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bittermuire · 3 years

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A (long) analysis of Azriel,

+ a bit of discussion about Gwynriel vs. Elriel at the end.

Lately I’ve seen much discussion surrounding Azriel, and there seems to be a lot of hazy gray area. We know he has a terrible past, carries a lot of trauma, is both mentally and physically scarred, and has disturbingly possessive habits. But why? That’s the question.

I think most of Azriel’s character can be filtered into three sections: his anger, his possessiveness, and his self-loathing. Altogether I believe these form his crippling sense of emotional immaturity, which ultimately shines through most every action he makes in the books.

So yes, I firmly believe Az is a child in the body of a 500 year old Fae. But is he treated as such? No. No, he is not. In fact, he’s treated as the exact opposite, and that can’t be doing wonders for his mental health (which is already in shambles. Off to a cheery start.)

Let’s take a look at his past. He was both mentally and physically abused for the majority of his childhood. Then he was thrown into an unforgiving culture that both mentally and physically abused him as well. Then he was essentially bullied by Cassian and Rhysand for quite a while... until they randomly decided to like him, which is a choice he didn’t seem to play a hand in. And then he became a professional torturer. All the while falling madly in love and becoming obsessed with a female who can’t love him back. Not to mention he’s been ostracized his entire life.

(One big thing though, that I’m going to reference frequently, is Azriel’s constant chase of “happiness.” Kind of like my friends with ADHD. We squeeze all the serotonin we can get out of one thing and then fall into a listless, depressed haze until we find another. I honestly think Azriel does the same thing with people--he latches onto them and lets his mood swings rely on how much attention they do or do not pay him, and whether it is positive or negative.)

So I’m going to go through his relationships with pivotal characters and try to explain what I think is really going on with Azriel.

Regarding Mor:

He was obsessed with her for most of his life. He was incredibly possessive of her and fell instantly in love upon seeing her. Do I think it was love? No. But does Azriel think it was love? Yes, and that is so important. It shows how desperate he was for human connection.

This “love” spiraled into centuries-long obsession that we’ve all seen play out throughout the series. But why is it obsession, and not love? Well, I’m going to go ahead and say that Azriel doesn’t know how to love. He’s never been shown genuine love and so he doesn’t know how to show it to others in the way he intends. He’s basically a baby.

But right after he falls head over heels, Mor sleeps with Cassian, and then Cassian plays the role of the buffer between the two of them all the way up until the events of ACOSF. This is where I think Azriel’s anger comes into play. He can’t get to Mor. His best friend, his brother, is blocking him from her. He can’t touch her, love her, feel her, and he’s so desperate to. But he literally has no way to communicate it because he doesn’t know how, and so he responds in the one way he’s able: anger. And jealousy. And intense protectiveness that eventually begins to translate as possessiveness.

Again, he lets his happiness rely on Mor because he can’t make himself happy, and so his lack of emotional maturity ends up revealing him as desperate and unable to communicate his feelings of inadequacy and frustration. I’m not trying to justify his behavior, not at all. But I think this could be a decent explanation.

Regarding Cassian and Rhysand:

I mean... I kind of hate the way these two have treated Azriel. They all have their fair share of trauma, but Cassian and Rhys also bullied him and ostracized him, and then basically said, “Oh, we like you now.” Which completely leaves Azriel in the dark as to where he stands with them, and strips him of awareness regarding how his friendships with them will operate.

And then he becomes the head of espionage for the Night Court, which involves lots and lots of torture. What kind of message does that send? You’ve seen dirty things, Az, so you don’t mind doing the rest of the dirty things for us, right? That’s the only real message I can get from this. Which then plants the message in Azriel’s head of: Not only do I do dirty things, I myself am a dirty, disgusting thing. Thus, furthering his already deep-seated sense of self-loathing.

Plus, the IC generally operates with a pack-like mindset. One person’s method of healing is everyone’s method of healing. It worked for one person, so it worked for everyone. It’s a very naive mindset, and very toxic as well, so it’s not surprising that literally everyone in the IC is colossally messed up despite preaching themselves as having overcome their demons.

So Azriel never really gets to understand himself and mature as a person. He’s stuck pretending to be perfectly fine underneath Rhysand’s oh-so-benevolent and compassionate hand. Rhysand and Cassian recognize Az as being a little... odd, by seeming to think things like “he’s the quiet one” and “he’s the serious, scary one.” But do they attempt to understand him? No. They leave him to his own devices and let him figure it out himself.

That’s the issue. He’s not ever going to figure it out himself, so long as he’s surrounded by the people who’ve been unwittingly suffocating him for most of his life.

Regarding Elain:

Azriel’s infatuation with Elain, in my opinion, comes as a direct result of his detachment from Mor. Just like one hyperfixation fades quickly from an all-consuming thing to a passing thought, Azriel has shifted from one obsession to the next, in order to keep his spirits on a high.

But I think his feelings for Elain reveal a lot of what Mor did not. Why does he view Elain as so holy compared to him? Why is he so hesitant to touch her? Why does he put her on such a pedestal? That’s his self-loathing coming through again. He hates himself so much that he has to place her above him.

He wants to touch her and love her, just as he did with Mor, but again he is unable. It's a repeating pattern that he can’t get himself out of.

Let’s also look at the way Elain and Azriel’s friendship/relationship began. He had to take care of her, and treat her with utmost respect. She looked at his scars or his siphons, both monstrous looking things, and called them beautiful. Let’s remember that he’s basically a child who’s rarely known genuine love. The minute he gets a glimpse of it, he’s going to grab it by the neck and crush it to his chest. Plus, the fact that she’s the last sister left unattached and he’s the last brother left unattached is probably even more convincing for him that he and Elain are meant for each other. When he’s denied this love that’s come nearly close enough to grab, he responds in the only way he’s able: anger. And jealousy. Just like he did with Mor.

But moving on, that glimpse of potential love comes from Elain. That’s why he’s able to let go of Mor; a relationship with Elain suddenly becomes possible. He’s terrified of ruining this potential love and is incredibly drawn to her all the same. Best of all? She wants him too.

BUT. Azriel knows how fragile Elain is, so he walks on glass around her, coddling her, putting her first like he’s put everyone else first since being a part of the IC. I think he wants to save her from becoming like him. He essentially plays the role of her white knight, entirely losing his sense of self-preservation (not that he ever had one), and thus loses any chance of letting Elain help him mature in return.

Regarding Gwyn:

Now, Gwyn is a different story.

We know Azriel likes her. Maybe not in a consciously romantic way, but he likes her. She makes him smile and laugh, and he finds her amusing. He doesn’t have to walk on eggshells around her.

The big thing, I think, is that he doesn’t have to take care of her. At least, I think that’s what makes him so comfortable around her. With Gwyn, he can relax, and he doesn’t have to watch every move he makes. She treats him like a regular person and he treats her similarly.

Now, is it a bad thing that he doesn’t put her on a saint-like pedestal like he does Elain? No. Definitely not. I think this ordinary friendship signals a much healthier relationship than his festering obsession with Elain. Gwyn simply being his friend and not someone that he feels he has to be perfect for is a good foundation for Azriel growing as a person.

Gwynriel vs. Elriel (the necklace):

Honestly, I’m scared for whatever SJM decides to do, because Azriel has a shitload of trauma to move past and years worth of emotional growth needed before he can be a steady partner in a relationship. Both Gwyn and Elain’s character arcs are definitely not finished and so I think that no matter which way his narrative goes, it’s going to be disappointing in some aspect or another, unfortunately. I don’t think that either one of the females’ arcs really fit well with Azriel’s.

But I’m going to take a closer look at the necklace, because I think it’s a telling narrative point.

For Azriel, the necklace for Elain and Gwyn herself, are both “thing[s] of secret, lovely beauty” to him.

By describing the necklace for Elain as such (instead of Elain herself), Azriel unconsciously reveals his more idealistic view of Elain rather than his love for Elain herself. I kind of get the sense of Azriel giving offerings to a goddess, or something like that. He seems to be more preoccupied with appeasing Elain than actually loving her.

Now, this probably comes from, again, his self-loathing and his emotional immaturity. I’m just repeating myself at this point. He doesn’t know how to love himself and he doesn’t know how to love anyone else.

But then he describes Gwyn as such. Gwyn, the person. In my opinion, this demonstrates a potentially much healthier relationship than what he has with Elain. Azriel, instead of wanting to be perfect for Gwyn and wanting to appease her, is simply made happy by the thought of her. It is Gwyn whom he is taken with, not the idea of Gwyn loving him. And so that takes off so much pressure for him, and introduces the hope that he might be able to mature as a person in a friendship or romantic relationship with Gwyn.

Closing thoughts:

Azriel is a blundering, hormonal child desperate for love with no idea of how to get it, in a 500 year old Fae’s body. He’s also surrounded by people who refuse to address his clear issues... his future’s pretty dim, and I think he realizes it. Which is why whoever SJM chooses to be his romantic interest is going to be very important.

In short, I’m scared for what’s to come. But fingers crossed that his incredibly complex character is done justice.

#azriel #acotar #character analysis #gwynriel #kind of anti elriel #but open to interpretation

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moonbeamwritings · 3 years

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Are requests still open because may I have one for Part 3 Jotaro? Part of this is stemming from an alignment chart I found with one category being mythological creatures and the other location types. After Jotaro's battle with Dio, the petty vampire curses him to become an aquatic werewolf like beast stripping what's left of a normal life he could have. The only way to break it is true love and thus the reader comes into play. Gen-neutral and its your choice whether its SFW or NSFW. Thank you!

ooo this is very unique~ !! i’m so sorry i’ve been keeping this one waiting! i hope this is along the line of what you were looking for and that you enjoy it and thank you for sending in !! ❤️

part 3 jotaro and a curse only the reader can break

Jotaro could rationalize the existence of stands, that hadn’t been much of an issue. He could also at least attempt to understand how vampires like Dio could actually be roaming the Earth, but Jotaro, for the life of him, could not wrap his head around his current predicament.

Right before the end of the battle with Dio, the bastard had managed to mutter some sort of incantation under his breath, sending Jotaro’s body through a horrific transformation. It all left him feeling as if his nerves were on fire, body sprouting thick fur and a tail, of all things. Laying there, flat on his back on the pavement somewhere in Cairo, he watched as whatever sense of normalcy he had established during the trip to Egypt melted away, replaced by long, sharp claws and fur, by a curse.

The Speedwagon Foundation was quick to jump into action, transporting Jotaro to the sea while they desperately searched for a solution. The old man was no more help than Jotaro expected as he paced the beach, ranting and raving, but not coming to any ideas or conclusions. Throughout the whole ordeal, Jotaro found solace in you, just as he had during the rest of the trip.

You were supportive, taking time out of your day to help where you could and resting along the shoreline, keeping Jotaro company as he wasted away in the sea. As ridiculous as his current affliction was, being able to see you smile and offer your support got him through the worst of days. You didn’t shy away from him, even in this form, and he didn’t think he would ever be able to repay you.

“The Speedwagon Foundation told me they’re still rifling through all of those books in Dio’s library,” you explained to Jotaro, delicate fingers dancing along the water’s surface inches from his face, “Maybe they’ll come up with something that can help.”

Jotaro wasn’t exactly not listening to you, really he wasn’t. He simply found himself getting lost in the gentle movement of your hand, in the soft way your lips moved as you spoke. If he missed a few of your words along the way, then so be it.

“I hope so.” He finally muttered, shifting his eyes away from you in favor of watching the slow movements of the water around him.

The books did little to help.

You’d come along the following day, news falling from your lips in a disappointed, deflated tone. The books hadn’t led to much of anything, complicating their investigation more so than helping it. Jotaro’s chest heaved with a heavy sigh, doubt starting to settle deep in his lungs. He didn’t think he was a negative person, the trip to Egypt and his often unwavering determination proved that much, but as the weeks turned to months, Jotaro began to think that he would be stuck in this body forever.

“You know,” you said from where you rested back against a rock, feet swishing gently in the water before you, “Polnareff said something funny last night.”

“That’s new,” Jotaro piped up, a scoff leaving his mouth.

He listened as a laugh bubbled up from your throat, short and sweet. A smile played on the corners of his lips at the sound.

“Hey, don’t be mean. He made a good point, as silly as it sounded.”

“Oh yeah?”

“He said what you were going through reminded him of a book his sister used to read when they were kids. Something about a curse and true love’s kiss. You know how it goes.”

Jotaro heard another sheepish, almost nervous, chuckle leave your lips.

“He was thinking that could be your situation. Stupid, right?”

The silence in the air felt heavy as it lingered. In all honesty, Jotaro had thought the same just the other night as well as he reflected on the sappy love stories his mom made him watch as a kid. Surely it wouldn’t be that simple, right?

Jotaro had felt love creeping up his spine and settling in the back of his mind since the first time he saw you laugh, your whole body shaking with the force of it, face illuminated by the combined glow of the stars and the warm fire. He’d acknowledged that it was silly then, to foster any sort of relationship when either of you could die at any given moment. With Dio gone, and a curse to break, what more did he have to lose?

“Is this your roundabout way of asking to kiss me?” Jotaro teased, rough, furry hands reaching out to poke and prod at your swinging feet.

His words and actions had you shooting up from the position you were in, hands moving in a flurry as you attempted to explain yourself, “No! That’s not what I meant at all! I was just saying-”

With a roll of his eyes and a sigh, Jotaro brought a large, wet hand up to cradle your face, connect his lips to yours in a desperate kiss.

The moment you returned the kiss, Jotaro began to feel that familiar fire alight in his chest, his nerves tingling under the pressure of the now broken curse. His claws retracted, the fur covering his body turned back to skin, tail shifted back into legs.

As you pulled away, Jotaro leaned more of his weight onto the rock you were still sitting on, body tired and sore, but finally free. A laugh emerged from deep in his chest as he tried to catch his breath, wet hair dripping down onto your forehead as he kissed you once more.

“True love’s kiss, huh? Good grief.”

#jotaro x reader #jotaro kujo x reader #jotaro imagine #jotaro kujo imagine #jjba x reader #jjba imagine #moonbeam answers

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haliyam · 3 years

Text

interim (ii)

zeke x reader/oc

summary: You return to Liberio not long after the Warriors arrive home from their failed mission in Paradis and discover that things have changed. (Or they will, and maybe a little more with Zeke than you expect.) [Season 4 and manga spoilers ahead]

AO3 link | Ch 1 | Ch 3

Hi again! I forgot to note in the first chapter that Reader here is 19 years old, while Zeke is 25. (Clearly, before the developments of this story, there was nothing but friendship there.) For the other Warriors, I put Pieck at 19 as well, while Porco is Reiner's age (around 17/18 that year). Marcel would have been the same age as Pieck and Reader in my headcanon. If you're not comfortable with the age difference, I understand.

Also, about university here so you don't get confused this chapter - I lifted the medical school system for Marley from Germany's current system where after a competitive state exam post-high school, students are able to head straight for medical school for a 6-year track followed by specialization.

Reminder that the Reader/OC, default name Lucy, is a cis-female Eldian character with a set background, but please feel free to set the substitution for the Reader to your chosen First Name using the InteractiveFics browser extension if you’re reading through the browser! So that would be: Lucy = Your or your character's First Name. Because reader will have a set background, you'll have a set surname as well.

Chapter 2

You don’t even get a moment to breathe. General List launches into a speech about the nerve of other so-called nations almost as soon as you sit down. Apparently, those in the Mid East peninsula have grown considerably bold over the last few months, with several navy ships withdrawing from the port of Ichakar and transferring, presumably, to Qali - which gives them a better angle from which to attack the mainland if they so wish it. They’ve also fortified their borders—ground troops distributed across the land close to Marley’s newly acquired cities—which is of course the sovereign right of those nations, but it’s blasphemy to the regime’s unending ambition.

You wish they had given you a brief with all this information before the meeting, the kind you have seen Willy and father poring over in their office in the past, but you get the feeling that the general is unloading information on you with the intent to overwhelm.

“On the diplomatic front,” he continues with a hint of mockery, because of course he thinks of such things as futile, “they have been making demands. Asking that we keep to our waters when it is they who have encroached upon ours! The audacity—the delineation clearly states—” He continues to ramble until he is red in the face, but your neutral expression must slip into a wide-eyed look at some point, because he regains his composure with a visible wrinkle of his nose. “This arrogance can only mean one thing.”

He stares at you, and you realize he is expecting you to answer. You feel all eyes at the table on you, the Commander’s especially, and clear your throat. “...Weapons research, Sir?”

“Weapons development, Miss Tybur,” he corrects you. “Advanced and more prolific than we may have considered.”

He pauses, and you can’t help but speak. You can tell Magath knows it because he sits up straighter somehow, and in a moment of rebellion, you refuse to recognize the caution in his posture. “With all due respect, Sir, the… armaments race among the other nations is no secret, and on Eldian labor, no less.”

A fist slamming on the desk causes everyone around it to jump in their seats. “It’s what Eldians deserve!” the general next to List says, so naturally that he might have been born saying it. You blink, the heat of embarrassment and indignation crawling up your neck, but it’s only with List’s raised hand that the man remembers that the white band on your left arm is only for show. He glances away. “Present company excluded, of course.”

With the exception of his hand, List continues as though neither of you ever interrupted him. “And now, to the point. We need further information on the status of this little race. That is where you come in, Miss Tybur. You will use your family’s connections to enter the peninsula with our people - the peninsula and beyond, as the exact lay of their operations lies beyond our ken - and retrieve this information.”

It’s one thing to predict a general’s words and another to be confronted with them. You suppose you were still hoping he wouldn’t say it. “General List, are you saying you want a Tybur to be a spy?”

List glances over at Magath. “They were trained for interrogation, weren’t they?” Your old instructor is barely able to nod before the general recalls to you, “Ah, yes, I read the file. You withstood all but the final test. A failure then, but rather more a fluke, in my opinion. An irreplicable circumstance.”

You don’t say anything. You would rather not remember that night. Or that particular moment.

He takes your silence for agreement. “And so I answer, why not? You became a Warrior candidate - unprecedented initiative and involvement by the Tybur family. Why should this be any different?”

“Because—” Because becoming a Warrior isn’t a choice a child makes of their own free will, not really, but a Tybur doesn’t question the decisions of the former head of the family, of father, before all these strangers. No matter that they were loyal to him. You purse your lips. “Sir, I just don’t believe I’m the right person for this.”

“Your file did say you were always hasty, Miss Tybur,” List says, and you both glance at Magath at that. He doesn’t nod, only meets your gazes. He seems as trapped in this as you are, which makes your resentment for him ebb only slightly. “But you should know better now.”

Now you’re getting irritated. The temper that was your closest companion in your early childhood, and then your early adolescence seizes your fist under the table as List continues. “How goes Foundation operations?”

The Tybur Family Foundation. Set up by Walter Tybur when he first became head of the family and operated by the eponymous Tyburs - most often chaired by the spouse of whoever leads it. Your mother first, once, when she cared to, and now Mila. It provides healthcare and educational opportunities for ‘peoples once oppressed by the Eldian Empire,’ as part of continuing reparations for sins the Tybur family did not commit. Or so they say. Many of its employees now are Eldian, part of Willy’s initiative to improve Eldian relations… but in reality it does little when the Foundation is only a grantmaking organization.

“Well enough, Sir.”

“Is that so? From what I hear, the Foundation is unable to set up even offices in several countries in spite of the family’s stellar international relations.”

“And,” you add carefully, “if they ever catch wind of my close involvement with the regime even after all this time, that will not improve.”

“Clearly, Miss Tybur.” His level gaze shifts to patronizing in all the ways you hate. “But say you become more independent. Distance yourself from the military that leads our fine motherland… Say,” he smiles, “that you make overtures of dissatisfaction with Marley’s cruel expansionist policies and express the utmost sympathy for other nations. Perhaps then they will permit you to expand your operations within their borders.”

Your jaw almost drops at the very suggestion. You’ve always thought, since Willy became Lord Tybur, that only the Tyburs have the power to change the direction of Marley. For obvious reasons, not so obvious to the rest of the world, but also for the heritage you represent. If the Tybur family can be good Eldians, why can they not be only one of many good Eldians? Why not introduce the concept that any Eldian can be good, as any other race of people?

“You…” You rein in your reaction even as your imagination sets off in the direction List has set it—and far more. Especially the part where the Tybur family spreads the good name of Eldians throughout the world. No more ‘special’ treatment, no more interment zones…

No more Warriors.

Maybe. If Marley gets what it wants.

You would allow that? was your question. But the answer, you understand suddenly, is that they would allow perhaps the chance of it, in exchange for Marley’s continued expansion using Eldian bodies on the front lines. A slim chance of sparing Eldian lives for the certainty of losing them. You feel lightheaded just considering it. You want to help, but you are the last person who should hold so many lives in her hands.

Your eyes refocus on General List. A pleased smile brims beneath his well-trimmed beard, like he’s already read your mind. But he can’t know—you’ve shared your thoughts with no one but Willy and Lara, who have been as dismissive as they have been receptive. In other words, as though you’re still the child father sent away thirteen years ago they expect will eventually forget all her questions.

“Does Lord Tybur know about this, Sir?” You eye the intelligence officer not far from List.

List clears his throat. “Not as yet. Lord Tybur might be more receptive to such a scheme were his sister to present it to him herself. We are aware that Lady Tybur chairs the Foundation. Her movements are conservative, but she may agree to a more generous, active Foundation on your word.”

Scheme. That’s what it is, but that isn’t what really catches your attention. Willy and Mila, listening to you? You want to burst into laughter, tell them that they have severely misunderstood the dynamics of the Tybur family. But that intelligence officer is here, which makes you think List is lying.

“Why not ask Lady Tybur to head the operation?”

“Lord Tybur would never allow us to risk his wife,” List laughs. The implication of his words is hardly lost on you, but the general tempers his mockery with a compliment. “And we believe a new, younger face for the Foundation - perhaps one our enemies believe to be foolishly idealistic - will better suit it.”

Foolishly idealistic. Like the sort of person who would agree to this plan. Your face doesn’t fall, but your eyes do - toward the table, the way the fingers of each general drum against the wood. Magath’s hands clasp each other, firm as ever. When you look up to List again, you frown.

“Sir, you know that I’ve returned to Liberio to enter the university’s medical program.”

“Yes, yes, we were quite impressed when we learned of your state exam results, Miss Tybur,” List waves, impatient. He’s been relaxed back against his chair, but now that his certainty is dwindling, he leans forward on the table. “But think. Look at the bigger picture. As a physician you may help a man in need one after the other - years and years down the line. Six years at the shortest, and if you mean to be a specialist, how much longer? But with the Foundation’s resources, and with our backing at that, you will aid hundreds, thousands - and the motherland most importantly. Within the year. Half, if we move quickly.”

You bite your lip. You want it and you don’t. The Tyburs must do something, or else we are nothing were your exact words to Willy before. But the idea of retaking your name when you have only just arrived here nauseates you, and assisting the expansion, the destruction, under the guise of aid more so.

“I… would like time to give this some thought, Sir.”

A sigh seems to echo around the room, but it’s only all the men with you and their exasperation. Only Magath is expressionless as List visibly bites his tongue. He gives the commander a glare for good measure, as though it’s his fault you did not agree at once. “Very well,” he says. “But know that prolonging this will only bring harm to the motherland.”

You only nod. Much as you would like to have it, you have no intention of getting the last word here. You avert your gaze from the Commander when you permit the men to leave the room ahead of you.

It seems like the start of a rather miserable day - you’re practically scheduled to overthink all this some time this week, if not this afternoon - when, once the steady march of power has cleared from the hallway, Pieck meets you as you step out of the conference room.

“Boo.”

Your hand flies over your chest, but it’s a chuckle that comes out of you. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

“So I’ve been told.” She peeks into the room behind you right as you close the doors. “The brass did not look pleased.”

You wince. “I gave them no reason to be. I hate to get the Commander in trouble, but...” You trail off. You both know you can’t say much more.

It’s Pieck’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

“...Sorry.”

“That’s all right,” she shrugs. “I came here for lunch, not information.”

You doubt she knows the extent of the Tyburs’ relationship with the regime, but you can always trust Pieck to know not to pry. “You know, I remember now why you’re my favorite Warrior.”

“Oh?” Pieck grins. “Not the Boy Wonder?”

“Boy Wonder,” you repeat, the way the two of you always have when that name comes up - with a snicker and definitely with no one else around. You’ll never understand how the brass can say it with such straight faces. “So how about that meal?”

She pinches at the skin of your elbow through your sleeve. “Changing the subject doesn’t work on me, you know.”

You sigh. “Can we please eat first? I’m miserable enough without an empty stomach.”

“I guess some things don’t change.”

“Hey!” You half-scoff, half-laugh. With a wink, Pieck slips her arm around yours, and you start down the hallway in companionable silence.

Or you would, if you didn’t know that you owe her a little more than that. Reaching over to rest your free hand over the arm linked with yours, you look at her. “I’m sorry, Pieck. I really am.”

Pieck waits a moment, and then meets your gaze. She searches yours for the lie, but she already knows it won’t be there. You always were too candid for your own good. With a squeeze at your hand, she nods. “I know. Tell me all about it after that meal. Your treat, right?”

You blink, and then laugh with shaking relief. “Of course.”

You and Pieck fall back into the easy rapport you’ve shared since you became friends more than a decade ago. Contrary to her words, she doesn’t press you for answers as you decide on where to eat in the zone. For old times’ sake, you agree on the sandwich place two blocks from the Yeagers’, and you end up sharing a meal in your bedroom.

Sitting on your bed together, legs dangling over one edge as you nip at your food, you finally work up the courage to speak through your guilt and explain yourself and the past five years—or most of it. And of course Pieck is understanding, which makes you feel even more pathetic. True to form, she picks that up as well and gracefully changes the subject.

You’re the one who brings it back to what still hangs in the air over you when you’ve finished eating. Nothing personal—but though Marcel was the only one with whom you were ever close friends with, Reiner, Bertholdt, and Annie were your teammates too. You’d suffered your superiors together during training, and you’d been there for each of their first transformations. For all the experiments too; even their first assault mission.

“What happened?”

Propped up on one elbow, Pieck is lying on her side, legs tucked under her skirt as you set aside your trash. She accepts the glass you hand her from the table, eyes distant. “Zeke hasn’t told you?”

“Zeke won’t look at me unless he absolutely has to. You know how he is.”

Pieck groans. She knows. “He was so irritating after you stopped writing.”

You click your teeth in a wince. “Really?”

“Imagine, Lucy—after you all left, I was stuck with him and Porco. The abandonment issues didn’t just double, they were exponential. Multiply that with the ego and the sarcasm? The Commander was my favorite person those days.”

You laugh in spite of yourself. “I am so sorry, Pieck.”

“You should be,” she grumbles, but the remark is softened with a grin. When you grimace, she braces herself with a deep breath.

She tells you everything, or most of it: that the people of Paradis were shocked to find others alive outside of the walls, what Reiner and Bertholdt and Annie went through the past so many years, how the latter were captured—and exactly what happened to Marcel. She saves that one for last, and though you are infinitely more curious about the world behind the coward king’s walls, you reach for her hand again.

“I’m sorry, Pieck.”

She shakes her head. “You don’t have to make apologies all day, you know.”

“Don’t I?” you grin, embarrassed, teeth gritted even when your feigned mirth starts to droop. The dreamy way she speaks throws others off, but you know Pieck. She’s always been the most pragmatic of the Warriors and so she must feel silly, thinking about what could have been, had Marcel returned. Would a childhood crush have become something more between them if things were different? He had promised his family, and her specifically, that he would come home after saving the world. The thought, the regret for a chance not even yours gone, has a weight settling in your throat too.

You clear it and huff. “Well, it’s a great loss. I think everyone was a little in love with Marcel.”

Pieck glances at you.

“...Except Annie,” you add.

The sudden exemption makes Pieck choke with laughter, with tears not far behind. “Except Annie. Of course.”

You giggle, and both of you pretend not to see each other wiping your own eyes. “You know. Annie was always the toughest among us.” You pause. “Is. She is.” When Pieck’s laughter gives way to somber agreement, you ask, “What about Reiner? What has he said? I know what he’s said, but… two weeks of debriefing… it sounds like a little much.”

“He was there for years,” Pieck shakes her head. “He grew up there, Lucy. He’s… completely different now. Kind of like you.”

“I think that’s giving me a little too much credit.” You haven’t done anything remotely in the way of serving the motherland; not that you begrudge the others that the way you once did. “All I’ve done is see things and get upset. Until I can get my degree, and then until I can get the War Hammer, there’s nothing I can do.”

That’s a lie. There is apparently the Foundation—but the idea of directly assisting the regime in its efforts is something you cannot consider as you are.

“If you do become a doctor, will they let you have the War Hammer?”

You bite your lip. If only for Lara, you’re still bitter about that. “What was it all for otherwise? Though… I guess if I had inherited it then, there’s no way I’d ever be able to come back and see you all except under specific circumstances. Much less be permitted to study.”

Pieck only sighs, reaching for your hand. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t. And when I think about it… a part of me is glad Marcel didn’t have to see all of what Marley has done. What we had to do in Paradis—and I only saw a speck.”

You know what the others did, but Zeke and Pieck’s involvement apart from retrieving your old comrades is still vague.

You squeeze her hand reassuringly, but you can’t help it. “What did you have to do?”

“What we’ve always had to,” she answers with a faint smile. Your friends always had tells when they would rather not say more, and this is unmistakably hers. Given your earlier explanation, you understand why. She intertwines your fingers with gratitude at your silence.

“So,” you start after a while, “how about some dessert before I walk you back to HQ?”

“Sure. I might as well treat myself a little before we have to head out to the mountains again.” At your questioning gaze, she says, “Training with the Panzer Unit. That’s what all the paperwork was for.”

“Gross.”

She chuckles. “That’s exactly what Zeke says.”

Your face falls at the mention of him. Relieved as you are with your progress with Pieck, Zeke is an entirely different ball game. You hate that that’s the phrase you even thought of.

“You know what?” Pieck sits up smacks her hands on her lap. “I’ll treat you, too.”

You perk up. “Really?”

“For a price.”

“...What’s that?”

“Talk to Zeke already. If I come back after a month to your gloomy faces still, I’m going to go crazy.”

“It’s only been a day,” you mutter. “And I’ve tried to apologize to him.”

Pieck gives you a knowing look.

“I did,” you insist helplessly, but you both know that’s probably a lie. In Pieck’s case. You know it is absolutely false: when Zeke came upstairs after dish duty, quietly closing the door to his room, you stepped out of yours and stood outside in the hallway, your hand raised to knock on his door. You just couldn’t do it. You can take Porco’s jabs any day, but last night, the thought of Zeke and his silence, or worse, his caustic cheer, sent you scurrying back to your room.

You sigh. “Fine.”

Amused, Pieck gets to her feet for the opportunity to loom akimbo over you. “Good. And if you start to lose heart, try to remember that six-year old who used to glare at Magath like she had nothing to lose. That girl had guts.”

“You mean the half-dead one who wasn’t allowed dinner and got a Warrior class’s worth of cleanup duty alone, whom you specifically told to get over herself if she didn’t want to actually die a few months into training?”

“Exactly. What is Zeke going to do? Tell you to go to your room without dinner?”

Maybe. You sigh. “Sometimes I don’t like it when you’re right.”

Pieck grins. “And when Zeke gets over himself—maybe he’ll tell you about his brother.”

Your shock would be better illustrated in this moment were you sipping a drink you could spit in her face. “His what?”

“Shh. I don’t think he’s told the Yeagers. I think… he only told Magath because I was there when he discovered it. Still,” she says when your eyes remain wide and expectant, “it’s not my place to say. So talk to him.”

Medicine is one of the few fields for which Eldians are permitted to pursue higher education. It’s only logical—there are only a few non-Eldians who care to treat pig-blooded devils, and the efforts of those who do are wasted on said filth. And so the regime allows the admission of more Eldians than often permitted under quotas for other majors, even if the number does remain small regardless.

After parting ways with Pieck, you find yourself standing in line in some administrative building in the University of Liberio in the midday heat of summer. The line stretches outside because this is the queue for Eldian students wishing to confirm their intention to enroll over a month from now. That’s all—you need only submit a form and pay a fee, and the line for non-Eldians students has long finished—but of course the line has barely moved for your kind.

You’re clutching your envelope and your permit to your chest, which you quickly realize is a terrible idea. Sweat is starting to trickle down the nape of your neck, and you start to fan yourself with the envelope. Talking to the other applicants in line is prohibited - you must be spaced far from one another so as not to make noise and distract students who actually deserve to be here.

It’s ridiculous. You can’t even leave the line because saving spots is prohibited. Something about being fair.

The frustration crawls up your neck in the form of prickling heat, and you feel a headache coming. You fan yourself more vigorously, trying to calm down. It takes a minute, but the background buzz eventually starts to soothe you, and you begin to accept that you can simply return to the Yeagers’ and change as soon as this is over. The glares your line receives from passing students and the guards watching you, ensuring none of you causes a ruckus (as if any Eldian would dare), fade under the memory of your childhood. You withstood it before, with Magath and the other drill instructors screaming in your face. You can ignore a few nasty looks.

With that as a frame of reference, the line is even almost... peaceful. The heat is dry, not humid, there’s no mud, no blisters in your feet, no rucksack weighing you down, and no rifle either.

Only the sudden rustle of paper as it slips from your thumb interrupts that peace.

“No!” you gasp, watching your permit flutter closer to a guard with his back turned.

Just then a hand swoops in to save it - its owner bent forward, dark hair falling over his face until he rights himself, permit in hand, and glances around. You sigh in relief when you spot the band around his arm and wave him over.

He jogs over to you, hand already extended with the permit. “Confirming your slot for the medical school?” he asks, brushing away the bangs that fall over his face. He’s got the slightest stubble around his jaw, which he brushes his fingers over when he notices you looking.

You meet his gaze when you notice you’re looking. “Yeah,” you say, clearing your throat. He smiles at once, as if he can tell you’re embarrassed, but he only casts a glance at the line behind and ahead of you. “It was a lot worse during my time. They had us looping around the gate.”

“Ugh, really?”

He nods, but swallows down his grimace to lick his lips. “I’ve… never seen you around the zone before.”

You blink. Smile a little as you glance around the line. “You know everyone in the zone?”

He opens his mouth to respond with a sheepish grin that makes his eyes twinkle when movement behind him catches your peripheral vision. One of the guards watching the line has noticed him and is stomping his way over. Noticing your alarm, he sticks out a hand. “I’m Kellan, by the way.”

“Lucy. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Lucy,” he repeats, and you’re barely able to shake his hand when the guard yanks him back.

“Damn pig’s blood—!”

“I’m going, sir. Sorry,” says Kellan, ending the apology with his eyes on you even as he winces from the shorter man’s grip. When he’s eventually released, he ducks away and walks off. He glances over his shoulder to wave, but another guard keeps him moving with a shove.

The shorter one glares at you when he’s gone, and though you remember Pieck’s words, you know this isn’t the time or the place.

“Sorry,” you mutter, eyes to the ground as you turn ahead. Once he’s assured of your submission, he leaves too.

The line takes longer than you expect, but you survive the sweltering heat and submit your form just before the offices close. You hurry back to the zone afterward, dropping by the Galliard bakery to call on Mr. and Mrs. Galliard and offer your condolences. They are shocked but overjoyed to see you, and insist that you take your old favorites when they discover that you’ll be dropping in on Mr. Finger afterward.

You don’t stay long, though Mr. Finger is pleased about your choice of future employment. You feel even guiltier at the unspoken regret in his smile, and beg him not to mention it when he tries to thank you for the support the Tybur family has sent the Fingers over the years—the one thing you think Willy has ever done right.

You return to the Yeagers before dark, early enough to help Mrs. Yeager start with dinner. Dr. Yeager is apologetic as always, but you’re able to change the subject by serving the blueberry pie from the Galliards for a mid-meal dessert of sorts, and the dinner table relaxes soon after. Zeke is absent - he still hasn’t come home from work - so you make sure to leave some for him. This time, Mrs. Yeager allows you to take over cleanup, and the couple retires to their bedroom once the conversation fades into a comfortable silence.

You hope to meet Zeke right as he arrives, corner him into talking to you somehow unless he decides to miss dinner himself, but after half an hour of sitting at the dinner table, cleaning anything you might have missed in the kitchen and the dining room, and rearranging anything out of place in the living room, it starts to look like he won’t be coming anytime soon.

That’s fine, you tell yourself. You feel slimy from being out in the sun all afternoon anyway, and you treat yourself to a relaxing bath. Zeke is still away when you return to your room, and the calming warmth of your evening has you yawning. You have no choice but to change into your pajamas.

In truth, you’re a little relieved. Not that you’re particularly answerable to Pieck anyway, at least not until she finishes training with the Panzer Unit, but it won’t be your fault that you and Zeke weren’t able to talk tonight. But just to feel as though you’ve tried your very best, you keep yourself up by starting to write to Lara—and then regret your principle when you hear heavy footsteps outside and a soft click of the door across yours.

The word you’re writing skitters off to the edge of the paper in your surprise. Your heartbeat invades the tense silence of your room, but you manage to take a deep breath, folding your unfinished letter and slipping it under the paperweight on your desk.

Your door is your next obstacle.

Overlapping images of how Zeke will surely reject you race through your mind alongside the words you wish you could say, and you’re able to keep up with about... none of them. You thought that the words would come to you, and maybe they will, but the moment is about to come and you can’t think of a single word to say.

If you have time to worry, you have time to just get over there and do it, you tell yourself. You shake your head, regretting your own harshness, but also nod as you hastily gulp down the glass of water on your bedside table. Those words in mind, you move, switching one door for another. No longer standing nose-to-panel with your bedroom door, you’re doing it with Zeke’s in the hallway instead.

Hand raised to knock, you eye the light peeking out from the gap beneath the door. Knock. Just knock. The worst he can do is turn you away, and you’ll probably want to wriggle under the dirt and cry, but you’ll at least have tried. You owe it to him to try, like you did with Pieck, and you know you’re braver than this. Or you were, once upon a time.

If you’re still the same girl from years ago, you don’t get to find out just yet.

You hear his footsteps coming from the bathroom too late. No, it’s the heat of another and the familiar scent of his soap which alert you to his presence.

That and his voice, still too deep for the older boy you remember. “Aren’t you a little too old to still be knocking on my door at night?”

“Zeke,” you say, trying to pull your heart down from your throat before you turn and meet his flat expression. He’s in pajamas himself, his hair damp. You must not have heard him head for the bathroom you share down the hall. “Hi.”

That’s more than your mind could summon a while ago, but you still want to smack yourself.

His chest rises and falls as he takes a deep breath. His jaw shifts even as his pale eyes stare down at you in the dim light, as if deciding what to do with you... and then he sighs. He’s too tired to be glib tonight. “Can I help you, Lucy?”

Your lips purse with trepidation, but you stand your ground. “Can we talk?”

He pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. Looking down at you is clearly work. “I’m listening.”

You hesitate, trying not to make another face. It seems to come naturally with Zeke around, but you resist the urge, and instead tilt your head to the side. There is no light coming from the master bedroom down the length of the hallway. When you glance back up at Zeke, you give him a pointed look.

Zeke sighs again, and then… decides to just brush past you to grab his doorknob.

Your stomach twists with both disappointment and pique. “Zeke,” you whisper furiously, barely just stomping your foot.

He whips his head to face you, halfway inside already. “What?” he whispers back, like you’re nagging him. Then he rolls his eyes, swinging his door wide open and backing into it to give you room.

“Get in.”

Sorry for the dearth of Zeke moments this chapter, but the next one will mooostly feature him and yes we'll finally find out why Zeke is upset. I used to write very long chapters with fics, but that really exhausted me so I'm trying to write shorter now to keep myself from burning out. But I'm enjoying writing in 2nd person! I never used to do it because it was frowned upon long ago, and possibly still is now? But idc anymore it's fun to try.

Thank you for reading!

#zeke x reader #zeke x oc #zeke yeager x reader #zeke yeager x oc #zeke jaeger x reader #zeke jaeger x oc #aot #snk #aot fic #aot fanfic #haliyam #interim #snk fanfiction #aot fanfiction #zeke yeager #zeke jaeger #snk fanfic

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mommymooze · 3 years

Text

Sleep Doctor

Hubert X Reader. Warning: blood war violence, rudeness, bad dreams

You are often compared to Mercedes, both of you are talented in healing, as well as both of you have doting, motherly personalities. Both of you are nurturing, protective, supportive, bakers of treats, a trusted confidante.

There are differences of course. Her faith is in the goddess, yours is in the human spirit. Your reason magic is powerful as well. You don’t have a creepy brother, just a lazy sister. You cook delicious meals, you love brewing potions and concoctions. While she is laid back and chill, you are assertive and firm. You give advice and then enforce it.

Mercedes suggests that someone get more sleep, rest, take their time to recover. Maybe gently remind them after a few days if she stills sees dark circles under their eyes. You tell them they need more sleep and that you will be waiting for them at their room to make certain they sleep that night and perhaps the next two or three nights.

Linhardt enjoys sharing duties as the healer for the Black Eagles Strike force with you. His favorite taunt is to use your name as a threat. “If you do not rest that leg and let it heal, I will advise (y/n) of the situation.” Everyone is quite aware that Emperor Edelgard fully supports your extremely strict and regimented methods to ensure that the Strike Force is in tip top condition.

One of your pet peeves is finding injuries long after a battle is over. Linhardt will only leave his minor wounds untreated if he is too tired to get to it. Dorothea does very well seeking treatments promptly. Petra has a great understanding of the responsibility of your body being a temple and to keep it in constant repair. Bernadetta only hides injuries if she feels that she has made a mistake and tries to use it as self-punishment. Caspar is highly maintained and checked by Lin, so he’s in great shape. Emperor Edelgard is preened by the healers every time she returns, to make sure not the tiniest scratch is left unattended lest she get an infection. Ferdinand does frequent the healers, however he has been known to often get infections, not understanding the seriousness of the smaller, less important wounds he has received in the germ and disease filled conditions of war.

Then there is Hubert. He stands and gives reports to his Lady, while his own blood is pooling at his feet. His mindset is Duty Before All Else. Immediately upon arrival from a mission, he must report to Emperor Edelgard, then he may stop by the infirmary, but more likely will return to his tent or quarters and write his reports of the mission results.

At first you try reasoning with him. Advising him he is losing enough blood that by the time his report is finished his body is completely exsanguinated. You attempt to physically remove him from the Command tent and he strikes you with magic. Trial and error provides the answer for your most successful method of treating the irritatingly stubborn man. Healing him upon his arrival, during his report to the Emperor upon his return. The moment Hubert warps to her tent you are summoned from the infirmary. Your materials already await you in the command tent.

“Stand over here on these towels.” You order the dark mage.

“I must present my report…” Hubert angrily chastises you.

“I tire of my carpets being stained, do as she says.” Edelgard orders, he complies.

You remove his cape, cravat, and outer coat. You stand behind him as he is advising the Emperor of his latest completed duties in the never-ending effort to win the war for the Empire. You in turn untuck his white and red stained shirt from his pants and pull it up in the back clipping it out of your way. The blood has dried around his undershirt and you cut it loose from the stab wound that is just at the base of his rib cage, thankfully below his heart by a few inches. Had the assassin had a better angle, well, the Spymaster would not be with us right now.

Pressing a cloth that is thoroughly soaked in alcohol onto the wound to remoisten and allow removal of the remaining undershirt material as well as cleanse the wound preventing infection, you apply firm pressure into the hole and begin removing the soiled cloth from the deep stab wound as you hear him exclaim.

“…and then we proceeeeek!..Flames woman! Trying to finish the job!” The dark mage yells, his left arm coming back to smack you away as the burning sensation of the liquid goes deeper into his flesh.

You easily duck his attack as you remove the foreign materials, making certain the wound is absolutely clean. Minor deep healing spells take care of the immediate damage. There will still be bruising to his left kidney. You pull out needle and thread to pull the two sides of the wound back together, making it easier for the healing spells to take hold and lessen the scarring. That particular wound finished, it is not difficult to trace another slice into his flesh, this time blood is soaking into his shirt collar as he sustained a dagger’s blade to the side of his head just behind his ear. Head wounds bleed profusely, if they do not penetrate the skull they cause little problem as long as they are cleaned. A nice curved needle allows you to pick up the skin on each side to bring them back together again. A final healing spell there and the bleeding subsides.

Your hands glow lightly as they run along his body, searching for any additional injuries. The stubborn mule of a man certainly will not reveal any weak points. Two ribs on his left front are heavily bruised, healing spells correct that situation. Finding no other serious injuries, you return the cape and coat to Hubert, pat him on the shoulder, and proceed to the infirmary.

The trouble with being at war is that it is prohibitive to good sleep. There are quite a few members of the Strike Force that have issue with sleeping, some nights it is interrupted by dreams or memories of personally tragic events during the war, others cannot get to sleep in the first place, their minds tormenting them with frightening thoughts. While in Enbarr or at Garreg Mach, you are available to assist your fellow Strike Force members with issues of nightmares, night terrors or simply general insomnia. Your schedule is changed to accommodate the availability for such. You are available from sunset until 5 or 6am to assist with these issues. After that you return to your room to sleep until noon. The guards patrolling the areas are trained take notice if someone is calling out loudly in their sleep. There is also a physical sign, a request for assistance, by placing a red card slightly peeking past the bottom of the door, alerting them to retrieve you to the location for necessary assistance.

Your counsel at night is always kept between you and the patient. Having someone there to talk to is the best medicine for most parties. A trusted ear, a caring heart, letting them know they are not alone, simply being there is at times the answer to the current situation.

Hubert again, is the one most difficult to work with. His living space is highly covered in magic spells and sigils. The layout is such that if he is screaming in his bed it would not be heard through his closed door. He is not one to ask for help unless it is from complete desperation. Only by observing the reticent Spy Master can you tell that sleep has been evading him more than normal. His eyes are sunk further back into his skull, the blackness seems to surround his eyes. He taps his feet to keep his body moving, reminding himself to stay awake. This dedicated, enervated man is your most challenging patient by far. As today’s strategy meeting concludes, you request that he remain behind to discuss a matter with him and Emperor Edelgard.

“Hubert, when was the last time you slept.” You ask, hands on your hips.

“Three days ago. There is no time for sleep when you are running a war.” He answers.

“There is only so long before your body will take what it requires. The next battle is less than a week away. It is critical that you sleep now.” You plead, looking to Edelgard for support. “I agree. Hubert, pass along what duties you can and carve out time for sleep every day until the battle. Provide both of us a schedule of when you will set aside time for rest.”

Hubert stands, bowing to his Emperor and glaring at you sharply before he leaves the room.

You have found, through trial and error, ways of making him sleep. Forcing him into specific routines that subconsciously prepare him for sleep. Once he is in bed and relaxed usually a palm resting on the back of his hand is enough to make him lay still enough to drift off. Sometimes he is more agitated, so you will read to him dissertations regarding the history and foundation of white magic in a monotone voice. The text is very dry, of no interest to him, yet the words distract his thoughts enough, allowing sleep to take him.

Today was no such day. Overtired and restless he shifts in his bed anxiously.

“Tell me a story.” He finally requests.

“I did not think you a fan of fairy tales or knights.” You reply softly.

“You have a large family. Tell me a story of your youth.”

You begin to weave the tales of your younger days. The family going into the woods to pick buckets upon buckets of blueberries, your brothers getting distracted by seeing who could climb the highest in a tree, Mother panicking that they would fall and break their arms and legs. Scrubbing the purple from your siblings before getting them to bed then helping mother preserve the berries in wine bottles to enjoy during the winter. You are softly retelling these events until you realize he has fallen asleep.

It is not dark in the room, the curtains are pulled close to reduce the sunlight. You pull out a novel to read. Hubert is a quiet sleeper. He’s not like Caspar who crawls around and tangles himself in his sheets while he slumbers. You look up from your book as you see Hubert moving his feet, giving a weak kick. He is pulling his arms up to his chest and his face is drawn into a frown. You drop your book. Your hand brushes his cheek softly as you try to gently wake him from his nightmare.

“Hubert, I’m here for you. Everything is all right. Shhhh.” You softly whisper.

The dark mage startles from his sleep, his eyes wide. He looks about the room finally realizing he is within his own bedchambers. He looks very distressed, his hands trembling. You instinctively pull him into a hug, holding him tight against your chest as you lay gently on him.

“Breathe, just breathe.” You urge him, taking long slow loud breaths to have him match yours.

It takes a while before he finally begins to relax again. You know you can’t stand hunched over him much longer, so you walk around the bed to lie next to him on top of the covers. You pull him to face you as you card your fingers through his hair and encourage him to relax. The exhaustion of his body takes over and he falls asleep again.

You awaken after a short nap due to movement under your arm. Opening your eyes you find Hubert looking back at you. Instinctively you slowly pull your arm from across his chest back to yourself.

“Did you rest well?” you whisper.

Hubert rolls onto his back. “Surprisingly, yes. My headache is gone.”

You quietly slide out of the bed, straightening your clothing. Making your way to the other side, you return the chair to its proper place and gather your things.

“Do you often accompany your patients in their beds?” Hubert asks, a slight sneer in his voice.

“Never.” You reply. “You are a…special case.” You reply, closing the door behind you.

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

The next day Hubert is much more coherent at the morning strategy meeting. Once the meeting adjournes, the Emperor requests that the two of you remain behind.

“I notice an improvement today.” Edelgard smiles at the Minister of the Imperial Household.

“Of course, My Lady. I refuse to disappoint you.” He respectfully bows.

“We are scheduled today from 10pm until 3am. Granted, 5 hours is not much for the average person, but to Hubert’s tortured soul it is quite the luxury.” You quip, causing Edelgard to giggle.

The dark mage scowls in your general direction. You both excuse yourselves as the Emperor has another appointment to attend. You join him as he heads toward his office.

“Was it so horrible to rest yesterday? Do you not feel some improvement?” You inquire.

“You were witness to my sleep. It is anything but restful.” He grumbles.

“Which is currently the point of my assisting you.” You respond in a logical manner.

“If there is nothing further you require, I have significantly less time to complete my duties. I bid you good day.” Hubert sniffs as he heads to his office.

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

You are waiting outside of Hubert’s quarters for his arrival. He arrives 15 minutes late. There is no apology for his tardiness. He completes his routine for preparing for bed and finally pulls his covers up to his chin, only to stare at you. You’ve brought knitting to keep you company, a quiet pastime.

“Do you need a diversion?” You ask softly.

“No.” He responds, continuing to stare daggers at you.

A few minutes later he decides to stare at the ceiling.

“Why do you do this?” Hubert wonders aloud.

“For your health of course. Sleep is extremely important. Your body needs the rest, so does your mind. It affects your nervous system, your immune system. All creatures need sleep.” You answer matter of factly patting the back of his hand.

“Why do you care?” he asks.

“I’ve come to know everyone very closely. You are my work family and my friends. I would be devastated should anyone die from something I can possibly prevent. Just as you protect us all from spies, assassinations, poisoning, and the like, I do the same protecting everyone from sickness, injuries, infections etcetera. There is only one Hubert Von Vestra. I would like to see him live past the end of the war. “

“Hmpf.” Is his only response.

Hubert closes his eyes as you quietly knit. His breathing slows as he drifts into the land of Nod. You silently slip from his room to check on the other occupants of the Imperial Palace to find that it is a rather quiet night and there are no disturbances amongst the Strike Force. You return to Hubert’s quarters to see him still resting, which is surprising. You know he is a light sleeper, however even if he woke up, he remained in bed. You count that as a victory. As 3am nears, you head out to retrieve a carafe and water, preparing coffee in his parlor just at the time he should awaken.

“One moment.” Is heard coming from the door to his bedroom. A few minutes later Hubert emerges from his bedroom dressed for work and looking shockingly more alert than you have seen him in the past two weeks.

“Thank you for doing this for yourself as well as for the rest of us. I will see you again this evening.” You articulated as you gather your personal items to leave. You swear you almost hear a soft ‘thank you.’ from Hubert as he locks his door and heads to his office.

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

Hubert is working until midnight tonight, never a regular schedule for himself, his duties rule his sleep schedule. You leave Ferdinand’s quarters in time to head to the kitchen and obtain a cup of coffee before you must meet with the dark mage. Ferdinand sleeps well most of the time, however as the war becomes more brutal and savage, he is plagued with nightmares more frequently. After you were called to his room this night, he finally agreed to take a small sleeping potion. The thought of dark circles under his bright and shining eyes is like having storm clouds blocking the sun. He is the source of the Strike Force’s positive energy. They need him brightly shining in the lead, a beacon of hope.

Your arrival at Hubert’s door is matched with his. His posture is much improved, not hunched over barely able to stand. He greets you with a nod and waves you into his quarters. You pat his shoulder as you walk past him. He prepares for bed and once he is under the covers calls you into his bedroom. He has already placed the chair in its normal spot, close to the head of his bed. Taking your seat you place your hand on top of his. His hand does not move.

“You keep touching me. Why do you do that?” Hubert asks, staring at the ceiling.

“It is another one of the basic needs of humans. Some need it more than others. Certainly you have observed in battle, when the Professor is encouraging Caspar in the middle of a fight, if Caspar receives a simple pat on the head, he can rush forth taking out several squads of enemies at an amazing pace. When Bernadetta is extremely anxious, sitting next to her with a leg or shoulder touching her, she visibly relaxes. Emperor Edelgard relaxes with gentle hugs. Ferdinand prefers a one armed hug when being comforted through a tough time. The professor responds to hand holding and shoulder touching. Dorothea gets herself anxious and worked up sometimes, then only a full squeezing hug can get her to settle enough to speak with her.

“I was not aware of such needs, nor of your detailed observations of our team members.”

“I must admit, you are my most difficult patient in this regard.” You smile softly.

“Explain.” He says flatly.

“Beyond contact with our Emperor, you do not touch others nor does anyone touch you.” You begin. “Even when contact with another is made, it is not skin to skin, always to clothing, always with gloves. Certainly your upbringing, family history, interpersonal relationships, work schedules, work agenda and severe lack of personal time factors into this.

When one is in the infirmary, healers constantly touch the patients. Verbal reassurance is good, physical touch is required, and is extremely reassuring. When a patient is unconscious, the body still reacts to touch. When Petra was heavily injured a few battles ago, Dorothea was there for hours holding her hand, stroking her cheek. The body does react, relaxes. Somewhere in her brain, she knows someone is there for her and she needs to get better in order to rejoin them. Unconscious patients still tense up, faces furrow. Touch causes them to relax, leading the body to focus on healing.

On the battlefield, I am shocked at the condition I have found a fallen person, yet they are still alive, simply because someone else is there with them, touching them, encouraging them to hang on to that precious thread of life for yet a moment longer. That comrade being there has performed a miracle. There is no other way to explain it. Reason magic is cast through verbal incantations, physical movement, mental intentions. Healing magic is through touch, with the exception of physic, because no rule is absolute. “

“Hmmm. Continue.” Hubert watches your face closely, turning his palm to yours, taking your smaller hand into his without thinking.

“Now my observation of you, Hubert. I have heard you say that you are unworthy of anyone being close to you based on your workings below the surface, your bloodstained hands, duties you have carried out in the darkness. I disagree. You are not to judge your own worthiness. Only others can perform that task. They will base it on their own life, experiences, beliefs, circumstances. If they cannot understand you and appreciate you for who you are, all of you, then perhaps they are not worthy of you. The Emperor knows you, knows what you do for her, suspects what is done outside of her vision, yet she is there for you, accepting you for who you are, as you are. Over these years of war, all of the members of our team have learned more about you, perhaps scratching beyond the surface of you, yet they are still here. They still support you, believe in you, rely on you. They find you worthy of their protection, their support. Tell me of one person in the Strike Force that has not helped you in a battle. I certainly can tell you about how many I have had to piece together after they shielded you from certain death. I have lost count of how many holes I have patched up on you are a result of your protecting each and every one of them.”

“Physical Attributes are difficult to overcome…” he argues.

You laugh at the thought. “Have you never heard that beauty is in the eye of the beholder? Beauty is found within? To me, my mother is the most beautiful woman in the world. Having so many children her stomach never went back to being flat and fashionable. She has spots on her face from being in the sun. Wrinkles in her hands from working them hard for many years. Her nose is crooked because she broke it as a child and never had it properly healed. Most people on the street would look at her as the typical matronly old woman, but to me she is more beautiful than any goddess, I would not change a thing. My sister was being courted by Bernard, her now husband. Bernard was awkward, tall and lanky. At first I noticed he was all knees and elbows, his teeth seemed to be too large for his mouth. But my sister loved him, and he loved her. When I last saw him, I saw a tall handsome man that would do anything for my sister, just looking at him you could tell he adores her. When he looks at my sister, his smile shines bright and I consider him beautiful inside and out. Ask Dorothea how far good looks will get you. She is a beautiful woman, however knows that beauty fades. She has found someone who loves her for her. That when she is old and wrinkled and gray, they will be there for her and she for them. “

“I have much to think about. Good night.” Hubert says softly closing his eyes.

You remain holding his hand until it relaxes which is not until he is in a deep sleep. He sleeps quietly and restfully. A very good rest for him indeed.

The next morning Hubert joins you in his parlor, sitting at the table with you as you silently enjoy the first cup of morning coffee together.

As you pour a refill, you finally break the silence. “Today we prepare, early tomorrow we leave for yet another battle. I know you will not sleep tonight, if you wish to try, even for an hour or two, I would be happy to help.”

Hubert briefly scowls then retracts it to a minor frown. “I can sleep on my own. I do not need you as a crutch.”

You place your hand atop his now white gloved hand. “I am not a crutch, I am an enforcer.” You smile.

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

You are too busy the night before leaving to think about Hubert. Ferdinand has a particularly strong night terror. Bernadetta had a major panic attack. Linhardt could not find a comfortable place to sleep, wandering and laying about all over the palace. You would find him in the middle of a pathway, taking him to a more secluded and safer place to sleep only for him to move to a different poor location for slumber. You finished bottling your last batch of healing potions and pots of salves for minor wounds and burns. You begin filling the wagon with as much bandages and bindings as you could stuff into it. You and the other healers riding in the wagon will take turns sleeping, resting now because once battle starts, you would not sleep for perhaps two days or more.

A few more days on the road, scouts have returned stating there is a small army preventing anyone from passing, apparently a mix of kingdom and church soldiers. A brief strategy meeting is held and soon the caravans realign, with the support teams like yours toward the rear. A few more hours at a slow pace as they advance to the enemy location. Now explosions are heard as the mages on both sides attack, the infantry running in behind the Cavalry and the fliers doing their best to snipe from the skies. Your group hurriedly throws together the medical tent, secures a location for water, sets up cots, supplies. Ready for patients, you head out toward the field of battle. Those that are no longer fit to fight are sent your direction. You assess their condition, stop severe bleeding and direct them to the correct tent location. You see a Meteor spell go off in the middle of the battle, sincerely hoping that is Dorothea and not the enemy that is the source. You watch Linhardt in the back lines, healing who he can, keeping them on their feet. You want to go out there and help, but you remain at your post.

The battle continues until sunset. You are surrounded by patients. Fortunately nobody in the Strike Force has serious injuries, or at least they have not yet made it to the medical tent. You finish cleaning the slicing wounds of a very young, perhaps 17 year old, soldier’s arms before sewing the sides of the wounds back together and then casting a healing spell on them to remove the final trace of any visible wound.

“(Y/n)” a deep voice comes from behind you.

“How are you doing Hubert? Is there somewhere I am needed?” You ask, looking absolutely exhausted.

“Do you have any healing spells left in you?” He asks, a frown on his brow.

“No, That was the last one.” You say, cleaning up your surgical tools. Before you look up, he takes hold of your arm and warps you to a tent.

“Now it is your turn. You are in desperate need of sleep. There are buckets and towels to wash up and your bags are there to change clothes.”

“I sleep in the medical tent in case they need me…” you state, confused by this.

“You are out of magic, let those that can heal remain. I will step outside, you will clean up and prepare for bed.” Hubert exits, closing the tent flap behind him.

In spite of the rudeness, it feels nice to wash the blood and grime off and change into clean dry clothing not soaked in someone else’s blood. Sleeping away from the injured is much much quieter, you think as you change into bedclothes and sit on the cot.

“Done.” You call out.

Hubert enters the tent, bringing a tin cup full of water as well as a waterskin. “You must drink this. You have not had a drink since the first patients came in.”

“I’ve been preoccupied.” You gratefully take the cup and drinking the entire contents quickly.

“Now rest. Go to sleep.” His voice is quite assertive.

“Stay with me a bit?” You plead.

“Demanding woman!” He huffs, pulling the chair next to the bed to sit close by.

“Is everyone okay? Have they been checked out?” you ask.

Hubert grumbles. “Of course they are. Many have been asleep for four hours or more. Now hush.”

You suddenly sit up. “Have I stolen your bed? I can’t do that to you.”

He hesitantly touches your shoulder. “You need to rest. Stop fighting me.”

You frown and lie back down. “Could you lie next to me for a bit? Its…chilly.” You begin scooting to one side of the cot, until it threatens to tip over from having the weight all on one side.

“You are relentless.” He frowns.

You nod and lift the cover for him to join you. He lies on his back, you on your side facing him. You lift his arm bringing it around your back as you place your head and arm on his chest. Without opening your eyes you tell him, “Yes this is necessary.” You settle in next to him and quickly relax, falling asleep.

#fe3h x reader #fe3h #hubert von vestra #fe16 #feth #Fire Emblem Three Houses

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brightlilies-a · 4 years

Text

cracks knuckles. i’ve long put off rewriting this one, if not because it’s not an easy or concise subject matter to discuss, so bear with me. . . ! spoilers for dnc & 5.0 msq (though the latter is lighter, so i can expand on it later with a broader scope).

headcanon, re: purpose. * partially rewritten from my old blog & otherwise including new stuff.

what’s your purpose?

if you had asked him that question during a realm reborn and heavensward, he’d wholeheartedly answer that all he wants to do is have the strength to protect others. the funny thing is that it’s a purpose that was given to him——not because he’s the warrior of light or because people are relying upon his continued success, but because it was something his older brother, albi’a, said near constantly prior to the calamity. they were to use their strength to ensure the safety of the tribe, and when they would eventually be outcast, that strength would become something to protect others with. power was meant to protect——that was all it ever meant to albi’to.

‘course, after albi’a’s death at carteneau and his mother pushing him to become an adventurer seemingly on a whim, albi’to ultimately ended up parroting that sentiment for a good chunk of time. if someone asked why he was an adventurer, it was always to gain the power to protect, with no deeper thought to it. he believed his would-be mantra, sure (if he hadn’t, he would have never approached the gladiator’s guild, nor walked the path of a paladin), but the words were never something that were his. they were the remnants of a promise left unfulfilled, acting as a buoy for a young man with little else to cling to in the vast, churning ocean of heroics and intrigue that was swiftly becoming his life.

putting it like that and only looking at it from that perspective, however, makes it seem insincere——and it’s not. albi genuinely wants to protect people. he’s kind and compassionate to others because he’s had a rough go at life and he doesn’t want anyone to go through what he did. he lost his home and much of what he considered his family only to be shuffled into a place that didn’t even want him all at once, and yet, he keeps his optimism (even if at times, he didn’t think he could.). so he often sympathizes, even with people he possibly shouldn’t, and wants to keep them safe.

but, then again, stormblood happens. namely, in crimson it began happens, as all things inevitably return to zenos. zenos, who is so uncaring to things that don’t interest him, set against albi, who feels so much toward everything and everyone. and yet, the power albi had obtained to protect others wasn’t enough. the conviction he’d allowed to guide him through combating ultima weapon and the whole of the dragonsong war fell short suddenly. the scar on his shoulder is an ugly reminder of his loss, but his shattered shield, like haurchefant’s, reinforces a reality that, for a while, he’s afraid of: he can’t protect everyone.

so he shifts jobs to samurai, thinking if he gets stronger he can brute force his way through it. he can still protect people, but maybe he doesn’t need a shield to do it. maybe all he needs is a stronger sword that will stop threats in their tracks. but the foundation of his (brother’s) belief that the strong will always be able to protect the weak is cracked, and patches 4.4 onward really reinforce that. for much of stormblood though, there isn’t any time to waver, so the problem only rears its head once the scions start getting called away and he’s helpless to do anything to stop it. yet again, he can’t stop what’s happening, not to the people he cares so much for, and no amount of power is going to help him.

albi doesn’t do well on his own, as he’s never really had to face who he is and process his own identity. he tends to ensure other people are near him, hiding most of his insecurities through being overly social and directing conversation away from himself. so much of the time between 4.5 part 1 and 4.5 part 2 is very, very rough on him, because he’s holding on so tightly to the image of the warrior of light people want and expect from him, punishing himself for not being able to help the people he’s losing, and ignoring those who are still around’s concerns for him. part 2 of the patch helps, as aymeric reminds him that he isn’t alone, and tataru opens his eyes to the fact he can’t keep bottling everything up and trying to handle these things on his own anymore, which are both things he desperately, desperately needs to hear at that point.

so while they’re out looking for the crystal tower beacon… he’s not alone, and he’s doing better to include the others in what he’s doing so they can help, but it’s not perfect. it’s hard when he isn’t the same bright-eyed kid that walked into the waking sands at thancred’s behest. he’s still loud and energetic, but he’s begun to mellow out somewhat from everything he’s been through and witnessed.

above all else, though, he’s come to terms with the truth he once feared: he can’t protect everyone; sometimes, he can’t even protect himself. which brings us back to that initial question of purpose.

if he cannot protect with his shield and if his blade alone cannot wield enough power, then what’s left to guide him on his way? he’s relied on the scions’ support for so long, and while he’s always done what’s expected of him, he’s never really had much to offer outside of being the eikon slayer or the muscle. but while he’s not allowed to help search for the beacon himself, it gives him plenty of time to find another answer for himself, which he does on a wayward trip to limsa lominsa to visit his sister.

“ put another way, bringing joy and succor to the scorned and the suffering is no less than our calling in life. ” - nashmeira, a soirée in the sultanate.

while he’s never offered much besides being a weapon, albi has always had a naturally charismatic personality. he likes people, enjoys their company, delights in bringing them together and building them up. which, in some ways, goes hand in hand with being the warrior of light——sowing hope where despair otherwise reigns is simply part of being the realm’s champion, even if he isn’t fond of the title himself. so the thought of supporting the people around him is one that is more secondhand nature than parroting what his brother said while he was alive, and one that comes more naturally to him.

natural affinity for and history of dance aside (because this isn’t about that), it’s a job that suits him infinitely better than swinging a sword around. and not because he’s simply good at dancing, but because being a dancer is about supporting the people around oneself, lifting their spirits and unburdening hearts, leaving a bit of joy and happiness in his wake. it isn’t something done alone; it requires a partner or an audience.

and traveling with troupe falsiam, brief as it might’ve been, truly assured him that he wanted to do nothing more with his life. fighting the absolutely horrible monsters born out of the sorrow in people’s hearts, seeing their burdens manifest like that, it hurt, sure. but he had the ability to help those people, so he would. and he will, because in the end it’s what he wants to do. mistress nashmeira’s words ring true in a way he wholly agrees with——his purpose isn’t to protect people or to fight their battles, but to bring joy and help the helpless. to do as much as he can as kindly as he can, but not promise any form of salvation.

because he’s not a god, nor is he infallible, and twelve does he know that.

“ in a place like this, you learn to take what little moments of happiness you can get. “ - tesleen, the time left to us.

of course, norvrandt puts this new purpose to its test swiftly. most people don’t have much of a reason to be happy, what with the end of the world being nigh. the people’s hearts are filled with doubts, shadows of disdain for the lot they’ve been given, and even by the time he goes to amh araeng to meet with alisaie (which he does first, given how things ended at ghimlyt dark), albi is keenly aware of the general condition. moreover, that it isn’t anything he can fix immediately, because as long as the main problem exists, people will continue to suffer after the fact.

worse, having gone through what he did alongside troupe falsiam tends to make the events in norvrandt pull on his heartstrings uncomfortably. meeting f’lhaminn once more before seeing thancred struggle to let go of minfilia, dealing with the fuath wanting to make him theirs to perform again and again in endless fights on their drowned stage, watching the carers at journey’s head struggle to find even an ilm of kindness to share with the afflicted... not to mention eulmore in its entirety engorging itself on false happiness, there’s a lot that makes him hesitate. lightwardens, and knowing they were once people, make him sad, but he tries to view it as tesleen put it: the warrior of darkness comes to care for souls at their dying moment, to bring them somewhere hopefully better than where they are currently.

not a promise of salvation, but a measure of kindness he can deliver to them. something that keenly fits along with the purpose he’s decided for himself, that isn’t asking him to be something or someone he isn’t.

#🏶: bloom in the dark. ( headcanon. )#[ there's technically a second half to this i'll eventually get to bc pixies are. tenthands. v interesting as a dnc #but i wanna go back and grab screengrabs for specific instances and scenes so i'm not always creating giant text walls of meta #. v . but i've always liked this hc so i did wanna go back to address it with like. actual continuation since i originally wrote this back #in what? feb? march? somewhere around there. needs some updates. ]

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not-so-secret-nerd · 6 years

Text

The longer my life goes on the more I realize I don’t want it. Not the people, mind you. There are a select few who make existence on this floating rock bearable, but as a whole, there’s just nothing here.

I know, I know, I KNOW! Alright? I know! I know “people have it worse.” I know “you’re white, what the fuck do you have to worry about?” I know “at least you have a home, a car, a job, a life.” I know “at least you have people who care!” I know, “at least you’re not out on the streets!”

I know, alright?! I fucking know better than anyone how much I have and how the deck has been stacked in my favor due to my privilege. I know, okay!? So no, I shouldn’t complain, should I? I shouldn’t bemoan about my circumstances because others have and do have it worse, and what does a fucking white queer have to worry about, huh?

But it doesn’t change the fact I look in the mirror and only see a disappointment. I see a dollar sign to my parents. I see a burden. I see a 30-year-old still living at home, unable to get a decent job, unable to be fully independent. I see a failure, and I regularly what that person to die.

I grew up a financial linchpin in my family. “Oh your father hasn’t sent in his child support again (big dramatic sigh). We’re going to have to pay out of pocket for your school supplies. Guess he really cares about you”. (Wow, equating your child’s self-worth to how much a parent is willing to pay for you, classy). “Money’s tight again (looks directly at me) we’re going to need to be really frugal for a while to make it to the next pay period.” (I am a 13-year-old child, what the fuck does this have to do with me?)

I was their prize in their divorce tug-of-war, but they never once took into account what they were doing to me. What they were exposing me to. What foundation they were laying for their adult child soon to come.

I killed myself trying to make myself as indisposable as possible because if I was useful I wouldn’t be thrown away. That’s an eight-year old’s logic. My dad left me, and my mother remarried and had another kid, oops guess that means I’m replaceable after all! I can change that! I’ll be the best in school. That’ll keep their attention/love. I’ll be the best at everything I do. I’ll learn super fast so I don’t disappoint them because I have an inescapable fear of being thrown away like last week’s garbage. I’ll do everything they ask without question. I’ll be the best daughter they could have because that’s healthy living with the fear of replacement as a constant stress.

Wow, what’s the one thing they talk about the most or complain about the most when I’m in their presence? Money! So, therefore, I need to associate my self-worth based on how much money I force my parents to spend on me/how much money I actually accumulate. The less the better because then I’m not being a burden. But wait….why can my little sister get all these cool things? Why doesn’t she feel this CRIPPLING FUCKING GUILT every time money is brought up? Why isn’t she panicking about making payments to bills that aren’t fucking mine because I’M A GODDAMN MIDDLE SCHOOLER? Why doesn’t she feel bad asking for something nice when we go out for dinner? How come mom and dad never have the “Its gonna be a lean Christmas this year” talk with her and ask her not to ask for expensive/large things?

Doesn’t she know? We’re so poor! We can’t make it to the next pay period! I made them pay for my court appointed visitation plane ticket out of pocket! Dad didn’t send his part of the child support! We can’t survive without it! This is going to set them back so much, oh god! No, no it’s okay I don’t need anything from the store, please don’t buy me that toy/thing I want, we don’t have the money.

I’m okay, I’m fine, no really it’s okay, I don’t want it anyway. Please don’t get me anything. Please don’t spend your money, I’m a burden. I’m a disgrace. I didn’t do well enough on my last test, but I swear I’ll do better. Please don’t replace me! Please don’t throw me out! Please don’t make me go live with my father, his new wife hits me! PLEASE JUST LET ME BE A KID FOR A LITTLE WHILE LONGER!

The moment a child starts to worry about the future they are no longer a child.

And so it festers for years. Decades. Churning like black sludge under my skin, putrefying, poisoning my soul and warping my mind until with every exhale I’m whispering I’m not good enough. I’ve never been good enough. I will never be good enough.

And I just want it to stop. I just want the world to stop. Get me off this ride. I don’t want to be here anymore. Someone please just end this!

Because no amount of “it get’s better!”

No amount of “hold out for your favorite show/movie/book, you gotta see how it ends”

No amount of “this too shall pass”

No amount of “but isn’t love enough?”

No amount of “the sunrise is too beautiful to miss”

No….

No, it doesn’t get better. In fact, it’s only been getting steadily worse as the years have dragged on. I am in an eternal spiral of hemorrhaging money, medical problems, dead-end jobs, and bleak futures.

No, I will not hold out because entertainment is hollow and means nothing. It’s just a pacification for our lives, a way to blind and numb us to the fact we’re getting fucked in the ass regularly by a world with no kindness or empathy.

No, love isn’t fucking enough. It doesn’t stave off the crippling anxiety eating through my bones like a parasite. It doesn’t quiet the voices in my head, whispering at all hours, begging me to pay attention to them. It doesn’t shift the boulder of inadequacy from my shoulders, the deep-seeded disappointment I have in myself for fucking up my life, for not listening to reason, for my laziness and my complacency that’s robbed me of a potential future. For things about myself I can’t change. For the abomination I’ve turned into because of who I love.

No, because I’ve seen the sunrise. I drive to work every day in the dark and watch the sun rise on another day and there’s nothing beautiful about it. There’s nothing striking or awe-inspiring. It’s just another day on the tarmac, struggling to eek out a living, to make payments, to make enough to eat and sustain what little life I have. It’s the fucking sun. It’s a massive star in the sky that heats our world. It’s nothing more than a glorified light bulb overtop a greenhouse and I’m tired of watching the sunrise time and time again on my life that’s going nowhere.

Between fighting with the hospital debt, potentially losing any chance at a good, steady job because of a pending and false “hit and run” charge in DC, minor traffic violations I’m expected to pay because of my job, and only making $400-ish every two weeks, I have nothing left to give the world. Where’s my worth lie? Oh, gee, it’s in how much I can contribute to my family unit and that’s a big fat zero.

I have tried. Really fucking tried for years to find my place, but the fact remains there isn’t a place for me anywhere. I can’t carve out a nook for myself. I’ve tried. Every time I get somewhere the sand shifts and I’m back to square one. I can create so much with my hands. My mind is incredible. I have this innate ability to look at something and recreate it almost perfectly but no one wants an “unskilled worker” on their team, or they don’t want to pay. I only have a small portfolio. No one is going to hire me for steady work and the trade industry is a joke. I can write pros that bring people to tears. I can world build and wordsmith. I’ve crafted stories that surpass published favorites and have touched peoples’ hearts but no editor will give me so much as a fart because I’m not established. I’m not mainstream enough. I’m not marketable. And forget getting a job editing or freelance writing. You need a degree for that. You need a degree to fucking breathe in this country and the one I have only supplies the bare minimum of oxygen.

I am poor. Depressingly poor.

I am 30 and I live at home because I can’t afford a life for myself.

I have all this talent and nowhere to place it

I’m being eaten alive by inadequacy, guilt, anger, disappointment, jealousy, anxiety, and worthlessness

And I am very tired of living with this.

Don’t message me. Don’t reach out to me. Don’t send me your platitudes or your sympathy. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want hugs or words of comfort or your view on things. I don’t want to be touched. I don’t want your fucking prayers or good vibes. They don’t work, and I’m not about to be your token “prayer request” or the “good deed you did to top off your karma tank”.

Leave me alone

Let me fade

#personal #I've reached the end

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multiverseofmiracleshq · 3 years

Photo

While Wanda Maximoff’s show WandaVision plays on, those on the outside have no choice but to watch the broadcast and strategize on how to move forward. Ever since the Scarlet Witch crashed a debriefing meeting in the city and took a few Avengers back to a glitching Westview with her, everyone has known that time is rapidly running out. That included Monica Rambeau, who was on a desperate mission to get through the Hex barrier one way or another.

THIS IS THE OFFICIAL CHAT LOG COVERAGE OF THE IC

CAROL: The red tinged barrier shot up so high into the sky Carol couldn't see above it. As she used one hand to cover her eyes and block out the sun, she wondered idly how much force it would take to hit it from the top -- if maybe it was weaker there than on the edges. But considering Wanda, Carol figured she'd either slingshot back out with a threatening force or get swallowed up and rearranged into someone new and different. Neither outcome made her feel particularly confident, so her boots stayed planted on the ground as the team set up shop behind her. Military grade tents were surrounded by armed trucks and one larger truck in particular that contained their only current method for breaking through the wall. The sinking feeling in her gut told her that nothing man made was getting through that barrier, but Monica had made the call and Carol was tired of arguing with her. With a sigh, she turned away from the barrier and walked back over towards the table set up with the monitoring system, their only access to the happenings inside. Circling the table, she went to stand behind a man with a set of headphones covering his ears and she asked for an update, her eyes momentarily darting back towards the barrier as he lowered the headphones. "It seems they're setting up a party." he said, tone flat and straight to the point, but it rose a little as he pointed towards the screen and made a few taps on his keyboard. "But look here," Carol took a vacant seat and leaned in, following his finger to watch a lamp flicker into different shapes and forms as it sat on the end table, morphing and changing. "Rambeau," Carol said, voice clipped, to get her attention. "There appears to be something going on with Maximoff's powers."

CLINT: Clint rocked back on his heels, his hands digging further into his pockets as he felt the telltale warning of rain prickle against his skin. He was getting antsy, stuck on the wrong side of the battle, people they needed trapped inside, held hostage by someone he'd easily called a friend in the past. It all felt unreal, but that didn't mean he didn't show up when called. He adjusted the holster that fit snuggly across his chest even if it was useless in this type of scenario. He just remembered the last time he faced a barrier that stretched into the sky and what stood behind it and the weapons strapped to his body kept him in a solid state of mind. "Starting to crack?" he asked, inferring even if he couldn't see the monitor Danvers was perched in front of. "Took long enough."

SCOTT: Scott stood by idly, posture similar to Clint’s the tenseness in his shoulders increased. Reaching up to rub at the back of his neck, he watched as closely as he could, eyes flicking between multiple screens so quickly and so erratically it began to dredge up a headache. “I don’t know if ‘starting to crack’ is what we need right now, man,” he vaguely addressed Clint, “Wanda’s powers don’t bode well with ‘starting to crack’.”

MONICA: It was good to see Goodner again, no pun intended. They went way back even if Monica preferred to keep her personal relations close to her chest. Everyone knew her connection to Carol -- and look how well that had turned out. The two women had their heads bowed towards one another as Goodner updated her, but upon hearing Carol speak Monica excused herself with a small smile. “--What’s that?” She asked, eyes turning to the screen. A frown settling over her face, Monica tapped the monitor and shook her head. “When she gave birth -- when I was Geraldine -- something like this happened. She made a painting of a stork flap around the house. But that was the stress of labor. Something’s bothering her to that extent then. Which means, we may not have much time.”

JESSICA: Never one to miss the fun twice, Jessica had taken to sitting cross legged on the table behind Clint’s chair. She really, in all honesty, was there to make sure Monica and Carol didn’t come to blows. Not that Carol listened to Jessica, but, hey. She tried. “I’d say we’re past starting,” she tsked, chin rested on the top of Clint’s head. “And more on complete meltdown. I have a toddler. I know how this goes. It isn’t pretty. The difference with Gerry is that when he throws his toys it doesn’t matter. They’re plastic. Wanda’s using people here.”

CLINT: "So we need to get people in there now." Clint's hands instinctively flexed where he was gripping his biceps as his arms sat folded across his chest. "Before it all goes to shit."

SCOTT: “Forgive me if this sounds a bit redundant, but haven’t we tried that already? The more people we send in, the more we risk Wanda losing complete control. I mean— am I off base here or what?” Scott asked, looking for someone more knowledgeable on the situation to confirm or deny his assumption.

CAROL: "If we're looking at a meltdown situation, especially with Hayward planning his advances, we might be able to save some people if we can get in. Even if that breaks the foundation, staying on the outside is doing nothing." Carol responded, still watching the screen and following the objects as they shifted and changed eras.

MONICA: “This is a nightmare.” Monica dragged her hand over her face. “Before Darcy got lost, she intercepted a transmission. Hayward wasn’t disassembling Vision. He was rebuilding him to make a weapon and it didn’t work until Wanda got his body. I think she needs to know that.”

PIETRO: He let most of them talk among themselves for a good while, opting to listen for once instead. After the last conversation he’d had with his sister, he wouldn’t say he was at ease with the situation, but the nerves were less raw. Moving to stand near Monica, he met her gaze. “You still want to go in?”

MONICA: At this point, she had nearly gnawed a hole in her bottom lip. It was better than biting her nails, at least. Maria had broken her of that habit quickly with some terrible homemade concoction she had lathered her daughters fingers in. “I have to.” Monica confirmed. “What was Wanda like when you saw her last?”

NATASHA: While the others talked, Natasha had taken to standing and staring quietly at the monitors. Sam, Bucky -- even her sister, smiling more than Natasha knew she’d ever see her smile again. No sign of Steve yet but he was sure to be nearby. “All these glitches, all these errors. Have any of them happened to someone alive?”

PIETRO: Pietro shifted some, rolling his shoulders. “She’s different than when she came to that meeting. She’s not totally willing to give up Westview just yet, but there’s hope. She’s giving up certain aspects of the denial—notice a certain terrible version of myself hasn’t been around. I don’t mean Tommy.” Though the jab was amusing, it just didnt pack the same punch without his nephew around to hear it.

SCOTT: Watching reality shift and warp around them on the screens in the subtlest of ways, Scott couldn’t help but think about what he’d have done if he were one of the ones sucked into the Hex. The answer was a resounding ‘who knows’ - and he could only ponder if the others felt just as lacking in confidence. He turned to Natasha after she asked a question that was surely on all of their minds, “Let’s hope not.”

JESSICA: “--Jesus,” Jessica’s tailbone was getting stiff from the table but she couldn’t look away from the broadcast. “Is someone writing this or are they all improv?”

CAROL: The monitors were set up to keep track of Wanda and also keep track of the time square show Wanda had set up. Carol watched with intent as the scenes shifted across their varying teammates, settling briefly on Sam and James as they chatted. The corner of her lip quirked at the man Wanda had turned him in to - a complete caricature of the man Carol knew. It would almost be annoying if Carol wasn't already so furious with Wanda for this entire set up.

JESSICA: She just bit back a laugh and covered her mouth. It was bad bad.

MONICA: “Hey, hey, hey --” Monica shot upright in her chair. “Vision is back. He’s back but -- where’s Darcy? He’s dressed like an Avenger still. He shouldn’t remember that.”

CAROL: “We haven’t gotten a bead on Darcy since she went in.” Carol admitted reluctantly, voice just above a murmur. Carol wanted to answer Monica’s question buried within her statement, but she didn’t have an answer. She just chewed on her bottom lip as she watched the screen, watched as reality slipped from Wanda’s grasp, morphing and changing. “We have the Rover.” She said after another minute of watching the screen, voice directed at Monica. “It’s a stupid idea but it’s worth a shot.”

MONICA: God, Darcy. She was an adult and highly capable but a part of Monica felt guilty. Maybe she had grown up with a skewed perception of heroes and what that meant. She had seen one as a little girl and decided she would be one for her mother as well. Now, Monica realized it wasn’t about being the hero. It was doing the right thing when it scared the hell out of you. “I trust Goodner.” Even though she hadn’t asked for Carol’s approval it was nice to partially have. “And I trust their stats. I’m going to change.” Shooting Jimmy a quick smile, Monica excused herself. When she reappeared it was in the astronaut’s suit, white bulky gear slowing her movements. “All goes well, I make a path straight towards Wanda.”

CAROL: "And if it all goes to shit?" Carol asked, having removed herself from the chair to stand by the large truck that was having its door lowered into a ramp. Inside, the SWORD Rover was being slowly removed, the large tires digging tracks into the earth. "Trust only goes so far. If you get sucked in again, Wanda might just very well kill you." she added, tone dipping as she inspected the vehicle. "I'm not trying to change your mind, I know I won't, but I wish we knew more before sending you in."

MONICA: “Honestly, I don’t have anything left.” For as much as she wanted to look strong in front of her aunt, Monica couldn’t keep the sadness out of her voice. “I don’t. Not since I woke up from the Blip. But I have this. Maybe Wanda tries to kill me. Maybe she gets it right. I wish I knew, but my mom taught me a lot about taking risks. She’d never have founded S.W.O.R.D. if she wasn’t willing to put it all on the line.” Monica tugged the hood and helmet over her head. “But maybe Wanda doesn’t kill me and I’ll wave to the metaphoric camera.”

SCOTT: Scott let out a slow sigh, glancing at Monica with admiration and underlying worry, muttering under his breath, “Bravest person I know.”

CAROL: Carol looked over towards her, donning the SWORD suit that was supposed to keep her protected; about to enter a rover that was supposed to be able to sustain the onslaught of Wanda's magic. Carol's fingers dug into her palms as she redirected her attention, watching the team do final checks. "Yeah. Yeah, I get that." She said, voice softer than it had been. "If you don't come back from this, Rambeau, I'm punching a hole straight through that barrier and putting Wanda down myself." She knew, deep down, the threat couldn't hold heat because Carol wasn't confident she could do it, but goddamnit, she would try. She would beat at that wall until it caved and then she would deal with the woman who had caused all these issues.

MONICA: Starting to walk backwards, Monica shook her head with a tired chuckle. “Yeah, Danvers? I wanna see you try. I’ll get your man back. Darcy, Wanda, Vision. I’m going to fix this.” She met Goodner by the rover and reached out to squeeze the Major’s hand with her gloved ones. “It’s perfect. Thank you.” She left her standing there as she climbed into the vehicle and began flipping all the proper switches. Jimmy and Goodner were checking the connection and counting her down and then Monica was moving straight towards the Hex. As the rover gained speed she sucked in a breath a second before contact. Instead of sailing through as promised the rover hit the barrier. Hard. Monica shoved the throttle down, determined to push her way inside. There was a terrible grinding sound and the static of the hex that together formed a disorienting cacophony of discordant sounds. Destabilizing --- that was Goodner. Jimmy was correcting her. What was he saying? The floor beneath the pedal flickered red and Monica shoved her leg upwards to avoid it. No, it was being rewritten. Monica made the realization at the same time as Jimmy. She heard them call for her to abort but she couldn’t bring herself to eject. She said she had it. She had to get it. Folding her body to escape the red flicker of Wanda’s magic, Monica let out a frustrated grunt before undoing the locks and flinging the top of the hatch open. Her escape was messy. She fell, bouncing off the side before landing flat on her back. The rover - now a flatbed - flipped and rolled over. Someone was calling for a medevac but Monica just stared at the stars for a moment as she stared up at the sky. Then she was on her feet, head shaking as she stared at Jimmy, Carol and the others across the expanse of the field.

CAROL: Carol was already halfway across the field, the medevac close behind but she was faster than them. "Goddamnit!" she shouted, frustrated into the air around her. Her eyes shot towards the barrier, how it shimmered and shook, like the invasion had just pissed it off. "Rambeau, fall back, now." she hoped her voice carried loud enough across the field, because Monica was still just staring at her, not moving.

MONICA: She knew. She knew what she had to do. It was what she always had to do. Major Goodner’s rover had seemed like such a perfect, easy option. Of course it hadn’t worked. Standing there feeling as if she had been stripped bare, Monica heard Carol’s words bounce around her ears but she wasn’t listening. She was just looking at Jimmy, knowing that he also knew what had to happen.

JIMMY: “Monica, no!” Woo shouted from across the field. He knew exactly what she was about to do and sure enough, no sooner did the agent get the words out did Monica start running for the barrier. “MONICA!!” he screamed after her, jogging two steps just to grind to a halt. There was no way he’d get to her, she was gonna run straight into the barrier — again.

MONICA: What was identity? Identity (noun): the fact of being who or what a person or thing is. But what, then, composed ones self? Monica had always felt like she knew who she was. A precocious child Mrs. Lewis would chuckle as she left the house after a day of babysitting while Maria was at work, patting Monica’s mother lightly on the shoulder. Dreams bigger than her hair. Starry eyed. It didn’t matter. The second Monica knew what she wanted her mind was set and she would work her ass off. Maria Rambeau had kissed the stars and seen space. Her daughter would settle for nothing less. Valedictorian. Deans List. Top recruit. Monica closed her eyes and saw cosmos and the path she would need to take them. Joining S.W.O.R.D. didn’t come exclusively from the fact that her mother had founded it. S.H.I.E.L.D. was gone by the time she had reached a point where she could enlist as an agent and S.W.O.R.D. felt familiar. It was home. Now, in Maria’s absence, Monica wanted to cling to it even more and it physically ached when she saw the bare bones that Hayward had reduce it to. Hayward, who had always seemed like a decent guy even if his jokes just bordered on too self-involved. That, however, was irrelevant. The only thing relevant was the identity of one Monica Rambeau and how her self was currently being torn apart. She had entered Wanda’s Hex before, sucked right through the crimson and spit out as someone else altogether. That was before. Before Wanda had thrown her from town and caused her cells to metastasize. Before Monica had realized that hollow ache she had filled with drive was confirmation that she had nothing left to lose and therefore had to be the one to try. She was Monica Rambeau, daughter of Maria Rambeau. She would not lose herself to Wanda fucking Maximoff again. Her identity was her own even if it stretched both in front and behind her. There was Geraldine in her life 60′s dress. Geraldine in her bulletproof 70′s pantsuits. Monica in her S.W.O.R.D. windbreaker they day she had touched the barrier. A Monica in white trailing behind, parts of herself not yet actualized. Her childhood form never materialized. In so many ways Monica still was that girl. Your mom’s lucky, it was Carol’s voice, back when Monica had looked at her and saw everything she could ever want to be. When they handed out kids they gave her the toughest one. She was right. Monica was tough as hell, even if Maria wasn’t there to see it. She was tough with or without Carol’s validation. Where she had once been pushing on the Hex she was now completely submersed. She hadn’t realized she had been screaming or that her jaw ached from where her teeth were grinding into one another. Maybe I could fly up and meet you halfway. Halfway. Half --- A hazy glow covering her eyes, it was a primal scream that was ripped from Monica’s chest as she hit the inner edge of the Hex. Maria, dead. Her mother, gone. What was left? It was easier to give in, to let go. The boat was filling with water and Wanda would provide a liferaft. Wanda would --- Silence. Monica sucked in a breath, mind reeling from the narrowly avoided mental invasion. She blinked to clear her vision... what was wrong with her sight? She had seen Westview before. It was bright and boring. Now red and purple wavelengths rippled in the sky as everything pulsed. Westview was alive. Blinking again, the haze faded away and the colors slowly blurred back to normal. Unhooking her helmet so she could peel off her suit, Wanda broke into a sprint towards the town. She needed to find Wanda. They were running out of time.

FOR MORE, READ THE WESTVIEW BARBECUE CHAT.

#event: maximoff anomaly #momevents

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elysiumrp · 7 years

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Noah Lane Pearson || Unregistered Vampire || Pro-Equality Portrayed by Paul Wesley

Biography /

Noah grew up as an average kid in Brooklyn, playing in the streets with the rest of the neighborhood kids for fun, and living a happy day to day life as a carefree child in a two bedroom apartment. His parents nurtured his aspirations as best as they could on their low-income jobs, enrolling him in little league sports for several years to give him variety until he hit middle school and decided to pursue his own path. Football was what immediately caught his fancy, not only because it seemed to be the cool sport, but also because it was something that he truly excelled at, and Noah dropped everything else to begin to pursue football as his full time extra-curricular activity. Many of his friends had divorced parents when he was growing up, but there was always a side of Noah that took pride in the fact that his parents were still together. Of course, not all things were meant to last it seemed, and at the age of thirteen his parents came to him to explain that they were breaking up. Noah put on a brave face minus the initial wave of tears, but it shattered something inside of him. He had always believed in true love and that love was an emotion that could conquer all, but he had always thought that his parents were perfect together. If that wasn’t the case, was his belief in love actually based on any sort of actual foundation at all? The divorce quickly turned ugly, and as it turned ugly, it devastated the young teenager. Love was supposed to be unbreakable and as the fighting got worse with the attorneys, his own values split as well. The depression of doubt caused him to lose his trusting nature that he had carried for so long, and he threw himself into football even more to try and take his mind off of everything that was going on at home. Noah continued to live with his mom after the divorce was finalized in an apartment that was slightly smaller than the one that they had had previously, and after that his childhood just never felt quite the same. It was almost a relief whenever the full ride scholarship he received for football took him out of state because it finally gave him a chance to clear his head of everything that had been building up for so many years. He came back five years later to be a public school teacher, but that didn’t last long until the supernatural world got the best of him. Noah has now been living as a vampire for a little over a year, and is mostly just trying to find the drive to force himself to make it through every single day.

Important Points /

--Noah was turned into a vampire because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Antonia Moreno wasn't herself, literally, after the other world version of herself had taken over her body. Noah had just been going to the penthouse to see Kaden, he hadn't expected to run into a vampire in the hallway and get his neck snapped. It's been an adjustment to say the least, and it's taken Noah away from some of the things that he used to love the most, but after over a year as a vampire he feels like he's at least gotten the basic feel of it. Of course, he also runs into the issue that he's become a vampire at probably the worst possible time in the world. Since supernaturals were revealed, there has been nothing but fear running rampant about them, and vampires especially have the public the most worked up it seems because of their nature. Blood bags, which used to be fairly easy for vampires with enhanced speed, strength, and compulsion to steal from hospitals, are now locked down tight, and instead the only real option for a vampire to get the nourishment they need to survive is to purchase it from a supplier. Animal blood is a thing some have tried, but with the way it leaves you in bed literally feeling sick, it's just not really a viable option. Noah tries to buy blood as much as he can, usually at Merlot because it's the easiest, but with prices so ridiculously high, it's not like he can afford to purchase it on the regular. Instead, Noah has had to resort to drinking from willing victims, or victim really, since there's only one person that he drinks from on the regular.

--Even though most supernaturals fled the city, Noah knew that he didn't have any other choice than to stay. After all, his mother lives here, and he knew that no matter what he said that she would never leave the city that's been her home for her entire life. Noah has carved out a life here as best as she could even though so many of the few people he knew have left out of necessity or fear. It has driven him closer to those that have stayed, and relationships have formed and strengthened more than he even could have imagined over the past twelve months. They've been through hell together, a hell that is continuing, and even though some of their community is now coming back, it's not the same as having been here the entire time. Noah has stuck through New York City on even the worst of days, and although he felt like an outsider in the supernatural community before, he feels that no longer. He went through so much more than so many "prominent" members of supernatural society, and although he's fully aware that he's still just a baby in comparison to so many vampires, Noah knows that he has such a better read on the situation at hand than so many others who are new back in town do.

--Noah spent his college years getting a degree in childhood education, and as soon as he came back to the city, he got a job in the same school district that he had attended for so many years. He wanted to bring fun into the classroom and making learning fun for his third graders, because he knew that that was what helped kids at that age learn the most. However, whenever he became a vampire, Noah knew that he had to give up that part of his life. Although he would never dream of hurting his students, he also knew that he would never even for a moment risk putting them in a situation that might be dangerous. Instead, he had to walk away from the job that he loved, and instead he got a job at one of the few places that actually accepted his kind, a bar ran by supernaturals, or more specifically, owned by the Davidson Pack. Noah works as a bartender there now, but it's far from a job he enjoys, and instead is just a way to scrape by on his rent and utilities, with a tiny bit extra that he tries to save up to buy blood as often as he can. He can feel himself becoming more and more bitter with every passing day. He tries to fight it, but everything in his life has just gone so wrong.

Connections /

KADEN KINGSMAN ; Kaden Kingsman is the one person that has kept Noah sane throughout this past year, even if she herself seems to have lost her own sanity half the time. Although Andrew's death wasn't an actual death, the fact that he's still in a coma makes it seem like the same amount of loss, or at least Kaden is taking it the same way. Whenever Kaden had admitted to Noah that she had had to seal her magic away to keep both her family and others safe due to spells that Andrew had gotten mixed up in, his immediate concern was for her safety, and it's a concern that he still experiences every single day. Kaden is simply human now, and she became human at arguably the worst time possible. New York is more dangerous than it has ever been, and now a human girl with a well-known last name that has irked both hunters and supernaturals because of her complicated hunter and then supernatural past has no innate way to defend herself. He worries about her while she's working at Merlot surrounded by thirsty vampires, he worries about her when she's walking down the street surrounded by so many people that could potentially have bad intentions, and he crashes at her place more often than not because he worries about the fact that she's a little human sleeping all alone in an apartment. He tries to keep his worry hidden from Kaden as much as he can because he knows she'd just tell him that he's overreacting, but every time that they're out together he can't help but be constantly paranoid that someone is going to make a move or that something is going to happen. The only comforting thing is that no matter what happens, he knows that he'd have the same reaction: to do whatever it takes to protect Kaden at any cost.

HANNAH ROWE ; Noah had no idea that his cousin had plans to come back to New York City. If he had known, he would have tried just about anything to convince her against it. Although Noah has decided to stay in the city, he never left, and if he had he doubts that he would have come back to the craziest the city has been reduced to. He only knows that Hannah is coming back because his mom told him after hearing from her sister, but he hasn't actually seen her yet, and they've been playing phone tag because of the weird hours that Noah works. All he knows is that she's coming back to do an internship for a group of lobbyists, a group of lobbyists who have made themselves very wellknown because of the blatant hatred they've been showing for supernaturals over the past year. Noah has a feeling it's going to be awkward to say the least, especially since he can't help but assume that she has similar views. Hannah obviously has no idea what he is, and he can't help but imagine the situations that he might be put in if Hannah really is as passionate about this cause as she was about so many different things she tried to fight for while still in high school.

CAMERON WESTFALL ; Cameron is the other person that works full time as a bartender at Strange Brew, so the two of them spend quite a lot of time together getting ready for the day and after close. The bar is usually too busy to talk much while they're open, at least if he's working the later shifts, but during the day and whenever they're cleaning, there definitely is some chit chat that goes on. Cameron seems polite enough on the surface, but the way that she carries herself makes Noah feel that she's older than she actually is--it's actually similar to the feeling he gets around a lot of older vampires, and he always double thinks what he's about to say before he says it when he's around her. It's not that he feels threatened or anything, she just seems like the type of person that has her life completely together, and there's something about that that is incredibly intimidating, especially since she works the exact same job as Noah, and since he's the lone vampire working in a werewolf pack owned bar.

ISAAC ELLSMAN ; While Noah works as a bartender, Isaac works as a server, and as two people that aren't literal werewolf members of the Davidson Pack, they're able to bond through the fact that they're slight outcasts compared to so many others that work there. Isaac is a warlock, and Noah so far has been lucky enough to not have any majorly negative encounters with witches, so he can't help but let his guard down slightly around him. While all the other men who work there are werewolves, Isaac at least isn't the species who's apparently supposed to be his arch nemesis until the end of time. They chat about small talk mostly, it doesn't really go beyond that, but all the same it's nice to have a work friend to talk to in order to make the day slightly more bearable. Noah is miserable where he is, so it's nice to have the hours pass by at a regular speed as opposed to slowing to a crawl as soon as he clocks in every single day.

GABRIEL MORENO ; Gabriel Moreno is technically Noah's vampire uncle, if extended family is something that vampires actually keep track of, that is. Antonia and Gabriel were more on the outs than in good standing whenever the reveal occurred and everyone fled, but Noah has actually seen Gabriel twice since it all went to hell. Both times Gabriel was stopping by Merlot during a brief trip to the city to pick up some things from Nouveau before he headed back to Los Angeles where he's been staying. The first time, Noah was actually surprised that Gabriel recognized him, and the second time, they had an actual conversation. Gabriel hasn't been in contact with Antonia just like Noah hasn't, it's too risky for her to reach out and make phone calls in case the government is on to any of them, and although Antonia had described Gabriel in a complicated light in the past, Noah can see it's obvious that Gabriel genuinely misses his sister and worries about her almost constantly. Vampires don't age, but if they did, Noah is certain that Gabriel would have aged at least ten years in the past twelve months, the anxiety is overwhelmingly present on Gabriel's face when Noah sees him, and when he mentions that he hasn't spoken to Antonia, Gabriel turns crestfallen immediately.

KONRAD SCHNEIDER ; Noah doesn't frequent Merlot for the service as much as he does to pick up Kaden after shifts. He's there at least a few times a week, so he's pretty familiar with the employees, but there's one, that's technically a supplier, not an employer, that causes the hair on the back of his neck to rise. There's just something about Konrad that Noah doesn't like, or rather something about Konrad that just makes him uneasy. He feels dangerous, and that sixth vampiric sense that Noah is trying to teach himself to listen to makes him stand just a little bit closer to Kaden if they're all in the same general area. Noah has learned that Konrad doesn't work for Merlot, but rather supplies them for the blood that they keep hidden for the exclusive VIP room that allows vampires access to blood (after all, the wine bar area is just a front for the actual business), but he can't help but question where Konrad gets his supply. It's not something that he would ever question to anyone that works there, minus Kaden obviously, she doesn't count, but with blood almost impossible to steal from hospitals, it does raise a question as to how he gets his hands on so much human blood.

MEGHAN ROBERTS ; Meghan and Noah were far from close before the Davidson Pack fled the city, and although Noah wouldn't necessarily say that he's forgotten about the girl, it's not like they had the type of relationship that meant that she was on his mind every day either. He recognizes her of course, and they have lots of mutual acquaintances, but they themselves were never really friends. That being said, Noah does feel like he relates to Meghan more now than he ever did before. It was rather common knowledge for the people around him that Meghan had become a werewolf shortly before she left, and although it's now been over a year for both of them, Noah still feels like he's getting a handle on this whole vampire thing. A year is a year, but especially to Noah who now has forever, it feels like any time at all. He feels a connection with Meg solely because she was turned around the same time that he was, and he feels that if anyone can understand how jarring it is to become a supernatural at such a time of chaos it would definitely be her. He wants to have someone that he can speak to, even if their journeys (and their species) are different.

NOAH PEARSON IS CURRENTLY CLOSED

#paul wesley #paul wesley fc #supernatural rp #vampire rp #tvd rp #noah #pearson #noah pearson #male #vampire #all #ma #va #mt #taken #vt

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not-a-mimic · 7 years

Text

Ash and Blood My Dear, The Foundations Of Our Story

Fandom: Dishonored

Word Count: 2050

Warning: Graphic!

Also on AO3

Summary: Death. It’s all there is to see. From the whispering women, her voice echoing throughout the land and the bodies handing for all to see outside of the armory he managed to slip into (With a key bought from an old bartender, he had headed straight to the crossbow bolts. What else was he supposed to use?) The looming cast-iron glow he was used to in the rat inflected city he called home was gone, the witch's curse and glazing void instead spread like vines and shadows into every corner of the land. The curse wants to spread like any disease does.

.. or a Character Study of a High Chaos Ghostly Corvo in the final level of Dishonored 2, just doing his part for Dunwall.

Death. It’s all there is to see. From the whispering women, her voice echoing throughout the land and the bodies handing for all to see outside of the armory he managed to slip into (With a key bought from an old bartender, he had headed straight to the crossbow bolts. What else was he supposed to use?) The looming cast-iron glow he was used to in the rat inflected city he called home was gone, the witch's curse and glazing void instead spread like vines and shadows into every corner of the land. The curse wants to spread like any disease does,

The machine still functions - of course it does. He doesn't remember if it was Sokolov or Jindosh’s work - for once it does not have their name plastered all over it like the flowers on the gazebo in autumn (he doesn’t think of the white petals red with her blood - or how it was her favorite thing, picking the prettiest and fullest ones as a child. They were both children then, innocent with everything to lose.)

Even on death's door ( Void’s door. How fitting for an Overseer) the Overseer can smell the corruption on his even as the witches spell grows stronger every day. Would the people of Dunwall condemn him this time or relish him as their savior again? Or would they turn a blind eye to his left hand and hope the Overseers deal with him (The music boxes - Would they work on Delilah? Would she fall like he would, be severed like Breanna and crumble to ashes the same way? Pity he couldn't use it on her without falling himself, along with them being missing since the old days.)

The vines are only a physical manifestation of the scum of the city - The only blip on the radar, the tip of the iceberg. Her stone statues after make him pause, memories of the only person he cares about encased like them licking at the barrier he has put up. He may be older but it's still as strong as ever, especially without her voice being the one to whisper advice in his ear for 15 years.

He never got over it.

He still doesn't think he can.

(The Overseer’s last moments are still as clear as the waters in Karnaca - Shock as he turned to stone, staring at his hands as he's encased forever. She never had a chance like that - So neither shall Delilah.)

Oh how they scream - The flames lick at her, persistent even with all her sisters meddling. She dies in agony, deservedly so for following the witch down her path for vengeance. They don't know he's there - they never do. No-one knows he’s there.

He never knew they were coming - It's only polite to return the favour (Polite. Oh how many times did she call him that? It was the only time she was wrong - Delilah, Daud and himself would never be called polite. Strong and Vengeful, yes, Polite no.)

It’s too close, too many times. The witches coven have a habit of teleporting next to him, Leaving split seconds for him to react before it all goes to hell and the spot him. They are dealt to first, and he is left making a supply run back to the bartender and her illegal market, hoping like hell he has time .

I’m an Agent of the True Empress - the civilian he missed on his first killing spree through the streets believers him, and gives him information he could find anywhere else. It adds to the suspension that Delilah is after something more - but what more is there to take? If all else fails however he at least has the courier on his side - and these days? The media is just as important as the facts.

But he’s never cared for anything like that - he’s just the weapon, the silent shadow that is always watching, always waiting. The final time he steps through the doors to the black market - and he’s sure it’s final - either way he’ll never need to come back, either dead or back home . (But that's a lie - home was always with Emily and Jess. He hasn't had a home in 15 years, no matter how much he tried. And he wasn't truly alive. Not even Emily, sweet little Emily who lost everything that day knew about it.

Funny how Coldridge has been cut off - The nightmares are still as fresh as they were 15 years ago, and now he doesn't have Emily’s warmth to keep him company and sane . They both know how many more he would of killed without her and Jess - It was only there approval that slayed his blade. It’s why he barely used the heart, for fear of the all-knowing voice whispering in his ear. It’s not her but by the void does it feel like it. She knows of the blood on his blade and she judges like the gatekeeper - in a way only the dead can.

All Seeing, All Knowing.

And that’s what scares him.

Too-pale skin. Raven dark hair. All knowing smile. Snow colored tiles. Blood.

Dunwall Luck, his captain used to say, if everything looks like it's going well, it’ll never stay that way. Never hold your breath in Dunwall or hope. It was the first thing he taught to Emily after the first coup - just beating out her fighting training, as useful as that was. The tower is ruined, all the Kaldwin lineages hard work come to nothing. Except, perhaps, his room. It’s trashed and guarded, probably a place for Delilah to let off steam - but it’s supposed to be the final line of defiance against intruders.

He designed it for that reason, and never let it be said he wasn't an opportunistic.

So they fall, one by one tumbling off railings and stairs while turning to ash as they rest. There's nothing but bone-carved swords and crossbow bolts falling, falling, failing to show he was ever there, the shadow in the rafters, the rat in the gutters. Invisible and unknown - Delilah won't know what hit her.

He can appreciate Delilah's cruel irony, testing her god-given abilities (Is she a god? She's at least part of a god.) in the Overseer Chapel of all places, the damned room now a garden of the void and blood, branches twisting from the painting at its heart. A picture paints a thousand words, Sokolov used to say, and she's taken it to heart.

It reminds him of Emily's paintings as a child.

He knows in his heart ( Both of them) that she's Jessamine’s half-sister.

He can't deny it. And that’s the hardest part.

It’s funny how the corridors sing with the void now, when before the Overseers and their damned music trickled through the spaces. He knew he was the only marked in the Tower - he made sure of it, the only source of the leaching void. The Overseer masks are a claim, a statement - Delilah was stronger now than before and nothing, not a the Overseers in their music or two Serkonian's with the title of best assassins might. She had overcome everything , and she knew it. Flaunting her power, vines whipping and witches prowling her territory as she crept towards the end. Or the beginning.

The gazebo was empty, he could see it from the top of the tower. He didn't want to puzzle over how the garden staff would of seen the assassins kill Jess, would of had evidence to prove his innocence. Everyone knows the dead cannot share secrets, none better than Burrows. It was a Spymasters curse and downfall - Secrets so dangerous the Empire never knows, so when things go wrong whether it be an unstoppable assassination plot or a internal coup (Go figure) the Spymaster is in over their head and accountable.

It was all too easy to make the decision that the role of Spymaster had to be shifted, changed so it wasn't so much of a weak link in the foundations of the Empire but a key component like it was originally created to be. Emily agreed, her 10 year old brain so distrustful of the role of Spymaster after Burrows betrayal but it was Calista who came up with the (terrible) idea of him taking the job. You are already the stand in Spymaster and Regent at the moment Corvo, an extra title won't hurt. No one objected - Why would they? He’d just returned the rightful empress to her throne and brought the greatest minds together for a cure.

If only it was as easy this time, with so much blood on his blade. How would anyone see what he did as right?

History will say Delilah's downfall was leaving the Royal Protector alive, stealing his charge yet again from his clutches and slaughtering thousands for her goals. History will say it was a bloodthirsty battle, a witch who stole the throne against the man who's been betrayed too many times and has been the center of too many coups in his short 54 years, an outsider who has sacrificed more than anyone else in Dunwall for the city he has no right to, pr was even born on the same land as it.

But History is wrong. Delilah's downfall was her flaunting of her power, drawing all near then cutting them down and turning to stone. A simple rat crawled out of the gutters at the foot of a god, who in their ignorance didn’t watch for it. Didn’t prepare - she’d beaten him once before, stolen everything. So why should she care for a pest, one she knows is half dead and too old to fight her. Her downfall was her inability to watch the shadows, unable to see him coming. It was everyone's downfall, ignoring a rat within thousands seemingly identical, but in reality so very, very different.

Truth be told, the vines were a little too much - did she really need them, with gravehounds and immortality on her side? Luckily, whether it be for either of them, he didn't know, there were no witches around, patrolling an empty area waiting for nothing - No-one alive knew he was there, none dead saw death's face before they died. She didn’t know he was there until it was too late, her soul returned and the heart gone . Never more to hold a Kaldwin’s soul, giving advice and whispering the secrets of men to a dishonored bodyguard who failed not once but twice. And they say he was a good Royal Protector?

Shadows can’t speak, but they can mock. Whipping void tendrils whip as Delilah sings , notes echoing perfectly in the void, everything as it should be. Except some of the statues are her and they live and breathe, laughing and clapping along like any other civilian. The rose queen has her throne, has everything she has ever wanted since the whispered promises from a father to a bastard child but where Emily was accepted Delilah was shunned - and her past is about to come back to haunt her.

The only thing better in this moment, with Delilah overlooking her final masterpiece and about to add the final strokes of her power, of the void , is what he brings to the table.

A sword, Serkonan blood and a mark, inky splotches on tanned skin. He knows someone else has been here before, can feel his presence and the Outsider’s eyes watching with certainty as he makes his choice. To finish the job, stab her and leave her in her creation, stain it with the final drops of blood and ash or to give her everything she wants but not.

Never let it be said he was merciful, for death would be mercy for his victims.

He could take it - Leave Emily safe forever set in stone, safer than with him by her side or any number of the guards who he doesn't trust - He’s so inclined to do so, feet shuffling silently towards it but he can't. Not with her poster behind it - destroyed, ripped remains be damned. Not with the eyes he fell in love with watching, waiting, judging . Would he condemn his daughter to be frozen in stone forever?

She’d be safe. Delilah would have won .

But it’s always been Emily or nothing.

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