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ninjakasuga · 3 years

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Sonally Week Year 3 Day One

Another year, another of @gojira007 and their blog @boundforfreedomsonsal hosting another week of one of the best OTP’s of fiction. Here’s my entry for Day One: Dawn.

Foreward: Another year; another Sonally Week! Here’s my entry for Day One, and hope ya’all enjoy. This one is a sequel of sorts to my “Surprise” Day entry last year, where after some heckling over certain aspects of his romance with Sally; Sonic gets the news he’s gonna be a big brother! Instead of a literally dawn I decided to do a more thematic ‘dawn of a new part of life’ aspect than the actual time of day.

“Sonic.”

The blue furred Hedgehog in question continued to pace the floor, seeming to either not hear, or simply not regard the call of his name. He stopped, but not to reply, and began to tap his foot repeatedly as he often did in a show of impatience. Soon he was pacing yet again, causing the one trying to get his attention to sigh in exasperation, again.

“Sonic!” Raising her voice, just-oh-so-slightly, Sally again, attempted to get the attention of her fiancé’ this time reaching out and managing to grasp his tail and give it a small yank. Probably not the best thing for Sonic’s pride as he let out the cutest squeak in response, but Sally didn’t mind. Smiling coyly yet with a hint of apology in her eyes as he turned to face her, she reached for his arm, softly rubbing it. “Calm down a bit hun, you’re going to wear the floor out.” Rubbing his slightly sore posterior, Sonic gave his beloved a mild glare that softened almost as soon as it appeared; agitation giving way to the concern plaguing him. “Sorry Sal, it’s just, well it’s been over an hour since the expected due date. What’s the hold up?”

A voice quips from a chair along the opposite side of the waiting room from Sonic and Sally. “Well that’s how labor sometimes goes Sonny-boy. I mean you didn’t exactly pop out as soon as your Ma’s water broke. Slow-going was the name of the game.” Chuckled Charles Hedgehog, finding much amusement in his nephew’s impatience. An impatience he very much empathized with, but knew better than to get too riled up at this point. “So an hour past when the doctor expects the babies to come is small change, especially compared to how you made everyone wait a whole ten hours and ninety-one minutes before you finally graced us with your presence.”

Sitting besides Charles, Rosie Woodchuck let out her own dainty but hearty giggle as she reached to give the silver-furred Hedgehog a gentle squeeze of his hand. “Oh the language coming out of that room. We both feared for your brother’s manlihood if not his existence.”

“I wasn’t that hard on Mom was I?” Inquired Sonic with genuine curiosity mixed with a mild hint of indignity. His gaze only half-way went to his Uncle and Rosie; mainly because he still found it weird they were dating. Correction had been dating on the down-low since, well, a long time with the two only having a ‘break’ when he’d been roboticized all those years. He was genuinely happy for them, but it was still just plain weird to him.

“I think pregnancy is hard for any woman the first time around, or so I read and was told.” Mused Sally as she gently pulled Sonic to sit beside her, rubbing his quills to both straighten them out, and to soothe his nerves. Not unlike Sonic she was still processing the semi-recent revelation that her beloved former Nanny and Sir Charles had been dating under everyone’s noses for so long. Then again should she be surprised? Both were rather private people about their personal lives outside of whatever they did with friends and family. Not to mention the true reason they kept it quiet back in the day had more to do with concerns their positions in the Royal Court would cause unrest for some if their more intimate relationship came to light.

Looking toward Rosie, Sally was now curious about her own birth given the topic. “Were Elias or I rough on Mother?”

Rosie shook her head, “Not really, Elias took some time, but your dear Mother thankfully did not have too rough a time of it. Her calm demeanor kept up even dealing with labor pains, and the end result more than made up for it. You were much easier, as she knew what to navigate and you only took so many hours after the labor contractions began to grace us with your presence.” She smiled fondly, thinking about the two occasions, then giggled. “That said she wasn’t above occasionally reminding your Father it was his fault she was in that state, and well, that’s her story to tell more than mine.”

Snickering, Sally looked at Sonic with a very straight face, barely keeping a grin from forming. “I promise if we have kids, not to threaten your masculinity. That said, I will probably get my vengeance some other way.”

Lifting an eyebrow, Sonic elbowed his girlfriend-now-fiance’ gently in the arm. “Oh reeeeeeeally? Well you gotta catch me first Sal.”

“I already did.” She murmured, leaning in to kiss his cheek as she laced her fingers with his.

“Got me there,” Relenting, Sonic returned the smile, as well as the kiss, planting it on her fluffy cheek before leaning back in his seat. His concern for his Mother and his impending siblings, slightly alleviated for the time being.

The elder couple shared a look, one they had often shared when they were witness to the dear love and devotion between Sally and Sonic. From children to adults, the two always seemed to be a pair they fit so well, it was clear as day even when they were in diapers or arguing up a storm as toddlers, to their teen years. The small things in life that made all the gloom and doom of the past decade and some odd-change worth living for. Soon everyone’s heard turns as the double-door leading to the maternity ward opened and Doctor Quack limped out, leaning on his cane carefully, but with a confident stride; showcasing he’d come to master the walking tool quite well.

“Well-?!”

Holding up his free hand, both to interrupt as well as allow Quack to pull down his mask, his bill forming into a smile. “Your newborn sister and brother are here, healthy and loud, and your Mother is doing very well herself.”

The four cheer as they stand up, mindful this was still a hospital and kept it down, but their jubilation was completely understood.

“Can we see them?” Asked Sonic, already antsy and looking ready to speed down the corridor.

“Yes, we’ve already handled all the post-birth clean up, and checked their vitals as well as Bernie’s, who herself wishes to see you all as well. So I see no issue with allowing visitation right away, but do keep it brief, they do need their rest.” Advised the water-foul doctor as he kept himself straight, if just to fight off his own fatigue which was now creeping up after the long labor. “Just NO running Sonic, got it?”

At the mild admonishment, the Hedgehog simply grinned. “Me? Run through a hospital? Would I do thaaaaaaaaaaaat?”

“Yes, you would.” Everyone else remarked with amazing timing and matching deadpan. To which Sonic rolled his eyes.

“Sheesh, talk about a crowd! Anyway let’s go, let’s go!” Sonic urged, already half-dragging Sally along, forcing his beloved to keep in rapid pace close to him as they held hands still. Sally simply went with it, laughing softly at Sonic’s outright adorable impulsive need to see his new siblings. Chuck and Rosie merely followed at their pace, but there was certainly a spring in their step as well.

Eventually the group, along with Doctor Quack, reach the room designated for Bernie and her newborns. Managing to keep Sonic at bay enough, Quack pushed the door open for them and cleared his throat. “Jules, Bernie, your guests have arrived.”

Like an impatient puppy, Sonic squeezed past Quack, Sally trailing hand-in-hand still from behind. His emerald-green eyes, zeroing-in on the target, even as his breath hitched softly as a wave of emotion floored Sonic as he finally gazed upon his Mother and new siblings. As tired as Bernie Hedgehog looked, nothing could dull the intense love and adoration in her eyes and face as she held two swaddled bundles in her arms. Her husband Jules’ own expression was a mirror of his wife’s, only tinged with the pride only a Father can know. Each look up their expressions beaming more at the sight of their eldest child, with Jules instantly waving him over.

“Hey there son, come say hi to your baby brother and sister!”

Noticing that Sally seemed a bit frozen, Sally found back a ‘snerk’ that wanted to come out, and simply pulled him along. Upon seeing the two infants, mewling and cooing, her own eyes mist. “Awww, they’re adorable!”

“Y-yeah they are…” Sonic managed a dry chuckle, why did his throat feel so dry? He’d been psyched for this ever since his Mom laid the bombshell she was pregnant nine months ago! Of all the times for Sonic the Hedgehog to choke and lose his cool, it’s this? He didn’t lose his cool this much, asking Sally to marry him for Almighty’s sake! Leaning over he got a much better look at the two.

One of the two clearly favored their Mother’s more light-purple coat, another had the milder-blue of his Father. Both were cute as a button, and just, the sounds they made! Sonic usually wasn’t one to obsess over cute things, but he was entranced. “So we got names for these two? Or do I call em’ Li’ Sib one, and two?”

“We were thinking of Sonia, for this little angel.” Explained Bernie as she gently pet the back of her daughter’s head. The newborn curled against the warm hand that carried the scent of her Mother. “As for this handsome young man, I was thinking of something with M, like Manwell or Manny.”

“If he’s anything like Sonny-boy he’ll be one manic child.” Chuckled Charles as he and Rosie moved closer taking the end of the bed so as to not crowd anyone.

Something about that line struck a chord with Jules, who instantly adopted a thoughtful look as he rubbed his chin. “Manic, manic, why not Manic?” He grinned even as his wife looked at him rather funny. “Face it hun, if Sonic’s any indication, these two are going to be spirited, and it kind of goes well don’t you think?”

After a moment, Bernie tired rolled her eyes. “Fine,” she however smiled, “Manic it is. However if that name causes him woe, I’ll be sure he knows he has you to blame.”

“Anybody gives him or Sonia woe I’mma deck em’.” Sonic proclaimed, pounding his fists together.

“Nor alone,” Agreed Sally as she leaned against him. They weren’t her siblings biologically, but already she had decided she would help protect them at all cost.

“Triple, and quadruple so.” Added Rosie, who nodded along with Charles. The family was united on this front.

“Fantastic.” Giggling, Bernie kissed the heads of her newborns. “Hear that, your family is ready to murder for you.”

“You all can plot future murder later, as much as I hate to spoil the moment, Mother and both newborns need rest.” Spoke up Quack as he stood at the door, keeping silent until now.

Yawning, Bernie nodded in agreement, she was drained. Her gaze lifted to her husband. “You get some rest too, you’ve been up with me through all this.”

“I didn’t do even a fraction of the work; but, rest sounds good.” He yawned, quickly covering his mouth. “Mind if I just crash here Doc?”

“I’ve already asked an orderly to bring a rollaway for you. I know better.” Smiled the duck-doctor in a knowing fashion. “Now come now everyone, time to go.”

Looking at his parents, Sonic instantly stated. “We’ll visit tomorrow, promise.”

“Looking forward to it son, looking forward to it.”

Giving his siblings one last look, Sonic smiled and winked at the two infants. “Welcome to the world you two, hopefully by the time you can talk and explore the world there’ll be one last fat-man to worry about. That’s a big-bro promise!”

#boundingintofreedomsonsal #Sonic the Hedgehog #Princess Sally Acorn #Bernie Hedgehog #Jules Hedgehog #Chuck Hedgehog #Rosie Woodchuck #Manic Hedgehog #Sonia Hedgehog #Archie-Sonic

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cavalierious-whim · 3 years

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Whelp (FE3H)

Sylvix | Pre-Game | Canon-Compliant AU | Teen

It’s long been said that a Gautier who graces the battlefield is Death incarnate. But Sylvain's not just a wolf, he's also a boy, and all he wants to do is enjoy his youth.

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A/N: So let's consider this: Crests aren't a boon, they're a curse. What's it like to live with that? This is the first in a collection of stories called 'Of Crests and Curses'. The storyline is that of the game, which is why I've tagged it Canon-Compliant AU. Read here on AO3 for better quality! And follow mere here on Twitter.

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It’s long been said that a Gautier who graces the battlefield is Death incarnate.

A boon, gifted to the bloodline by the Goddess. Nearly feral with rage and born to ravage the battlefield as beasts, the Gautier family see themselves as harbingers of death: if you meet one in battle, then you’ve met your end.

Time wears on and views change. The Gautier blessing is now a blessing only to their own. The rest of the world whispers of a curse instead, carefully concealed behind titles and lordship. Those who carry the burden are nothing but beasts, bred to bring death and destruction upon their foes, relishing it.

The Margrave Philippe Alexandre Gautier has a reputation to uphold. He’d done his duty for King Lambert, loping across enemy lines and battlefronts, and then later, he’d held the North against Sreng. He still holds the North against Sreng.

But, Philippe’s reign of terror is regrettably over; his bones ache a little bit more with every shift, and his nose isn’t good for much nowadays.

Miklan is a disaster. He’s got the bloodlust required of a Gautier but no crest to match it. Phillipe frowns at the mere thought. It’s a pity. Gautier men need that bloodlust, they thrive on it, but the beast is also required to temper it. When left alone, it’s more like gunpowder, prone to exploding when you least expect it. A careful balance is required.

There’s a scream from the other room and his head snaps up, fighting the instinctual urge to go be with his mate. Not quite a man and not quite a wolf, but that deep-seated connection thrums through his heart. The midwife won’t let him in and he does his best to maintain hope.

And so, Phillipe waits, pacing the long corridor of the Gautier fortress. Even in the summer months, Gautier can be frigid, the bitter cold seeping deep into the stones of his home.

Eventually, the screaming stops. The midwife opens the door and Philippe slips in quietly. There isn’t any crying, but his wife doesn’t look distressed. She holds a bundle close to her, her face tired and red and sweating.

When Philippe peeks into the folds of the blanket, he sees fur, wet and sticky, a deep auburn red.

“A crest,” says Philippe to his wife. “Our--” He pauses and waits, looking back to her, his tongue-tied.

“Son,” says his wife, her voice raspy from hours of crying out. “Our son has a crest.”

Pride swells within Philippe as he takes the bundle from her breast. Their son is a small thing, his eyes still closed. His maw is wide open, pink, and toothless gums on display. He’s the most beautiful thing that Philippe has ever seen.

But more importantly, he’s the most useful.

“There are big plans for you,” Philippe says, petting the downy fur at the crown of his son’s head. “Big plans indeed, my precious Sylvain.” Philippe pulls the boy closer so his son can learn his scent.

Yes, incredibly useful indeed.

If there’s one thing that Sylvain Jose Gautier can’t resist, it’s a good tail wag.

Well, that’s a lie. He also loves a really good smell, the kind that sticks in your nose all day. Or a really good cut of steak, tender and juicy and more on the raw side than not. Okay, so, there’s a lot of things that Sylvain loves and it’s too hard to pick just one, so he’ll try to enjoy them all, he thinks.

Fraldarius Manor isn’t as large as his home, but it’s busier. Servants bustle to and fro, guards stand here and there, and there’s a massive assortment of sights and smells and noises and--

Sylvain knows that he shouldn’t get ahead of himself, but his foot twitches, ready to explore. Small as the manor is when compared to the Gautier Fortress, there’s not a doubt in his mind that it holds more secrets than he could ever sniff out. He’s excited to try.

There’s just one problem.

Before Sylvain can even turn to him, his father reaches out and grabs the back of his neck firmly. He doesn’t have a scruff in his human form, so Sylvain winces. Not painful but it doesn’t feel great, and Sylvain resists the urge to wiggle out of his father’s grasp like a slippery little snake.

“Sylvain,” says his father in a hiss. “Quit your fidgeting.”

Sylvian whines in response, but it only causes his father to grip a little bit harder. He’s not angry, Sylvain thinks. It’s just a warning, Sylvain tells himself. Sylvain doesn’t get very many warnings.

“Duke Fraldarius is meeting us here at the entrance and he’s bringing his sons. Be on your best behavior.”

“I don’t want to meet his sons,” says Sylvain, lips pulling into a terse frown. He wants to sniff out things, to explore, to get stuck in tight little places. He’s got a sense of adventure that itches to be scratched, nearly as bad as that one time he’d gotten fleas as a toddler.

“You will,” says his father, his grip pinching. Sylvain doesn’t whine this time, his mouth snaps shut in a grimace. It’s better to not show pain, to just put on a brave face and bear it. Finally, his father lets go with a sigh. “There’s plenty of time to satisfy your curiosity later on. Until then, behave. We are Gautiers. Act like one.”

Act like one. Sylvain huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. Familiar words that he’s tired of hearing. Sometimes, Sylvain feels as though it’s the only thing that his father knows how to say. Gautier, this, Gautier that. Gautier boys are expected to hold the north and strike down their enemies.

Gautier boys are expected to do a lot of things that Sylvain has no interest in.

He doesn’t want to strike down any enemies, he wants to find that delicious grilled meat whose smell is stuck in his nose. Besides, there aren’t any enemies here at Fraldarius Manor. His father has spoken at length about the Duke and his kin. The Fraldarius family has long since been framed as something to both admire and admonish; their loyalty to the crown is unmatched, but also their downfall.

“Watch them carefully and learn,” said his father one night. “Learn from their drive and then their folly, and combine that with our strength. You will be unstoppable, pup.”

Servants of the Fraldarius household watch him and his father warily, skirting around them with a wide breadth. Their guards aren’t nearly so feared, but then again, they aren’t wolves. Sylvain had once asked his father about it.

“They know what we are, and so, they fear us,” said his Father. “As they should.”

Sylvain doesn’t want to be feared but he’s got little control over it, so he makes do. He’s ten and has other things to worry about, like the way that mud squishes between his paws.

Duke Fraldarius takes his time to greet them, but eventually, the double front doors open wide. The duke is a rat-like looking man, with thick and wavy hair, but a thinning goatee. A tall, slightly gangly teenager treks behind him, and their group is rounded out by a boy who looks younger than Sylvain.

They all have wild, wavy dark hair, but the boys have theirs tied back and out of their faces. The older boy looks tired but stands alert, and the youngest hides behind him, grabbing onto his thighs as he sneaks a peek.

“Philippe,” says the Duke with familiarity. He steps forward and they clasp hands, and for the first time in years, Sylvain sees his father smile the slightest bit. They must be actual friends. Amusing. Sylvain has always thought his father had none.

“Rodrigue,” says Sylvain’s father. “Thank you for having us.”

“Nonsense,” says the Duke. “There’s more than enough room and coming here is easier than traveling to the palace.”

Sylvain’s father nods. “When does his Royal Highness arrive?”

The Duke lets out an annoyed huff. “I have no idea. The King does as he wants, which includes showing up late.”

“So he’s late, then?” The Margrave laughs. “And Count Galatea?”

“Nearly here,” says the Duke. “The Count will be bringing Ingrid of course, to spend time with Glenn.”

Sylvain can’t help the face that he makes when he hears that. He’s never met Glenn or Ingrid, but his father has spoken of their betrothal before. Sylvain risks a glance at the older boy that stands before them. This must be Glenn. Sylvain’s not sure what he expected, but the somber-faced and weary teenager that stands there isn’t it.

He looks boring.

“How is the arrangement going?” asks the Margrave.

“Well, I would think.” There’s a pause as the Duke casts a glance in Sylvain’s direction. “I wish you luck in your efforts, of course.”

At his words, it’s as if his father finally remembers that Sylvain is there. He reaches out and presses his hand against Sylvain’s head, ruffling his hair. “I have no doubt,” says his father. “After all, Sylvain possesses a crest and good breeding.”

The Duke’s little smile twitches slightly at that, but then he nods in agreement. “Let’s lead you inside then and get you settled. We’ll talk about such things later. I’m sure you’d prefer some rest.”

“I’d prefer to explore,” says Sylvain before he can stop himself. His father’s smile slips and Sylvain can nearly smell the annoyance that radiates off of him.

The Duke, however, looks genuinely amused by this and before the Margrave can reprimand Sylvain, he says, “I’m sure that can be arranged.”

Glenn, as it turns out, isn’t boring at all.

The Duke had asked his sons to give Sylvain a proper tour of the place, but the moment that Rodrigue had turned his back, Glenn cocked his head to the side, gave Sylvain a wide smirk. “I bet that’s not what you want to do at all, is it?”

Sylvain likes to explore and Glenn likes to pull pranks and cause mischief. The two of them together are a hellish pair and they’ve barely begun their antics.

“So, what about your little brother?” asks Sylvain. They’re skirting around the eastern edge of the manner, Sylvain walking atop a parapet with Glenn following alongside below him.

“Felix?” asks Glenn. “What about him?”

“He’s not here?”

Glenn lets out a long and deep laugh straight from his belly. “Felix would never,” says Glenn. “Not unless Father made him. He’s too much of a crybaby.”

“A crybaby?” Sylvain then remembers how Felix had hidden behind Glenn’s legs. “How boring.”

“I pray to the Goddess every day that he’ll grow out of it,” says Glenn. “What’s the point of having a little brother if you can’t wreak havoc together?”

Sylvain can’t imagine. Glenn cares for Felix, something that Sylvain’s never seen in Miklan. Miklan only has curses and balled fists for Sylvain, and he’s learned the hard way that it’s easier to run and hide than try to play.

But then, Sylvain’s reminded of his father’s wish to befriend the boys. He opts to smile wide at Glenn and not think of Miklan. “I’m not your little brother, but I am younger than you.”

Glenn shoots him a smile back, but it’s a little more lopsided and a lot more conniving. “Want to go cause some mischief?”

“Not really,” says Sylvain, “I smelled some grilled meat earlier that I have to find.” He pauses, giving Glenn a knowing look. “But you know, if you want to cause some problems on the way there, I won’t say anything.”

Glenn reaches out to nudge his cheek affectionately. “I knew that I liked you the moment I saw you. Come on then; I’ll show you where Meryl’s stall is.”

“Meryl?” asks Sylvain.

“Meryl,” confirms Glenn. “Only the best cook in this entire complex. No doubt it’s her food that you caught a whiff of.”

Glenn leads him along the western side of the grounds. It’s not like the Gautier Fortress which is all cold stone and even colder weather. Fraldarius Manor is warmer and brighter, part stone and part wood, and bustling with activity. It’s like two different worlds, but Sylvain already loves it here because there’s too much to see in just one day.

And Miklan isn’t there, which is a bonus.

“You said that you’d smelled it,” says Glenn. They’re watching the stall from afar, leaning against a column. Trying to look inconspicuous. Glenn succeeds rather well, but Sylvain fails to capture his ease, looking awkward instead. The servants find it cute, giggling softly as they walk by.

“Smelled what?”

“The meat.” Glenn waves to the stand. “We’re not exactly near the entrance gate.”

Sylvain’s mouth parts slightly. “Oh, that.” He shrugs. “It’s part of being a wolf, I guess. I have a really good sense of smell.”

“Wait, the wolf thing is literal?”

“Haven’t you read the histories?” Sylvain frowns. His father’s made him practically memorize entire books; centuries of stories about Gautier men and women leveling the battlefield as Death incarnate.

You know, typical bedtime stories.

Glenn watches him for a moment, hand on his chin, thinking. Then he says, “I’ve always assumed that it was more of a metaphorical thing.”

“What’s metaphorical ?” asks Sylvain. Glenn laughs.

“Don’t worry about it, pup,” says Glenn in jest.

Sylvain makes a face. “Ew, no, don’t call me that. That’s what my father calls me.”

“All right, all right.” Then, Glenn gives him a mischievous grin. “Hey, I know how good your nose is, but how good are your stalking skills? You know, getting down low and sneaking up on prey?”

“As good as any wolf’s,” Sylvain says, sticking out his chest haughtily. It’s a lie. Sylvain hasn’t gotten a lot of practice in, but he wants to impress Glenn.

“I’ll distract Meryl while you sneak up and grab a couple of meat sticks grilling over the coals.”

“Wouldn’t she just give them to you, if you asked?” Glenn is the Duke’s son. There’s no way that the vendor wouldn’t just comply with his request.

“Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?”

Sylvain shoots Glenn a conspiratorial glance in return. He decides right then and there that he likes Glenn, and wishes he were his big brother instead. Maybe Felix will want to be his brother too.

Sylvain hasn’t met a lot of girls in his short life, but he’s fairly certain that most aren’t like Ingrid.

He’s read books, both fiction and non-fiction. Girls and women have their place within packs. Sylvain thinks of his mother, lovely and demure, always dressed nice and smelling like flowers. Quiet unless she’s spoken to, with kind eyes and an even kinder smile. The only person that his father genuinely loves, most like.

And then there’s Ingrid, a wild child covered in dirt and dust, smells like sweat, and whose eyes gleam with a challenge. She wears trousers like a boy, she wields a wooden lance, and she curses like a sailor when Glenn knocks it from her grip.

Sylvain’s mouth falls open in surprise. Ingrid’s only a year younger than him and at nine, she shouldn’t say such things. But Glenn doesn’t mind, shooting her a menacing little wink, and Sylvain is certain that he’s figured out who she learned such words from.

It’s not that women in the Gautier family don’t fight, only the wolves do. And there hasn’t been a female crest bearer in the Gautier line for decades. Ingrid isn’t a wolf, therefore seeing her in the training grounds with the rest of them is a bit of an adjustment.

Sylvain learns that he likes things that are a little different, though. His father drones on and on about propriety and the way that things are supposed to be, but Sylvain only finds expectations to be confining. He longs for the freedom to be himself and do what he wants.

He knows he won’t have long to enjoy it.

“What’s he staring at?” asks Ingrid rudely, and Sylvain realizes that she’s talking about him.

“You,” says Glenn, unapologetically. “And all those sticks in your hair.”

Ingrid gasps, running her hands through her blonde locks, but when there are no sticks, she lets out an annoyed shriek, throwing a rock at Glenn. Glenn throws his hands up and runs the length of the training yard, Ingrid chasing after him.

Not for the first time over the last few days, Sylvain wonders what it’d be like to have a brother like Glenn in his life.

And then, Sylvain thinks of Felix. Glenn had told him that Felix was a crybaby and scared of everything. Sylvian’s barely seen the boy-- once or twice, and the moment they lock eyes, Felix hides away again. Behind Glenn’s legs, behind their father, around a corner or even running from the room entirely.

Sylvain frowns. Crybaby indeed.

“Ridiculous, chasing each other around like that.” Sylvain turns to his father who stands beside him. The Duke is on his other side.

“Philippe, it’s harmless,” says the Duke. “They’re children.”

“It’s never too soon to learn manners.” Sylvain’s father gives him a pointed look. “Take Sylvain for instance. Always properly behaved. Always an example.”

Sylvain hides a smile behind a cleverly placed cough. The Duke smiles at him, just a little quirk of his mouth. So, maybe he hadn’t hidden his smile well enough. Rodrigue then gives Sylvain’s father a disappointed tut. “I’ll say it again: they’re children. Let them enjoy themselves. Eventually, they’ll answer the call of duty and they’ll never have time for fun again.”

Sylvain’s father huffs at that. “There’s no room for fun when you’re a lord.”

“There’s a little bit of room for it,” says the Duke, measuring a small gap between his fingers.

“You sound like his Royal Highness.” The Margrave sighs wearily. “That’s not surprising though.”

“His Royal Highness knows how to balance work and family.”

“Speaking of family, where is Felix?” asks the Margrave.

“Ah, Felix,” says the Duke. “Off hiding, no doubt.”

“Hiding--”

“It’s nothing, really,” says Rodrigue. “He’s young yet and he’s shy. It’s as simple as that.”

“Sylvain used to be shy.”

“Used to be?”

“We fixed it.”

Sylvain’s not smiling anymore. Instead, Sylvain’s thinking of kneeling on his knees for hours on end during his father’s meetings, listening to political talk. He’s thinking of reciting lines and missed meals when he’d cowered before another adult. Not really in fear, but overwhelmed by smells and sights and sounds.

He’s not overwhelmed anymore. Sylvain’s learned to tune things like that out.

Sylvain thinks about what his father likes to say.

“It’s not a matter of whether you want to, it’s that you will. Until then, it’s on your knees.”

Sylvain tells himself that his father isn’t cruel, that this is just the way of the wolf, but the older gets the less he believes. Just like Miklan. Sylvain knows that it’s not normal to throw fisticuffs at a boy half your size and age.

But if he tells himself that it is, it’s easier to pretend.

The Duke’s gaze slides from his father to him, and his lips tug downward slightly. Sylvain thinks that Rodrigue is good at reading people, and maybe he sees more of Sylvain than Sylvain wants him to.

“I’ve been thinking,” says the Duke, “What if Sylvain came to stay with us during the summer? He would be exposed to a different part of the court and different advisors. He could spar with Glenn, and perhaps even Dimitri. Spread his legs, as it were. And, it would give you and Amelie a break; I daresay you haven’t had one since your boy was born.”

The Margrave considers this for a moment so long, that the Duke continues.

“It might be good for Felix. He has no one else his age aside from the prince. And I know that you’re all about opportunities.”

“Perhaps Felix can come to the Fortress and spend winter with us, then. We’ll make it an exchange.”

The Duke considers and then nods. “I’m amenable to that.” They shake on it, a strange gesture that Sylvain’s come to learn as a show of good faith.

Except, anything that concerns his father is rarely in good faith.

“Sylvain,” says the Duke, snapping him back to attention. “Why don’t you go off with Glenn and Ingrid? I’m sure that you can learn something.”

Sylvain wrinkles his nose at the mention of Ingrid, mostly because girls are gross and Ingrid is the grossest of them all, but anywhere is better than being here. So, he scampers off.

Sometimes, Sylvain forgets how natural it feels to be a wolf. He spends so much time as a boy walking awkwardly on two feet, that he forgets the relief of sinking his paws into the soft earth.

And you know, claws are pretty neat too.

“Sylvain?” hisses Glenn when Sylvian pads around the corner. Glenn had told him to sneak out from his room half-past ten for some late-night fun. He hadn’t been expecting Sylvain to show up like this.

Sylvain runs a circle around Glenn’s legs. He’s the size of a large pup, not fully grown into his paws. Long and lanky legs, massive pads, and a head that’s just a little bit too large for the rest of his frame. He’s got growing left to do. His tongue lolls out the side of his mouth as he beams at Glenn.

“Are you smiling? I think you’re smiling. Oh, that’s a little weird.” Then Glenn pauses, pointing down the corridor. “I’ve already got Ingrid waiting around the corner.”

Ingrid doesn’t like dogs, Sylvain learns, but she’s not afraid of them. It’s just that she prefers horses. Ingrid relaxes a little when Glenn explains that he’s Sylvain, and then her eyes narrow as though she realizes how odd it is that he’s a shape-shifting werewolf.

She keeps a solid three feet between the two of them at all times.

Glenn doesn’t have much of a plan aside from wandering the manor grounds. “Even though it’s been nearly a week, there’s still a lot that I want to show you,” says Glenn as they round a corner.

“Glenn?” The three of them freeze at the sound of Felix’s voice, and Glenn shoots Sylvain a panicked look.

“Change!” hisses Glenn, shaking his hand at Sylvain. “Change back!”

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Felix must be afraid of dogs. Or animals. Or anything, really. And, while his wolf form feels as natural as the moon high above them, he hasn’t quite mastered shifting back.

Sylvain had once asked his father if they were human or if they were a wolf, and his father had only laughed, citing that it was a ridiculous question. They were human, of course, gifted the boon of Death. Sylvain had told him that being a wolf had felt better, and his father had given him a weird look before a feral smile covered his face entirely.

Then, Sylvain’s father had quoted some archaic Gautier family motto and promised him the Lance of Ruin upon adulthood.

Sylvain snaps to attention, trying to pull his human side forward. He imagines standing on two feet, unbalanced and awkward. He thinks of blunted teeth and a shorter tongue, and a dull sense of smell. He blinks, pulling forth those feelings, urging his body to shift back into place. His bones creak and he pants.

It’s not a fun transition and it’s slow going.

“Sylvain,” warns Glenn, which spurs him into action.

Sylvain’s a boy again the moment that Felix rounds the corner. He’s wearing a loose shirt, half-tucked into a pair of trousers. His hair is tousled but his eyes are awake and alert.

“You’re playing without me,” accuses Felix, cheeks pink and eyes narrowed right at Glenn.

“Felix, it’s late,” says Glenn, rubbing at his neck sheepishly. He shoots Sylvain a look that’s half relief and half worry.

“Ingrid’s here. We’re the same age.” Felix pouts and Sylvain finds it adorable. Not that’d he’d ever tell him that; Felix might be a scaredy-cat, but being perceived as one is his biggest fear. He tries to bluff, playing it cool. Especially around Glenn.

“Ingrid is--” But Glenn doesn’t finish, because Ingrid kicks him in the shin.

“If you say that I’m special, I’ll kick you again.”

“But you are--”

Ingrid kicks Glenn again and Glenn lets out a groan of pain. Sylvain winces because he knows that she packs a punch, even with her tiny size. Not that Sylvain’s much bigger. Felix rolls his eyes and crosses his arms.

“A brute, isn’t she?” asks Sylvain in jest, leaning toward Felix.

Felix moves toward Glenn in response, half hiding behind his leg. Sylvain sighs. Felix knows Ingrid, he’s used to her because of her betrothal to Glenn. Sylvain’s still new to him and Felix is a boy that likes the well-familiar. He doesn’t like change.

Glenn sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “I wasn’t planning on babysitting tonight--”

“You said you wanted to play,” says Sylvain.

“And I do, but three against one? That’s a little unfair.”

“Then we’ll just explore,” says Sylvain. “That’s what I wanted to do anyway.”

Glenn thumbs his chin and then cracks a smile. He ruffles Felix’s hair, and then Sylvain’s, and then he presses a dainty little kiss against Ingrid’s knuckles. She makes a face and mimics vomiting in response.

“Exploring it is then,” says Glenn. Then he leans over slightly, his tone pitching soft. “It’s too late to be out of bed though, so we’ll need to keep quiet, alright?”

Ingrid’s eyes flash at that. “Beyond the gate then?”

Glenn shoots her an impish smile. “Beyond the gate,” he confirms. “Just a bit. Should be fine if we all stick together.”

Felix is the one that looks troubled. “Glenn, we’re not supposed too--”

“That’s the point, little brother.” Glenn gives Felix a steady look, brows raised. “Of course, you’re more than welcome to go back to bed.”

“No!” The three of them shoot Felix a look after his outburst, and Felix fidgets behind Glenn’s leg. “I’ll be fine,” he then says bravely, face held high and pert little nose in the air.

Glenn shuffles them to the front gate, a finger held to his lips. He’s on good terms with the gatekeeper, chatting a few friendly words and then slipping a few gold coins into his palm. Then the gatekeeper winks at the kids before turning a blind eye.

Ingrid and Sylvain bounce on their heels, but Felix walks rigidly beside Glenn.

“There’s nothing out here to be concerned about. We’re close to the manor,” says Glenn, ruffling Felix’s hair once more.

“It’s--”

“Spooky,” cuts in Ingrid, a delightful little grin spreading across her face.

“I was going to say that I wasn’t scared.”

“It’s alright, you know,” says Ingrid, matter-of-factly. “Glenn will protect us.”

Glenn does, not that it’s hard. The three of them are eager to enjoy their outing, so they play by the rules and keep close to his side. They don’t go far, barely dipping into the trees. They chase each other around, digging underneath rocks and even climb low-hanging limbs.

Even with his dulled senses, Sylvain follows the smells of the wild, his heart beating wildly. He’s entirely unused to the freedom of exploring. While his father actively encourages his wolf, he also keeps him on a tight leash. Ingrid inches closer to him, seemingly having forgotten that he’s more wolf than man, asking him what it is that’s caught his attention.

Felix still shies away when Sylvain tries to engage, albeit with a brave and determined face. He even meets Sylvain’s gaze head-on.

“Glenn’s read me the stories, you know,” Felix says. “I know all about your family.”

“Our fathers think we should be friends.” Sylvain nearly laughs at the way that Felix’s nose crinkles in response. “They are friends themselves.”

“Ugh. Who’d want to be friends with my father?”

Sylvain does laugh this time. “Who indeed?” Rodrigue seems nice at a glance, so different than his own. Sylvain can’t imagine the Margrave with a friend; he barely sees him with his mother. Felix doesn’t come closer or say anything else, but he doesn’t go to hide behind Glenn either.

When they slip back through the front gate, the Duke and the Margrave are waiting for them. Rodrigue stands with his hands clasped behind his back, but there’s a soft hint of a smile on his face, amused.

The Margrave isn’t amused. He stands there tall, arms crossed over his chest and his face hardened into a frown. Sylvain winces at the sight; his father had already been in a sour mood and this will only worsen it.

Glenn stands tall and says, “Father--”

Rodrigue holds up a hand. “Out late I see, and with the others in tow. I hope that your little adventure was fun?”

Glenn’s mouth snaps shut and he nods. “Yes.”

“Good. I’ve played my share of games when I was younger,” Rodrigue says, “but never the night before Royalty is due to visit. I usually waited until Lambert was here.” A pause. “Are you trying to get out of your duty tomorrow?”

“Of course not,” says Glenn.

Rodrigue watches him for a long moment and then sighs. “Phillippe,” says the Duke, turning towards Sylvain’s father. “What are we to do? Extra training? Perhaps a proper spar with Dimitri?”

Glenn turns a little pale at the suggestion and Sylvain doesn’t understand the hesitation. Training with the crown prince doesn’t seem like a too-terrible punishment. Sylvain thinks of worse ones, looking to his father.

He’d rather a bout with the prince.

“You can handle your sons,” the Margrave says, leveling Sylvain with a stern gaze. “I’ll handle mine.”

“They were only having fun. Nothing too egregious, surely.”

“Propriety is still expected,” says Sylvain’s father. “There’s much to be expected from the heir of the Gautier line.”

“Phillippe,” says the Duke quietly, “perhaps--”

“I will handle it,” repeats the Margrave.

Rodrigue drops the subject and nods. “Of course. I didn’t mean to impose.” There’s a pause before he continues with, “My boys will extra rounds in the field tomorrow with Dimitri. You should send Sylvain.”

“Rodrigue,” warns Sylvain’s father.

The Duke turns to Glenn. “Boys, off to bed. Ingrid, you too. I’ll speak to your father in the morning.” He turns to take his leave but then stops to give one last look at Sylvain. Hesitating. But, in the end, all he does is big them a good night.

The moment they’re alone, Sylvain’s father lashes out and grabs the back of his neck roughly, like he would his scruff. Then he tugs Sylvain along, back to the rooms where they’re staying.

His father loves him, Sylvain tells himself. He tries to think of those good moments; being taught how to shift. How to sift through scents and recognize a pack. How to track your prey.

The worse memories always weed their way in, though. Punishments that bend the will, but don’t entirely break it. Just enough to crack the slightest bit under pressure. Like Sylvain kneeling against raw grains of rice.

Or throwing him into the ring with Miklan and coming out with bruises instead. Miklan likes to hit and Sylvain isn’t quite fast enough to always avoid him.

Eventually, his father deems the lesson learned and Sylvain rises on tired limbs. He brushes the rice from his knees as his father calls a servant to come to sweep them up. Sylvain goes to bed, legs aching, but not nearly as busted as he feels.

Your father loves you, he thinks. Your father cares. This is how he teaches.

The older he gets though, the emptier the words feel.

Dimitri is a short little thing with blonde hair styled into the world’s worst square-cut bob. He stands there in the training grounds, feet shuffling awkwardly as he holds a wooden training lance in his hands. Glenn reaches out to ruffle his hair.

Sylvain shoots the crown prince a smile and a wave, and Dimitri returns the gesture, a small smile on his lips. He’s the same age as Felix and a few years younger than Sylvain, but unlike the youngest Fraldarius boy, Dimitri isn’t terrified of everything.

He’s just reticent about sparring.

“Glenn,” says the Prince, “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

“I agree,” says Glenn bluntly. “The last time we sparred with each other, you broke my rib. I’d prefer the dummies just as much as you.”

Sylvain gapes at the idea that Dimitri could have landed such a hit on Glenn. Dimiri is smaller and slim when compared to the wiry muscle of Glenn. And it’s not that the elder Fraldarius boy is that much older or larger, but he’s more honed in his ability.

Not to mention it’s Glenn’s job to protect Dimitri, not the other way around.

Felix watches the lot of them, standing closer than usual. He and the prince seem to get along well. Ingrid, on the other hand, watches Dimitri through narrowly slitted eyes, arms crossed over her chest.

“You’re holding it wrong,” says Ingrid, pointing to the lance.

“Oh,” breathes Dimitri, changing his grip on the practice weapon, fingers tightening just the slightest bit. There’s a sudden crack as the wood splits between his palms, and Dimitri’s left holding to splintered pieces of teakwood in each hand.

Sylvain’s mouth drops open in surprise, but everyone else seems to have expected it.

Glenn sighs. “Well, better the lance than me this time around, right?”

“This is why I prefer the dummies,” says Dimitri, resigned. He motions for a new lance.

“Glenn, put him in the ground,” says Ingrid none-too-lightly. She’s always rooting for Glenn and Sylvain suspects that she doesn’t find their betrothal as gross as she likes to pretend.

“He’s the prince,” hisses Felix, leveling her with a disgusted look.

Ingrid sniffs. “Put him in the ground, please,” she amends. Then she rolls her eyes. “It’s your job to follow him loyally. I’ll talk about him however I like.”

“Ingrid,” says Glenn, hiding a smirk behind his hand.

“Your highness--” starts Sylvain.

“Dimitri, please,” says the prince. Then he looks at Glenn. “Glenn, do we have to?”

Glenn winces, looking off to the side where his father sits in the shadows. Sylvain’s father is there too, sharing a pot of tea, his dark gaze penetrating as he watches on. Waiting. Expecting. Sylvain swallows thickly.

“It’s a punishment,” sighs Glenn. He rubs at the back of his neck. “We snuck out last night.”

Dimitri looks a little put-out. “You couldn’t wait until I arrived?”

“Well, the plan was to sneak out again, but I think that’s been speared in the foot.” Glenn pauses, eyeing the new lance in Dimitri’s hands warily. “Just keep it below the neck and above the belt, okay?”

Sylvain snorts out a laugh, Felix turns bright red in the face, and Ingrid looks between them utterly confused. Girls, Sylvain thinks.

Sylvain and Felix stand off to the side, watching Glenn and Dimitri stand opposite each other in the center of the field. Glenn isn’t afraid, but he’s hesitant, and once the match is started Sylvain sees why.

Dimitri hits hard without meaning to, seemingly unable to hold back his strength. Sylvain’s watched Glenn spar with others over the last few days, but never quite like this. Glenn usually charges into the fight, blade raised and mind focused, calculating several moves ahead.

With the prince, however, he’s on the defensive, dodging to the side and trying to avoid a glancing blow. You broke my rib, Glenn had said earlier. There’s power behind Dimitri’s sloppy swings and now Sylvain can see just how he’d managed it the last time he and Glenn sparred.

Ingrid looks annoyed that Glenn is only blocking hits instead of giving them, her mouth tugged into a disapproving frown. Felix watches, enraptured. Sylvain knows that he wants to be a knight just like his father and brother. And, just like Felix who’s read about the Gautier family, Sylvain’s read about his in turn.

The Fraldarius’ are born and bred to protect the crown. Felix is no exception.

Finally, Glenn sees an opening and lashes out. Dimitri skids to the side, barely avoiding a glancing blow. He retaliates, sweeping his lance to the side in an arc-- and entirely misjudges his move.

Dimitri trips over his own feet, stumbling slightly. His lance swings wide, flinging towards Sylvain and Felix. He doesn’t see the two of them, preoccupied with finding his footing and narrowly avoiding Glenn.

Sylvain doesn’t think as he feels his bones shift and change, as instinctive as the rough howl he lets loose. One moment he’s a boy and the next he’s a wolf, his coarse fur ruddy under the midmorning sun. He darts forward and grabs Felix by the hem of his shirt and yanks him back with his teeth.

Felix tumbles overtop Sylvain. Everyone in the training yard freezes: Glenn’s eyes are glued to Sylvain. Dimitri stumbles in the opposite direction upon the sight of Sylvain as a wolf. Ingrid stands before Glenn, high-alert like she’s the one who’s going to protect him instead.

And then there’s Rodrigue and Sylvain’s father, the Duke pulled to the edge of his seat, mouth parted as his gaze flashes to Felix, worried. Because he knows that above all, Felix is a crybaby and scared of everything. A ticking bomb, really.

Sylvain’s father doesn’t seem angry, he seems proud, smug even, like the speed of Sylvain’s shift had pleased him. It’d been second nature, Sylvain acting entirely out of instinct.

He sits back on his haunches, heaving heavy breaths. Waiting for Felix’s inevitable yowling. But it never comes. Felix sits up and regards Sylvain with bright eyes and pinking cheeks. He looks at him with a strange mixture of awe and wonder.

Glenn is the first to seem confused.

Then, Felix stands and ambles over to Sylvain. Sylvain barks, tongue lolling out of his mouth, pleased that he’s at least prevented a terrible head wound. Or a fatal one, considering Dimitri’s apparent strength.

Felix rushes forward and wraps his arms around Sylvain’s neck. “Puppy,” he breathes, incredulously. “You’re a puppy.”

Sylvain wants to take offense to that, but he doesn’t. It’s the closest that Felix has gotten to him over the week and all it’d taken was for him to just be himself. Felix’s hands tighten in his fur, scritching over his skin and Sylvain just can’t help the way that his leg kicks at the touch.

Rodrigue looks utterly baffled. Sylvain’s father looks like he’s eaten a lemon and Sylvain can already hear the monotonous speech about how wolves are proud creatures, not pets. But, at that moment, Sylvain rather likes being like a pet, his lineage be damned. His father talks a lot about his future and legacy, but this is the first time that he’s felt like he means something.

“I’ve never been able to have a dog,” says Felix into his fur. “But I guess a wolf as a friend is even better.”

Sylvain licks the side of his face and instead of cringing, Felix laughs, a soft sound like a calm breeze on a warm summer morning.

That’s when Sylvain falls in love, even if he doesn’t yet realize it.

#felix x sylvain #sylvain/felix #sylvain jose gautier #felix hugo fraldarius #fire emblem three houses #fire emblem fanfiction #fe3h

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rowdy-revenant · 6 years

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The Beauty of a Beast - part 8

Characters: Lucifer (Novak), Castiel (Novak), Jack Kline (Novak), Charlie (Middleton) Bradbury, Balthazar (Bradbury), Chuck Shurley, Asmodeus, unnamed Queen

(Future) pairing: Gabriel x reader

Words: 1500+

Beta-reader: @nobodys-baby-now

Warnings: Mentions and depictions of minor character deaths, abandonment, child abuse

Chapter summary: The pasts of Gabriel and his servants are told

[Series masterlist] [General masterlist] [Gabriel masterlist]

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Part 8 - Days in the Sun

Kelly Kline didn't live to see her son. All those conversations of raising a child together and she never even got to hold her first born. It broke Lucifer's heart.

Their son was named after Kelly’s father. That was chosen name if the baby was a boy. Jack Kline Novak, Kelly’s last name as Jack’s middle to honour her.

Lucifer did his best to raise his son alone. He used his talent of playing the piano to entertain at parties and events, earning just enough to get by. He even taught little Jack how to play, his son sitting on his lap, little toddler hands pressing the keys at random, creating beautiful musical chaos. It reminded Lucifer of how he and Kelly would sit side by side to play duets.

It was the day when his brother came to visit that Lucifer’s life changed.

Castiel Novak, Lucifer’s younger brother, sharing his blue eyes but with dark hair in contrast to his blonde. He worked as the head chef at the royal palace, a tall and impressive building about an hour’s ride from Lucifer’s village. Lucifer was a little jealous of his younger sibling’s success.

“You could work for the prince too.” Castiel suggested. “He entertains guests often. I could get you a position working for him, playing music at parties.”

“But Jack-”

“Jack could come with you. You can live in your own quarters. Some other servants can help you raise him.” Castiel assured. “When he gets old enough, I'm sure he could get a job of his own too, earn a little more.”

Lucifer looked at his son, sleeping on a mattress on the floor of the room the two shared. Jack deserved better than this. Lucifer accepted the offer, and thanked his brother.

Crowley couldn’t remember his mother. Not in the way that you can’t remember the face of a stranger you met once, or the way you can’t tell if something was a memory or a dream. He just couldn’t remember her.

Fergus knew his father left them before he was born. He knew his mother raised him, but every time he tried to picture her face, it would just become a blur. No face, no voice, no name. He woke up one morning when he was younger, alone. It was like waking from a dream.

Maybe that’s all she was.

The name Crowley seemed foreign on his tongue. Fergus Crowley. It seemed off, like his last name was an alias. But he was always Crowley, right? Your last name doesn’t change at random.

Still, the name Crowley soon earned a reputation. Fergus would shine shoes to earn enough money to get him by. One day, when Crowley was just in his teens, a tailor showed up at his stand. Fergus muttered something under his breath.

“I beg your pardon?” The tailor asked.

Crowley looked up at him, his face growing red. “I said those shoes don’t match your outfit. They’re far too casual.”

The tailor chuckled in amusement. “Perhaps you’re right.” The man stood, handing the boy some money. “Perhaps if you stop by my shop later, you could show me a better pair.”

So Crowley went to the tailor’s. It was a whole new world for him. The tailor saw the boy’s eyes widen at the sight of the fabric, the pins, the thread, and offered him an apprenticeship.

So a new life began. Fergus had an eye for fashion. He could design, make, and mend clothes like nobody else. He soon took over for the tailor when the older man retired.

Crowley never forgot where he came from though. He’d use leftover scraps to repair the clothes of people who couldn’t afford new ones, often for free, though some insisted they give him what little money they could spare.

Fergus Crowley’s career flourished in his village, until one day he had a special request. A letter from the prince (though not directly from the prince, just written by one of his servants by the name of Charles) arrived. It said that a guest at a recent ball had been wearing something Crowley made. The prince Gabriel wanted an outfit too, only better. The opportunity, and the reward, were too much to refuse.

After more and more requests for increasingly intricate outfits, Crowley sold the shop and moved to the palace to work full time as the prince’s personal tailor.

Charlie Middleton and Balthazar Bradbury had known each other since they were children. The two were best friends- and in an arranged marriage. Both loved each other, that was true, but not in the way their parents wanted them to. Neither wanted the marriage, but neither had the courage to refuse it.

Balthazar took his fiance up on a hill to watch the sun set. The two sat side by side as they watched the colours of the sky change.

“So…” Charlie muttered. “Wedding’s soon…”

“Indeed it is,” Balthazar replied. “Mr and Mrs Bradbury…”

They sat in an awkward silence for a bit before Balthazar spoke again, “I don’t want to marry you.”

“What?” Charlie asked.

“I’m sorry! You’re a lovely woman, and my best friend, but- but I can’t see you as anything else but a friend,” Balthazar explained.

“Oh thank god!” Charlie sighed with relief. “I didn’t want to marry you either.”

“You don’t?”

“No! I… I like girls!”

“That’s okay! I like men!” Balthazar replied. “And women. I like both.”

The pair fell into a fit of laughter, glad to have their feelings off their chests and glad the other felt the same.

“So friends?” Charlie asked.

“Friends.” Balthazar agreed. “I don’t think our families will take no for an answer though.”

“Well, we could get married for them, and… be open to other relationships?” Charlie suggested.

Her fiance smiled. “Agreed. Hell, we could even move to a place where nobody knows we’re us and just… live our lives. What do you say?”

“I’m in.”

The Shurleys had worked for the royal family for five generations. They always held high positions in the castle, advising, planning, organizing, and a great deal more.

Charles was three years older than the prince, though the pressure put on him by his family to succeed and continue tradition forced early maturity on the boy.

Gabriel and Charles, though the prince called him Chuck, grew close. The two would get into trouble together quite a lot. Sneaking into the kitchen to steal sweets, running around in the garden and getting messy, making book forts in the library.

Gabriel’s mother thought it was sweet that her son had a best friend. Gabriel’s father did not. The man was strict, cold and power hungry. Mercy was weak. Friendship was weak. Love was weak. Weakness was unacceptable.

Gabriel was ten when the queen got very, very sick. She spent all day in bed, growing paler and weaker each day. Gabriel never left her side, so by default, Chuck never left his.

“She’ll get better, right?” Gabriel asked his friend with a whisper, looking over at his mother.

Chuck’s words were stuck in his throat. “I don’t know…”

The doors to the queen’s chambers slammed open. “Out,” the king growled, advancing towards the Chuck. The boy quickly nodded and, after one last glance back at Gabriel, he rushed out.

“Asmodeus, he’s just a boy-” Gabriel’s mother feebly protested.

“He’s a servant,” Asmodeus growled. “You hear that boy?” He asked Gabriel.

“But- but he’s my friend!”

“He’s not your friend,” the king spat. “You’re royalty, royalty don’t make “friends” with peasants.”

Gabriel nodded, amber eyes glancing back at the door his friend- his servant left through.

Days passed. The queen’s health got worse.

“Gabriel,” she whispered. “Step closer.”

The prince did as he was asked.

His mother’s skin was white as snow, her voice as faint as a breeze. Shakily, she lifted a bony hand and held out a book to her son. Brown leather with a rose painted on the front and the hand-painted words ‘The Sonnets of Shakespeare’. “This is for you. Read it and think of me.”

“But you’re going to get better!” Gabriel protested. “You can read it to me!”

“I’m sorry, Gabe,” the queen replied. “I’m sorry. I love you.”

“Mother?”

She was silent. Her amber eyes looked at him and saw nothing.

“Mother!”

Asmodeus firmly put his hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “It’s time to go. Let the servants take care of this.”

“No!” Gabriel screamed. He tried to pull away from his father’s grasp and move to his mother’s bedside. “Let me say goodbye! Let me tell her I love her!”

“It’s too late for that.”

“No it’s n-”

The king struck Gabriel across the face and the prince went silent with a whimper. Gone was anyone who could get in the way of Asmodeus’ rage. “You listen to me, boy. Your mother is dead. She isn’t coming back.”

The blow on his cheek stung, but Gabriel’s heart ached even more. It was broken, and all the love had been drained from it. The prince’s heart became like ice, and the prince became like the king. He didn’t love anymore. Love was weak. Weakness was unacceptable.

~ Murdoch’s tag list - want to be added or removed? Send me an ask! Problem with the tag list? Let me know! ~

All: @a-r-c-h-a-n-g-e-l @ashiewesker @ashtheironbat @baritonechick @crowleysprincess159 @cynda-kiwi @d4rzill4 @fayepummeluff @gabriels-depressed-angel @kristaparadowski @lenawiinchester @like-gabriel-and-castiel @madelineannmolder @micachu1331 @oldpaperfan @sdavid09 @shrimpdrake @tangle-of-ivy @team-barry @thehowling1234 @thewhiterabbit42 @treitike @tyrex15 @unsink-the-titanic @youre-my-monomania

Supernatural: @gabriels-trix @wanna-see-my-lease

Gabriel: @elven-leaf @hiddles-and-skittles @hp-hogwartsexpress @im-gabriels-bitch @elenawrit @trollhunter94

TBOAB: @a-michellerae-things @a-vast-african-plain @jasura @katgirl05 @person-born-winchester @red-bandana-girl @tardisandtiaras

#this took so long sorry #the beauty of a beast #gabriel #gabriel x reader #supernatural x reader #gabriel x you

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gutterballgt · 7 years

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Ask meme

From the prompt list earlier, @susan-25 asked for the ER/A&E AU meet-up. As always, her wish is my command!

"This is all your fault."

Raleigh, pained and having no interest in hiding that fact, adjusted the ice pack on his face. It was too cold to press directly against his swollen eye, but it felt both achy and wonderful on the surrounding socket. And his likely broken nose. Which had thankfully stopped bleeding but probably needed to be set.

"You're the one who didn't strap in right."

"Oi, fuck that!" The large, mouthy Australian -- the cause of all his current sorrows -- adjusted his own ice pack to more adequately attend the goose egg growing on the back of his stupid ginger head. "The ride attendant checked the harness before we took off. Not my fault the fucking thing released going into the loop."

For one terrifying, tunnel-vision moment on the ill-fated rollercoaster ride, Raleigh had envisioned the worst case scenario: the gape-mouthed stranger seated in front of him missing him entirely and free-falling the fifty or so feet all the way to the ground, likely careening off the brutally skeletal support struts as he went. He would have died. Of that, Raleigh had no doubt.

Instead, that shock of red hair came straight for Raleigh's face and slammed home, and in his confusion and fear, he'd locked his arms around the huge body slamming into him and held on for dear life, praying his own harness didn't slip free as easily as the stranger's had.

That Yancy's wouldn't. Because Yancy was behind him where Raleigh couldn't reach.

Thankfully, the loop had been near the end of the ride, and between Raleigh's death grip -- arms and legs; he was taking no chances -- and the stranger's punishing grasp on the outsides of Raleigh's thighs as he held on for dear life while they were briefly upside down, they somehow made it without said stranger falling to an untimely death from a shoddy theme park rollercoaster in the middle of nowhere.

Unfortunately, the second the ride stopped and the danger had passed, the stranger started talking.

"My old man'll sort 'em out, though. I could've fucking died. They'll be paying for the rest of my university, the fucking lot of 'em."

Or, more accurately, bitching. Yancy had found it hilarious at first, but a ten-minute ambulance ride filled with nothing but angry Australian curses and threats changed his mind enough that he'd volunteered -- volunteered! -- to wait out in the overflowing E.R. lobby, just to get away from it. Yancy Becket, who always got his flu shot and hesitated to touch public bathroom doorknobs because people didn't wash their goddamn hands, volunteered to sit arm and arm with snot-nosed toddlers and coughing teens and groaning, babbling elderly folk and people who were bleeding but not hemorrhaging and, thus, could wait.

Just to not have to listen to this guy bitch anymore.

Impressive, really.

If Raleigh's head didn't feel as if his eye socket was broken to match his nose -- which it might well be; they still hadn't been taken back for x-rays yet -- he might better appreciate it. As it was, he really wished the guy would just shut up already. They'd been sitting on their respective hospital gurneys for damn near an hour already, mostly enclosed by stupid E.R. curtains that did nothing to mute the noisy bustle of an over-packed emergency ward, and Raleigh really just wanted his face to stop hurting.

And then... it happened.

"What's your name, then?"

He blinked with his one good eye and shot the guy -- a kid, really, if he was still in college, but big and broad and salty as fuck for his apparent age -- a surprised look. "Raleigh?"

"Right." It wasn't quite a sneer, but there was definitely a hint of judgment in the big jerk's tone. "Anyway... reckon I ought to thank you, yeah?"

He could not have been more surprised. He wasn't sure he'd been as surprised as when the guy's head slammed into his eye.

"Not everyone would've grabbed on, yeah? Let alone held on through the loop."

Was... was the kid blushing? Jesus, and was that a bonafide smile? Oh, shit on a biscuit and call it a sandwich, but were those dimples??

"So... yeah. Thanks. For saving my life." A shrug that looked about as casual as a seizure. "You're all right, Ray."

Aaaaannnnd there was the salty jerk again.

"The name's Raleigh."

Definitely judging. "If you say so."

Sighing, he adjusted the melting ice pack for the tenth, the twentieth, thirtieth time. "Are you always like this?"

Without missing a beat, the kid shrugged. "Yeah. You?"

He couldn't help it. He snorted. The balls on this brat. Raleigh couldn't tell if he knew exactly how obnoxious he was and didn't care or had no idea how abrasive and snarky he came across.

"What's so funny?"

Oh, God help him if the jerk got started again. So, restraining himself to another, smaller snort, he shook his head. "Nothing. What's your name, kid?"

"Chuck. And don't call me kid."

His one functioning eyebrow rose. "Then don't call me Ray."

Rolling his eyes, the kid squirmed irritably on the gurney. "The fuck is taking so long? I fucking hate American healthcare. Costs a bloody fortune and they aren't even doing anything."

Patriotism wanted him to argue. Pragmatism had him nodding ruefully instead. "I can't even disagree. Healthcare here sucks. They have universal in Australia, right?"

"Yeah, I reckon so. Haven't been there since I was a sprog, though. Haven't kept in touch."

One eyebrow rose again. With that accent...?

Weirdly enough, the kid -- Chuck -- eyed him for a long moment, stiffening. Then, jaw tight, he went on with visible reluctance. "My mum died when I was ten, so Dad moved us to London to stay with an old military chum of his." Weirdly light-colored eyes, not quite blue and not quite green, skittered away. "Haven't been back since."

"Ah." There were so many landmines in all the holes in that story that Raleigh had no intention of stepping into it. "But England has good universal healthcare, right?"

Another awkward, jerky shrug.

Amazing. He'd managed to shut the kid up. He hadn't even had to do anything, really.

Unfortunately, the silence between them now sounded -- and felt -- thunderous.

He tried. He really tried to wait it out, madly hoping a nurse would stop by to make sure neither of them had bled to death or passed out from concussion or even just to take their goddamn temperatures.

This time, it was his shoulders tensing, his jaw clenching as he tried to speak. "My mom died when I was fifteen. Lung cancer."

He felt those light eyes on him, curious but still angry, still ready to take offense. All of a sudden, he wished Yancy had come back with them, after all.

"You know, she smoked all the way up to that last ambulance ride. I was so mad about that." The strained muscle in his neck twitched. "Still am, really. It wouldn't have saved her life to quit by then, but...."

What the ever-loving fuck are you doing, Rals?

It wasn't quite Yancy's voice, but he could definitely picture Yancy's incredulous expression. Telling all of that to a prickly stranger he wasn't even sure he much liked? Talking about stuff neither he nor his brother could talk about to this day without one or the other of them getting choked up and needing to stop?

"There... was an accident. On base."

Gathering all his will, he looked at the kid he'd somehow miraculously caught mid-air. The kid he'd saved.

Chuck looked right back at him, eyes hard and defiant but... pleading, too. Maybe.

"It was an air show. A fluke thing, some kind of wiring malfunction, and the pilot had to bail out. They cleared the entire landing area and everyone took shelter... but we were already on the way to the lot. Missed the alarms. I wanted to go home early, though Mum wanted to stay. Threw one fuck of a fuss, and she gave in."

Oh, sweet mercy, but he had the worst intuition--

"My fault, yeah? We wouldn't have been in the lot when that fucking jet took out the whole center section, but I wanted to go home because it was too loud. Too many people. Too hot. Too boring when they weren't doing tricks up there."

Jesus. Suddenly, he wanted to reach over and hug the poor kid, prickly asshole or no. How the hell did someone live through something like that?

"Dad dug me out from the rubble, but Mum was already gone. She...." Chuck's throat clenched, the Adam's apple bobbing. "She tried to shield me."

He had no fucking clue what to say. What on earth could he say? Ten years old, and the entire rest of his life tainted by something he'd really had no control over. No wonder the big jerk was... well, a big jerk.

Survivor's guilt would do that to you.

"Chuck?"

There was way too much expression in those eyes. Raleigh couldn't even begin to sort through the mess. Didn't even try.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but you might be the luckiest son of a bitch I've ever met."

Gobsmacked, the kid rocked back, eyes wide, and stared at him.

Oops.

"I just mean... you survive something like that as a kid, and now your fucking harness lets go at the worst possible time, only for some random guy to snatch you out of the air?" Shrugging helplessly, he smiled a little. "You are one lucky fuck."

The moment stretched out like warm taffy, ready to pull apart at any second, Raleigh's nerves stretching with them until he wondered which would break first -- the silence or his nerve. What the hell had he been thinking? The poor bastard was having maybe the second worst day of his life, and Raleigh tells him he's lucky?

Finally, the big guy scooted off the gurney and stood tall, and... oh, shit. Bright eyes narrowed, and Raleigh was suddenly sure he'd get punched on top of the shellacking he'd already taken. He did not want to get in a fight in an E.R.

Then again, this might be the most practical place for one. And maybe they'd finally get some goddamn medical attention. Or arrested. Either way--

Chuck stopped directly in front of him, looming just at his knees, one hand fisted around the ice pack dangling at his side and the other hand just fisted. This would be very, very bad.

Then... the kid leaned. No, he leaned.

Wide-eyed -- even the swollen eye under the ice pack -- Raleigh leaned away, reaching back to brace himself against the thin gurney mattress. "Chuck? What are you doing?"

Those not-blue-not-green eyes weren't narrow now. No, from a bare blink away, they were half-lidded, not narrow.

"Trying my luck."

What the--

Oh. Oh.

It was a weirdly confident kiss, for all that it was from a stranger who'd looked ready for battle a second before. It wasn't domineering or pushy or arrogant in any way. Just... confident. As if Chuck knew Raleigh wouldn't pull away.

He would, though. Soon.

In a minute.

Because it was a very nice kiss, despite being unexpected. And Chuck's big body put out a very nice warmth as he crowded closer between Raleigh's knees, one hand going to the uninjured side of Raleigh's face to trace a gentle thumb along his jaw.

In fact, if it hadn't been for the ice pack still radiating both ache and chill against his eye and nose, he would've forgotten the situation entirely and full-on made out with this stranger that had literally landed in his lap out of nowhere. For all that he was a mouthy jerk, Chuck was one hell of a kisser.

"Oh, my God, seriously??"

He didn't jerk away, guilty and embarrassed. He did sigh, though, and pull just far enough back to end the kiss and look around Chuck's slightly flushed face to where his brother stood just at the edge of the curtain, radiating disapproval.

"Goddammit, Rals. I can't leave you alone for one second."

He opened his mouth to protest, but Chuck beat him to it. Without pulling away, the kid snorted and shot Yancy a withering glance.

"It's been like an hour, ya wanker, and you can leave us alone any time now. We're busy."

He should probably be offended on Yancy's behalf. But he wasn't. Not even a little bit.

So he smirked instead. "You heard him."

After all, Yancy had done worse. And had just as terrible taste in men as Raleigh.

"Seriously, Rals, this guy is--"

"Mr. Becket? Mr. Hansen? The radiologist is ready for-- oh." And now a nurse was staring at them from Yancy's side, her face losing its professional calm for only a moment before confusion set in. "Wait. I thought you two didn't know each other...?"

Yancy glared as if to underscore this reasonable point. The nurse raised both eyebrows. Chuck stood solid and steady between Raleigh's thighs, refusing to be embarrassed away.

So Raleigh just shrugged.

"What can I say?" Smirking, he reached down and smacked the kid on the ass, earning a surprised grunt and an incredulous look. "He's one helluva catch."

Groaning, Yancy smacked his hand to his forehead. The nurse snickered and tried to hide it.

And Chuck? Chuck just glared.

But he didn't move away.

"I'll get you for that."

Deciding that this had been a pretty damn good day, after all, Raleigh just grinned and went all-in. He waggled his eyebrows. Even though it hurt.

"Looking forward to it."

Best. Day. Ever.

THE END

#ask meme #chaleigh #these guys kill me #I meant to write them some silly fluff #but they always have to get so SERIOUS #sheesh guys #just skip right to the kissing for once will ya??#pacific rim #raleigh becket #chuck hansen #yancy becket

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