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asmo-ds · 3 years

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What if MC stole a shopping cart and all the brothers decided to race in it down a hill behind old man Lucifer's back as a oneshot 🤷🏼‍♀️

Shopping Cart Speedway

Warnings: none

Description: When Lucifer is out on business for a day Mammon comes home with a shopping cart he found down the street, chaos ensues as all the brothers find how who the fastest rider is.

His heavy footsteps echoed through the entrance hall as he yelled his goodbyes and repeated his expectations for how everyone should behave while he is gone.

“Yea yea, don’t worry Lucifer, I’ll keep the little ones in line!” Mammon boasts, earning a smack over the head from Leviathan.

“’Little Ones’ please keep him in line,” Lucifer rolls his eyes, giving one last wave before stepping through the heavy front door, slamming it shut behind him.

After a few minutes of silence, everyone goes their respective ways, ready to just do their own thing while the boss is away.

“Oi, MC! Wanna go to the pawn shop with me? I got some new stuff to sell!” Mammon turned to MC, who was looking down at their D.D.D.

“Yea sure why not?” They shrugged, putting the device in their pocket and following Mammon out the door.

Mammon rambled on about some of the witches and recent tasks they had given him. He told MC about how much he hated the witches and MC tuned him out, simply nodding along tiredly.

Suddenly it grew quiet and MC looked up at Mammon. He stared off into the distance before glancing down at them with a mischievous look.

“Oi, human, look o’er there,” He points in front of them. A few yards away a rusty old shopping cart sat, looking as though it hadn’t been touched in decades. Mammon wandered over to it and brushed some dirt and overgrown weeds off of it. He pulled it out onto the sidewalk, creaking with every turn of the wheel and he smiled at MC.

“Want a lift?” He asks with a goofy grin and MC can’t help but snort at his childish excitement.

“Alright driver,” MC lifts their arms up to ask Mammon for assistance with climbing into their ride, “take me to the thrift shop!”

Mammon helps them crawl into the cart and they curl their knees up to their chest and tightly grip the sides of the cart. “Okay! Here we go!” Mammon shouts and begins to run down the hill, MC squealing and him cackling like a maniac

--------

Mammon struggles to push the cart up the hill with MC and all the new items they had bought inside of it.

“Oi, ya gained weight, human?” Mammon snorts and MC scoffs.

“No, but your pockets lost some weight, I mean look at all this! You spent more than ya made!”

“I bought it ta make ya happy, damn human,” Mammon mutters and MC lets out a small chuckle.

“MAMMON DID YOU TAKE MY NEW FIGURINE?!” a familiar mop of purple hair shouts as it storms out of the house of lamentation, disheveled and clearly upset with the demon pushing your cart right now.

“H-hey I didn’t take nothing,” Mammon shouts back earning a snarl from Levi.

“You better get it back or else i- Why is MC in a shopping cart?” Levi looks down at the human, who laughs up at him and tells him they simply found it.

“I’m trying to read a book can you all please shut up! I can hear you all from all the way up in the library,” Satan grumbles as he stomps down the front steps, Asmodeus following after him and clinging to the blonde dramatically.

“Yes! You all are too loud! I am trying to enjoy my new skin care kit, but all this yelling is just gonna cause even more wrinkles,” Asmo whines.

“Ay! Get the twins out here I have an idea!” Mammon smirks, ignoring the fact that everyone was mad at him.

As soon as the twins arrived, Mammon threw all the contents of the cart into the entrance hall to grab later (except MC, they came with him,) and he lead them all to the top of the steepest hill in their neighborhood.

“What in the Devildom are we doing here?” Belphie complains, wanting nothing more than to take a nap.

“Are you gonna let us push you down and send you into a coma?” Satan asks Mammon grumpily.

“Check this out, bet ya guys can’t do this!” Mammon taunts, jumping into the cart as it began to roll down the hill.

Everyone watched, intrigued by the dangerous stunt, as he sped up, his hollering echoing through the neighborhood.

Mammon focused on trying to steer the cart, and yanked it to the side, skidding into a sick landing.

He went into his demon form and flew the cart back up.

“Who wants to go next?” Mammon smiles triumphantly, “bet none of ya can control it as well as I can!”

“Can too! Just watch!” Levi pushes Mammon out of the way, pushing the cart and jumping in at a fast speeding. Levi shifted his weight throughout the way down to do some spins and avoid rocks that were in his way. He jumped up and landed in such a way that the cart was able to stop right at the bottom of the hill.

As he arrived back to the top of the hill he smirked and said, “this was what years of Devil Kart taught me.”

“I want to try!” Beel squeezes into the shopping cart and asks for a push. He stays silent the whole way down, simply smiling as he remained in control of the cart. He simply threw all his body weight to knock the cart over when he was ready to stop.

“Oooo! Me next me next!” Asmodeus squealed making grabby hands like a toddler as Beel got closer.

Asmodeus hopped in and asked for a push, spreading his wings in case he needed to make an emergency escape. He squealed loudly the whole way down, the sound bouncing off of trees and back at the group. Instead of stopping the cart with himself in it, he flew up, kick the cart onto its side as he did so and landed gracefully next to it.

“Satan! Satan, You should go next,” Asmo pushed the cart into Satan, who grumbled out a few complaints before he got into the cart.

He yelled a bit on the way down, narrowly avoiding rocks on the road and trying to plan how he would stop this death trap. He ended up knocking the cart onto its side and falling out of it.

“Alright, I will admit that was fun,” Satan smiled as he wheeled the cart back up to the top of the hill.

“MC, will you come with me for my turn?” Belphie aske softly, smiling at the human who agreed to join.

“Oi! MC can’t go! They’re fragile and I dont wanna get in trouble if they get hurt!” Mammon scolded as Belphie placed MC in the cart, crawling in behind them.

“They’re safe with me, I won’t let them get hurt, promise,” Belphie smiles as Beel begins to give the two of them a gentle push that slowly sped up until they were going full speed down the hill.

Screaming the both of them enjoyed the adrenaline rush, before a familiar raven hair male, looking down at his D.D.D came up the road. Now their screams were pure terror as they yelled at him to watch out.

He looked up a second too late and was hit by the cart, breaking it and sending MC and Belphie flying.

Realizing how fragile MC was compared to him, Belphie immediately reached out and pulled their back against his chest, hitting the ground with his own to soften their fall.

“What in the Devildom is going on here?!” Lucifer’s voice boomed, causing everyone there to begin shaking.

“L-L-Lucifer! Big Bro! I thought you weren’t coming back until tomorrow at the earliest, haha” Mammon nervously laughs, before becoming quiet and lowering his head in shame.

MC crawls over to the cart, pushing it right side up and walking it to the top of the hill, Belphie and Lucifer following. Everyone turned to head back into the house for their scolding but MC turned the cart to face the hill once more, stepping back to open the path into the mechanism.

“Lucifer, you try now!”

“No, MC. I won’t do something so immature.” He shook his head turning out once more before he heard MC behind him making chicken sounds, taunting him and teasing him as if he were afraid.

Suddenly it felt as though he were surrounded by chickens are everyone joined in in an attempt to get him to join.

“FINE! Fine. Just once ride. Then I’m done.” Lucifer growled in annoyance as he crawled into the cart, and felt MC push it towards the end of the hill.

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curious-menace · 3 years

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Can you do headcanons of any Riddler getting cared for and gentle kisses from reader after getting beat up? He needs some loves.

SO I MAY HAVE SUGGESTED THAT MY ULTIMATE FANTASY IS TO GIVE RIDDLER A HUG WITH BACKRUBS AS HE TELLS ME ABOUT HIS DAY AND I STAND BY THAT WHOLE-HEARTEDLY .

i freaking love this stuff so im going to do all of them mwahahah

post asswoop riddlers getting loves

Arkham riddler

He’s VERY quiet, which knowing him and his inability to stop talking, is bad news.

I paint arkham riddler as a cry baby and i stand by that. this is the hill i will die on. He’ll have dragged his sorry ass into your apartment or house , dripping blood on your floors but he wont bother calling for you. he’ll just sit at the table with his head in his hands having a lil pity party until you find him.

when you do finally get home, he’ll be looking like a kicked puppy. he’s gotten stuck in his own head, mentally beating himself up even more. he got a fright when you came in because he was so caught up he didn't even hear you at the door.

He’s literally sits there like a child with his arms up for you to come scoop him up. he’s not even sure why his first thought after getting beat up was to come here, he’s probably lead the cops here or something and that was so stupid and- you should probably give him a lil soft smooch on the head to stop him before he goes into a spiral.

he needs more emotional and mental care than physical. Talk to him while you're patching him up. any topic, it doesn't matter just keep him focused on your voice and not the one in his head calling him dumb.

he wont admit he wants to be held and coddled after something like this. get your softest blankie and 2 mugs of coco with marshmallows and just ramble at him. tell him about your day or ask him to explain something boring and complicated so he’s focusing on that rather than how upset he is. let him sit on your lap or between your legs on the sofa and watch how its made or mythbusters or something until he falls asleep. he should be ok again in the morning, he doesnt stay down for long.

Blacklight Riddler

He’s used to getting his ass kicked, either by batman, the other rogues or once he’s a PI, by unhappy clients and the people he put away. He might be tiny but he’s pretty tough.

even if he’s really hurting, his probably trying to crack jokes and tell blood and bruise related riddles. He doesn't like to see you worry so even if he’s in a lot of pain or a bit upset about things, he’s trying to make you smile.

he likes kisses on his bruises. even if he just banged his hand on the table he’ll come to you because he wants you to kiss it better.

He’s a decent fighter, unlike a lot of riddlers who couldnt fight their way out of a paper bag. He can throw punches but he lacks in defence and with his bad knee, dodging can be a little hard. even if he wins the fight he’s still likely to need you to patch him up.

He likes kids plasters. like hello kitty and spongebob. no im not joking, he ALWAYS wanted them when he was little and his parents always said no. now he’s an adult he’s going to use them whenever he damn well pleases.

if it was a particularly bad one, he’ll be ok in the moment even if he has to go to hospital. But he’s going to drop the facade at some point and let you see how upset he is. winding up in hospital after being beat was a common occurrence in childhood. even after doing it time and time again as an adult it doesn't make it any easier on him. he’ll want to stay in your bed, be close to you for few days until either he starts to heal or something snaps him out of his funk.

BTAS Riddler

he really prefers other people to do the fighting for him. well physically anyway. he can handle his own arguments...most of the time. He’s going to need you to nurse a bruised ego more than anything. he probably got dunked on my batman or crane and now he’s huffing.

i don't know if this counts as care and kisses but he clearly needs you around to keep his sorry ass alive. he hurt his side in a fight once and said he wasn't hurt. believable... until he started to act a little confused, a little dizzy. needless to say it worried you enough to take him to emergency care.

He was obviously in agony by now but he was still fighting with you the entire drive there, insulting you and insisting he was fine. its a good job you took him when he did, turns out he’d ruptured his spleen and would probably be dead if you weren’t around to act like his common sense.

he still hasnt apologised for that. or any of the other times you insisted on medical care to stop him from pushing up daisies. he just pretends like you know he’s grateful so he doenst have to admit he’s bullheaded, stubborn and worst of all, wrong.

if he has been seriously hurt, he acts more indignant about it than anything. he wants to be waited on and pampered while resting in bed. he can be a genuine pain to deal with, talking about how lucky you are to see him in such a vulnerable state and how you should be grateful he’s letting you do this for him.

He doesn't want to admit how much he actually needs you. his goons wont put up with him when he’s like this and he’s freaking paying them to do it. you do it for free and no matter how annoying he is you havent left him yet. he doesn't tell you but youve noticed he starts getting you more gifts about a week after he’s recovered. like its taken him a day or two to work out he should probably thank you for all you do.

Original Riddler

this riddler is just weird. like he gets a freaking hang nail and he pretends like he’s dying. but he could nearly lose a limb and he’ll say “tis but a scratch” and still try to hobble about like nothing is wrong.

actually he’s more like olaf “oh look i've been impaled.”. he probably tries to laugh off life threatening injuries like its nothing, taking maybe 3 steps before he collapses on his face in a blood puddle and lets out a tiny “help”

good luck moving his tall lanky ass around. better get a gurney and maybe those vets at the zoo who deal with giraffes. seriously if you want to take care of him you are going to need help or some sort of action plan and a go bag because with his limp butt this will not be easy.

he’s kinda like BTAS riddler in that he needs you to tell him the injury is serious. hes not dumb he just has a high pain threshold and genuinely doesn't realise that injuries are as bad as they are.

he can be a bit of a baby while being patched up. he doesn't like a lot of blood or gore, it makes him feel a little sicky. better give him your phone to play with like a kid at the doctors or put the tv on for him to watch while you bandage him. word of warning, he will pass out or throw up if you try to give him stitches.

i think you should focus your love and attention on him AFTER medical care. just focus on the job, be silent and as fast as possible to get it over with quickly. you should probably bring him something sweet too. no not just you, although you are sweet for looking after him. give him something sugary because he’s going to be light headed after seeing any blood. maybe you could give him a lolly for being a good patient.

Telltale riddler

this riddler is essentially a metahuman. he can REALLY take a beating and bounce back fairly quickly. just look how many times batman punched him in the face and it barely stunned him! he doesnt usually need patched up after a fight. maybe just a lil smooch and some hugs

he did really need your help after the whole pact thing. having his friends abandon him hurt like hell, more than any physical injury ever could.

after that, he clings to you. almost obsessively so; we know he’s got some serious mental illnesses but he usually has the worst of it under control, even without meds. now? it seems like he’s experiencing ptsd and is afraid to go anywhere without you, like you might up and disappear if you arent in his line of sight at all times.

i think this riddler might need the most intense care from you. hugs and gentle reassurance wont be enough. you’re going to be responsible for taking him to therapy, keeping him taking his meds and grounding him to reality. this is the kind of responsibility you took on when you got involved with him but i doubt you realised how hard it would be. i cant promise it will all be worth it but i can promise he wont ever forget your kindness.

the kind of care he needs after such a hard knocking down is just stability. im not one for romance or any mushy gushy stuff but please just pour your love into the cracks in this poor mans soul.

its hard going, but he has his moments. his gallows sense of humor is still there and hey, after him being in and out and gone for so long, it might be nice to have him around more.

Zero year riddler

INSUFFERABLE LITTLE SHIT THIS ONE. he could LITERALLY be bleeding out in your arms and he’d STILL be backseat driving on your medical skills. the temptation to just leave him there to bleed is INCREDIBLE.

he’ll drop the act eventually. he’ll ask and maybe even beg for your help. man has no shame and all the self preservation instincts of a lemming. dont get me wrong, he can be a total coward some times, only looking out for himself . but when he’s actually hurt ? not a fuckin clue. does this head wound need an ice pack or heat pack? is this spurring blood wound worthy of medical care? no idea. he was a very sheltered child who never got so much as a bruise so he has no idea what to do when he’s hurt.

he gets the everloving shit kicked out of him on a clockwork basis. like you could hear knocking on your door at 3 am and already be at the table with a first aid kit like oh its tuesday riddler must have broken his nose.

he takes entirely too much joy in making you patch him up. youre starting to wonder if he’s doing it on purpose just to see you in your little apron and latex gloves . he’s getting off on this and you know it but god help you, you just cant resist his dumb face asking for your help and would you also wear this pink nurses outfit while youre at it?

one time he lost a LOT of blood. he would be fine but he was pretty damn loopy from lightheadedness. while you were trying to get him into bed to rest he started flirting with you. can you believe the audacity? he’s lost 3 pints of blood and he’s still more focus on his libido?

he’s actually going to be both humble and grateful for your help when he finally comes round. dont get me wrong, he’s still a bit of a prick but at least he says thank you for saving him before he demands you kiss all his booboos and ouchies.

nonnie i am having a stroke. i was trying SO hard to just pick one but i COULDNT because i am WEAK for hurt and comfort.

theres a reason i have a tag that literally says “i have naughty hands and no self control”

someone needs to stage an intervention

got something you wana talk about? send me an ask or a dm! im always game to talk about our favorite curious menace 💚💜

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mulderist · 3 years

Text

Running Up That Hill

Rated: M || Hurt/Comfort, RST || Words: 2k+ || tagging @today-in-fic

In "Sein Und Zeit," Scully stays to comfort Mulder after he learns the truth about his mother's death. This fills in the blanks before Skinner knocks on the door the next morning. (Written for the XF Fanfic Exchange)

The gentle babble of water from the fish tank.

The rustic creak of the desk chair.

The shaky exhale of a broken man.

Her mind kept repeating the horrible words she delivered just as Mulder was trying to rationalize what happened to his mother. It was more blunt than Scully would have liked. In an instant she watched the tidal wave sweep away any sense of calm or clarity. The torrent of anger and grief beat against the fragile wall he desperately tried to maintain. He fell apart; shielded himself from her. She kneeled down and reached for him, felt her own tears prick at the corners of her eyes. His arms draped over her shoulders and she pulled him close, a hand resting on his neck to ground him. Soft lips tenderly kissed his cheek as he sobbed.

Scully traced her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, working small circles in an attempt to soothe the tension. She pressed her cheek against Mulder’s temple feeling the heat radiate off his skin. His convulsions slowed to smaller tremors. His hold on her started to loosen; strong arms that enveloped her twitched as they softened. He pushed back with eyes closed and took a much needed breath of air, a weak hand settled on her upper arm. Her palm gently moved to his damp cheek, brushing away a tear with her thumb. Mulder slowly opened his eyes and reached up to take her hand, bringing it to his lips. He endeavored to stand and Scully rose to her feet with him.

“Mulder?”

“I’m going to need a minute,” he said quietly, his voice hoarse. She nodded and watched him walk to the bedroom. After he closed the door slightly a ragged exhale escaped her lips. Her shoulders shrugged off her jacket and she searched in the pocket for her phone. The device felt heavy in her hand and she quickly dialed the number with her thumb. She paced towards the entryway, hearing a single ring in her ear and the outgoing message queued up.

“This is Walter Skinner. I am unable to take your call, please leave me a message.”

*beep*

“Sir, it’s Scully,” she swallowed hard, “I’m sorry to call, I’m not really sure what time it is. But um — I’m here with Agent Mulder. He is very distraught and I really think it’s best that he step down from this case. He needs some time,” she closed her eyes and firmly pressed her lips together, “I’ll stay tonight to keep an eye on him. I’m not sure when we’ll — I’ll be at the office tomorrow.” She disconnected the call and rested the edge of the phone against her chin.

A quick survey of the living room noted an empty pizza box on the coffee table along with food wrappers and laundry on the couch that hadn’t been put away. Mulder basically came back from his mother’s house and entrenched himself in the room. Trying hard to find an explanation, waiting for her autopsy results to have proof that someone else was responsible. Scully moved to his desk and straightened up some of the items that had fallen over. Pens and pencils were placed back in a cup, sunflower seeds were brushed into a pile. As she rested a picture frame back on its easel she frowned at the sight of a brown haired girl with an innocent smile sitting on a jungle gym. Samantha. The picture used to live on Mulder’s desk and fortunately found its way home before their office fire a few years ago. Scully was suddenly overcome with sadness, her lip trembled and she fought back a sob. Her empathy for Mulder was overwhelming and she silently cried into her hands.

----

He sluggishly paced the floor in the bedroom with arms folded. He was exhausted and embarrassed. Mulder stepped into the bathroom and turned on the faucet feeling the water turn tepid before cupping his hands and splashing his face. He looked up at the mirror and saw the familiar puffiness under his eyes. He tugged at the lower lid and could see the network of bloodshot capillaries setting in. Mulder gripped the porcelain sink and hung his head, drops of water fell from his nose and chin into the basin. He snatched a hand towel from the ring on the wall and dried his face. A childhood memory started to play, images flickered into place like a zoetrope gaining speed. This was a memory he revisited more often than he liked. It was the summer of 1973, Rhode Island. The summer before Samantha was taken.

The house always had a familiar salty scent; it was practically baked into the wood panelling that covered the walls. Each summer seemed stronger than the last. Fox shooed his sister out of the bedroom they shared on the second floor. He wanted to finish the chapter he was reading before dinner. She stomped down the hall and down the stairs, scolding him. He heard a slam and figured she was being a brat as she went outside but then he heard his parents arguing. Fox leaned back against the pillow and tried to focus on his book. The voices got louder. He closed the novel, set it on the nightstand then went to investigate.

His hand slid along the wall as he slowly went down the steps. He stopped before reaching the landing when he heard his father shout about a choice being made. Fox crept closer, he had a partial view of the backyard through the large living room window. His mother argued back and gestured to the yard where Samantha was attempting a cartwheel. Bill stood still as Teena repeatedly beat a fist against his chest. Fox was alarmed at what he witnessed. His father simply turned and walked out of the room, his mother paused then followed to slam the door behind him and flip the lock. The house felt strangely quiet. Fox reached the last step as his mother brushed past and went out to the backyard. She stood on the deck, watching Samantha. He slowly went outside to join her. His mother stood with arms tightly folded and a distant stare. When he called out she jumped at his presence, sharply asking what he was doing there. Fox expressed concern but she brushed him off, throwing a comparison to his father then walking further into the yard. He was left to wonder why she was angry with him, looking on as she smiled and hugged Samantha tightly. Fox felt a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Mulder held the towel firmly against his face breathing in the clean linen scent, dissolving the memory. He then balled up the towel with a white-knuckle grip and growled as he delivered a blind punch to the bathroom door.

——

Scully sat in the leather chair near Mulder’s desk, her index finger and thumb pinched the bridge of her nose. Pinpoint pressure tried to counteract the headache forming behind her eyes. She suddenly heard a thud come from the bedroom and went to find the source. As she crossed the threshold another loud thump reverberated from behind the bathroom door.

“Mulder?” she asked, leaning an ear down to listen. There was a quick rush from the faucet before he emerged with a towel wrapped around his hand.

“Are you alright?”

“A little physical therapy,” he replied, flexing his fingers then squeezing them into his palm with a wince. “Never would have made it as a boxer.”

“Let me take a look,” she said, moving closer to take his hand. He released his grip as she slid the damp towel away. “Oh Mulder,” her brow furrowed at the angry skin across his knuckles. In the dim light she knew the abrasion would look worse tomorrow. She grazed her thumb over the tops of his fingers and she felt the slightest squeeze. Mulder then pulled away and went to sit on the bed. Scully turned to the bathroom and searched his medicine cabinet for an antiseptic. Luckily he wised up to her insistence of keeping a rudimentary first aid kit. She told him once that she couldn’t be a night nurse all the time, which resulted in a playful pout.

The sharp smell of alcohol pierced his nostrils as he watched Scully dab a cotton ball against his knuckles.

“It was stupid. I know.”

“I wasn’t going to say a damn thing,” she said, adjusting her position next to him. He sighed deeply and shook his head.

“I can’t stop looking, Scully.”

“You can’t, or won’t?” It was a soft-spoken honest question but Mulder didn’t want to answer it. He bristled and took back his hand then rose from the bed. “Don’t do this,” she cautioned, looking up at him.

“Why not,” he replied, then walked out of the bedroom. She quickly stood and followed him. He moved through the living room and went to the kitchen, searching for a bottle of vodka he had stashed on a shelf. Scully joined him right as he was pouring a glass.

“I was thinking,” he began after a beat, “my mother never got closure. She just had to live with the decision that she and my father made all those years ago.” He took a long drink and continued. “I wonder if she just assumed Samantha was dead. Made herself believe it so she could move on. I can’t do that, Scully, I can’t just move on. I need that closure. I need to know I’ve done all I can to find out what happened to her.” Mulder finished off the glass and poured another. Scully saw the turmoil on his face, he stared at the tumbler and gripped it tightly. His tongue slowly dragged against his lower lip, pulling it into his teeth. He tipped back the short glass feeling the burn from the vodka coat his throat.

“I can’t stop thinking about that kid, what her parents are going through. Amber Lynn deserves better. Her parents deserve better.” He reached for the bottle and doubled the amount from the previous pour. “Mom thought I could help, she wanted me to help these people. She had given up.” Mulder rambled in a soft voice then took a sip. The sense of defeat was choking the air in the already congested kitchen. “I never called her back. She called when I was out in California and I said I would talk to her later; but I never did.”

Scully brushed at her cheeks, an ache stung her chest as she remembered the last voicemail she left for Melissa. She came to Mulder’s side and placed her hand over his, easing it down to the counter and taking the glass. He watched her kiss the rim and finish off the vodka without even a tic. She moved closer, arms finding a familiar hold around his waist. Scully searched for something to say but knew it would fall on deaf ears. There was warmth from his hand on her back, fingers splayed as he encouraged her to move even closer. She felt a little selfish seeking his comfort when he was on an emotional razor’s edge.

“I’m so sorry, Mulder,” she finally said into his chest. The rhythm of his heartbeat echoed in her ear. She felt his hand move up to the back of her neck, gently lacing his fingers in her hair. His head dipped down to rest next to hers. Scully pushed back and met his tired gaze, mist clouded her vision until a flutter of eyelashes released a tear down her cheek. There was a shine to his hazel eyes as he searched her face; seeking that touchstone, that totem, that knowledge that he would be okay. He bent closer and kissed her, the taste of alcohol lingered on her lips. She kissed back without hesitation, not wanting to break the gossamer thread that drew them together. Grief and loss were motivators, driving two souls faster into each other’s arms.

Hands traced familiar paths but triggered new sensations. Primal arousal swirled like a maelstrom and the worn leather couch was a safe harbor. Mulder needed to feel skin on skin and his hand slid underneath her shirt, grazing across her taut abdomen. Scully arched her back as she tugged his soft t-shirt, releasing it from the waist of his jeans. Their lips met again leading the way for tongues to mingle and dance. She wanted to help him forget. Her hands began to undo her pants, inching them down over the curve of her hips. Mulder pressed back and fumbled with his jeans. He balanced on one knee sinking lower into the couch cushion and watched her slide back, a fiery aura glowed in the dim light of the room. Before he could think, she was on top of him; hot breath against the side of his neck, arms framed the side of his face as her body pressed against his. He met the rhythm of her hips.

“Use me to forget,” she whispered. He moaned at the request, pressing fingertips harder into her soft curves. Skin to skin. Romance would come another time, tonight played host to half-dressed biological urges desperately seeking a release. Her knees clamped tightly to his sides as a shudder rolled down her body; pain and pleasure written on her face. Leather stretched underneath them, friction caused a deeper patina to the vintage cushions.

“Fuck me, Mulder,” her voice broke as the threshold reached its maximum. His nails dug into her lower back, her teeth gnashed at his earlobe as his momentum increased. Short, ragged breath was shared between them. Syllables bounced around but couldn’t form words. Scully gasped and bit her lower lip as the dam broke. She was overcome, tears streamed down her face while he reached the peak. He cried out as he came, one final deep thrust. Her hand covered her eyes trying to control herself.

“I’m sorry. God I’m sorry, Scully,” he weakly pleaded as he kissed her damp cheeks and stroked her hair. His own emotions bubbled to the surface.

“It’s alright. It’s okay, it’s okay,” she managed to say through tears. Shame washed over him pulling him into an undertow and he sat up to hold her close, shifting her into his lap. She sobbed against his shoulder, empathy taking over once again. His strong embrace could have shattered her like a porcelain doll. She held him just as tightly.

----

The bedroom was their quiet sanctuary. After cleaning up, Scully adjusted the bedclothes and guided him to the side of the bed. He laid down first, leaving room for her to curl up beside him. His arm draped over her waist catching the rise and fall of her form. She held his hand, placing a gentle kiss on his fingers.

Darkness allowed nightmares to invade his mind. Drenched in sweat he trembled next to her. Moans and cries caused her to stir. She reached for his shoulder, took him out of the midnight visions. Her voice comforted him and told him he was safe with her in his bed. This continued well into the night. She felt him get out of bed and heard the click of the bathroom door. The faucet ran as he coughed deeply, followed by the flush of the toilet. She lay on her back, waiting for him to return. When he crawled back into bed smelling of mint mouthwash, she gently rested her head on his chest.

Dawn arrived all too soon and just as she felt sleep was finally at hand, sunrise brought an unwelcome knock on the door. She ignored it at first, nuzzling back into the pillow that held his scent. He breathed peacefully beside her. The knock repeated. Scully shifted under Mulder’s arm and slipped out of bed, padding out to see who the culprit was. A flip of the lock and a turn of the knob open the door to Skinner standing on the doorstep. Scully then recalled the voicemail she left several hours ago. There were a thousand words he could have strung together when he saw her but he settled on the easiest one.

“Hi,” he said sheepishly when he noticed her disheveled hair and work shirt. She blinked and stood firm with her hand bracing the door.

“Hi,” she echoed.

“How is he?”

“It’s been a rough night for him,” her voice was raspy with the tones of early morning. Skinner had his own theories but immediately boxed them up when he saw the exhausted look on her face. Scully was fiercely protective of her partner and she knew he was there to talk about the LaPierre case. Her expression matched the concern in her voicemail that she really didn’t want Mulder involved. Right on cue Mulder entered the room, hovering close to Scully’s side. Skinner said that the LaPierre’s were asking to meet with him and that he booked plane tickets for later that morning. Mulder wordlessly nodded and retreated to the bedroom leaving Scully to request an additional ticket out to the west coast.

#i wrote this #xfiles fanfic #msr #angst #hurt/comfort #season seven #xfmissing2021 #xfilesfanfictionexchange #writing prompt #my fic

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concussed-to-pieces · 3 years

Text

The Mettle Of A Man; Part Sixteen

Fandom: Fallout (4)

Pairing: Eventual Paladin Danse/Female Sole Survivor

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: A very special shoutout to @anonymouscosmos for all of their encouragement and support! You are a god among insects. I’d also like to thank the discord chat for enduring my nonsense, as ever. Enjoy!

Part One: ArcJet

Part Two: The Prydwen

Part Three: Orders

Part Four: Finding Brandis

Part Five: Weston Water And Oberland

Part Six: Meeting Preston And Matthew

Part Seven: Radstag And Radstorm

Part Eight: The Return To Sanctuary Hills

Part Nine: Domestic Ruminations

Part Ten: Institutionalized

Part Eleven: Two Weeks, Three Days

Part Twelve: Haylen’s Warning And The Glowing Sea

Part Thirteen: Under Fire

Part Fourteen: Dichotomy

Part Fifteen: The Litany Trial

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains graphic depictions of gore and detailed descriptions of previous abuse. Stay safe!]

Her head had been blown open, or at least it felt that way. The explosion was so close to her face that her helmet had just peeled off like it was made out of shrapnel-laden papier-mâché.

Sergeant Shaun 'Lucky' Cathan was flat on his back hardly a foot away from her, pinned under the weight of the debris that was slowly crushing his armor.

She couldn't move. Her arms and legs wouldn't respond. That blow to the head had been nearly fatal. She was trapped on her stomach, inches from him.

"Backhand-" Cathan choked, his voice wet. His gauntlet fumbled for her own, large metal fingers gripping her hand. "End of the line for me, eh Handy?"

She gurgled something, trying to talk. One eye still worked. Barely. It felt like it was full of glass every time she forced herself to blink. It was too dark to see much anyway, even if she squinted. Her head throbbed with the beat of her heart.

"Save--your strength, Vega." Cathan instructed.

She wasn't sure what strength he was even talking about. Her armor felt like it had collapsed down on her spine. "Sir-" Vega managed to say. "S'been an honor-"

"Don't give me that-- shit , Vega." Cathan chuckled. "I was just another dog of war. You'll get out of this. Go back to that man of yours, have a few kids, live your life." He coughed, wheezing, "my time is up, Handy."

"No, no I'm-" Backhand tried to pull him closer, tried to get upright. Pain jolted down her back and legs and she halted, trembling. "I c-can't leave you here, Sarge." She groaned, knowing deep down that it was futile but refusing to give up .

Cathan's grip tightened briefly. "It's alright, Handy." Her CO murmured. "It's alright. Make sure Tabitha has me buried on American soil. Or chuck my ashes in the harbor, yeah? Piss off all those Cambridge fucks." He chuckled.

Backhand nodded as best as she could, the tears stinging painfully against the flayed skin of her face. "I will. Promise."

The rubble overhead creaked and groaned, dust falling down on top of them. "Won't be long now." Cathan mused faintly, "Not long at all…"

…

Danse struggled to sit up and roll Vega onto her back. His own injuries faded to the background of his mind as she laid unresponsive, blood slowly pooling in the dirt beneath her left side. Her mouth opened and closed in a spasm; her eyes had rolled back in her skull and her fingers twitched erratically.

Have to hold pressure. Stop the bleeding. Danse numbly pressed his shaking hands down on her side just below her ribs, his body suddenly awash in a cold sweat as he realized just how much blood she was losing. He could almost hear Haylen rambling about the arteries, internal bleeding, penetrating damage, Worwick and Brach and Dawes and Keane and Danse felt like he was going to be sick.

"H... Haylen! " He yelled desperately. It was the only thing he could think to do.

Then, against all odds, startling the everliving daylights out of him, Vega sat up . " Oh , you fuckin' asshole! " She hollered at Maxson around Danse's body while the paladin scrambled to attempt to stem the flow of fresh blood that her motion sent spurting out. "You really fuckin' shot me?! You're the worst kind of dick! "

Danse was flabbergasted. Her state was clearly compromised, how was she even conscious-

"Fuck!" Vega growled in pain, dropping her forehead to rest on Danse's chest. "Oh fuck, fuck fuck you, you told me Danse was fuckin' dead, you liar! You expect me to just stand by and let you kill him in front of me?!" She continued to rant at Maxson, her voice muffled somewhat by Danse's shirt. "You dumb fuckin' prick, you stupid fuckin' dipshit motherfuck son of a cockass! This ain't exactly my first time gettin' fuckin' shot, you fuckin' fuck!"

Danse realized that Arthur hadn't said a damn thing, possibly just as bewildered and awestruck by Elizabeth's impressive grasp of blue-streaked vernacular as he himself was.

"Paladin Brandis, if I may…?" Haylen's voice was almost inaudible over Backhand's continued snarling. Danse jerked his attention away from Elizabeth, trying to blink the sweat out of his eyes in order to determine the field scribe's location.

"Scribe, get the hell back behind the line!" Maxson barked.

Heavy footfalls heralded the arrival of Rhys and Haylen, the knight using his power armor like a shield to protect the scribe as if they were out in the field. Haylen was suddenly there , on her knees in the gravel next to Danse and Elizabeth. The paladin's eyes were now blinded with tears of gratitude and he huffed out a breath. "Danse, I'll get to you in a second." Haylen said softly, patting his hand. "Let me have her, okay?"

"Haylen, I…" the large man didn't know what to say, his words failing him. He clutched pitifully at the scribe's hands, sure that he was gripping too tight.

"I've got her, Danse. It's okay." Scribe Haylen soothed.

"Yeah Danse, s'okay." Backhand said blearily, "s'Haylen, she's great. We love Haylen." Her head lolled back like it was too heavy for her to hold up. "Haylen made sure I got to eat and stuff."

" What? " Danse rasped.

"The tactics Elder Maxson used during her incarceration…" Haylen trailed off, grimacing and then continuing in an undertone, "I made sure Rhys smuggled in something for her when he brought Brandis' meals."

"Vega, Jesus Christ, I'm so sorry." Danse apologized needlessly, resting his forehead against Elizabeth's as he supported her neck. "I didn't think anything would happen to you. I...I didn't think in general, I guess." He admitted.

Vega smiled . "Hey, I'd say whatever shit I went through was a pretty decent tradeoff for finding out that you didn't bite it after all." She slurred. "Missed you."

" Christ , Vega." Danse muttered in dismay, fighting to untie her hands. Haylen took over after a moment, the scribe's fingers infinitely more steady than his own.

"I need a Stim and a bloodpack!" Haylen announced after examining Vega's abdomen, looking up worriedly.

Not a soul moved. The only sound was the noise of Maxson wriggling in the grip of the armored knight who finally had him secured. "Listen to the scribe!" Brandis shouted to the mute crowd. "You have a sister bleeding in front of you and you would be still and silent? Where are the brave, compassionate soldiers I once knew? Knights! Scribes! Are you not Brotherhood?"

Two aspirants finally elbowed their way through the throng, making a wide berth around Maxson. One of them bore a large canvas bag. "Good, good work. Drop it here." Haylen instructed, unrolling her field kit. "Can I get a scribe with steady hands and another knight for the opposite side?" She called.

A knight thundered past Maxson, the man throwing Danse of all people a haphazard salute before he took up his post at the other end of the group. Maxson practically seethed with rage. "Knight, how dare you salute that--that thing! "

"That thing is still Paladin Danse of the Brotherhood of Steel, Maxson." Brandis growled. "He won the trial fair and square."

"I will not allow it to live!" Maxson shrieked hysterically, struggling against the iron hold of the knight bear-hugging him. "I don't care how many of you I have to take down, Danse dies today! "

"Maxson!" Brandis chided. "Do you even hear yourself? You sound insane! Think about what you're saying before you do something you'll regret!"

"Not before he dies! "

"Which would you rather be known as, Maxson? The abuser or the synth fucker?" Maxson froze at the sound of Danse's voice. The burly paladin shot the elder a bloodied sneer, his head tilted to the side at an almost arrogant angle. "After all, you got fucked by a synth." What the hell was he saying? Danse felt unhinged , words flippant, his tired limbs barely cooperating as he forced himself up on his knees and then to his feet. "You let a synth fuck you, Arthur."

" Abomination -"

"You ordered a synth to fuck you." Danse reminded him, voice grating as his words came faster. "Demanded it to fuck you. Abused it. Threatened it with a certain death mission if it didn't. Then gave it that mission anyway." Danse rubbed at some crusted blood beneath his blackened right eye, grimacing. "Does it make it better if you didn't know I was a synth? Because then , you have to justify the reality that you molested a soldier in a compromised emotional state utilizing your privileged position of authority. Can you accept that , Maxson?"

"You...Maxson, is this true?" Brandis asked incredulously.

"That thing is clearly lying!" Maxson scoffed, looking around at the spellbound crowd like he expected everyone to agree with him. "Dammit, I am the elder -"

"Did you hope that I would die out here, Arthur? Or did you assume that I would come crawling back to the Capital Wasteland after my inevitable failure in the Commonwealth?" Danse cut him off bitterly. "Did you think I would be easier to break once I had lost everything , Maxson?"

"He always fights with Danse!" A tiny squire chimed in. Danse hadn't realised that Maxson had Ingram summon the damn children to watch their trial. "We heard them fight!"

"Silence, brat! " Maxson screamed, his face purpling with fury. "I am the elder of this chapter, last of the Maxson line, and I will be given the respect I deserve! "

"Cade's records can verify my story!" Danse shouted hoarsely for everyone to hear, his shoulders heaving with emotion. "Every time we engaged, I did not escape unscathed. Nearly every injury was documented. The dates will align with high-stress situations, and I'll stake my life on there being a long stretch of shit mood during the absence of your preferred punching bag, Elder! "

" Liar! "

"Abuser!" Danse yelled in reply, "murderer! You killed Cutler, through your biased orders! You killed Knight Astlin, Scribe Farris, Knight Varham! You killed my brothers and sisters!" Danse's fists clenched tight enough to ache. "And for what, Arthur? For a synth? Or for a man that had no interest in you? Either way, I refuse to accept their blood on my hands, Maxson!"

" You killed them and you know it!" Maxson shrieked, kicking his legs desperately. "All you had to do was obey me, Danse! Was your pride worth their lives?"

"There was once a time in my life where I would have done damn near anything you asked of me." His anger petering out, all Danse felt now was weary and bruised. "I loved the Brotherhood, Maxson. I still do. But the path we have taken under your leadership is heinous."

"Don't you dare to lecture me about devotion, you mechanical mockery! " Maxson retorted.

"This body may be synthetic, but my heart and mind…" Danse paused, saluting once more. " Those belong to the Brotherhood, Maxson. To my brothers and sisters in arms. Nothing can change that. Not even the knowledge of my true identity."

"That's what you think!" Arthur flailed in the knight's grip, trying in vain to escape. No doubt so he could pitch himself at the paladin one final time.

"Elder Maxson, through your words and through your deeds, I deem you unfit to lead our chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel at this point in time." Brandis announced abruptly. "As the senior ranking officer, I, Paladin Brandis, will function as the interim elder until we receive proper instructions from our superiors." He removed his helmet, staring down at Arthur sternly.

The young man was quite the pitiful sight, bedraggled from trying to beat Danse within an inch of his life as well as from his struggling afterwards. He still looked mad enough to kill, those blue eyes almost crackling with pent-up fury. "You planned this, didn't you?!" His paranoia on full display, Maxson made no attempt to maintain any sort of composure. "Just how many synths have infiltrated our chapter? Well Brandis?! "

"Arthur, that's enough ." The senior paladin said in reply, his tone measured. "Don't make an even bigger fool of yourself. Bow out while you still have some dignity." He sighed. "Perhaps the stress of this campaign has been too heavy of a burden to bear for you. I sympathize, but I cannot permit you to carry on in this manner, Maxson." Brandis raised his eyes, scanning the crowd. "Cade! Knight-Captain Cade, please see to Maxson. He is obviously unwell."

…

Vega flickered in and out of consciousness. The weeks of abuse culminating in this final (though inadvertent) attempt to end her seemed to have nearly been successful. She only barely remembered Haylen treating her wound, mumbling out an apology to the younger woman for leaning so much weight on her. She caught snippets of Danse and Maxson shouting at each other, bits of the trauma that Danse had endured coming tumbling out and making Vega wish that she wasn't half-dead so she could at least flip Maxson off.

" Rest , Vega ." Haylen had ordered. " You need rest ."

And really, who was Backhand to refuse?

When next she opened her eyes, she was greeted by a canvas ceiling overhead. Vega squinted a little at the brightness of it. How long have I been out for?

"Welcome back, General." That familiar voice snapped her out of her staring contest with the tent above her and she rolled her head to the side, unable to help her smile at the sight of Danse. Still a little bruised and banged-up, but alive .

Tears streaked down her cheeks and Backhand wished that she could have stopped them, sniffling loudly and covering her face.

"General Vega, there's no need for that." The paladin chided her softly. Something bumped against her knuckles and she realized after a second that Danse was attempting to give her glasses back.

Vega accepted the glasses mutely, grabbed Danse's hand and used his arm as leverage to pull herself up off the cot.

"Wait, Elizabeth you-" The paladin began to protest, rising to his feet to stop her. Her legs nearly gave out but Danse managed to steady her, one large hand splayed on the small of her back. "You shouldn't be upright yet, Vega." He scolded.

I missed you. I thought you were dead. The words tangled up in her mouth and instead Backhand mumbled, "I thought I missed you." Danse's brows furrowed in confusion and she hurried to correct herself, "I mean--I...I thought you were dead!"

"I needed some time to regroup. Straighten my head out. Heal." The paladin explained quietly. "The O'Brians nursed me back to health."

"What happened , though?"

"What happened to you , Vega?" Danse asked instead, gripping her elbows carefully to keep her upright.

Backhand shrugged weakly. "Maxson thought I knew you were a synth."

" I didn't even know I was a synth." Danse huffed, thick eyebrows raising once again. "How on earth would you have known?"

"Maybe he was going on a witch hunt, trying to get me to confess even though I wasn't guilty of anything." She closed her eyes as she mumbled, "I missed you."

"I thought of you every day." Danse replied bluntly. Her head shot up and she stared at him, watching as a flush crept up his neck. "I er, I...I am not good at these sorts of things," he admitted. "But it's true. I thought of you and...and of your son. Of the life you should have had. When Preston tracked me down, we realized that something must have gone wrong. So I...came back."

Oh . She hated the disappointed pit that yawned open in her stomach. She should have known that he wasn't thinking of her in the same way that she had thought of him.

Backhand rested her forehead on his chest, willing her tears to abate. "We need to get them out of the Institute." She said thickly. "All of them. Anyone that will come, Danse."

"I think you and I should speak to Pal-- Elder Brandis. He has expressed interest in working with the Minutemen." Danse sighed heavily, then continued, "I cannot recommend that we work exclusively with the Brotherhood. There are years of prejudice that have been beaten into these men and women. The allowance of my presence is a show of good faith, but I don't know if I trust the rank and file to storm the Institute without turning it into a massacre." He gave her a wry smile. "I cannot blame them. Even knowing what I am now, it's going to take me some time to remove my knee-jerk reaction."

"There's always something else to do." She wasn't trying to complain , but God she was tired .

His facial hair brushed against her forehead, scraping the skin lightly. "I know. What was it you said in the Glowing Sea? 'A run ashore'?" He queried while giving her forearms a gentle squeeze, as if to comfort her.

"I thought you were dead." She hadn't meant to say it again, watching his eyes go dark and kicking herself for bringing it back up.

"I suppose I was, for a time." Danse murmured, his expression troubled.

"I... please don't do that to me again." Vega begged. Her hands fisted in his fatigues, wrinkling the worn fabric. "This is going to sound really dumb and really selfish, but please . Don't."

"When you thought I was dead, did you..." Danse hesitated. "I mean, did you really miss me? I'm not even...well, I'm not a..." He cast his eyes around, narrowing them like he was physically searching for the word he wanted to use. "Human." He finally managed to say, the admission obviously paining him. "I'm a freak of nature, Vega. A perversion of science and an example of where mankind has gone wrong--"

"Danse." Backhand cupped his jaw, her palms smoothing over the bristle of his stubble as she coaxed him to look at her. "No offense, but you cannot be this stupid."

"What do you mean?" The paladin asked, his confusion endearingly evident. "I'm not...how am I being…?"

Backhand blinked. Maybe he could be that stupid. "You're probably the most human person I've ever met, Danse. The way you care about your squadron, the way you've helped me...look, I wasn't upset about you being a synth, I was upset about you being dead ."

"Oh." Danse breathed. "Really? You... really? Me being a synth wasn't…?" His words kept faltering, uncertainty shining through with every hitch.

" You , Danse. I cried about you being gone ."

"Elizabeth…"

"So don't you dare scare me like that ever again, got it?" Backhand leaned forward, boldly pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

"I--yes. Understood, Knight. Uh, General." Danse stammered, his fingers absently touching the spot she had kissed. "W-We should...go speak to Elder Brandis. If you believe you can walk a short distance? I know better than to ask you to stay put and be patient."

"Permit me the usage of your arm to keep me upright and yes, we can absolutely go."

...

Please don't do that to me again .

She had missed him, she said. She had mourned him, even. Cried over him. Danse's head was spinning.

How could that even be possible? How could she...he was a machine .

No time left to consider such weighty problems, unfortunately, as he found that far too soon the two of them were approaching what had formerly been Maxson's quarters and now served as Brandis' war room.

"Ad Victoriam, Paladin Danse and General Vega!" Elder Brandis greeted them warmly with a loose salute, gesturing around the war table afterwards. "Kells, Cade, Ingram, Quinlan, Doctor Li, I trust you all need no introductions?"

The briefing was, as they usually were, tedious. Nothing brief about it, if he was being brutally honest. Vega held her ground though, which was all he really needed.

"You boys aren't tyrants or fuckin' warlords. Not while I have any sort of say in the matter." She said sharply. "If you want Minutemen support, we are working as a team and the Minutemen have uninhibited access to all information as it is gathered. That means we'll need Quinlan's full cooperation." She held up a hand, staving off Quinlan's outburst. " Only in regards to the Institute. We don't want your super-secret Spec Ops sealed Brotherhood case files, so don't get those boxers in a bunch." Cade snorted and Proctor Quinlan looked absolutely scandalized, even as he grudgingly nodded.

"Now, General, this is all well and good but what does the Brotherhood get out of this bargain?" Kells asked pointedly. "As far as I can see, we're the integral piece in this plan."

"' As far as you can see ' is an apt phrase, Lancer-Captain Kells." Backhand's tone was cool. This was General Vega for certain, the woman who had whipped the Minutemen back into shape. "Because what you can't see are the rest of my operations. The Minutemen aren't the only force I have at my disposal, just the most obvious." She leaned in a little, her eyes cold as ice behind the lenses of her glasses. "Do you really want to test me on my home turf, Kells? After everything that's happened?"

"Not testing you, General Vega." The lancer-captain clarified, "simply identifying what seems to be an imbalance in the negotiations."

"I got you Doctor Li." Vega retorted. "Without her, your Liberty Prime would still be a pile of junk. I've gotten your scribes tons of information to sift through, I've done everything the former elder asked of me."

"Lancer-Captain Kells, if I might also interject?" Danse asked hesitantly, cringing on the inside as everyone turned to look at him like they had forgotten he was even there. Kells inclined his head after a moment. "Sir, we cannot be so quick to discredit our position. Due to our aerial location, we will be within the perfect striking distance to any sort of localized, above-ground assault."

"I am more than aware of our position, Paladin . But that does not negate the fact that we have a much larger stake in this than anyone else-"

"Larger than the locals who have been getting body-snatched for years?" Vega cut him off. "Let's not forget that myself and your new elder were starved and tortured for weeks , while the rest of you sat around and twiddled your thumbs out of fear and respect." She spat. "Don't fuckin' come to me with your scale-tipping bullshit . It took a synth to make you all sack up, and I don't intend to let you forget that." The woman straightened up, looking grim. "I'm not giving you anything else. You can either work with us, or you can keep pitching yourself against the Institute until they've all slipped away and you're left with nothing but an empty facility and unanswered questions."

"She's right." Doctor Li affirmed tersely. "They won't just wait around to be pummeled. This isn't the Enclave. The board of directors will do everything in their power to avoid you and waste your resources at the same time."

"We cannot afford to entrench ourselves in a drawn-out assault, Kells." Brandis reasoned. "When we strike, we have to do it decisively. Give it everything we've got and cut off the head."

Kells nodded, seeming satisfied. "Understood, Elder Brandis. I meant no disrespect, General Vega."

"None taken. I'm still recovering from getting the shit kicked out of me, so my manners aren't up to par quite yet." Vega rested her elbows on the table, steepled fingers tapping her chin. "I won't take anything from you that you're unable to give, Lancer-Captain Kells. If I can avoid using the BoS altogether, I will." She murmured, tilting her head. "I need to get in touch with some people before I can offer anything concrete, but once Lieutenant Garvey knows I'm alive I'm sure the rest will learn fast. We'll rally and plan accordingly."

"Well then, what are we waiting for?" Ingram asked eagerly. "C'mon Vega, let's head to the comm deck and get things squared away!"

"Excellent plan. You two are dismissed." Brandis agreed, making a shooing gesture at the two women. Once they had departed, he turned his attention to Cade. "Do you have faith in our medical capabilities, Knight-Captain?"

Cade nodded. "We had been planning to attack them head on anyways, Brandis. If we're truly going in a little less 'shock and awe', we may actually tip more towards over-prepared."

"I'm not certain how useful their teleporter will be to us once we get inside. I'm sure they'll lock it down with great expedience. However there is another possible egress." Quinlan spread the old blueprint out on the war table, fingers indicating a small service tunnel. "Now, if their measurements are accurate, power armored troops will not fit in this tunnel. But unarmored individuals most certainly will. This includes any…" he hesitated, like he was preparing himself to say it, "... refugees , or non-hostile denizens."

Quinlan referring to synths as anything but had Danse's head spinning. Vega was an absolute marvel .

"It will be heavily guarded." Doctor Li warned. "They like to pretend that there's only one way in or out. Their precious molecular relay ."

"Danse, I think you ought to take point when it comes to securing this tunnel." Kells remarked, making the paladin straighten up. "We won't be able to gauge our level of involvement until we have a full muster from Vega, but I'd like a senior-ranked soldier in the mix. And I know how much you enjoy being boots on the ground." The older man offered Danse a thin smile.

Danse was so moved he needed to take a moment, finally choking out a ' yes sir ' with his hand over his heart. That Kells, even after all the years of growing to despise synths, would trust him with such a task-!

Perhaps they did stand a chance, after all.

Part Seventeen

33 notes · View notes

stixxxy · 3 years

Text

Merry Siegemas All! Day 12.

Sorry for posting so late, but I finally got home- thank you so much to @dualrainbow for allowing me to take part in Day 12 of this fun r6s writing event. :D

And apologies in advance incase there’s any grammar errors- I write and grammar check myself.

Fun Short Story; about 1.5k words.

Promt: Unexpectedly spending the holidays together

——

"You'd recon these people have at least some families for Christmas," James 'Smoke' Porter sighed, rubbing his hands together in trying to warm up to the cold Northern British atmosphere.

The north was never actively warm, which actively meant that late December would (as James would say) cause you to "Freeze your tits off", it got cold and dark quickly with wind and rain but alas no snow, snow was rare to see despite the country's cold atmosphere. It was a few days before Christmas as well; so instead of being home or in the base with friends- Porter, Mark 'Mute' Chandlar, Dominic ‘Bandit’ Brunsmeier, and Sébastien ‘Buck’ Côté had been sent to the Shetland isles in hope that they could work on developing a secret base so to speak just as a last resort. The place wasn't so bad- it was just extremely freezing but at least the town was quite nice. At the centre there were bright lights hanging from the olden wind beating buildings, a large festively decorated tree sat in the opening besides the shore. Moods were high throughout the few townsfolk they saw- 2 days before Christmas always brought either stress or glee, which you clearly could tell by how the people commuted.

"They're terrorists," Mute responded, "they hate happiness. Be thankful we're just sorting out a base."

Mark spoke in a tone that was almost as bitter as the northern air which prickled at James’ skin. ‘Even if the white masks didn’t kill us before we get to the base, the cold sure would have’ the Londoner thought. James didn’t get why they needed yet another base- they already had England and Greece, they were about to colonise an island in north Scotland next. Harry had insisted that the base was meant for training in ‘harsher environments’, and since Russia probably would say no to a military group that wasn’t theirs, the next best thing was Scotland.

“I still think we could have bribed Jordan to come,” The voice of the German operator piped up, as he and their Canadian coworker, Sébastian, jogged up the small hill with their kit.

Smoke turned his head towards the duo approaching, “And have him complaining nonstop?”

“Source of entertainment I call it.”

Buck looked at the three other operators, “what did I do wrong to be picked with you people?”

——

The trip was originally scheduled for the 4 operators to camp overnight, get a feel for the place and then decide whether it would make a decent enough area for training with harsher/colder environments. The harsher and colder had already been challenging before the group even reached their site- there was no denying that fact. Sébastian had been the only one who hadn’t complained yet, that was until a certain shorter than average Brit accidentally got his clothes wet.. which lead to Mark reluctantly lending Buck one of his hoodies. So the trip was going swell.

“If i give you £20 will you let me share your sleeping bag?”

“Piss off.”

After the request, James received an elbow to the his side- a smile growing oh his face but again they returned back to their quiet. Sounds of the ocean they sat lulled the silence, distant talking and cars came and went as the minutes went by.

“How’s lily?” For a change Mark initiated a conversation, putting his phone down on the grass besides him.

James let out a sigh, bringing a hand to go through his hair. He paused.

“I promised her this year I’d be with her for Christmas, like- the whole 2 weeks she gets off,” he started, turned to his hands which he was fiddling with his sleeves with. “I don’t know how Zofia can do it- do this and then be a mother. What kind of parent am I if I barely even see my kid?”

Silence once again filled the air, Mute leaned back- his arms supporting his body as he thought. He was never one for emotional conversations, he could ramble about computer science for hours but the second it gets touchy and feely- his brain shuts off. Mark turned to James who’s face was the opposite of how he usually was, a frown plastered on his lips and his normally bright eyes were tinted dimly.

“I’m sure she understands, it is your job after all. She’s 16; when I w-“

“-She’s not like you Mark,” James snapped, turning to face the younger, “You’re practically a child genius who has no manners socially, Lily’s... you know what the kid’s like.”

James nuzzled his chin into his scarf, in a way to both shut himself off and to try warm himself up before he started to cry and freeze his cheeks off. He never felt homesick, James loved his job, but he just hated that he couldn’t keep a promise.

“At least you’ll be with her for Christmas Day.”

The only response was a small breath and a nod.

——

Sharing a tent with 3 other men was not Sébastians initial plan for Christmas eve’s eve- likewise having to borrow one of the others’ clothes because his own got soaked by a prank. He knew he wouldn’t get to visit home this year but spending Christmas with his friends wasn’t so bad, Sébastian was just lucky he had managed to visit Canada for his birthday a few months prior.

“Fucking freezing out here,” the words of Dominic alerted Séb from his book, a hint of tiredness in his voice.

“It’s not too cold,” Buck smiled, moving in his seat besides the small campfire.

The German scoffed, “because you have a hoodie which is too big, a beanie and gloves. My gloves to be exact.”

“You offered.”

Dominic pushed Sébastian’s beanie over Séb’s face as he walked by to sit on the seat besides his teammate. A small laugh coming from him while he watched the Canadian huff when he reorganised his beanie.

“Before I forget; Harry called- there’s a storm coming to welcome us a merry Christmas,” Séb knew where this was going. Bandit dipped his head and then leaned back, “he thinks we’re going to be stuck here for a few days longer than expected.”

“Typical.”

Dominic kicked his legs up onto the stand besides the fire, “he did say we could stay at a friend of his rather than risk being killed by the high winds of Scotland.”

“How thoughtful.”

It wasn’t long until Mark and James returned, the news hit James hard; being in the middle of nowhere for Christmas was never ideal- at least they weren’t alone in the middle of nowhere.

James sighed, sitting up in his sleeping bag- the wind was already starting to pick up and the rain was battering the tens thin material. Silent breathing from the sleeping people continued, unfazed by the storm brewing. Smoke lay back down, staring at the green above him. Butterflies fluttered around in his stomach- anxiety from both Christmas being the next day and the fact he couldn’t keep a single promise towards his daughter. If only it wasn’t raining he could at least walk the nerves off.

—

“For professionals you all like to sleep in.”

A Scottish man let out a laugh, watching the four Rainbow operators crawl out of the tent in dampened clothes as the tent got ripped after something bumped into it due to the high winds the previous night.

“You try sleeping in a leaking tent,” The pleasant morning voice of Mute spoke, “then we can talk about ‘sleep in’.”

A hearty laugh came from the man, “well if it means anything, I’m sorry about your situation.”

Sébastian stepped up, apologising for the other three’s attitude- making some small chat to the Scottsman who was called Duncan.

—

“Hey Lilypad,” James stood in the hallway- looking around at the tinsel wrapped around the staircase, “so plans changed, I’m sorry.”

“You promised dad-“

“I know.. I know- there’s a storm and the boats been cancelled-“

Dominic appeared from the doorway, “Porter?”

“I’m coming,” James mouthed then turned to the phone,” I’ll hopefully be back for Boxing Day- we can get Gramps and everyone over. I’ll, I’ll make it up to you Lils.”

“It’s... Sorry’s not good enough okay?”

Before he could even mutter another ‘sorry’, the line went dead.

James sat on the staircase, letting his head fall into his hands. It was the one thing he and Lily had been looking forward too, 2 weeks together for Christmas and having the family over; god how he missed his own parents. A person slid down to sit a stair above, resting a comforting hand on James’ shoulder.

“Coming from someone who’s been through the same thing as Lily, she knows it’s not your fault,” the Quebec man let out a small laugh, “of course she’s hurt, but you’re her dad; she loves you and as long as you both have each other- she’ll forgive you. Just let her process.”

James nodded, inhaling a shaky breath. He patted the hand on his shoulder and stood up.

“Let’s make this a good Christmas from what we have,” he turned to Séb who promptly followed him down.

“You gehirnverweigerer! Just tell me what the fucking thing is! The zucker! STOP LAUGHING JUST TELL ME WHAT IT IS!” The voice of a very angry Dominic came from the kitchen.

Buck smiled and wrapped an arm around the English man, “Merry Christmas James.”

“Merry Christmas to you too.”

#Siegemas #Siegemas 2020 #rainbow six siege fanfic #Rainbow Six Siege #Buck r6s #Sebastian Cote #James Porter #Smoke r6s #mark chandar #Mute r6s #dominic brunsmeier #bandit r6s #r6s #r6 fanfic #short story #christmas #christmas short story #christmas fanfic

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silvereddaye · 4 years

Note

Luke was certain that his father would strangle him if he ever found out he was gay.

(So I decided that instead of using this sentence as the opening line, I decided to use it as inspiration.)

“Where is the prince?” Darth Vader asked.

No one in the command center seemed to have heard him. Alarms were blaring. People were shouting. They were trying to recover from the rebel attack and felt pressured to do so fast with Vader here.

“Where is my son?” Vader asked. This time his deep voice carried across the room.

Everyone stopped and fell silent. Even the alarms seemed to have gotten quieter. All eyes were on the large black cyborg. His breathing loud and harsh.

Vader asked again, “Where is my son?”

Finally, an officer approached him. “Ah, he was, my lord, that is, he was at the base prior to the attack. At least, I uh, he was last seen, uh, two days ago?” the man stumbled.

“I do not care where he was prior to the attack. I want to know where he is now.”

They didn’t understand how important Luke was. There was nothing that took precedence over Vader’s son. The galaxy could boil over and explode, but Vader did not care as long as Luke was alive and well. As such he did not care about the damage done to the city on this planet nor the Imperial base. He didn’t care about the death toll or filling in the chain of command. He didn’t care about what the rebels had stolen or who they had freed from the detention center.

He only cared about his son.

– – – – – – –

His son who he was having a hard time locating in the Force. Vader would not admit he was panicking, because he wasn’t. Most certainly not.

“We will locate him right away, my lord,” an officer said.

Vader gave a small nod of his head as he poured himself into the Force along his shared bond with his son. There was a sag to his shoulders as he finally located the boy. He was still on the planet, though a good distance away. Had the rebels captured him and taken his precious boy to their base? No matter. Vader would secure Luke.

Without a word, Vader swept out of the command center and made his way directly to the hangar. He debated briefly on what would be the best ship to take. He would have preferred to take his fighter he had arrived in. He could take out any rebel fighters or ground defenses with ease, but he didn’t know what state Luke was in. He was getting no response from his son. Therefore, he would take a shuttle. He ordered the hangar crew to make sure it was stocked with two first aid kits.

Then he boarded the ship and took off alone with no backup. He would personally deal with those who had taken his son. It was an hour’s flight to reach the secluded spot. It was … picturesque. It was perfect for a rebel hideout. The area seemed to be some sort of area locals went on vacation. It bordered a crystal blue ocean with white sandy beaches, and green palm trees littered the hills and small cliffs above the water. There was a large white house on a cliff above the beach where Vader landed the shuttle. His son was inside. He could feel him.

The first thing Vader noticed that was there were no guards. No canons. No blaster bolts reining in at him. In fact, when he reached out into the Force, there were very little life forces here at all. Perhaps four or five total. Vader marched across the yard to the house. There was a small pain in his heart. It made him think of a lovely house on Naboo next to a lake. His hands clenched into fists. He could not get distracted. He had to get his son. That was what was most important. He had reached the large porch when he heard laughing. It caused Vader to freeze in his tracks.

Had that been Luke’s laughter?

He slowly walked down the porch. His hand hovered above his lightsaber. He almost grabbed it when he heard footsteps, but the hand quickly fell away as he saw his son round the corner. His skin was honeyed tan. His hair a bright blond. It was clear he had been spending time out in the sun. Vader was also able to note the color of his son’s skin due to how much of it was showing. Luke only wore a sheer white robe that was wide open.

Luke stopped dead as his eyes went wide when he saw Vader.

“F– Father?” Luke said in a strangled voice. “What are you doing here?”

“Aletheron City and the base suffered an attack by rebels. You were not to be found. I tracked you here and was prepared to deal with any kidnappers who had taken you,” Vader said as he looped his thumbs on his belt. “But it appears you are not in need of saving, young one.”

Luke’s cheeks burned red. He pulled the robe closed and tied the sash though it did little to hide anything.

“You have left your post without permission,” Vader said as he raised one hand and pointed it at his son.

“I know,” Luke said. “But you wouldn’t have given me permission if I asked.”

“You do not know that.”

Luke rolled his eyes and then gave his father a look. “I just needed some time away from the city. A vacation.”

“Luke, you are the Imperial prince. You–”

“Must understand your importance to the Empire,” Luke rambled on in a monotone voice. “Yes. I know, Father.”

There was an awkward silence that fell between them. Vader was about to tell his son to get dressed so they could return when laughter and running steps were heard.

“Luke?” a masculine voice called.

Luke’s eyes went wide a second time. He ran over to his father and pushed him through an open door. “Hide,” Luke hissed. “And turn off your breathing!”

Luke pushed Vader behind a wall, but Vader could still see out a window. Vader did as Luke asked and turned off his respirator. Only as his lungs started to burn did he realize what a foolish and demeaning request it had been. He would need to have a talk his son– His thoughts were cut short as he spotted a young man coming around the corner. He was completely naked and equally sun tanned as Luke.

“Hey, babe,” the young man said as he wrapped Luke up in a hug and placed a passionate kiss on his lips. The young man’s hand slid down to Luke’s rear. “What is taking so long?”

“I uh … got a thing I need to do real quick. Just give me a minute,” he said.

The hand squeezed Luke’s rear and Luke smiled.

“Don’t take too long,” the man said in a low sultry voice. “I’m going to get a bath ready.”

They kissed again before the man skipped away. Once the man was out of earshot, Vader turned his respirator on and stalked over to his son.

“Luke,” he said. Luke flinched at how weak his voice sounded. “What is this about? Who was that man?”

“Uh. The Prince of Aletheron?”

“Why did you not inform of you this relationship?”

Luke’s cheeks turned bright red. “I thought you would strangle me if you found out I was gay.”

Vader missed a desperately needed breath. Strangle Luke? His son? He would never! Especially … after Luke’s mother … No. He would never do that!

“Luke, I am aware of your preference in partners,” Vader said. “Though I was under the impression you were involved with that smuggler Solo.”

Luke’s face fell into shock. “What … You knew? How? Are you spying on me?”

Vader was smart enough not to answer that, because he was.

“I approve of the prince over that dirty smuggler or that weasel baron of Bespin,” Vader said with a wave of his hand.

“You knew about Lando too?”

“Yes, my son, I did. As well as that despicable rebel pilot. Though I feel the need to ask, is that who the other life forms are at this house? Are they all here?”

Luke’s burning red cheeks were the only answer Vader needed.

#ok #I have problems writing short #this one is quite long #oh well #gay luke #luke and vader #ficlet #ask silver #prompt #Anonymous #my writing

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pigeontheoneandonly · 5 years

Text

Snowstorm

For Throwback Day of Kaidan Week (@spectrekaidanalenko), I decided to excerpt one of my favorite scenes from my first long fic, Discovery, which was the project that brought me into the ME fandom.

Set in ME1, Shepard and Kaidan are on Noveria, the day before departing for Peak 15.

“Shepard?” Alenko asked, breaking into her musing. His brow was furrowed.

She blinked. “Sorry, what?”

“You were off in your own world there.” He smiled. “I asked if you wanted to tag along, or if there was somewhere else you were headed.”

Shepard abruptly realized she’d followed him halfway across the port, leaving her rather chagrined and grasping after the conversation. “Just thinking about tomorrow. Sure, I’d love to come.”

He was surprised, but pleased. “Hey, great.”

“Don’t look so shocked.” They resumed walking towards the garage, the location of the service access.

“You do have strong feelings on weather.”

Which was when she remembered exactly where he was going, and recognized that she’d just agreed to go stand in a full-scale blizzard ‘admiring the view’. Shit. But now it would be awkward if she backed out, so she mustered what she hoped seemed like enthusiasm. “Maybe we’ll get a glimpse at this Peak 15. It would be nice to know where we’re going.”

By the time they reached the service ladder, she was almost enjoying the notion. He was reminiscing about great storms of the past in Vancouver, and it was hard not to find snowed-in days filled with steaming mugs, cancelled obligations, and neighborly company a little charming.

“Heavier in the interior, of course,” he said, continuing his rambling monologue without breaking stride. “We usually spent winter holidays at my uncle’s farm. Well, orchard. Letting a couple chickens roam through the trees isn’t really a farm.”

She didn’t mind. She liked listening to him go on like this, about a home he loved and a land-bound culture of sorts she didn’t fully understand. It made her feel warm, almost like some of the heat from his glowing descriptions got inside her despite the cool hallways.

They entered a room no larger than a walk-in closet and found a broad-shouldered man shrugging into one of the parkas lining a rack against the wall. In cubbies above them sat protective goggles, thick gloves, hats, and scarves. Boots in a variety of sizes were arrayed below. All of the equipment was an eye-watering shade of neon orange— the better to see against the snow, she guessed.

“Hey, Owens.” Alenko gave him a wave. “Got room for one more?”

He glanced back at Shepard. Owens’ face was a stripe of ebony punctuated by two dark eyes between the hat and the coat’s neck flap. He opened it to speak freely. “You didn’t mention you were working with the spectre.”

“Is that a problem?” Shepard asked, mildly. She wouldn’t be sorry to see the excursion canceled, but she felt badly for Kaidan, who was looking forward to it.

Those deep eyes studied her for a prolonged moment. “Not for me.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Your management didn’t send out a persona non grata?”

“They sent it all right. I just don’t give a damn.” Owens shrugged, his mouth a hard line of disapproval. “Seems like you’re the only one around here who doesn’t see this war as an opportunity. My brother was a marine on Eden Prime. So if you want a look at the roof— all I have to say is, yes ma’am.”

She paused, and nodded her respect. “It was hell down there. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“That means a lot coming from you.” He gestured at the gear and re-sealed the flap, muffling his voice. “Get kitted up. Grab whatever fits— it’s all open season here.”

Shepard sat on the floor, removed her shoes, and started pulling on a pair of snow boots. “What was your brother’s name?”

“Sergeant Wayne Owens, 232nd Brigade, SAMC,” he recited with a touch of pride.

“I’ve run into my share of 232ers. Good men all.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Owens watched them finish outfitting themselves, and made a few expert adjustments to their gear— a few more, perhaps, to Shepard than Alenko, she noted sourly. Her lack of experience pricked at her ego.

They followed the burly man up the ladder, a significant climb in its own right, and onto a suspended walkway hanging from the ceiling. It swayed as they walked its length to an access hatch, no more than 150 centimeters tall, and held shut by a vast wheel like on the submarines of old. Owens spun it with the ease of long practice, ignoring its rusty squeal, and shouldered it open against the wind. A gust of snow smattered over the walkway as he held it open.

Both marines ducked through the hatch and out into a world of swirling white punctuated by brief lances of sundown light and glimpses of distant hills. Shepard had only a moment to wonder at it before the wind smacked her against the wall and scoured a patch of cheek exposed by her climb with razor-sharp ice crystals.

She yelped and tugged the scarf back into place. Naturally, this exposed a new area, and by the time she was through, the whole thing was altogether too loose and strands of copper hair were flying free of her hood with an electrostatic crackle. Shepard caught the laughter of her companions on the wind.

“To hell with both of you,” she said crossly, which only invited more laughter, so she ignored them and crossed the scant meter to the catwalk’s railing. It hugged the side of the Port Hanshan main building like a wedding ring. If she reached up, her fingers could curl around the lip of the roof, crusted with cakey ice.

Once she got used to the driving snow and the white film it put over her sight, her curiosity stood up in unexpected awe. It reminded her of the earthquake back on Therum, if a pale imitation— an ancient and wholly natural, unthinking phenomenon that nonetheless defied every human attempt to tame it. Their starships could cross the galaxy in a matter of days but they remained as helpless as ever in the face of planetary wrath. Her feet strayed closer to the guardrail and she shouted over the storm. “This is incredible.”

She couldn’t see any of Alenko’s face behind the goggles and the scarf and the rest of it, but she got the sense that he was grinning as he joined her, looking over the side as much as could be dared in the high wind. Owens’ chuckle carried. “We get about ten of these big mothers a year. It’s not so bad towards the ground.”

“This is my first,” she yelled. “I’ve lived in space my whole life. Never been snowed on.”

‘This is a hell of an introduction.” He withdrew an electronic instrument from his pocket and flicked it on. “I need to complete my inspection. Feel free to poke around.”

Owens ambled down the catwalk and was soon lost behind the wall of white, leaving them quite alone in the world.

She expected it would feel cold and dead and dark, this kind of storm, and certainly through the massive panes of Port Hanshan’s windows this was the case as it thrashed in silent fury. But out here it was the furthest from dead a thing could be. The wind rolled her back and forth like an oversized dog sniffing at a new toy, its tendrils tugging at her hood and hair with open mischief. Currents of snow floated on eddies in torrents at turns soft as dew and unrelentingly hard. The setting sun’s reddish-yellow glow backlit the snowfall and made it all seem warmer than it was, reflecting off the occasional glimpse of the mountainside far below. And the sound! It sang and whistled, moaned and screamed, as if it were having a conversation with itself, or perhaps with the square stubborn building it embraced.

It made her want to take readings, capture its playful fury, find new ways to test its strength. Though rationally she was aware it would eat her alive, a part of her could not help but wonder if there was some means, some apparatus, that might allow her to drift on the currents as easily as one of its snowflakes, to really feel it in her limbs and bones…

Shepard could feel Kaidan watching her despite the swirling snow and the massive gold-tinged goggles they each sported. They stood out like parrots in their orange parkas. He leaned closer, at once muffled by his gear and loud to compensate for the wind. The quality wasn’t unlike talking helmet-to-helmet during a comm blackout, touching your neighbor to communicate through vibrations. “Well?”

At a loss to describe it, she flashed him an elated grin, high on the storm’s own energy, and leaned as far over the rail as she dared, trying to see all the way down the slope. The snow spiraled in one cascade after another down into the depths of the valley. It was almost dancing.

A particularly nasty gust tore off her hood and for a fractional second questioned her balance. She felt her stomach drop out even as she knew there was no real danger of capitulating over, and then there were hands at her back and shoulder, pushing her firmly back to the ground. Her face turned towards him, amused, as her rapidly-unraveling braids whipped about her head. “I’m not going to fall.”

“No,” he said firmly, not removing his hand from the small of her back. “You’re not.”

The slight show of protectiveness should have grated, but for some reason did not, perhaps because it wasn’t in the least bit patronizing. She had been gaping over the railing like a lemming in mid-leap. Shepard shifted closer to him and he did not move away. “Is it like this in Vancouver?”

“Not like this. Never seen one of these from the top of a mountain.” His tone reflected the same wonder she was feeling, not a thought for the cold and only half of one for the risk of standing so high and exposed. “You really never felt snow before?”

She shook her head. Crackly bits of ice were beginning to form around the seals of her mask, irritating her skin with cold fire. “Not a lot of precipitation on Mars.”

“Shame. No sledding as a kid, no skiing.” His volume rose with the wind. “While you’re here, you should eat some of it.”

“Eat it?” Shepard was certain she hadn’t heard him right.

“No water tastes better than freshly fallen snow.”

“It’s Noveria snow. It’s probably radioactive.” But she pulled down her scarf and opened her mouth to the wind, feeling the flakes drift onto her tongue and trickle under it in cool streams of crisp water, just warm enough to swallow. She shivered despite herself as it hit the back of her teeth.

Her omni-tool beeped, a fifteen-minute warning ahead of her strategy session. She frowned her disappointment, but held it up so Alenko could see. He nodded, and they turned back inside.

With the hatch shut behind them, the absence of the groaning storm seemed as quiet as a tomb. Every clanking step against the metal walkway sounded impossibly loud. Her face and ears burned in the sudden heat, quickly beginning to prickle and itch with the temperature adjustment. She rubbed them mercilessly.

Alenko raised his mask to his forehead and lowered the scarf clear of his chin, brushing off the snow clinging to the parka. As he turned towards her, he was unable to keep from laughing.

She stopped scratching and eyed him. “What?”

He swallowed, gestured towards her, let out another chuckle, and was finally able to speak. “You look like a snow witch.”

Suspicious, she activated her omni-tool camera and aimed it towards herself. It showed an image of a woman with furry snow and the occasional chunk of ice clinging to every strand of hair on her head, streaky red where it began to melt. There was a snow line clear around her goggles and her cheeks were rubbed raw. Her ears were so bright they were nearly a brick red, no natural color.

She removed the mask and tried to shake off most of the snow. Mostly, she succeeded in dislodging a few icicles and striking herself with the remnants of her braids. Kaidan leaned up against the wall, hands stuffed in the parka pockets and a small smile on his face that made her warm and shy all at once.

“Thank you,” she said, stumbling, for lack of anything else coming to mind. “That was… exhilarating.”

“If I’d known you’d like a snowstorm that much, I’d have asked you along in the first place.” There was a hint of teasing, as if he were goading her for her preferences.

“Not that I want to do it often,” she quickly added. “It’s good to experience new things. No need to live in them.”

“Hey, I’m not the one who got so carried away that I’m dripping all over the floor.”

“I did not get carried away,” she said, grinning because she had, and it was wonderful.

“Adrenaline junkie,” he grumbled.

She raised her eyebrows. “Are you really that shocked?”

“No, I kind of got that from the way you make bats out of hell look like restrained, conscientious drivers.” He gestured towards the ladder, allowing her to head down first.

All the way to the ground, she kept remembering that last gust, the brief instinctive fear of falling with all its terrible freedom, the wind singing in her ears, the pressure of his hand against her spine just where it started to curve through all the layers of her parka, and even as sour shampoo-tasting water ran from her hair down her face, she couldn’t keep from smiling.

#mass effect #kaidan alenko #nathaly shepard #me1 #noveria #kaidanweek2019 #fanfiction #shenko #fshenko #discovery

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vfdbaudelairefile13 · 5 years

Text

Chapter Twenty-Seven:

The One Where Klaus Goes Feral

The Baudelaires were surprised at how easy it was to convince Aunt Josephine to go to the market place. They had mentioned that the taxi driver warned them that Hurricane Herman was on the horizon and they explained to Josephine that they might want to get food and supplies. Josephine did put up a fight, explaining all of the dangers of being outside, but the Baudelaires used logic and reasoning against her paranoia. The only irritating part of the whole ordeal was that Josephine was terrified of automobiles because the doors could get stuck, leaving her trapped inside, so they had to walk the long way down the hill. By the time the Baudelaires reached the market, Klaus’ legs were sore from the walk and his arms were sore from carrying Sunny.

“Are you sure that you won’t let us cook for you?” Klaus asked again, as Aunt Josephine asked Sunny to grab her a couple of limes. “When we lived with Olaf, we learned how to make puttanesca sauce. It was quite easy and perfectly safe.”

Josephine shook her head, “No, it is my responsibility as your caretaker to cook for you, besides I am eager to try this recipe for cold lime stew.”

Sunny rolled her eyes and stuck out her tongue in annoyance. She desperately wanted a hot meal.

“Count Olaf certainly sounds like an evil man. Imagine forcing children to stand near a stove!”

Klaus and Sunny looked at one another and then at Aunt Josephine with a mix of pure annoyance and utter disbelief. Both children wished that that was all he did to them.

“He was...he was very cruel to us,” Klaus said closing his eyes. He did not clarify what he meant by this. “Sometimes I still have nightmares...about that horrible tattoo on his ankle. It always scared me.”

Aunt Josephine frowned at Klaus, “I’m afraid you made a grammatical mistake, Klaus,” she said sternly. “When you said, ‘it always scared me,’ you sounded as if you meant that his ankle always scared ou, but you meant his tattoo. So you should have said, ‘The tattoo always scared me.’ Do you understand?”

Klaus sighed and glared at Josephine. “Yes, I understand. Why don’t I just say that he, himself, always scared me.”

“Niku!” Sunny shrieked, which probably meant, “It wasn’t very nice of you to point out Klaus’ grammatical mistake when he was talking about something that clearly upsets him.” Sunny glanced at her brother and frowned. She knew that his nightmares did not only consist of that bastard’s ankle or his damn tattoo. His nightmares were more complex and vicious.

“No, no, Sunny,” Josephine said firmly looking up from her shopping list, “‘Niku’ isn’t a word. Remember what we said about using correct English,”

Sunny rolled her eyes. “Mandu stercore,” Sunny replied, which meant, “I honestly couldn’t care less about proper English. I much prefer it when Klaus was teaching me because he wasn’t so rude and bitchy about it. Now please, eat shit.” Klaus just looked at his sister trying to hold in his laughter. The children didn’t hate Aunt Josephine but they much rather preferred living with Uncle Monty.

“Klaus, would you please get some cucumbers? I thought I would make chilled cucumber soup again sometime next week.”

Klaus groaned inwardly and headed down an aisle of the market in search of cucumbers. He looked wistfully at all the delicious food on the displays that required turning on the stove in order to prepare it. Klaus hoped one day that he and Sunny could convince Josephine into allowing them to make a nice hot meal, at least just once. He was so lost in thought that he didn’t look where he was going until he walked right into someone.

He was ready to apologize to the person until he looked up and screamed. He froze in his place. There stood a tall, think man with a blue sailor hat on his head and a black eye patch covering his left eye. He was smiling eagerly down at Klaus as if he were a brightly wrapped birthday present that he couldn’t wait to rip open. His fingers were long and bony, and he was leaning awkwardly to one side, a bit like Aunt Josephine’s house dangling over the hill. But none of that was the reason why Klaus screamed and stood frozen in his place, the reason was that when he looked at the man’s face, the bright, bright shine in the man’s one visible eye stared directly at him.

When someone is in disguise, and the disguise is not very good, one can describe it as a transparent disguise. This does not mean that the person is wearing plastic wrap or glass or anything else transparent. It merely means that people can see right through the disguise, that is the disguise doesn’t fool them for a minute. Klaus wasn’t fooled for even a second as he stood frozen in place starting at the man he had bumped into. He knew at once that this man was Count Olaf.

“Klaus! What are you doing in this aisle?” Josephine asked walking up behind him with Sunny. “This aisle contains food that needs to be heated, and you know--” she began but when Josephine saw Olaf she stood speaking. For a second, Sunny thought that she had recognized him, too. But then Josephine began to smile, and Sunny’s hopes were dashed, a word which here means ‘shattered’.

“Hello,” Olaf said smiling at Aunt Josephine, “I was just apologizing for running into your brother here.” He said directing his smile at a shaking Klaus. Klaus was silently whimpering in fear and Sunny stood in front of her brother with her teeth bared ready to attack if Olaf were to try to hurt Klaus.

Josephine’s face began to glow as she smiled and giggled. “Oh, no. Klaus is not my brother, sir. I am his legal guardian.”

Olaf clapped one hand to his face as if Aunt Josephine had just told him she was the tooth fairy. “I cannot believe it,” he said in a charming voice, “Madam, you don’t look nearly old enough to be anyone’s guardian.”

Aunt Josephine giggled again. “Well, sir, I have lived by the lake my whole life, and some people have told me that it keeps me looking youthful.”

“Jo!” Sunny yelled trying to get her guardian’s attention. Josephine ignored her.

“I would be happy to have the acquaintance of a local personage,” Olaf said, tipping his blue sailor hat. Sunny grabbed onto Klaus’ pant leg hoping to bring him back to reality. He slowly looked down at her and she smiled up at him.

“Got you…” she whispered to her brother.

“Allow me to introduce me-self, madam,”

Klaus glared at Olaf, and he felt a wave of strength flow through him. “No, allow Sunny and I to introduce him!”

“Sunny and me, ” Josephine corrected.

“It...it doesn’t matter! This is…” Klaus began.

“Doesn’t matter?” Olaf repeated breathing in heavily, blowing a raspberry and scoffing at Klaus. “Are you shaking me, boy. This might be the rambling of an expert fisherman but grammar is the number one most important thing in this, here, world to me.” Klaus rolled his eyes and sighed as he watched Josephine’s face glow even brighter.

“It is?” Josephine asked.

“Atta?” Sunny asked raising her arms in the air in confusion, which meant, “Is she desperate?”

“It’s the whole ball of wax. The entire kit and caboodle. Why, without your good grammar, the whole darn shooting match could go arse over tea kettle.” Olaf said.

“What the fuck does that even mean?” Klaus asked irritated.

“Klaus! Language!” Josephine yelled and then continued her conversation with Olaf. “Well, you can certainly turn a phrase.”

“I can flip it up and rub it down, too. Of course, that would be entirely up to you, ma’am,”

Josephine continued to smile. Softly squealing with delight.

“Redrum!?,” Sunny chimed in, which meant, “Can someone please just fucking kill me!?”

Olaf knelt down, taking off his hat, “Captain Sham...at your service, madam.”

“He’s lying!” Klaus yelled glaring angrily at Olaf. “He’s Count Olaf!”

Olaf merely glared at him with his one shiny eye and looked from Klaus to Aunt Josephine who looked confused but scared. “That horrible fiend is here? Where who? “

“Right in front of you!” Klaus pleaded.

“Where’s he at?” Olaf asked looking around.

“You!” Sunny yelled pointing at the vile man.

“Where? Behind Captain Sham?” Josephine asked.

“NO!” Sunny shouted.

“I’ll show him a thing or two. I’ll give him the old ‘wax on, wax off’, for you, me son,” Olaf yelled still looking all around.

“Captain Sham is Count Olaf!” Klaus yelled his eyes going dark with hatred.

Aunt Josephine scoffed.

“I’m not going through this again!” Klaus yelled as he violently rammed into Olaf with all of his weight, effectively knocking Olaf on his back harshly.

“Oh!” Olaf yelled. “Children of the corn!”

Klaus grabbed Olaf’s left pant leg and pulled it down to further reveal a peg leg where his tattoo should be. Klaus looked at Olaf with a face of shock and fear. Sunny looked up at her brother in complete shock. She did not think he was capable of that but although she was surprised, she was definitely proud.

“Klaus!” Josephine yelled, pushing her grocery basket into Klaus’ arms. “Why did you do this to this poor man!?” she asked him as she helped Captain Sham to his feet. Klaus looked like he was on the verge of tears. “I’m so sorry. Sorry. I don’t know what got into him. He seems to have forgotten his manners.”

“Oh, I don’t pay that no mind. He’s just a little boy, who’s out of his damn mind. He should really learn how to behave himself.” Olaf said glaring at Klaus every time Aunt Josephine wasn’t looking. Klaus closed his eyes and breathed in heavily. Sunny grabbed ahold of Klaus’ pant leg again trying to calm her brother down as she began to growl at Olaf.

Olaf didn’t pay her any attention. “Now, madam, you seem to be at an advantage. You know my name and I still haven’t gotten the pleasure of knowing yours.”

“I am Josephine Anwhistle,” Josephine replied giggling again. “And this is Klaus and little Sunny Baudelaire.”

“Little sunny,” Olaf repeated in a voice that sounded like he was eating Sunny rather than greeting her, he stared down at Sunny, trying to scare her with his one shiny eye, but Sunny was unhinged. She glared at him right back, feeling her brother shaking behind her. She continued to growl at him.

“Fuck off!” She yelled.

Aunt Josephine turned sharply at the two children. “It seemsboth children have forgotten their manners, today.”

Olaf just smirked at the two children. “They’ll learn to behave...eventually.”

Klaus froze in place again as Sunny continued to glare and growl at the man.

“Children, apologize to Captain Sham at once.”

‘Ging!” Sunny yelled, which meant, “I would rather eat dirt!”

“A-aunt...Jo-Josephine...he’s not Captain S-Sham,” Klaus said impatiently. “He’s...he’s Count Olaf!”

Josephine gasped and looked from the anxious faces of the Baudelaires to the calm face of Captian Sham. He had a grin on his face, but his smile had slipped a notch, as he was slowly growing less confident as he waited to see if Josephine recognized him.

Josephine looked Olaf over from head to toe once more and then frowned. “Mr. Poe did tell me to be on the watch for Count Olaf,” she said finally, “But...he did also say that you children tended to see him everywhere…”

“We see him everywhere,” Klaus said tiredly, “Because he is everywhere.”

“But Captain Sham doesn’t look a thing like Count Olaf…” Josephine pointed out.

“He’s…” Klaus sighed. “He’s covering up his eyebrow with the eyepatch…and I don’t know how he has a peg leg…but,”

“I have a peg leg because my left leg was chewed off by the Lachrymose Leeches,” Olaf explained.

“Damno,” Sunny commented, which meant, “Well, it’s a damn shame they didn’t devour you entirely.”

Olaf just glared at Sunny, unsure of what she said. Josephine’s eyes welled up and she placed a hand on his shoulder. “Oh, you poor man.” she turned to Klaus and Sunny. “Did you hear what Captain Sham said?”

Klaus shook his head but decided to try on more time, knowing it would probably be futile. “He’s not Captain Sham...he’s…”

“You don’t think he would allow the Lachrymose Leeches to chew off his leg just to play a prank on you?”

“Ohcysp,” sunny replied, which meant, “Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past the damn psycho.” Klaus translated for his sister but he had given up. Klaus wanted to take Sunny and run far away from Olaf, from Josephine, from everybody. He was slowly realizing that there was no place safe. No one could protect them from Olaf. The only reason he didn’t run away was that he refused to allow Olaf to kill Josephine just like how he caused Olaf to kill Monty. He wasn’t going to give him the chance. But that didn’t mean he had to participate further in this conversation. He stood there listening on and on as Olaf created a clever backstory about how he lost his leg to the Lachrymose Leeches, something about eating Pasta Puttanesca and spilling it on his leg. Honestly, Klaus couldn’t care less about Olaf and his stories. He then listened to Josephine mention that that was the exact thing that happened to her husband, Ike. which got Klaus thinking, Did Olaf already know that? And if so, How did he already know that? Did he know Aunt Josephine in the past? And if that were the case, How come she couldn’t recognize him like he and Sunny could?

“Here,” Olaf said, taking a card from his pocket and handing it to Aunt Josephine. “Take my business card, and next time you’re in town perhaps we could enjoy a cup of tea.”

“That sounds delightful,” Josephine said smiling and then looking down at Captain Sham’s card. “‘Captain Sham’s Sailboats. Every boat has it’s own sail.’ Oh, Captain, you have made a very serious grammatical error here.”

“What?” Sham asked, raising his eyebrow.

“This card says ‘it’s’, with an apostrophe. I-T-apostrophe-S always means ‘it is’. You don’t mean to say ‘every boat has it is own sail.’ You mean simply I-T-S, ‘belonging to it.’ It’s a very common mistake, Captain Sham, but a dreadful one.

Sham’s face darkened, and it looked like for a minute he was going to raise his peg leg again and kick Aunt Josephine with all his might. But then he smiled and his face cleared. “Thank you for pointing that out,” he said finally.

“You’re welcome,” Josephine said. “Come, children, it’s time to pay for our groceries. I hope to see you soon, Captain Sham.”

Klaus picked up his baby sister and followed their new guardian. Both Baudelaires turned back to Captain Sham, who was smiling. But his smile turned to a sneer as soon as he was sure that Aunt Josephine wasn’t going to turn around. Klaus and Sunny knew that he had fooled her, and there was nothing they could do about it. They spent the rest of the afternoon trudging back up the hill carrying groceries, but the heaviness of the groceries was nothing compared to the heaviness in the orphans’ hearts. They listened to Josephine rant on and on about how nice Captain Sham was and how she hoped to see him again real soon. While the children knew he was really Count Olaf and hoped they would never see him again for the rest of their lives.

There’s an expression that, I am sorry to say, is appropriate for this part of the Baudelaires unfortunate story. The expression is, “falling for something hook, line, and sinker.” and it comes from the world of fishing. The hook, line, and sinker are all parts of a fishing rod that work together to lure fish out of the water and towards their doom. If somebody is falling for something hook, line, and sinker, they are believing a bunch of lies that will seal their doom as a result. Aunt Josephine had fallen for Captain Sham’s lies hook, line, and sinker, but it was Klaus and Sunny Baudelaire who were feeling doomed. As they walked up the hill in silence, the children looked down at Lake Lachrymose and felt the chill of doom fall over their hearts. It made the two siblings feel cold and lost, as if they were not simply looking at the shadowy lake, but had been dropped into the middle of its depths.

_________________________________________________________

Lemony Snicket was not a big fan of coffee, he much prefers tea over coffee. He only bought coffee because his daughter had a bit of a liking towards it. She also preferred tea but there were times, she needed a nice hot cup of coffee to help start her day. This was Lemony that next morning. After waking up abruptly from his nightmare around 4 in the morning, he refused to go back to sleep. He couldn’t risk having another detailed nightmare of his worst fear. Losing his daughter.

Violet noticed that her father was making coffee and looked at him curiously. “Rough night?” she asked as she poured herself some cereal.

“You can say that,” he replied rubbing his eyes.

“Well, you know you can always skip a day of investigating and stay home,”

“I can’t do that with this case...although I would love to,”

“Hmmm…” she replied rolling her eyes.

Before he could say anything else, the phone rang. His heart fell into his chest. No, not again. He thought. Violet stood up and began walking towards the phone. He ran passed her and grabbed the phone. “I got it, honey.”

Violet looked curiously at him. “It’s just a phone call, I could’ve gotten it.”

“It could be my client,” he replied quickly.

“Or maybe it’s Jacquelyn,” Violet muttered.

Lemony froze. “How do you know about Jacquelyn?”

“You told me about her...remember? You had a date with her the other night,” Violet said.

“Ah, yes. Must have slipped my mind. Please, honey, go back to eating your breakfast. Let me get this call.”

Violet sighed but begrudgingly returned to her bowl of cereal, as Lemony grabbed the phone and walked into the other room.

“What took you so long to answer, Snicket?” Jacquelyn asked.

“You really need to stop calling here,” he replied in a whisper.

“Are you alright? Why are you whispering?”

“That’s the wrong question,” he replied, “The right question is what’s wrong now?”

“Well, I have good news and bad news,”

Lemony sighed, “What’s the good news?”

“Your sister was successful in dropping off the Baudelaires to Josephine's,”

“ My sister!?” Lemony hissed in a loud whisper, “ What the actual fuck, Jacquelyn…”

“Snicket. Snicket. Calm down. She doesn’t know about any of your involvement. She volunteered to make sure they arrived safely there,” Jacquelyn explained.

Lemony glared at the phone. “I don’t want her or Jacquesanywhere near the Baudelaire case,” he whispered. “It’s too fucking dangerous.”

“I’m aware. But again, she volunteered.”

“Whatever,” he said as he sighed deeply. “If that’s the good news, then what is the bad news?”

“Larry is stationed at Lake Lachrymose, he owns a restaurant there called the Anxious Clown. I’ve been calling all morning and no response. I am worried, Snicket.”

Lemony frowned remembering what had happened to Gustav Sebald. Lemony felt like that was another death on his hands because he dragged Jacquelyn into this and she dragged Gustav into this, and Olaf murdered him. Now, he fears that he and Jacquelyn have gotten Larry killed. “This needs to stop,” he said finally. “I’m guessing you had no luck in capturing Olaf,”

“Unfortunately, no. He managed to get on the Prospero but when I had cornered him, he jumped out a window into the water. I had hoped he’d drown but...I have my doubts.”

“Do you think he killed Larry, too?”

“I have my theories, all of which are dreadful,”

“Lake Lachrymose, you say?”

“Yep,”

Lemony sighed. “I’ll try my best to get there as soon as possible. I will find Larry and the children,”

“I’m counting on you, Snicket. Keep in touch.” Jacquelyn said hanging up the phone.

Lemony sighed. This was getting too dangerous. He already had enough murders on his hands before Gustav’s and now he can add Gustav and possibly even Larry on to that list. This has to stop! Lemony thought to himself. He quickly gathered a few of his things. He didn’t know what he was going to do but he knew he had to do something fast. He remembered his nightmare and how Olaf found him and got to Violet. Lemony swore that that nightmare would never become a reality because if he had to, he’d murder Olaf. What’s one more murder. He thought as he began to prepare for his voyage to Lake Lachrymose.

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xivu-arath · 6 years

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okay for christmas ill let you pick: either a short fic with hollyleaf and ivypool, or a rambly piece on maive and rkorya??

I figured what we really needed was not just fight cats but sappy fight cats and that’s what you’re getting. tbh spear I was p nervous since this is my first time writing something for you but! you’ve fast become a good friend who I really respect and admire and who’s a pleasure to write with, and I’m really glad I got to do this!

I've been wandering, around the hills tonight.In this kingdom, is where my soul divides

Can I ask how –

It’s a question Hollyleaf thinks about asking, nearly every timeshe sees Ivypool at first. It eases a little as she settles into theClan and helps with patrols, with hunting, but Hollyleaf watches her,notes the ragged scars of what must be dozens of past battles, theway her silences become guarded and pensive, and the questionsurfaces again like a twig caught in the current.

How did she die? Who killed her, andwhy had Ivypool been indanger?

She hasn’t asked it yet, thoughnot for lack of wanting. She’salways tried to have every possible answer, to know everything withcertainty, but knowing hasbecome more difficult lately, a harder burden to bear than she’dever considered as an apprentice. But then, she had thoughteverything was easier then, split into right and wrong that wouldalways be followed. Leafpool’s secrets had been so terrible becausethey had been so clearly wrongand yet she’d pursued that wrongness at every turn, againsteverything Hollyleaf had ever believed. Not knowing it had beeneasier, but once they had begun to dig for those secrets, none ofthem could stop until they all came out, and knowing had been likepoison.

Maybe Ivypool keepssilent about what she knowsbecause it isthe same kind of knowledge, difficult and heavy and dug in likethorns.

Itmight still be better to know, but Hollyleaf thinks she needsto wait until it is the right time to ask.

Instead, she takes her out onpatrol. Leafbare makes thisnew territory seem unfamiliar again, emptier and alittle disquieting, and thecompany is welcome.

“It’s so much quieter likethis,” she remarks as they pad towards the borders, and Ivypoolturns to glance at her.

“Like this?”

“Well... without Lilypaw,” she purrs, and Ivypool twitches herwhiskers in amusement.

“I don’t know how the two of you manage to catch any prey whenyou’re together.”

“I know how to stay quiet, and she’s... learning quickly.Besides, we’re careful with what we talk about outside the camp.”

“Is it... strange?” Ivypool asks after a moment, amusementfading. “To have brothers and sisters that weren’t inThunderClan?”

Hollyleaf pauses, not really taken off guard by the question buttrying to piece together how much Ivypool could already know. Ifshe’d been just a kit at most when she’d left into the tunnels...and if the Clan knew after the Gathering....

Bramblestar would say it doesn’t matter, but then, he is herfather in every other way, and LionClan takes its cues from him. “Alittle,” she answers honestly. “My head spins when I think aboutit too much. Will I miss them, if I ever go back to the lake? Or ifBramblestar ever goes back, and he knows about...”

She falters, and Ivypool’s tail flicks against her side in briefcomfort.

“About Leafpool. If he’d – say something, or do something, andthe three of us would just... disappear. We know so little about anyof this, but... even StarClan or the two-legs here don’t know muchmore, so I try not to ask questions I know no one can answer. It isstrange to have them here, or to have... you, knowing aboutthings that haven’t happened yet to me.” She glances at her, andIvypool blinks back, listening quietly.

“But I’m grateful for all of it. For Lilypaw, for the other kits,for you. I’m glad to have this entire Clan, for however long itlasts.”

It’s more than she’d planned on saying when she’d begun, andshe’s struck for a moment by the feeling of being watched andjudged, just like at the Gathering. But it fades and it’s justIvypool watching her, respect and something like gratitude in hereyes.

“We’re glad to have you,” she says at last. “That I can sayfor certain.”

#gift fics #my words #not the ghost denny #I love these two so much #larkspear

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phantastus · 1 year

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I don't know if you're actively answering questions right now but I have a kinda stupid question that I'm curious what your thoughts are on it. If you don't want to answer that's fine tho lol

Basically, uhh. What are your thoughts on Heather going by Cheryl post-game? Personally I'm conflicted about it, because while I understand the explanation given in-game, part of me feels like it partially defeats the purpose of being able to become her own person and everything... If she goes back to using the name that Harry regretted choosing because it made him see her as a replacement for SH1 Cheryl. But at the same time, it could also be seen as an acceptance of those before her? Idk honestly.

I wanted to ask you because, well, you've been into silent hill far longer than I, and seem very passionate about Heather as a character, so I figured you might have personal opinions on the matter. As I said though, it's fine if you never answer this because it's super out of the blue

I'll be curious to hear your thoughts if you do answer, though!

Hey there! I'm like, in a perpetual state of flux, but I do try to answer questions whenever I get them! (If I leave them for too long, the ADHD guilt sets in and then I never do it, lmao.....). And, it's not a stupid question!

I agree that I always found it a *little* bit head-tilty for the reasons you mentioned-- Harry himself did acknowledge that naming her Cheryl was a gesture borne of wishing things could be exactly the way they were, when the truth was that Cheryl as he knew her would never again exist. But I also think the other thing you mentioned holds weight-- a big aspect of SH3's plot imo was Heather regaining a full awareness of self (something she'd previously been repressing for her own safety, and unconsciously running away from her entire life) and coming to peace with the fact that her former "selves" were still part of her, even if she'd grown and changed.

youtube

This song (which is one of my all-time faves, tbh!!!!) really captures the aching sadness at the core of Silent Hill 3 for me. It's written as though from the point of view of Heather at an earlier point in her own lifetime, but symbolically I think it's also representative of Heather's relationship with Cheryl/Alessa-- not just as literal people, but as periods of time that no longer reflect her current feelings and understanding of the world, yet still EXIST within her nonetheless.

SH3 is, after all, a coming-of-age story-- a huge part of it is about grieving for the person you once were but are no longer. That moment of feeling disconnected from your childhood-- whether it's due to being unavoidably transformed by trauma, realizing that you're estranged from people you once loved in a way that will never be fixable, having the horrible knowledge that the 'you' people want is not the 'you' that you've become, OR EVEN just the simple passage of time... Obviously, SH3 presents those themes in a VERY literal fashion because Heather is dealing with actual reincarnation and past lives here, but I think when you boil it down to its essentials, that's what it's all about.

And OOF, that really hits me on a very personal level, which I think is why SH3 remains my favorite game in the series.

To bring this back around to your specific question though, I think that the most plausible interpretation of Heather going by 'Cheryl' again is that it's a mix of honoring Harry, and embracing/making peace on her own terms with the past she'd been running from for so long.

From a FULLY in-character perspective, I see post-game Heather primarily only going by Cheryl with people she fully trusts, and retaining Heather as her more commonly-used name (or EVEN picking out a completely new pseudonym, since I guess 'Heather' would be known to the Order now lmfao) for simple safety reasons.

SORRY FOR THE RAMBLING, I hope I actually answered your question! NEVER apologize for asking me to talk about Silent Hill, it's always encouraging to know that anybody wants to hear my unhinged ramblings, haha.

#Silent Hill #SH3 #Heather Mason #Cheryl Mason #Alessa Gillespie #kit rambles about silent hill #asks 4 me #music

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bluesfortheredj · 7 years

Text

23.

For the angel that is @jodiereedus22 ❤️❤️ The prison had been a beacon of hope to your group, and you'd all settled in well after the farm had burnt to the ground. You and Daryl shared a cell and you couldn't be happier with how he was finally opening up to you. Your group had come across a town called Woodbury and their leader 'the governor', who wasn't the nicest person in the world. Daryl had found his brother who he hadn't seen since the beginning and was torn as to whether to go with him or stay with the group. You'd argued countless times about the pros and cons of each situation, not made any easier by Merle sticking his nose in your business. "Come with us," Daryl said one day, after a particularly bad row. "And trust your brother with my life? I don't think so," you snapped, "how are you two even related?" "Ya trust me don't ya?" "Of course I do. But it's completely different to trusting him as well." "Please, I don't wanna leave ya," he begs. "If you loved me at all then you wouldn't!" You shout, walking out of the cell. When you get back he's gone. You go and see Carol, she hasn't seen him, then to Rick, he hasn't seen him either. Glenn comes up to you and sits you down. "(Y/N), I'm sorry, I saw Daryl leaving with Merle early this morning when I was on watch," he says softly, "I'm so sorry." You look at him and start to cry, he holds you and after a few minutes you suddenly run off to be on your own. Sitting by the fence, you stare at the walkers snarling and reaching for you. With the way you're feeling right now, you want to walk into a group of them and become one. You walk right up to the fence, almost so that they can reach you. Rick watches you from the prison through binoculars and silently worries. Over the next week, you withdraw yourself even more. Daryl hasn't come back yet and it feels as though half of your heart is missing too. You do your chores, then disappear into the cell you used to share with him. Some of his things are still there, his smell still on the sheets. Every night you cry into his pillow, sobbing hard, your body shaking as tears stream down your face. Rick needs you on top form now that the governor is threatening to attack, so he puts you on watch on top of one of the buses for the night, to make you feel part of the group again. Unbeknownst to you, Daryl's returned and is helping Rick with the fences before coming to see you on watch. "D'ya think she'll be mad?" Daryl asks Rick as he looks over at the bus, the sun setting and illuminating your face. "Oh yeah, really mad. But she loves you Daryl. It'll take a long time for her to come round, you left without saying goodbye. She cries every night, I don't think she knows we can hear," Rick explains sadly. "I should never have left," Daryl bows his head as the words leave his mouth. You look over to Rick and see someone's with him helping with the fences. Suddenly a truck catches your eye in the distance, but as you go to signal a bullet goes straight through your shoulder, knocking you off the top of the bus and falling to the ground. Daryl sees you fall after being shot and looks to where it came from, spotting the truck as well. "Rick! (Y/N)'s been shot! QUICK!" He shouts, running up the hill. As he gets halfway up, the truck comes belting through the gates by the bus you were on and walkers start spilling out of it. Daryl picks up speed as he knows you're there somewhere. "You get (Y/N), we'll sort the dead," Rick yells as he runs along side him and sees your group coming out of the prison to help after hearing the loud noise. Daryl gets to you just as walkers we're closing in. He stabs the closest few and quickly slings you over his shoulder, running back inside the prison with you. Herschel is inside, unable to help with the hoard outside, but ready to assist anyone with medical attention. Daryl runs in and carefully places you down on the table in front of Herschel. He looks Daryl up and down, surprised that he's back, then looks down to you, unconscious and with a bullet wound. "Daryl! What happened?" Herschel asks, limping over to you. "She... she got shot, fell off the top of the bus. Walkers... almost got her," he stuttered. "Get my kit from over there would you?" He asks as Daryl starts pacing. He grabs the kit and hands it over the Herschel, who sets it down next to you, then gets out some large tweezers. He digs the bullet out, cleans the wound and stitches you up, bandaging over it. "Is she gonna be ok?" Daryl asks, biting his thumb. "She's lost some blood, but not too much. She'll have a large bump on her head, but should wake up soon. We need to keep an eye on her incase she has concussion," Herschel explains, "now I've got a couple of other people I need to see. Are you okay to stay with her?" "Yeah, 'course," Daryl mumbles, sitting down next to you. You start crying whilst asleep and Daryl wipes your tears away. This continues for the next couple of days as you lay there out cold. On day two as Daryl sleeps next to you holding your hand, you wake up with a scream as a nightmare pulls you out of unconsciousness. You lay there panting with fear, sweat dripping down your forehead, when you see Daryl's face pop up into view, his hand going immediately to your cheek. "(Y/N)! What's wrong? Are ya okay?" He asks, eyes wide with shock. "I'm... fine... is this real?" You answer between deep breaths. "Yeah, it's real. I'm back. Ya fell off the top of the bus when ya got shot, I saw it happen," he rambles. "You... you were the one with Rick." "I was helping him with the fences when it happened." You went to sit up and get away from him, still affected by him leaving, but he stopped you. "Herschel needs to check ya over before ya get up," he says, gently laying you back down. You frown at him and say nothing as he walks off to find Herschel. "Well hello there (Y/N), lets take a look at your head," Herschel says, opening your eyes wide and looking into them with a light. He then moves his finger about in front of your face, your eyes following it. He asks you a few questions and then steps back and checks your dressing, making sure you hadn't bled through. "Okay, you seem good to go. You're a lucky woman (Y/N), if Daryl hadn't been there, you'd be walker bait. Take it easy, not to much bending down, and make sure you see me about your dressing everyday," he explains. "Thanks Herschel," you smile. "Don't thank me, thank Daryl," he chuckles, then exits to check on the wounded who helped clear the walkers. You sit up on the edge of the table, facing away from Daryl, then head up to your cell. Daryl follows, but you ignore his footsteps behind you as you enter the small room and sit on the bed looking down at the floor. "(Y/N), I'm so sorry I left," he starts, standing in the doorway, "I was stupid-" "Yeah you were stupid. And heartless, and cold, and you broke my fucking heart Daryl," you begin to sob, your shoulders shaking, then you wince in pain. "I didn't mean to. I love ya," he sighs, now kneeling in front of you, between your legs and holding your thighs. "If you loved me, you wouldn't have left in the first place," you cry, "leave me alone." "I ain't going anywhere," he says defiantly, "I'm staying here with ya, I know yer angry at me, but I love ya and I ain't leaving." You huff at his statement and lay down on the bed facing the wall. He lays down behind you and wraps an arm around your waist, then leans his head up by your ear. "I've missed ya," he whispers, hand squeezing your hip. You turn to face him and look up into his eyes. "I can't just forgive you that easily Daryl, you really hurt me going off without saying a word," you say sternly. "I know, and I'm sorry, I wish I'd never done it. I regretted it as soon as I stepped out of the fences." "Why didn't you come back?" "It's a long story, but I'm here now, and I promise ya I'll never leave ya again," he says softly, nudging his nose against yours. "Pinky promise?" You ask, lifting your hand and sticking out your little finger. Daryl smiles and does the same, linking it with yours and shaking it. "I pinky promise," he repeats. He puts his arm around you and pulls you into his chest. "Ouch," you wince, "I did get shot y'know." "Sorry baby," he says, looking concerned, making sure no blood is leaking out onto your dressing. You settle into a comfortable position and fall into a deep sleep for once without crying. Daryl holds onto your all night, his grip only loosening when he drifts off as well. The next morning you wake to find him looking down at you, his hand tucking a small piece of your hair behind your ear. "Morning," he croaks in his deep southern voice. "Morning," you smile. Daryl sits up a little and pulls you further onto his now bare chest, your head up on his shoulder. You kiss his neck and his chest, running your hand along the scattering of hair on his torso, lightly dragging your nails across his skin as you go. He strokes your arm, sliding his way down to your hip and over your bottom, giving it a light squeeze. "I jus' wanna lay here all day," Daryl admits. "Then we will," you reply, kissing his chest again. He smiles down at you and kisses your head, squeezing your bum a little harder as he does so. @reedusteinrambles @blondielovesr5-blog

#daryl imagine #imagine #the walking dead #walking dead imagine #twd daryl #daryl x reader #request #fluff #daryl dixon #oneshot #fanfiction #fanfic

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lyidiastiles · 7 years

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When I found you

Pairings: Lydia/Jackson, Stiles/Lydia

Word count: 2,592

Summary: Lydia is in a relationship with Jackson and best friends with the pack, and it’s not long before she realizes she loves Stiles

@castielsdwinchester my valentine’s day gift for you!! I enjoyed writing this as your stydia secret valentine, I hope you enjoy!!!!

Lydia stands at her locker, Allison and Scott on either side of her. Straight ahead is Stiles, his deep brown eyes flitting back and forth between them as he gestures wildly. She looks into them as he rambles, tuning out the words he’s saying, focuses solely on his irises, the way they lighten as he speaks about the supernatural wonders of Beacon Hills.

“But the oni can’t do anything if-” and Stiles is cut off abruptly by Jackson, Lydia’s boyfriend, pushing Stiles to the side lightly and reaching his hand over Lydia’s head, practically trapping her between him and the locker. She smiles at him half-heartedly, hearing Stiles let out a frustrated grunt. It wasn’t news the pack didn’t approve of her relationship with Jackson, Stiles especially. “Good morning, Jackson,” Stiles says in his sarcastic manner. Jackson ignores him and keeps his attention on Lydia. “Do you want to walk with me?” he suggests, though it sounds more like an order. Lydia looks at each of her three friends in turn, all of their heads pointed to the floor. She opens her mouth and hesitates for a moment. Jackson raises his eyebrows at her expectantly. She shifts her weight so she’s standing slightly further away from him. “I’m kind of in the middle of talking, it’s important,” she tells him, an apologetic look on her face. Jackson rolls his eyes at her and Lydia bites her lip shamefully. “What could be that important? Come on, let’s go,” he says and grabs her hand, pulling her away from the group. Lydia turns her head and mouths a quick “sorry”, but not before seeing the red shade of Stiles’ face.

They stop at Jackson’s locker, and he back her up against the surface, his warm hands finding their way to her hips. “Sorry to pull you away from that,” he says, his breath tickling her face lightly. She smiles up at him and lets out a small chuckle. “It’s okay, baby,” she says, her voice as soft silk. He smirks, leaning down and touching his lips to her, working them over hers slowly. She pulls away, theirs noses touching as the warning bell to first period rings. He pushes off her and wipes the smudged lipstick under her lip with his thumb. “Love you,” he says as he walks towards his class, not leaving her a chance to answer. She sighs, pulling herself upwards. Her gaze moves to a spot across the hallway, to where Stiles stands, staring at the spot where she was just kissing Jackson. He looks at her then, holding her stare for a moment before looking away quickly, his face becoming hot. Lydia slowly makes her way over to him. She stands in front of him for a minute, neither of them bothering to say anything. Taking a deep breath in, she tries to apologize. “Stiles-” but he interrupts her, speaking softly. “It’s okay. I understand you have other stuff going on, that’s fine. But Jackson? Lydia, you’re better than that, we’ve been over this.” Lydia tilts her head to the side, pursing her lips. “I don’t like that guy. I don’t like him,” Stiles continues, and Lydia’s head whips up to meet his eyes again. “Look,” she says to him, “I know you guys all have problems with Jackson and I, you’ve made that clear. But I don’t see why you hate him the most. For what reason, Stiles?” she demands. He squints his eyes at her, a rush of air leaving his lungs in frustration. “Because I’ve seen the way he treats you. And I don’t like it,” he spits, hanging his head down and rubbing the back of his neck with his head. “See you second period,” he rushes before running in the opposite direction. Lydia shakes her head at his figure running down the hallway, then pivots and heads to her own class.

It’s second period, and Lydia walks into the doorway of her class, her eyes scanning for Stiles. Once she finds him, she wanders over there. She hovers at the table for a moment with no acknowledgement from Stiles before she sits down with a huff. She can feel the tension between them as if it were a living thing. She steals a glance over at him, his posture tight and his jaw clenched, rolling in circles. He sees her looking at him and she looks awkwardly at the wall, feigning innocence. “We’re studying at my house tonight. Me, you, Scott, Allison,” he informs her coldly. “Okay,” she breathes, nodding exaggeratedly. She fiddles with her pencil for a few seconds, her breaths shallow. Time passes as they listen to the lesson, neither of them daring to look at the other. “Stiles,” she blurts finally. She curses herself silently before continuing. “I’m sorry, about me being with someone you guys don’t like. But I love him- and I know you don’t like hearing that but-”

“Lydia, let’s just forget about it-”

“I get the feeling your disapproval is about more than not liking him.”

Stiles looks at her wide-eyed, his mouth dropped open slightly. He licks his lips nervously, keeping eye contact with her. She feels her hands shaking a little, and she squeezes her eyes shut. “Stiles,” she gasps. “I shouldn’t have said that-not now.” But Stiles just shakes his head and waves his head. “Don’t worry about it,” he answers, louder to be heard over the lunch bell. “I guess I’ll see you at my place tonight?” he asks, and she nods her response. She watches as he walks away again, then places her head against the table, thinking about Stiles’ past feelings for her. What was she thinking, bringing them into this? She lifts her head up finally, and braces herself for the rest of the day, thinking about anything than that night. Jackson meets her outside the door, planting a quick kiss on her lips before launching into a speech about lacrosse. She quickly blocks him out, nodding occasionally. Her minds drifts to images of that dark-haired, brown-eyed boy with the golden smile, and how hr may have been right after all.

Lydia turns into the driveway in front of Stiles’ house. She parks her car, then removes her key from the ignition, holding the bundle tightly in her hand. She squeezes them as hard as she can, then yelps in pain. She looks and can see the light on in the window of Stiles’ bedroom, feels the blood running down her hand from where her keys cut her. She quickly opens her door and gets out. Once she reaches the front door, she lets herself in; it’s unlocked. She makes her way to Stiles’ room, applying pressure to her hand to stop the blood from dropping to the floor. Once she walks into the doorway, she sees Scott, Allison on the bed and Stiles sprawled at his desk, all of them books scattered all over. She makes a noise and immediately all their heads look in her direction, at the red liquid coating her hand. Stiles stands up suddenly, running to her and grabbing her hand gently. “What happened?” he asks softly. “I cut myself, with my keys,” she explains. Stiles pulls a random shirt out of his drawer and wraps it around her hand with care. “Let’s go to the bathroom and get this fixed up,” he tells her, looking deeply into her eyes. “Okay,” she answers, nodding ever so slowly. They head out the door, and Scott and Allison exchange a knowing look at what they just witnessed.

Stiles leads Lydia to the washroom and closes the door behind them. Neither of them speak as he rifles through drawers to find the first aid kit. Lydia stares at him as he moves around in his typical frantic way, a small smile on her face despite the ache in her hand. She spots a few droplets of blood on the floor below her, beside her feet. “I’m messing up your floor,” she says jokingly. Stiles glances at the blood for a second before looking away again. “I don’t care about the floor,” he practically snaps, and she flinches, too small for him to see. He opens the first aid kit from the cabinet and she watches as his hands fumble to find the right things. She finds herself caught in his long eyelashes, the way the light seems to reflect off of them. Finally he turns to her and grabs her hand again, unwrapping the shirt. Carefully, he rubs some alcohol on her cut and she breathes in painfully. At this, he looks at her once more and smiles amusedly, and she smiles back. She can feel his small breaths on her nose, his face dangerously close to hers. “Stiles…” she trails, and his face stays the same, unmoving except for his eyes traveling along her face at an agonizingly slow pace. “Mhm,” he mumbles, sending another wave of air to her face and sending a tiny shiver down her back. She feels warmth where their hands touch, and never wants to let go. She stares intently into his brown eyes. “I was thinking about what happened earlier, and what I said,” she starts. This time, Stiles doesn’t tense at her words, but simply keeps working on her wound. “And I think you might be right,” she continues, and Stiles’ eyebrows raise in surprise. “I started really paying attention when I’m with Jackson, and I realized…maybe I could find someone who treats me better. Maybe even, that I don’t have to find someone, because maybe I’ve already found someone,’ she finishes. Stiles takes a sharp bout of breath and she notices their faces have moved even closer, now merely an inch apart. “Who have you found?” he asks hopefully. She looks downward and says quietly, “You. I think I love you.” Stiles is about to answer when the door to the washroom bursts open and Scott walks in. “Sorry, bro,” he says, “I really have to pee,” Lydia and Stiles both laugh awkwardly as Stiles seals the bandaid onto Lydia’s palm. They share a look as they leave, a look that speaks more words than they know how to say.

The next morning, Lydia meets Jackson at her locker and he gives her an arrogant smile. “Morning,” he says to her. “Hey,” she responds, giving him the cold shoulder. She opens her locker and starts organizing her books. She sees Jackson turn towards her and lean in close expectantly. She breathes in and prepares herself for what she has to do. She turns to him and smiles disappointedly. “Jackson, we need to break up,” she says matter-of-factly. His jaw drops open, and he looks at her, confused. “What?” he says angrily, his posture suddenly tighter as he raises his head to set his head above hers. She looks at him and holds herself straight confidently. “I deserve to be treated better than how you treat me,” she tells him. “I should be able to talk to my friends without you ruining it. I should be able to talk about things that I like, not just listen to you talk about lacrosse,” she spits at him. Jackson’s body begins to shake as he laughs maliciously. He slams her fist down hard on the locker beside her head, but she doesn’t flinch or bow down. She reaches behind her and closes her locker. “We’re over, Jackson,” she says. Before she can see his reaction, she turns and walks proudly in the other direction, a heavy weight lifted off her shoulders. She’s crossed half the length of the hallway before she is snatched to the side by a hand. She yelps softly and tries to shake off whoever it is before realizing it’s just Stiles. He lets go of her hand quickly and says, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” She smiles widely at him, a fluttery feeling building inside her. “I just broke up with Jackson,” she says, her words coming out in a sigh of content. Stiles’ eyes light up, and he raises his right and in the air. She slaps it, and they both smiles at each other admiringly. Lydia is about to say something when Stiles is slammed loudly against the locker, his body suspended in the air. “Jackson!’ Lydia screams. “Put him down,” she orders. “It was you,” Jackson seethes, Stiles cringing in pain. “It’s about him, isn’t it?” directed at Lydia this time. “ISN’T IT?” he yells, his face red as he lifts Stiles slightly off the locker only to slam him back down again. “This has nothing to do with him,” Lydia responds. “It has to do with you, and you only. So put him down and leave,” she says slowly, deliberately. “I love him, no you, so back off.” Jackson shakes his head and lets go of Stiles abruptly, and Stiles stumbles to the ground, catching his breath and staring at Jackson wide-eyed. Jackson stomps off and mutters “whatever” under his breath, kicking a locker on his way. Stiles looks at Lydia, his eyebrows raised. He walks closer to her. “I hate that guy,” he says, breathless. “How’d you deal with that?” he laughs. Lydia chuckles, lacing his fingers in her own. “I don’t know,” she answers, focusing only on his eyes staring lovingly into her own.

Later that day, Lydia is laying on Stiles’ bed, caught in her own thoughts. Stiles is sitting at his desk, flicking his pencil back and forth between his fingers. She giggles soundlessly at him and sits up. Stiles looks up at her when she moves and gives her a small smile. She smiles back, taking in the sight of him. He lifts his arm up to scratch his head lightly, lifting up his shirt to expose a sliver of stomach. Lydia moves off the bed with care, and stands over him. He’s holding the eraser of his pencil, nibbling on it. He moves his gaze to her in curiosity. Lydia leans down and presses a feather of a kiss on his lips. Stiles puts his books on his desk, clearing his lap as an invitation. She lowers herself down and straddles him, bringing her hands around his face to cradle his soft cheeks. “Today was a crazy day,” he says, stating the obvious. She touches her forehead to his and nods against it. “I’m glad it happened though, glad I found you,” she tells him. “Trust me,” he says, “everything changed when I found you.” She smiles brightly, her heart jumping with happiness. His lips come to meet hers, and she kisses him back with passion. Their lips work over each other heatedly, and she runs her hands through his hair. Stiles slowly works his tongue into her mouth, and she struggles to take in air, captured in his kiss. He stands up, his hands gripping her thighs as she wraps her legs around his waist. He carries her to the wall, her back pressed up against it as he kisses her more, working his way down her jawline in a sloppy line of kisses. He comes back to her mouth and kisses her again, long and hard. His lips pull from hers as she lowers her feet onto the ground. She holds his hand and leads him to the bed. They lie down beside each other and she rests her head on his chest. “I love you,” he says, running his fingers through her hair. She sighs happily and closes her eyes. “I love you, too.”

#stydiasecretvalentines #stydia fanfiction #castielsdwinchester #stydiafic #tw fanfiction #teen wolf fanfiction #lydia martin fanfiction #stiles stilinski fanfiction #my work #fic*

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ephillipsresearch · 4 years

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Places of the mind – British Watercolour Landscapes 1850-1950 Kim Sloan Notes

-Victorian and early modern painters attempt to convey the emotional and spiritual impact of place rather than just their physical properties. Artists of the later 19th and early 20th c developed these traditions to include personal responses to cultural and social upheavals of the time. 1923 William Russel Flint’s ‘moral doctrine’ for watercolour painters after Thomas Kempis’ ‘In Praise of Watercolour’

See distinctly. Compose devoutly. Sigh deeply. Suffer patiently the wind that blows, The cold that freezes, the sun that burns, And the model that arriveth not. Work swiftly. Work thoughtfully. Paint no stroke hastily Prevent your speech discreetly Temptations resist strongly Lest you alter foolishly Use water plentifully Your colours generously And your brushes charitably Observe the rain cloud lovingly Protect your picture thoroughly Pack your kit hurriedly Stably grounded in humility Return the next day meekly

Kempis makes the activity comparable to a religious experience in which the painter is silent, humble and withdrawn from society. Other artists shared this view, noting the importance of patient study, avoiding temptation of tricks and shortcuts, the humility to abandon a work and start again, and the immersion of the self in nature. Similar language is used by Paul Nash and his contemporaries to describe watercolour painting and the ‘religious reverence for nature’ this was a big motif in the writing of John Ruskin - Running parallel was growing popularity of Japanese watercolours as they were collected and made available by the British Museum in 1880s which tied watercolour painting with poetry and calligraphy as the highest forms of expression and spiritual quest. -From 1880 the art market grew and attracted middle class buyers to private galleries that placed the works in a higher position. Popular paintings conformed to a new visual aesthetic that represented a certain version of Englishness (rural, idealistic) Critics like Frrederick Wedmore, Ds Macoll and Elizabeth Robins (the so called ‘new critics’), who promoted the French impressionists favoured the less ‘complete’ painting style – sketchy, un-laboured with loose washes and diluted colour. Whistler popularised this style with his works depicting the Thames, Hastings, the Channel Islands, St Ives and Holland which he displayed in smaller independent galleries, creating a controversial public reaction and challenged ideas of what kind of watercolours could be displayed and what a watercolour could be. This so called ‘golden age of watercolour is said to have ended with the death of Turner. - During later 19th/early 20th c, British values lied in commerce, where art had no real value and was often seen merely as a hobby (particularly landscape which was discouraged by the RA for their feminine and amateur connotations) – Were Flint and Nash perhaps searching for a new ‘moral doctrine’ to justify arts place in society? -The tradition of British watercolour painting, having died with the Victorians means modern watercolour painters have been brushed aside in favour of the avant garde and treated as irrelevant in the narrative progression of British art. - eg work of artists like William Simpson labelled as a topographical reporter, dismissed as uncomfortable reminders Britain’s imperial past despite their beauty and technical mastery. -Towards the late 19th century the notion of the ‘south country’ became the desired lifestyle and aesthetic: a thatched cottage in rural landscape with large gardens amid rolling hills. This was no longer the home of the workman, cottage life was now sought after by wealthy city dwellers. Interest in nature increased with the establishment of the national trust and other preservation societies, and the growing popularity of cycling and rambling- the middle classes were lured out to the countryside for a healthier life (gardening became more common in landscapes, strengthening the association of the countryside with good health, but inciting controversy over images of women labouring in fields.) There is no reference in these paintings to the agricultural recession that took place in the late 1890’s which left hundreds of acres of farmland unattended – sustaining the myth of rural life took precedent over social reality and artists like George Clausen increasingly painted unidentifiable landscapes, dream like renderings of rural utopia. -The appeal of living in an old English cottage and a village way of life with all the newest amenities was the early inspiration for the building of Letchworth garden city and what became a movement of garden city and ‘new towns’ conceived by Ebenezer Howard, with cottage style housing close to London -For many artists, drawing for pleasure eradicated the need to conform to standards of taste or technique in fashion , allowing them to experiment in their attempts to achieve the ‘sense of place’ or ‘places of the mind’ , resulting in great number of private works that stood outside the commercial art world. -The watercolours of Philip Wilson steer, part of the London impressionist group show the growing discourse about Englishness and the British landscape: Steer was influenced by the traditional Turner, Constable, style for its romantic nostalgia. They presented a sentimental view of the unsullied countryside – this nostalgic vision was part of a wider anti-urban and cultural concern with the English countryside. -The association of Steers watercolours with national identity fed into a specific discourse which associated the transparent or ‘true’ watercolour painting with Englishness, with the particular suitability of the medium for capturing the English weather -In the 1930s, artists questioned traditional practice but continued to use the south country motif to experiment with abstract forms and new ways of evoking sense of place -Motoring and the wider surrealist movement had an impact on artists such as Paul Nash and Ralph Maynard Smith – the experience of seeing images fractured in space at high speed through unfamiliar landscapes having triggered more imaginary, surrealist compositions, taking biomorphic forms and re arranging them unconsciously to create bizarre new landscapes, sometimes from collected natural detritus. -Growth in tourism in the West Country and development of rail travel benefited artists and gave a new context to these works which were often bought as souvenirs, and appeared so frequently in galleries that the constructed image of West Country’s most desirable features was emphasised to the point of being unrealistic. The conceptual image of the far west became associated with recreation and pleasure, an anti-dote to working life with a placid, contented population – entirely separate from the modern industrialised urban England. - This masked the reality of economic hardship with agricultural recession, collapse of the mining industry and subsequent declining population (almost halved between 1841 and 1911. -Painters like George Lewis and Samuel Palmer disregarded topographic accuracy and in the new age of photography made more suggestive works concerned with mood and exploration of texture and composition. With the rise of Cubism more artists paid attention to design process over place. -Tension between physical and geographical landscape- not every watercolour is enriched by scrupulous attention to subject however showing an awareness of the wider issues can be more rewarding.

-From the 1930’s – fear that the intrinsic English identity of the pastoral was being destroyed by transport networks, heavy industry and suburbanization: inspired recording Britain under Clarke, William Russel Flint and Percy Jowett – 1549 works, 97 artists, covering 32 counties in England and Wales. Work began ahead of Ariel bombardment. The war was largely absent from these paintings, prioritising ‘fine tracts of landscape that are likely to be spoiled by building developments or factories, ‘towns and villages where old buildings are about to be torn down’ ‘parish churches’ and ‘country parks’. - 1942, John Farleigh a contributing artist admitted public appetite for these subjects were diminishing in favour of ‘beautiful buildings to be handed down as a guide to the future generations of the beauty that always wins’ -The picturesque, said to be Britain’s greatest contribution to European art, had to be newly interpreted to accommodate the modern world =, evolving different norms of beauty. After ww2 an aesthetic that represented the ‘authentic landscape of modern England’ was advocated instead.

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fashiontrendin-blog · 6 years

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Can you really change your life in a week? We tried... with surprising results

http://fashion-trendin.com/can-you-really-change-your-life-in-a-week-we-tried-with-surprising-results/

Can you really change your life in a week? We tried... with surprising results

Can’t sleep? Burnt out? Gut hell? We hear you. It’s time to take a holiday for your health…

The gut health transformer: By Alessandra Steinherr

For years, my stomach problems have dictated what I wear (always loose over the tummy), and left me doubled over with cramps. I’ve tried most DIY diagnostics, from colonics (temporarily effective, but horrid) to cutting out food groups (short-lived bloat relief), but found no long-term solution. After another meeting smiling through the pain, I knew I had to get to the bottom of this.

The lowdown: This was no job for a spa; it was time to get serious and head to a medical resort: VIVAMAYR Altaussee, in the Austrian Alps. I ate boiled potatoes and vegetable broth for a week. It was monotonous, but surprisingly soothing on the stomach. I kept myself busy so I didn’t think about food – I swam, walked and even gritted my teeth through the daily dose of Epsom Salts. They’re difficult to swallow, but they do lead to proper elimination of waste. My daily check-in with the doctor for abdominal manipulation reassured me I was in safe hands, the amazing spa treatments kept my spirits up and visits to the infrared sauna ensured a good night’s sleep. Plus, food intolerance tests found my body couldn’t take casein, the protein in milk and other dairy products. Finally, a reason for the pain!

Zen moment: A blissful change of scene each day walking the hour-and-a-half circle around the beautiful Lake Altaussee – it was my moving meditation and kept me focused. Also a must: an osteopathy session with miracle-worker Michael Kreis, and a facial with Tarryn Warren. Your skin will never look better.

I cleared my gut and cured my infertility

Get me out of here: The worst part was ditching the two coffees I rely on daily. VIVAMAYR recommended I cut them out before the retreat and I should have done as I was told. Ouch! The headaches kicked in, but they gave me painkillers at my lowest point to ease the pain.

Life-changing lessons: No more lunching at my desk. I take a break, focusing on chewing each bite (they recommend 30-40 times). It takes some getting used to, but it means I eat less as it takes so long to finish. My digestion started to settle. By switching from raw to cooked food in the evenings, the bloating has subsided. And I’m still allowed my beloved coffee – just without milk as it’s easier to digest.

Back home, the improvements have continued: no more cramps and I can wear high-waisted trousers. I feel more energetic and although weight-loss wasn’t my motivation, I have lost 3kgs. Yes, I might slip once in a while, but now I know how to get back on track.

The details: Prices start from approx £212 per night per person; a stay of seven nights is recommended to see results from the programme. vivamayr.com

Mastering mindfulness: By Kate Leaver

I live with bipolar, and last year wrote my first book through a fairly gnarly depressive episode. I somehow managed to make it to 83,399 words on a serious deficit of serotonin, but by the time I’d finished, I was relieved and triumphant but totally depleted. I found myself downing cookies for comfort, my skin broke out and I realised I was burnt out.

The lowdown: I jumped on a train to The Sharpham Trust, a rambling 18th-century house sat on a hill above the River Dart in Devon. Four days at a retreat designed specifically for people with ‘burnout’ felt like a gift. I was ready to learn how to meditate and be mindful, but not prepared for the emotional journey I was about go on. In my group of 20, I meditated four times a day, went on long walks, ate hearty vegetarian meals, learnt skills to cope with burnout, got vulnerable in group sessions, did Tai Chi and observed silence for hours a day.

Zen moment: Sitting meditation can be peaceful, tranquil, centering. It can also be really difficult to concentrate, especially when someone next to you is snoring. For me, the best type of meditation was walking meditation, where you focus on breathing and the forward movement of your body. I walked the 25 steps between two trees purposefully yet peacefully, over and over, listening to my own thoughts and breathing out my anxieties. I loved it.

Get me out of here: So, around day three, it got too much for me. We did an exercise where we had to pair up, lean our hands against the other person’s and practise saying “NO” over and over again until we meant it. It was supposed to test our boundaries, but for me, it just brought up memories of a traumatic time when I didn’t get the chance to say “no”, and I felt shaken by the whole exercise. As is my way, I retreated to my room and slept it off for several hours. I wanted nothing more than to get back on that train, but I pushed through, meditated some more and forced myself to feel the courage of the people around me.

Life-changing lessons: My friends rave about meditation, but I’ve always jokingly rolled my eyes and thought that a bit of silent sitting around couldn’t be life-changing. But I may have been converted. Starting the day with 20 still, silent minutes of introspection seems like a far healthier thing to add to my morning ritual, rather than refreshing Twitter.

How to meditate (even when you really can’t be bothered)

We learnt a deeply helpful little mantra, too: “May I be safe. May I be kind to myself. May I accept myself the way I am.” I fully intend to chant those sentences every time I’m tempted to listen to a self-deprecating taunt of my own – and I suspect that could be genuinely life-changing. As I left my new friends at the end of the week, everyone seemed calmer and more at peace with themselves. I believe it takes diligent, emotional homework over time to truly change your life, but I got a helluva headstart on this loving, elucidating retreat.

The details: The Sustaining Ourselves: Breaking Free From Burnout retreat at The Sharpham House starts from £375 per person for four nights, including food and activities. sharphamtrust.org; thetrainline.com*

The sleep reset: By Sophie Qureshi

I haven’t had quality sleep in years. I often lie awake until 2 or 3am, my mind whirring. When my alarm goes off in the morning, I’d trade my Gucci loafers for an extra hour in bed. I always look really tired, and if I skip blusher, people start asking if I’m feeling OK. I’ve tried everything from listening to whale sounds (creepy) to drenching my bed linen with lavender pillow mists, but I’m still no closer to nailing eight hours a night.

The lowdown: When I heard about the retreat at The Capra Hotel in Saas-Fee, Switzerland, I jumped at the chance. Designed by a neuroscientist and other experts, the programme addresses everything from physical fitness, nutrition and thought patterns to ‘sleep hygiene’. There’s no lying in, with energising pre-breakfast exercises, then a quad-testing, three-hour hike. Afternoons are more leisurely, with a gentle yoga session to down-regulate the nervous system.

I do yoga twice a week and it’s totally transformed my body and health

Meals were tailored to enhance my zzzs, with sugar-free menus. The beautiful presentation distracted me from the smaller portions – it made me realise it’s often my mind eating more than my body needs. While there wasn’t a strict digital detox, I did sign a pledge to turn off my phone after dinner so the blue light wouldn’t affect my production of melatonin. Instead of my usual Instagram scroll, evenings were taken up with meditation and massages in the spa. Then, after some WelleCo Sleep Well Calming Tea, I curled up in my Alpine-chic suite, ready for sleep.

Zen moment: Gently coming around in the candlelit yoga studio and realising I’d drifted off during a yoga nidra session. The practice is supposed to take you to a state of deep relaxation between waking and sleeping but it was so effective, I was out for the count. Thankfully, I’m told I didn’t snore.

Get me out of here: The hardest part was walking past all the windows of Saas-Fee’s chocolate shops. Cutting out sugar in the name of good slumber is one thing, but doing it in the land of the Toblerone was a real test.

Life-changing lessons: One of the most effective tricks I learnt to stop my thoughts racing before bed was alternate nostril breathing: close your left nostril with your right thumb and inhale through the right nostril. Pause, then alternate and hold the right nostril as you exhale through the left. After ten cycles, I forget what I’ve been worrying about.

I’ve also realised daytime choices impact my sleep, from making sure I’m active enough to eating dinner early, so I don’t flop into bed feeling stuffed. Another take-home was how damaging screen time is, so instead of using my phone to wake me up, I’ve bought an alarm clock to avoid getting sucked into WhatsApp before bed. The biggest difference is waking up at the same time each day, to keep my body clock balanced. It means I get an extra half a day of weekend!

The details: The Summer Peak Health Core Retreat starts at £5,640 per person for one week, including full board, health, nutrition and lifestyle assessments and a Sleep Improvement Kit. peakhealthretreat.com

This article appeared in GLAMOUR Magazine’s Spring bi-annual

How to get to sleep: tricks and tips from Team GLAMOUR

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