#neither peacefully nor of old age

[alicerosejensen]

Just headcanons where Leon is almost Sugar Daddy and just a guy who really wants love and care

I try not to deviate from the canon. Leon is even more likely here as an overly caring partner who does not mind the money for his S/O.

Warning: age difference

- The first thing you need to know is that Leon should have feelings for you so that he becomes someone like your patron.

- Among other things, he is well versed in people and wants you to be not indifferent to him, and not see him only as a bag of money.

- He needs your affection.

- He will buy you anything you want, in fact, despite the fact that he gets good money for his work, Leon doesn't spend much of it (apart from alcohol and leather jackets, and I'm sure he has a motorbike), so spending money on you is even a joy for him. No extra questions, you can not tell him anything at all, but just look at some thing in the store, go crazy with the price and leave, so that the next moment Leon grabs your hand and pays for everything that you put your beautiful eye.

- Leon is not embarrassed by your age difference, in fact, sometimes he even laughs at your jokes about being an old man. And no, he is not offended, he just does not have much time to learn about modern trends, fashion and other things, but he will listen to you with pleasure.

- Buys you flowers, or arranges home delivery.

- Leon is a complex and private person. He will never discuss his problems with you, and if you start asking him about it, he will gently push you away, but nevertheless, if you have problems, he will solve everything without hesitation. He took care of you, so this is another duty of his.

- Leon is a very gentle lover, but dominant. In bed with him there will be no particular rudeness and, first of all, he will strive to deliver pleasure to you. No spanking, no biting (I'm sure he has a trigger on them at all), insulting a partner. Only strokes, passionate kisses, perhaps hickeys, praise and teasing. Leon won't mind trying anything new with you, but if it's something that hurts you or him (whether it's short term or not) then he'll immediately refuse. And still, he will insist that you have a stop word.

- He has a lot of psychological traumas including ptsd, so getting back to the topic of sex, Leon wants tenderness in return from you. He likes the warmth of your body and the calm rhythm of your heart calms him. Not immediately, but he will ask you to go to bed with him without clothes so that he can enjoy your warmth and sleep a little peacefully. Leon will be happy if you do not refuse such a strange request. And yes, he loves to be a little spoon, but in moments of weakness, this is vital for him.

- For the fact that you help to survive these constant flashbacks, Leon tries to compensate you with his love and trips to expensive places. If you want, he will gladly take you somewhere for the weekend. Alpine skiing, expensive restaurants and an expensive hotel with a red "do not disturb" sign on the door of the room.

- Usually he is not jealous, but the thought of you leaving for someone else scares him. He has little experience in relationships, so he prefers to ask about what you want and he gives it to you. Do not be shy, just tell him about it, for you he will give you everything.

- From the above, he does not accept any betrayals: neither spiritual, nor even more so physical. It will hurt him too much, so you should not give him a reason to doubt loyalty. He is not paranoid in this regard and will not go crazy with rage just because you are just chatting with a friend you knows from school / college / university / work, but if he notices flirting on your part, then ... no good.

- You are only his girl, he likes to mention it and think about it, but he is also completely your man. No third parties. (sorry Ada he needs a healthy relationship)

- He's not paranoid out of jealousy, but he's paranoid out of your safety. He must make sure that your seat belt is fastened; hold his hand when crossing the road; God forbid you cut yourself or break something. His alarm sensor will simply overwhelm and break to hell.

- He loves to give you lace underwear.

- And glad when you seduce him.

- He will rarely call you by your first name (maybe if only something serious or at the very beginning of a relationship), mostly it will be cute nicknames.

-Don't ask about his work. Even when you are already in a long-term relationship, he still won't tell you much. Unless he works for the government and that's all.

- Leon doesn't want you to work either. He wants you to always wait for him with hugs when he comes home, he will probably even persuade you to leave the job where you are currently working, because he can fully provide for you. However, if you are burning with the ideas of creating a career, he will not interfere with this. Everything for your happiness.

- He likes quiet evenings. Like family with food and TV. In fact, he can play a console with you and probably beat you in some kind of shooter, but he will smile funny when, after successful headshots, you say that you should be taken to the special forces right now.

- Leon loves hugs more than sex.

- You are his spoiled sugar girl, and in this context, he calls you sugar because you are sweet.

#leon kennedy #leon scott kennedy #leon s kennedy #leon x reader #leon kennedy x reader #resident evil #leon kennedy x you #leon s kennedy x reader #resident evil x reader #reader #leon kennedy resident evil #leon kennedy headcanons #resident evil headcanons #headcanon

[diludae]

𝓐 𝓛𝓲𝓯𝓮𝓽𝓲𝓶𝓮 𝓸𝓯 𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓷 𝓛𝓸𝓷𝓰𝓮𝓻. 𝓣𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓲𝓼 𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓘 𝓼𝓮𝓮𝓴.

happy v-day! love ya lots! <333

diluc x gn!reader // fluff/angst? // valentines day 2023 // enjoy! <3

It always started with a knock.

The first knock was way-back-when in days of old, when Diluc was still as young and as righteous as the knights that he took pride in. You, the owner of the Dawn Winery’s local strawberry garden, opened the door in a hurry.

“My deepest apologies! I never meant for Willow to eat some of your berries, and it is entirely my fault. My father will surely pay you back ten fold-”

All Diluc heard was the faint sound of a giggle, and the guilty “neigh”s of his horse, now known to you as “Willow,” behind him.

“It’s quite alright, Mr. Ragnvindr. Besides, Miss Willow only ate a few. As long as she is fed, I have no need for payment.”

“Are you sure? It really would be of no problem for neither my father nor the winery to reimburse you-”

“I am positive, Ragnvindr.”

Well, now the atmosphere was plain awkward. Diluc’s plan was to apologize, pay you back like the gentlemen his father had raised him to be, and then leave. Now what was he to do with your kindness?

“May I.. pet her?” “Who, Willow?” “Yes, may I?”

“Of course!”

You and Diluc began rambling on about each other's lines of work. Diluc’s training, your gardening, and of course the ever-mischievous Willow. From that day forward, you heard a knock at your door at almost every opportunity in which Diluc found it appropriate to do so.

Of course, there had to be another knock.

Was this the thousandth? Ten-thousandth? Quite honestly, you and Diluc had lived together for so long not even the Gods in Celestia could bother to count all of the knocks that Diluc had given before he entered your shared bedroom.

“Love, I’ve got you a gift.”

For the past 2 years, you’ve been bedridden. Old age was not gracious to many, and not even you could escape time's clutches as your body started to weaken and wither. To be fair, Diluc wasn’t in the best shape either, but at least he could still move about. You didn’t envy him for it, for you only stared in awe every time he stood, his cane in one hand and yours in the other.

Diluc’s voice was hoarse, but after spending 72 years with him, he still sounded as kind and gentle as ever. In his hand, he held a small, red box wrapped in ribbon.

“Please love, take it. I know you can still move your arms.” He ended his sentence with a small smile, one which held both humor and a twinge of sorrow.

You took the box in your hands, its wrapping as soft as Willow’s coat. Inside the box, a stunning ruby necklace sat. 

“You got this for me?”

“Of course, dear. I hope you cherish it as much as I cherish you.”

Later that evening, Diluc assisted you out of bed. He knew he was not supposed to, but he couldn’t let tonight go to waste. What kind of husband would he be if he didn’t dance with his dear spouse on Valentine's Day?

So, after dressing you in the finest of silks, Diluc brought you downstairs next to the fireplace, and turned on the phonograph. Out came the sounds of a smooth, romantic piano. 

He tried his best to dance with you, but ultimately, he only held you like a fine piece of china. His grip was strong, safe, unmoving. The both of you stood still in the living room, the only sound in the room being that of the phonograph.

“I love you, Y/n.”

“I love you too, Diluc.”

A kiss was shared between the two of you, one that the both of you hoped would last a lifetime.

And, in a way, your wishes did come true. For Diluc had a love and a passion for you that lasted 72 long, lovely years, and even more to come.

Once it was time for you to rest peacefully, several years after that night, he shed a single tear before holding your hand to his lips.

“We’ll meet again. I’ll make sure of it, my dearest.”

#diluc #genshin #genshin impact #diluc x reader #diluc ragnvindr x reader #diluc fluff #diluc angst #diluc x reader fluff #diluc x reader angst #diluc ragnvindr #diluc fanfic #genshin fanfic #genshin impact fanfic #valentine

[albaskies]

Just like us

James Sirius made his grand entrance into the world looking all puffy and red, a single strand of hair on his otherwise bald head, his dark eyes glossy and vivid, writhing and screaming for dear life in his father’s arms. For one, horrifying and unbelievably long second, Harry feared that his first born son - that had been so loved, so desired, so awaited since the moment they had found out about his impending arrival - had come out looking just like his Uncle Vernon. His terror subsided as he kept holding him, laughing at his own thickness, because he didn’t have any Dursley blood, and neither did his son, thank goodness.

A big baby, that he was. Already taller than Ginny’s whole head and torso by the age of six months old. Harry was always mesmerised by how he seemed to be closer and closer to physically outgrowing her, and yet she kept on holding him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

‘My big boy,’ she’d say, squeezing him through his cackles. ‘My sweet, sweet, big boy.’

Harry had stopped interrogating himself about his son’s appearance after that terrifying Vernon incident, but he couldn’t help but notice that his eyes had become hazel coloured, his hair dark if almost jet-black like his own - just a bit like his father, another James Potter that had lived once upon a different time. And yet, the shape of little James’s nose, his lips and his cheeks were somehow fuller, more pronounced, and didn’t immediately scream Potter - nor Weasley, for that matter.

‘He looks like a Prewett,’ Mrs Weasley said once, her eyes glimmering with hope and wonder. ‘He reminds me of my brother Gideon.’

It was too soon to tell anyway, because every day James would grow some more and would seem to look like yet someone different. Neither Harry or Ginny ever cared to join the guessing game, but would laugh about it for days, like that one time that Teddy had said that James reminded him of a niffler, or Ron had suggested that he looked just like him (‘Oi! My son’s not a git!’).

But then one evening Harry had found Ginny weeping on their bed, James peacefully asleep next to her in between two pillows. 

‘He looks like Fred, doesn’t he?’, she’d sobbed as he had taken her in his arms, lost for words.

He didn’t think that James looked like Fred Weasley, not quite - or anyone else specifically, for that matter. No, because James Sirius Potter looked like Ginny’s radiant smile when she’d walked down the aisle, her arm tucked in her father’s elbow; he looked like Harry's watery, glimmering eyes fixed on her and her only, and the warm feel of Ron's hand squeezing his shoulder. He looked like Ginny's furious blush that had reminded him of the setting sun so many years before, like the smitten grin on his face as he’d watch her sleep and she’d let out a snore, just a tiny one. He looked like those several sunlit afternoons spent by the lake on days he'd felt to have stolen from someone else's life, like their teary eyes and soppy smiles when they'd reunited after several months apart, like her blazing look, like the disbelief and utmost joy when they’d found out to have somehow managed to create another life. He looked like the stolen glances at the Burrow, the secret kisses, all the I love you’s; he looked like receiving the first Hogwarts letter, like the sun setting gloriously on the orchard, like defeating Voldemort at last. He looked like them and them only, like all those not-so-little things only they would understand; he looked like them and their family all at once, like them and their infinite love.

#drowning in fluff? #don’t mind if i do #james sirius potter #harry potter #ginny weasley #hinny

[tragedicn]

name:  Zhihao Hong aka:  deity of filial piety and war strategies  /  lesser god of secrets age:  ???? gender:  female (she/her | they/them) occupation:  wandering god orientation:  demosexual  /  demiromantic

traits:

pos:  protective, intelligent, observant, witty, loyal, reliable, talented, atheletic, benevolent, generous, calm, dutiful, selfless neg:  secretive, distant, regretful, melancholic, burdened, guilt riddern, naive, repentant, reckless, paranoid, disobedient, cautious, mournful

FILIAL PIETY  ⸻  respect & obligation to aging parents  ,  honoring the family name  ,  and group harmony  .

            zhihao was born into a small family with some distinction . . . a family of soldiers  ,  a family that served the emperor each generation  .  her great grandfather  ,  her grandfather  ,  her father  ,  her brother . . . the men of her family were all soldiers that served in the royal army  ;  all were honorable people and dedicated members  .  when war broke out  ,  her brother dutifully served and lost his life during battle  ,  leaving the HONG family with just two daughters  ⸻  zhihao and meiying  ⸻  and aging parents  .               zhihao had to take up as the ELDEST of the family  ,  the leader  .  a protector  .  while she had been a rambunctious child that insisted on learning martial arts and swordplay with her brother  ,  where her father did  (  almost reluctantly  )  teach her and she kept up training by herself when her brother left for the capital to join the army  .  practicing in the quiet dawns and bustling dusks  ,  zhihao had been a dutiful daughter under the watchful eyes of her mother and aunties . . . trying to become a DILIGENT and responsible housewife  .             it's restricting  ,  there's so many rules . . . there's so much to do  ;  but  ,  zhihao bows her head and does as she's told . . . the only time she has to breathe is at dawn when she wakes before the rooster and in the dark of night when everyone slumbers  .  of course  ,  she could have given up the blade and let her body grown soft and supple . . . let her callouses heal and her muscles deteriorate  ,  but old habits die hard . . . she might be a homemaker  ,  but she is also a PROTECTOR  .             as battle raged on at the borders and through the lands  ,  zhihao was not blind to the plights of those away in the distance whilst she lived peacefully . . . but she knew one day  ,  that violence would come knocking at the gates of her village  ,  the emperor requesting more AID from able men from each household and for the HONG home  ,  there left an old man  ,  his wife  ,  and two daughters . . . zhihao knew what she had to do  .

WAR STRATEGIES  ⸻  she learned to use her disadvantages to her advantage  ;  and her enemies' advantages to their disadvantage  .  while women of her age bring honor to their families by marrying distinguished men  ,  she tried to bring honor by going to war in her father's stead . . . to both protect her family and to live up to the HONG name  .

            it's unheard of  ,  a woman going to war . . . but zhihao is blessed with a name that sounded neither feminine nor masculine  ,  and a body that could easily be mistaken as a rather lanky man  .  zhihao lived in the shadows of her brother when it comes out that her brother had been a man that joined the army and lost his life  ,  praised for his patriotism . . . though  ,  all that really brought was hurt and sadness  .               she often attributes her feminine visage to her mother  ,  saying that she looked more like her mother but had her father's personality . . . which is proven true with her fierceness in battle  .  she does whatever she can to avoid suspicion and quells rumors with challenges to fights . . . she makes a name for herself  ,  enough that people stop speaking of her name and stop suspecting her for someone who she isn't  (  a woman in disguise  )  .             though she is much slimmer  ,  much shorter than most . . . zhihao uses her brain and skills she's learned to her advantage  .  she's more nimble  ,  easily missed  ,  a WILDCARD for her squad as no one expects her to come at them from below  ,  no one expects her to be able to slip through the cracks . . . she may not be the strongest or the tallest nor the BEST  ,  but she knew to use brains over brawn  .  she led her squad to many victories and continued to do so until the trickles of war came to a slow end  .

ROAD TO RECOGNITION  ⸻  with numerous victories  ,  it leads to distinction and recognition  ;  yet  ,  instead of taking on her promotion and rising through ranks  ,  she sheds her disguise and comes clean . . . though a liar  ,  she had brought about a wave of peace and formed strong bonds  .

            holding her head high when she came to admit her lie amongst numerous comrades  ,  she found no shame . . . she protected her family  ,  the land  ,  brought honor to her family's name just like her great grandfather  ,  grandfather  ,  father  ,  and brother  .  though she may not have been a MALE  ,  she proved that women are just as capable as a man  .  while not all are as talented or as lucky as her  ,  she proved that   (  given the chance  )  women can accomplish big feats  .             and yet  ,  even at the insistence of the emperor to take on the helm as the land's FIRST female general  ,  with people willing to follow her after having proven to be an asset and a reliable partner . . . she bows her head and declines  ,  now she has come clean to her country of her lie . . . she must return home and beg forgiveness from her family and ancestors for doing something she had been told not to  .               ❝  i will return the day my country needs me again  ;  but  ,  today  ,  i must go home and beg forgiveness for being disobedient and repent for my lies  ,  ❞  she says as she turns to leave . . . the weight of returning home and facing her family seemed much HEAVIER than facing that of the emperor  .  she dreaded it . . . 

SECRETS  ⸻  something that is kept or meant to be kept unknown or unseen by others  .

            had she never said anything in front of her comrades and before the emperor  ,  no one would have noticed  .  it's not as if she acted any different  ,  perhaps she changed a bit of her demeanor to be seen as more MANLY or changed her mannerism to mirror that of males . . . but many just believed her to be snobbish and soft  ,  pampered by her parents  .             zhihao would have continued her charade to the day she died  ,  had the war not ended  .  she'd have taken this secret to the grave  ;  but  ,  to her luck  ,  she needn't carry this secret for much longer  .  feeling like she owes her friends the truth . . . she comes clean  ,  comes out that she's been a LIE . . . and leaves it to her former comrades to decide if they wish to continue to befriend her or not  .             though  ,  it's a secret she means to carry to her grave  ,  it was a secret that her FAMILY knew of . . . after all  ,  the HONG family was missing a child and a conscription scroll  .  they hid this a secret  ,  zhihao begging that she will explain once she comes home  ;  but for the sake of their honor and for the sake of not being exiled for treason  (  for not having sent a son  )  . 

DEIFICATION  ⸻  an unwanted side effect that she had no choice in . . . 

            zhihao was faced with both relief and upset from her parents  ,  but above all  ,  she garnered the INTRIGUE of numerous deities that followed the woman through her  ❛  adventures  ❜  as a male on the battlefield and yet still tried to reclaim her spot in society as a woman  .             not only did she garner the attention of higher beings  ,  stories of her feats became legends and she began to be worshipped and looked towards . . . placed upon a pedestal as a hero but also as someone who embodied filial piety as she declined distinction to return to take care of her family  .  it's this very act of becoming a legend and being worshipped that let her ascend to another state . . . easily welcomed by deities  ,  zhihao finds herself an immortal and a DEITY being worshipped for filial piety and war strategies . . . but there came whispers that her name was also used to claim secrecy  ,  to ensure that a secret may never come to light  .

#( zhihao | misc ) #finally! done!

[scotianostra]

On June 16th 1807 Rev. John Skinner, poet, theologian and Episcopalian minister of Longside in Buchan, died.

A particular favourite post for me, I just love the tune Tullochgorum, especially the Dougie MacLean version.

The story behind the song goes that the Reverend was visiting in the house of a lady named Montgomery, in the town of Ellon, Aberdeenshire, the lady is said to have asked for a song after dinner, in order to put a stop to a political dispute round the table, at the same time she is said to have expressed surprise that the fine old strathspey, called The Reel of Tullochgorum, had no appropriate words to it. On this hint, Mr. Skinner produced the present song, and it was first printed in the Scots Weekly Magazine for April, 1776.

Rev. Skinner, though brought up in a Presbyterian household, joined the Episcopal Church in the late 1730s. This was no small decision, as it cost him his schoolmaster’s job. He had to move to Shetland securing the post of private tutor to the Sinclair family. Happily, it was also where John met his wife, Grissel Hunter. By the time their first son was born in 1742, the Skinners had returned to the mainland and John had been ordained at Longside.

These were dangerous times, however, as government troops attacked all Episcopal churches and manses, believing the whole denomination to be on the side of Bonnie Prince Charlie. Skinner himself was no enemy of the Protestant Hanoverian monarchy, yet this meant nothing to rapacious soldiers intent on destruction. In July 1746, following Culloden, a local informer brought the Redcoats to Longside; it was said she was seen exulting as Skinner’s church was razed to the ground.

With no church, the minister preached from the manse to small groups of his congregation sitting in different rooms or standing in the garden, all to evade the legal restrictions against Episcopal services. In 1753, again due to this particular female informer, Rev. Skinner found himself imprisoned for six months at Old Aberdeen. It is little surprise considering he wrote scurrilous verses against his persecutor, describing her as a ‘shrine-destroying Jezebel’, after the Pagan queen of Israel. In 1760 things began to improve; George III was far more tolerant of the Scottish Episcopalians, leaving Skinner to continue his ministry in peace.

Tullochgorum, which contains the lines ‘Let Whig and Tory all agree’, represents John Skinner’s amazing capacity for tolerance, but also his wit against the proud and foolish. Skinner makes clear his distaste for those who would be ‘oppression’s tool’ and declares ‘May envy gnaw his rotten soul/ And discontent devour him.’ He lived to see his church freed from persecution, yet experienced the sorrow of outliving his beloved Grissel, who died aged 80. 86-year-old John died peacefully on June 16, 1807 in Aberdeen.

Come gie’s a song montgomery cried And lay your disputes a’ aside What nonsense is’t for folks to chide For what was done before ‘em Let whig and tory a’ agree Whig and tory whig and tory Whig and tory a’ agree To drop their whigmigmorum Let whig and tory a’ agree To spend this night in mirth and glee And cheerfu’ sing alang wi’ me The reel o’ tullochgorum Tullochgorum’s my delight It gars us a’ in ane unite And only sumph that keeps up spite In conscience i abhor him Blythe and merry we’ll be a’ Blythe and merry blythe and merry Blythe and merry we’ll be a’ And make a cheerfu’ quorum Blythe and merry we’ll be a’ As lang as we hae a breath to draw And dance till we be like to fa’ The reel of tullochgorum Let wardly worms their minds oppress Wi’ fears o’ want and double cess And sullen sots themselves distress Wi’ keeping up decorum Shall we sae sour and sulky sit? Sour and sulky sour and sulky Sour and sulky shall we sit Like auld philosophorum? Shall we sae sour and sulky sit With neither sense nor mirth nor wit Nor ever rise to shake a fit To the reel o’ tullochgorum? May choicest blessings aye attend Each honest open hearted friend And calm and quiet be his end And a’ that’s gude watch o'er him May peace and plenty be his lot Peace and plenty peace and plenty Peace and plenty be his lot And dainties a great store o’ them May peace and plenty be his lot Unstain’d by any vicious spot And may he never want a groat That’s fond o’ tullochgorum But for the discontented fool Who wants to be oppression’s tool May envy gnaw his rotten soul And blackest discontent devour him May dool and sorrow be his chance Dool and sorrow dool and sorrow Dool and sorrow be his chance And honest souls abhor him May dool and sorrow be his chance A’ the ills that come frae france Whae'er he be that winna dance The reel o’ tullochgorum

#scotland #scottish #church #church minister #poet #songwriter #history

[kunkutarpulla]

You all know the shooting of Andrew Tekle Sundberg? Yeah, he got lots of attention and guess what's disturbing part about this case? There are people seriously ignoring his potential victim, Arabella Foss-Yarbrough.

Before we continue, DO NOT GO HARASS THE FAMILY OF TEKLE'S NOR ARABELLA HERSELF. The case is already difficult enough. Well, what's the case shortly?

In July 13, in Minneapolis (Minnesota) a young man was seen standing outside his flat looking inside the window of his neighbor's, like he's focused and following someone in there. And that someone was Arabella herself. Two police officers, Aaron Pearson and Zachary Seraphine, were patroling and trying to talk him down. But everything took a turn when he started to shoot the mom and her kids through the window. And even started to attack the police officers which gave no other choice but shoot. At Saturday, after the shooting, there was a rally outside the apartment complex where it happened. Then Arabella showed up and started to tell what actually happened there at that night. She was very frustated but it's understandable. Who wouldn't be after that experience? And as a result, SHE AND HER TODDLER-AGED KIDS GOT VICTIM BLAMED BY BLACK LIVES MATTER ACTIVISTS! Yes, that's a real thing.

The case is now shortly recapped. Am I saying Tekle was 100 % evil or his family shouldn't cry for him? ABSOLUTELY NOT. And neither was she. He had his issues and I don't know what he was like in weekdays, but at least he wasn't like Albert Fish or any other serial killer from history. And the family has a right to feel grief for their loss.

Was the rally necessary? NO. There would've been other ways to show solidarity for them, like paying the funeral expenses. Or at least majority of them. Funerals take lots of money. That would've been more effective and subtle. And also it would've given a positive publicity to Black Lives Matter movement. That makes me ask: Where was it when Tekle still was among the living? Why it didn't give him and his family any help back then?

As downhearted as the case is, there was NO signs of police brutality in it. George Floyd situation was police brutality, because

1) He was unarmed;

2) He was either drunk or high. At least it's assumed he was; and

3) Derek Chauvin and the three others, abused their position as police officers and used their tactics wrongfully.

Tekle, on the other hand, had a gun. He knew exactly what he was doing. (I don't know what his motive was and I don't care.) Police officers in question, obeyed their protocol and tried to solve this peacefully first. They tried to talk to him, they let his father talk to him, they even gave him SIX HOURS time to surrender. It didn't work. I wish it would've gone differently and also did Pearson and Seraphine, but it was very critical and serious circumstance.

It's so disgusting how a hysterical young woman, who tells protesters how the events really went and how they should go home, is treated: Not only they filmed the event, posted it on Twitter and portraited Arabella like she's in the wrong but they also told her to shut up like she's some racist white Karen being triggered over black kids selling lemonade across the street she lives. She's not like that. She was a victim of an attemped murder. They were literally victim blaming her! The cops' bodycams captured the situation which they used as proves in front of Tekle's family and the court:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HJxNEDdkIUk&t=488s (Well, this video is seeing one of my journals, though.)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u6Pksj4TASs (There you can see her and her kids flee. Older being only 4 years old, younger being 2 years old.)

My journals related to the topic:

https://www.deviantart.com/tultsi93/journal/That-man-is-a-real-white-alley-923100302

https://www.deviantart.com/tultsi93/journal/Arabella-gets-victim-blamed-more-924310618

This is the video I was refering to: 

https://twitter.com/RebsBrannon/status/1548498745704124418

I'm happy about how his parents and siblings were sorry for Arabella and her children for what they're going through. They didn't practice victim blaming despite the fact the whole situation was and still is burdensome for them. I sincerely wish them all the best and that their pain will ease. It's dissapointing I'm not physically there, I would give all of them a hug. Hopefully I manage in this grey-area thinking now. This is the most strenuous cases in our history.

#arabella foss-yarbrough #andrew tekle sundberg #all hope is not lost

[obscurushydrae]

BABA YAGA’S HEART STATUS: RECOVERED [ Reliquary Masterpost ]

An antique iron casket with black satin lining containing a withered human-looking heart. While the casket itself is not enchanted, the item it contains is the last part of the Baba Yaga– and potentially her power.

As for when she was born or created, it’s unknown. However, she had claimed she was the very soul of Russia and existed long enough to be near mythological. She is regarded as one of the most powerful of the witchkind, along with the likes of Hecate, Nimue, Morgan Le Fay, and The Bog Roosh. Parts of the folk tales hold true though, her living in a house with chicken feet, preying on children and leaning more towards flesh and blood-based magics. She also is killed in dimensional magics, which given her status in magic circles comes as no surprise. 

Sometime in the early 1900s, she had taken a young monk by the name of Grigori Rasputin under her wing, teaching him the ways of the arcane, and thus creating the monster we know. She treated him like her own grandchild and assured his existence several times despite countless encounters thwarting him.

Interesting enough, when Hecate had fallen and the search for a new Witch-Queen began, she did not put herself up as a candidate, despite her seniority. It was unknowingly usurped by Nimue, who then refashioned herself as the Morrigan. (I say unknowingly because neither her nor myself were aware of my mother’s plans, so I frankly, I can’t get upset over someone trying to angle at a position I didn’t even know was mine at the time.)

Her constant caring of Rasputin and conflicts with Hellboy (and others) had a toll on her powers and after the incident with Nimue she had become increasingly weak, making it difficult to travel to the mortal realm in the last few years. 

As it came to pass that I would inherit my mother’s throne, most of the senior witches conceded. Alice was the newly minted Guardian of the World Tree, the previous Bog Roosh was replaced by her granddaughter, Nimue was killed, and so it would seem with the coming of new-age the old guard was changing. Morgan Le Fay readily accepted this new change of leadership, but the Baba Yaga could not abide–not surprising as it was I who killed her “grandson”.

Needless to say, I did not take this lightly, despite her weakening state, she is wily and nearly rivals my mother in experience and has a great many ties to some of the older supernatural set. I made attempts to compromise, but I had my first true dissident. If this was no resolved peacefully, I swore to resolve it decisively. 

I defeated the Baba Yaga and took her heart as a trophy– and a reminder. I may not be my mother’s daughter in most regards but in others? Very much so.  

#reliquary;

[libidomechanica]

Had passd the heap of

Till have vanish’d by that if he counsel may die.     Of alle kynges the dead, and tea. Herd blows to tell me, Love’s tie, makes the high or smite     rarely her sweet as yesterday. The daughter of thee, excuse their advance beloved     as he ought: Piffle! Some that broken they both stars, batteries on the swamp of the     heroic on a new one to praise, as

washed its handsome coxcombs blood announce there I sit     and bird’s all meet; the rock. But thus taken by the worlds, in the wife abhorr’d; a thousand     perplext her hand, and her if she had been hard for deeming; now betwixt mine enemie had     of dwell; it is a name could wonder breath or air. Thou shall were stirs a quire will make a     bob-major from your hand ordering;

some hundred cannon duly set; and wise, lay down     every memory can bringing your Man. Lady, won’t takes the morning’s lights mine, if I     say, that glistens with affrightest! The Blind many case, blind-hitting the hoste of God and     faced by the worse than you list, you sit or miss; their kettle-drums a new tricking up a     lifeless number holy feet my still

kissing again! On sea-ward Quantock’s heart for souls     might spring-tide, or wisdom, and time to proue. Hark how tender all homage to chlorophyll,     and all arts the fair. That to shun some way; then, on her break the long to greet the sentence     shaved and she is, that killing,—for despatch: I know of a name him—but the bay where     assure you occur somewhere branch and

therewith my friend, that upstarted alabaster     vase;—up came in famous slumber, voices wake us this … Then for each lovely light     they never saw him wasn’t takes to stoop and he historian, the golden fruitful spreading     view, the things rarely find names from bastion, and died to-day, that Ceres hath Homer!     When you wilt find no more gracious strumpet,

and the brave oppresses; all the time, that the     roar of war and he success is much pique myself as kind reader’s fancied young folks with     an encounted by long galleries is of my House, the first with affright! Now, who only     Nature’s child of this unsighing peacefully fed, luxurious Moon of Dracula     my favors neither my turf when

I have the story? About hiss If your father,     by one, which mingled in his first, our old age in me a living in the king may request     of her dream’d two ends in all agrees? Thine own shy, shadow loses former works, made     the walls thy queen of queans; and exposure, that crown’d: Why so? As were meaning to beat. Which     the Oake sorry, there shall not quite

disappeared to obey, ’ he saw a little mend there     lies by teares: yet no tailor help me at least, and split the infinities of ocean,     color of the stretched the envious hissing?—A merry note, which so basely     heats, failes means I find no less had recently wake. She wept and both cheek, and wae on     the birds with the widow, maiden-like

water into light, she’s Juno when out intertex!     Would be attack’d; great graffed to one, passion glare, sits sang sweet; how should be as fires     forced the best of her mother, come to ill such echoed by young fellow, and springing so     bereft, nancy, Nancy. Till their faults, yet with trust I would have been gone at home is come     on her own into my hair was aye

between you em; but she could prefer to kill ye.     As well, children! This trade. After all, the great joy unto his nail, and there neither blisses,     o’er white. Their tongues perpetrated ere a truce establish’d too much stuff, nor I     flatterer will no-no. A junction of Majesty unwaned! No sinking thy gentle     darling eyes in timely sleep discipline

angry when he disappointment them all my     dream’d out the year? In his eyes, both wish is quite. Me so did streams, on her badly sweat and     tears me, through is conduct had your soul clenched in ordination, for one would at last word     she wall are black-eyed girls bene they. Nay, the worthiness of this vain immediately     may grant it was no model of

the culprit answerless, the rest. And lo! Before     the silver people wouldst be, if Loue, a roge though her prove twas Cupids skies, innumerary     beautiful exceeding flowers of that love was a snakes descry tears the realm     in grass. But whether under his waist! And ow, ’ had no shield. Had pass’d the heap of summer’s     liveries so we have been by light

of day, now, my lord, ’tis much more than they’re purchased     by all thing in Paris, and I, may never wi’ my Phillis—for some over; and the     use of the merrily, and full heard, he deprecated her angry ladies all pleasures     them and a Hierome, by difficult birth was now all thou then wealth shronke vnder his merry     note, while, the promise of all, I

replied to that connections meete to choose. Where they     either skipping of pearls beneath the Oda, upon each loud mean by bounty of beds     four-posted are, or with sighs, half broke loose, waves betake; so the Brere lies thunder, forty     though they re-enter’d now: his sturdy stroke, and show, save wept and death. Faults i’d not     perceiving as ladde, of her man or two,

the Cross, and made you ain’t watch that thou wilt ever     Mahomet pick’d of old, he’d seen in safety, than in age the gods know? He found. How shall     hell were heart, all my woe, plods dully on, to eat a peal on perils in his ease. In     that never choose your advice, asked the assault: I have quadruple claim his nail, and hearken     the body destitute been, the

pins were white, as Rainebowe bent, loud meander     to their new change in which is best, you pleasured from year ago, in the female senate     was a small miss out of seventy years, who painter and could solder the fair or     foes, the wings, and their backs of thy grove, wandering, to advantage of just to be produced     by thee would say: But how the call

driven snow. So spake thy purity; then, no     rarity of carnage,—and the young: the bloud spirits free. And her masculine is when this     Oake again and victual; such a bright as possessed the clouds as thick as that thou smil’st, fair     Geneura, with the Phoenix, then, oh then will remain forts of physicians, having Sylla     the moon breathing else Fire! At her

looks a frown, but with an unworthy Lust; nor do     not let me powre hath lesse to be so— for I have led him, by a simple girl and love     do? Are the French, Cossacques pursue it, stand in the woods days of his rise, Oh Moon of     them! True it seemed streets, after strife, and though Ioy her injury more tender the facts, she     thought her stand, within the eyes corruption

gate! And timidly expanding yet it sticking     heart did mercy comes which welcome shepheards daughter, though the door, and Upharsin, ’ which     still again. And female dresses; all the wretch! Such truth, to arrest thy years, half in a     forest born as yet used by your Please: or sicker thy heats, and with great matter now?     Perhaps he our historian here?

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #127 texts #ballad

[aegor-bamfsteel]

hey there, what is your opinion on Rhaenyra? (I know it’s unpopular but I don’t see her as a good ruler because some of her actions shows tyranny, maybe I’m just bitter that Rhaenys the queen who never was didn’t become queen despite having a better claim and the potential 🤷‍♀️).

Hi anon!

I’ve spoken a little about Rhaenyrà in some responses to other people’s answers, and mostly I’m just annoyed at how GRRM wrote her character, especially how she was basically supplanted as protagonist by Dæmon Targaryen, a character he liked too much for his own good. I don’t think your stance that she’s not a good ruler is unpopular at all; once she’s torturing her most important allies, demanding the execution of a girl protected by guest right from another ally, raising taxes and executing people to the point there’s riots to drive her out within 6 months, failing to provide critical aid resulting in the death of another ally, and then F&B1 invents the Silent Five, a flagrant act of tyranny for essentially speaking the truth…well, it’s hard to claim that she was anything but a tyrant. That’s half the point of the Dance of the Dragons, that neither her nor Aegon II were good rulers. However, GRRM forgot to give Rhænyra any redeeming features (unless you count love for her children, the same trait as Cersei). Even Aegon II demonstrated more bravery, fighting in battle twice, and even some diplomacy, considering he was able to take Dragonstone (of which Rhænyra had been liege since 113, demonstrating she was an awful ruler even then) by convincing some of her men to defect, all while disguising himself. He even has a better dragon; Sunfyre was able to detect Aegon needed him after he was wounded, and the two spent months searching for each other; whereas Syrax is lazy and her most important contribution to the war was getting Joffrey killed. Rhænyra didn’t have a single success in her reign, neither military nor diplomatic; the credit belongs to Dæmon (more on how he steals from her narrative later), Corlys Velaryon (who supported her and Dæmon though it’s strongly implied Dæmon murdered his only son and Rhænyra wanted to name her illegitimate children heirs to that son’s seat), and her son Jacaerys (with the dragon seeds and successfully treating with Northern allies). Her only consistent positive attribute was her beauty, but then GRRM relishes in telling us how she never lost pregnancy weight and how it took 6 bites for Sunfyre to eat her (much like how Cersei’s downfall is associated with her gaining weight). When people more competent than Rhænyra include a literal teenage boy and her drunken half-brother, and all of them are men, I can’t help but think there’s some misogyny involved.

There’s two main problems with this: 1) It’s not at all accurate to the Anarchy and 2) Rhænyra’s character, arc, and contributions are minimized in favor of Authorial Favorite Dæmon Targaryen.

In real life, Empress Matilda was the only surviving legitimate child of Henry I, never taught to rule and in fact shipped to the Holy Roman Empire at age 8, wed to the incompetent 13-year-old Geoffrey Plantagenet at 25 to settle a border dispute, was supported mainly by her illegitimate half-brother Robert Of Gloucester and her uncle David of Scotland, her forces succeeded in capturing rival Stephen but thanks to forces under the control of Stephen’s wife Mathilde (an absolute BAMF who also got the Scots to stay neutral) was driven away from London after an attempted coronation, staged a daring escape in the middle of winter when she was besieged at Oxford, swapped Robert for Stephen, fought a stalemate that divided the country, became a diplomat for her son Henry, and died peacefully age 65. She was bold, daring, spent her Formative years out of her home country, she couldn’t care less that her husband sired 3 illegitimate children (I mean her own dad sired 24. Really more medieval English kings had illegitimate children than not), she was capable of negotiating for her valuable allies, and we don’t even know what she looked like. She was not vain, incompetent, cowardly, undiplomatic, outwardly prejudiced toward illegitimate children, paranoid, or attempted to murder her husband’s lover. Which brings me to that husband in question…

GRRM got so interested in writing Dæmon Targaryen’s story that he reduced Rhænyra—the only widely acclaimed Targaryen queen claimant pre-canon, thus the natural protagonist of this story—to a prop in it as one of his many lovers. Dæmon gets all of the cool equipment and achievements Rhænyra lacks: the ancestral sword Dark Sister (which was made for a woman’s hands. Queen Rhaenys Targaryen Velaryon got super robbed), a special “bloodwyrm” dragon Caraxes that was “fearsome and experienced” in battle, he has multiple exceptional women motivated by their attraction to him when he’s less than faithful and quite cruel (not just Rhænyra, but the spymaster Mysaria, and the dragon warriors Laena and Nettles, with even Alicent rumored to have been his lover; suspiciously, Rhænyra stops taking lovers once she’s wed to him), despite having even less diplomatic skills than Rhænyra made up for it by massive success in battle even without using Caraxes (even though the military tactics described in the Taking of Stone Hedge are so bullshit even I could tell GRRM was tipping his hand), his hold over the gold cloaks was so strong even after years out of service that they betrayed the Greens for him…this is very over-the-top, especially when GRRM wrote Rhænyra as not being a warrior and constantly alienating her closest allies. She even alienates Dæmon by ordering Nettles’ death, causing him to have one of his few acts of humanity by telling Nettles to flee while he flies off to heroically die fighting actual cartoon villain Aemond (who becomes his biggest enemy because the established Rhænyra/Alicent&Aegon conflict wasn’t enough…Dæmon needs his own special rival) and the biggest dragon Vhagar. Yes, the man complicit in the murders of children gets a badass death in battle while Rhænyra gets eaten by a dragon after being betrayed by her closest allies. Rhaenyra starts off entitled and ends up a torturer and a tyrant, but Dæmon starts off as a predatory sadist and ends up…having a moment of reflection after Nettles‘ death warrant and successfully kills the Greens’ best warrior/dragon with his dying breath. Does this seem fair? Need I remind you that The Princess and the Queen was published as part of the anthology “Dangerous Women”, thus promising us a female centric conflict; but after The Rogue Prince it became the Daemon Story, with the female characters sexually connected to him to the point it’s their primary motivation (Mysaria) or character turning point (Nettles). All the female characters suffered to prop up Daemon, but with Rhaenyra it’s particularly frustrating because she was supposed to be the protagonist (with the requisite character arc, character assets to balance out those flaws, and fittingly tragic ending.) No surprise, my frustration with Dæmon (a recent addition to the Targ canon, considering how he didn’t even emerge as a character until TPATQ and thus has never been mentioned in canon era. The attempt to claim Daena named her son after this man is a pathetic retcon) as an authorial favorite nearly on the level of Bl00draven feeds into how annoyed I am with Rhænyra’s character. Maybe it’s just harder for GRRM to empathize with evil female characters than evil male ones (just look at Jaime and Tyrion versus Cersei), thus they get written with few of the gimmicks or nuance that make the latter so beloved.

#ask #opinion #anti targaryen #anti rhaenyra #anti daemon targaryen #asoiaf #grrm critical #female characters

[elsdaydreams]

Expectations

Altair x Female!Reader

Warnings - Discussions of pregnancy, being pregnant, and having children

Word Count - 1755 words.

Description - Same universe as Jump Start. You've had a long day, and now you have to tell your husband you are pregnant again. It'd be a lot less terrifying if you didn't have to fix your car urgently. And maybe less terrifying if this was something you'd planned.

Authors Note - Originally, there were two parts to telling Altair you were pregnant. I still love what I'd written for this series. Rewriting them is just me trying to finesse them. Who knows, in another five years I might rewrite everything over again anyways. (Hopefully not though). Gotta say I'm pretty proud of this guy. I hope you like it as well. There will be another part of this universe, expect it next Monday. Hope you're all having a fantastic week lovelies, and I'll see you soon. Ella.

Jump Start | Expectations | Little Talks (coming soon)

Within a few moments, the two pairs dispersed, each going their separate ways. The rest of the day from there was uneventful, for which you were thankful. Shopping for groceries was a breeze, you'd still missed the crowds despite the delay. Darim was tired from his day too, falling asleep without much fuss at all. Frustratingly, he'd always gone down easy for Altair - for you, it was almost always a fight. He'd just laid down in his crib, soft hair sticking up from his bath earlier.

You were aware at all times, how much you loved your son, loved your life. When it was quiet like this, you were able to reflect on it and appreciate it. Your hand tracing the curve of his chubby cheeks, his nose, and the fluttering of his eyelashes. Peacefully, you watch him drift into a quiet slumber. Looking down at your sweet boy, your mind wandered, wondering what the child you were carrying looked like - if they'd be anything like their older brother.

Still, the looming threat of a new car battery replacement was enough to have your stomach-churning. The thought of a new baby was both exciting and terrifying at the same time. Neither you nor Altair had planned on having another so soon, Darim was only a year and a half now, and it didn't help that you were in such a financially precarious situation either.

Behind you, the creak of the door was near-silent enough you hardly noticed it. Altair crept in unannounced until you felt him behind you. Without so much as a word, you felt him wrap his arms around your torso. The pair of you remained in the comfortable embrace for a few moments, neither wanting to break it.

Letting his head rest against your shoulder, you felt the stress roll off him in waves. Beyond a doubt, you'd known how hard things had been lately. Having a child at such a young age, before either of you had truly established yourselves, was far from easy. Neither of you regretted your decision, though how could you when you loved your tiny human as much as you did? Still, you'd known Altair was busting his ass trying to provide for all three of you, working two jobs that quite frankly didn't deserve him. Nerves set alight at the thought of adding another tiny human to the mix.

Subconsciously, the two of you swayed back and forth. It was something you'd started doing since Darim was born. He was quite fussy when he was an infant, and the only motion that calmed him was the swaying you found yourself doing. It was a hard habit to stop, and you didn't find yourself minding much as it seemed to calm you even now.

"Car needs a new battery," he whispered into your shoulder, voice seeping with worry and frustration. There was no longer getting around it, according to Kadar there was no hope for the old one. His arms wrapped around you tighter, both melting into the familiar embrace.

You don't want to - can't think about that tonight. It's not doing Altair any good either, truthfully. The car was a concern, a huge concern, that you'd both spent the entire day worried about. He'd have to get up early tomorrow to get to his first job, come home and eat dinner, then go to his second. What was worse than dealing with the car tonight, was that you had to tell Altair you were pregnant. Sooner rather than later too.

You sighed, your eyes slipping shut, offering optimistically, "we'll figure it out. We always do."

There was a comfort to the statement, a gentle reassurance that both your situations would work out. Not for any other reason than they had to. It wasn't like the two of you weren't careful. In fact, you'd taken about every precaution available to you. What good that did you now, the positive lines still fresh in your memory. And still now, even in the quiet of the nursery, you could tell him, if you could only find the words. The night light cast shadows around the room, bouncing off both you and Altair.

Turning your head, your eyes followed the curve of his strong nose. The details of his face were familiar to you, and deep down, you'd known that both of your children would have his features. It's not something you minded much at all, your chest warm at the thought.

And, you knew deep down that Altair would be happy. There was no denying that you two loved having Darim and that having another one would be a good thing, even if it was stressful. He lifted his head up to meet your eyes, your heart hurting at how tired they looked.

Like reading a book, his forehead creased in a worry that wasn't quite there before. Altair could tell something was wrong. Suspiciously, he narrowed his eyes at you, loosening his grip just enough to get a better look at you. Without words, you could feel him asking you what was wrong. Part of you wanted to lie, to simply say that nothing was wrong, because there was partial truth to that. The other part knew that without a doubt Altair would know you weren't being honest.

After a moment, he ventured with the actual question, "what is it?"

Below the two of you in the crib your son stirred, wiggling only a little bit to get comfortable. Your eyes followed down to him, and before you knew it you were whispering the two words that felt impossible to get out.

Beside you, you could feel him reacting. His body went stiff, all the stress that was seeping out of him moments ago returned the second you said the words I'm pregnant. It felt like hours had passed before you looked up at him. His eyes were wide, shock all over his face.

"You're sure?" He asked, voice quiet, and almost high pitched.

Quietly, you nodded, "the test was from when I first got pregnant, but it's positive."

Another quiet moment of disbelief, Altair dropping his arms from around your waist to cup his head. Gently, you turned around, putting your hands on top of his own. You took the test two days ago, so you've had a little more time to process the news. The plan was always to tell him tonight, but the day had gone much differently than you expected it would. Regardless, he had to know, and sooner was much better than later. It was better to let him process this.

"We were careful though," he said quietly, still in shock, "do you think the test was old? It was almost two years ago we bought them."

You nodded, rubbing your hands against his, pulling him out of Darim's room and into the living room.

"We were very careful," you agreed, setting him against the couch before walking into the bathroom. Still talking across rooms, you grabbed the box the used test was currently in. "The test is still good, at least if the expiration date is to be believed."

He couldn't help the scoff that escaped him, taking the test from your hands when you reappeared. They lasted about three years, which is something you googled in about sixteen different ways just in case it was a false positive. Carefully, he examined it. The lines were there, prominent as ever. Kneeling on the seat next to him, you pressed slowly into his side. From your position next to him, you tried to read him. The slow blinks and the slight shake of his hands mimicked perfectly what you'd done days before. Precariously, he set the pregnancy down on the leg opposite of you.

"It's not that I'm not," he started, sighing deeply after regaining some composure. One hand lifted to rub the crease of his brow, eyes slipping shut briefly.

You nodded quickly, your hands rubbing his shoulder gently, "I know."

"It's just," Altair groaned again, "I work two jobs, you work one. I feel like we hardly get any time together, to begin with, and we're just barely making things work."

"I know," you said again, wrapping your arms around his middle.

"I am happy," he said, placing his hand against the part of your stomach the child was currently growing, "talk about timing though."

Resting your head on his shoulder, you laughed quietly, "I know."

There was quiet for a moment, and your eyes watched carefully as he peered down at you. Unspoken as it was, there was an undeniable love for this new child, and the shock and stress would wear off. When, you weren't quite sure, because even with Darim now, you still found yourself wondering how in the world the two of you were parents.

"Do you remember when we found out we were pregnant with Darim," you asked, eyes sparkling with fondness at the memory.

Slowly, the pair of you morphed into the shape of the couch. You looked around your living room, the light from the bathroom lighting it up. The pictures scattered around the room were covered in the glare from it, though you could make out your wedding photos, as well as Darim's first birthday, your friends and family scattered throughout the mix.

"What was it, a month after we got married," he asked, closing his eyes, the long day finally getting to him.

"Give or take," you smiled, putting the test back in the box and setting it on the coffee table, "I didn't even think I was pregnant. Kadar did."

Another soft chuckle, sleep pressing into his tone, "what intuition he has. Didn't you take three tests?"

"Something like that," you said, eyes slipping shut for a minute, only to peer open slightly, "we're gonna be okay, right?"

Before he responded, you already knew the answer. You felt it in the calmness from him, the assurance that you, that your family would make it through whatever unexpected news came your way. It felt cheesy, the thought making your cheeks heat unexpectedly. His mellow voice only made it worse, and you buried your face into his shoulder again.

Altair nodded, humming in agreement, "yeah, we'll be alright. Definitely need to get the car fixed now though."

You're laughing before you can stop yourself, nodding in agreement. Finally, your eyes shut, though you're not completely asleep yet you're close to it.

"Yeah, definitely going to have to get on that."

#altair x reader #altair #altair ibn la'ahad #assassins creed #assassins creed fanfic #assassins creed imagines #altair imagines #renaissnace era

[imalwaystiredzzz]

C5: Sisyphus happy. Yan Zhongli x Reader

#genshin x reader

Warning: Yandere behavior, unhealthy relationships

< Sisyphus happy chapters >

Once, from a time long before records and memories were written on ink and paper, Morax walked upon vast lands rich in history, watered by tears of tragedy and love lost. He turns to an old woman who stood before her destroyed village, eyes downcast and hollow on bodies drowned by the war of an unrelenting sea and the mountain that does not bow. 

Morax did not understand, maybe once when he had held a goddess’ body to his own, but to him that was one thing and this is another. This is love of a mortal that does not even know who the child that cried next door nor the man that walked past their door, this is to love a complete stranger and the love that Guizhong once had when she was still by his side.

“What must I do to learn the love of mortals?” He asks, voice devoid of emotion; genuine curiosity and the hope to understand beneath.  

The old woman smiled, warm and full of wisdom as if her short years were thousands compared to the god. “To love mortals, one must sacrifice eternity and learn of the passing time. Of death and partings. The gods have forgotten that they may live long but even you have an end, it is the same thing that pains us yet we find delight in.”

He didn’t understand then, those words ring true and wise as Cloud Retainer’s advice to his ears on leading the people that he had now to care for. Even so, he still finds himself wondering, “What would Guizhong have done?”

In his heart, he knows that she would’ve understood and took a moment to explain; unlike the way time leaves nothing but confusion in its wake, only pondering and no straight answers?

Even as hundreds of years pass, when all that remains of that old woman is nothing but ashes on the soil and the land had been turned to marsh, the people traveling and settling in a mountain, and the war marching on to its bloody conclusion; Morax found that answer to be much like the dumbbell that he may never come to solve. 

But once more, reminiscent of his unexamined love with the goddess had bloomed too late, fate had played him right into its hands. 

Because the answer had come in the form of you- still a child, a bud in the nursery of glaze lilies under the morning sun. You and your small hands that gripped the end of his robes, with teary eyes that looked at the dying people and held these strangers hand in their last breath with as much intensity for a small comfort to let them know they did not die alone.

“Will the war end soon?” Your small voice asked him, even Mountain Shaper had not the stomach to look at a child’s plea for peace and spout lies.

“I am trying to end it, as fast as I can.” 

“Then this is for you.” You reached into your pocket and gave him a dried glazed lily contained in glass, “thank you for trying though we cannot give much back.” You bow, as courtesy knowing that you had just talked to the very god that protected the lands you step on and ran back to the shack that housed the sick and injured, your parents much too busy to notice you had snuck out. 

Blissfully unaware that the god of geo, gripping the gift in between his hands, amber eyes following your form and telling himself that humans have much to learn and yet they surprise him nonetheless, just like as his love used to tell him.

But even answers are confusing, much like a child who asks why is 1+1=2 and the process of it, he didn’t understand till he saw you once more. Not yet a lady but not quite the child that you used to be. Now you are the girl who provides healing, growing up to be a herbalist like your mother and no longer simply holding a basket of them for your father. Carefully, with your mortal hands you comfort the injured beyond salvation as the calamities of gods that hold much power rages on. 

Surrounded by dying men of the war, miasma, curses and death lurking in the air, in his eyes you remained untouched. Unblemished, as if the air in your little bubble had been purified by innocence and unconditional love for the crowd of strangers, neither pitying them for death nor numb to their tragedy. Then for a second he thought he saw her - the glaze lilies and the goddess that he loved so much and he begins to wonder if she’s come back to him through you.

“I should thank you for treating the wounded.” He tells the man before him, the bags of herbs laying behind his form and a sigil in hand, “use this in times of need, when the people are crying and I am away, surely the adeptis are quick to answer and would not turn you away.” 

“My lord, Rex Lapis, there is no need to thank us. Knowing that you protect the people is enough, we are just a family of healers who help the ones in need.” Your father was a grateful man, and he can see where you get your eyes, especially your kind heart who reaches out to those in need, not because he seeks power or his blessings.

“Even so, Liyue will remember your kindness but none more so than I, Rex Lapis.” 

He does not know if you remember him nor what you did, only that when he dons a mortal face to take a walk in the calms before the storm, he finds himself wandering to your garden, mostly on cold nights where you would just sing to the lilies and watch them, with unfading enchantment, bloom. 

In a distant memory of an old lover, he hears the same voice but now there stood you. Now a lady, barely a woman with your innocence and mischief.

And he knows that this is wrong, mortals are fleeting as the dust, that he can never grasp with his two hands. Wherever his heart is on anything, other than Liyue, it only ends in tragedy. And oh, how ironic of it all that if you really were his goddess that had found her way back to him, why this form? Why a mortal who is a flower that will wither compared to a mountain that does not crumble?

“It’s a beautiful song, pardon me for interrupting but may I know where you have learned it?”

“Only if you tell me what the god of earth is doing in a place like this, barely even concealed?” Playful, you smile at him playfully as if you knew all the time that he had spent staring from afar and he was not an immortal that could smite the very life out of those pretty eyes.

“The breeze carried your voice and I wondered where you had learned to entice it to your will.” He couldn’t really put a finger when it began, when your singing had lured him like a siren to the depth of the sea.

“You befriend the wind, unlike the earth, you do not command rather ask of it like a companion,” was your simple answer and he smiles like he has found something long lost. You drown him in your presence, but he is not breathless; rather he sighs filled with curiosity like a child who has more to learn from the world that he had been in for thousands of years. 

You who had rekindled a reason for his actions, much like Guizhong. This love does not ruffle his heart out of his rib cage, the dust settles and it is as calm as you talking about herbs in this small patch of garden late at night and as calm as the things settle falling into place in his beloved city by the gentle waves of the sea.

“What happened to them after?” You ask your husband, the snow falls outside and you are oh so exhausted to the bone as if the cold had taken all your warmth. He smiles and brushes your cheeks that lost their flush and your skin cold as a corpse, his arms glows gold in the intricate cracks, and you know that this is a bedtime story - though not quite for the night but for the long winter.  

The memory scratches at the back of your mind to be remembered, but a part of you warns that you wouldn’t like how it ends. 

“According to the books, the lord of geo took his love to the heavens.” He finishes with a chuckle of the irony in it all, a kiss to your temple as your eyes drop, heavy and slumber dragging you to its clutches.

Then finally, Zhongli smiles to bid you goodnight.

He watches you sleep soundly. Sleep if humans can even call it that with the lack of breathing, as still as a corpse that had died peacefully in bed while he is left to wonder of a future that had things ended the way his winter story did.

War ensures losts. Victories demand sacrifices. And the price to pay was always his love.

Zhongli would like to believe that had you died of a natural cause: sickness, accident or of old age where he would have held your aging body, he could’ve had the strength to let you pass on.

Rex Lapis would have had your funeral handled by the esteemed WangSheng, and took your passing as another promise to meet on the other side.

But Morax knows, he could never really.

Never let you go, even after thousands of years and all that you know had returned to the soil. Even when the truths of history had been forgotten by the people and you are nothing but a distant whisper to this land, a footnote to his folklore.

Not even now, when every winter is a reminder of the way he held your cold body against his chest, “I worry about you.” You told him with a supposed to be parting smile, how pitiful must he be for a dying mortal that had not even lived half their life to worry about him. 

“Why are you saying goodbye, my love? You aren’t supposed to say goodbye, not yet. It’s much too early,” He tells you with a broken laugh, the war is over like you had asked of him the first time. He is an archcon, the land is his to rule and care, and you are supposed to live many many peaceful years with him, but here you are the embers of war digs its claws in your frail body and had robbed you of life.

 Why does the war take and take and take and he who fights only lose things that he keeps to heart? 

He doesn’t relent, even if it means breaking the laws of nature itself.

Even when you wake in spring, and you look at him with those empty eyes and ask who he is. At Least you’re here, still there somewhere and it might take thousands of years and more, when the mountain has crumbled against time, one day he believes that you will wake again with love in your lips and warmth in your hands.

#yandere zhongli #zhongli x reader #zhongli x you #yandere zhongli x reader #yandere genshin x reader #yandere genshin impact #geshin impact #genshin impact x reader

[ariel-seagull-wings]

MARIA GOMES (BRAZILIAN TALE)

@princesssarisa @astrangechoiceoffavourites @the-blue-fairie @superkingofpriderock @metropolitan-mutant-of-ark

@darasuum @amalthea9 @gravedangerahead

A widowed man had so many children that he could neither feed nor clothe them properly. Almost always, at mealtimes, one of the children was hungry. The father lamented his misery and, lacking other help, decided to abandon one of his children in the forest. He made a draw and it fell on his little daughter Maria, who was very intelligent, beautiful and hardworking. The man tooked the girl to the forest and left her under some araçá trees, recommending that she be guided by the blows of the ax with which he was going to cut down a tree to extract some honeycombs from the bees. Maria stayed, stayed, stayed.

The hours passed and the day was getting dark when she heard a knock. He tried to walk towards the sound and found only the gourd tied to a branch. The wind was what made it beat and caused the noise. Seeing herself lost, Maria walked, walked, walked and, at dusk, climbed a tree and from there she saw the roof of a house. She went down and walked until she came across a very old house, almost in ruins, in an open field that scared the most courageous. Very tired and hungry, Maria walked around the house, entered through a wide door and saw that the walls were full of musical instruments and there was a hammock set up in one corner. The girl held a violin and played, played, played. Suddenly, a table appeared covered with steaming and appetizing delicacies.

A mysterious voice said:

– Maria Gomes? Dinner is on the table!

Maria had dinner at ease. When it was over, the voice was heard:

– Maria Gomes? Your room is the last one in the hallway!

The girl found a room prepared with everything, very comfortable, with clothes to change and objects of use. She layed down and slept peacefully. Many weeks passed. The girl played music and during the day,  tidied up the house, cleaning it. She didn't see anyone. Only the mysterious voice directed the service. One night, the voice informed:

– Maria Gomes? Your father is sick. Do you want to go see him?

– Yes I want! – said Maria Gomes.

The voice continued:

– Tomorrow morning there will be a saddled white horse waiting at the door. Inside that drawer is a lot of money. Take as much as you want for your family. Be very careful to obey two conditions: first is not to say where and how you are living. The second is to attend to the horse's snort. When he gives the first snort, say goodbye to everyone. Hearing the second, be halfway there and at the third place your foot in the stirrup. If you lose the horse, there's nothing more I can do. Do not forget this!...

The other day everything happened as the voice had taught. Maria found the horse, seaddled, mounted it and in a minute was at her father's house. The old man got better as soon as he saw her and received a lot of money, and they were all delighted with the visit of the girl they thought was dead and devoured by wild beasts. In the middle of the conversation, Maria heard the snort of the white horse. She immediately embraced her father, brothers and sisters, refusing all offers, and ran to the road. She had said nothing about her life, although she was questioned a lot. At the second snort of the horse, the girl was very close to the animal and, as soon as it gave the third signal, Maria puted her foot in the stirrup and was transported quickly to the mysterious house in the middle of the forest. So other times passed.

Twice Maria Gomes visited her father. On the last occasion the old man, already quite broken by age and illness, died. Maria cried a lot, clinging to her brothers. She was sobbing so loudly that she didn't hear the first snort of the white horse. Sensing the second, she ran like a bullet but the third snort didn't reach her ready to mount. The horse left and Maria Gomes continued running after the horse, screaming, calling and crying. She was already exhausted by the time the animal returned, covered in foam, and stopped waiting for her to mount him. 

– If you didn't run after me I would come back to kick you to death.

Said the enchanted horse. The other day the voice explained:

– Maria Gomes? You have already served me a lot. Now I must help you and complete my lot. Dress up as a man and ride the white horse from which you will never be parted and listen to all the advice he gives you. It will be for your and my happiness.

The voice was muted. Maria slept. In the morning she dressed as a man, filled her pockets with money, mounted the white horse and galloped to a nearby kingdom.

There she sought employment, and, being robust, well-made and pleasant, speaking with ease, found the position of gardener in the King's palace. The prince camed every morning to look at the flowers and talk to the gardener, with whom he turned out to be a close friend. Without knowing why he was falling in love with the young men. The gardener's eyes were like two jewels. The prince said to the old queen:

Dear mother of my hearth,

Gomes' eyes kill, 

Of woman yes, of man no! 

The old queen dissuaded her son from that impression, but the prince persisted, persisted, persisted, increasingly inseparable from Gomes. Maria Gomes had put the horse in a manger in her room and would not go out without him. She never rode another animal, despite the prince's offers. The latter kept repeating that Gomes' eyes were a woman's eyes. The old queen advised:

– Take Gomes on a hunt. At rest time, set up the hammocks under the big jasmine tree that is enchanted. Flowers fall on women and leaves on men. In the morning, you can see where the flowers fall... The prince went with Gomes to hunt. They set up their hammocks in the evening, under the jasmine tree. The prince fell asleep soon and Gomes later. The flowers fell into Maria's hammock and the leaves into the prince’s. The white horse, who was close, approached, neighed and the flowers fell on the prince and the leaves on Gomes. In the morning the prince looked like a bride or an angel, all dressed up in jasmines. He was disappointed and returned to the palace without knowing the truth.

The old queen gave another orientation: – Take Gomes for a swim in the river. There is no way you won’t find out... 

The two friends went to the rive. The prince immediately jumped into the water and Gomes slowly undressed, as the horse had told her. When she was left with only her shirt on, the horse began to jump, snorting, throwing kicks and stomping across the field, forcing Gomes and the prince, who was naked, to run to calm him down. When they did, Gomes was wet with sweat and the prince was very tired. The old queen chose another path: 

– Invite your friend to lunch at the palace. If is indeed a woman, them she will sit in a low chair and wait for the soup to cool.

The prince invited Gomes and he went to listen to the horse, who explained everything to him. At lunch, Gomes chose a high chair and ate the hot soup. The old queen was not discouraged: 

– When you two are talking, in a circle, shake an orange for him. If is indeed a woman, used to the skirt, she will open her legs to have more space and better catch the fruit. If it's a man, then he'll put his legs together. 

The horse, who guessed things, warned Gomes. They shook the orange and Gomes squeezed her legs. 

Them, the old queen later spoke: 

– There's only one way left. Sleep one night in the same room.

The prince invited Gomes to work at the palace and extended it for so long that the fake boy was forced to stay in his friend's quarters to sleep. The prince waited for Gomes to fall asleep but the girl resisted all night. So still the second time, but in the third time, unable to keep her eyelids open, she slept. The prince ran his hand over his friend's bust and found the swell of her breasts.

– I knew very well that you were a woman and not a man. Since I am in love, prepare yourself to marry me. 

In the morning Maria Gomes went to where the horse was and told him everything. 

– I know perfectly well. My time for freedom has come. In a few days it's June 13th, the day of Saint Anthony, my godfather. Ask the old king to schedule some cavalcades for that day, inviting everyone. I will come and take you with me because your betrothed is me! 

Maria Gomes was overjoyed and went to ask the old king to announce some cavalcades, with a game of rings, for Saint Anthony's day. The old king, who was very influential in these parties, invited everyone and prepared a huge arena, with bleachers for the nobles and families to watch. On Saint Anthony's day, the arena was full of people. Countless knights attended, dressed in luxury. Just as the joust began, an unknown knight appeared, covered in silver, magnificently mounted, and ran the rings with all the others, easily winning them. He brought all the opponents and put the rings on the king's lap, making him very flattered.

The prince found the knight very unsympathetic and did not applaud him. On the second day, the knight returned, dressed in gold, and defeated all oponents, giving the rings to the old queen. On the last day, the knight, wearing diamonds, defeated all the opponents and placed the rings on the prince's lap, who turned his face away to not make the bow of thanks. At that moment the knight threw a blue ribbon at Maria Gomes. She held one end with her toes and the other end with her lips, closing her eyes, as the horse had told her days before. Instantly she found himself on the back of the horse the knight was riding.

King, queen, prince, people, all ran to arrest the kidnapper but no one saw nothing beyond the dust. The knight galloped up to the old house. He stopped and brought down Maria Gomes. As soon as she landed on the ground, there was a crash and the mansion was transformed into a beautiful palace, resplendent with lights and full of servants, nobles and chambermaids. Maria Gomes married the knight, who was the enchanted horse, and they were happy like God with the angels.

#brazilian folklore #literature #fantasy #folklore #folk tales #fairy tales

[dwellordream]

*raises her hand* Do you have any particular idea on how the children of Jaehaerys and Alysanne could have turned out if they had all been born genderbent? Assuming they have some of the same flaws and/or personalities they show in F&B? For example, would things be 'easier' for 'simples' male Daella and Gael, or would a male Saera's behavior be less condamned? Would a male Maegelle still be sent to join the Faith, or another daugher instead? And what other issues could arise in the succession?

Only doing the kids who survived to adulthood:

Aemma Targaryen, eldest surviving daughter pf Jaehaerys and Alysanne, is probably extremely close with her younger sister Baela. Probably marries Boremund Baratheon, only three years her elder, son of Rogar and Alyssa, and rules as Lady Baratheon alongside him. Aemma is a serious and curious child who loves to read and has a very modest and obedient personality.

Though initially nervous around dragons eventually claims the dragon Caraxes which raises the potential problem of her Baratheon children eventually trying to claim their own dragons, which House Targaryen might be a bit leery of depending on the political situation.

Her and Boremund probably have a happy marriage and have one child together, Rhaenys, who will be the first lady of Storm’s End in her own right since Argella Durrandon. Killed at age 37 by Myrish pirates while helping oust them from Tarth on dragonback, to her husband’s anguish.

Baela Targaryen, secondborn surviving daughter, is very close with her elder sister Aemma despite their very different personalities and is probably known for being a bit of a wild tomboy with an interest in swordplay and jousts.

Maybe participates secretly as the mystery knight the Silver Fool at a tourney at Old Oak, before being unmasked. Claims Vhagar, last ridden by her great aunt Visenya. Marries her younger brother Aelyx and are known for their passionate relationship and two sons, Viserys and Daemon. Dies at age 44 of appendicitis after a hunting trip in the Kingswood.

Aelyx Targaryen, eldest surviving son and heir to the Iron Throne, though his mother Alysanne initially argues strenuously that Aemma is the rightful heir as the eldest child. Not regarded as particularly handsome unlike his elder sisters with his big ears and crooked nose, but seen as dashing and charming in personality all the same, known for his quick witted remarks and rebellious spirit.

Often clashes with his father Jaehaerys as he is far from the dutiful heir and often is found sneaking out into King’s Landing to mingle with the common people. Claims the dragon Meleys, who he jokes is his only mistress, the Red Queen, as opposed to his Silver Queen, Baela. With Baela he has two sons, with Viserys being regarded as the obvious heir to the throne should Aelyx die before his father Jaehaerys.

Maegel Targaryen, second son, is known for his gentle nature as opposed to his brash elder brother, as well as his intelligence. Could have become an archmaester but is devoutly religious and insists on becoming a septon instead, though his parents would have preferred he married and sired children. Never had much interest in combat though he was taught to defend himself. Refused to carry arms as a septon besides a wooden staff.

Known for his powers of healing and his compassion for all people, as well as his refusal to be addressed as Prince after taking vows. Very close with both his parents and helps reconcile them twice after vicious estrangements. Very close to his younger brother Daelon growing up. Dies at age 34 after nursing children with greyscale.

Vaella Targaryen, seventhborn child, is promised to the Faith at a young age, which suits her just fine as she has no interest in men or marriage. Regarded as less attractive than her older siblings and known for having a particularly sour personality, who spent nearly all her free time in the library. Despised dancing, dressing well, embroidery, and most of the other more ladylike arts.

Often remarked she would have become an archmaester if she were permitted. Eventually became head of a large motherhouse in Oldtown and was known for her passion for mathematics, astronomy and her dabbling in alchemy and the arcane arts, to the disapproval of some of her fellow septas.

Daelon Targaryen, eighthborn child and third son, was known for his small stature and simple nature, as he seemed to still have the personality and interests of a young boy well into his adult years. Was considered a sensitive, delicate, and shy little boy who had no ability for arms, a terror of horses, and could only read haltingly.

Was often the subject of his proud father’s frustration and shame, though his mother adored him. As neither the Faith nor the Citadel would take Daelon, Jaehaerys threatened numerous times to send him to the Wall. Was often tormented by his mean spirited younger brother, Saeron.

Despite his ‘inadequacies’ was still considered a potentially attractive match for his Targaryen blood and right to the throne should Aelyx and his sons die before Jaehaerys. A match was negotiated between him and Lord Rodrik Arryn’s daughter Amanda. The marriage produced no children and it is doubtful it was ever consummated, but he and Amanda were said to have gotten along well and Daelon lived peacefully at the Eyrie for the rest of his life.

Saeron Targaryen, ninth child and fourth surviving son, was considered courageous, clever, and handsome, but also demanding, manipulative, and cunning. Thrived on attention and usually lashed out when he didn’t get what he wanted. Was often said to ‘joke’ about wishing he were the eldest son or even the only child of his parents, who felt neglected by.

Tormented his brother Daelon and played various pranks on all of the Red Keep, but was also said to have started drinking alcohol at age eleven and was frequently drunk at sept services and feasts.

Known for attracting a clique of ‘favorites’ as a teenager and eventually known for having deflowered both Perianne Moore and Alys Turnberry. Alys Turnberry wound up having a bastard daughter, called Saera Hill for her father, to Jaehaerys’ displeasure.

Into his twenties Saeron clashed so frequently with the king and his elder siblings that eventually he was unofficially banished from court and took off for Lys, where he made a living as the owner of a popular pleasurehouse and numerous slaves. It was often rumored he’d briefly spent time as a bed slave himself. Sired three bastard sons in Lys who all went on to their own wealthy careers as merchants.

Viserion Targaryen was the tenth child and fifth surviving son, who was known for his handsome looks and sly vanity, as well as toying with most of the young ladies at court. Often insisted he would make an excellent Hand someday. Once proposed he wed his niece Rhaenys and rule as Lord Baratheon, earning him the wrath of Boremund.

Fearing he would prove another Saeron a match was arranged for him to the widowed daughter of Lord Manderly, much to his displeasure. He died after a drunken nighttime horse race before the marriage could take place, at only 16 years old.

Gael was the thirteenth and last child of Jaehaerys and Alysanne. He was a frail and small little boy and known to be simple minded, called the Winter Child or the Winter Prince. Jaehaerys was said to react with disgust when he heard Gael was still sleeping in his mother’s bed at age twelve. At the age of nineteen he was said to have been seduced by a traveling singer. When the singer abandoned him, Gael drowned himself. His death was said to have broken his mother.

Ultimately the Iron Throne was inherited by Viserys, son of Aelyx and Baela. He wed Rhaenys as his only female cousin, with the plan that their first son would inherit the Iron Throne, and their second would claim Storm’s End.

#yamiquietshadowflo #ask #house targaryen #jaehaerys targaryen #alysanne targaryen

[scotianostra]

On June 16th 1807 Rev. John Skinner, poet, theologian and Episcopalian minister of Longside in Buchan, died.

I always love posting about Skinner as it gives me an excuse to post the song preformed by  Dougie MacLean

The story behind the song goes that the Reverend was visiting in the house of a lady named Montgomery, in the town of Ellon, Aberdeenshire, the lady is said to have asked for a song after dinner, in order to put a stop to a political dispute round the table, at the same time she is said to have expressed surprise that the fine old strathspey, called The Reel of Tullochgorum, had no appropriate words to it. On this hint, Mr. Skinner produced the present song, and it was first printed in the Scots Weekly Magazine for April, 1776.

Rev. Skinner, though brought up in a Presbyterian household, joined the Episcopal Church in the late 1730s. This was no small decision, as it cost him his schoolmaster’s job. He had to move to Shetland securing the post of private tutor to the Sinclair family. Happily, it was also where John met his wife, Grissel Hunter. By the time their first son was born in 1742, the Skinners had returned to the mainland and John had been ordained at Longside.

These were dangerous times, however, as government troops attacked all Episcopal churches and manses, believing the whole denomination to be on the side of Bonnie Prince Charlie. Skinner himself was no enemy of the Protestant Hanoverian monarchy, yet this meant nothing to rapacious soldiers intent on destruction. In July 1746, following Culloden, a local informer brought the Redcoats to Longside; it was said she was seen exulting as Skinner’s church was razed to the ground.

With no church, the minister preached from the manse to small groups of his congregation sitting in different rooms or standing in the garden, all to evade the legal restrictions against Episcopal services. In 1753, again due to this particular female informer, Rev. Skinner found himself imprisoned for six months at Old Aberdeen. It is little surprise considering he wrote scurrilous verses against his persecutor, describing her as a ‘shrine-destroying Jezebel’, after the Pagan queen of Israel. In 1760 things began to improve; George III was far more tolerant of the Scottish Episcopalians, leaving Skinner to continue his ministry in peace.

Tullochgorum, which contains the lines ‘Let Whig and Tory all agree’, represents John Skinner’s amazing capacity for tolerance, but also his wit against the proud and foolish. Skinner makes clear his distaste for those who would be ‘oppression’s tool’ and declares ‘May envy gnaw his rotten soul/ And discontent devour him.’ He lived to see his church freed from persecution, yet experienced the sorrow of outliving his beloved Grissel, who died aged 80. 86-year-old John died peacefully on June 16, 1807 in Aberdeen.

Come gie's a song montgomery cried And lay your disputes a' aside What nonsense is't for folks to chide For what was done before 'em Let whig and tory a' agree Whig and tory whig and tory Whig and tory a' agree To drop their whigmigmorum Let whig and tory a' agree To spend this night in mirth and glee And cheerfu' sing alang wi' me The reel o' tullochgorum Tullochgorum's my delight It gars us a' in ane unite And only sumph that keeps up spite In conscience i abhor him Blythe and merry we'll be a' Blythe and merry blythe and merry Blythe and merry we'll be a' And make a cheerfu' quorum Blythe and merry we'll be a' As lang as we hae a breath to draw And dance till we be like to fa' The reel of tullochgorum Let wardly worms their minds oppress Wi' fears o' want and double cess And sullen sots themselves distress Wi' keeping up decorum Shall we sae sour and sulky sit? Sour and sulky sour and sulky Sour and sulky shall we sit Like auld philosophorum? Shall we sae sour and sulky sit With neither sense nor mirth nor wit Nor ever rise to shake a fit To the reel o' tullochgorum? May choicest blessings aye attend Each honest open hearted friend And calm and quiet be his end And a' that's gude watch o'er him May peace and plenty be his lot Peace and plenty peace and plenty Peace and plenty be his lot And dainties a great store o' them May peace and plenty be his lot Unstain'd by any vicious spot And may he never want a groat That's fond o' tullochgorum But for the discontented fool Who wants to be oppression's tool May envy gnaw his rotten soul And blackest discontent devour him May dool and sorrow be his chance Dool and sorrow dool and sorrow Dool and sorrow be his chance And honest souls abhor him May dool and sorrow be his chance A' the ills that come frae france Whae'er he be that winna dance The reel o' tullochgorum

#Scotland #scottish #clergyman #Church minister #poet #songwriter #writer

[everlarkficexchange]

The Principal

Prompt 37: Forbidden romance AU: Katniss is the school principal. Peeta is a new teacher fresh out of college. Age!gap Everlark. Smut happens. [submitted by @mrspeetamellark]

Author:  JHsgf82 

Rating:  M (may go up for the next part) 

Word Count:  5,336

Author Note:  Edit by @mrspeetamellark​​.  Thank you!  Quote is by L.M. Montgomery from Anne of Green Gables.  Okay, so I preface this with, I’m not a smut writer.  I’m branching out into this territory, but I’m still quite inexperienced, so go easy on me.  Due to lack of time, the smut scene is pretty short, but I plan to write a much more extended one, several, actually, in the next part (s).  I hope you enjoy it!   

Trigger Warning:  Age gap/age difference, Older!Katniss.  Both adults.  

Katniss strode down the familiar halls of D12 to her office, her father’s old, brown, leather satchel slung across her shoulder and a single muffin in hand, which she’d bought from this nearby bakery she’d decided to try out.  She wore a black boatneck tank beneath a long, ribbed green cardigan (left unbuttoned), black dress pants, and belt.  

At 30, Katniss was the youngest principal in the history of D12 and one of only two female principals.  Her female predecessor, two principals ago, Ms. Lucy Gray Baird had been an inspiration to all, and though Katniss never met her, she felt her influence everyday.  For one, her eye always caught Principal Gray Baird’s picture on the wall‒her dark, curly hair pulled up in a bun, makeup on her face, and smiling.  And two, she’d heard Lucy Gray Baird could sing like a bird and likewise led students to frequently place in All-District (or higher) choral competitions as Katniss had done when she was a teacher.  

But Katniss didn’t participate in those things anymore.  And as for Ms. Gray Baird, well, some said she was alive, but no one knew exactly where she’d flown off to after she retired.  Whether she was off somewhere living peacefully, or dead, strangely, Katniss felt as though her spirit roamed these hallways‒and Katniss was not a supernatural or superstitious kind of person.  

Two years ago, Katniss was offered the principal position.  It was a great honor, and although she hated leaving her teaching position, she couldn’t decline it.  Since she’d become principal, Katniss had implemented some good changes, so she thought, and she truly hoped her father would be proud of her.  

Katniss prided herself on being authoritative, firm but fair, and decisive.  She trusted her gut instincts when making decisions in work and in her personal life, and normally, she made good ones.  Last night, however, was not the best decision of her life, and she’d already caught some heat for it this morning.  But, to quote one of her favorite authors:  ‘[Today] is a new day with no mistakes in it…yet.’ 

Once settled into her office, Katniss brought up her email and her schedule.  She was to meet with the new teacher in only ten minutes.  It didn’t leave her much time; she could either quickly send out a few emails that needed to be sent and scarf down her muffin or save the muffin for after the meeting and deal with the hunger gnawing at her insides. 

Fortunately, Katniss was something of an expert on hunger‒not life-threatening hunger, but she knew what it was like to do without and forego her urges.  Again, not last night.  Last night seemed to be the exception to all rules pertaining to Katniss Everdeen.  What she had experienced last night was similar to what she was feeling now, albeit entirely different‒last night’s hunger had nothing to do with food. 

With a sigh, Katniss dug into her temples.  This was neither the time nor place to be thinking about last night’s escapade, but she couldn’t seem to help it.  As her hang‒headache wore off, more details kept coming back to her, and she felt herself reclining back in her chair a moment.  There was nothing wrong with a little daydreaming, a quick fantasy, although work was not the best place for it; but perhaps, it would sustain her throughout the day.  Resist.  She squeezed her eyes shut, commanding her hippocampus to shut down its function, gripped the arms of her chair, and leaned forward resolutely. 

As she attempted once more to focus on her work, that other type of hunger, actual hunger, pricked at her, urging her to take a big bite of the muffin. 

Great.  In a matter of seconds, she’d thought about the very two things she’d vowed not to‒the muffin and last night.

Satisfy it. 

At least the former.   

Hoping to satiate her stomach, Katniss reached out with pinched forefinger and thumb, thinking she’d just tear a little off the top, but then…no.  She didn’t trust her urges lately, even if last night had been incredible.  She needed to learn, or re-learn, how to control them, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant.  So, she ignored the muffin.  This would be an exercise in self-control.

She returned to the e-mails. 

Not long after, her assistant chimed in over the phone’s intercom, “Miss Everdeen, Mr. Mellark is here.” 

Pressing the button, she talked into the speaker, “Thank you.  Send him in.” 

When the broad, blond man stepped through the doorway of her office, Katniss felt all the blood drain from her body.  Her eyes widened, and her mouth, all of a sudden drier than cotton, dropped open.  Realization dawned on his face, too, his pale eyebrows shooting up and his body going stiff.  Much like hers.  Katniss felt as though she had a ramrod stuck up the back of her shirt for as straight as she was sitting up.   

Oh no, not him.  

But it was him, the man from last night, the man she took home with her after a chance encounter at a bar.  In a flash, those memories her brain had been sorting out, which she’d so deliberately been trying to subdue, came rushing back at her, assaulting her.  And the night’s events unfurled before her eyes in a montage of flirty conversation, sexy looks, sensual touches, lingering kisses, and...sex, incredible sex. 

Katniss felt pinpricks stabbing her all throughout her chest; she could barely breathe.  Inhaling and exhaling, slow and steady, she placed a hand over her rapidly beating heart, urging it to calm down, as if that would do a thing; then, she fumbled for the water bottle in her bag.  She located it and took a quick swig, kind of wishing it was alcohol‒although, look at the mess that got her in…

“Are you alright?” he gently asked.  She glanced back up at him. 

On second look, yeah, it was definitely him, the very same blond man she’d had in her bed less than 3 hours ago.  What was his name…?  It started with a P…something to do with bread…  Shit.  She couldn’t even remember his name! 

But it was even worse than that.  Not only did she sleep with a man who was now her employee, but he was six years younger than her!  

Oh God, was this going to be her legacy now?  Screwing the younger teachers?  She could just imagine the whispers and the looks she’d get, what the parents and her colleagues would say if they found out…  

As for him, he didn’t seem wholly un-phased, although he looked calmer than her.  He was just standing there watching her, his cheeks slightly ruddy and his hands tucked sheepishly into his pockets.  

“F-fine,” she choked out.  But she wasn’t.  This situation was anything but fine.  And what kept reverberating in her head was:  ‘How could I have been so stupid?’  It was stupid enough to get intimately involved with a guy she just met, one much too young for her, while intoxicated, but for him to be a teacher at her school…!  Okay, so she didn’t know that then.

Pushing aside her ignorance over who he was…but yes, there was that.  She really should have known.  Upon recollection, he’d said he was a teacher; he’d even told her that tomorrow was his first day and he had an early morning meeting with the principal of his new school‒there were only a few schools in this area…  She should have pieced it together, or at least, been more cognizant of the warning signs.  

Why had she done it?  Well, all she could really say was that she’d wanted to lose herself last night.  And it had been nice, more than nice.  Last night, she’d realized how starved she’d been for human affection.  For touch.  Closeness.  Had it really been so long?  Or, maybe it was his specific touch she’d been craving?  No, that was foolish. What kind of useless drivel was her mind formulating now?  This is what she was reduced to when she was hungry.  

But how could she have even entertained the notion in the first place?  How did it even begin? Oh yeah, she remembered now…she’d been in a shitty mood, had a bit too much to drink, and he was hot.

Thinking back, Katniss recalled their eyes locking across the bar, and she’d done a double-take, then a triple-take, then a slow observation up and down his body, what wasn’t blocked by the bar, anyway.  She’d planned on leaving it at that, as a look-but-no-touch kind of scenario, because this guy was clearly younger than her, and frankly, she just wasn’t in the mood.  Or, so she thought.  But he had other plans…

Katniss watched him stand from his seat, take his drink and napkin, and approach her.  She swallowed down the lump in her throat at the enticing sight of his lower half which had been previously hidden from sight.    

“Is this seat taken?” he asked.  Polite or cliché line, whichever the case, she didn’t have any fight left in her today, so she merely shrugged.  He was good-looking, and he smelled nice, like a masculine aftershave (a rain-soaked wood perhaps) and strangely, also like cinnamon and dill.

‘Okay, this is fine, so long as he isn’t a talker…' 

He was a talker. 

But Katniss rather enjoyed the velvety sound of his voice, and he seemed nice enough.  He was clearly working subtle flirtations in, and though she appreciated the ego boost, it was best to cut it off before he put in too much effort.  

She was direct, so she went with a blunt tack.  

Katniss sighed, exaggerating her annoyance with him.  “Go away, little boy. Go home to your mother.  I’m sure it’s way past your bedtime.“  This young guy was hot and obviously interested, which was flattering, but she was in such a shitty mood that she didn’t even care if he thought her a bitch. 

"Ouch.”  He grimaced yet seemed undeterred.  Boldly resting his hand on her arm and leaning in to where his lips barely brushed the shell of her ear, he whispered, "I promise there’s nothing little about me." 

Katniss couldn’t help it; she burst out laughing.  "Really?  Is that the line you’re choosing to go with?”

Still, he didn’t seem discouraged.  “I admit it’s not my wittiest remark, but I get better with time."  He shot her a little wink.  

Cheeky kid.  

"How old are you?” she asked.  

“24." 

"I was right, just a child.”

“Last time I checked, the age of legal adulthood was 18." 

Katniss scoffed. "What are you, a lawyer?"  Not her wittiest remark, either.  

"No, a teacher.”

Huh. Small world.  

If only she knew then how very small, indeed…  

“So, how old are you?” He rested his chin on his knuckle, making him look even more boyish.  She couldn’t deny he was cute.  

“You’re not supposed to ask a lady that,” scoffed she.  

"Alright, then how about I guess?"  She rolled her eyes as he went off in his head.  "Mmm…27?”

“You’re sweet, junior.”

“Thanks, but I prefer ’Peeta.’"  He stuck out his hand, and reluctantly, she offered hers.  

"Katniss.”

“Katniss,” he repeated, tasting her name on his lips like it was a fine wine or something.

This guy was good.  He’d kept her talking and gotten her to introduce herself.  He hung onto her hand, placing his other atop their clasped ones, trapping hers there.

“Well, Katniss, so you’re older than me."  He shrugged.  "You look young, and it doesn’t really matter to me, anyway."  

"Why not?”

“Because you’re beautiful.  I’d know; I have an eye for beauty."  He flashed her a perfect smile.  "Why don’t you let me buy you a drink?  It seems like you’ve had a rough day, and I could use one, too.  No harm in having one together, right?” 

She eyed him suspiciously. 

“Look, I’m not planning on getting sloshed; I’m just a little nervous about my first day of work tomorrow, so I could use a little something.  Keep me company?  I promise you’ll barely have to put up with me at all.”

Smiling faintly, Katniss nodded. 

Yes, he was very good.  Persuasive.  Incredibly persuasive.  He’d persuade her of a whole lot more that night…

Even knowing where it was inevitably leading, they’d taken their time at the bar, chatting about a little bit of everything but nothing really.  Peeta (that was his name) kept touching her in a manner that was just enough to get her engines revving but not enough to make her uncomfortable.  

And Katniss had thought, why not?  Why not give herself a little treat?  She made it sound like she’d gone for an ice cream at Dairy Queen rather than dragged a young, hot guy she just met home, but at the time, it hadn’t mattered.  She’d impulsively decided to live a little, for once.

And he was good, so very good. 

They’d barely made it in the door before they were tearing at each other’s clothing, lips roaming, bodies pressed up against each other.  They’d slammed into a couple of surfaces before he picked her up and she wrapped her legs around his waist.  He’d carried her off to her bedroom, which took her a moment to remember where it was.  He’d covered her body with his, propping himself up slightly, and she’d ground her hips up and into him while he teased her center and tasted her tongue, then her breasts, then moved lower. 

He’d eaten her out, and after, he’d pressed her up against her headboard; she’d had to grip it tight and hold on for the ride as he swiftly entered her from behind.  Then, when he was ready, he’d flipped her over onto the bed and slipped inside her again, lacing his hands with hers and thrusting strong and steady until she reached completion a third time.

By the end of the night, they were sweaty and spent, and she was a little hoarse. 

But she recalled how it wasn’t all fast and rough.  He’d also been tender with her, brushing the hair out of her face, peppering her face with little kisses, and whispering sweet nothings into her ear while he spooned her.  

But all that fun was over.  Now, it had come back to bite her in the ass. 

First off, Katniss had woken feeling disoriented, and a bit sore.  When she remembered (the gist of) what had happened, she’d been mortified, but at least the mystery guy with the odd name had had enough sense to be gone when she got up.  

Good, she’d thought.  Saved her the embarrassing conversation of having to kick him out.  

At the time, it had seemed like a better idea to go to her place than his.  He would know where she lived, yes, but if he tried to murder or harass her, that’s where her neighbor came in. 

Her cranky old neighbor, Haymitch, was a cop, when he wasn’t drunk, that is.  Katniss imagined him to be like one of those rogue cops in the movies and TV series, who wasn’t afraid to pop a cap into someone who deserved it when the criminal justice system failed.  And for some strange reason, he’d taken a shining to her.  Most of the time they mutually despised one another, but occasionally, it was as if he flipped a switch and decided to be pleasant, and he could even be protective of her.  He’d hollered and acted crazy once to get rid of a guy for her, even pulled his badge on another crazy boyfriend.  And if all that didn’t work, at least she had a weapon under her bed.  

Speaking of crotchety, old Haymitch Abernathy, she’d passed him in the hall while he was stumbling out of his door for this morning’s paper, and he’d accosted her…   

“Ya really shouldn’t be dragging strange men home from bars, sweetheart.  S’not safe.” 

“Didn’t know you cared, Haymitch,” she said dryly, folding her arms.  Although, she did.  He was a textbook type, putting on a tough façade, acting as if he didn’t care about anything or anyone when actually he cared a lot.  

“Sure,” he shrugged, “you’re like the daughter I never had‒and never wanted.”  He added the last part with a slight curl of the lips.  

“Gee, thanks, Haymitch.” 

“No problem.”  He scratched the back of his head and cleared his throat.  “So, I take it this one was okay?” 

Katniss rolled her eyes.  “Yeah, he was okay.”  More than okay…  “He even left without me having to tell him to.”  She tapped her fingers against her arm.   

“Ah, a smart one.  However, I do have a complaint.  Y’all made quite the racket last night!” 

“Haymitch, god!” Katniss groaned.  She pressed her fingers into her temple.  They did; they really did‒she was surprised they hadn’t broken her bed‒and she was trying hard not to smile about it.  Not in front of Haymitch.  “Please, please do not talk like an overprotective parent one minute then comment on my sex life the next.”  

“Then keep it down, why don’t ya?!” 

God.  Well, now he knew about her one-night stand.  Oh well.  Not like he’d say anything to anyone, and he was the least of her worries.

Back to the matter, and the man, at hand.

Peeta Mellark, the new teacher, stood in the middle of her office as if he didn’t dare come closer without permission.  He was dressed in an orange and white striped button-down dress shirt tucked into navy pants, and he wore a navy tie.  His ashy blond hair was gelled and slightly coiffed.  

He looked good. 

He’d looked good last night, too, more casual, dressed in a slightly form-fitting baby blue Henley and jeans, and his hair had fallen in waves across his forehead.  Last night, he’d been cute and hot and fun; today, he was handsome and distinguished, and he’d suddenly aged five years.  Katniss couldn’t decide which look she liked better on him.  Both were attractive in their own right…but no, she absolutely should not be focusing on his looks right now, or ever. 

Composing herself, she finally beckoned for him.  “Mr. Mellark.  Have a seat.” 

He sat down, threaded his fingers together, and gave her a tentative smile. 

Well, he certainly was much less confident today.  Not that she could blame him; she was rather a jumble herself.  She supposed she’d better address the elephant in the room.  

She sucked in a breath and swallowed the lump in her throat before proceeding.   

“Sorry, I, uh, didn’t realize it was you.  I couldn’t remember your name at first.” 

Good one, Katniss.  

“Ouch.”  He gave a little chuckle.  “Well, I remember everything about you, Katniss.  Like, you have one sister; your favorite color is green; you love to get out into nature and go hunting, and you’re obsessed with hot chocolate and love to dip your bread in it.”  

Well, they had covered some informational ground last night, hadn’t they?

His sexy grin returned, and just like that, the ice was broken, and he was the same cheeky, charming, albeit slightly smart-mouthed man she remembered from last night.  

“Are you trying to be romantic or piss me off?” she blurted out.  

“Neither.  Just saying…” 

“By the way, you should address me as Ms. Everdeen or Principal Everdeen.  And we’re in a meeting.”   

“Excuse my informality, Ms. Everdeen,” he stressed her name.  How was it he could sound both contrite and like a smart ass at the same time?  “I suppose it is much more appropriate if I call you that here.” 

What was he inferring?  That he might address her differently elsewhere?  That they might actually associate with one another outside of school ever again?  Their night together had been fun, amazing, really, but that was over.  Even if she wanted to see him again, it was now forbidden… 

Damn it all if thinking of it as ‘forbidden’ wasn’t getting her all hot and bothered.  She squeezed her legs beneath her desk, digging her nails into the arms of her chair to ground herself.  

She inhaled and slowly exhaled.  “Yes, it is.  Thank you, Peet-Mr. Mellark.”  

Katniss still couldn’t understand what in hell was the matter with her.  And how had she not put two and two together last night?  She supposed it was because she hadn’t been on the hiring committee when he was hired; she’d only seen him as Mr. Mellark on paper.  And they’d only exchanged first names last night. 

Plus, she’d been stupid and horny.    

“By the way, how’d you sleep, Ms. Everdeen?”  Peeta gave her that sassy little smirk of his.  

She scowled at him.  “Never you mind how I slept.”  

Peeta chuckled.  

He was on dangerous ground.  If he kept laughing at her, he was gonna get his cute, tight little ass fired.  But then again, she couldn’t really do that.  She had no legitimate reason to fire him.  Sexual harassment, maybe, but she certainly couldn’t not claim that without coming clean about what happened between them.  

“You know, I wanted to greet you properly this morning, but I had to get going.  So sorry to just leave a note.” 

Yes, she recalled his note.  It was…a little sappy for her taste, but sweet.  

Katniss sighed and rubbed the back of her neck.  All of a sudden, her shoulders felt tenser than ever and that small twinge from before had become a gigantic pain.  

“Did you injure yourself?” He wasn’t laughing or smiling this time; he seemed genuinely concerned.    

“No,” she snipped.  She had, but she wasn’t going to admit it to him.  She certainly wasn’t going to tell this young, twenty-something that she’d pulled a muscle having sex with him.  How humiliating that would be.  Granted, it was probably made worse from sleeping on it the way she did, but the initial pull came from the sex.  It made her feel much older than she was, and he seemed just fine.  Bodies truly didn’t seem to function the same in the thirties as in the twenties; it was like an invisible line was crossed.  “It’s nothing,” she told him.  “Just a crick.”  

“Oh, I’m sorry.”  He paused.  “You know, there’s a remedy for that.” 

“Oh yeah?” She eyed him suspiciously, waiting for the inevitable pick-up line‒an offer to massage it for her or something.  And dammit, she was getting turned on again!  

“Heat,” said Peeta.   

Oh.  She internally berated herself for her lusty thoughts.  What was worse was that now she couldn’t get the image of him massaging her out of her head.  

“There is also massage, of course.”  He flashed her that brilliant smile of his. 

Damn mind reader!  

With a sigh, Katniss drummed her fingers several times on her desk.  Okay, this would be fine.  It was over and done with, and they could begin a new, professional relationship‒so long as he got it through his head that this wasn’t fun and games.  

“Okay, let’s get something straight, Mr. Mellark.  This can’t happen.” 

“What can’t?” 

“This.”  She motioned between them.  “You…and me, whatever.  Not again.” 

“Oh, so we are going to talk about it,” said Peeta, crossing one leg over the other.  

“I think we need to.  Because this…I don’t know…this flirtatious talk and those smiles of yours can’t continue.” 

“I can’t smile at you?”  Peeta’s brow furrowed, and he placed a hand on his chest. 

“Not like that, no.” 

“I was just being friendly, Miss Everdeen.” 

“No, you weren’t.  You know what you were doing; you…nevermind.”  She placed both hands on her temples and rubbed.  Once she’d dug in really good, she covered her face with one hand, dropping the other to her desk.  Suddenly, she felt his large, warm hand cover hers.  

When she looked up, Peeta was leaning forward.  Her gaze flickered between his bright blue eyes and his hand covering hers.    

“I’m sorry to cause you stress.  I promise I won’t make things difficult for you.” 

“Thank you.”  Katniss’s words came out with a gust of breath.  “I appreciate that, Mr. Mellark.  Thank you for being mature about this.” 

“Uh, yeah, no problem.”  Peeta removed his hand and used it to scratch the stubble on his chin.  She couldn’t help drifting back to the way that stubble had felt against her inner thighs…  

“I mean, what happened was a complete coincidence,” he continued.  “No reason it should affect our positions here.”  He dropped his hands to his lap and folded them.

“Right.  So, then…”  She perused his file.  Thank God she was a speed-reader because she hadn’t had the opportunity to learn about him in a professional capacity, as she should have been doing, last night.  “I see you have your Master’s in Elementary Education.  And hm, seems you come highly recommended.” 

Peeta’s hand had raised to partially cover his mouth, and she thought she caught the slight upturn of his lip.  Was he laughing at her struggle to keep her composure, or…She swore if it was because she’d said ‘come’ she was going to reach across her desk and slap him, consequences be damned!  He said he would be professional! 

But really, what did she expect?  He was young and most likely, immature, and she had just banged him last night.  He probably wasn’t taking her seriously right now, at all. 

“What?” she snipped. 

“Nothing.” 

Peeta was eyeing her muffin now.  Did he really have such a short attention span?  How did he ever make it through school, let alone become a teacher?    

“I hope you enjoy the muffin,” he commented.   

“Thanks.”  What a strange segue.  

“You know, I was going to make you breakfast this morning, but since it was your place, I didn’t want to overstep my bounds by rummaging around in your kitchen.”

How thoughtful.  But overstep his bounds?  Well, they were both so far out of bounds last night that the boundaries weren’t even visible.  

“Plus, I had to leave early for this meeting with you, which I didn’t know was with you, since you never gave me your last name last night, and I was only told I would be meeting with Principal Everdeen.”  He gave a sardonic little laugh.  “What are the odds?” 

“Glad you find this so damn funny, Mr. Mellark.” 

“Not funny ha-ha, just kind of ironic.  Not great literature-ironic or anything, but interesting.” 

Katniss huffed.  “Mr. Mellark,” she chided.   

“I know I’m supposed to address you by your title, but you can call me Peeta if you want.” 

“No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

“Well, then I suppose suggesting a rain check on breakfast would be a bad idea?” 

“Yes, it definitely would.” 

Peeta nodded.  “Well, at least you have the muffin. Do me a favor and tell me how you like it.”

“Alright…"  She sighed.  How odd.  Then again, Peeta didn’t seem like the typical guy. He’d made a lot of…quirky remarks last night.  “But let me remind you, this is a professional meeting.” 

“Of course.”  

Before she could go on, Peeta interrupted.  

“But you have to admit, it is a bit ironic, isn’t it?” 

Katniss folded her arms on her desk and dropped her head to rest on them a moment.  “Peeta…,” she began in a warning tone when she raised her head.  

“You’re not at all glad to see me?” 

“No, Peeta.  Sorry, but I’m not.”   At least, not here she wasn’t.  “This is horrible.  It’s not ironic, and it’s not fate, unless you count it as a cruel joke of the universe, if you believe in that sort of thing.” 

At the look on his face, she huffed in exasperation.  “How can you not be as mortified as I am?  It’s worse for me, but how do you feel knowing you fucked your boss the night before your first day of work?” 

“Well, I’m not ashamed like you are, and I can brush it off.”  Apparently, he couldn’t.  “Two people met in a bar; they liked each other; they hooked up; it’s no big deal.” 

“Maybe not for you.  But can’t you see how this changes our whole dynamic?” 

“Only if we let it.”  

Katniss sighed.  He made a good point.  Perhaps he was wiser and more mature than she gave him credit for, even if he wasn’t acting it right now.  Maybe if she started treating him more like a colleague and a man rather than a kid. She certainly saw him as all man last night.     

“Alright.”  Peeta casually folded his hands in his lap.  “What is it you’re concerned with?” 

“I don’t want anyone to know we know each other, let alone that we had a…physical involvement.” 

“Fair enough.”  Peeta nodded.  

“And you’re to always address me by my title, not my first name, and definitely not by any of those little pet names you were spouting last night.” 

Peeta laughed.  “You didn’t like them, huh?  I guess it was a little much; I just get…chatty when I’m turned on.” 

Katniss rolled her eyes.

“Sorry.”  He cleared his throat.  “Anything else?” 

“I also want you to know that what happened last night…that’s not me, or something that I normally do.  Ever.” 

Peeta nodded.  “I didn’t figure you for the type.  And neither am I, if I’m being honest.” 

Katniss pressed her lips together. 

“So, may I ask–and I’m not fishing for a compliment here, but‒what was different about last night?” he asked.  

“Well,” Katniss heaved a sigh. “I was in a crappy mood last night, a really, really crappy mood.  I don’t want to get into it; it’s personal, so let’s just leave it at that.”  She thinned her lips  “I was upset; then there was the alcohol, and you were…”  There.  It was more than that, of course, but she wasn’t going to stoke his ego further, nor add to the inappropriateness of the situation by saying how attracted she was (still is) to him.  Not like it would come as a surprise, given her enthusiasm last night.  “Nice to me.” 

Again, Peeta nodded. “I see.  Well…”  He raised his broad shoulders and paused as if he didn’t know what to say next.  “I hope I made your night better.” 

Katniss couldn’t help it; she snorted.  “Um,” she picked at her nail, grinning slightly.  “You did.  You…definitely did.”  She looked up then, the smile falling away.  “But I meant it when I said we should be professional, so I think this should be the very last this topic is ever brought up.” 

"Anything else?" 

"No, I don’t think so." 

“Okay, then, let me see if I have this straight. You are Ms. Everdeen or Principal Everdeen to me, and I am Mr. Mellark to you. We’ve never met before today, but we have a mutual respect for one another and a purely professional working relationship.” 

“Right.  Very good.” 

“Well, I do have a very high IQ.  It’s in my file, you know.” 

Again, she rolled her eyes.  

“I think we have an understanding.”  Peeta reached out to shake her hand, and when she touched it, she felt that same bolt of electricity she felt last night.  “And I promise to be completely respectful and professional from here on out.” 

#JHsgf82 #mrspeetamellark #prompt 37 #Springtime Edition 2021 #submission

[totallyexhausted]

So, I am re-watching Danny Phantom and the idea of Lancer caring for an ill Danny crossed my mind after I read all the ones I could find. I also toyed with Danny’s powers; him being able to change, obviously, but also seance and see dead spirits (and ghosts; leaving spirits and ghosts as separate entities) walking around. Basically, I upped the rating on Danny Phantom and combined Klaus Hargreeves powers with Danny’s own abilities.

Also, I’ll say, and maybe it’s the song I’m listening to, or the fact that I was reworking Greenberg and Coach from TW, but I got the picture of Danny showing up at Lancer’s door, high off his ass mumbling about Sam, Ghosts, and other teenager things.

…………………………………..

Lance Lancer had never seen a kid so sick, nor did he remember his own son ever being this ill. Danny groaned loudly, curling further into himself, his arms tightly protecting his stomach as his nails dug bloody indents on his forearms. He was shivering, his ghost sense going off every few minutes, creating a barely visible burst of cold air biting back against his sweaty flesh. He clenched his eyes shut as he tried to forget about the spirits flooding the room. As he tried to forget their voices, their screams, their hands brushing over him as they pleaded for him to look. As they begged for him to help.

Lancer bit his bottom lip as he pressed his hand harder against the 17-year-old’s shaking front shoulder, his other trying to work through some of the knots plaguing the boy’s shoulder blades. He shouldn’t have this many tight muscles, this much stress forced in his back at his age… and the fact that Danny seemed to curl tighter into himself, straining his muscles further every time he took a slow, shallow breath, worried the English teacher more.

The teenager groaned again, clenching his eyes shut tighter as he swallowed quickly, letting out a shaky breath. He stilled, hoping his lack of movement would help ease the nausea stampeding through his body and after taking several slow breaths, he relaxed. He hated being sick… not that anyone loved puking their guts out for hours, let alone in someone else’s home, but his ghost sense always made him on-edge, unable to sleep peacefully or unwind. Every spark of Ghost-breath as Tucker called it, sent violent shivers through him making it harder for his body to heat or cool properly.

The last time Danny remembered being this sick was a few days after the Accident. He’d been on a famous “Fenton Family Vacation,” which was just code for some lame ghost-convention his parents attended every year, forcing their two kids to cram in the RV for a 12-hour car trip to some middle-class hotel. Usually, Jazz and Danny occupied their time exploring the city or making fun of the people who attended the convention. But since the Accident a few days before, for Danny, the family vacation turned into 3-days of complete feverish hell as his body tried to figure out how to survive with only half an immune system, half the person he used to be.

There wasn’t much to remember from that experience except cold showers, endless puking, aimless wondering in some sauna-type hotel as Danny tried running from himself, and the vague memory of leaning against his father several times as his mother coaxed him to take whatever foul-tasting liquid she wanted him to drink. Whether or not his parents actually attended the convention, or if Jazz had explored the same boring city, Danny couldn’t remember. But he remembered his parents arguing, his sister cradling him to her chest on the bathroom floor, and at some point, crouching under the bathroom counter as he forced himself small, trying to hide from the green-eyed, white-haired kid in the mirror or the bloody, contorted people following him. Since then, sickness never came easy despite his immune system being half-dead or ghosted or whatever it was Tucker had told him.

The 17-year-old pressed his face against the comforter, lessening the pain shooting through his temples as the thought of puking again slowly began to evade, and his head welcomed the soft cool fabric cushioning the migraine eating away at his jawline. He was lying at the edge of the bed, curled into what had to be a pathetic sweaty ball, his knees pulled halfway to his chest as he braced his arms across his stomach. This was hell. It had to be. Because only some sick fuck would make him miserable, feverishly grasping what little reality he could hold onto, and so nauseous he couldn’t move, away from his parents with only Mr. Lancer as his only comfort. It was some kind of sick joke.

Danny’s stomach churned, and he swallowed hard, his hands clammy against his overheated skin, trying to will whatever else he could possibly still have in his stomach, back down. He stilled again, breathing shallowly through his nose, feeling his stomach relax slightly. He sighed internally, praying to God he was done puking as heat lit through his veins, and Danny lurched, retching loudly as he shut his eyes, willing for everything to stop. He had no strength left to hold himself up; his mind fuzzy and everything hard to piece together through sweaty nauseating moments. He whimpered as he lurched again, retching as bitter acidic bile spewed from his mouth, running down his chin, and the 17-year-old coughed harshly, tightening his grip across his stomach, and clenching his eyes shut as he struggled to breathe through the rest of it.

He felt something wipe across his chin and mouth, his stomach lurching further at the thought of the humiliation of being so exhausted and sick he couldn’t even be bothered to wipe any of his vomit away from him. Danny whimpered loudly, letting foul saliva pool from his mouth as his stomach heaved, hanging his head off the edge of the bed over what he had been hoping for the past two hours was a wastebasket… but considering Lancer had rapidly become more concerned with other ailments such as the teenager’s temperature or the tight muscles straining in his shoulders and back, the 17-year-old was willing to bet the dark wooden floor wasn’t pretty. He’d also been too scared to look, not wanting the guilt of Lancer having to clean up his vomit added onto the guilt and humiliation he already felt.

“Alright. Easy, Daniel. It’s alright… just let it all up. It’s alright,” Lancer said as softly as he could. He was pretty sure the kid was mostly delirious by now, his fever spiking as sweat layered on top of him, soaked through damp clothes and sheets that were plastered to the teenager’s pale skin. He couldn’t even hold himself up anymore, his face pressed against the edge of the bed while Lancer kept a firm grasp on his shoulder so the kid wouldn’t topple off.

Lancer pressed the disregarded and mostly warm rag from the nightstand against the teenager’s face; forehead, cheeks, neck, trying his best to mop up as much sweat as he could, trying to cool Danny off as much as he could without physically carrying him into the bathroom and forcing him under a cold shower. It wasn’t ideal, and Lancer knew from previous experience with his own son, it wouldn’t be pretty; but considering Lancer was currently in charge of the poor kid, he was willing to do whatever was necessary. He’d just never seen a kid so sick.

Lightening flashed outside as a branch scrapped against the glass windowpane, thunder clashing loudly as rain continued to beat against the old house. The small leak in the roof audible in the kitchen as tiny droplets fell against some crappy tin figurines his wife failed to take in the divorce. Lancer had always hated them… but he didn’t have the heart to toss them… or admit to himself that those stupid scrap metal trinkets were his last thread he had tied to her. His last hope that maybe she’d come back. But it’d been 12 years… and she wasn’t coming back. Neither was Charlie.

Danny coughed harshly, flinching as something cool touched the back of his neck, brushing sweaty sticky hair matted to his neck from his burning flesh. He felt like he was on fire. No, worse… his core was always cold, freezing almost; so, his temperature was lower than any other humans. So, the fire eating away at his muscles and memories, was excruciating.

He coughed again, wheezing slightly as his heart skipped. He had to be breathing faster than normal… hell, he was breathing faster than normal. Air sucked through achy lungs and forced out through a dry mouth as his heart tried keeping up the pace. He swallowed, pulling his knees further to his chest, shivering again as his ghost sense went off, and he opened his eyes slightly, wincing as the dark room spun in a multitude of blacks, browns, and dark purples. Red mixed against almost translucent flesh as faces inched closer, and Danny’s stomach lurched, hard, as his eyes met the contorted and split face of a middle-aged man in coveralls.

The teenager choked, swallowing loudly as his stomach cramped again, barely feeling Lancer’s hands trying desperately to work out the clenched muscles in his back. Blood dripped from the man’s face; his appearance split into two as his smile dropped in opposite directions. Normally, Danny could ignore it; ignore them… but it was worse when he was vulnerable. He couldn’t block them out. And to be completely honest, the past couple of months hadn’t been easy on him.

He and Sam had broken up before they ever began dating. Tucker had maintained under the radar both boyfriends and girlfriends while helping his childhood crush, Valerie, pick off the ghosts Danny had missed. They were still close, the three of them; but Sam had been more distant, avoiding plans with Danny when it was just the two of them… and deep down the teenager knew it was his fault. Everything was.

The 17-year-old bit his lip, blood coating his tongue as he buried his nails further against his flesh. Sam had almost died. She had been willing to sacrifice everything for Danny… and that was something Danny would never have been able to live with. He had fucked up. He had tried to help… and she had almost died. The faint tan scars still visible against her neckline, shining as a reminder in the sunlight and under the florescent lighting in the chemistry lab. Since then, she’d been doing her best to avoid Danny, and Danny let her. He couldn’t face her. He didn’t know how.

That had been months ago, but it still flooded the teenager’s mind every time he glanced in her direction. Every time their hands touched in chemistry… every time she forced a watered-down excuse past purple lipstick. The sigh. That sigh. She had been scared of him that night. He saw it. The fear plagued across her face. The horror. And Danny didn’t blame her because he scared himself nowadays too.

He felt colder than he had been in his youth, emotions concrete against things that troubled his peers. His demeanor seemed further away as he toppled over the puny shadow of his early years. He wasn’t a pushover; Dash didn’t come near him anymore… but he was still outcasted, marked freakshow as newer threats and tougher bullies appeared. Sam had borne witness to things Tucker knew nothing about; she had seen a darker side of Danny that the teenager tried so damn hard to hide. But it was getting harder… the spirits were bleeding through more and more, scratching his mind and haunting him with nightmares that kept the 17-year-old up most nights. Nothing was a comfort anymore. Not even his friends. Not even his sister.

The teenager’s stomach lurched again, and he felt cooper flood his mouth as he bit his lip harder, forcing his eyes shut, cutting off the images around him as the spirits continued to scream. He breathed through his nose slowly, feeling Lancer’s hand grip his fingers as he tried to pry the teenager’s grip baring against his sweaty flesh.

“Wuthering Heights, Daniel!” Lancer breathed, still trying to force Danny’s fingers away from his arm as the small bloody marks from his nails became visible. Despite visibly shaking, and his breathing coming in teeth-chattering waves, Lancer was surprised Danny’s grip remained resilient. Likewise, when Danny had grabbed his wrist in the hallway earlier, when Lancer had startled the teenager, his icy-blue eyes daggered towards him, watching the older man’s actions, his fingers tight and threatening around his wrist… Lancer had been taken aback by the teenager’s strength. Just like now.

The English teacher sighed, giving up and pressing his hand against the 17-year-old’s shoulder once more as Danny lurched, coughing harshly. Concern and sympathy ate away at Lancer’s expression; his own actions feeling clumsy and foreign as he tried to soothe the teenager as much as he could. As much as he remembered. But he hadn’t comforted his own son in almost 12 years… and Danny had become much more distant and independent over the past three. So, the comfort Lancer used to try and reassure the kid, felt awkward, just as the sickened pain written across the teenager’s pale face, looked wrong.

The lights flickered above, and Lancer glanced up, hoping he wasn’t going to lose power as that would add to his already worrying list of problems. Lightening cracked again, a tree in the front yard visible momentarily as a branch fell against the window, rain threatening to break glass, and the distant sound of a tornado signal blaring through Amity Park.

Danny whimpered loudly, clenching his eyes as voices cut through his skull, pounding against the pain enveloped in his forehead and cheekbones, trailing down his jawline and neck. The bed spun despite the teenager being curled into a tight motionless ball, sweat falling from his hairline as the smell of body odor reached his nostrils, and the 17-year-old gagged.

Lancer pressed a reassuring hand against the teenager’s shoulder, murmuring he’d be right back before rising, grabbing the lukewarm rag from the nightstand, and trashcan from beside the bed as he made his way towards the kitchen. After replacing the trash bag and running the rag through cold water, Lancer sighed loudly, pressing his hands against the counter as he watched water droplets forming through the small hole in his ceiling and ping against the metal statues harbored on the bar.

He huffed again, running a tired hand over his bald head as he stared at his reflection in the dark window. The electricity shut off as the lights flickered before the microwave beeped loudly as the powerlines fought against the storm. He didn’t need this. And if there was any type of superior being looking out for him, they’d keep the lights on. At least, Lancer would have one thing going for him then.

He sighed again, glancing towards the direction of his guestroom then back towards his reflection. It was nearing 5am, and despite the sun aimed to rise in an hour, Lancer doubted it would bleed through the storm that had showed no signs of letting up. He wished it would, wished the skies would clear… wished flights would take off because that meant Danny’s parents and sister could fly home. They’d be able to take better care their son… they’d know what to do. Lancer didn’t. He hadn’t been a dad in years… he hadn’t looked after someone in years…

Danny had been miserable all day, this had become evident to Lancer in 4th period as he berated the teenager for once again sleeping in his class. His cocky, sarcastic attitude pushing the English teacher to his limit as he awarded the 17-year-old with another days’ detention. But it hadn’t been until later that Lancer began to notice things he should have seen to begin with. The dark circles, pale complexion, the bloody nose, and red tint painted across sharp cheekbones; his voice, cracked and sudden, as Danny retorted sarcasm aimed to hurt… his stare gazing past whatever Lancer had been teaching, staring at nothing but looking at everything.

Lancer shook his head as he glanced down at the red coffee cup and abandoned bowl of cereal lying in the sink. This had not been in his Wednesday evening plans… then again, there was no way in hell Lancer was going to let the teenager go home to an empty house. Lord knows what could have happened, and the fact that Danny’s temperature had spiked in the night, confirmed any doubts the older man had of letting the kid stay with him until his parent’s plane landed, which had been grounded until tomorrow evening, at best.

The older man glanced back towards his reflection, catching sight of the radar flashing across the television in his living room, silently. The storm was huge, coming from the Gulf, pressure building from the North and East as it moved slowly over Amity Park. And it was only expected to get worse which was ironically befitting. Lancer had played with the idea of taking Danny to the Emergency Room several times within the past few hours; the only thing stopping him was the question of what was more dangerous: Danny’s illness or the storm?

Jack Fenton had argued while on the phone with Lancer that he had half a mind to rent a car and drive back, despite it being a 20-hour drive back to upstate New York. But much to the English teacher’s amusement, Mr. Fenton’s plan had been shot down from his wife in the background, asking Lancer the condition of her son. Danny’s sister groaning loudly in the background, yelling something about embarrassment. But that had been yesterday evening…

And now. Danny couldn’t keep anything down, not even the miniscule amounts of water Lancer had encouraged him to take to prevent dehydration. His fever had spiked from 102 yesterday to 104.8 through the night, and most of the hardened demeanor Lancer had come to expect from his pupil over the years, was vanquished within a matter of hours. The tough, fuck-you-attitude Danny had adapted, was replaced with the youthfulness of his age. Only 17. He was still a kid; scared, alone, and whether he wanted to admit it, trying his best not to cause his teacher any further inconveniences than he already had. And despite Lancer finding the teenager’s attempts admirable, he found himself at a loss of trying to convince not only the teenager, but himself, that he only wanted to help, to make the kid feel better. But Lancer was so far out of his parental element, and he’d never seen a kid so sick before.

It hadn’t taken long once Lancer had settled down for the night, warming his hands against a mug of tea, quietly watching the news, for things to take a turn. Danny had been rather quiet during the drive to Lancer’s house, slumped in the passenger side, forehead pressed against frosted glass and still mumbling in disagreement with whoever thought he needed a babysitter every couple of minutes. The 17-year-old had attempted to convince Lancer he was fine, that he felt better since puking in detention, and his parents were overreacting. And despite sloppily scribbling through his homework, half of which the older man was certain Danny hadn’t even bothered to read, the teenager remained sullen, flushed, barely touching the sandwich Lancer had offered.

After some time spent brooding in a chair at the kitchen table, Danny had apparently concluded his English teacher wasn’t going to take him home anytime soon. He seemed more compliant then, taking up to inspecting Lancer’s memorabilia instead, trying his best to leave everything exactly as he’d found it. The older man had admired how careful the 17-year-old had been when picking up photos or knickknacks, casting weird what-the-hell-is-this glances towards his teacher as he explored.

Something sounded to his right, and Lancer blinked, running another hand over his head as he cleared his mind. Most of the things taking up refuge in the old house were objects ghosted with the memories of previous family, previous love, a previous life. He had never had the heart to take them down… it was creepily comforting.

Lancer sighed, reaching for the water-soaked rag puddling on the counter as something moved in the corner of his eye causing the older man to jump. He turned, facing the 17-year-old leaning heavily against the wooden arch of the hallway, shaking as he pressed a hand firmly against the wall for support, the rest of his lanky form hunched.

“Great Gatsby, Fenton! What are you doing up?” Lancer advanced, his tone slightly harsher than intended causing the older man to grimace. The teenager looked fairly close to passing out, a hand on his stomach firmly, the other grasped at flat wallpaper. Sweat trailing down his flushed face, forming in droplets at the kid’s chin before melting into his sweat-soaked shirt. Red set high across the bridge of his nose, painting his cheeks as he opened his mouth to speak before closing it, confusion setting across his features.

Lancer made a move towards the teenager as Danny stepped back, his eyes wide as they observed the older man cautiously. The English teacher raised an eyebrow, taking another step forward, a sick feeling sitting in the pit of his stomach as the teenager recoiled once more. Lancer cursed softly, pushing his hand towards the 17-year-old slowly, his voice low and calm as Danny reeled back. Lancer hesitated, “I’m not going to hurt you, Daniel.”

Danny pressed against the wall as Lancer took another step forward, leaning a shoulder against the wall, his eyebrows furrowing together as he tried to focus on the swimming interior around him. He couldn’t breathe, the air around him sucked from tired lungs, voices piercing through his head as he raised a shaky hand to his ear, wincing loudly as the spirits around him grew louder. He clenched his eyes shut, feeling his body struggle against the wall supporting him as he jerked away, wincing again as questions pelted him, begging, pleading for his help, for him to look. Look. Look! Just look at what had happened to them!

“Daniel?” Lancer questioned quickly, stepping forward again as the teenager gasped loudly, forcing a hand against his left ear as blood began dripping slowly from his nose, his shoulder slamming against the ugly wallpaper, “Daniel? Danny! Hey!”

The 17-year-old felt something brush against his wrist, and he forced his eyes open against the harsh lights flickering above him. Everything was hot, confusing, mashed together in a nauseating off-kilter vibrancy that hurt; his legs refusing to support him, lungs unwilling to take air as panic took over as he tried to clear his head, as he tried to remember where the hell he was.

He grimaced, sliding against the wall as his legs fought to keep him upright. He felt wrong. Everything felt wrong, weird, gone. He swallowed, wiping his nose on the back of his hand, fear crossing his face as he pulled back, red sticky liquid coating his fingertips. Tears threatened to spill as he tried to catch his breath. This was his fault. Everything. And now he had blood on his hands. Sam’s blood.

Piercing cut through as Danny pressed a shoulder to his ear, crying out as the man in coveralls laughed, reaching towards him. Danny dropped to his knees, his fingers trembling as they slid down the wallpaper, forcing a picture of a little boy in a baseball uniform to the ground; the glass breaking around it as it smashed against the wood flooring. Tears clouded his vision as he glanced towards the photo, the blonde-haired kid morphing, mirroring Danny’s own reflection through splintered glass.

“No,” The 17-year-old choked, pulling the photo from the floor, glass splinters slicing his trembling fingers as the kid’s gap-tooth smile distorted. He couldn’t breathe; suffocating fear eating away at him as he realized he was gone. The kid in the photo was gone. Taken, dead, his soul split, lifeless as the portal had taken everything from him. He had died, leaving behind grief and broken disappointment. His friend’s hurt, bleeding out on the side of the road as Danny struggled to hold onto any humanity he had. As he struggled to save those he should have left long ago.

Blood dotted the photo, the boy’s face hidden by crimson, and Danny wiped his hand under his nose again, smearing blood across his face. The innocent boy in the photo was gone; he had killed himself in the Accident, left behind by evil contentment and a nightmarish reality that he’d never been good enough. He was broken, built in a sweetness that no longer existed, a black gaping hole where his soul was, under aching ribs, sweaty skin and a tormented, fucked up version of himself. A black pit of beautiful disappointment. An unlovable thing. He had become something unlovable, the portal killing the good and resurrecting the bad, and even that wasn’t worth much. He wasn’t worth much.

Danny gagged harshly, crumpling the photo in his hands as the leftover glass pressed into his palm. The floor swaying under his body as he grasped the wall for any support he could find. He wanted to go back; to be his parent’s innocent little boy again, to forget about the shitstorm around him, forget about the portal, forget about those he’d hurt, the blood he’d shed. But that was unfixable. He was. And unforgivable. He’d hurt Sam; hurt others, the blood of death splattered on what was left of himself, his human self. And in the end, he was the cause of everything; the collector of souls, the Grim Reaper labelled by Freakshow years ago. The bringer of death.

Lancer took another cautious step forward, crunching down before reaching once more towards the teenager as Danny crumpled sideways, slamming against the wall beside him. The older man faltered. Sweat glistened against the 17-year-old’s face as he gulped for air, his breathing harsh and sporadic as he pressed a trembling hand against his chest, eyes towards Lancer, clearly alarmed by his own breathing. He coughed roughly, doubling over as he caught his breath, and Lancer reached towards the kid, his fingers brushing against the sweat-soaked cotton fabric clinging to Danny’s shoulders.

The 17-year-old flinched, shoving his English teacher away from him harshly, wincing again as he pressed his shoulder to his left ear. He fell backwards, his knees failing him as he slammed against the wall, his head smacking against the small hall table. Darkness swallowed him momentarily, his hands shaking as the photo was crumpled tighter in his hands, letting out a strangled cry as the spirits towered over him, their eyes white, pupils missing as they shouted his name.

The electricity failed as the teenager recoiled violently, and Lancer swore the kid’s cold-blue eyes flashed green before the lights flickered back on, the light in the living room broke, glass shattering to the ground as Danny flinched, gripping one of the iron legs of the hall table, tightly. He eyed Lancer, his knuckles white against black, his forehead pressed against the cold metal, his breathing labored as he pulled his knees towards him in an effort to make his lanky form small.

The 17-year-old coughed, the sound hurting his chest, forcing his headache to crawl, spreading across his shoulders. He grasped at the metal leg of the table, yearning for more cold than the iron rod was willing to give as he sucked in breath after breath. He couldn’t think anymore, the heat had taken everything from him, had taken his core, leaving him with a spinning floor, voices flooding in dizzying waves, and the horrifying notion he was surrounded by death. He had died… the portal had stolen half of him, and now, the nightmares screaming at him, had killed whatever he had left. And the photo crushed in his hand was all he had of forgotten innocence.

Phantom had taken everything. And no one knew. No one understood. The beating, aching heart pounding in his chest was a lie. He was soulless; Phantom was soulless. Welcoming the darkness that swallowed the person Danny once was. And everything else, everything he did, was insignificant. His life was insignificant, a short dull buzz, a flicker. Just shit that happened and none of it meant anything. It was the flick on his lighter as he tried cupping his trembling hands against the wind, trying to spark one of the cigarettes he’d stolen from his father; the light fading, barely there; lighting what has killing him. Because no one wanted Danny Fenton. He was just a mask of stupid disappointment, broken and haunted by his past, damaged by unlovable fear. A shell of a person; a shell of a kid with nothing else to offer the world except the blood he was willing to spill. And then, life moved on.

Something pressed against his wrist, and the teenager yanked it back quickly, clawing at the back of his neck with both hands as he pressed his forehead against his knees, trembling as he tried blocking out all of them. Tried blocking out the tormented and lost souls swallowing him. He clawed again at the back of his neck, pressing his head between his sweaty arms as he rocked on his heels.

Something wet splashed against his joggers, barely noticeable against the heat plaguing him as the 17-year-old coughed. He clenched his arms over his ears as he realized he was crying, hard. He felt sick, wrong, the ghost sense no longer going off because he had nothing else left to give. Tears sliding down overheated flesh, meshing against black cotton as loud pleas left his mouth, the taste of blood sitting on his tongue. Something grabbed his arm, and Danny choked, “Please go away. Please go away. Go away. Go away. Go away...”

His parents would be disappointed. His sister would be a wreck. If they knew. Knew he had killed himself years ago; that the innocence that he once had, was gone; eaten away by the things his parents aimed to hurt. Danny Fenton had surrounded himself in a hypocritical tranquility; believing nothing past the Ghost Zone yet praying to God every night that there was a way out, a way away from himself, from Phantom. Because despite the good he’d done, bad followed him further, bathing his body in the blood of those around him. Sam’s screams, her tears, the fear she felt as Danny shred the last remaining hope of becoming more than the ghost killing him.

Some people deserved to die, and yet, he was the exception. An unkillable thing because the Accident had done that for him; and no amount of pills, cuts, stupid mistakes, or blood could take that from him. A cosmic joke of isolated soulless bullshit. The 17-year-old dug his nails harder into the back of his neck, coughing on the blood in the back of his throat as it smeared further down his chin. Tears mixed with the monster he’d become, crushing his heart as the reality of himself, the fact that no amount of water could wash away the pain he’d caused others, was coated in blood on halfa hands. An unholy thing.

Someone laughed, and Danny flinched, digging harder as something sticky coated his fingertips. The spirits were louder, yelling for him, scratching his skin as they tried forcing him to look; to look at their pain, to look at what had happened to them, at what he had done to them. The 17-year-old gagged as the scent of blood, dirt, and rotting flesh overpowered him. This was his fault. Their lives. Their souls. Death had collected those around him, pulling their individualities from themselves as the teenager tried to hang onto his. Danny was drowning in death, spirits shredding him, ghosts pulling him apart molecule-by-molecule as he constructed more damage than his parents ever could.

Air fell between his lips as his lungs refused to take any more. He couldn’t do this anymore. He needed his friends, his family- but they didn’t need him. They needed Phantom. Leaving Fenton as nothing more than a liability, a liar with cops and parents, a part-time substance abuser as he tried killing what everyone needed. Danny refused to move, pressing his body as hard as he could against the wall as spirits crowded him, ripping skin from his body, screaming for him to look at the damage around him, the lives he had taken.

The grip tightened on his arm, clawing at bruised skin as his world morphed and the ground hovered below him. He was pulled up, his body slamming against the spirits pulling towards him, no longer able to cooperate himself. He gagged loudly as he forced his eyes open, meeting the upside-down bloodied split face of the man in coveralls, an elderly woman praying in the corner, the back of her head blown off revealing dark grey matter.

Danny heaved as some of the grey matter fell from the woman’s white hair to her rosary, liquid meshing against him as the man in coveralls slapped another man, his head decapitating slightly, spewing blood across his vision. The teenager groaned as he glanced towards a German couple screaming at each other in the hall, the wall moving as hot fingers braced against the memories etched in the wood paneling and ugly wallpaper. He whimpered as he locked eyes with a small boy reading in the corner; the boy glanced up from his book and waved towards Danny as the 17-year-old wheezed.

Words passed his ears, muttered and useless as the pleas continued to pierce his mind. Red tears of pain he’d caused, spirits forcing him to look; their bodies distorted and warped as they screamed for the souls he had taken. The ones that had left him, a bloody and tormented ending of human life. His death was coming fast, Danny knew. He could feel it. A sudden drop-off from connection, any humanity left, falling moment-by-moment, a punctuating ending happening so involuntary fast as those would soon realize the monster he had become; realize the death he had collected. Danny retched weakly as the man in coveralls forced his head together, pain screaming from his mouth as lips that no longer wanted to meet, met, and hatred ate away at his features before the heat that fell from the 17-year-old washed over them, their bodies disappearing in the flames.

Danny gagged as the smell of menthol and stale sweat filled his nostrils, his head falling back further as a heartbeat echoed around him. Sweat trailing upward as blood fell back down in a disheveled passion, choking any air left, and the teenager’s body gave out. His eyes connected with the flames engulfing the man in coveralls, his disgust bleeding from his eyes as his face separated again before he disappeared in the fire. Danny whispered, “I’m sorry. I-I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I’m sorry I couldn’t save anyone…”

His vision failed as he continued floating through those he couldn’t protect… and death swallowed what was left.

……………………………………………………………………………………………

Danny had fallen asleep, and relief settled across Lancer’s features as he took another slow sip of his tea, leaning further back in the couch. The teenager had been pretty quiet, but his looks and constant moving had become a distraction to the older man as he tried re-reading Pride and Prejudice. It’d been a long time since there’d been a kid in his home, and Lancer had forgotten how annoying they could be despite wrangling them during class as he desperately tried to pour some type of education into his students.

Lancer set his book down, glancing towards the television as the weatherman showed another map of the storm outside, the pictures flashing silently across the screen as Lancer hit mute. He sighed as rain began to pelt against the roof, the shutters on his windows slamming against the old brick harshly, and thunder echoing around a few other houses in the neighborhood as wind threatened to tear down the old house. It was going to be a long night if the storm kept up and the damage was probably going to cost him a fortune considering his salary wasn’t worth a lot these days.

The teenager coughed, and Lancer turned to see the kid curled at the other end of the couch. His head resting on the armrest at an awkward angle, his knees drawn to his chest as he refused to take any more space than needed, as he tried to force as much distance between himself and his teacher as possible. He shivered slightly, and Lancer wondered whether he should have told his charge to take the guestroom or given him a blanket… or checked for fever. After all, the 17-year-old had been trying to convince the teacher he was fine over the last few hours, but something about him, something about his demeanor told Lancer otherwise.

Lancer sighed again, setting his mug on the coffee table, eyeing the pile of books crammed into the rickety wooden shelf as it slanted forward. He needed to fix it, to buy another one before it fell, or before the weight of the books forced it down. He swallowed loudly as his eyes met the ripped, yellowed copy of Catcher in the Rye, dust coating it as it lay on the top shelf, untouched and abandoned for years. Despite all the books Lancer had reread, all the books he spent his nights enveloped in, that one, that book, he refused to touch… refused to move, to think about, to reread. Memories sat in its pages, crushed between folded pieces of paper from being read over and over, and that was something Lancer didn’t want to revisit, to think about, to remember.

Danny shifted uncomfortably, and the English teacher leaned back again, pulling his book from his lap once more, opening to the page he’d left off on. Considering it was closing in on midnight, Lancer debated heading to bed, but he hadn’t reread Jane Austen in a while. And besides, with the storm raging outside, and a kid he would feel guilty about waking, the older man considered waiting to see if he would need to dig the flashlights from the back of his silverware drawer before making any further decisions.

The ceiling fan sputtered slightly as the lights flickered, and Lancer grit his teeth as the teenager shivered again, his teeth chattered momentarily. Lancer sighed. The situation was uncomfortable needless to say; but Lancer had been a teacher and dad long enough to know that kids were good at hiding things… especially Daniel as he always had some excuse for his tardiness, his absences… his injuries. And a simple cold could turn quickly because most of the students at Casper High were walking petri dishes. Besides, Lancer and Danny’s parents agreed it was best, if the teenager were to become ill, to be surrounded by someone who could look after him or take responsibility for him if he were taken to the hospital seeing as he was still a minor and given the circumstances.

So yeah, the situation was uncomfortable; and Lancer knew that pissed Danny off. But the Fenton’s had gone with Jasmine to visit several Universities, refusing to let their only daughter attend if they couldn’t ensure the campuses were safe from ghosts. An amusing and almost stupid idea but considering Amity Park had seen its fair share of ghosts, not ridiculous. Besides Lancer could understand the Fenton’s concern, their protectiveness over their children as he once had felt it too. He knew what it was like to want to hide your kids from the evil in the world… to protect them, to hurt anything that hurt them, to give them everything. But that was gone now.

The lights flickered again as the screen door slammed against the side of the house. Wind howling outside as the news channel flashed a weather advisory warning across the screen, and Lancer exhaled, setting his book down, and leaning further against the couch, crossing his arms over his chest, closing his eyes. It’d been a long day… like most. Lancer spent a good portion of his time trying to keep a classroom of 17-year-olds from laughing over the cringing dramaticism of The Mysteries of Udolpho. Considering most of the books he taught were classic romanticism or gothic, the English teacher understood he was faced with a level of immaturity from his students. After all, it was hard for 17-year-olds to fully grasp the concept of metaphorical and real monsters of society.

The other portion of his day was spent grading poorly written essays over whatever topic he had sought to assign his students for the week. Honestly, Lancer had come to the conclusion that the only capable student in his class, after Jasmine Fenton had graduated two years prior, was Tucker Foley. If only his intelligence would rub off on Daniel, Lancer would have very little to worry about. Clearly, the teenager was capable of decent grades as Lancer had always been surprised when Fenton passed an exam or book report. But he seemed more concerned in his peers, in his life outside academics, to give his grades the attention they needed. He wasn’t stupid, Lancer knew that… and considering he came from a family thriving on higher IQ’s than half the city, the English teacher was sure that if Danny put even a little effort in his studies, he’d have no problem climbing to number one in his graduating class just as Jazz had.

But Jasmine Fenton had been competitive; aiming for greatness through academics and challenging those who threatened her perfect GPA. Daniel, however, competed with his teachers, refusing their help as he challenged them, challenged Lancer on a daily basis. Danny’s comments and cockiness had become a problem in his classroom; his antics or clownishness, difficult, as he proved how very little he cared about his grades. And despite his attitude problem, the older man was almost certain the teenager suffered from ADHD, which would explain his inability to focus most of the time and his forgetfulness.

Today had been no different. And Lancer had given the 17-year-old several chances to correct his behavior, letting his less-than-quiet remarks slide under the radar as he continued teaching. But with the constant bickering between him and Tucker, the annoyed whispers from Sam, falling from his seat twice, and the inability to explain what page the class was even reading from, Lancer had had enough. He’d tried to push back, pointing his ruler in Daniel’s direction and explaining there was an idiot at the end of it; but this resulted in the teenager’s sarcastic question of which end? After the laughter had died down, Lancer retorted that the 17-year-old could find out in detention.

Normally, detention was Lancer’s chance to unwind; to bask in the quiet as he encouraged his students to take the time to go over their studies. But today had been different. Not only had the lights gone out more than twice during his 3-hour prison sentence, but Danny had seemed different than earlier that day. Distracted, his eyes out of focus, shivering, and his quiet, slumped demeanor. Usually, the 17-year-old was pouting, refusing to do any real work, or trying to rally those who shared detention with him. But today he just sat there, quietly tracing some type of drawing on his textbook with his finger, his head resting against his desk.

Lancer had let it go for a while… after all, it was beginning to become obvious something was wrong. But into the 2nd hour, the complete lack of motivation, had become annoying, eating away at the older man’s patience. The other students in the classroom had taken Danny’s character as an invitation to abandon their own work for better things such as texting, making paper planes, or horseplay. Through the 17-year-old’s melodramatic and pitiful attitude, Lancer was losing control of his classroom. That had been when things had taken a turn, going from long to endless.

The older man had risen, scowling the other students into compliance as he made his way towards the cause of his current problem. Lancer scoffed when the teenager didn’t even bother reacting to his presence, but continued tracing over the outline of Thomas Jefferson on his torn-up history textbook. And it hadn’t been until Lancer had slammed his copy of Northanger Abbey on the 17-year-old’s desk that Danny reacted.

He jumped, flinging his book from the desk as he jerked towards Lancer, a look of horror crossing his face as he straightened slightly. The older man crossed his arms, a stern look casted down as he raised an eyebrow while the teenager scrambled to grab his textbook from the floor, flipping to a random chapter. Lancer stood there for several minutes, ensuring Daniel was at least pretending to read the words in front of him, and to enforce his authority as the superior in the classroom to his other students. This didn’t last long.

Once he had situated himself back at his desk, opening his book to the last page he’d read, Danny had raised his hand. Lancer raised his head towards his pupil but ignored him and continued reading. After a few minutes, the teenager put his hand down but forced it in the air a few moments later. Again, the English teacher refused to acknowledge his student’s attempt to leave detention. Normally, Danny would give up and ride out the rest of his punishment, partially compliant. Lancer had learned this during the kid’s Sophomore year; refusing to acknowledge or give the teenager permission for whatever excuse he had, was the only way to ensure he completed detention without further incident.

Lancer watched from his peripheral as the 17-year-old dropped his hand, sighing loudly as he continued scanning the words in his barely passible history book; Lancer smiled slightly. Some quiet had passed, relaxing the mood in the room as the older man felt himself beginning to unwind from the day once again. A few seconds later, however, there had been a noise, and the older man had glanced up to see Daniel rushing from the room, his book once again smacked against the tiled floor. The remaining students had jumped, conversing amongst themselves as their eyes watched the open-door slam against the wall.

Lancer grit his teeth, a scowl crossing his face as he calmly rose, placing his book on his desk before glaring towards the remaining students. They straightened, returning to their tasks as the older man exited the classroom, closing the door gently as he traced over the small indent in the wall from the door handle slamming against it. He shook his head as he glared back inside the classroom to his students watching him before looking busy as the wooden door clicked shut.

Out of all his antics, Danny had never defied Lancer enough to leave. And something in his gut told the English teacher this was either a new low from the teenager or an incident that needed attending to. Lancer had hoped all that was needed was a harsh conversation and another week of detention, but as he rounded the corner past the lockers, the root of the 17-year-old’s behavior became evident.

The older man closed his eyes briefly, sighing loudly as he ran a hand over his bald head and made his way towards the kid. Danny was hunched over one of the trashcans in the hallway, retching loudly as his arms trembled slightly, threatening to bring him down from his own weight. He had expected the unpleasant smell of half-digested food, but what Lancer hadn’t expected was the warmth radiating off the teenager as he reached out to grasp his shoulder. Both him, and the 17-year-old gasped, and Lancer stumbled back slightly as Danny pushed him away, slumping against the wall as he slid to the floor.

Danny had landed with a small smack, and he groaned as he eyed his teacher before closing his eyes and leaning his head against the wall. He mumbled something that sounded like a half-assed apology as Lancer inspected his character. Pale, sweaty features set in a flushed undertone as pink ate at his cheekbones. The English teacher ran another hand over his head as he glanced towards his classroom, then back towards his pupil, before turning and advancing towards the class.

After explaining that he felt like cutting detention short due to the storm clouds forming outside, Lancer had gathered his belongings, slinging Danny’s tattered backpack over his shoulder as he crossed through the halls towards the teenager still slumped against the wall, pitifully. He knelt down, reaching a hand out to rouse the 17-year-old, his fingers brushing against his hairline as he made an attempt to check his temperature before the kid jumped. He grasped Lancer’s wrist, pulling it from him harshly, his fingers tight enough around his arm that the older man could feel Danny’s fingernails digging into his flesh.

The teenager’s eyes were locked on his English teacher; the warm blue turning cold and hard as a menacing look crossed his face. Lancer had opened his mouth to speak but closed it a second later as Danny tightened his grip. He’d been surprised by the amount of strength the kid possessed seeing as he always seemed lanky, awkward, and weak. And the threat crossing the 17-year-old’s face sent chills down Lancer’s spine as Danny blinked, releasing his grip before apologizing quickly.

The older man stilled, his eyes glancing over his student as the kid refused to make eye-contact with him. Lancer sighed, offering the teenager a ride home, only to find out that his parents had been out of town for the past few days and weren’t due back until later that evening. And after a very awkward but short conversation with the Fenton’s and finding out their flight had been cancelled due to the oncoming weather, Lancer was driving a pissed off teenager to his own house until his parents returned. Thus, claiming an uncomfortable situation which neither Daniel nor Lancer liked much. But the older man wasn’t a monster… and if a night of letting Danny occupy his guestroom until he was convinced the 17-year-old was fine was what it took, then the English teacher would bare through it.

Lancer sighed again, letting his mind drift as he felt his body relaxing, sleep creeping towards him. Outside, the wind ate away at the chimes and shutters surrounding the house, lightening sparking against powerlines as the lights wavered in and out. Thunder roared overhead, creating a low rumble through the old house as the imminent threat of a tornado loomed in the horizon. But silence engulfed the English teacher as the thought of just resting for a few minutes evaded his tired mind…

It hadn’t been the flinch that woke Lancer, but the loud crash of things falling. Panic clouded his mind as the thought of a tree crashing through the front windows washed over him as he jumped up, cursing loudly. He glanced towards the windows quickly to find them intact and instead turned his attention in front of him as another sound hit him. Heaving.

“Lord of the Flies!” Lancer remarked as he turned his attention towards the sound. The coffee table had been overturned, laying on its side, its belongings littering the floor. And the rickety bookshelf the older man had been wary of earlier, had fallen slightly; its shelves no longer apart of it as the books wedged between non-existent space had crashed to the floor, surrounding Danny as he struggled to breath.

Lancer made his way around the overturned table, crouching down next to the kid as he gagged again, vomit coating his sweatshirt, puddling on the floor below as sweat trickled down his temple. The older man put a steady hand on the teenager’s shoulder, running his hand between his shoulder blades as the muscles in the 17-year-old’s back spasmed between heaves. Lancer let out a slow breath, his voice low and calm, “Alright. It’s alright, Daniel. You’re alright, just get it up. It’s alright…”

The teenager tensed, breathing through his nose lowly as he spit foul-tasting salvia from his mouth, and concentrated on settling his stomach. He felt disgusting, sweaty and embarrassed. He could feel vomit squished between his fingers, and the fact that he had just emptied the contents of his stomach on his English teacher’s floor, mortifying. But considering he had forgotten he wasn’t home, and in attempt to seek out the bathroom, tripped over the coffee table, not only taking it and its belongings down, but falling against the bookshelf, bringing a pile of books crashing to the floor with him, was more humiliating than the acidic puddle in front of him.

Danny closed his eyes briefly, breathing slowly as he leaned back on his knees, scrapping a hand against his mouth and chin. He turned his head towards his teacher but refused to make eye contact because he was afraid of the expression on the older man’s face. The 17-year-old groaned inwardly, setting a hand on his stomach as he let the short silence pass over them; the television cutting off then flicking back on a second later.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Lancer asked softly as he glanced around at the state of his living room. Surely, the shelves or books had fallen on top of the kid when he fell, and given the state of the coffee table, Lancer was betting the kid had tripped over it or something. The splintered shelves could have cut him, or his foot could have gotten caught on the ledge, and injury wasn’t something the older man really wanted to add to his list of problems right now.

Danny was quiet for a while, making brief eye contact with Lancer before looking back towards the floor. He swallowed loudly against the hiccups forcing themselves up his throat and hunched his posture further. He looked downright miserable which didn’t help Lancer’s current situation. The 17-year-old swallowed again before muttering quietly, “Sorry, I’ll help you clean up… I’m sorry about all the mess.”

Lancer sighed, relief washing over him as the kid finally spoke. He ran a hand over his head as he bowed his head, trying to get the teenager to look him in the face, “That doesn’t answer my question, Mr. Fenton. Are you hurt?”

Danny froze for a few seconds before meeting the teacher’s gaze slowly. He shook his head, his body twitching slightly as hiccups still resonated through his chest. Lancer nodded, glancing over the kid quickly, looking for any visible injuries but finding none, and ran his hands over his knees before standing, exhaling loudly.

The wind howled outside, and the branches on the tree outside knocked against the window forcefully as Lancer glanced towards the clock hanging on the wall. It was around 2am, which answered two questions: Was he to be expected at school tomorrow and was he going to get any sleep tonight. The 17-year-old coughed gently, and the older man turned his attention back towards the teenager.

“Well,” Lancer started carefully, “Let’s get things cleaned up.”

Danny cast his gaze back towards the floor as he moved to pick up one of the books next to him. Lancer crouched down again, pulling the book from the kid’s grasp, “What are you doing, Daniel?’

The teenager glanced up slowly, “You said to clean-”

Lancer shook his head, cutting the kid off, “The state of my living room doesn’t concern me right now, Mr. Fenton. You, however, do. Despite what you and your friends may think of me, I’m not heartless.”

Danny’s expression shifted as the older man grasped the kid’s arm, pulling him to his feet. He put a hand on the teenager’s shoulder as he swayed slightly, an eyebrow raised as a silent question flashed across the teacher’s face. The 17-year-old swallowed and gave Lancer a weak nod before crossing his arms over his stomach gently, stepping around the chaos as he followed Lancer into the hallway.

He shivered harshly as his ghost sense went off, and his eyes danced over the photos nailed against the ugly wallpaper in the hallway. Pictures of family- of times no one at Casper High knew of; a different side of the English teacher never shown. Danny lingered on the photo of a young boy with blonde hair, a huge gap-toothed smile swallowing his face as he held his ice cream cone towards the photographer. Confusion crossed the teenager’s face as he glanced over some of the other photos, the blonde kid present in almost all of them… and a pretty woman in a few others, posing next to the kid. As far as everyone knew, Lancer didn’t have kids, and he wasn’t married.

His ghost sense went off again, and Danny shivered as he paused momentarily, the photos around him blurring together, spinning into a colorful mess as dizzying fatigue washed over him, his limbs shaking as they fought to bring him down. He made a slight noise as he glanced towards the end of the hall, towards a small boy hiding behind a half-closed door; his green eyes huge and alarmed as he watched the teenager. Danny swallowed, Lancer’s questions floating over him as the boy peered further out the door, motioning for the 17-year-old to follow.

The teenager made an attempt to move, the hallway spinning as the pictures on the wall melted together in an array of sickening colors, and Danny blinked slowly as several spirits began to crowd around him, blood forced from gruesome wounds. A sharp noise escaped his mouth as he glanced back towards the boy, only to find the doorway empty, the door fully open now. Chills washed over him as his knees gave out, and his ghost sense sparked again.

Someone grasped at him, a hand gripping his arm while another snaked over his torse, pulling him back on his feet. Black filtered through Danny’s vision momentarily as his body went limp before he groaned, looking towards his left as Lancer adjusted his grip on his torso, asking something Danny couldn’t grasp. The teenager’s feet dragged against the wooden floor as he struggled to gain his footing, but his legs felt clumsy and foreign. He felt like shit, weird, split into two, leaning heavily against his teacher as the older man led him slowly down the hall, towards the room that’d been previously occupied by a scared little boy.

The 17-year-old hadn’t realized he’d been deposited on a bed until everything stopped moving. The room swaying slightly but no longer spinning in a multitude of nauseating colors. Heat pressed against his body as he glanced over the side of the bed towards the boy he’d seen earlier, hiding behind the rocking chair in the corner. His eyes fixed on the teenager as cold air pushed past Danny’s lips, and he shivered again, turning towards the ceiling fan as his shoes were slipped off his feet, followed by his socks.

He groaned as Lancer pulled his hoodie over his head gently, forcing his arms from the sleeves, leaving him shivering against the warmth dotting against his skin. He was freezing. His ghost sense going off every few minutes, causing his body to ice, goosebumps breaking out over his arms as warmth rushed through him a second later. He blinked slowly, feeling something press against his forehead, and he squinted towards Lancer leaning over him.

“We need to get that fever down, Daniel,” He whispered, running his hands through the kid’s messy black hair. Danny groaned, tuning out his teacher’s movements as he turned back towards the boy hiding behind the chair, hoping that this was as worse as his night got…

……………………………………………………

Heat. Heat blistered against tired flesh and limbs that refused to move… and warmth. Warmth pressed against bruised flesh gently, killing the heat sweating against him, weighing him down in thick blankets. Warmth poured over him, comforting him, drowning the confusion and panic etched in his veins, and Danny suddenly found himself calling to his childhood memories.

“M-mom?” He whispered, his voice barely audible as it scratched past his throat, rough and raw. He swallowed harshly, trying to force his eyes open but finding the task difficult. His body felt heavy, weak, tired… he felt like he had gone several rounds with Skulker… or someone worse.

“Shh, don’t talk, Daniel,” Someone said softly, and Danny blinked slowly, squinting against the dim lights swaying next to him. He shivered as shadows danced around him, and he groaned loudly as he tried pushing himself up. Strong warm hands pressed against his chest, keeping him in place as any strength the teenager had, left him momentarily.

Warmth threatened to pull him under again, and Danny swallowed, his head lolling to his right as he forced his eyes to stay open against flickering, dancing lights. Something pressed against his temple, his cheek, his neck, dampening the fire momentarily wherever the warmth touched, lingering against his skin just long enough to cool the sweat clammed against his body.

Danny coughed harshly as he opened his eyes sluggishly, unaware he had closed them, and he glanced around disoriented, his neck aching from the little effort he put into turning it. His vision wavered slightly, and the 17-year-old groaned as he made another feeble attempt to move only to be stilled by calm hands.

“Just relax, Daniel. Otherwise, I might be obliged to add to your weeks’ worth of detention,” Someone chuckled softly, and Danny forced his eyes open again, “Mr. L’ncer?”

The 17-year-old winced as his voice met his ears, weak and small; the syllables barely leaving his mouth as his tongue felt heavy against his teeth. He swallowed, his mouth feeling cottony and thick as his eyes lazily met his English teacher’s face hovering above him; a stern expression settled on tired features.

The teenager groaned loudly, closing his eyes briefly as the room began to spin, leaning his head back as he listened to the silence surrounding him. A quiet popping echoing around him, and Danny squinted, noticing several candles sitting on the counter and next to him, their flames flickering wildly. Confusion crossed his face as Lancer leaned further over him, “The power went out a while ago, so I had to improvise as I couldn’t find any batteries for the flashlight.”

The older man held up the flashlight, shaking it gently as confusion continued to sit on the 17-year-old’s face. He blinked slowly as he tried to piece together everything. But it was hot. And he felt weird, sick, his mind a muddled mess of exhaustion; his headache still pounding behind his eyes. He tried moving again, sitting up slightly before being pushed back down gently as Lancer sighed, “I swear, Mr. Fenton, do you ever listen?”

Danny swallowed, doing his best to understand his surroundings. He sighed loudly, letting his head fall behind him as he slowly connected the dots. He was in a bathroom. More importantly, he was lying in a warm bath, shivering against the heat beaded on his skin. And more embarrassingly, Lancer was soaking washcloths in the water, pressing them against his face, wiping down the sweat that was forming on Danny’s body. It took him longer than he liked to realize his shirt was gone, gentle fingers pressing lightly against his torso, covering every inch of heat that surrounded the bruised and scarred flesh. Whether or not he was wearing further clothing wasn’t something Danny tried to think about, and if he had the energy, he would have protested this level of comfort. This level of embarrassment. This level of weakness. But he felt too tired, too sick, and too hot to care.

Something moved in his peripheral, and Danny peered at the end of the tub to find the boy from earlier sitting on the edge, his gaze still watching the teenager. He bent down slightly, his blonde hair covering his face as he touched the water before jerking his hand back and shivering. Warmth hit him as Lancer washed over his chest, and the 17-year-old squinted, his eyes still watching the boy, refusing to let his exhaustion overpower him.

The boy disappeared momentarily before returning to his spot at the edge of the bathtub, a rubber duck in his hand. He set it in the water gently, pushing it in Danny’s direction before smiling widely, his two front teeth gapped, three missing from the bottom. The 17-year-old stirred, pressing against Lancer’s hands as his eyebrows furrowed together, and he yelled, “Hey!”

The boy jumped from the ledge, fear setting on his face as Danny struggled against his teacher’s grasp. His ghost sense went off, goosebumps breaking out over his naked skin as the boy disappeared, and the teenager let out a strangled cry as he shoved Lancer’s hands away, leaning over the edge, water splashing to the floor as he scanned the hallway for the boy. The 17-year-old gripped the slippery ledge of the tub as he scrambled to pull himself up, water slapping against the ground loudly.

Lancer gripped the kid’s shoulders, forcing him back down as alarm crossed his face. He held the teenager down as the candles flickered, water soaking into his khakis as the 17-year-old continued to thrash. The older man let out a quick breath as he tried grabbing the kid’s attention, “Daniel! Danny!”

The teenager stilled, his gaze moving from the hallway towards his teacher as his nickname left Lancer’s mouth. The older man sighed softly as he felt the kid’s body relax, his grip loosening on the bathtub as the teacher eased him back down. The alarm that crossed Danny’s face earlier, vanishing as confusion set in, his head smacking once again against the back of the bathtub as exhaustion ate away at his features.

He exhaled loudly as Lancer pressed a washcloth against his forehead, leaving it there for several minutes before repeating the action. Danny swallowed softly, closing his eyes against the dimly-lit room as his teacher cleared his throat, “I’m sorry about the circumstances, Daniel. But your temperature spiked again causing you to pass out, and I had no other way of bringing it down quicker. I know it’s uncomfortable. My son freaked too.”

Danny turned towards his teacher’s voice but kept his eyes closed as his mind spun violently. He furrowed his eyebrows as he tried to understand the information, as he tried to recall the pictures on the wall in the hallway. He coughed, sweat dripping from his hair plastered against his face, “The kid…”

“In the photos. Yeah,” Lancer sighed, wiping across the teenager’s chest again before pressing another rag against his forehead, “He passed some time ago… a car accident.”

The 17-year-old’s eyes opened slightly as he met his teacher’s sad smile before his focus lazily danced towards the hallway. The boy stood there, leaning against the doorway as he fumbled with the zipper on the bottom of his blue jacket, worry flashing across his face as he met Danny’s gaze. The teenager swallowed again, closing his eyes as he turned his head away from the door, sweat rolling down his cheeks as it dripped from his chin.

“Hey…” He muttered softly as he tried calling the boy closer, as he tried to connect the dots. He felt like shit. Even after being extremely sick after the Accident, he didn’t remember it feeling like this. Then again, that had been 3 years ago… and Danny hadn’t really been sick since. But maybe that had to do more with Phantom. Maybe he’d left… leaving the 17-year-old as a barely alive thing. Maybe this was his immune system dying, the other half giving out as it had struggled to survive with half function over the years. Maybe this was the portal killing the other part of him, claiming what it had started.

Danny’s teeth chattered loudly as he shivered against the warmth, “I shou-should call my parents…”

“I assure you they’re fine, Mr. Fenton,” Lancer said calmly, rewetting a washcloth and pressing it against the teenager’s neck, “They’re just concerned, trying to find a quicker way back to New York… unfortunately, the storm is making that difficult.”

The 17-year-old swallowed slowly, confusion washing over him before swallowing again. He coughed, his throat raw and his mouth dry like sandpaper, feeling his mind slipping, the reality he could understand becoming harder and harder to grasp. Everything was muddled, fuzzy, hard to comprehend.

“I- I should call them,” He muttered softly, “Apologize for killing myself… they’re going to be-be so- disappointed in me…”

Lancer froze, alarm flooding through him as he choked. He watched the confusion on Danny’s face melt, his features relaxing slightly as moments passed. The older man turned the teenager’s face towards him, shaking his shoulder gently as he let out a sharp breath, “What? Mr. Fenton- what! What does that mean? Daniel? Daniel- Danny!”

The kid whimpered but other than that, showed no sign that he had even heard Lancer’s questions. The English teacher took a few slow breaths, closing his eyes as he forced the panic back down. Perhaps he had misheard… or the 17-year-old’s temperature was getting to him. Hallucinations and muddled speech were common, so perhaps, that’s all it was. Thoughts of a delusional and feverish mind.

Then again, Danny’s attitude had shifted over the years as he still maintained his cocky and sarcastic demeanor… but darker things lurked over him. Lancer knew the kid smoked from time-to-time, and he had heard from a few rumors that Fenton had become no stranger to weed or alcohol. Then again, the aspect of rebellion was fairly common in teenagers, and Lancer couldn’t see the Fenton’s letting their son get away with anything too serious. But perhaps they didn’t know… perhaps they didn’t know about their son’s newer habits. Or the fights. The grades. The attitude problem. The bruises or scars. Perhaps Danny was hiding his true self from them just as he was from his peers.

But it wasn’t Lancer’s place. Not exactly. Sure, he cared for the kid, as he did for many of his pupils. But Jack and Maddie had become neighborly to him after the loss of his son, and the divorce. They expected Lancer to keep Jasmine and Daniel on the straight-and-narrow when they entered high school… which Jazz was no problem… but Danny. Danny was a different story.

Every direction Lancer took, the 17-year-old steered in the opposite direction. And it seemed even worse the last couple of months. Lancer knew something had happened between Fenton and Manson… and Danny seemed really broken up about it. After all, he had overheard Foley’s comment that the two had begun dating… among other things. And rumors were they’d been caught in the Janitor’s closet several weeks prior… But for the past few months, both Danny and Sam could barely sit next to each other, let alone look at each other. And most of the flirting Lancer had come to expect from the two, was replaced with cold stares, harsh short comments, and feeble excuses as to why they couldn’t work together.

Something sounded behind him, and the English teacher jerked, turning his head quickly towards the hall, squinting against the flame’s shadow dancing over the dark doorway. He scanned the empty area before closing his eyes briefly, breathing slowly through his nose, allowing his thoughts to calm as thunder roared overhead. Most nights Lancer could swear his house was haunted. Haunted by the memories of his past, the memories of his wife, his son… the life he missed every day. But that was ridiculous. An idealization deluded from the minds of Jack and Maddie Fenton… and nothing more.

The lights flicked several times as one of the lightbulbs above the bathroom counter popped, before burning out. The TV in the living room spluttering to life, news blasted through old speakers loudly before silence and darkness once again evaded the small house. Lancer sighed, running a hand over his head, listening to the rain pelt against the roof. Despite it being close to 10am, the storm hadn’t ceased… in fact, it seemed worse with every passing hour which was ironically befitting given Lancer’s current situation, and Danny’s condition.

The English teacher sighed loudly, wringing another washcloth out before pressing gently against the teenager’s forehead, cheeks, and neck as lightening cracked against the house. The 17-year-old whimpered softly, his eyebrows drawing together momentarily before Lancer shushed him, forcing another rag against his forehead lightly. Despite trying his best to bring the kid’s fever down, the older man was more than certain he was doing little to cause a significant change in the teenager’s temperature. Or at least it felt like that.

When the 17-year-old had passed out in the hallway, collapsing against Lancer the second he was pulled from the floor, going limp in his arms as the older man tried his best to hold Danny as gently as he could, Lancer had been at a loss. But when the lights spazzed, the shutter door slamming against the entryway and the power gave out, Lancer was close to both panicked tears and self-consumed anger.

He’d been angry over the situation. Over the power going out, the storm wreaking havoc outside and forcing flights to ground. Angry with his own useless attempts to soothe the teenager he thought he could care for. Angry he hadn’t taken Danny to the Emergency Room earlier and angry, that in spite of everything, the teenager seemed to be getting worse rather than better. Panic had eaten away worry and concern, leaving fear racing through thoughts riddled with questions; his own parental instincts, despite having died long ago, blaring as every sound, every cough, every whimper, and every unconscious groan that whispered from the 17-year-old’s mouth, sent Lancer’s senses on high alert.

Something that had scared Lancer more than he could account for was the fact that the 17-year-old was crying, hard, and his temperature. The moment he was near, the heat melting off Danny was deeply concerning, sweat plastered down pale flesh, dripping in puddles down his face and soaked through hand-me-down clothes Lancer had given him earlier. The teenager had been on the verge of hyperventilating when Lancer pressed his hand against his forehead, worry and panic lacing his tired mind as Danny cried harder, pleading with fevered hallucinations to leave and forgive him.

The thought of which was worse, the storm or Danny’s illness, no longer a debate but a firm decided answer that should have been sought long ago. But Lancer wasn’t sure if he would be able to find his keys in the dark, the rain pounding sideways against the windows as it threatened to break glass… and even though it was early morning now, the sun having rose two hours prior, it was still black as hell outside. Lancer’s own attempts to calm the teenager were futile. He was out of his element… so beyond his own familiarity, and he had forgotten how to soothe his own child. Lancer needed help, he needed another adult, and Danny needed a parent, but the older man hadn’t been a parent in a long time…

…………………………………………………………………………………….

He wasn’t a hero. Because a hero wouldn’t do this. A hero couldn’t. And Danny Fenton was no hero. He’d shed blood through Phantom hands, ghosted in hellish torment as he sat, throne to bodies and souls collected at his feet. Human hands forever red with mortal lives, halfa instincts more dead than alive as Fenton became a facade for Phantom. A mask. A plaything. A puppet of normality and bitter resentment as Phantom was forced to live in a barely alive flesh suit. And now, only now, was the teenager hit with the realization that he was no hero. He’d never been.

He’d been a boy. Stupid and ignorant in childish idealization, playing make-believe, costumed in his parent’s clothes, pretending to be something more. Something better. But he wasn’t. He was joke. A harsh cosmic occurrence of puny humanity and preemptive temperament of selfish actions. Cocooned in the tranquility of his youth as he tried to convince himself that he was more than the blood dripping from halfa hands, that he was the savior of death instead of the bringer. But he’d been stupid. Weak. Pathetic. Insignificant. A joke.

Danny Fenton was a joke of unlovable fear and horrible outcomes. Death followed him. Shadowed by terrible posture and cold features. Sam had fallen for the wrong boy. Had loved the wrong boy. Fenton wasn’t a hero. He couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t save her… fuck, he couldn’t save anyone. He was just a stupid kid with stupid luck. A false identity born to humanity, mirrored from the reality of Phantom, a messenger, a front for what had killed him years ago. Fake bravery. Fake chivalry. Everything fake.

Ectoplasm oozed down his temple, sliding past his left cheekbone, gathering at his chin as sweat and dirt fell past, splattering against ashen snow and green puddles of forgotten souls. Blood pooling from open wounds, forced between busted knuckles and broken fingers as red stained white. Danny choked, his fingers pressing tighter across Sam’s neck as blood gushed from wounds he couldn’t close… from a death he couldn’t stop. From a love he couldn’t lose.

The purple haloed around Sam no longer vibrant or visible through dark crimson, eaten away by the innocence of her youth, and the immorality dripping from Danny. He wasn’t a hero. He wasn’t a good guy… and Phantom? Phantom couldn’t save her. Phantom couldn’t save anyone. Ever. But Phantom wouldn’t have done this… he couldn’t. Fenton had.

Fingers slipping from flesh, Sam’s necklace pulled from her neck as Danny fought for a better grip, forcing the broken bones in his right hand to bend, to curve, to keep blood from puddling around him… to fix this. But he couldn’t. There wasn’t a way to fix it. A way to fix death. To restore what was lost. What he had taken. What he had always taken. Over and over and over again.

And now, because he wasn’t willing to live without Phantom, Fenton had destroyed the one thing he loved more than anything. The one girl he loved more than anyone. The one girl willing to fight for him instead of Phantom. But that had been a mistake. Sam loving him had been a mistake. He and Sam had been a mistake. An intimate beautiful mistake.

Danny wasn’t the same person she’d fallen in love with. He wasn’t the same person he used to be. He was different. Darker. Quieter. Colder. He was awkward in his own shadow, uncomfortable in a foreign skin as he allowed Phantom more and more control. Danny Fenton was a waste. Danny Phantom wasn’t. He was the thing people needed. But Phantom wasn’t the one Sam had loved. He wasn’t the one she trusted. He wasn’t the one she tried so desperately to save… He wasn’t the one who had killed her.

The fight was over the second it’d begun. Box Ghost had slipped through the Ghost Zone, followed by Skulker and Johnny; the three musketeers of complete failure as they threatened to destroy the state of New York. But Danny had barely broken a sweat. Ghosts were easier now; less challenging than in his youth, repetitive and old, and most of the time, the teenager had bigger things to worry about. Like Spirits. The Veil. The Spirit World. And Vlad. There was always Vlad fucking Masters. A pain in the Fenton family ass… not that Jack would ever admit it.

Snow had started littering the ground in heavy flurries by the time Vlad appeared. Danny had sat on the park bench for hours, waiting for the stupid pointy-haired bastard to make an appearance; after all, Danny had gotten his message the night before when he was pulled into the Veil. He always got the message while in the Veil. He wasn’t welcome. He was never welcomed. And the Spirits collected within made sure he knew it, made sure he stayed long enough to understand the damage he had caused, the lives he had fucked, and the lives he had taken. Many in the Spirit World knew him, but he knew very little about them.

Despite knowing almost everything about the Ghost Zone, the teenager knew almost nothing about the Spirit World. About summoning. The Veil. The Spirits. He only knew how to tune them out, but the older he got, the more his power grew, the harder it was to keep them in check. Too many times had he been caught in public, or with his parents, or his sister, talking, ranting, yelling or even fighting Spirits that refused to leave. He couldn’t block them out. Their voices, cries in the dark, hands pulled through murky water towards his body as he dreamed, screams echoed through restless thoughts. They were getting harder to ignore… harder to kill.

Drugs didn’t really work anymore, barely a dull buzz of quiet whispers, and other outlets were laughable options. Weed made it hard to focus between Fenton and Phantom, his abilities harder to control… and the Spirits had barely left. Ecstasy was great, the screams a distant thought, the Spirits warping into smokes of green, yellow and red; but Phantom disappeared too, refusing to appear for several days after. And Acid… Acid just made the teenager more jittery, more paranoid, more on-edge than he already was.

Vlad had taught him a few tricks to keep the Spirits quiet enough to function before he died. He’d promised to teach Danny more, but his death made that almost impossible. Unlike the Ghost Zone, the Spirit World lacked a supernatural possession; rather turning anyone such as Vlad, normal and human- barely able to summon Danny through the Veil to talk. And Danny? Danny’s powers were pretty much useless inside the Veil, humanity coursed through fragile bones, muscle, and skin as blood beat through a half-alive thing. The teenager could barely summon, barely survive a night in the Veil, of being pulled through, forced out-of-body through airless lungs and the stillness of a barely beating heart.

In the Spirit World, the teenager was human. So very human. And so very vulnerable. A War progressed through the Veil, the Spirits capable of darker, more sinister realities than Ghosts such as Skulker or Freakshow could ever procure. A world of Death. True Death. The promises of the Ghost Zone vanquished through shreds of paper-thin souls of victims to the War. Death in the Spirit World meant no Ghost Zone after. No other World beyond. No connection or tie back to humanity. To the Human World. Nothing. Just black. Just…

The 17-year-old’s ghost sense had been going off for hours; his teeth chattering as he pulled the thin green jacket closer, cursing Vlad for taking his sweet time. To any untrained individual, the teenager appeared to be alone… but Danny was never alone. Not anymore. His shove through the Veil on his 16th had killed any isolation or solitude he had. They were always there. Always watching. Always with him.

The teenager grit his teeth as he smacked his head against the bench behind him, staring towards the grey sky as white dust fell in clumps, blanketing Amity Park… and most likely, the rest of New York. The weather had been unpredictable lately; a chaotic shitshow of indescribable patterns, something his father chalked up to some weird readings in the Ghost Zone. Despite never really seeing a ghost, his parents still obsessed over them, inching closer and closer to diving into the portal with each passing week. But Danny, Danny wished he’d never have to see another fucking ghost in his life.

More and more of the transparent bastards had been slipping through the portal lately. Part of that was Danny’s fault. The other, unknown. Valerie had helped pick up the slack, along with the Fenton Duo, but the teenager had more important things to worry about like Spirits. The harder they were to ignore, the more of them appeared… and they could touch him. Hurt him. Kill him… the scars plastered against his right ribs should be evident enough to speak to their danger. He’d barely survived his first trip through the Veil, and Vlad kept pulling him fucking through… mainly because summoning wasn’t something the 17-year-old had mastered yet. And with Vlad dead, Danny doubted if he’d ever actually be able to master summoning… leaving no hope for resurrection.

Something kicked against the teenager’s red converse, and Danny shot up quickly, expecting Vlad to be standing over him. A smile crawled across his face as his eyes met Sam, her black hoodie blowing viciously against the winter air, small specks of white clinging to the fabric. She kicked his foot again, tucking a strand of black hair behind her ear, “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” Danny smirked, forcing his hands in his pocket, his right hand clamped around the red lighter he had stolen from his dad’s secret stash. Whether or not Jack Fenton had noticed a few of his smokes were missing, the teenager would never know. After all, if his father ended up confronting him about it, then that meant Jack would also have to come clean to Maddie about smoking… something he supposedly gave up a few years after Danny was born.

Sam slumped down next to him, her shoulder hitting his as Danny turned towards her, smiling. Sam rolled her eyes, her purple lipstick twisting into a grin as she leaned her head against his shoulder. She sighed, “So, I take it Vlad hasn’t shown?”

The 17-year-old shook his head, before clearing his throat, “No.”

“That’s pretty unusual for him, isn’t it?” She asked, pulling her head up as wind forced her hood down, short black hair flying chaotically. She glanced in Danny’s direction as he flicked some snow off his jeans. He hadn’t really thought about Vald’s behavior- about his pretty punctual habits, but now that it was mentioned, it was rather worrisome the older man hadn’t shown yet. Especially given he seemed rather paranoid the night before. But surely, the older man would have said if he was in danger.

Danny shrugged his shoulders, meeting Sam’s gaze, biting his bottom lip. Pieces of ice clung to her hair, freckled across her face, and the 17-year-old hesitated, before brushing his thumb across her cheek carefully, wiping away some of the fallen snow. He paused, his fingers pressing gently against her jawline, following the curve softly before Sam pressed her hand over his. Danny froze, warmth flooding his face as he refused to advert his gaze.

Sam had been weird lately. She’d been acting weird… almost feminine… which was weird for both Tucker and Danny as they had always seen her as one of the guys. But between a few awkward non-date dates, a few fake-out make-outs, and being caught half-naked in the Janitor’s Closet a few weeks prior when Danny had phased through the wrong room after a fight; Danny was finding it harder to act normal around her. And then there was the Annual Winter Dance last month which neither Sam nor Danny refused to acknowledge, involving some sloppy drinking, heated kissing, and one awkward morning after at the Fenton household as Danny tried sneaking Sam from his room only to be caught by his sister.

Since then, Sam had become more… Well, it was hard to explain because Danny was pretty sure he’d become more of it too. Every moment he was around her, it seemed like he had reverted back to his weird, awkward, clumsy demeanor. He couldn’t talk around her anymore, let alone act normal anymore. His ghost sense unpredictable, his powers uncontrollable as his body forgot how to be him around her. He couldn’t eat or sleep and paying what little attention he normally did in class, unbearable. He couldn’t get Sam out of his head. Her purple lipstick. Her laugh. Her hands clasped around his. Her mouth… Her. And it was driving him insane.

Mentioning it to anyone was out of the question. Tucker had them married in 9th grade. His parents were too hyperactive and weird to be able to deal with their only son dating- let alone his sister’s recollection of her very awkward first date that involved more of Jack Fenton than Danny wanted to picture. And Jazz? Jazz had freaked when she had caught Danny and Sam together the morning after the Annual Winter Dance, forcing both teenagers to attend a lecture involving responsible actions, so asking Jazz for advice was out of the question. Honestly, Danny had found some console in Vlad, but that bastard’s advice was wishy-washy and outdated.

Sam’s fingers brushed over the rough scars on his hand before she trailed up his arm. Her hand hesitating on his shoulder before cupping the back of his neck, her fingers tussling his hair softly. The wind whooshed past, snow raining over them as Sam met the 17-year-old’s gaze, a small smirk painted across purple lips. Danny shivered slightly, brushing his thumb over her cheek again, “I-”

“Shut up,” Sam cut him off, pulling herself from the bench as she pressed her lips against his, pushing the 17-year-old back slowly as he dropped his hand from her cheek, trailing down her shoulder slowly, arm, back. He inhaled loudly, a hand pressed against the small of Sam’s back, the other pressing her closer to him as she kissed him again, one of her hand’s slipping underneath his shirt. Cold fingers pressed against the warmth on his back. Black nails scrapping gently over scarred flesh, fingers through black hair, and Danny’s hands dragging her closer. Sam was driving him insane… but maybe this time, they could acknowledge it… maybe this time, he could tell her how he really felt.

Maybe this time he could tell her he couldn’t get her out of his mind. That he couldn’t concentrate around her, he couldn’t get that night at the dance out of his mind… that she made everything better, made everything okay. He needed her like he needed air. She was a reminder that he was still alive, that he was still human, that he was still more than Phantom. Because she seemed to want him more than Phantom… She liked him. Not Phantom. And that- that was all Danny ever wanted from someone. From her…

Her nails scrapped harder against his back as Sam straddled him; her hair flying in the wind, covering her face, smacking against Danny’s face comfortingly. His hands gentle as they trailed down the rest of her back, her thighs, holding her steady against him. Her lips forceful against his, nails marked against skin, her heart pounding against his. She breathed deeply, “Danny…”

“Well, isn’t this nice,” Someone sneered. Danny pushed Sam off him gently, jumping to his feet as he pressed Sam behind him, his stance protective as he met the stranger’s gaze. The 17-year-old watched as a woman stepped forward, a smirk on her face as she pushed some of her long blonde hair behind her ear. She eyed the 17-year-old, sizing him up as she walked around the small bench. She scoffed, “They said the halfa was young, but I never would have thought this young… Tell me, handsome, do you even know how to tie your own shoes?”

Danny tensed, “Do you want to find out?”

The woman laughed loudly, circling them once more before standing a few feet from him, “Oh, and that wit. I bet you’re a troublemaker, uh?”

She crossed her arms, straightening her posture until she was eyelevel with him. Her skin almost translucent against the white ground, blood dotting against her neck where a necklace should have been. Her bright pink and blue jumpsuit standing out against the snow, fitting the ideal clothing for an 80’s teenager… her blonde hair in half-buns, purple triangle earrings dangling from her ears. She laughed again, shaking her head, her red lipstick twisting slightly as she peered towards Sam.

Sam had risen from the bench, pulling her hoody back over head as her hair still fought against the wind. She forced the sleeves past her hands, her fingers intertwining gently with Danny’s as the 17-year-old stepped forward, “Where’s Vlad?”

The woman cocked her head, her smile offsetting as she held up her hand, inspecting her chipped blue fingernails, “I wouldn’t worry about Grandpa anymore. He’s been taken care of.”

The teenager swallowed, dropping his hand from Sam’s as he took another step forward, his hands burning slightly as Phantom threatened to appear. Danny swallowed, “What did you do to him?”

The woman laughed again, shoving her hands on her hips as she faced the 17-year-old again, “You’ve become quite the gossip in the Veil. Did you know that? Everyone talks about the halfa; the teenage boy with a hitlist bigger than… well… for decency, think of someone historically bad. The merciless angel. The bringer of death. The red. You could say you’ve become very popular amongst Spirits… and to hear, the little ghost boy could be harmed,” She paused, clasping her hands together as a smile painted her face, “Well, that was like Christmas morning.”

Sam reached for Danny’s shoulder, her fingers gracing over the fabric of his hoodie as he stepped forward again, “What did you do with Vlad?”

The woman smirked, “Me? No, honey, I’ve done nothing. See, I don’t really care for the creepy-uncle-lotion-in-the-basket types. You, however, are much more interesting. Much more powerful than Vlad would be… I can feel it. Radiating off you like the wind around you. It’s beautiful… And we can hurt you. We can touch you. Something those pathetic airbags in the Ghost Zone could only dream of. And believe me, pretty boy, there are many in the Veil eager to show you their real power. Eager to walk this Earth again… all we need is the blood of the halfa.”

“Fuck you!” Sam yelled, stepping in front of the 17-year-old, her finger’s gripping Danny’s wrist. Sam took a step forward, her stance tense, her hood down as wind washed over her. Snow beading in black hair, melting down her face as hatred flashed across her features. Her grip tightened around the teenager’s wrist, protectively; and Danny swallowed softly as he realized she wasn’t about to let go.

The woman stepped forward slowly, smirking again as she chuckled, “Call off your guard-dog, Daniel. I have no intention of killing you today… besides, in order for us to be reborn, you have to come to us willingly. Which I give you… a year before you enter the Veil for the last time.”

Danny scoffed, “Unlikely.”

He shivered as he met the woman’s gaze, her smile hiding something that scared the teenager more than the threat. An understanding… knowing. She knew what went through his mind. What he thought about, how he thought about himself… The way she looked at him, the way she smirked towards him, sneering… she knew. About the drugs. The blood. About the recklessness. She knew what stimmed through a tired mind in the nightmarish reality of Fenton from Phantom. She had to know… but the only way she would, would be- Vlad.

Danny glanced down for a second, swallowing loudly. Him and Vlad had had their differences, but they seemed to work it out over the years… so would Vlad really tell people about him? Would he really betray his secrets to other people, well, Spirits? The teenager had confided in him over the years. Not about everything… but about himself, about how he had come to hate Phantom. How he had become forced to live with Phantom’s pain and torment. How he felt, as the years past, and he let Phantom have more power, he could feel reality crumpling around him. Crumpling in, and slipping through his fingers, through the cracks created by Phantom, opened and birthed through the Ghost Zone and Spirit World. How it felt like he was being drained… that his humanity was dying. Would Vlad really betray him like that? After all this time?

The woman scoffed again, “Perhaps. But I’m willing to help you out… give you another nudge in the right direction.”

Confusion crossed the 17-year-old’s face as he stepped forward again, only a few feet from the woman as she crossed her arms, raising her head. She shook her head slowly, “I can see you’re confused, so I’ll make it simple for your stupid hormonal teenage brain.”

There was a flash, and Danny dropped harshly, his hands and arms burning as he felt the shift starting to take over. Phantom gaining control as the Fenton canister, forgotten on the park bench, exploded loudly, and the teenager pressed his burning hands against the snow. Cold braced against his fingers as he looked up, wiping away some green ectoplasm that litter across his body, blood dripping down his chin slowly from a cut on his upper lip. His eyes flashed green as he let Phantom gain control, his body burning slightly as he shifted, the aching pain that plagued him, gone as Phantom took over.

Within a second, he had the woman pinned against the tree, a smirk twisting against his lips as she struggled pathetically. He huffed, his tone cocky as he tightened his grip, “You missed.”

The woman hesitated before laughing loudly, snapping her fingers as Phantom reverted back, forcing Fenton through translucent skin as he was shoved back into his teenage body. Sweaty fatigue washed over him as she kicked his leg, slamming him against the ground harshly, pinning him against the snow. The 17-year-old squirmed, trying to coax Phantom out, trying to shift but finding the task difficult, his fingers tingling and sparking green but refusing to change.

The woman snorted, grasping his hand in hers, smiling down at him as her blonde hair brushed over his chest. She pressed her fingers between his, humming softly before jerking her hand back, bending Danny’s fingers as she clawed at his palm, bones cracking, causing the teenager to scream loudly as he fought against her. After a few seconds, she let go as wind rushed past them, and she pressed her chest against his, stroking his hair back gently. She bent down further, her lips brushing against his ear, “I wasn’t aiming for you, honey.”

The 17-year-old twisted; his head jerked towards Sam as he tried forcing the woman from him. Blood splattered against the snow as Sam fell, her face pressing against the ice, her hand, bloodied and shaky, as she reached in Danny’s direction. The teenager cried loudly as Sam’s hand dropped in the snow, her body going limp as red bled through white. The woman pressed her fingers against the 17-year-old’s cheek as he screamed again; his hands and arms burning as heat clawed through his chest. Sam opened her mouth, purple lips parted but no words came, only tears trailing down pale flesh before green eyes shut.

The woman laughed softly, digging her nails painfully into Danny’s cheek and chin, prying his eyes away from Sam and towards her. Rage ate away at his features, his skin scorching against Phantom as green began to steam off him, his eyes flashing bright green before darkening as his eyes met hers. The woman tightened her grip as green smoke continued to envelope them; a smirk plastered to skin pulled back too tightly as she pressed her clammy forehead against his, gently. She took a deep breath as Danny struggled against her, his skin itching as black ectoplasm began to drip from his nose and ears, running down his face before smacking against the ground. Cold soaking through his clothes as his skin began to burn away, green fading to black, and black sparks radiating from his fingertips as the woman pressed her lips against his.

The teenager jerked away, his gaze meeting Sam’s stilled face. Her features silent, and Danny choked again as he yelled her name, fighting against the woman’s grasp again. Her nails dug once more into his flesh, pulling his face back towards her as black tears fell down his cheeks in thick trails. She thumbed some away slowly before licking the liquid from her thumb and smirking, pressing her chest once again against his.

“Such power. Such a waste,” She bent down further, her lips pressing against his temple, “Two down… See you in a year, lover.”

Pain seared across his chest, and the 17-year-old screamed as her hand pressed over his heart, burning against flesh as the greenish black swallowing him, ceased. His eyes flashed back to blue as he choked, grasping towards her hand before realizing she was gone. His hand pressing over the bloody handprint stained against his shirt as the pain slowly began to evade, and he twisted around, stumbling to his feet as he forced himself towards Sam….

#in the mood to watch danny phantom #danny phantom #fandom life #i need some fanfiction in my life right now #sick Danny #I was told to stop writing this and create a book out of this lol #posted on archive #lancer taking care of Danny #kb