and Thomas because some form of “betrayal” took place. Other times they were Logan and Roman getting into an argument. A few times Roman barged in and demanded something. Alright, so most of them were Roman. The dude was dramatic.

Once Virgil stepped out of his room, however, he got dragged into the beginning of an argument. Not one he wanted to take part in, but one he had to be involved with since Logan and Patton weren’t going to deal with it.

Thomas insisted that creatures like dragons and unicorns had gone extinct centuries ago. Roman, being the stubborn fantasy nerd that he is, refused to acknowledge the possibility of that ever happening. Why he wouldn’t take the word of someone who grew up with magic since the day he was born was beyond Virgil. Denial, possibly. Maybe he couldn’t handle learning that magic is real only to find out he’d never get to see some of the most cliche magical creatures.

Virgil didn’t care. Logan and Patton acted like they didn’t know the argument was even going on at all. They were trying to torture him, weren’t they? Ugh, if he knew they were going to be petty he would have second-guessed ever getting mad at Thomas.

Eventually, Thomas had enough of the bullshit and dragged both Virgil and Roman downstairs. The whole way down, the three continued to speak over one another. With Thomas and Roman arguing their main points and Virgil trying to get them to see reason (and maybe shut up).

The room Thomas led them into wasn’t bare like the weapons’ room. This one had bookcases along the walls. Posters and maps rolled up in a safe place or displayed on available walls. There was a desk in between two small bookcases with several scraps of papers and a notebook resting on it. An office space -- or even a research room.

Virgil decided to ignore the two in favor of looking around. There were a few pictures hanging up. Some black and white polaroids with a tiny grinning Thomas, a frame with washed out colors of Thomas and a girl, and then one that made Virgil stop. A grainy-looking photo in an old frame. Black and white like many of the others, but this one appeared much older. It depicted three people standing in front of a background of flowers. The one in the middle took Virgil a minute to recognize. Picani. He looked to be around Thomas’s physical age but still just as tall. He seemed happy. A man and a woman stood on either side of him. The woman had long hair that must have been falling out of its updo with the way she was handling it. The man seemed as if he was in the middle of holding back a laugh. All three of them kind of looked like that, actually.

Wait a minute… Virgil recognized that facial expression. It’s something he had seen many times since first moving into this house. Something that happened whenever Roman tried to start a fight or Virgil made a snarky remark he probably shouldn’t have. Whenever Logan gave a sardonic retort that Patton didn’t approve of. Because that was a face Thomas made for all of those. When he wanted to laugh but shouldn’t.

Were these Thomas’s parents?

“Here it is. Roman, stop moving your mouth, I’m about to prove you wrong.” Thomas reached up to the top of one of the bookcases. He had just enough height to grab a specific book. As he brought it down, something ended up fluttering to the floor. “I -- what is this?”

Virgil spared one last glance at the picture before walking over to the other two. Maybe he should hold onto that observation for another time.

Thomas picked up the object to reveal it as a polaroid -- like the ones on the wall. Instead of a young Thomas, this one had two people. One of them was Picani, once again looking to be around Thomas’s physical age. In this one, he seemed more shy, giving an almost bashful smile. Perhaps it had to do with the more eccentric person next to him. A teenage boy with aviator sunglasses and a wide grin.

“Who’s that?” Roman asked, pointing to the unknown boy.

“I…” Thomas furrowed his brows. “I don’t know.”

Virgil noted how close the two in the picture were sitting. It almost looked like they weren't expecting to get photographed. Picani had a book in his lap, his round frames sliding down his nose. The other boy had his legs crossed and an arm slung over the bench behind Picani's shoulders.

“We could ask Patton and Logan,” Roman suggested.

“I just -- why don’t I know him?” Thomas almost looked distressed at this.

“It’s fine, Thomas,” Virgil tried to sooth. “You don’t have to know.”

Thomas didn’t take his eyes off the picture. “But -- but this is the fifties. I was with him. I was almost always with him. How can there be someone I haven’t met from this time period?”

“Let’s just go up and ask Patton and Logan. They’ll tell us who he is and you can ask why you never met him.”

“I guess.” Thomas still didn’t take his eyes off the picture.

Virgil frowned. He tried to take it, but Thomas yanked his arm back and held it to his chest. Like a wild animal that had been cornered. Virgil held his hands up in defense. “Alright. Keep it.”

“It’s okay, Thomas. I’m sure there’s an easy explanation for this,” Roman said. “Maybe you were just never properly introduced -- there were times when you weren’t with Picani, right?”

“Yeah. When he’d go to school or work.”

“So that’s at least two times a day you wouldn’t have seen him. They must have met during one of those times and you just never had an opportunity to see him.”

“But I --” Thomas shook his head. “That makes sense, I guess. Let’s just go ask them.” He shoved the book back on the top shelf.

The whole way up, Thomas didn’t take his eyes off the picture. It made Roman and Virgil share a concerned glance. They didn’t know why this was such a big deal to him. It shouldn't have mattered so much. He didn’t need to know everything about Picani.

Once they got back up to the second floor, Thomas hurried down the hall to the living room. “Patton. Logan.”

There was a squeak and a thump as Patton fell off the couch. Logan sat up, face flushed. “What? Nothing was happening.”

“I’m gonna pretend I believe you for a second because I have a question to ask about this photo.” He pointed at it.

Patton’s head peeked up over the coffee table. “What photo?”

Thomas turned it around.

Immediately, both Patton and Logan tensed up. They stared at it with wide eyes -- as if they never expected to see it again. Patton stood up and gently took it from Thomas’s hand. Logan came around to look at it as well. They didn’t say anything as they studied it. A piece of their history captured in one tiny square.

“Where did you find this?” Patton asked softly.

“It was in one of the bookshelves.” Thomas shared a glimpse of uncertainty with Roman and Virgil. “Who is he?”

“No one.”

“A friend.”

Patton and Logan stopped to give each other a look. For the first time ever, they didn’t say the same thing when they spoke at the same time. It caused uneasiness to settle about the room. “We can’t just ignore that he ever existed,” Patton continued.

“It’s not like we haven’t tried,” Logan muttered, bitter.

Patton frowned. “That doesn’t make it okay to. It isn’t fair. Not for us -- and definitely not for him.”

“What happened to him?” Thomas interrupted tentatively.

“He was human.” Logan snatched the photo from Patton’s hands. Virgil felt his heart drop. “I’m going to put this somewhere safe. We’ll discuss this later, Patton.” He gave Patton one final look before walking away.

Patton watched him go with an indescribable emotion on his features.

“Patton,” Thomas said and wiped a stray tear that left his eye. It made Virgil aware of his own tears streaming down his face.

“Oh!” Patton snapped out of his daze. “Sorry. I’m not used to controlling that anymore.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Virgil felt the tightness in his chest ease up. He could breathe again.

“Why does that happen?” Roman asked as he rubbed the last of the tears out of his eyes.

“I guess you can call me an empath.” Patton shrugged. “I can know what others feel, but more often than not I end up sending out my own emotions. Whether or not that’s apart of my healing abilities is up for debate.” He looked down at his hands. “I’m not really aware of it half the time. And Picani doesn’t have that ability so I’m kind of getting used to having them again.”

Virgil wiped his face. “Maybe don’t send out such harsh vibes next time.”

Patton gave a half smile. “It’s not always that simple. I can keep all my normal emotions in check, but I kind of lose control over the big ones. If I get too worked up over something then I project those feelings without meaning to. Usually, they’re low enough to not be detected, but you two are humans. There’s no magic protecting you.”

“Ugh, you’re like Blue Diamond.” Roman ran his hands down his face. “I don’t think I’ve ever cried so many tears in such a short amount of time.”

“Sorry. I’ll work on that.”

Thomas frowned a bit. “If he was so important to you -- important enough to cause this --” he motioned to Roman and Virgil, whose eyes were still glossy with tears -- “why don’t I know anything about him?”

Patton paused -- as if he needed to process the words -- before letting out a sad smile. “You never wanted to.”

Thomas froze, surprise and disbelief all over his features. “What?” The word came out so quiet -- like a silent breath rolling over his lips.

Though Patton didn’t acknowledge this.  His gaze was trained out toward the hall. “I should probably talk to Logan before he starts going over the ‘what ifs’ in his head again.” He silently excused himself.

No one decided to ask any further questions.

(Next)

[tfcrp]

THIS IS YOUR GAME

Name: Paxton Ridley Age: Twenty One Class Year: Junior Position: Offensive Dealer, #3 Hometown: LaPlace, Louisiana This character is played as nonbinary.

THIS IS YOUR MOMENT

TW: abuse, misgendering

It was a dreary, rainy day in LaPlace, Louisiana the day Edward Ridley was born, brought home in tiny blue blanket. There were already lofty expectations put on their head to be perfect. The Ridley family was rather rich, as Carl Ridley was a lawyer and the family had owned a plantation in the south. Since Carl spent most days at the firm, that left his wife, Eileen, to take care of the children, Edward and their older sister, Emma. Carl and Eileen praised them for being everything a parent could ever ask for, even as they were young and had knowledge of the world, both Ridley children only heard approval from their parents and were hardly ever scolded. Bright and happy as most children were, both children were rarely seen without a smile on their face.

From a young age, they were told to strive for the best things that life could offer—price did not matter. Both Ridley children were informed that acceptance from other people was far more important than being themselves, and those words resonated with them. However, unlike their sister, Edward learned for themself that material possessions were not everything and people’s opinions were not as important as they were made out to be by their parents. They soon took pride in that way of thinking, because it allowed them to be accepting of other people rather than judging them as everyone in their family seemed to do. Wealth, status, gender, sexuality—whatever label a person had, they just did not care.

Growing up, it soon came to their attention that Emma Ridley was growing to be a vile and unfriendly person. The two of them were often told by other people that they looked and acted almost like twins, though the two were over a year apart, but that was hardly true. They may have looked alike, but the similarities stopped there. They always felt like they were being compared to their older sister, like they were inferior somehow and had to follow in Emma’s perfect little footsteps. Everywhere Emma went, she seemed to be the center of attention—twirling her skirt, batting her eyes, and smiling prettily for anyone who would watch. She wanted to be the center of attention, and she was, which made the younger Ridley became a ghost child, the forgotten one.

Not that they minded. It was easier to begin exploring their identity and who they wanted to be as a person if they could be alone. At home, the two were always compared to each other: Emma was the smarter one, and they were painfully average. In their parents’ eyes, anything below a ninety was failing and, with that criteria, failing came naturally to the second born Ridley. As much as they tried, the world seemed to continue to try and push them down. But they were not going to stand for that, they would find who they were meant to be, no matter how much work that took. Their life was a recipe for bitterness, but they did not grow bitter, instead becoming a kind soul. They hoped that one day they would be on their own and able to make decisions that would make them happy—even if they were not sure when or even where that would be.

When they were in middle school, they begged their parents to let them play in their local Exy league. The Ridleys thought the sport was vile, but hoping that it would turn them into a more responsible child, they agreed. Meanwhile, Emma did whatever she thought was interesting at the time—going between different sports every other month, it seemed. It did not take long for them to fall in love with Exy and while they did not excel in school as well as their sister, to them it did not matter because they pushed themself to become as good of a player as they could be with a volunteer coach.

They decided to continue with the sport in high school, which turned out to be a much tougher time than they expected. It did not help that both Ridley children were sent to a private charter school—one for rich, snobbish families. It took trying out for the school’s varsity Exy team for them to thrive at school. The school’s coach was a retired professional Exy player; although they would never admit it, the coach was the only thing they ever cared about that money bought. At least they were getting better direction on the court than ever before and it was clear that Exy was something they were good at as well as passionate about. Furthermore, the group of players were people that they had something in common with: they all had a shared love for Exy..

With a comfortable group of friends around, they began to question their identity. Their whole life they had been told who they were and what they would grow up to be, but they wanted none of that. They were supposed to be Edward Ridley: the perfect son, with a future in law. They began to question much of the society around them and especially the construction of gender, which led to them learning how common it was to feel the way they felt. And so Edward adopted a new name, a more gender neutral name—Paxton Ridley—and new pronouns to go along with it. It was a more comfortable name that fit better with who felt they were. At first, they started out slowly, first coming out to their best friend, then a few more friends, and their teammates. No one seemed to pay mind to the news, it did not make them less of a person or less of a Exy player.

When Emma found out, however, knowing how important image was to the Ridley family, she did the only thing she could have done in a situation like that: she blackmailed them. Knowing that their family would freak out and kick them out, they did everything their sister asked, even if it got them into trouble—and often it did. Paxton’s identity was important to them, even more important than family, but their safety was also important, so they agreed to do whatever Emma asked. In the first few months of Pax’s senior year in high school, Emma asked Paxton to hack into her college’s computer system and change one of her grades. It was the first time that Paxton refused one of her demands, which lead to Pax coming out to their parents. All hell broke loose in the Ridley household. That was not who he was supposed to be—their parents said everything to get under their skin, but no matter, Pax only thought of going off to college, and playing Exy, and being on their own.

Paxton pushed harder than ever at Exy in their senior year of high school. With the sport being the only thing that kept their attention, Pax used Exy as a distraction from their home life—which had become more than strained by that point. Often, they would find excuses to stay with a friend, rather than go home because they know that they would have to deal with their parent’s cruel comments that teetered on the line of abuse. It took its toll on them and towards the end of the Exy season, Paxton broke their left leg in two places and broke a rib—although not the worst injury that could have happened, it still left Pax with a questionable future career in Exy.

Though their parents paid for the hospital bills, they made it clear that Pax was no longer welcome in the Ridley home after high school was over. They would not pay for Pax’s education, they expected Paxton to move out as soon as they graduated, and they ignored Paxton the rest of the year. They were heartbroken. No longer welcome in the place they’d grown up, hated by the people that were supposed to love them no matter what, and unable to play the one sport that they’d fallen in love with, Pax fell into a depressive state, but attempted to focus on the rest of the school year. Pax could salvage the final few months of high school and focus on getting better—after all, there were Exy players that had come back from far worse injuries.

SEIZE IT WITH EVERYTHING YOU’VE GOT

In the end, Paxton’s injury forced them off the court, and dried up their prospects. Though there were other schools that had been interested in recruiting them, most of them had retracted their offers after hearing of their injury. But David Wymack wasn’t one of them, and he recruited them right before graduation, despite having heard of Pax’s recent injury. There was no doubt that Pax wanted to play for the Foxes; playing Exy at all was going to be a challenge, but one Pax wanted to attempt. Getting a contract at all was enough of a miracle at that point, and Pax spent most of their freshman year focusing on classes and physical therapy for their injury, slowly building up the needed strength to play, wanting so badly to get back on the court. By the end of the year, Pax could do the drills easily and play through part of the game, although sometimes they worked themself too hard on court—though they never complained about it. They practiced as hard as they could, determined to make people realize that they weren’t too injured to come back, and to show the other Foxes that they weren’t dead weight. Pax wanted to be an asset to the team.

Then the summer between Pax’s sophomore and junior year, a surprised happened in the form of a relationship they never expected to ever be fixed. Emma reached out to them, determined, with her own rejection of their parent’s wishes, to mend their relationship. They spent most of the summer helping the healing process between them—while helping prepare for their sister’s wedding in the fall. Back now for their third season with the Foxes, they have been feeling more confident. Although they still haven’t made the impact they want to on the court, they know that they’re slowly getting better each and every day. And they made themself a promise to spend every free second training and working on getting better on court. With Emma on their side going into their third season with the Foxes, Paxton has high hopes to make this their strongest season yet—and secure a Fox win at the end of the season.

PAXTON RIDLEY is portrayed by TARJEI SANDVIK MOE and is CLOSED

[loalagrace]

the fool; day 1 ~ part 2.

( I’m new to tagging TW’s but I’m going to try my best. Please note before you read that this RP is NOT for the faint-hearted & may be hard to read for some. I put a keep reading so hopefully that works for everyone!  – RP w/ @kingofstags & @angiebrice  )

Archelaos unmounted. He had left Olivia there some hours before, in a cage barely big enough for her to stand up, and with nothing but a bowl of water. She was nude, with bruises around her neck and likely around her ribs as well from a well delivered kick or two, "Her name is The Fool." He told Angie firmly, "She knows nothing else."

Olivia was sitting in the cage pouring tiny bits of water over her small injuries, like that would help any. She didn’t pay much of any mind to them when they appeared. Maybe that would make them leave.

Angaela scoots her way up to the cage, bringing a hand up to rub her own cheek as she grins at Olivia. "Oh wow.  This brings back some memories."  She glances back towards Archelaos. "Am I expected to call her that?"

Archelaos nodded, "Yes, you are. Do you remember Dirt?" He stopped, "Probably not. But I am modelling her breaking after his."

Angaela rests her fingers on the cage, squatting down to try to look eye-to-eye with Olivia. "Hello, Fool.  Looks like you've been having fun here." Angie's lips curl further into a grin as she teases the caged woman.

Olivia slowly averted a blank gaze over to Angaela as her head tilted towards a shoulder. As she continued teasing her, Olivia appeared completely unamused as her eyes went half-lidded into a near glare.

Angaela lets out a little fit of giggles as she stands back to her full height to look back to Archelaos, still keeping her hands on the cage. "So, what're you going to do from here?"

Archelaos placed his hands behind his back, "Do you have a spell that makes it so Fool can't hear us? I want it to be a surprise for her."

Olivia threw herself against the cage with that, sending it rattling and rippling. She didn't want that.

Angaela looks back at Archelaos, nodding.  She's caught unaware by Olivia and squeaks in surprise, stumbling back away from the cage. Olivia notices this and does it again, this time more aggressively.

Archelaos grinned as he watched this, seemingly amused and approving, "I do good work, don't I?" He mused, patting himself on the back as he watched his desired results in action. He brought a leg up, bringing a forceful cock to the cage and rattling it.

Angaela flushes a little bit, brushing off her robes. She isn't nearly as startled by the second rattling of the cage. She looks towards Archelaos, nodding. "I can take away her hearing. I imagine you mean temporarily, though. I'm certain I have the tool for this."

Olivia crawls backwards as far as she could away as he approached, though that wasn't much; she was still basically right there. She kicked the cage. "NO!"

Archelaos ignored Angie for the moment, looming over the cage. He wore a wide, sadistic grin on his features.  Looking her over with eyes that were more predatory than anything else, he growled: "I don't remember giving you permission to speak."

Olivia wore an angry expression, growing more so by the minute. She kicked it - again, and growled in turn. Loud, at the both of them.

Angaela leans down to brush fingers over her shadow. It suddenly seems quite a bit more liquid and sticky than before and begins to flow towards the cage. "That should do it." Hands reach up out of her shadow, which has totally left her feet now. They grasp for the bars of the cage, slowly climbing up it and out of the puddle of darkness. The full height of the creature is revealed as it oozes its way through the bars, looking disturbingly similar to a year-younger Olivia. It reaches through the bars, oozing through gaps as a testament to its liquid nature. It wants to clasp its hands over Olivia's ears.

Olivia presses her form against the back of the cage upon the revelation of the liquid, black shadow out of pure fear. This day just kept getting worse from the time the man outside was holding her by her neck. “No, no, no, no.” She kept saying, as if begging, and then she screamed it as the shadow wrapped its hands around her ears. “NO!”

Archelaos smiled as he watched all of this, his delight out of pure sadism. Once she was deafened, he began speaking, "I'm not going to feed her." he told Angie, "She has water, I will give her that to keep her alive, but I am going to starve her. Once she's desperate enough, I'll bring something out, something cute. Make her kill it and eat it. I was considering introducing it to her first as a comfort animal."

Angaela looks towards Archelaos, offering a smile. The shadow continued to press inward, intent on taking up as much space in the cage as possible without smothering Olivia to death. Angie nods at Archelaos. "How long do you plan to keep her like this? You could use this as an opportunity to cull down the number of cats she owns." Angie actually seems excited at the idea of Olivia eating her own cats.

Olivia eventually gave up and wrapped herself into a ball, her arms around her shins as her head delved into the space between her chest and knees. She couldn't hear, she couldn't even try to read their lips. She wanted to die. Is that where the scars on her arms came from?

Archelaos shook his head once, "Cats are predatory animals, it needs to be a prey animal. I want her to understand that prey are fit for consumption, nothing more. We will start with animals, and then work our way up. Once she's sufficiently broken, I will start rewarding her. Small things at first. Blankets, clothes. I will train her and she will be something amazing once I'm through with her."

Angaela's face contorts with genuine surprise.  She apparently doesn't know much about cats.  She shakes that off. "Well, if you would like any help, I'm certainly willing.  It's been awhile since I've gotten to be involved in fun activities like these. What's the end result you're hoping to reach from her?  Do you want to make her into a "predator"? Angaela does actual air quotes.

Archelaos snorted, "A hunter." He told her, "But a predator, if you want to get edgy with it, yes. If she wants to play with the big kids, I'm going to make her a big kid."

Angaela lets out a laugh.  "She might actually be somewhat scary once you're finished with her."  She reaches up to tap her chin. "How did Dirt turn out?  I'd always assumed he'd killed himself or something."

Archelaos looked over to Angie, "I think he did?" His brows furrowed, "I broke him badly, then I never saw him again. I figured either he killed himself or someone took pity on him and released him."

Angaela nods her head. "Well, if Olivia kills herself I demand her eyes." She steps closer to the cage, leaning down to whisper something incomprehensible and guttural to the shadowy monster. It promptly responds by tightening its' grip on Olly's head and trying to pry her out of her fetal state enough to slam the back of her head against the inside of the cage's wall.

Olivia yelps a high-pitched scream as it’s grasp tightens around her head, forcing her to look up though her eyes were squeezed shut with the pain it caused her. Her head was easily slammed against the back of the cage, causing blood to pour down her neck and back now. Where she may have halted her crying for those short moments, it had certainly started again - much harder.

Archelaos watched all of this with his hands behind his back, "Don't hurt her to the point that it's a danger to her health," he murmured to Angie, "I do want her to survive the ordeal, after all."

Angaela lets out a sick little laugh, more from Archelaos' request for her to tone it down than for Olivia's pain. She makes her way around behind the cage, leaning down to inspect the wound. "Oops. It's much more violent than I tend to usually expect. I just wanted her to be rattled. Oh well." She prods a finger through the bars to prod Olivia's fresh head-wound. "Want me to heal her? I doubt she'll die from this."

Olivia jerked her head back forward with the poke, "OUCH!" She growled, "Don't fucking touch me."

Archelaos’ sharp eye fell on Olivia, and he promptly kicked the cage again, "If you speak out of turn again I will rip your vocal cords out myself!" He barked at her, then looked up to Angie, "By all means, please heal her. And try to touch her as much as possible."

Olivia just glared at him. She couldn't hear him, but she hated them both already.

Angaela prods her finger back through the bars, trying to reach for any part of Olivia.   She looks over the cage towards Archelaos, grinning. "Do you want me to call off the shadows so she can hear you?"

Olivia wraps herself inward the best she could, trying to make herself small, but there was -no- room for her to move in the cage.

Archelaos nodded, "Yes, please. I can't properly threaten her unless she can hear what I'm saying, and I do hate to repeat myself." He leaned on the cage, glaring down to the girl.

Olivia looked away and grabbed the back of her head, gently, then held out her bloodied hand for him to see.

Angaela's shadowy monster melts away back down into a puddle over Olivia before pooling at the bottom of the cage and oozing out back to the ground at Angie's feet. "There."

Archelaos continued to glare down to Olivia, "What I said was: If you speak out of turn again, I will rip your vocal chords out myself, Fool." He sneered to her, exposing his teeth as he did.

Angaela pulls off her right glove, tucking it away into her robes. "Light, forgive my request for your aid in healing the worthless and weak. Grant me the strength to undo the wounds of The Fool, even as much as she deserves them for my amusement." Her ungloved hand glows golden with the Holy Light. She jams it through the bars, trying to prod Olivia in her head wound once again, this time also mending the wound her shadow caused.

Olivia appeared incredibly disturbed by that, but continued holding up her hand. "It hurts." She whined, quietly, almost begging her captor to help her. She could barely keep her eyes open, until Angaela's hand touched her wound - again-. Fuck. Though it wasn't actively bleeding anymore, her head still pounded with pain.

Archelaos scoffed, "Good. Embrace the pain, Fool." He looked over to Angie, "Tell me when you're done so I can punish her." While he wouldn't actually rip them out, as that would likely kill the girl, he knew how to simulate unnervingly realistic hallucinations: It had been what Redright had him do to Dirt to break him, and it is what he would do to Olivia.

Angaela seemed quite content with her healing and wipes her hand clean of the Light onto the side of her robes, snuffing out the glow before she puts her glove back on. "I'm all done." Angie makes her way around next to Archelaos, smiling quite genuinely as she settles in to watch.

Olivia let her hand just fall, defeated. She waited for whatever he was about to do. It wasn't like there was anywhere for her to go.

Archelaos brought his hand through the bars of the cage, poking his thumb to Olivia's forehead. Shadow magic danced around the digit. To him and Angie, nothing was happening. To Olivia, she would watch as an illusion of Archelaos ripped open the door of the cage and dug his hand physically into her neck. It was a horrifically realistic vision. She would be able to feel his fingernails and knuckles tearing through flesh and muscle, hear the sickening squishes and pops as he pulled back, bringing the majority her throat with him and preventing her from breathing -- Or so it felt like. Physically, she could breathe just fine.

Angaela swayed from side to side, watching Archelaos do his magic.  It wasn't terribly interesting from her perspective but he had a rough idea of what he was doing and she knew quite well that Olivia's reaction would be the entertaining part of this.

Olivia leaned her head back and began to choke - apparently she couldn’t even tell that she was actually able to breath just fine if she tried. She would have tried to scream with the assumption nothing would come out - though it did, and it was loud and agonizing. Her hands began to swat around the air at her neck where she would have thought his own were but nothing was there. It didn’t matter. She couldn’t tell it wasn’t real.

Angaela brings a hand up to her mouth, covering it to muffle her giggles so everyone can enjoy the screaming unhindered.

Archelaos watched, a smile twisting on his face as he withdrew his hand and observed her reactions. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes for a moment and drinking in her terror and agony. His hands balled into fists, "Light, how I've missed this. I used to do shit like this every damn day when I lead an Inquisition." He opened his eyes, then allowed the illusion to drop, still smiling almost dreamily down to Olivia, as though he were getting some sort of high from it.

Olivia instantaneously rose her hand to grab her neck as reality set back in before her; it was just her neck. It hurt from the bruising, though there was no hole. The blood on her hands was there from her head. She looked up to Archelaos, knowing exactly what he had done then, and she looked both afraid and disgusted. She spat at the ground.

Angaela lets out a sudden fit of obnoxiously loud laughter, as if she'd been holding back to wait for the punchline of a joke she knew was coming.  It was cruel laughter, entirely directed at Olivia.

Olivia glared those eyes right over at Angaela now, though that was all she did for the time being.

Archelaos inhaled, then exhaled. He looked over to Angie, "Well, that's all I really wanted to show you. I'm finished with her for today, unless she acts up again."

Angaela nods her head at Archelaos. "Call me over again if you'd like.  This is definitely the sort of thing I enjoy watching."

Archelaos chuckled at that, "I will. I'm glad that you enjoyed it." He looked over to Olivia then, "I expect you to be better behaved tomorrow, Fool. I pray for your sake that you are."

Olivia just stared at the two of them, waiting for them to leave. Archelaos left, as Angaela waves at Olivia, offering her a smile before climbing back onto her carpet and shooting off into the distance.

[aftgficrec]

Hiii!! Do you know of any fics where Neil gets badly hurt and almost dies and Andrew is overprotective? Or just hurt Neil and overprotective Andrew? Thank you! :)

Well, friend, overprotective Andrew is practically canon, and if you add an injured  Neil into the mix, you get some great fics!  Let me refer to some previous posts of ours containing some excellent fics, in addition to the post canon or AU-set fics here.  Enjoy! - S

Neil with a major injury: ‘Pause and Restart my Heart’, ‘The Bones of You’,  ‘let them hear me shout (for you)’

Andreil in hospital: ‘i won’t say we aren’t family’, ‘you're not next before forever’, ‘Crash course in feelings (or Andrew is done with Neil's martyr complex, the remix)’

‘Neil's first injury and Andrew's first deal’ here

‘Cats, Idiots and Road Bikes’ here

‘just like that day’ here

Speaking In Silences by Aelys_Althea [Rated T, 19665 words, incomplete, last updated Jan 2021]

It had been months since Binghamton's game and the world hadn't readjusted itself. It still stood as tipped askew as Andrew had always known it to be, yet since that game it had been worse. It was so askew that he could barely keep his feet.

Neil was gone. Not dead, Andrew knew he wasn't dead, but gone. The worst part was that for once Andrew could do nothing to bring him back.

tw: violence, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: ableism, tw: implied/referenced self-harm

My Brother's Keeper by kanekicure [Rated T, 11698 words, complete, 2020]

Part 2 of Way Down We Go, parts 1 and 3 here

Aaron Minyard thinks his brother is dead.

So, on land, with a group of dysfunctional humans called the Foxes, he's shocked to find out his twin brother is currently being hunted alive by infamous merpeople trappers, and rivals, the Ravens.

One small problem is Aaron doesn't know that the Ravens aren't actually after his brother, but in fact, his brother's mate. And now Aaron needs to mend a two year old, destroyed, relationship with his pissed off brother in order to get both of them back to land and safety.

tw: violence, tw: blood

One Last Game by winhcster [Rated T, 3990 words, incomplete, last updated Dec 2020]

It's Neil's junior year/Andrew's senior year. It's the last game of the year and not only is it Andrew's last game but the Pro Court scouts have come to watch them play. Neil has gone all out that year, to enjoy playing with Andrew and the rest of the Foxes before they leave. It may not be important to Andrew but it's important to Neil. They have to win.

Andrew's heart had only ever stopped three times. The moment Nicky's father led him to Drake. When Neil was kidnapped. And now--when he heard Neil's screams through roar of the stadium. It was a voice so familiar as his own. A voice he associated with home. So Andrew on instinct ran. Ran to Neil. Ran to protect the one thing he couldn't stomach to lose. Thousands of scenarios ran inside his head as he threw open the doors to the locker room. It could have been worse, Andrew thought, but to Neil, this was the end. This was his everything. And now it's hanging by a thread.

Broken bones by All_for_the_andreil [Rated T, 1126 words, complete, 2020]

Neil gets injured during a game and freaks out. Andrew finds out what exactly happened to Neil in Baltimore.

Where the Night Takes Us by darkbluebox [Rated M, 4631 words, complete, 2020]

Nathaniel Wesninski – or Neil Josten, according to the forged papers Andrew procured for him - was more trouble than he was worth.

This was the mantra Andrew repeated to himself as he stalked across his study to where Neil waited for him, slouched on his couch with a false nonchalance that said, I’m sitting like this by choice, and not because I’ve lost too much blood to keep myself upright. He flinched as Andrew approached, but stilled when Andrew seized his chin between his thumb and forefinger, turning Neil’s face from side to side to inspect the damage. It was as though Andrew’s touch melted something stiff and glacial in Neil’s core, and he visibly softened, reassured by Andrew’s protective grip.

Neil showed none of the fear or anger one might expect from someone Andrew had recently pulled, unconscious, from a car full of bullets and corpses.

tw: blood

A Broken Promise by dilemmaed [Not Rated, 2076 words, complete, 2020 ]

“I keep my promises,” Andrew said, “if you kept yours, we wouldn’t be having this little problem.”

For a moment, the coach was silent and Neil thought that Andrew might let go.

Then, “h-he said he was fine to play.”

Andrew barked out an incredulous laugh, “and you believed him?”

The coach gaped as Andrew’s hand tightened in his shirt. Neil could hear Andrew’s sick smile in the tone of his voice, reminding him too much of the time Andrew had spent on anti-psychotics, of Andrew’s thin laughter and his manic grin, “then you’re an even bigger idiot than he is,” he said.

Close Call by justdk [Rated T, 1471 words, complete, Andreil Week 2019]

Neil wakes up and doesn't know where he is

The Foxhole Ficlets by exyking [Rated E, collection, last updated 2017]

Chapter 8: Only Fools | Andreil

Andrew gets an emergency call from Kevin, and he's not particularly happy about it.

touchstone by badacts [Rated G, 2058 words, complete, 2016, locked]

He’s getting into his car at the apartment, and then there’s a referee crouched over him saying his name. He sounds like he’s been repeating himself for a while. Neil’s in full gear and flat on his back on the court floor with no recollection of even pulling into the court parking lot, just a grey blank space where those memories should be.

His head is killing him.

tw: panic attacks