#and having a brother would have made his childhood less miserable

[jinjeriffic]

DCxDP Prophecy Universe Part 6

Part 5

Most of the time, being the son of Batman was a point of pride for Damian. Today, it was an exercise in frustration. Not only had Father deemed him too emotionally compromised to participate in the investigation of his so-called brother. Not only was he benched from patrol until Batman returned from abroad. He also had to continue attending school as if nothing had happened! He could probably teach most of the classes better than the adults! Oh, but ‘socializing with his peers’ was deemed too important to miss out on.

No wonder Damian was in a foul mood when he returned home. It had been the last school day before fall break, and a week ago he had been looking forward to the opportunity to patrol without having to worry about getting up early in the morning. Then that damned apparition had dropped the bombshell that had upended all of Damian’s carefully laid plans. Now half of the family was off chasing leads and he was stuck at home cooling his heels. It wasn’t fair!

After doing his customary check on his pets, he had changed into training gear as soon as possible and was now in the process of running through the latest combat program Father had designed. The flow of dodge-weave-counter-strike was helping him vent his frustration and clear his head. And if the training bots ended up more damaged than usual, well that just served Father right. He wasn’t some hapless child to be grounded!

Spin. Strike. Jump. Slash. He was moving on instinct, letting his training take over. A symphony of violence the background track to his churning thoughts, the questions that had been plaguing him all week.

Brother of blood. What did that mean? A full brother? A half brother? The result of some ill-advised dalliance of his Father? Unlikely. The letter had been addressed to Damian Al Ghul, not Damian Wayne. A deliberate choice of words, most likely. A child of his Mother then. He couldn’t imagine Mother would sully herself with another man’s touch. Even after everything, she still loved Father in her own twisted way. Unless Grandfather had ordered her… Stop it!

Stab. Crouch. Roll. Slice.

Never buried but already mourned. Not a lab grown creation then, to be discarded casually. Mourning meant caring. Love. Did Father know something? The haunted look that had appeared in his eyes spoke of old grief. The same grief that still plagued him when memories of Todd or Damian’s death were close to the surface. But he had never spoken of another child. Would he even bother to tell them?

Strike. Throw. Close distance. Disarm.

Lightning and ice. Defibrillation? Some horror movie style reanimation? Cryofreeze? The entity had meta abilities, could it harness lightning and ice as well? A better son, a more powerful Demon’s Heir… No!

Side-step. Kick. Twist. Leg-sweep.

Strike down the Demon’s Head. Did that mean Grandfather? Or Damian himself if the old man died first? It would be just like Grandfather to arrange for Damian to be killed and replaced by a brother. To get revenge for Damian choosing Batman’s legacy over the League’s while hurting their family in the most intimate way possible. Killed by a brother he should have loved, who should have loved him… Fool!

Damian stopped as the gong sounded to mark the end of the program. Around him, the training bots returned to their starting positions, now significantly worse for wear. A few of them were disabled to the point of uselessness.

Damian sheathed his weapons and forced his breathing to slow as he started his cool down stretches. It wouldn’t do to be careless because of some emotional episode. He was more disciplined than that.

What could Death earn anyway? Death brought nothing but nightmares and pain and torment.

Damian shivered. He didn’t like thinking about his Death.

Shoving the memories firmly aside, he returned his training weapons to their respective places before heading over to the Batcomputer. He needed a distraction. Maybe he should call up Jon and see if he had any plans for fall break. Since Damian was benched he would need something constructive to do with his time. Surely with the two of them working together they would find some kind of criminal enterprise to topple in a Kansas cornfield.

Damian compiled the search strings for any unusual activity in the area and set it to run. Now it was a waiting game to see if anything of note turned up. Leaning back, he idly kicked the console, sending his chair into a lazy spin. If nothing turned up in Kansas, maybe he would widen his search to the surrounding states. If they flew Air Superboy, distance would hardly be an issue. Hell, if Jon was busy maybe he could go visit Richard. Bludhaven was never lacking in crime, and Father wouldn’t be able to complain about a lack of appropriate supervision during patrol. With Drake and Todd having left on a ‘roadtrip’ for at least a day…

Damian stopped his spinning and frowned. Now that he thought about it, it was highly unusual for his two older brothers to have left Gotham together and in their civilian identities. Especially with the Bats already shorthanded due to Father’s absence and Robin’s benching. He had been too distracted by the upcoming school day to make the connection when his brothers had mentioned their plans at breakfast that morning. And Drake had been investigating League activity… Damian’s fingers flew across the keyboard, bypassing Drake’s security protocols with ease. If his brother had uncovered a League connection he had a right to know!

What he found among Drake’s recent search history was not what he expected. Some crackpot scientists from Illinois? That’s what had drawn his attention? Certainly, the older Robin had flagged some suspicious transactions and marked the Fentons as potential threats based on their inventions, but there were heroes closer to Amity Park that they could have foisted the investigation off on.

Damian drummed his fingers against his armrest. Something wasn’t adding up here. Pulling up everything he could find about the Fenton parents, he started looking through medical records, school records, articles… Suddenly, Damian’s heart slammed against his ribs. There, on the cover of a two year old magazine, was the face that had haunted him all week. With trembling fingers, he zoomed in on the image. It only took a few minutes to alter the hair and eye colour. It was unmistakably him. The boy who bore an uncanny resemblance to Damian himself, if slightly older and paler.

Swallowing hard, Damian scrolled through the magazine’s online archive to find the article mentioned on the title page. An almost extinct gorilla species. A chance discovery by then fourteen year old Daniel Fenton.

“Daniel,” Damian rolled the name around his mouth. A fairly common Western name. “Daniel. Danyal?” If he was Talia’s son, surely she would have used the Arabic version… no! He was jumping to conclusions!

Now having a name to go on, Damian dug deeper than Drake had bothered to. The birth certificate named a small town in Utah, but there were no records of a hospital admission. A home birth? There were no records of the Fentons having a residence in that state. No medical records of prenatal care either, though there were for the birth of the older sibling. Had the pregnancy gone unnoticed? Possible, if unlikely. There had been a vehicle registration for a motorhome during that time period though. Had the Fentons been living on the road when their son was born? Or had they acquired the child some other way? If he was an Al Ghul who would have spirited him away to the USA?

The Fentons had settled down in Amity Park about six months after Daniel’s birth, purchasing the residence they apparently used to this day. From there, his records were fairly standard and unremarkable, though there were a higher than average number of doctor’s visits for minor household accidents. Not enough to get flagged by CPS, but certainly worrying if potential mad science was involved. Daniel’s school records showed average grades, with higher scores in Maths and Science. At age fourteen however, his academic performance took a sharp dip, with an uneven performance on tests and numerous unexcused absences. His teachers noted frequent inattentiveness in class or Daniel outright falling asleep. Someone had submitted reports of bullying and suspicious bruises, but the case was dropped and never followed up on. His grades had evened out since then, but the unexcused absences persisted.

Damian knew enough about the trials and tribulations of teenage superheroics to recognize a pattern. And it certainly looked like Daniel fit the bill. If he had acquired meta abilities two years ago it probably took some time to get a handle on them and find a balance between his legal and illegal activities.

Damian steepled his fingers together. There was only so much his digital investigation could reveal. It was time for some fieldwork.

Part 7

[thewolvesofthenorth]

Prologue

Prologue to What Goes Around Comes Around

Series Masterlist ❖ Main Masterlist ❖ House Of The Dragon Masterlist

Rating: 18+ Word Count: 800+ Summary: In the beginning... Warnings: Angst angst angst, language, mean!Cregan, enemies to lovers.

Next Chapter ⟹

To say you hated Cregan was an understatement. Hate was too kind of a word. You absolutely despised the man, detested his very existence on this planet. Some would go as far as to say that you wouldn’t bat an eye if he simply dropped dead. And you weren’t the only one to share that sentiment. Cregan could care less about you, and he had made it clear every day since you could remember.

Your families had been neighbors since childhood and your twin brother was Cregan’s best friend so the two were inseparable, which meant you were privy to Cregan’s presence all the time. To Cregan, you were Jace’s annoying younger sister, and he never failed to make your life hell at every opportunity.

Elementary school was filled with little things like pulling on your hair or sticking gum in it. Middle school was much of the same, only he’d taken to hiding your glasses whenever he could, and sometimes breaking them, which caused issues with your mother, but you never told her how your glasses kept breaking. For some twisted reason, you didn’t want Cregan to get in trouble for constantly breaking them, and you’d chalked it up to boys just being boys in middle school.

However, high school was a completely different story. In freshman year, you’d gotten braces, and Cregan made it his personal mission to make fun of your appearance every chance he got. It had become second nature for him to greet you with “brace face” or “nerd” whenever he saw you, and despite Jace’s efforts to have Cregan be nicer to you, they fell on deaf ears.

Sophomore year was when Cregan and Jace joined the football team, and you’d joined the mathletes, further solidifying your status as a nerd, and giving Cregan more reasons to make your life miserable. At the start of junior year, Cregan began dating Arra Norrey, the head cheerleader at school, and your life seemed to get worse from there, if that was even possible. As the head cheerleader and captain of the football team, Arra and Cregan were royalty, and whatever they said was law. You thought things couldn’t get any harder, but you were wrong.

Arra seemed to be jealous of you. Why? You didn’t know, but she always found a way to trip you in the hallways, and if she didn’t, then her lackeys would do it for her. Other times you’d be shoved against the lockers so hard that your head would spin. You had grown so used to being drenched in some kind of liquid on a daily basis that you had begun bringing a change of clothes with you. On more than one occasion, your backpack would disappear and would later be found covered in mud or some other substance, and sometimes your textbooks would have pages ripped out, making you have to buy a new one each time.

By senior year, you could count the number of friends you had on one hand. And by one hand, it was really just one finger. Jace. Cregan and Arra had spent the entirety of junior year and all summer alienating you from everyone. You were branded a pariah and those who associated with you in any way were dubbed “losers” or called “sad excuses for a human being for wanting to be your friend”. Other days you would hear words like “nobody likes you” or “you’re such a freak, no wonder you don’t have any friends.” The insults were not new to you, but that did not mean they hurt any less.

Throughout the year you’d managed to keep your head down enough that the torment had decreased, but only by the slightest bit. Arra’s insults lessened from a dozen a day to a mere half dozen, and Cregan’s antics with vandalizing your locker and belongings had surprisingly become less and less frequent. You had later learned from Jace that Cregan was focused on keeping his grades up and hopefully get a football scholarship. You were relieved at the news since you had also resolved to maintain your impeccable 4.0 GPA in hopes of securing a full ride yourself, particularly to King’s Landing University. It was the most prestigious school anyone could get into, and it was your dream to get into such an exclusive school and take part in their elite doctorate program.

You had hoped that by getting into KLU, that you’d be rid of Cregan and his endless torment and be able to move on with your life, but the universe had a sick sense of humor and would not grant you such a reprieve so easily.

Next Chapter ⟹

[krmy2386]

Swan

Lord Alfred Debling x Reader (childhood crush on Benedict) about 2.5k words

1. PLEASE DO NOT STEAL!!! I WORKED VERY HARD ON THIS!!!!

2. NOT PROOF READ!!!

3. Yes I love Benedict but I needed a plot to don’t hate me😅

————————————————————————

Lady Y/N L/N was always called the Ugly Duckling. Not that she was ever actually ugly. More awkward in her younger years, especially compared to the beautiful Bridgetons, her closest friends.

She remembers the first time she was called that name. It was Benedict Bridgerton, her best friends’ brother, and the boy she had harbored feelings for as a child.

One day Violet Bridgerton was reading a book of stories to Anthony, Benedict, Colin, Y/N and Daphne. When they finished the infamous “Ugly Duckling,” young Benedict loudly declared the Y/N must be a swan, because she was an ugly duckling. This immediately caused Y/N to sob hysterically and Violet scolded Benedict while Lady L/N tried to console her daughter. Eventually the two children made up and it was forgotten. By Benedict, never by Y/N. She never forgot how those words made her feel.

Over the years, Y/N grew into both her features and her attitude. This was her third year on the marriage mart and it was no secret to the ton that Y/N would not be doing anything she did not want to do. She had a sharp wit and a tendency to find mischief. Many people, mainly the men, joked about who could “tame” her.

Maybe that’s why she was so drawn to Benedict. He seemed to radiate joy and light. Y/N wanted that. She wanted someone who would send shocks through her.

But that would never happen. Because now, as a grown woman, she hated Benedict Bridgerton.

————————————

Lord Debling was praying for the ball to end when he realized he had only been there about 5 minutes. He felt like a duck being hunted by a hound.

The mothers of the ton had set their sights on him. Their daughters were less intense but just as obvious.

He began lightly pacing, hoping for a hole to swallow him when he heard a shrill voice shout his name.

Oh God, he thought. Mrs Cowper, with her daughter Cressida in tow.

Lord Debling sighed, but did the gentlemanly thing and bowed.

“Lady Cowper, how are you this evening?” He asked politely.

Cressida flutter her eyes so fast a hummingbird would be jealous, “So much better now that I see you are here. Are you planning on dancing tonight?”

Fear ran through his body and he began to stutter, “Um, w-well I-I hadn’t..”

“Lord Debling!” It was his guardian angel, Lady Danbury. He felt relief fill his lungs and he turned to Mrs. Cowper and Cressida, “Excuse me.”

He rushed over to Lady Danbury and bowed before leaning to her ear, “Thank you!” He whispered.

Lady Danbury laughed lightly and patted his hand on top of hers, “Never fear, I promised your mother long ago to look out for you, and they looked ready to rip you to shreds.”

Lord Debling couldn’t help but nod. He tried to see the good in people but something about Cressida Cowper made him uneasy.

Something about the way she speaks down on everyone, her garish clothes, her unnatural hair shapes.

Alfred Debling never thought a love match would be in his future. The most he hoped for was a kindhearted friend to spend his days at home with. But that didn’t mean he didn’t have standards.

He didn’t want a fake person who would change the minute they were behind closed doors. He wanted someone real. Someone he could share life with, even if they were just friends.

“My mother would’ve loved this,” he mumbled softly. “Meeting people and dancing.”

Laney Danbury nodded in agreement. “Yes, your mother was a spirited and kind woman. And she would’ve put Lady Cowper in her place in a heartbeat.” She joked. Debling couldn’t help but laugh.

—————————

Y/N was miserable the entire carriage ride. Not only would she have to once again parade around like a peacock trying to catch a husband. It would more than likely fail. Her only solace was that she planned to escape to Penelope as soon as possible. But even the Featherington girl had been in social mourning since her whole plan with Colin blew up.

Stupid Bridgerton Boys, she thought to herself. They ruin everything.

“Y/N” she heard her mother’s gentle voice, “I know you hate this dear, but please try to have some fun!” Her mother was so genuine in her request, Y/N couldn’t help but smile. They didn’t need her to marry for money or title. She had that privilege.

Lady L/N knew something has shifted in her daughter. She never pushed Y/N to share, but she was worried. The spark had left Y/N’s eyes.

Y/ N grabbed her mother’s hand.

“I will try.” She said truthfully. Maybe she could force herself to enjoy one evening for her mother’s sake. She never meant for her mother to worry about her so much. As a child, her mother worried due to her talents in running off and climbing trees. Now she had all new worries, that Y/N might be sad, or lonely for a long time. No mother wants that.

—————————

Lord Debling was glancing around the room. Hoping for something, anything, to make the time go by faster.

When he glanced at the stairs he swears time stopped.

She was beautiful. She wore a cream colored gown with gold and silver thread embroidery. She glided down the stairs like she was floating. She didn’t have a large fake smile plastered on her face. She looked content but not overly excited.

“Beautiful is she not?” Lord Debling jumped at Lady Danbury’s voice.

“Yes,” he said. Then turning full attention back to the beauty on the stairs, “she certainly is… gorgeous.” He whispered.

Lady Danbury looked at poor Deblings face and almost chuckled. If he thought she was impressive to look at, wait until she spoke to him.

“That is Y/N L/N, daughter of some close friends of mine. She is a wonderful girl. Spirited.” Lady Danbury says with a knowing smile. “And, she is not yet married.”

Debling was now giving Lady Danbury his full attention. “She isn’t? Are you sure?” Lady Danbury normally would be offended at someone questioning her knowledge of the ton. But she took pity on him, this once.

“I’m sure. This is her third year out in society. She doesn’t need money or a title so she has the luxury of being picky. Although, most of the men in the ton find her to be too much to handle.”

Lady Danbury said gently. She loved and adored Y/N and knew she could be a bit much for some people.

This made Alfred Debling swoon. A woman who was unapologetically herself.

“Will you introduce me to her?” Lord Debling asked Lady Danbury.

This caught her slightly by surprise. He had never asked for her help meeting the women of the ton. He normally had no problem introducing himself to people. But she could tell by his eyes, he was begging.

“Alright.” She said taking his arm. “Follow my lead.”

———————————

After they descended the stairs, Lady L/N and Y/N thanked their host before heading into the main ballroom.

Y/N hadn’t seen the Bridgertons yet. Maybe. She would be safe after all.

“Duckie!” Hearing that name made Y/N cringe. There were only two people alive who still called her that name.

She turned cautiously and was greeted by both Colin and Eloise.

“She prefers Y/N, Colin. We aren’t children anymore.” Eloise scolded. She saw the hurt that would flash in Y/N’s eyes at the old nickname.

Colin, oblivious as ever laughed, “She’ll always be Duckie. Even her father called her that.”

At the mention of the late Lord Y/N everyone froze. Even Colin realized what he had done.

“I’m so sorry Y/N I didn’t mean to-“

Y/ N interrupted, “I’m going to get some air.”

And she all but ran away.

Eloise slapped her brother’s arm, “Great job Colin! We spoke to her for 10 seconds and now we’ll never speak to her again!”

It had been a year since Y/N had truly spent time with the Bridgerton family. Since her father’s death. Eloise had planned to ease their way back into her life. That clearly didn’t work. She should’ve known better to recruit Colin instead of Francesca.

————————

Alfred felt lightheaded as the approached Y/N. She was alone in the hallway. She excused herself from the ballroom and Lady Danbury insisted this was the perfect opportunity.

Y/N was staring out the hall window. Her mind was racing and she was praying for a distraction.

“Y/N! It’s so good to see you! How have you been darling?” Lady Danbury asked.

Y/N smiled. It was impossible to be in a bad mood around Lady Danbury.

“I’m doing well. How are you? I’ve heard about the new additions to your garden. Mama and I have been dying to see it.”

Alfred felt his heart jump at her smile. It was real. She was genuinely happy to see Lady Danbury. Maybe one day she would smile at him that way.

“Yes, the garden is in full bloom and ready for visitors. But I have someone here who wanted to meet you.” Lady Danbury gently pulled on Lord Debling’s arm, silently urging him to introduce himself.

“H-Hello Lady Y/N. I’m Lord Alfred Debling.” He choked out. Mentally cursing himself for stuttering.

Y/N was taken aback. A man wanted to meet her? A handsome man?

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Debling. I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.” Y/N said, mesmerized by his big, puppy dog eyes.

“Well I’ve been encouraged by my family to, um- get to know more people” He wasn’t sure how to explain his situation without blatantly saying he wanted a wife.

Y/N giggled. She knew exactly why he was here.

“I understand perfectly, Lord Debling. But I must warn you not everyone is worth getting to know.” Y/N said bluntly.

Alfred couldn’t help but smile.

“Is that so?” He started. “Perhaps you could escort me around the room and enlighten me to who is who?” He asked, mustering up all of the bravery he could.

Lady Danbury was shocked. Not only did Lord Debling offer Y/N his arm, she took it. Unheard of for both of them.

—————————

As the night carried on, Lady Danbury and Lady L/N watched happily as Lord Debling and Y/N walked circles around the room together.

Y/N talked on and on about everyone at the ball. Telling stories and sharing her personal experiences.

“And that is Lord and Lady Timsley. They are the oldest couple here.” She stated.

“Really?” Lord Debling asked. “How long have they been together?”

“52 years. They have a cottage close to ours in the country. Lord Timsley used to let me climb his Genovian Pear Tree. Until one day the branch I was on broke and I fell.” Y/N stated.

Alfred was shocked, “Good Lord! Were you alright?!”

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh. “Yes I was fine. My mother was furious and my father found the entire thing hilarious.”

Alfred couldn’t help but see the bittersweet look when she mentioned her father. It’s how he felt when anyone mentioned his mother.

“Is there anyone else here I should be wary of?” He asked, hoping to lighten the mood.

“Um-“ Y/N surveyed the room then sighed, “the only people left are the Bridgertons”

Lord Debling looked at her and immediately knew there was an issue, “Are they people to be wary of?” He asked.

“No. N-no. I just… “ Y/N started before she was interrupted by the one person she dressed to think of.

“Duckie! Where the devil have you been? It’s been ages!” Nearly shouted inebriated Benedict Bridgerton.

Lord Debling saw Y/N immediately go tense and he became on high alert.

Y/N could tell Benedict was drunk. He didn’t hold his liquor well. She briefly looked over to where the other Bridgestone stood and they all looked mortified.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend, Duckie?” Benedict smirked. “Names Bridgerton.” Benedict forcefully pushed his hand forward and eyed Debling. Almost challenging him.

Alfred took a few seconds and took in his surroundings. Y/N was visibly uncomfortable. Maybe if he found the confidence to talk to her. He could find it to defend her.

So he took a breath and grabbed the Bridgerton boy’s hand. Hard.

“Yes, Viscount Bridgerton. Lovely to meet you.”

Benedict’s faces dropped. “Um- no. That would be my older brother Anthony.

“Oh,” Lord Debling started, “terribly sorry, you are the one who just got back from travels. Tell me, how was Greece? I hear it’s beautiful.”

Benedict’s eyes hardened in the man. “That would be my younger brother.” He gritted his teeth.

Y/N was speechless. No one had ever truly challenged Benedict before. Even Anthony would let him win just to go away.

Before either man could speak again. Violet and Anthony stepped in.

“Benedict, dear it’s time to go home.” Violet tried to gently coax him.

“But I’m being introduced to Lord Dumpling.” He replied.

“It’s Debling, and you’ve already met.” Anthony stated, clearly annoyed.

Benedict’s face lit up with recognition, “Yes! The man who watches the birds! Tell me, what do you eat instead of meat?” Benedict asked cheekily.

“That’s enough brother.” Anthony said sharply.

“What I’m just asking.” Benedict said in his best fake innocent voice.

“It is odd is it not?” He asked, looking directly at Y/N.

“I think it’s lovely.” All Bridgertons and Lord Debling looked at her.

“Really?” Alfred asked.

“Yes. It takes a lot of will power and compassion to make a bold choice like that.” She said looking directly at Lord Debling.

Benedict felt his heart lurch. She didn’t even spare him a glance.

He turned to Violet, “I’d like to go now mother.” Said stomping off to the nearest exit. Anthony rolled his eyes and followed after him.

Violet looked at Y/N, “I’m so sorry for my son’s behavior.” She breathed heavily and added, “All of it.”

Y/N nodded in acknowledgement, “Have a good evening Lady Bridgerton.”

Violet left and Y/N’s mother walked over.

“Lord Debling, it is so nice of you to keep my daughter company.” She said gently. Not wanting to draw any more attention to the situation.

Lord Debling chuckled, “it was quite the opposite Lady L/N. She has been a wonderful guide for the evening.”

Y/N felt herself blush.

“I was hoping I could call on you tomorrow.” Alfred said to Y/N, “if that is okay with you” he directed to her mother.

Lady L/N looked to her daughter to answer.

Y/N looked at Lord Debling. And once again, she became entranced by his caring and gentle gaze.

“I would like that very much.” She smiled, and he smiled back.

[humanpurposes]

Sour Switchblade

No sooner has she landed in the courtyard of Storm’s End, she knows her mission is doomed // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x nameless female character (daughter of Rhaenyra)

Warnings: 18+, smut, childhood friends to enemies to lovers, Targcest (uncle and neice), threats of violence, bit of blood, dub-con, breeding kink

Words: 4100

A/n: Also available on AO3. Inspired by my current obsession with this song.

She knows where she is the moment she reaches the skies above the Stormlands; this part of the world was not named in irony.

She clutches tightly to Silverwing’s reigns, dragon and rider fighting through the fierce winds and heavy rain that stings the skin of her cheeks.

Lucerys and Arrax would have never made the journey. They are both too small, too young to take on such a burden as messengers on the eve of war. Jacaerys should have the more arduous task ahead of him, to fly to the Eyrie and then to Winterfell, to earn the support of the Arryns and the Starks to their mother’s cause. 

She has one destination, one objective, one Lord to win over. But no sooner has she landed in the courtyard of Storm’s End, she knows her mission is doomed.

She hears Vhagar’s call, or rather feels it reverberate in her chest, before she sees her. She is a monstrously large dragon, the oldest of her kind. Only her head and neck loom over the battlements, but it is enough to terrify the Princess. 

Because with Vhagar comes Aemond. 

He had hardly spoken so much as a word to her during the petitions for Driftmark, but his eye never left her. 

She pushes aside any childish ideas of hope for a civil encounter with her uncle. Any love between them was severed the night he claimed his dragon and Lucerys claimed his eye in the tunnels below Hightide.

Her name is announced to the Round Hall as she trails in behind an escort of guards. Rain drips from her soaked leathers and hair, the braid she wore long blown apart by the wind. She clenches her jaw, determined not to shiver in the presence of the Lord of Storm’s End, or the one eyed Prince who lurks at the edge of the room.

Aemond stands with his hands clasped behind his back. For a moment she sees surprise in his gaze, but it soon settles into a smug smile, his single eye positively gleaming through the miserable light of the hall.

Beside him is a young woman, dressed in all the finery of a Baratheon Lady. Her suspicions are confirmed when Lord Borros mentions a marriage pact.

She can’t stop herself. She looks to Aemond, knowing full well she is doing nothing to hide the fury in her face. And he stares back, like a hunter stalking prey.

She has nothing to offer Lord Borros, nothing that could compete with such a match. Her brothers are either betrothed or too young.

But she cannot fail, not when Rhaenyra has lost so much already these past few days.

Aemond’s eye remains fixed on her, vaguely amused, but still alert and intent. Perhaps he believes he has found a weakness, perhaps the shark smells blood.

If memory serves correctly, Lord Borros’ wife passed some years ago.

“I offer my hand to you, my Lord,” she says. “Pledge your banners to the true Queen, and your sons will be Princes.”

Lord Borros brings his fingers to his beard, muttering into the ear of his Maester and nervously glancing towards his other royal guest.

The amusement has faded from Aemond’s face, his moment of triumph snatched from him. Even the mere consideration of her proposal undermines him.

His chin is tilted down now, his eye dark and lips pressing together to withhold a sneer. She revels in it, taking a breath to stop herself from smiling.

“I will need time to consider,” Lord Borros says. “I will make my decision known on the morrow.”

Aemond takes one step towards her before she is whisked away by the eldest of the Baratheon sisters, Cassandra, and no less than four guards. Cassandra takes her arm in hers and leads her through the castle to a guest chamber, in a tower that overlooks the courtyard and Shipbreaker Bay beyond that. 

A bath is drawn for her and a gown of black with gold embroidery laid out of her to change into. It seems unusual to see herself in these colours, but then again, her grandmother, Rhaenys, is half Baratheon.

Dressed in her gown and with her hair newly done, she watches Silverwing seek shelter from the Storm under the battlements. Vhagar is apparently sleeping, with her wings cradled over her body to keep out the rain. 

Silverwing would be miserable here, she thinks. A dragon needs clear skies, they cannot always fight against the wind and rain.

It’s hard to tell exactly when the sun sets. There are no warm colours in the sky, no streaks of orange or gold. The sky beyond the storm clouds fades from grey, to indigo, and then to black.

Lady Cassandra escorts her to the Round Hall for supper. It is a modest affair. Lord Borros’ advisors and bannermen sit at tables in the heart of the hall, while a high table is set before the Stone Throne. Lord Borros sits at the centre, with two empty spaces either side of him. She might guess who they are for.

She sits between Lord Borros and Cassandra, and finds just enough time to steady her nerves with a sip of wine when Lady Floris enters with Aemond on her arm.

She swallows her mouthful wine thickly, meeting her uncle’s gaze for only a moment out of courtesy. 

He takes his place beside Lord Borros and the meal commences. Servants bring out whole roasted boars, and given Aemond’s reaction to the suckling pig at dinner in the Red Keep, she refrains from moving her mouth or looking in his direction. In fact she hardly has an appetite at all. She sits with a stiff spine, glancing down at the plate of potatoes and greens placed in front of her.

Lord Borros asks her a question which immediately slips her mind. It occurs to her she’s supposed to be winning him over, to prove to him that she will be a good and dutiful wife. A better wife than Aemond will be a husband for Floris anyhow.

The thought churns her stomach and leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

She allows herself another glance to Lord Borros’ other side. Aemond’s head is close to Floris’. The light from a candle on the table flickers over his chin, his jaw, the top of his neck underneath his collar. He leans in closer to mutter something in her ear.

He was always so softly spoken as a boy, subdued, even in moments of frustration. He still seems subtle, but in a different way now, a quiet kind of arrogance, a silent threat with the smallest of gestures. The few words he had spoken at that dinner, though aimed as insults towards her brothers, had ignited a thrilling sort of intrigue within her.

And now Floris gets to sit beside him, gets to feel his breath on her ear as he whispers in that low, chilling voice– 

“Princess?”

“Y-yes?” she stutters, turning her eyes back to Lord Borros.

Only she seems to have caught the attention of Aemond and the other Baratheon girls now.

“I said our union should be a plentiful one, if your mother’s talent for producing sons is anything to go by.”

The only thing that stops her from reaching for her knife and jamming it into Lord Borros’ neck is the quiet huff of a laugh coming from Aemond.

She shoots him a deadly glare but his cruel smile does not waver.

“The man who eventually claims my niece’s hand will have Strong sons, there’s no doubt about that,” he says, reaching for his cup.

She watches him drink, the way he pouts his lips, how his throat bobs as he swallows.

“What a kind compliment, uncle,” she says, “though not one I could extend to you.”

Aemond sets his cup down gently. “Meaning?” he asks, not looking at her.

“It took you a decade to claim a dragon, did it not?”

His head snaps towards her. “Yes, and I claimed the largest dragon in the world.”

“An impressive feat,” she says, “one your father was proud of, I’m sure.”

He wants to lash out, she can see it, his fist clenching on top of the table, his lips pursing together, his eye going wide, his nostrils flaring as he takes a few breaths to compose himself.

The rest of the table has fallen to an uneasy quiet. She simply reaches for her wine and takes a generous sip that slips over her tongue with a delightful burn.

Lord Borros calls for music, and his daughters, Cassandra and Ellyn find partners to dance with. Maris remains seated, with her arms folded over her chest and a sour look on her face.

Floris seems hopeful, sitting up and trying to catch Aemond’s eye from his blind side. It is a hope he will not entertain. He keeps one hand on the table, tapping a long, slender finger against the wood.

“You will forgive me,” Lord Borros says to her, “I am too old to dance now.”

She tries to smile to hide her repulsion. What an endearing match she’s managed to find for herself. But this is for her mother– her Queen, so that the throne might pass to the rightful heir and not a usurper.

In the corner of her eye she sees Aemond is watching her, and she does not shy away from his gaze. His lips curl into a smirk but she can see the calculations and strategising behind that piercing, violet eye.

What lurks on the other side, she wonders, underneath the leather eyepatch and the scar slicing down his face?

A bloody mess of flesh flashes before her eyes. She remembers how he cried out in pain, how he clutched his hand to his face, how the thick, dark blood seeped from between his fingers and spilled onto the floor as he fell. She had only watched dumbfounded, as Lucerys dropped the blade, as she and the other children were ushered into the Hall of Nine, as the gash in Aemond’s socket was sewn and their mothers both called for justice.

Could she have stopped her cousins from confronting him? Could she have defended him from her brothers? Would he have at least felt some of her sorrow if she had gone to him that night or wrote to him in the years that separated them?

Those possibilities mean nothing now. Aemond looks at her with no warmth, no fond memories of their shared youth.

He’d be handsome without the scar– he still is, but it is a severe kind of beauty. 

The moment she manages to finish the food on her plate, she excuses herself, declaring that she is tired from her journey and will need to recover before Lord Borros makes his decision in the morning.

Lord Borros presses a kiss to her hand, and she winces at the way his beard feels against her skin. When she looks to Aemond, he is suppressing a smile by bringing a cup of wine to his lips.

She walks quickly through the halls, towards the guest chamber, already taking off the heavy gold earrings and necklace she had been adorned with, and sighs at the relief of their weight. The sooner she can get to sleep, the sooner the morning will come, then the sooner she can finally leave, either a success or a failure, but she will be free of him. Free of the tight, restless feeling in her chest.

The enduring storm does not help her nerves, the rain beating down and the wind howling against the castle walls. Her heart leaps at every irregular noise, anything that might be mistaken for a voice, a breath, a footstep. She glances over her shoulder repeatedly, but all she sees are the empty hallways she leaves behind.

Two guards wait outside her chambers. They do not move to open the door for her, as they would on Dragonstone. She huffs and pushes it open herself, falling against the door once it is closed.

Borros Baratheon is hardly a man of principle. He has no love for Rhaenyra, and is only considering offering his support out if pride. She has no friends here. 

She quietly turns the lock on the door.

She heads to the vanity to set down the jewellery and release the pins from her hair, watching it fall around her shoulders.

Outside the window, she hears Silverwing’s lamenting coos through the clashes of thunder. She reaches behind her back to undo the laces of her gown as she goes to the window, but she cannot spot her dragon through the dark and the heavy rain.

“We’ll be home soon,” she whispers into the night.

She nearly screams when she hears the door rattle.

The wood clashes against its frame, but the handle does not budge, for now.

She barely has a few moments to run to the vanity, hand outstretched and eyes fixed on a long, sharp hair pin when she hears the door burst open. It slams and heavy footsteps thud against the floor, towards her.

A hand clasps over her mouth before she can make a sound. An arm wraps tightly around her waist, keeping her arms by her sides, before she can reach the closest thing she has to a weapon.

She thrashes, squirms, tries to call for help or graze her teeth against the intruder’s flesh but nothing deters him. 

She looks down at the arm around her waist. She recognises the black leather sleeve of his jerkin, the wide palm pressing down on her stomach, veins and tendons running underneath pale skin. 

He rests his chin on her shoulder, so his long, silver hair falls around her face. He smells of smoke and lavender.

He lets out a frustrated huff as she unsuccessfully tries to jerk her elbow into his side. “Did you really think that you could just fly about the realm, trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?” he hisses against her ear.

She squeals in fury against his palm, trying to twist her way out of his grip. She manages to drag him with her until their sides collide with the vanity. Pieces of priceless jewellery and bottles of perfume fall to the floor, and shatter. 

She has a mere second to wrench herself from his grip, only for him to grab her again, turning her to face him as he pulls her into his chest.

Aemond’s expression is deadly, his eye wide, lips pressed together in a scarcely contained rage.

“The throne belongs to my mother,” she says through the drumming in her chest, with all the defiance she can muster. “She is the one true heir. King Viserys–”

“Viserys is dead!” Aemond bellows, pushing her back against the vanity. “His word means nothing now that he can no longer enforce it.”

With her hands suddenly free she attempts to strike him, but he sees her intention before she even moves, pinning her wrists to the wood, keeping her body in place with his own.

She clenches her fists, only able to dig her nails into her palms. “What is it that you want from me?”

Lightning ignites the sky behind her. The white light dances over his scar and the shape of his mouth. His expression is softer now, lips slightly parted.

“I will have what I am owed,” he says.

Her eyes flicker to the eyepatch and the edges of the scar it cannot conceal.

Aemond hums a small laugh at her presumption. “Fear not, dear niece, that is not your debt to pay.”

His gaze trails over her face, then lower, to her lips, along her neck, to the gown slipping from her shoulders and the bare skin at the top of her chest.

“Do you remember what you said to me, the day you left?” he says softly.

The children they were are almost half a lifetime away.

She remembers standing under the weirwood tree in the Godswood of the Red Keep, a warm breeze rustling the red leaves above their heads, the sun shining through the branches.

She remembers holding Aemond’s face in her hands, wiping away the bitter tears as they fell from his eyes. 

He had begged her not to leave, but they were powerless then.

He is the one to bring his hand to her face now, running his thumb over the lone tear that spills from her eye.

“I said I loved you,” she utters. “I said my heart was yours, and it always would be.”

Aemond hums softly. “You made a promise to me,” he says. “Do you intend to keep that promise?”

How can she? She would have to forsake her mother, her Queen, her brothers, the realm, her own dignity.

“It was a childish infatuation,” she says.

“Not to me,” he says, fury creeping into his voice once more, his grip on her hand tightening.

She pushes her one free hand against his chest but he does not budge. “Aemond, please, you’re hurting me…”

He presses his body into her, forcing her further against the vanity– a warning, a command for obedience. He trails his thumb over her cheek, to her lower lip, taking her chin in his fingers. When she tries to look away he brings her eyes back to him.

He leans in gradually, pressing his forehead and his nose against hers, before he takes a steady breath and captures her lips in his. His kiss is starved but slow, bruising, deep and desperate. The hand that was on her chin comes to her neck, angling her head precisely where he wants her.

His hands trace down the back of her neck, between her shoulders, to pull at the laces of her gown. They fall apart between his fingers and, barely breaking away from her, he tugs it down until the black and gold fabric falls to her ankles. He lifts her out of it, seating her on the vanity, raking the hem of her shift up to her thighs so he can place himself between them as he continues to kiss her.

A dazed sort of warmth pools within her. She can feel her senses and her sanity slipping.

But he cannot best her, not after everything that has happened in the days since the King’s death.

She grazes his lip with her teeth, and when he seems to welcome it, she clenches her jaw as hard as she can.

He tears himself away from her and staggers back, bright blood dripping from his mouth. She can taste it on her tongue.

“Little cunt,” he hisses.

She slips the hairpin into her hand and runs for the door. Aemond catches her in a few strides but she’s ready for that, turning to drive it into his blindside.

Even then he misses nothing, holding her wrists behind her back with one hand and snatching the pin from her grasp. She hears it clatter to the ground as Aemond drives her forwards, towards the bed.

She lands face down and tries to lift herself up, only to feel his forearm pressing into her neck to keep her down.

“You were always stubborn,” he says, planting a delicate kiss to her shoulder, “and as exciting as that is, I want you to be good for me, dōna riña.” 

The iciness in his voice sends a shudder down her spine.

“Say it, say you’ll be good.”

Hit tears prickle in her eyes. She shifts underneath his hold, but her urge to fight is already fading. “I’ll be good, qȳbos,” she whispers. 

Aemond’s chest hums with a groan. At last he relents, releasing her neck and her hands. But no sooner is she free, he turns her onto her back and slides his hands up her thighs, hooking his fingers over her smallclothes and bringing them down her legs.

“Up,” he says, dragging her by her hands to sit, so that he can pull her shift over her head.

She cannot be sure why she’s shivering, the cold air, the noise of the storm, or the hungry look in Aemond’s eye at the sight of her bare body.

She keeps her hands on his shoulders as he lays her down and trails his fingertips down her stomach, to the obvious arousal at her core.

With a lingering kiss to her cheek he presses a single finger inside her. She gasps at the sudden sting of it, digging her nails into his skin.

But he reaches deeper than she’s ever been able to, stroking against the flesh within her, until she starts to melt. He edges her closer and closer to bliss until she comes undone around him with a whimper.

“Sȳz riña,” he coos against her cheek. “That’s it…”

She tries to cling onto him as he moves away, but he is not gone for long. He swiftly undoes the buckles of his jerkin, followed by his shirt, boots and breeches. His body is lithe and lean, harsh angles and soft skin.

She glances at his eyepatch again. 

Aemond lets out a low, irritable “hmm,” as he looms over her. His hair falls around his face, tickling the skin of her collar. He leans on one palm placed by her head, as he drags the tip of his cock through her folds, teasing between her bundle of nerves and her entrance. The sensation burns brightly and has her hips bucking, but it’s not enough.

“Beg me for it,” he utters.

“Please,” she whispers, cupping his face in her hands, feeling her thumbs along the sharp edges of his cheeks. “Please…”

He pushes into her with a single stroke, filling her to the hilt with a soft sound of skin against skin.

She winces at the stretch, throwing her head back against the bed and trying to steady her breath as he rocks into her.

He’s gentle at first, but before long he is restless.

“I knew you fucking wanted this,” he pants, gripping at her waist to pull her in with every snap of his hips. “You little whore, I can feel you getting wetter.”

She should hate him for it. There is so much she should hate him for, but she cannot think past the pleasure tightening and rising within her, the sound of Aemond’s laboured breaths or the lewd, wet sounds of their coupling.

His hands grab at her legs, positioning them against her chest so he can fuck her harder and deeper.

“Oh gods,” she whines as he pushes against a spot that makes her feel weightless. 

“Take it bastard,” he hisses, pressing his forehead against hers and wrapping a hand around her neck. It’s not enough to hurt, but it’s enough to know it could. “Fucking take it.”

She is sure it’s too much, his hold on her neck, his breath over her lips, his body pressing against hers as he pounds into her without mercy. 

“I’m going to fill you up,” Aemond rasps, “return you to King’s Landing with a Prince in your belly.”

His promise sparks a new feeling entirely, her cunt clenching around him as her voice becomes a slur of desperate, wanton moans.

“Oh you’d like that, wouldn’t you, ilībõños? Want your uncle to give you a silver-haired babe?”

“Please,” she mewls, placing her hand over his, “please, qȳbos,”

With a few sharp, brutal thrusts, her body erupts with her climax, until she is a moaning, quivering mess. 

Aemond’s jaw hangs open as he fucks into her through his own release, until every last drop of his seed is buried within her.

He keeps himself nestled within her, positioning them properly on the bed, hooking her leg around his hips, keeping her body and her head close to his chest.

Her eyes flutter closed, lulled by the soft sound of his breath and the gentle thud of his heartbeat.

But the pleasant glow of her peak cannot last forever.

“I can’t go back to King’s Landing,” she whispers against his skin. Not now that Aegon has claimed the throne, not now that her mother is amassing her banners and the Greens are doing the same.

Aemond takes her chin his fingers, forcing her gaze to meet his. “Did you think I’d ever let you go? You’re mine now, dōna riña. That is what you've always wanted, is it not?”

She helplessly traces her fingers along the muscles of his arm, held tightly around her.

Perhaps she did want that, once.

“What of the Stormlands? What of our duties to our families? What of the war?”

Aemond silences her with a delicate kiss to her lips. She lets it soothe her, for the sake of a love once lost, for a moment of bliss in a world unfurling into chaos and bloodshed.

“Lord Borros will pledge his banners to Aegon or I will burn Storm’s End to the ground,” Aemond mutters between their kisses. She can already feel his cock beginning to harden once more inside her. “And no one will keep you from me, my sweet, strong girl.”

Tags (comment to be added)

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya

[sanakimohara]

“COLA” B.C. PT.2

“Wish you wanted it a little bit. More, but it’s a chore for you to give…”

Synopsis: Having a crush on her best friend’s older brother was a secret Y/n L/n had managed to hide for years. She presumed those feelings had disappeared over time, but when Chris—or rather, Chan, as he’s called by the rest of the world—makes a surprise visit to Australia to spend his last break of the year with his family, Y/N is bewildered to find that she, in fact, is still infatuated with her best friend's brother. Unbeknownst to her, Chan is already well aware of it and isn’t above taking advantage of her innocent crush on him. All fun and games, right?

WARNINGS: [MDNI! 18+] pining, fluff, smut, a bit of angst, cursing, smoking, and alcohol use. oh and the DDGL dynamic is implied…

A/N: Let’s hope I don’t scrap this and at least finish writing it…also Chan is his current age 25 and the reader is 18+

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People.

She hated so many people around her but had no other place to go.

Airports always irked Y/n. Maybe it was because she’d been to so many in her childhood, forced to behave like an adult in the presence of a crowd all the time, and always afraid of losing her parents when they were there. Which was rare to say the least.

The repulsion and discomfort never really left her system when it came to large crowds. Even at the ripe age of 19 Y/n would rather walk all the way to the Bang residence then deal with constant bustling of an airport.

Unfortunately, walking to her destination would be miserably hot in the Australian weather so she was stuck with waiting for her planes boarding announcement to be made all alone. Thankfully, she’d arrived at a decent time and since it was a continental flight it wouldn’t be long before said announcement would be made.

She occupied herself with a book, earbuds tucked securely in her ears, and her favorite boba drink nestled between her thighs as she read to pass the time. Y/n’s eyes scanned every word on the worn pages of her book, soaking in every detail it could give even though she’d read twice before, but an enticing dark romance novel tends to keep her attention better than anything else.

She delights in the fantasy that’s described in its pages. Where the plot is lack, steamy and disgustingly lustful filler scenes are written, and when a major event does take place it dwarfs in comparison to the impact of headlines the next smutty paragraph brings.

Dark romances are her escape in some way, an acceptable binge she’s allowed herself to indulge in. It’s not a dirty secret or a guilty pleasure for her to read them but rather a way for her mind to envision less then pure fantasies of her design.

Each one of them involves Chan is some way.

She’ll never admit it to anyone, nor dare to say a word alluding to her desires, but it’s hard to put down a book that helps you satiate a hunger you can’t manage right?

Whatever the answer is, Y/n continues to bury herself in the images described in the pages she scans, and if anyone who knew her had walked by they would’ve recognized the tale tell blush starting to coat her cheeks. A sure sign she was either flustered or perpetually turned on.

Luckily, no one around her noticed the tinge to her cheeks, and so she was left to enjoy her book in peace for the time being. Thirty minutes and a couple of sips from her drink later Y/n heard the announcement that informed passengers it was time to board. “

Flight C18 to Sydney, Australia is now boarding. Passengers please make your way to gate 3 and loading dock 3A.”

Y/n nearly jumped out of her skin as the announcement echoed around the waiting area. Her heart thumped in her ears as people around her started to make her way to the designated gate. She clutched her book close as a few strangers briskly walked past her. For some reason or another she assumed they’d judge her if they saw what she’d been reading.

A ridiculous fear, but a fear she favored anyway.

With a few swift movements Y/n packed her book away into her carry on bag and finished off her drink before gathering her bags and phone. She double checked if she’d grabbed everything before making her way to Gate 3 but stopped when the subtle echos of cheering sounded from somewhere in the airport.

“Wonder what’s that all about…” a man asked another as they walked past her.

Y/n had the same question and looked around to pinpoint where the shouting was coming from. When she pinpointed the oncoming noise she rose to her tip toes to see who the crowd was bombarding all of a sudden.

Her investigation was cut short though when a woman tapped her shoulder. “Are you line for the ticket check miss?,” she asked and Y/n nodded sheepishly before responding, “I am, sorry I got a bit…distracted.”

The older woman only nodded in understanding, following behind Y/n as she walked up to the gate assistant and handed them her ticket to check. “Must be some sort of celebrity with how much racket those people are making…” the woman scoffed under her breath and Y/n stifled a giggle at how annoyed she sounded.

“Maybe,” she mumbled to herself, taking one last glance back at the moving crowd heading towards the gate before going to board the plane.

By the time Y/n had officially steeped onto the plane she could hear the shouts of excitement roaring where she’d been standing only moments ago. She didn’t bother to look back, deeming it impossible to get any clue to what’s going from staring again, and opted to find her seat. Which was in Business Class as per usual.

One of the few perks she was happy to have due to traveling so much with her parents when she was younger. Less people were crowded together in Business Class and she sometimes ran into interesting or famous people too.

That was if they were seated next to her and as of right now she hoped no one would be. Sleep and read was her only objectives during this short flight and being next to someone might force her to be social at some point.

Y/n found her designated spot, sat down, got comfortable, and placed her carry on in the seat next to her. The cabin was still fairly empty and so she assumed it would stay that way. All there was left to do was wait for take off which the pilot announced would be in a matter of minutes.

She took the opportunity to text Hannah before putting her phone on airplane mode for the flight.

<< Boarded and about to lift off Han! 💕

>> yay finallyyyyy

>> can’t wait to see you. Mom and dad keep asking how long it’ll take you to land lol.

<< that’s sweet of them :) tell them I’m excited to see them after so long btw!

>> what about me??!? :(

<< Han you’re so dramatic…

<< of course I’m excited to see you too dummy..

Y/n smiled at her phone as she hit send, finding it cute how clingy Hannah could be, but her happiness was cut short as someone came to stand beside the seat her bag was placed in.

“Uhm, sorry but I think that’s my seat..”

Her heart fell to her stomach and if it weren’t for the cushioned seat underneath her she would’ve fell straight through the floor of the plane out of shock.

Her cheeks flushed pink and she gulped softly as the familiar voice spoke up again.

“Miss, sorry, but this is my se-“ Chan immediately cut himself short as the girl in front of him lifted her head to look up at him.

His mask hid most of his shocked expression when their eyes met but Y/n could still see the recognition in his chocolate brown eyes.

She didn’t know what to say, how to say it, or even how to react to seeing the one person -the one man- she’d hoped not see.

This can’t be fucking happening…., she thought watching his eyes crease into crescent moons from the smile forming behind his mask.

“Long time no see, princess,” he greeted her in plain English, accent clearly coming through as he called her the same nickname he’d given her the last time they met.

Hearing it, hearing him call her that again, and just being face to face with him had her chest feeling light and her mouth running dry.

She hadn’t moved or stopped staring at him since their eyes met and Chan was slightly worried he’d startled her into a permanent stupor, but then she blinked slowly and timidly spoke back to him. “H-hi Chris..”she inwardly panicked hearing herself stutter and fought the urge to bite her lip in embarrassment. He’d know she was incredibly flustered then and whether that’d make the situation more awkward or not was the least of her concerns now.

Chan laughed softly when she addressed him as Chris. Even after years of knowing him she’d refused to call him anything else. Every once in a while she’d slip and call him “Channie” but that was rare. He didn’t hold it against her though, moving her bag, and sitting himself down next to her instead. Y/n instinctively flinched form his sudden close proximity and avoided looking at him as he got comfortable next to her.

She was almost certain he could hear heartbeat thudding like rolling thunder in her chest and she prayed to god her face wasn’t ten shades of red.

It definitely was.

Chan didn’t point that out though, choosing to enjoy her flustered state rather than teasing her further.

*buzz buzz*

Her phone vibrated on the floor, laying right next to her feet, and it caught Chan’s attention.

She froze, wondering when she dropped the device and how she failed to notice, but snapped out of her thoughts when Chan spoke.

“Let me get that for you.”

He reached down before she could react, picking up the device and placing it back in her lap. Y/n felt her skin grow hot as he gently returned her phone, his hand grazed over her thighs as he withdrew and it felt like he’d shot electricity through her from the subtle touch. It was an accident, she reminded herself as he leaned back into his seat again.

A pure, one time, accident. That’s all.

She shifted her legs, unconsciously pressing her thighs together as a ripple of warmth coursed through her core, and she cursed herself for wearing a shorter skirt than usual.

“Thanks,” Y/n whispered to him, not fully composed yet, and still trying to act normal around him.

Finding her footing felt impossible the longer he sat near her though.

Chan removed his mask, flashing her a kind smile, “You’re welcome. I did sort of scare you, so it’s the least I can do, Princess.” He nudged her shoulder with his and Y/n forced herself to smile despite wanting to scream from the feeling of his muscular arm against her.

This was going to be the longest 5 hour flight of her life….

And he was going to enjoy every last second.

*********

Soon, the plane was off the ground and headed to Sydney but Y/n was still trying to maintain her demeanor towards Chan.

She was failing miserably.

During take off all she could do was stare out the window and try to breathe like her life depended on it.

Ascent and descent on aircraft was her worst enemy and Chan only had to take one glance at her to notice how pale she got as her manicured nails dug into the lush leather of her seat.

He wasn’t the type to not help someone in need or at least a girl who hated ascending turbulence on a plane. So, he reached over, gently resting a hand on her leg, massaging the expanse of her thigh as a gesture of comfort.

At first Y/n was board stiff under his touch, quite literally considering hurling herself out of the plane the second she felt his firm and warm menstruations on her thigh.

Ever so slightly she started to unwind, welcoming the steady pace of his hand running up and down her skin. She let out a sound, somewhere between a sigh and a whimper -Chan couldn’t tell but it made his head spin a little hearing it.

She was so cute.

Still the same pure girl he remembered.

He watched her expression transform from anxiousness to relief as the plane leveled out. She lifted her head off the window, glancing at him with a look of gratitude on her face, and he bit back a smile at the docile action.

“Feelin better?,” he inquired just loud enough for her to hear and she nodded, eyes fixed on his hand that was still on her thigh. He’d stopped stroking it when she sat up right but had yet to withdraw his hand completely.

Y/n swallowed thickly as her mind delved into what would happen if he just slid his hand a little higher up her skirt. But….his hands felt and looked so perfect on her thigh and she could see every vein in them too.

What would it feel like to have them wrapped around her throat, or better yet, clasped over her mouth while he fucks her-

She bit her tongue hard as self inflicted punishment for imaging such inappropriate things but it was proving difficult for her to not let him do it.

He’s your best friends older brother…snap out of it, she scolded herself for what felt like the 50th time since Chan’s surprise appearance…

She took a breath, peeling her doe eyes away from where his hand was and looked him dead in the eye. With the little confidence she had left she answered his question assertively, “Yes, I’m fine now. Thank you for…comforting me.” A shy smile graced her lips and Chan hummed in approval, satisfied with her response, and finally willing to retract his hold on her.

“Good…I’m glad I could help…” he held her gaze, voice uncharacteristically low, and his dark chocolate eyes sharpening on her when she looked away from him.

Y/n had to fully cross her legs at this point, needing pressure on her mound in someway or another. She masked the action as an effort to fix her skirt and then lowered it as if she were some proper lady of a royal family.

Chan didn’t comment, smirking to himself at her innocent attempt to be modest. He’d seen and slept with enough women in his time as an idol to know the signs.

She couldn’t hide anything from even if she tried.

Y/n, on the other hand, couldn’t stop fidgeting, every now and then squirming in her seat as if to get comfortable. She wasn’t obnoxious about it, more naive of her arousal is what Chan called it, and he found it increasingly adorable as the flight went on. If he so much as stared at her for too long she’d squirm like an ant under a magnifying glass. Chan could only imagine how’d she react to him touching her intimately.

That thought alone gave him a hard on.

He controlled himself well though, not letting on how he felt was a skill he’d mastered after years of practice.

Eventually, they made small talk at some points of their trip. She asked why he was in Australia despite his supposed ‘busy schedule’ and he told her the truth.

“I wanted to surprise my family. Since I didn’t get to see them on my break earlier this year I’m making that up with this trip.”

Y/n smiled, forgetting the heat persistently pooling between her thighs, and finding it endearing how much Chan valued time with his family.

“That’s sweet of you Chris…” she chirped with a beaming smile.

He nodded, “I’m guessing you’ll be staying with us again for the holidays?”

Y/n hummed in agreement, “Hannah wouldn’t let me say no.” She giggled softly and Chan laughed lightly at the mention of his sister.

“Yeah, she was pretty ticked you didn’t come last year..”

His face shifted from joyous to slightly reprimanding, “I was too..”

She bit her lip as he stared at her, “I…I got really busy…”

That was a lie. A lie that Chan didn’t believe for a second .

Y/n glanced into his eyes but regretted it seeing the stern haze in them. He knew she was lying and he hated being lied too. That was a fact she’d discovered while watching him and his members on some reality show a long time ago. She also knew it from Hannah herself. He mentioned his hatred of lying many times in many coded ways in his weekly ‘Chan Room’s’ as well.

Of course he saw right through her but at least she’d attempted to cover up her faults from last year.

Y/n did not want divulge her true reasons for ditching her plans with the Bang family but she knew his next words would be, “Don’t lie to me…” and at that point she’d have to tell him.

She’d have to tell him he was the primary reason she chose to cancel.

It wasn’t something she wanted to reveal, ever, so before Chan could interrogate her Y/n stood from her seat and excused herself to the restroom. “I’ll be right back.,” she chirped with a false sense of calm

However, this meant she’d have to shuffle past him to some degree. Not ideal, but necessary if she wanted to escape his questioning.

Chan raised a brow at her. Letting her squeeze past him and into the aisle. Her skirt rode up a bit as she did so, giving him a split second glance at what she wore underneath, and that gained her an instance of much needed distraction on his part.

Pink lace, I knew it…, he thought.

Y/n hurriedly smoothed her skirt back to normal, trying very hard to ignore his lingering gaze as she scurried off to the restroom. Her head was spinning the whole ten foot walk there and it felt like the air was swallowing her whole until she shut herself in the semi-clustered bathroom.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” she whispered as her nerves blazed and her mind raced to come up with a plausible excuse to answer Chan’s oncoming questions. Nothing seemed to be sufficient. Every excuse she thought of he’d probably disprove or see though. It was impossible.

The throbbing in her core was no help either, it intensified every time she thought about him, and at this point she couldn’t think straight at all.

“God, I can’t do this…” she whined in defeat, going to the sink for cold water to dab on her neck for some sort of relief. The shitty attempt at control helped for milliseconds before the feeling of Chan’s hand running up and down her thigh had her body shivering again.

A quiet moan escaped her throat and Y/n dabbed more cold water on her neck to relieve the tension she desperately needed to release.

“Pull it together,” she scolded herself, glaring at her reflection, and attempting to find any flaws that might be there. If she walked out of this bathroom worse than she came in Chan might out her completely.

He already had, years ago, but he wasn’t about to tell her that.

Still, that just wasn’t an option she’d like to choose right now and so after a few minutes of steady breathing paired with a silent moment to think Y/n felt composed enough to exit her seclusion.

She opened the door, expecting to walk right out with no problems, but there stood Chan already peering down at her.

A very heavy silence passed between them.

Y/n managed to hold his gaze despite her heart rate accelerating. On the other hand, Chan wasn’t sure why he’d followed her. At first he chalked it up to a sort of proactive protectiveness.

She was his little sisters best friend after all and any stranger could try to harm her. He’d do the same for any other friend…right? Wrong…

Another lie.

An invisible little truth he told himself was valid to justify his urge to watch over her.

The truth was he had less than pure intent to guard her and more interest in helping her solve a problem she clearly wanted to hide from him.

“Sorry, do you need to?…” she politely shifted away from the entrance, allowing him the opportunity to pass by her if he needed to, but he didn’t move a muscle…

Y/n swallowed thickly as familiar sparks ran up her spine the longer he held eye contact with her.

“You okay Chris?..” she sounded concerned, successfully masking her real reaction to his unwavering gaze.

Her voice snapped him out of whatever trance he’d been in and he returned to his normally friendly disposition.

“Yeah, I’m fine, Princess. You were just gone for a while and I thought something might be wrong.” He laughed softly, as if to throw her off with the sound so she wouldn’t think too hard on what he’d said, but Y/n held onto his every word.

He’d followed her, waited for her to come out, and admitted it too.

Creepy,,,but something in her liked it.

Her stomach was doing flips, cheeks turning a light shade of pink as a soft “oh..” slipped past her lips. It felt odd to have someone this interested in her, especially Chan, but he seemed to be like that with everyone he knew.

She couldn’t take this one instance as anything more than her best friends protective older brother looking out for his sisters pleasantly naive friend.

Nevertheless , she found it attractive. The idea that Chan wanted to protect or guard her was enough to feed her fantasies for the rest of her life.

Chan shifted, standing to the side and motioning for her to walk past him, “Shall we.” Y/n nodded, smiling softly as she walked past him and back to her seat. He trailed after, stopping to reach into the overhead compartment for his carry on bag.

She caught sight of his shirt lifting, his skin taut with muscle underneath the black hoodie he wore, and his jeans resting on his hips perfectly to show off the band of his boxers that hugged his sculpted v-line just right.

Y/n wanted to reach out and graze her fingertips over his skin, have the blessing to touch him just once, but settled with just stealing glances at him as he retrieved whatever he needed from his bag. He suddenly looked down at her, a smirk on his face as she quickly turned her head towards the window. He’d caught her staring where she shouldn’t be and gave her no time to act as if she hadn’t been.

“You okay?,” he asks her, gaze lingering on her frozen posture before refocusing on the items in his bag. She clears her throat quietly, nodding in response, and shifting in her seat.

Chan didn’t pry further, knowing she was the quiet type of girl who’d get even more shy under pressure, so he let her be. Y/n kept her eyes fixated on the cloud filled sky outside, hands tucked under her legs.

Embarrassed couldn’t begin to describe how she felt right now but it was dangerously close.

Chan had caught her staring and not even at his face.

She was fucked.

Totally fucked.

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TAGS: @imastraykidsfan 🖤 + @channniesslefttt 🖤

Just wanted to thank you all for supporting this series and all my other posts. It’s good to know I’m not the only delulu and extremely unhinged stay out there….thats all I have to say lol 🖤

BONUS CONTENT +

[softandsourcream]

Stop, you’re losing me~ - two

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pairing: idol! yoongi x vet!f reader.

Words: 8,5k

genre(s): angst, hurt- comfort, slow burn, fluff, smut (+18) (not this one tho)

au(s): childhood friends - to lovers, idol yoongi, normal vet reader, entertainment industry, denial and resentment.

Episode warnings: complicated relationship with food, description of diseases, curse words, family drama, grief, loss of loved ones, damaged mental health, a LOT of struggling.

-

IMPORTANT: this fic contains a lot of sensitive topics touched upon explicitly. Please, if any of the tags trigger something in you, stop reading. You are more important, and there is much more content you can consume here. Take care please! ♡

enjoy!

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main masterlist

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“Y/N, honey~”

Okay, wait. Here. It was from here where you remembered.

 

You were at home, in the bed that was almost yours. You cry just for that, under your sheets. Lucky you could remain silent; it was almost an empty cry at that point. Automatically, you were crying because that’s what you have to do.

You were exhausted. And you remembered having a bad feeling about all that situation.

“Not ready~”

“It's been a week.” Your mom closed the door, gently sitting on your bed and touching your back with a care that made you cry more. You were already drowning. “Did you think about a therapist yet?”

No. For a lot of things.

 

The first and most important is that you were already starting to improve a week ago. You haven't felt this miserable in months now, almost three. You had started to get up, eat better, and cry less. You talked, you walked, you wanted to laugh, to go out, to go back to work. Everything was fine. You didn't need a therapist.

Oh well, you did. At least you thought about going to one when you were already feeling better. You had the energy to want to be well and for this not to happen. Because the second was that now you didn't have the energy to try to lift yourself up in every way possible.

It was too heavy. But why. Why else would you have relapsed?

“How can you all be so… fine about it.” It wasn't retaliation, because everyone in that house was like that at the time, but you seemed to be the only one still there, and that frustrated you so much that it made things worse.

“We’re not.” You know. “We just know how to-“

“Live with the pain.” You end the sentence, revealing your face slowly to your mother. She looked tired and worried, but she still looked at you with love.

She brushed your hair out of your face, sighing and wiping away your tears softly. It was the only look of pity that you didn’t hate. You allowed it because you didn't have the heart to tell her that it bothered you. She was a mother; she couldn't help it.

“Your brother always told me to take care of you once he died.” She nodded, starting to cry. You haven't seen her cry in a long time. “He assured me that even if I were his mother, I would be able to understand it sooner and miss him differently than you. It's questionable, but that’s what he thought.” She took a breath, as if she had suddenly forgotten to breathe. What was he thinking when he said something like that to a mother? Many times you thought that Kija had no brains to boast about.

"'Don't let her die like this too.' " She quoted, “ ‘If I see her, whatever I end up to, I'm gonna hit her until she comes back to life." I’ll never forget how he told me that.” You smile a little. He also told you that in person days before.

“I've been remembering that non-stop all these months, but I realized that in the end, Y/N, I can't help you if you don't. Not because I don't want to; it's because I'm human, and I don't do miracles, honey.” You nodded like that didn’t hurt you, just because it was true. “I came here to let you know that we love you, we understand, and that if maybe I can’t do anything more for you, if you have a plan, I will always be here for you to help. It’s up to you from here, but you’re not alone.”

He prepared you for his death; everybody knows, what you were doing.

Why now. You were starting to make friends with the feeling that you were fine. You were in that stage of grief that isn’t too tragic.

What might have made you remember the loss as a thing in your life?

Of fucking course.

It took three days for you to use your little desire to continue like this and do something about it. Seun opened his eyes when he saw you entering the kitchen at breakfast, watching your movements cautiously.

“Where’s everybody.”

He blinks, chewing the cereal that was left in his mouth.

“All of them are in school; the rest of them are working.”

“What are you doing here, then?”

“What do you mean?”

“You still live at your parent's house without working? At 28?” He smiles. You were making fun of yourself as you said your age instead of his. He continued eating, calmer. “Embarrassing.”

“Guilty.” He says. “I needed the time, though. Things have been complicated lately.”

You looked at each other, and you thanked him for the gesture with your gaze, taking out a cup to make yourself some tea. Seun worked in Seoul. You didn't see him much, but he had been traveling home very often to see how everyone was doing in general after what happened, to see Jae too, and to be with his family more. Paradoxically, he was a lawyer, a very good and serious one, exaggeratedly contrary to what you were seeing right now, who wore a horrible duck shirt that he had worn as pajamas for as long as you can remember and always left at home, eating colored cereals in the bowl of one of your younger brothers.

When you went, nothing really belonged to you; all your things were already in your respective houses, but there was always room for you. Seun, being the second oldest, had left his room empty a long time ago, but he wore clothes that he had left in case he went.

Being there was like going back in time; you had taken your mother's clothes because you didn't go out much, and the ones you had there were no longer to your taste. The noises in the morning, hearing your mother sing from the kitchen, and seeing how they still danced together from time to time

It was nice.

You ended up eating the remains of yesterday's dinner with him at the inn, in silence. It was difficult for you to eat while like this; it was as if something in your chest prevented you from feeling any kind of human need. You left half the plate, and Seun after seeing that, took a breath.

“Eat that, and I’ll give you a prize.”

"Uh~ surprise me.”

You settled into the chair, ready to really listen to whatever it was. Seun was… you know.

“Dad asked me to take care of the garden outside.”

You frowned deeply, and you laughed because he was serious. “Great. Like when you were seventeen. I woke up with you complaining about it.” He made a face. “How would that be a prize?”

“It’s kind of fun, though. How about you come with me, hm? You don't have to do anything; eat that and just get some sun.

You didn’t eat it. But you go out still.

 

You didn’t even get dressed; you were still in pajamas, sitting on the grass, watching your brother cut leaves to shape bushes. Your father still took great care of that place; you could see that it was even better than before. He quite enjoyed it. You used to sit and look at him this way when you were younger.

“Didn’t know this could be emotional for you. You’re unbelievable.”

You laughed, wiping away your tears. It was stupid; you felt better, honestly.

“Sorry.”

“Sure.” He reached out to place a flower in your hair. It was small, white, the ones that fell from the tree that was right in the middle of everything. You smiled.

“How are you?”

“Better” you were, at least right now.

"Why did you get up today? What’s the occasion, hm?"

He walked away, beginning to pick up the remains on the floor. He was done.

“I just don’t want to feel terrible today.”

“Exiting.” He says this, stretching his back. “You know how hard it’s to force yourself to do that, kid? I am very happy to see you today. It's so brave of you. I'm serious.” It gave you a chill; you weren't used to hearing him talk like that. You simply nodded. “Here.” He gave you another flower; you play with it in your hands. “I'm going in to make lunch; are you coming with me? I can call you when it’s ready.

"No, I'm going to stay here."

Because it was quiet, you heard birds, and it didn't feel like your bed. You were a little desperate when your mother told you to go outside because you would feel better. The last thing you wanted was to get up, but you also hated that she was right.

You didn't open your eyes until you heard a noise that scared you, and it was almost bizarre to see Yoongi, standing with a garbage bag in his hand, looking at you without knowing what to do, giving all meaning to your search for triggers.

 

You blink. Maybe you were hallucinating.

 

Your gardens were together. His family hasn’t moved in all these years. The only thing you knew was that it was their property now, not like yours, which still rented the place. It had more floors than it used to, and instead of having old red wood walls like it used to, it was white and pretty. Yoongi had made sure that his family lived well. Many years ago, the house had been in constant repair; inside, it must have looked different too, but its patios still had no division.

Because they were neighbors, best friends, and family, sometimes they got together right there; why separate it? If they completely trusted each other, they could see each other more that way.

 

Why was Yoongi still in Daegu.

 

You couldn't find enough reasons for him to still be there. He must have been very busy doing his things, far, far from there, far from you.

And it was overwhelming to see him in that garden where you once saw him. It was difficult for you to make yourself believe that this person brought back that ugly feeling of looking like a lost cat.

You touch your chest.

He bowed. You had to cover the sun with one hand to be able to look at him better, and respond in the same way.

“You’re still here.” You say it quietly. 

Yoongi had those eyes, unkind ones. 

That and a sleepy look. He had always had them. If you hadn't known him since forever, you were sure that you would never have spoken to him, and if he did, you wouldn’t feel like speaking to him or maintaining any type of contact with him just because of his look. It was heavy, as if he was constantly having the worst time of his life, but by nature. His father had the same eyes and the same attitude; they communicated nothing with their expressions. At least that was what you knew—what you had stuck with.

But he looked at you in a way you didn't understand right now. That was one thing you didn't understand about the new Yoongi. Before, you used to catch him better because, although he expressed nothing with his eyes, you were the only one who could know how; you could read him in a certain way, and now he was just strange.

Softer. Almost warm but intimidating.

“Hm.” He didn’t move. “What are you doing, Park?" It was a mocking question, almost as if your brother had asked it, but with less emotion and coming from him, of course.

“Sunbathe.” You look dumb trying to look at him. The sun wouldn't let you. “It’s healthy from time to time," he tilted his head. “You need a little bit too. You’re too pale.”

He smirks, looking away, almost like taking the courage to ask. “Can I sit there, then?”

You analyzed the space with your eyes narrowed because you were trying to identify the natural division that existed between his patio and yours. Right on the floor, a few meters from you, there was a fairly thin cement line that divided the two spaces. You pointed your finger at it, moving a little closer so he could see it.

“Don't cross that line, and you'll be fine.”

Yoongi also squinted his eyes, looking at what could barely be seen on the ground. It took him a few seconds, but he managed to spot it and neutralize his gaze, lowering the hand he was using to block the sun coming from above. He snorted before approaching in silence.

You had forgotten what he looked like, and you wanted to say that during the day, with the sun on his face and casual, white clothes, he looked even better. He glows, and you want to punch him in the face.

“You don't fit in here anymore.” You said it simply. He leaned on his hands, leaning his body back, understanding that you didn't mean it with bad intentions. It was simply an observation, but he still didn't quite understand it.

“What do you mean?”

“Here, in Daegu.” He loses his eyes. “You look... expensive.”

You made him laugh unintentionally. Genuinely, he even sat properly so he could look at you. You were facing each other, a considerable distance away, divided by a line of asphalt covered by grass, but there it was.

“What?” That question makes you feel stupid.

“I don’t know, just- you look like you belong to another place. Too handsome and well dressed to be here.

“Ah~ handsome, huh?”

“Yes, Yoongi, too handsome.” It was a fact; he wasn’t stupid. He knows he’s attractive. You played with the flower between your fingers, feeling your heart begin to pound. You didn't even know why; you were sure he knew it wasn't his intention. You heard him laugh again. “You know what I mean.”

At least, you hope so.

“Maybe I don’t belong here anymore.” He says. When you looked up, he was playing with the grass between his fingers. “I don't feel welcome, either.”

“What are you doing here, then.”

He looked at you from there, raised his eyes for a few seconds, then closed them again. “I want to spend time with my family before enlisting. Hyung it’s going on his honeymoon in a few days, and... well, I'm running out of time.”

You had forgotten that.

You had to fight a lot not to ask when he was leaving, because it was two years, and although you hadn't seen him ten years ago, in a way you also had him constantly in your face, always. Now you wouldn't see him at all.

It was none of your business; why would you ask?

“That’s good.”

“You’re still living in he-?”

“Y/N, honey, hello. I thought you had returned to Busan since I didn't see you leave the house. You look tired; are you okay?”

You jumped for that.

“Hello, Mrs. Min. I’m, thank you.”

You had always been surprised by how intimidating that woman seemed to you and how much she loved you. She seemed more loving right now; maybe her age had made her softer, but in her younger days, every time she spoke to you, it was terrible for you. She always spoke to you as if she were making fun of you, with the most beautiful voice you had ever heard and the most studied words there were for a cordial conversation. Over time, you learned that it was genuine happiness, like right now.

“Then why-“

“Mom.” Yoongi stops her, and you realize.

You looked bad, perhaps unstable enough if it was at first glance. You did look tired; you hadn't slept well in months; you were still in your pajamas; and your hair was tied up. You hoped it wouldn't matter to you; you wish it were that way.

You had a flower on your head, at least.

“It's okay.” You told him, more for him than for her, and he looked at you, remaining silent for a few seconds. When you heard the woman's voice again, you were still sharing a look, surprisingly.

“Sorry. I was about to go to your house. I know your mom's working, but Seun it’s at home, isn’t he?” You finally looked at her and nodded, smiling slightly at her.

“Yeah.” It was weird, almost like she was checking to make sure you weren't alone. “Do you want me to leave her a message, Mrs. Min?”

“Oh no! It’s okay. I'll go tonight, but also," you take a deep breath. “It was just to invite you all to dinner tomorrow. Jae will be leaving in a few days, and the rest of his time will be spent with friends, so we can have dinner as a family.”

“I- don’t know. I’ll ask them-“

“I'm telling you, honey.” And you wish she didn’t. “Would you like to come? I know… You've had a tough time, and in the whole year you've been here, I've only seen you twice. We want to help.”

There it is. And just because you wanted to get out of there as soon as possible, you smiled slightly and nodded. You only had those types of reactions at the beginning, when the topic was mentioned. You hate to have them again now. It was directly a discomfort that made you want to sink into the ground because it made you cry instantly and peel off your skin in one go. It was extremely uncomfortable.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want. Just think about it, okay?”

You said your goodbyes; she kissed your forehead and left, leaving you two alone again in an awkward silence. Yoongi didn't have pity in his eyes now, but it was as if he had been reminded of something he had done wrong.

“I can tell them you couldn’t make it.”

“No need to.” You tore up the grass by a handful. Why did everyone think you couldn't do anything for yourself? “I will go. I miss your father's cooking.”

“Okay.” Another silence. “I’m sorry about that. She doesn't have any bad intentions; she cares. She doesn't even treat me the way she treats you."

You smiled a little, and for some reason, your heart started to beat less hard. Just as fast, but it didn't make you want to die. And you didn't like that.

“No problems.” You say, getting up. "It looks like I do fit in here anyway.” You shook yourself for nothing exactly; it was just to feel less uncomfortable as he watched your movements, and you looked at him as you walked to the entrance of your house. He had a lopsided smile, soft eyes, and the flower Seun had given you between his fingers. “you still have twenty minutes left.”

He smiled at you, knowing that you were running away. Still, he didn't stop you.

 

That was one. The next one was a little less exciting.

 

—

You weren’t an events' person.

Not because you felt too bad to attend social things; in fact, you had discovered that it was very efficient at not making you think too much. Being alone was the worst thing you could do, but you didn't like going. It felt almost like a charity event since Kija died; at least that's how it felt. Seun told you it wasn't like that at all, but you feel like it.

Like a charity object.

 

They give you extra food, extra attention, extra compliments, and the comfiest chair. And it was nice sometimes, but today you didn’t want that to happen.

"So... you want the red one or the purple one?” You held them both up, showing them to your sister in the mirror.

“What do you think?”

“I think… I like the purple one.” She didn't seem to like your decision, so you had to convince her. “ Look, it has flowers and sparkles inside. “You’ll look cool, don’t you think?”

“But it doesn't match my outfit~” Hyunji whines, and you smile, pushing away the purple hair tie to comb her hair into a ponytail again. You'd end up convincing her anyway.

“What do you mean? You have purple here.” On her shirt. It was yellow on its own, but it had purple bubbles, and even though the basic style doesn’t work like that, it seemed to make sense to her child's brain.

“You’re right… Okay!” She says, playing with her doll again.

Living with children always makes you wish life was that easy sometimes.

Hyunji has a twin too. It was because your father was a twin of another; the gene was there. They were the youngest in the family, and you had been combing their hair all year. It was complicated because every time they did it, they were together, and they reminded you of the dynamic you had had with Kija your whole life.

At that point, it didn't hurt you so much anymore. The first few times, it had been complicated for you to see, but now the other twin was in the other room, and she had no one else to talk to other than her doll. Nara, your other sister, enters the room.

“You’ll go?” You were dressed.

"Uh-hu,” you responded, checking that everything was in order in the mirror. 

“Yoongi will be there.”

"I know." You spoke with the purple garter between your teeth, so your voice came out funny. “Are you going?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Yoongi will be there.” She rolled her eyes as she turned to the bathroom and sat on the edge of the tub, leaning against the wall. You laughed softly.

“Not you too.”

Nara wasn't particularly a fan of his group, at least not at first. Since you hadn't been paying much attention, you didn't really know what the story was like, but apparently, she was starting to listen to them recently, and she genuinely didn't believe that this was the Yoongi she remembered. Now all her siblings were bothering her for refusing to do so.

“I didn’t know! Stop. It's almost overwhelming to see him leave the house sometimes. Last week, I met him twice! Here! In this town, Y/N! He looks like-“

“He doesn't belong in here.” You mumbled, and Nara nodded at you, wrinkling her nose. 

“Nothing good ever happens here; this is too much for me.”

And for you too. But you didn’t say that out loud.

“Go on, kid. Call your sister.” Hyunji thanked you and ran off to find the other twin. You stretched your back.

“Can you tell me what happened between you two?” You scoff, sorting out the chaos you had made to find the purple ribbon in the box your mother had for them.

“Why do you want to know? It’s not that exciting.”

“There's no way.” She got comfortable, almost as if emphasizing her words. “Everybody in this family knows it's something happening to him and you, but nobody asked because they say you stopped crying about it like yesterday.” You laughed at the exaggeration. "Tell me."

“Well.” You took Ara, the other girl who had already been talking about how she wanted her hair, to sit her in the chair that you had placed on the sink counter, so you could see them better. Your mother always did it, and you didn't understand why. It was too unsafe. "The same thing as your sister?”

"No! I want them... like this.” She held up two fingers to you, and you nodded, wetting his hair and carefully untangling it. Ara liked to wear her hair long, so it took you longer, and you were already starting to get tired.

“We were friends, best friends, and things ended. That's all."

It took a second for the teen to sigh and start complaining about how little information you had given her. But you didn't like to talk about it. Not because you couldn't, but because it was something you already had behind you, very far behind. You didn't feel like it was any use to you to talk to anyone about it.

“Did you two kiss at least?"

“Yeah, we did."

Now, she looks excited.

“So you two date!”

“No. We didn’t.”

“Hm, date, but didn’t formalize anything?”

“No.”

“Friends with benefits?”

 

“Hm~ no.”

 

“Fuckbuddys?”

“Jesus Nara. How old are you? Twelve?”

She rolled her eyes, briefly looking at her cell phone”

"Haha. Why are you responding like Seun now? Don't do that; we have more than enough with one.” You responded to something the youngest was telling you, and you handed her a jar of cotton balls that she was asking for. “And I'm seventeen. “So you can tell me if you two were only fu-”

"Well, she, right here it's seven, Nara. So don’t say that ever again.” You saw her grimace in the mirror. “And we were friends. Best friends. Friends don’t- yeah.”

At least that’s what he told you. That you were friends.

“Friends don’t kiss either.”

And you told him that, too.

“I know.”

“Hm.” It seemed as if she didn't want to ask more, perhaps knowing that with the background she had, nothing could end well.

“I’m okay, though. I don't see the need to talk about it now. Yes, I suffered a lot because of it, but that's it; things are the way they are now.”

You had even realized that being around him didn't affect you like you thought. On the day of your wedding, you were sensitive; you knew it; you were predisposed to have a bad time. Now that you are at home with your family, what could go wrong?

“Do you plan to go dressed like that, then?”

“Hm?” You looked at yourself in the mirror in front of you, starting your sister's last ponytail. “What's wrong with it?”

“You’re kidding? You’re literally using mom's clothes.”

Yes, but because yours doesn’t fit in with you like they used to.

“I think it's pretty.” You defend yourself, but not really, finishing your job and taking the creature down from the inn. You heard her say thank you as Nara took your arm. "What-“

“Y/N, I won't allow you to go see your celebrity-famous ex dressed like that, without makeup and wearing ladies' shoes. You even did your hair! Come here.”

“He’s not-“

“Yes, wherever.”

She ended up dressing you in your clothes. Nice clothes of yours that you haven't worn in a while, but they made you feel pretty. Then she tried to do your makeup herself, but you knew how to do it yourself, so you ended up giving in. Your mother scolded them because they were late, and Nara left home with a smile on her face.

 

And you look beautiful. Yoongi thinks that when he saw you enter the house with one tween in your arms and a baby blue cardigan on you,

Of course, you were wearing baby blue.

“Do you think Seun will hit me in the face tonight if he gets drunk enough?” Yoongi asked his brother, receiving the beer he offered him. They could stop by to say hello later. The Parks had always been a lot of people; they had time to greet their parents first. Eun snorts before Jae can say anything.

“He doesn’t have to get drunk for that. You’re currently hurting the two people who matter most to him just by your existence. What do you think will happen?"

He agreed with a gesture, opening the bottle and taking a long drink. Yoongi didn't really like beer, but he would need it today.

“Well, I think,” Jae emphasized himself, shoving another beer into Yoongi's chest for him to hold. He was pulling out some to offer, he assumed. “that you can always talk to them to make them understand. Just like you did with the two of us.”

Make them understand. The problem was that neither of you seemed open to listening, which was fine, but oh well.

Yoongi had taken it upon himself all those days to fix as much as he could in that stretch of time. He had a different way of thinking and handling things, and he was too old to have unresolved issues. He didn't know if it was because he had time before he left or because Daegu and his house, his parents, and the streets where he walked for so long, dragging a useless dream, brought his emotions to the surface.

With you, it was different because he saw you, and it was difficult for him to remember all that he did wrong.

He had been thinking. Enough to have him overwhelmed in so few days, and while apologizing to Eun, for example, for having been so absent in her and her brother's lives, or to his parents, for... exactly the same thing, he saw you, and he knew that it wasn't just him who had to ask for forgiveness.

“They’re good at listening and apologizing for things they have done before. You're a lucky bastard to have to apologize to the most understanding people on earth.”

Eun had found it difficult to forgive him. She spent maybe a week talking to him, thinking about it, talking about it with Jae, and coming to the conclusion that, in fact, he had changed a lot and had given him an opportunity that he was sure he could fulfill. Yoongi was genuinely in another stage of his life, but having things to take care of was exhausting.

He realized more things that night at dinner as well. He didn't know the youngest members of the family, but they turned out to be quite shy compared to all of you, and talking to your family in general was quite easy. Not only that, but he didn't feel strange, out of place, or treated differently for who he was now; catching up with your parents and siblings was nice. Yoongi felt good”

“I would love to, Mr. Park, but I um, I return to Seoul tomorrow. I have commitments there before I leave for service.”

Nara had her birthday in a few days, and they were going to throw her a party. They were inviting Yoongi. He didn't know why his throat hurt from saying no lately. He was never a complacent person.

“Tomorrow? That soon? Will you enlist soon?”

It was impressive how those had been the first words Seun had spoken to Yoongi all night.

“No, it’s- not about that. I have work stuff. recording and practice.”

After that, he started answering questions about his life, which wasn't necessarily a bother. It was okay; he knew your family didn't have bad intentions either. He noticed it.

He also noticed that you barely touched your food.

“Can we talk?” You asked him when you were clearing up the dishes in the kitchen. ‘Sure’ and you took him outside because there was too much noise inside.

"So... you return to Seoul tomorrow."

You look disturbed, but he doesn’t hurry you.

“Hm.” He responded in affirmation. “My last concert is soon, and I have things to take care of before that.”

“Awesome.” 

You look untouched by the situation. By everything. As if you were there by protocol. You hadn't laughed genuinely all night; you just smiled and responded kindly, briefly at that, knowing how much you liked to talk.

He didn't want to say that it had to affect you, but it was as if you had no reaction in your body. Quite the opposite of when he saw you at marriage, where you were with all your feelings on the surface. And he was worried. He has no right to be, though.

“I thought you missed my father’s food.” He tries, and you look confused at him.

“I did it.”

“You barely touch it.”

“Well, that’s none of your business.”

Oh, well.

You covered your face. Yoongi heard you sigh.

“Sorry.” You say.

He nodded, calm. At least trying.

“Didn’t mean to be disrespectful, either. It’s okay.”

Then he waited.

Enough. It was almost ten minutes of pure silence in which you thought about what you would say, and he smoked because you made him nervous and made him want to be doing anything but being aware that you were there.

"Okay," you say. Your words sounded loose. As if you were complaining about something. “Before seeing you that day, at the wedding," you start. “I was fine. I was feeling okay. I was- eating very well, I was starting to go out more, and I had this... silly feeling in my chest that maybe this situation wouldn't mean the end of my days, my life, and that I could do things by myself.”

Yoongi settled back in his place, attentive. It was just that he didn't understand, but he wanted to.

“I knew you would be there.”

“Yeah. Jae, he mentioned something to me.” After the weeding, of course. He would’ve liked to know that, too.

“Yes. So I mentally prepared myself for that, to see you, because it affects me to do so, and I thought I had handled it well that day. It didn't add up to me, because I spent weeks thinking about it and preparing myself for things that didn't happen and would have made everything much worse. I felt bad again, and I started to think a lot about... everything. About Kidja's death and what would happen to me without him in my life. It wasn't even about you. I had gone back to my beginning of grief, Yoongi. And I didn't understand why all the effort I had made to be well was gone so suddenly.”

He blinks. A lot of times.

“I’m- not understanding.“

“I have this theory.” Okay. “When you left, I had this same reaction. I don't really want to compare them because they are different in very big ways, but it reminded me of a lot of things, and seeing you there... I wanted to ask you not to leave. Not again, not like everyone has done it recently, so I can feel better.” His heart was a mess; this information was too much. “And it's stupid, because I don't know you, and I can't trust you, and the fact that you're here does me any good.”

“Y/N.” He insisted.

“I just want to put an end to this.” He could swear you were shaking. “Forever.”

Yoongi's head was going very fast; he felt somewhere else, something surreal. He had lived peacefully for a long time; his heart almost burst out when he heard you say a few more things, like you didn't blame him for anything, but you needed to know that he wouldn't be there anymore, and when you wished him a good life, he went a little crazy because you were leaving.

“Wait!” He was in a rush for some reason. “Just like that? May I… apologize for everything at least?”

He saw how many things went through your head, and he was desperate not to be able to know what. You took your distance before you talked.

“Yoongi, I don’t care.”

Now he was mad. You were acting like a child; resentment was speaking for you. He didn't blame you, at least not entirely, because he knew you were smarter than this. You had more valid, more accurate, and even stronger answers, but you were deciding to run away.

That wasn't what really bothered Yoongi, but the fact that you didn't tell him directly, like you would.

“If you want to live, then do it. But give me a voice too; I'm involved too.”

You snorted and crossed your arms to look at him with a smile on your face.

His blood boiled.

“You know what? Forget it. Have a good night.”

“Oh fantastic.” You move fast, getting closer to his garden but staying on the other side of the small line that divides it. Yoongi stopped, now not willing to listen to anything, nor to say anything constructive, really. “So you’re mad now?”

“It’s just—you're so stubborn! I’m trying to do something here!”

“And what do you want me to do, Yoongi?! Hug you and dry your fucking celebrity tears and tell you that the fact that you broke my heart like it wasn’t a big deal was okay? Oh, so now you want to be involved. You’re living tomorrow! And you want to fix things now? Shut up. You’re doing the exact same thing you did when you left.”

Your voice broke off as you swallowed the lump that had formed in your throat. Yoongi sighed, closing his eyes.

“We both did things wrong; I just wanted to talk about it before… that's all.”

“Everyone suddenly wants to talk about it.” It wasn't cold outside. Daegu wasn't a cold place, but you hugged yourself and cringed as if it were. “Everyone asks me what happened between us and why we stopped talking. Your father apologized to me in your place today too; he told me that whatever happened, he hoped we could fix it.”

Yes, I had told him that too, since it happened years ago, honestly.

“But I don't see any sense in it. Why talk about something that is already broken? Why do you insist? I just want to close this, okay? It was already dead; leave it like this.”

Yoongi took a moment, because it was true. But you look too real in front of him, and that makes him weak.

“So we can heal, can't we? That’s why you are doing this.” Your eyes look at him. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I had no choice.”

"Yes, you did.” You cut him off. “Do things right, or do things wrong. Those were your options. And you chose.”

Because you had always understood that he was leaving and that Yoongi had bigger things to do outside that place, and you were happy about that, but he didn't tell you until one day before he left forever.

He was completely blinded by having signed recently, by having an opportunity, by doing what he liked, and by the promises that were being made to him. Leaving everything behind, his parents, who did not believe in him, his "friends” who constantly told him that he would not make it, in that place that hurt him so much only excited him.

And unfortunately, you found yourself involved just by being part of that place.

“I know. And I’m really sorry.” You closed your eyes, and you denied it slightly. As if you didn't want to hear those words. “I understand that I made a mistake back then; I was young and dumb, and I- didn’t- I’m not the same person right now. I’m really sorry. I mean it.” 

So... insignificant.

“Why.” And that was the question he didn’t want to hear. “So you can feel better about yourself, or because you're doing me a favor? Why now, Yoongi. If you hadn't seen me that day at the wedding, would you have traveled all the way here just to apologize before you left?”

No. The answer was no.

It wasn't something Yoongi thought about much. In all those years, he had convinced himself that he had done what he had done because sometimes in life, you have to be selfish to prioritize your well-being as a person. To put himself first over others because he had a dream, and fulfilling it meant sacrifices.

He hadn't done anything wrong, you know?

Now he apologized only because he saw you sick, and he felt guilty because he knew that it had affected you more than him. He was stupid because he blindly believed that the fact that he apologized would mean something less in your life, even if he didn't know how important you were to the whole thing itself. And you were sad and depressed, and you had big dark circles in your eyes, and you weren't eating well. You didn't really smile, you had a hard time getting up, and he hadn't seen you leave the house even once in all the time you had been there.

 

He felt responsible.

 

He did it because it left him and only him clean. He was being selfish.

He kept quiet. He wouldn't admit it out loud. 

“I spent nine years of my life on pause waiting for you to care enough to come back to this damn city, so we could fix things. To talk about it. But that was nine years ago, and it’s a little too late right now.”

"I'm,” he stops, getting close to you, pressing his words in his throat so as not to have to raise his voice. “apologizing.”

“Well, you’re not forgiven.” He tense.

“For something I made when I was a teen? I don’t know, but you made some dumb shit back then too.

You kept quiet about that. It was true.

“You don’t seem to mind too much, though.”

“And what do you know about how I feel?”

Because maybe the fact that it didn't stop his life completely was something, but ignoring it didn't mean that it didn't hurt him either.

“Nothing.” A whisper. “I just- I don’t know, okay? But that stupid thing you did as a teen still hurts me and haunts me to this day, and you- I continued to believe that you would have the decency to come to my twin’s funeral. it’s- all that, everything, that’s just my fault.” You firmly acknowledged it. “But I would’ve to be so stupid to believe that you are still that person, because people change, and we were very young, and that’s fine, but Yoongi.” You touch his chest, or at least you had the intention because you didn't get to do it. You stopped and backed away a little. “The problem here is that you still don't care enough. You didn't even want to come here of your own free will... And that's fine, but don't come and- try to talk to me as if that were the case. 

Your eyes soften, and so do Yoongi’s, because you do that when you want to cry.

When you cry, you’re completely harmless; that’s what he knows. If you cry out of anger, happiness, or even just empathy, any emotion automatically transforms into sadness. You leave yourself vulnerable; that's why you didn't allow it in arguments; it was losing instantly. 

So you put yourself back together. 

“That's fucked up, Min, and I don't need to forgive you to live in peace; I don’t want this; I don’t need your apologies; I don’t want to have any kind of contact with you because I don’t want you in my life anymore.”

“Then why are you still here?"

He can smell your perfume from how close you two are to each other now.

 

So he realizes.

 

It was difficult for him to have you so close. Because he felt the heat of your body, and your breathing was agitated. He remembered the touch from when he touched you at the wedding and squeezed his hand so as not to claim it again. His eyes traveled to your lips accidentally, twice trying to stop them without success, nor to his body as he moved forward, seeking to kiss you directly. He stops himself with all the strength he had and a little more, but you didn't move either.

You were both too dazed, feeling the tension in the air. As Yoongi looked at your lips again, this time closer to you, as you licked yours, trying to feel something. He breathed hard, like a bull, feeling almost dizzy. Yoongi had never wanted something so much in his life, and you weren't helping.

You looked down too, raising big eyes to the level of his before whispering, ever so slightly, to answer his question, and Yoongi couldn't believe you existed, looking like this.

He was fucked up.

“I still have a lot of appreciation for you, Yoongi.” You say. “And I respect you enough to do things right.” He closes his eyes when you distance yourself. There was nothing more to do. “I'm still here, but doing all this, doing things you don't want to do, lying to yourself, lying to me?... you're losing me.” 

His eyes were wide open. You looked at him with sadness because you were crying. 

“Leave it as it is, and keep the small part of me you still have with you. Because if you keep trying, I’m gone.” 

And maybe that was what you both needed. A closure, a proper goodbye.

 

The problem was that neither of you had said goodbye, technically.

-

Big big brother, lovely and always available, Seun 💪🏻 - 1:32

‘How is it?’

‘Spooky?’

1:40

‘u’re allergic to dust, kid. You need a hand? 👋🏻👋🏻’

There were so many things you regretted in life.

One of them was to regain the closeness you had with Seun having so many brothers to choose from. Because he was sweet, yes. Maybe if you didn't have him there (knowing that you often live in fear of losing the people you love, it was very clear to you), you would miss him a lot, but he could be very annoying at times.

Don't judge yourself by the contact name by the way. He had set himself up that way, and every time you tried to change him, he found a way to make it longer.

You - 1:41

‘Sure, want you here in ten minutes.’

Big big brother, lovely and always available, Seun 💪🏻 - 1:43

‘Don't tempt meee’

‘You know I’m crazy, right?’

You stopped him immediately, telling him that you were fine, that everything looked fine, and that he shouldn't worry.

It was a two-hour trip. And it wasn't a lie that you were okay.

Moving to Busan was your idea; maybe two years before Kija relapsed and got sick, he wouldn't stop getting worse. He followed you with nothing in mind because, unlike you, he hadn’t been able to study anything. His health was weak, and that weakened his mind as well.

You wanted to get him out of that mentality, to meet people, to go out, and perhaps to look for a job that would help him understand that he could do things well. And you did it, or, well, he did. You didn't see much of the many people he had plans with; he worked in a café near your apartment that was still there; they had even remodeled it. He had a boyfriend, money; you two were together, you always laughed.

It was when you began to set up your clinic (because that was what you had gone to Busan for, aside) in the city that he began to cough very lightly, almost like a cold, and when you took him to see the place where you would start to build your first dream, he passed out at night when they were trying to clean the place. After that, he didn't stop coughing until that same cough took his breath away completely.

You thought he would get better, he looked weak but fine. He talked, he ate, and he didn't sleep as much as he does when he gets that sick. The only thing that told you that he was really struggling was the blood in his cough and that sometimes, when he got up to go to the bathroom, he would call you out of breath because just getting out of bed was too much for him. He was in serious condition, but you didn't think you would have him with you for so little time.

“Open that thing, Y/N. You have everything you need. You’re smart, you’re pretty, and your lungs work wonderfully. Sorry you don’t have any excuses.”

He spent the last days of his life there, in that apartment that you didn't want to return to, because now your whole family wasn't sleeping on the floor, nor was your mother's voice singing to him while everyone was sleeping, and he couldn't do it because the pain was killing him slowly, nor was your father offering you help to open that damn clinic.

Kija died two days before opening it, and he swore he would be there when you did. You believed him.

The door to his room was closed now. When you came into the apartment, it smelled musty, and there were many letters on the floor that were passed under the door while you were gone. His shoes were on the shoe rack at the entrance; your mother must have forgotten them when she cleaned, so you sat there when you arrived; you weren't ready.

It was when Seun spoke to you that you decided to enter the things you were missing.

And you clean the place. You dusted, packed your things, and called the clinic to inform that you were going to return to work that week. You were the boss anyway.

Maybe it was you deceiving yourself, but the more you looked for discomfort within yourself, you couldn't find it. You thought that facing that place would be more complicated, but there you were.

In Busan, and in Busan you didn't want to die.

“I trust him.” Kija could barely speak; he was intubated and medicated, sitting right where you were now, waiting for the medication to completely wear off.

You had stopped talking about it hours ago, that was when you understood that your confession had been hanging around in his head.

‘I have been thinking about Yoongi lately. I think I'll- need him when you’re gone.’

“Text him.” He told you.

You had already told him it was impossible. You had even told him possibilities of a schedule of imaginary activities that he would have at that moment.

“Kija, forget it.”

“I trust him.” He repeated. “He’ll come. He cares about you still, I know.”

You had believed him, and you had smiled slightly at the thought of a possibility.

Now you’re disappointed. It was dimly lit, it was starting to get cold, and your hands covered your face because, wrapped in, now, a gray room, you were giving Yoongi tears for the first time in years.

And Yoongi's tears were different from Kija's. They felt old, meaningless, but they weren’t automatic.

You sob, because maybe this way you could do this the last time you cry about it.

—————————•。・. ゜・。_______________

one masterlist

—————————•。・. ゜・。_______________

taglist: @constancelayon @baechugff @wobblewobble822 @honsoolgloss @alienchickenpoop @idkjustlovingbts @jjkluver7 @cuntessaiii @baechugff @junniesoleilkth

[a-french-coconut]

Luke Castellan (Part 1)

She's late.

It's not like her to be late.

Thalia is, in every aspect, a wild spirit but as the lightning striking the earth, she is always on time.

Especially since she took Annabeth with her, and gods know how much she loves the kid.

Luke does too, as much as a fourteen years old boy can love a little girl he sees like his sister.

He loves Thalia too, but it's more... complicated.

Nevertheless, they make Luke happier that he has ever been in his short, and frankly miserable, life.

He can't remember ever feeling truly happy in his childhood.

Not when he had to plaster a false smile for the worried teacher, reassuring her that his mother didn't forget about him, that she would come pick him up any minute now. Every day, without fault, he would quietly wait for her to get distracted and disappear in the city with no one to hold his hand and ask him about his day.

Sometimes, his mother would be sane, clear eyed. She would hug him, laugh with him, tickle him. She even made a birthday cake for him once ! The frosting was messy, too sugary but Luke had absolutely loved it . That is until he blew out his candles and she started screaming about how horrible, terrifying, atrocious the fate awaiting him was.

He never believed her, not even when Hermes didn't deny her claims the night he came back because Thalia needed to heal and it was the only option. He refuses to prove his mother right and nor will Halcyon Green's visions come true.

He'll prove them all wrong.

He is not going to betray anyone, he will not die some terrible way, eaten by a monster or something.

As long as he has Annabeth and Thalia, he'll be happy and the three of them can get through anything.

You'll see, I'm going to make it.

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

"Hey loser."

"You're late, very late even."

"Yeah, well." Thalia shrugs, Annabeth jumping from her shoulders, "we made an impromptu stop."

She nudges Annabeth, the little girl nervously hiding her hands behind her.

"Come on Annie, show him."

"Wait, you got me something ?" He asks them, "what's the occasion ?"

"Your birthday !" Annabeth states, "We got you a gift."

"Hum, sorry to disappoint kiddo but today isn't my birthday."

"Don't care, it will be now." She refutes, stomping her foot to close the argument.

He looks at Thalia, rather amused but also confused, only for her to shrug, like she couldn't care less.

"Well, I suppose that September 4th is not a bad birthday date."

Annabeth squeals and hands him what she's been hiding.

It's a ring, a plastic one she probably found in a shady looking store, with best big brother engraved on it.

"We don't have a birthday cake though," Thalia pipes up from where she's standing, looking at them with a fond look, "too hard to steal."

"S'okay, don't need one." He answers, still looking at the cheap ring.

It's the most precious thing he has on him now.

"Thank you Annie," he opens his arms to hug her, laughing when she throw herself in them, "you're the best little sister I will ever have."

They eat what Thalia stole while Annabeth got the ring, some sandwiches and cereal bars, and Luke makes a show about blowing out invisible candles, Annabeth urging him to make a wish.

I wish that we always stay together.

As long as we're together, nothing bad will happen to us.

Thalia with her braveness and strong will, with the lightning bolts dancing in her eyes whenever she's angry and with Aegis.

Annabeth, so young and yet smarter than them, always planning or devising some plan.

And him, keeping them alive by stealing food and drinks, using his powers to find them a house, his golf club doing the job when he needs to.

He watches Thalia shamelessly attacks Annabeth, tickling the little girl and they are both on the ground laughing.

They make him happy, his little sister and Thalia.

Happier than he's ever been.

He'll do anything to keep them by his side.

No matter the costs.

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

They're running, have been for far too long.

His legs ache, feeling like giving out at every step.

"Come on, we're almost there !" Grover screams at them, urgently gesturing them to go faster.

Luke can see it, the hill in front of them.

Haven, salvation.

A chance to live, to do more than surviving.

Camp Half-Blood.

A place for all demigods like them to train, to learn of to defend themselves against the monsters trying to kill them.

It's almost there, it's within reach.

His feet slip on the wet ground but Thalia catches him before he can fall and he's running again.

"We aren't going to make it." She whispers and his ear, careful so that Annabeth doesn't hear it.

"We are, Thals, we are. We just need to-"

"GET DOWN !"

Annabeth's scream save the both of them, the tree trunk grazing their head before crashing in the dark forest.

"Get Annabeth, and run."

"And what are you-"

"I'll hold them off until you are up the hill."

"No, Thalia, I won't-"

"Do it for Annabeth, she can't get there by herself." Thalia's voice is firm but Luke can see her hands shaking.

She's afraid, afraid to die.

"Thalia-"

"They're getting closer, we need to go !" Grover yells, taking Luke's arm and tugging him.

"Thalia-" He tries again.

"Go. Take Annabeth and-" She wavers, her voice breaks.

For one second, she isn't the brave daughter of Zeus, ordering him like it is her birthright to do so.

She is Thalia, the girl Luke can't figure out his feelings for but know he can't lose her.

(When he looks back on that moment, he wonders if he could have persuaded her to run with them. But the second passes and he doesn't say anything.)

"Don't look back, don't look back until you are safe."

She grips Aegis, blue electrical eyes flashing in the night before she turns to face the monsters.

"I can't-"

"GO ! NOW !"

He runs, runs despite Annabeth trashing in his arms, begging him to stop, to come back to Thalia.

He runs until he's on the hill, looking at a valley straight out of Ancient Greece.

He runs until his body gives up, until he's throwing up and on the ground.

Thalia needs you, get up

He can see her, holding off the countless creatures attacking her, slowly retreating.

Help her, come on.

He shakily stands, Annabeth still crying next to him but Grover is now the one holding her.

Thalia is almost there, she's on the top of the hill.

A little more and she'll make it.

Below in the valley, demigods are running toward them, their weapons gleaming in the night, a centaur galloping full speed leading them.

Come on Thals, get closer and I can help-

When the cyclops' club hit her leg, sending her on the ground, leaving her at the mercy of all the others monsters, Luke screams.

His yells are entirely drowned in the sound of lighting shaking the sky, a bright flash blinding him for a moment.

When white becomes dark, there's a pine tree projecting a blue barrier all around Camp, preventing the angry herd of monsters from entering.

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

He often goes sit besides the tree.

"Hey Thalia, it's been one month since we got here. I miss you."

"Hey Thals, I made some friends, a guy from Apollo named Lee and a girl from Aphrodite, Silena. They're nice but they're not you."

"One year, I can't believe you've gone that long. Annabeth is happy here, she's grown fond of Camp. I did too, I'm Counsellor now. Old one left and didn't come back."

"I'm tired Thalia, so tired. Hermes Cabin is crowded, the gods don't claim their kids. I'm angry, at my dad, at yours, at all of them. What good do they bring ?"

"Got a quest from dear old dad, can you believe it ? First time he contacted me since we arrived two years ago. And it's sucks, the quest has already been done by Heracles and... hum, I'm not sure to come back. It's a hard one, a very hard one. Annie is upset that I didn't chose her but I can't risk to lose her too. You were enough. Anyways, I have to go. I hope I'll see you again."

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

The quest in itself is simple.

Get an apple, come back alive.

Only the apple is a golden one from the Hesperides' Garden, guarded by Ladon.

But he comes back, alive.

He comes back with a open bleeding gash on his face, he comes back with ghosts on his shoulders, he comes back with a new hatred against the gods.

But he had no apple to present his father and the quest is deemed failed.

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

"Hi again, do you ever get tired of me ?"

She doesn't respond, never does.

"I made it back, with no apple or the demigods I chose to come with me."

He leans against the trunk, trying desperately to feel her.

Luke is sixteen and he knows now that Thalia is more than a sister.

Nothing more than the rough bark meets his head.

"I prayed to him, begged him to save them. Nothing, not one single sign that he was listening."

"We were right to hate them, they don't care about us. We're pawns, their means of amusement when they get bored."

"I'm tired of it."

"Are you too ?"

The tree's branches sway with the wind.

"I'll find a way, don't worry."

As long as they were together, Luke was happy.

As long as he sees her tree, all he can feel is bitterness and fury against the gods who made her like this.

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

It begins with whispers.

Incoherent buzzing in his mind while he sleeps, a voice rasping in his ear, murmuring about vengeance and justice.

Who are you ?

He's standing on broken glass, surround by a never ending red horizon.

Oh, little hero, my name is not to be pronounced by your kind.

Show yourself.

I will tolerate your insolence just this once little hero. Do not ever presume to order me again.

How can I respect you if I don't know who you are ?

So cunning, the voice laughs around him, echoing in his dream, just like his father.

I'm nothing like my father !

Oh ? the voice vibrates with amusement, do you wish to take revenge upon him ? Upon the gods who wronged you ?

I want them to respect demigods.

They never will, it is not in their nature.

Then, what ? I let them do whatever they want with us ?

No, little hero, you act.

How ?

Destroy them. Destroy Olympus.

Luke doesn't respond.

I sense doubt, weakness in you. Despite the countless times they prove their incompetence, you still believe in them.

I don't hold any love for the gods. I want to make them pay !

You cannot hide the truth from me, little liar. You are weak willed, tamed. You allows the gods to continue their reign of chaos and utter, unbridled depravity. But I sense your rightful anger, your desire to make a change.

Luke burns in shame and in anger at the voice's disgust for him.

You are wrong. I'll do whatever it takes to topple Olympus.

Then our interests align. Pledge yourself at my service and I shall help you bring justice to your beloved demigods.

Will they follow him ?

Renounce the gods.

Lee ? Silena ? Chris ? Connor and Travis ?

Let them face their mistakes, the consequences of their arrogance.

Do they share his point of view ?

Surely they do. They're like him, abandoned by their godly parent.

Serve me and I will help you in your quest of vengeance.

Annabeth.

Annabeth with her desire to make her mother proud.

Annabeth, his smart little sister, who looks at Chiron and sees a paternal figure.

But she saw Thalia die.

She saw how Hermes abandoned him.

She'll follow him.

And as long as they're together, they'll be fine.

I pledge myself to your service.

In front of him, a small golden piece appear, floating in the air.

Not quite, little hero.

Before his eyes appear a giant tomb, all grey except for the golden flake.

His breath hitches when he sees the gravures illustrating the rock.

A man eating a child, a scythe is his hand.

You're-

Kronos, King of the Titans, and father to the Olympians. Wrongfully killed by my sons, I have been prophesied to come back and raze Olympus.

The voice gets closer, now right in his ear.

And you, little hero, are the key to my awakening.

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

Times flies, Luke turns nineteen on September 4th.

He has long stopped celebrating his true birthday.

Annabeth grows anxious to see the mortal world, to get a quest, to prover herself worthy of her mother.

As for Luke, he spends his days recruiting, talking to demigods, trying to decipher their emotion toward the gods.

Lee is happy with Apollo.

Clarisse hates Ares but still fights for his name.

Silena is bitter against Aphrodite, for a reason she won't tell Luke. It's fine, he doesn't need to know as long as she joins him.

Chris, with his elvish features and uncanny knowledge of geography, is a son of Hermes. Yet, he remains unclaimed in his own cabin.

Those are the easier to persuade to join the cause, the unclaimed and the children of minor gods.

Ethan and Alabaster don't have cabins to house them.

Chris and Lila have given up trying to impress their parents a long time ago.

When he comes to them, they all say yes with absolute conviction.

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

The Winter Solstice, the only night demigods are invited to Olympus to see their parents and wander through the immortal city.

The only night Luke will accept his heritage as a son of Hermes and steal the Lighting Bolt of Zeus.

The King of the Gods is too busy drinking and flirting with nymphs to notice his weapon's absence.

For the first part of the night at least.

When thunder rumbles but not lighting strikes, Luke just got of Olympus, flying toward California.

He should already have arrived to Mount Tamalpais but he couldn't resist staying a little while, talking to other gods knowing he just robbed their King.

For his hubris, Ares catches him, the god of war almost killing him before Kronos took the matter in his own hands.

When he comes back to Camp that night, he suffers the most terrible nightmares he had since he was a child.

He sees Thalia dying over and over as he stands next to her while she begs him to help, to save her.

Stop this !

Your pride almost doomed us all and you ask no punishment ?

Please, I'll never do that mistake again.

He can't see her die again.

Please Master.

Stop your incessant whining, fool ! Despite your fault, Zeus still thinks Poseidon is the culprit.

But gods can't steal from each other, he'll find someone to blame, a mortal.

Wait and see, it has been set in motion.

What has been, my Lord ?

The Great Prophecy is upon us and she brings with her the downfall on the Olympians.

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

Are you sure of your choice, Master ?

Yes, the little hero is most fitting.

Percy Jackson has nothing of a hero.

He's a scrawny 12 years old boy, who just lost his mother and looks utterly out of place.

Until he douses Clarisse with water.

Until he beats him at sword fighting, when he is said the best sword-man in the last 300 years.

Until he single won against three Ares campers when they were for blood.

Until the hellhound Luke invoked attacks him and-

"All hail Percy Jackson, son of Poseidon, the Earthshaker !"

A forbidden child.

A demigod fated to die only because of his father's name.

Percy is standing in front of him, looking at awe at the holographic trident above his head.

He is the chosen one, is he not ?

He will bring Olympus on its knees for me to crush it.

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

As expected, Percy is accused of being the lightning's thief and sent on a quest to retrieve it.

Annabeth volunteers but Luke is serene, there's no way Percy accept her as a quester, not with their parents' rivalry.

And yet, he finds himself wishing them goodbye on the top of the hill, at the both of them.

This quest is destined to fail, to start a war within Olympus.

"Good luck guys, come back safe and sound !"

Percy will fall into Tartarus, for Kronos to do what he plans with him but Annabeth and Grover will be back.

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

The deadline comes and the skies stay clear.

He failed, somehow he failed.

Percy, Annabeth and Grover come back, all glowing with pride for stopping in the war.

What do we do now ?

He hugs Annabeth, telling her how proud he is of her.

It's time for you to leave and assume full command of our forces.

He high-fives Grover and feign utter shock and regret and he tells him that the shoes almost dragged him into Tartarus.

We need Percy on our side and I'm sure he'll come.

Beware the little hero, he is as unpredictable as the sea in his veins.

He ruffles Percy's hair, jokingly asking him to teach him how he beat Ares.

What do I do if he refuses ?

Kill him.

He fights for a better world for demigods.

A world where demigods like Percy could live free from the gods' requests and whims.

Sacrifices are necessary, Castellan. You cannot make change without true acts.

Percy who looks at him with full trust.

Percy who is merely twelve years old.

Should I ask Alabaster to kill the child ?

No, I'll do it myself.

And Percy will join, Luke's sure of it.

If he doesn't, then he is part of the problem.

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

Percy refuses and Luke leaves him alone in the woods, only waiting for death to come.

Three hours later, Silena's report comes in and informs him that Percy Jackson is alive and that every body he is the lightning thief.

"Everybody on deck, now." He orders on the megaphone, waiting for all the demigods to assemble on Princess Andromeda's deck.

"There is a change of plans, Olympus is now aware of our rebellion but" he stops the hushes with his hand, "the King of the Gods is too stubborn too consider us a threat. He will ignore us as long as he can and since we all know he is a tyrant, nobody on Olympus will dare question him."

"Alabaster, you and Ethan are in charge of the army. Train them, make sure they master their powers and at least one weapon."

"Chris, you will scout for demigods, it is essential we find them before the satyrs do."

"Lila, you are in charge to communicate with our spy in Camp and then coordinate with me to know what kind of infos we need to know."

"As for the rest of you, try to reach your siblings, convince them to join us, to join the right side of this war."

He dismisses them, mindlessly twisting the ring on his leather necklace.

It's cheap ring, probably stolen in a shady store.

It was the most precious thing he had then and it is the most precious thing he has today.

I'm doing this for us Annie.

No matter how much it will hurt you, it is for you good.

When you understand and join me, we'll be together and everything will be fine.

[kisskiss-slashslash]

I need the slashers meeting a kid who's parents abandoned them and they become their parental figure. (Maybe ages 5-10)

Much love xxxx

Aw that's cute. I left out Freddy this time because we all know what he does to little children.

Slashers finding an abandoned child and taking them in

Jason Voorhees

He finds you stumbling through the forest all on your own, clutching a teddy bear to your chest, crying and calling out for your mother.

At your age, you have not quite heard of the Crystal Lake killer. You only know that the grown ups kept saying how dangerous this lake is and to never to there. And now your family drove you here, made you get out of the car and just... sped off.

At your age, you are positively *tiny* to Jason. He kneels down in front of you and, remembering what his mother used to to, pulls an old, tattered hankerchief out of his pocket to wipe down your tear- and snot covered face.

"D... do you know where my mommy went, mister?", you ask miserably, but even your little mind knew that she wouldn't be coming back.

Jason can understand your misery all too well. At the same time, he is furious that your family would do this. So it's decided. The feared Crystal Lake killer has a tiny apprentice now.

The Sinclair Brothers

Lester finds you walking along the road towards Ambrose, a stuffed animal in one hand and an almost empty waterbottle in the other. You look terrible, like you have been walking around for days without food. Your clothes are dirty and torn and your hands have bloody scratches on them.

He quickly gets out of his truck and asks where you came from.

You sniffle and tell him that your family promised to take you camping, and they told you to walk ahead and find a good spot, and they would catch up to you. But they never did.

There is of course the concern that your parents may have ended up being victims of his brothers. But there hadn't been any new victims in the past few days.

So he takes you to Ambrose, sure that his brothers wouldn't put their hands on a small child. And they don't.

Bo immediately finds himself reminded of his childhood, being the one left behind, and takes a liking to you. They give you some of their old childhood clothes, and some food. Vincent takes you to the wax museum, to show you all of the cool things he and his mother made. He might even teach you how to paint and do wax figures yourself. And just like that, the Sinclair family gained another member.

Brahms Heelshire

It is a cold and stormy day, when Brahms hears a soft knock at the front door. And there you are, in completely wrong clothes for the weather, wet down to your skin and crying.

He takes you in, thinking that hey, your parents are probably gonna come looking for you soon, right?

Except they never do.

Brahms gives you his childhood clothes, so you don't catch a cold, and tells you about his routine and that he actually always wondered what it would be like to have a little sibling.

The Sawyers

While the Sawyers are less likely to take in a random child than the Hewitts, it is not impossible. Nubbins finds you wandering along the Texas roads in the blistering heat, your little head completely red and your hair sticking to your skin with sweat.

He takes you to Drayton's gas station, and they have a kind of wordless conversation. Nubbins points at you with a grin, while you eye the meat being grilled in the small room, and Drayton eyes your small, malnourished frame, and shakes his head. Then gives you another, thoughtful look.

"You hungry, lil one?", he asks.

"Yes, mister", you reply.

Drayton generously takes a piece of rib and puts it on a paper plate for you. And once you scarfed down the meat, he grins at you.

"And what if I tell you that that was human meat?"

Your young mind doesn't quite understand what he just said, or just assumes he is joking. "Uh... okay? It was yummy though."

"It really is, isn't it. Look, kid, if ya don't know where to go, ya can go with us."

Bubba is absolutely thrilled when Drayton and Nubbins come home with you. He immediately introduces you to his chickens, and wants to make you your very own leather mask. Oh you are gonna have so much fun together! Bubba always wanted to have a younger sibling.

[ssruis]

My personal take on the tsukasa + toya dynamic is that like. Tsukasa helped toya a lot by giving him the familial warmth & unwavering support that he was not getting from his own family & encouraged toya to do what HE wanted to do with his own life instead of following what his dad wanted when he didn’t enjoy it, as well as kinda being toya’s only source of normalcy and activities outside of the piano as a kid. It’s not a stretch to say that Tsukasa changed Toya’s life for the better (causing him to meet Akito, discover what he’s actually passionate about, meet VBS, actually communicate with and stand up to his dad) and saved him from a future he would hate, it’s literally stated by Toya. Multiple times. & tsukasa still continues to be a huge supporter of toya and does his best to care for him. This stuff is made obvious over and over again -

(Tsukasa’s Kamiyama festival card story)

(Kamiyama festival)

- but toya also helped tsukasa a lot when they were kids too, even if it’s a bit less obvious (only stated outright in one card story iirc). Toya mentions not actually seeing Saki a lot when he was younger, as she was in and out of the hospital

(NGUC)

So it was typically just him and Tsukasa. Tsukasa’s entire dream in life was sparked by seeing how happy a play made saki, and his strange (said fondly) personality in the present day is because he was constantly trying to make her happy with shows/acting when they were kids. Realized it cheered saki up when he put on the Future World Star personality -> constantly acting/emulating the actors he saw on stage or on tv to make saki (and later toya) happy at a formative age -> it gets baked into his personality -> now it’s not even an act it’s just how he is. It’s incurable. (Not a bad thing, just something that explains why he’s such a freak)

A large part of tsukasa’s identity is also being a big brother, which is made really difficult when you’re separated from your little sister constantly, she’s often suffering and miserable, and there’s nothing you can do to help her. As he mentions frequently, her happiness is a priority for him (sorry you’re gonna have to trust me on that one if you for some reason doubt that. Image limit. You understand. One example of many is in one of Saki’s birthday cards.)

And as hard as it was for Tsukasa to be powerless in that situation, it was way harder for Saki, because she was the one in pain/seriously ill/hospitalized throughout a large portion of her childhood. She mentions that she forced herself not to cry in front Tsukasa as a kid so he wouldn’t be upset (doll festival), and while it was happy tears in that situation it’s a safe bet that she tried to do it with any negative emotions too - but she was also suffering & acting happy all the time in that situation would be impossible for an adult, let alone a small child.

(Toya’s doll festival card story)

Tsukasa couldn’t help Saki, but he could help Toya, and through that he was able to help himself/feel a little better. He could cheer Saki up, but that was about the extent of what he could do - he couldn’t stay in the hospital with her or ease her pain or take away her illness. Toya needed a friend/older brother figure/escape from his dad, which Tsukasa actually could provide. I feel like there was definitely some transference there where Tsukasa (unconsciously) just took all the big brotherisms he couldn’t do with Saki and redirected them towards Toya. Which, again, isn’t a bad thing, because he *was* helping toya through this, they formed a genuine strong bond, and it helped him deal with his emotions. + saki got a bonus brother to play with when she was home.

I think people want to water their relationship down to just “haha tsukasa adopts people as his siblings” which isn’t even true* and ignores the very specific set of circumstances that led to Tsukasa considering Toya his younger brother, and the circumstances that led to Toya seeing Tsukasa as an older brother figure, as well as the fact that they’ve known each other for like a decade at this point AND the fact that their parents are close friends.

Their relationship is so strong because it is built off of them both helping each other, not because Tsukasa randomly saw a sad kid and went “you’re my brother now.” Which is also why I’m not a fan of [x random character] is a tenma.** Plus, does saki’s relationship with that character not also matter? Toya’s relationship with Saki is a pretty big part of why he’s considered a part of the family***, even if he’s not as close to her as he is to tsukasa.

*In Tsukasa’s head a star is a good big brother and given that both of those things are deeply entrenched in his personality, he mother hens his friends & does his best to act like a responsible and reliable person towards everyone. As I’ve mentioned before, Wxs KAITO is a reflection of Tsukasa’s ideal self (reliable big brother/leader figure) - nobody says KAITO is adopting siblings left and right (wrt the other vocaloids/wxs). Notably, irrc, wxs KAITO & normal KAITO both desire to be seen as a reliable big brother figure by others, but as a general thing and not a “this guy is literally my brother” thing. Tsukasa is the same situation. He likes to provide a good example for his juniors because that’s what he believes a star should do, which is also why he gets so irritated about Rui “tarnishing his reputation” whenever they get in trouble, and what prompted him to join the disciplinary committee in his third year after hearing underclassmen be like wow the 1-2 oddball finish are so wacky & crazy. Acting like a big brother =/= literally adopting people as siblings.

** you do you though if you enjoy those head canons more power to you. It’s just not my thing (known canon purist).

*** give me like 10 minutes I have stuff to say about that as well that will have to go in a reblog. Image limit strikes again.

[im14andivebeen14foramonth]

How do you feel about Drag queen Darry? It’s a hc us and our friend have had for a while.

DRAG QUEEN DARRY!!!

i honestly think it's such an interesting idea! bro needs SOME way to destress and i think that after being put through a very hyper-masculine childhood (big strong older brother, football player, boy of the year, etc) drag would be sooo freeing for him

some hcs:

darry found out about drag his senior year when he was hanging out with some other guys on the football team. they were in a restaurant and paul pointed out a couple of drag queens sitting at a table nearby. everyone else on the team laughed and quietly made of them, and although darry went along (bro just wanted to look tuff and cool for his soc friends :( he'd do anything to fit in) he actually thought it looked like fun

one day when while his mom and dad were at work, soda was out with steve, and pony was with johnny, darry went into his parent's bedroom and tried on one of his mom's lipsticks. he immediately fell in love with the idea

this kept going, with darry taking every opportunity to be home alone and put on more and more makeup on each time, even imagining himself in the dresses in his mother's closet

one day tho while darry was doing this, soda came home earlier than darry thought he would, and darry was caught red-handed

of course soda didn't judge him at all, but darry still felt terrible about himself bc he felt like his little brother seeing him like that made him less of a man and a good brother

after a couple of weeks feeling miserable about himself, darry finds a slip of paper on his bed. it's a flyer for a drag show

although neither of them mentions it, when darry leaves his room, soda gives him a little grin and he knows where the flyer came from

now, every so often when he has off work, he'll tell soda and pony that he has to work late. soda doesn't know for sure, but he sees a little glint in darry's eyes before he leaves and has a feeling that he knows exactly where his older brother is really going. his suspicions are only confirmed when darry comes back looking calmer than he has in weeks, and soda's just happy that darry's found something that makes him real happy

[autisticandroids]

watched 1x14 nightmare today. so there's this moment in that ep that everybody talks about, at the end. this one:

SAM: Well I'll tell you one thing. We're lucky we had Dad. DEAN: (Looking astounded...and pleased) Well I never thought I'd hear you say that. SAM: Well, it coulda gone a whole other way after Mom. I little more tequila and a little less demon hunting and we woulda had Max's childhood. All things considered, we turned out ok. Thanks to him. DEAN: (Turning back to look at Max's house) All things considered.

it's a moment people pay a lot of attention to. because the thing is... dean's face falls, here. he's clearly put off by what sam's saying. he's bothered. and the common reading of that is that there was some degree of abuse more like max's that sam never saw. and that's like. that's DEFINITELY a legible reading of this episode.

however! i actually think this is a place where paying attention to authorial intent leads you interesting places.

so, first of all, what was the overall thesis of nightmare? i would argue that it's sam needs to stop being a pussy and whining about his childhood, some people have real problems. that's why the abuse max experiences is so cartoonishly bad, why the final conclusion is that max will always be miserable and is better off dead, why sam walks out of this experience more willing to empathize with john: the point of nightmare is that sam needs to learn that he could have had it way worse, that in fact growing up a hunter was the best option.

sam and max have a conversation in the middle of the episode that cements this point:

MAX: He blamed me for everything. For his job, for his life, for my Mom's death. SAM: Why would he blame you for your Mom's death? MAX: Because she died in my nursery, while I was asleep in my crib. As if that makes it my fault. SAM: (Looking shocked) She died in your nursery? MAX: There was a fire. And he'd get drunk and babble on like she died in some insane way. He said that she burned up. Pinned to the ceiling!

the point being made here is that sam is lucky. both mary and max's mother died in insane ways. john responded to this by accepting the insanity and getting obsessed with hunting demons. max's dad falls deeper into drink and blames max instead. this is the way to present the miserable demon hunting child soldier lifestyle as the better option.

(it's also useful to talk about how john was probably not intended to be perceived as an abusive father (though of course he obviously is, the writers just don't think anything that isn't what max went through counts as abuse); @restlesshush has a point she likes to make about how no one bothered to tell jdm that john's relationship with salmondean is fraught so he just doesn't play it that way.)

so now that we've established the overall point of nightmare, let's get back to the original point. now, i specifically want to talk about what i think the intent of the text is.

now, the basic formula of supernatural season one is that sam and dean get in an argument at the start of the episode, usually about their father, and it continues throughout. and when one of them fails to argue back, the other notices. look at this moment from 1x11 scarecrow:

DEAN: Sam. You were right. You gotta do your own thing. You gotta live your own life. SAM: Are you serious? DEAN: You’ve always known what you want. And you go after it. You stand up to Dad. And you always have. Hell, I wish I—anyway….I admire that about you. I’m proud of you, Sammy. SAM: I don’t even know what to say.

dean fails to fulfill his narrative role, and sam notices. this is the same kind of things as when for example dean becomes more and more obsessed with clinging to sam because he has to in order to maintain the format of the show (i.e. two brothers). character flows from format, instead of the other way 'round.

and here, in nightmare, dean is unsettled by sam's change of heart, mostly because it breaks format, but also because, due to the format, sam (at least in dean's perception) has the character trait of "dad-critical" and it unnerves dean when this changes. that is i think as far as we can definitively say authorial intent goes. nightmare is a sam episode, so any deeper meaning is probably imo between jensen ackles and the fans.

but, if you'll permit me to go a little deeper than authorial intent while still using it as a baseline. here, in nightmare, the tendency to notice sam failing to fulfill his role becomes a lot more interesting. look at that scarecrow quote:

DEAN: You’ve always known what you want. And you go after it. You stand up to Dad. And you always have. Hell, I wish I—anyway….I admire that about you. I’m proud of you, Sammy.

dean's disquiet when sam fails to fulfill his role as john-critic is both intriguing and unsettling. it's layered. dean isn't just reacting to sam not following the script. he needs someone to play the role of john critic in his life, because he can't do it. he is, consciously or unconsciously, relying on sam to do it for him. and that's why he makes that face outside the millers' house.

[queer-and-nerdy]

mind and heart are filled with thoughts of primo and secondo and terzo and copia... just like... them... like how they all internalized nihil's shit parenting...........

like how primo had to raise his brothers by himself because they deserved to have a loving childhood even if he didn't have one. like how he willingly took on all the responsibilities of raising a very young terzo and infant copia while dealing with a teenage/young adult secondo. like how he had to parent them from afar while he was touring, sometimes even bringing terzo and copia to be left in the care of a stage ghoul. like how he gave up his best years to single-handedly take care of them with little to no recognition. like how he attended every one of secondo and terzo’s performances during their papacy. like how he loved how strong and protective secondo became, yet hated his harshness and unkindness. like how he loved terzo's flamboyant and optimistic personality, yet hated how insecure it made him. like how he loved copia's dedication and tenacity, yet hated his fear of the world.

like how secondo only saw how much nihil looked down on him. like how he became bitter and miserable because he only focused on how little nihil loved him rather than how much primo loved him. like how he grew to hate and resent terzo because he could see how primo loved his younger brother but couldn't see that same love directed at himself since he thought he wasn't earning/deserving of it. like how he hated primo's touring and refused to join him because he'd rather choose to be alone than forced to be. like how he hated the idea of being ignored and passed off. like how secondo loved all of his brothers but didn't know how to show it because he was blinded by nihil's dislike. like how one time he lashed out at terzo, who then compared him to nihil and he "realized" just how much like his father he was, making him become colder to his brothers in order to "protect" them from his "bad genes." like how he was too afraid to commit to any relationships, platonic or romantic, because he thought he'd end up like nihil. like how he refused to have any children because he saw what it did to primo. like how proud he was of terzo's ascension/descension to papa but was too afraid to show it. like how he always defended and protected his brothers but didn't know how to truly show them the love they deserved.

like how terzo rarely batted an eye at nihil's dismissal because he knew he had primo's unconditional love and support. like how he felt the extremes of primo's selfless love and secondo's bitter resentment. like how the only reason he lasted as papa as long as he did was because primo and secondo stepped in to protect him from nihil. like how he grew up (and died) thinking that secondo hated him but never knew why. like how he always tried to be the perfect son for primo but had no idea what a "perfect" son would look like. like how he tried to dim his personality growing up so that primo would have less of "him" to worry about. like how insecure he was of himself because he was judged and ignored more often than not by those outside of his family circle.

like how copia loved all of his brothers since they were the only healthy family he had. like how the large age difference between him and primo (and secondo's lack of interest in raising a child) led him to lean on his mother and terzo more, which drove him apart from the older brothers. like how after primo, secondo, and terzo's deaths he received the full force of nihil's distaste after a lifetime of being shielded from it. like how he tries to channel his older brothers while performing but feels he can never live up to their standards. like how he clings onto his ghouls because they are the only family he has left. like how he tells them bedtime stories about his brothers and how much they cared and loved.

anywho.

[etruatcaelum]

On Ozlem.

This will be less a singular headcanon than a collection; my reading of the relationship is particular and on several key points, well off the beaten track from popular fanon. I thought it would be helpful to put it all in one place for ease of reference.

Salem’s Childhood.

Salem was the second-born child of a minor lord, born into the eighth generation of mankind since the creation of the world Arziant, in a kingdom called Pastoria. Her mother Salome had been the king’s only child, but not heir to the realm; Pastorian law and custom forbade women to leave their divine appointment within the home. In practice, a woman belonged to her father until she was given to her husband.

In that time, monolatrous worship of the God of Light was nigh-ubiquitous, and tradition held that no one who lived a virtuous life would die before their hundredth year, unless slain in battle or by some violent calamity brought about by the Darkness. To fall ill was proof in itself that one had committed some offense in the eyes of God. This was not mere superstition, for although natural sickness did exist, the God of Light gave healing to those he judged pure and inflicted disease as a punishment for sin.

Death in childbirth, although not (as Salem believes, even now) wholly unknown, was quite rare and supposed to be a punishment reserved only for the truly wicked. Both of Salem’s parents were well-known for their piety, and her father Lord Ithai was scrupulously devout; for his wife to sicken and die in the course of bearing their second child was shocking, not only to Ithai himself but to all of Pastoria. While he would have held the tragedy against her in any circumstance, his personal inclination to do so fed eagerly upon advice from religious advisors who, to preserve Salome’s good name in the eyes of the people, blamed her infant child. There had been, after all, prophecies foretelling the virtue and great deeds of heroes in the past; why not portents of a dire evil?

(In truth, Salome had made an error in a ritual entreating the God of Light to grant his blessings to her unborn child, and he intended to make an example of her carelessness.)

The modern fairytale The Girl in the Tower portrays the girl’s father as a paranoid, possessive tyrant who loves the girl as a miser loves his treasures, who becomes angry and violent when she asks to be set free; this characterization, though not an inaccurate portrait of Lord Ithai himself, elides the misogynistic norms and popular religious justification for Salem’s imprisonment. Simply put, she had no hope of rescue because most of Pastoria truly believed that she was an ill-omened child who needed to be locked away for the good of all.

Salem did not grow up in complete isolation, though she was alone far more often than not: she was raised by an ever-changing parade of servants, priests, and tutors. Her father visited her on occasion; her elder brother Kalev snuck in to see her with greater frequency.

The first twenty-one years of her life, she spent in locked in a single room—little more than a cell, ten paces wide and nine across—at the top of her father’s keep. Her singular window overlooked the block where Ithai executed those whom he suspected of treating her with undue kindness; from the time she was old enough to understand, Salem was made to watch these executions (and in time it became a compulsion to do so, one that still lingers; to this day Salem keeps obsessive count of the deaths she considers to be her fault).

She was nearly always hungry. Of the one hundred forty-three people Ithai executed, in those twenty-one years, most were kitchen servants condemned on suspicion of bringing her too much food, or for lingering to speak with her while she ate; to bring the lord’s daughter a meal, it was well known among the kitchen staff, was to risk one’s life. Quite often, she went without food altogether, and seldom received more than one meal in a day. Salem grew up both hoarding food and feeling intense guilt around eating.

Ithai was, on the rare occasion of his visits, extremely abusive; Salem was so terrified of him that even now she feels on edge around men who remind her of him. (He was quite tall, broad-shouldered, with a full beard; his hair sandy-brown in his youth, half-grey by the time of Salem’s birth; a deep baritone.) She cannot handle being yelled at without shutting down. Her instinctive reaction to violence against herself—to simply take it, quietly, without resistance, and wait for it to be over—is a response she learned in childhood, and unless she is already quite angry, it’s one she finds difficult to overcome.

Escaping the Tower.

In the fairytale, at the age of sixteen, the girl asks her father for paper and pen. She uses these to write pleas for rescue, promising to marry anyone who can save her from her father, and throws them to the wind. Innumerable would-be saviors flock to answer, only to be slain by her father while the girl looks on in horror, until one day a true hero defeats her father in a duel and frees her at last.

This is not quite how it happened.

When Salem was sixteen, and Kalev eighteen, she put to her brother that he should find someone to marry her. She was reaching the proper age (indeed, their mother had been only a year older when the king married her to Ithai), and she could think of no other means to escape than by marriage, though the prospect filled her with dread. Kalev undertook this effort very reluctantly, fearing that anyone willing to marry a girl who’d spent her whole life locked away would undoubtedly be at least as awful as their father; but he did try, without success, for several years.

He was twenty-one, Salem nineteen, when he met Ozma: not an aristocrat but the wandering knight of a holy order who chanced to be nearby when Kalev’s retinue was set upon by the largest wyvern any of them had ever seen. Ozma leapt to Kalev’s aid and slew the grimm, and would have died of the injuries they sustained in doing so had Kalev been less skilled in healing. They talked, afterward, finding they had much in common; and before long, the conversation turned to the plight of Kalev’s sister.

Ozma had no interest in marriage—had sworn vows of chastity, in fact—but Kalev’s account of Salem’s treatment horrified them. They had heard tell of the ill-omened girl held safe within the lord’s keep, of course, but the rumors had given them the impression that she was sickly, too frail to leave her bed. Upon learning the truth, they became determined to help her. Together, the pair hatched a new plan: Ozma would pledge themself as Kalev’s vassal, ingratiate themself to Lord Ithai, and find some opportunity to free Salem in secret.

Two more years would pass before Ozma found their opportunity, for the magic Ithai had woven around her cell would not allow her to cross the threshold, even were the door torn from its hinges. During this time, Ozma stole up the tower whenever they could to visit Salem; they didn’t dare enter the room, for fear of being ensnared by the wards, but they could speak to her through the door.

Without fail, Salem would beg them not to come back; desperate though she was for escape, she did not believe this plan had any chance of working, and lived in terror of Ozma being found out and executed. Ozma, for their part, stayed resolute in their conviction that freeing her was a worthy cause to die for, which had—for as long as they could remember—been the only thing they really wanted.

In the end, what happened is this:

Lord Ithai came to Salem’s cell late one evening, on the same night Ozma risked ascending the tower to talk to her; and though they realized the danger halfway up the stairs, hearing echoes of her father’s tirade, before they turned back as they’d promised her to do if this should ever happen, they heard the unmistakable sound of a blow, a choked cry of pain, and could not find it in themself to leave.

Up they charged. Ithai had his back turned to the door, his hands around Salem’s neck, and Ozma gathered all the magic they knew to strike at him from behind; but Ithai was an experienced combatant. Though wounded, he was not bested, and he whirled around in a murderous fury to retaliate. The duel was swift and brutally decisive—within moments, Ithai shattered Ozma’s defenses and had them on disarmed on the floor.

Salem had collapsed when Ithai dropped her and remained cowering against the wall while the brief battle raged; but when her father raised his hand to strike Ozma dead, with the door open and someone who had been kind to her about to die because of her like so many others, she snapped. Her magic, never trained, and never very strong, exploded outward as she threw herself across the room.

She drove her hand into Ithai’s body as if his flesh were water and ripped his pulverized heart right out of his chest.

That was not what she meant to do, exactly. She had wanted only to make him stop, and twenty-one years of desperate fear crashed together in that moment to become a wild, boundless rage; but no sooner had his body crumpled than reality caught up with her, and then she was only a girl clutching the gory shreds of another person’s insides in her hands, whereupon she became hysterical.

Salem does not, whatsoever, remember leaving the tower, nor anything else until dawn, when she regained her senses to find Ozma coaxing her to let them clean the blood off her hands. But after realizing what had happened, Ozma scrambled up, pried the gore out of her hands, swept a few valuable-looking trinkets into a satchel—they’d wanted her to have something to her name—thrown their cloak around her shoulders, and raced the both of them out of the keep at speed.

The image Jinn presents when Ruby asks her what Ozpin is hiding, of Salem and Ozma fighting their way out together, is a representation of how Ozpin would have told this story: distilled, softened, stripped of personal feeling… but that fight did happen, for the lord’s death and Salem’s passage through his unravelling wards awoke his retinue. Ozma fought; Salem was a storm of uncontrolled violence lashing out in blind panic.

Their First Relationship.

Although Ozma had, over the course of those two years spent whispering through her door, fallen quite hopelessly in love with her, it became clear to them within hours that Salem not feel the same. The satchel of minor valuables they’d hastily gathered for her, she tried to give to them, and their polite refusal to accept caused her to lapse into hollow silence for several minutes before she asked what they wanted from her instead—and only then had they realized how scared she felt that she might be no more to them than a prize.

The first lie Ozma ever told her was that they had never thought of anything but to set right the terrible injustice her father inflicted upon her, and they resolved to take the secret of their infatuation with her to the grave.

Still: she had nowhere else to go, and neither of them dared stay in Pastoria after murdering a nobleman. Ozma offered to take her wherever she liked, and Salem ventured that she had always wanted to see the ocean. In those days, the land formed a single continent, and Pastoria lay nestled at its heart, in the verdant foothills beneath the Light’s sacred mountain.

The long journey would be Ozma’s undoing, for the sea and the edges of the great continent belonged to the God of Darkness, and the vows Ozma had made to Light forbade them to enter Dark’s own country. But they thought nothing of it at the time; their whole life, they had scrupulously abided by the stern, unyielding tenets of their faith while privately yearning for death, only for Salem to ignite within them a ferocious desire to live.

So off they went.

For more than two years, the pair traveled further and further west. Salem grew easier around them, and as her wariness ebbed, true friendship rose to take its place—not the desolate, harrowing need which had bound them both together when they fled, but the simple sense of being kindred spirits. (It was during their travels together that Ozma first decided to worry less over fitting into either manhood or womanhood, and began—just between themself and Salem—to invent an un-gendered mode of address for themself; at the time, the phrase they’re still so fond of repeating in the present, that they are only a man, not even a very good one, was not self-deprecation but a private joke they shared with her at the world’s expense.)

With other people, however, Salem struggled: her speech was stilted and afflicted by a ruinous stutter, she was awkward, she was sometimes volatile and sometimes seemingly void of any emotion at all, she was painfully shy, she could not eat with anyone else looking at her, she sometimes lost the thread of conversations and simply lapsed into silent staring… every invisible scar her childhood left upon her marked her out as strange, as unnatural, perhaps even dangerous.

By the time she and Ozma reached the ocean, Salem felt utterly exhausted and half-certain her brother and Ozma were the only good people in the entire world; she found the desolation of the coast appealed to her, the wild emptiness, the sheer scale of the endless water.

She wanted to stay, and stay they did.

They built a little house upon cliffs overlooking the sea, a day’s walk from the closest village. Planted a garden. Lived. Grimm were far more numerous around the coast than in the heartland, and though the creatures proved to be less trouble than Ozma expected, they still insisted on teaching Salem how to fight, more than the basics she’d picked up along the journey. For a year, all seemed well.

However, though Ozma had long since forgotten their vows, the God of Light did not forgive, and seeing now that his wayward servant had no intention to repent, he at last struck Ozma down.

The sickness killed them slowly; it began with mere fatigue, headaches… mild at first, though they grew ever more severe and lingering until Ozma was left nearly insensate with agony for days at a time. Over the course of nine months, they slid piece by piece into a listless haze of pain and confusion—and though Salem tried everything she could think of to help, even leaving them in village and traveling alone to the nearest city to plead for medical aid or healing from the temple, they died just short of four years after her liberation.

Salem has always, deep down, believed she killed them, somehow.

In all that time, Ozma had never breathed a word to her of how they loved her or the depth of their feeling, still afraid to ask for anything she didn’t want to give; and Salem had only just begun to realize similar feelings for them when they fell ill. The thought that they had died not knowing she loved them was almost as unbearable a torment to her as grief itself.

Salem’s Petitions to the Brothers.

The journey back to the heartland took Salem just seven months. She had pushed herself extraordinarily hard to traverse such a vast distance in so little time, scarcely sleeping or eating and using magic to whip herself onward past the brink of collapse; she was deeply unwell, and her thin hope that the God of Light might take pity was all that kept her standing.

She had always been fervently religious, in her way, although her imprisonment and the abuse she’d suffered and the estrangement she felt from the rest of mankind after her escape had all left her with idiosyncratic, at times nakedly heretical ideas about the Brothers. (For one, Salem had spent most of her life praying to the God of Darkness too, because it never made sense to her that only one of mankind’s creators should be worshipped; she believed, and still believes even today, that it was Darkness who freed her from the paralyzing terror on the night she killed her father.)

Salem had no intention of marching into the sacred domain of the Light to demand anything, nor did she truly expect him to give her what she asked; but she did feel certain there had been some mistake, because good people were not supposed to sicken and die, and she did believe, with all her heart, that the God of Light was just and kind.

When she climbed the marble steps, she imagined that she would kneel before the pool to pray, and perhaps the Light would offer her some sign of comfort, of sorrow, of understanding. For him to appear in front of her himself before she could even utter a word shocked her, and ignited a wild hope that he might actually grant her a miracle—hopes that he shattered by instead chiding her for making demands of him.

That was the first fracture in Salem’s faith. Light sent her out of his realm and left her reeling: he had not been kind. Why reveal himself to her at all, just to rebuke her prayers? It seemed—unfair, even cruel.

Of course she turned to the God of Darkness, then. If even the gods were cruel, Salem did not care to live in the world, and she had worshipped Darkness from afar all her life. Why not seek out kindness from him, or else find merciful death in the jaws of his monsters?

Perhaps, she thought, he was lonely too.

Finding his realm took some doing, for no one in living memory had dared go looking for it; in the end, Salem resorted to following the grimm until one led her to the proper place. By then she had lost all sense of time, exhausted and sick and starving as she was, but it was almost exactly a year since Ozma’s death when she stumbled wearily up the granite steps to visit the God of Darkness.

Though Ozma believes that she asked Darkness to bring them back to life, and lied to him about having gone first to his brother, this is not so. (Salem told them the truth, eons later, as well as she could: but by then she had been so long alone, and the events that had led to mankind’s destruction were so distant, that her account had been meandering and confused, difficult to follow. The answer Jinn gives Ruby is not absolute truth, only exactly what Ozpin believed to be true and chose to hide, and contains a great deal of guesswork on Ozma’s part, to make sense of it all.)

What she did do is tell Darkness of all her sorrow, vowing to revere him above his brother for the rest of her life if he ended her pain. Salem half-hoped he would unite her with Ozma in death—it seemed a fitting mercy, from the god of destruction—and half-feared he would answer by unburdening her of the capacity to feel at all. Until he did so, it never occurred to her to imagine that Darkness would grant her the favor his brother had coldly forbidden her to even want.

But he did, and during that brief moment before the God of Light appeared in all his icy wrath, Salem had every intention to uphold her end of the bargain. Light had treated her with cold disdain, but in Darkness she had found the kindness she had been taught to expect from his supposedly benevolent brother; she would never again worship the God of Light, and had Light not interfered then, she would have become a devoted, unendingly faithful disciple to the God of Darkness.

Instead, the Brothers twice incinerated Ozma in her arms and drowned her in the fountain of life to consign her to a deathless eternity alone, and that was the second fracture in her faith.

Her Rebellion.

When the Brothers cast her out of Light’s realm, they sent her home: to the cliffside by the sea where she and Ozma had lived.

The very first thing Salem did was hurl herself into the sea.

How long she spent drowning and drowning and unable to die beneath the waves, Salem did not know; by the time a (distraught) fisherman discovered her undying but horrifically broken body in his net, the little house on the cliff had fallen into ruin, and the village she remembered had grown into a large and prosperous town.

The fountain of life had poured into her soul—which left the physical pool in the Light’s domain a mere puddle of water with no magical properties at all—and remade her into the very wellspring of creation itself; the life-force humans would, much later, come to know as aura. No matter the severity of her injuries, she could not die, but healing serious injuries with aura requires training, focus.

Salem had healed imperfectly: the bones she had shattered when she plunged into the sea knitting back together at strange angles, her body bent and distorted by the uncontrolled and unchecked growth of masses that would have killed anyone mortal, her chest distended with seawater. She could barely move, let alone speak, and it was only good fortune that the fisherman who had found her overcame his panic before casting her overboard again.

He brought her to Light’s temple, in the town that had once been a village. The priests there were baffled, but they could see that she was in terrible pain, and they did what they could to help her. Mostly, this was miserable: a matter of breaking bones and carving out tumors, little by little pulling her body back into human shape.

She did not make it easy for them. The ruin of her physical body had not diminished her magical power, and as soon as Salem understood where she was she began to lash out, wanting nothing to do with the gods who had done this to her. Still, the priests felt sorry for her—and assumed that her violent reactions were motivated by pain, rather than hatred of the god they served—so they persisted.

Then the ones who had taken charge of her care began to sicken, and Salem realized two things: first, that they were not caring for her under Light’s auspices; and second, that he accounted the kindness they were trying to give her a sin deserving of punishment.

That was the third, and final, fracture in her faith. She stopped fighting her caretakers and bent every effort toward healing herself and trying to heal them; in this, she failed, and watched those who had aided her die one by one even as she was restored to perfect health.

She was outraged.

Yes, she had prayed for things she was not meant to have, and yes, she had sown discord between the Brothers by mistake, and yes, she had railed against them and called them monsters when they ripped her love away from her again. Perhaps that did make her selfish, arrogant, deserving of the torment they inflicted upon her—but these people had done nothing to deserve death.

It was an injustice.

It was worse than cruel; it was wrong.

Salem returned to Pastoria brimming with righteous fury. There, to her surprise, she found Kalev—an old man now, though she still looked not a day older than twenty-five.

The reunion was strange and bittersweet. Kalev had spent most of his life wondering what happened to her, praying to God to keep her safe and happy, and to learn that the Brothers had treated her with such brutality devastated him. From his devastation and her rage, the first spark of rebellion was struck.

When Salem set out to galvanize others to their cause, she told the truth: of the injustices and cruelty she had seen; of how the Brothers had made her immortal by throwing her into the fountain of life, and so revoked the promise of healing for the pure from the rest of the world; of the division she had seen between Light and Darkness; of her vision of a new world freed from the chains of their creators. The gory spectacle of her immortality and the fervent truth of her convictions overcame every obstacle that had always set her apart from the rest of her kind.

Though it was Salem who lit the match, the firestorm she unleashed surpassed her expectations, and when the rebellion stormed the marble steps to Light’s domain, the movement had long since grown beyond her, grown bigger than the faint hope she clung to that she might find a way to die after the Brothers were gone.

(She wouldn’t recognize it until eons later, but she had already begun, even then, to resign herself to the possibility of living forever.)

The Moonfall and the Making of Remnant.

See this post.

Upon climbing back out of the pool of grimm, Salem found that it, just as the fountain of life had done, had poured itself into her soul. The vast and infinite well over which Darkness once presided had diminished to mere scattered ponds of atrum, still capable of birthing grimm if given a spark of life yet no longer alive as the dark lake had been; and she felt that vast and infinite power churning within herself now, mixing together with the molten radiance of the fountain. She began to have an inkling, then, of what she had done.

Eons ago, the Brothers created mankind by the admixture of their two natures—so went the old stories—creation and destruction bound together in one. Salem had thought to do the same, when she bore the light into the pool, but instead… some intangible barrier had shattered, she thought, had fallen into dust and less than dust. The waters mingled: and here is fire.

She wandered away from the Dark’s onetime domain in a daze, unsure of what she would find in this new world but excited to meet it, and what she found was the first and second of Remnant’s peoples: the fauni, who were no more human than she, and the grimm, as fierce and wild as she remembered.

Humans would come later. Salem has… complicated feelings about mankind, these days, a mixture of admiration for their virtues—their strength, their wisdom, their resourcefulness, their passion, their ingenuity, their hope—and profound wariness. She has not thought of herself as human since that half-century beneath the waves, and even less since her transformation in the dark lake; she is grimm, she is the one called God of Animals, the fauni are her people, and she does not much care for the way humans treat those who are different from themselves.

The First Reunion.

Ozma knew nothing of this, when the God of Light sent them back into life. They knew only what Light told them: that Darkness had destroyed mankind for an offense he implied had something to do with Salem, that humanity would rise anew in desperate need of redemption lest they be condemned to obliteration, and that though Salem yet lived, she was no longer the woman they held dear.

When they agreed to return, Ozma did not give a damn about any of this. Salem lived. No matter how she’d changed, they felt certain beyond any doubt that they would love her still, and when the words I’ll do it left their mouth, they had every intention of finding her at once.

But nothing could have prepared them to wrench awake behind a stranger’s eyes, nor for the overwhelming flood of another’s mind shattering and bleeding into their own. Nothing could have prepared them to feel the like-minded soul die so that they could live.

Nothing prepared them for the horrors of this new world, where humans bereft of magic cowered in the shadows like rats among grimm who now seemed all but unstoppable. Nor could they fathom the scale of suffering they saw everywhere they went: the senseless ravages of disease, the brutal and desperate wars over resources that had once been abundant, the seemingly endless panoply of false gods and false creeds which served as pretext for yet more war, the almost-human creatures called faunus who—they were told—lived bestial lives in the wilderness, whom the grimm did not hunt because they had no souls, who hated humanity just as fiercely as did the grimm… who served and worshipped the malignant Witch of the Wastes.

She had to be Salem. Ozma knew it from the moment they heard the first whisper of that name, for who else in this damned and desolate world could wield power of that kind?

Fear crept over them. Doubt. They remembered what she had done to her father, the spectacular violence in her fear; Ozma had never been blind to Salem’s wrath. What had happened to her, after they died? What had she done? What if—in the end it was this thought that overcame the rest of Ozma’s worries and brought them to her doorstep, heart in their mouth—what if the God of Darkness had laid a curse upon her?

(Might she still be saved, even now?)

Some of those fears melted away when Salem opened her door and Ozma looked into her eyes at long last: they knew at once that she was still herself, and for a while that was all that mattered.

For her part, Salem had long since made peace with never seeing Ozma again; she held on to a faint hope that their soul might be reborn, now that the gates of death had cracked, but she knew—thought she knew—that they would never return as themself, and she might never find their soul again. Her grief had become a deep ache, never quite fading but possible to live with, around, through. What else was there for her to do but keep living?

(Sometimes—now and then, when the anguish rose to the surface again—her mind did conjure echoes of them. She had spent countless nights of her interminable isolation huddling miserably in their arms, half-dreaming and half-believing they were really there. It comforted her sometimes to pretend not to know these were only hallucinations; she liked to imagine their spirit lingering with her, reaching out to soothe her when she could bear the pain no longer. But even that had not happened in a very long time, when Ozma found her.)

The first thought to arise from the searing, wordless shock of finding them before her once again was wonder at the recognition aglow in their eyes, the smile dawning upon their face as if no time had passed at all; the second, an overwhelming terror that this wasn’t real.

Both were cautious, in the beginning. Salem felt acutely aware of how much she had changed, how foolish it would be to expect everything to go back to the way it was in that little house by the sea; Ozma’s fear that she had been cursed by Darkness seemed all but confirmed by her grimm appearance and the bizarre, erratic tale she told of defying the Brothers and plunging into the divine wellsprings. She could do magic no longer, for the Brothers had torn their gifts from her soul, and the wild power she held now was unlike anything Ozma had seen.

Yet… even so.

Every troubling tale they’d heard of the Witch proved to have a reasonable explanation. Of course the fauni had souls (and Ozma has never quite lost their mortification for believing otherwise), and Salem’s careful observations of the grimm led her to believe they were drawn to powerful negative emotion: hatred, anger, misery, envy, fear, all feelings roused by the rampant persecution of faunuskind at human hands. She offered protection to those fauni who sought her out, and sometimes stole into settlements late at night to set captive fauni free. In the village nestled along the edge of her woods, she was well-regarded—if still a little feared, for she seldom left the woods unless someone came to ask for her help.

Those first few weeks together in her cottage were peculiar, thick with dread and uncertainty and the awkward feeling of the eons now lying between them; there had been missteps and hurtful misunderstandings aplenty, while they learnt each other again.

She was different: she had acquired a sardonic sense of humor which delighted them, an astounding depth of knowledge on the natural forces of the world, an alarming farrago of new gods, a vicious temper that often saw her storming out of their cottage to (she admitted to them once, rather sheepishly, when they asked) lurk at the bottom of a lake for hours to calm herself…

But though they looked, Ozma could find nothing in her to fear; she was still kind, still inquisitive, still terribly shy, still—true enough that Salem was no longer the awkward, volatile, passionate girl they’d held so dear, but that girl wasn’t gone. She had only grown into herself, and each day they loved her more.

Ozma didn’t exactly intend to lie to her.

For those first few weeks, they kept what the God of Light had told them to themself, wanting to hear Salem’s side of the story before they made any judgments; and as weeks turned to months, Ozma concluded that, cursed by the Brothers though she was, nothing was wrong with Salem, and they resolved to forget their task as they had once forgotten their vows to be with her.

They found that they could not. Even as the love they shared with Salem, never quite fully realized in their previous life, put down roots and blossomed in this one, the suffering they had seen—the promise of obliteration—the twisted, still-bleeding shrapnel of the boy they had overtaken—all of it still lurked in the back of their mind, impossible to forget and growing ever harder to ignore.

In the present, when Ruby asked Jinn her question, Ozpin did almost believe that Salem had lied to Ozma, used them, led them blind and infatuated to their ruin: but that is only the lie Ozma has clung to for centuries.

The truth, far more painful, is that Salem trusted them. In spite of everything she had suffered, despite her terror of rejection, of losing them again; despite the fact that they answered her eager questions about how they’d found their way back with naught but vague nothings, Salem chose to give them her trust and her love and her unwavering faith; and so, when they cautiously ventured to lament the division they saw tearing Remnant apart, she had looked at them with hope shining in her eyes and promised to help them heal the world of its wounds.

To create a paradise—without the Brothers.

Ozma should have told her then. In that moment, they had known she would never break from her hatred of the gods who had slain the last world and tortured her for so long, would never submit to them again, and that had been the right time to tell her.

But they’d looked into her eyes, and imagined that boundless admiration curdling in betrayal and disgust, and instead they had leaned closer to kiss her and said, let’s do it.

Lux Aeterna.

Every lie that followed came easier than the last. Salem balked at too grand ambitions, and it often seemed to Ozma that she would have preferred to stay in that cottage with them forever—it was plain to see she did not much like standing before crowds, let alone leading a country, for all that she could be a dazzling orator when she had time to prepare—but they found they could persuade her to agree to almost any course of action so long as they gave it to her piecemeal.

(There were some lines she would not cross: Salem flatly refused to even consider imposing prison sentences, no matter the crime, and she afforded no patience to those humans who protested bitterly at being treated as equals to faunuskind under Aeternian law. But Ozma considered that she was often on the right side of these lines, and did not trouble themself much over her stubbornness.)

The girls were a surprise bordering on miraculous. Salem and Ozma had talked about wanting to have children, raise a family, but neither believed Salem could bear her own. (Ozma could not help but see it as a good omen, a sign that they were on the right path, and all the more so each time their daughters came out human.) Mara, the eldest; the twins, Dana and Lital; and Esther, the baby.

For a time, all seemed well. Lux Aeterna soared to prominence in the region: a small but prosperous city-state ruled by fair-minded, if frightfully powerful, rulers, a place where all were welcome regardless of appearance or culture or creed.

The troubles started small.

Ozma, plagued by terrible nightmares of the final judgment and knowing that this harmonious medley of differences was not what the God of Light truly meant by unity, grew ever more nervous about their utter failure to nudge Salem toward adopting a unified state religion.

Many of their people did worship Salem and Ozma, of course, just as planned. However…

Salem had been the one who put forward the idea of claiming divinity, but it quickly became apparent that Salem meant something quite different than what Ozma had thought: they’d envisioned a stepping stone toward acting as heralds for the true God, condemning the worship of false idols. But to her, becoming gods meant little more than fulfilling a certain societal role, one which overcame every difficulty she found in connecting with other people by simply asking them to accept her as an inhuman being who acted in accordance with inhuman rules. She cared not at all for the trappings nor the power of godhood; she just liked the rules, the contractual nature of relationships built on ritual and reciprocal favors.

Thus the worship of other gods did not trouble her whatsoever; Ozma could not even persuade her to stop adopting more of the gods invented by Remnant’s people, let alone to condemn the worship of false idols. Nor could they explain why it troubled them so without revealing their deception, and so they fretted, and their occasional arguments on the subject never came to any satisfying conclusions.

Then came the intractable problem of what Salem looked like, and the stories told about her across the region.

Grimm did not trouble Lux Aeterna, but they did prey upon her neighbors—many of them ancient human city-states wherein fauni were still enslaved and viewed with deep suspicion; many of them envious and resentful of the way Lux Aeterna flourished. Rumors began to spread of dark rituals performed by the Grimm Queen in the wilderness at night; baseless accusations of human sacrifice, of secret cannibalism, of Aeternians driving grimm into other kingdoms in order to steal more land, and similar fare.

Ozma tried desperately to lower tensions through diplomatic appeasement, ignoring Salem’s blunt insistence that it wouldn’t work. (She had seen this play out many times, in many places, and her cynicism with regard to mankind’s fear of the unknown is boundless.)

It did not work.

Rumors became threats, threats turned to actual incursions against Lux Aeterna’s borders—and one gory assassination attempt against Salem herself, which shook Ozma very badly—and when a vigorous, decisive defense of the borders failed to put an end to all the saber-rattling, Lux Aeterna took the offensive.

With the onset of war, Ozma discovered a new side of Salem that they had never yet seen: she had a strategic brilliance that spoke to deep experience, and she was utterly, dispassionately ruthless. In swift succession, one after the next, each hostile city-state crumbled and bent the knee beneath the Aeternian banner.

Salem approached this conquest with an attitude of grim necessity: there could be no peace with these wolves snarling at the door, and so the wolves must be broken and brought to heel. To Ozma, the merciless expansion of their borders felt by turns intoxicating—for how simple it was after all, to bring people together by the sword—and horrifying.

The Shattering.

One of the many things Ozma reflected upon, during their protracted withdrawal after Jinn caused them to relive all this, is whether Salem had begun to suspect the truth, near the end. Throughout the last few of the thirteen years they shared, she developed a habit of making disquietingly blunt remarks about what they were doing; about the necessity of conquest, if Ozma truly wished to unite the world behind their banner.

Salem did not have any idea what Ozma was hiding from her, but she did know that there was something they would not tell her; and as the war raged on, she grew ever more impatient with Ozma’s—as she saw it—willful blindness to the cost of their grand ambition. To bring freedom and peace to a small portion of the world, that could be done with ease: one needed only to give people something true, a common cause to strive for, and then shepherd it from one generation to the next. Lasting change did not dawn quickly.

(They were still, she often reminded herself, so young. She had been impatient once, too.)

Lux Aeterna had always seemed to her far more precarious than Ozma believed, an idealistic, fragile experiment surrounded on all sides by adversaries who would like nothing better than to tear it to shreds; years before the possibility of war even crossed Ozma’s mind, Salem had deemed it inevitable and made quiet preparations to insure that the outcome fell in their favor. (Her web of spies was vast, intricate, and wholly invisible to Ozma.)

One thing to prepare for war; another to wage it and hear her partner speak dreamily of bringing the whole world together and in the same breath recoil from the bloodshed.

It vexed her that they couldn’t seem to grasp that one implied the other. More than that, it crushed her to think that they were not satisfied with the life they had built with her, even more than it hurt when she realized they wanted more than a simple life together in her cottage. Salem had grown to like Lux Aeterna, despite her misgivings. She cared for its people; she loved her own daughters to bits; she loved Ozma. She was not… exactly… unhappy.

But she was not exactly happy, either. She felt inadequate, and taken for granted, and with ever-growing frequency in those last few years, like everything she did was wrong somehow. Whatever Ozma refused to tell her was plainly tearing them apart, and they seemed to always be further out of reach.

By the end, Salem had begun to question whether they even loved her anymore, or if all that really bound them together was inertia, or tired habit, or some misguided sense of obligation to her and their daughters.

The truth was worse, and far more horrible than Salem could ever have guessed: that the Brothers she’d thought long gone were trying to claw their way back was awful enough, that they wanted to butcher this world too a nightmare almost beyond comprehension, but the depth of Ozma’s betrayal in serving those monsters for all this time, in manipulating her into enacting their design, was beyond her ability to fathom. She could not understand it. (She still cannot understand it.)

There is a very old story faunuskind used to tell about where they came from, called The Shallow Sea: in it, the God of Animals gathers all the unhappy misfits and outcasts of the world and brings them to a certain island—a harsh new world where they can make their own home, if they choose. All they need to do is leap into the magical waters of the sea and swim ashore, shedding their old human skins to become something new.

Most choose to embrace the change, the chance for freedom given to them; but a small handful refuse, spitting accusations at the god and their chosen people, so the god sends them back home to their old lives, and for the rest of time, the ones who refused to change and all their descendants hate and fear the fauni, for reminding them of what they are not and never can be.

This is the myth Salem quoted to Ozma when she refused to go along with the divine plan for Remnant’s future, and this is what she meant: that the Brothers are of a kind with the resentful humans in the story, seething impotently that the world has outgrown them, and they deserve nothing but scorn; that humanity cannot be saved because there is nothing to redeem, and the only course is to press onward; that the world will never again be what it was.

Both she and Ozma understood her meaning perfectly. (No one else who witnessed Jinn’s answer did, a fact Ozma has not actually realized yet. When they tell Hazel that Salem is cursed to live for as long as the world turns and that she craves only death, they are—as they so often do—lying through their teeth.)

Salem does not remember anymore what she said, exactly, for she’s torn and twisted the memory so badly in desperation to make sense of it that the only thing she remembers is the emotion, and the way Ozma glared at her before they stormed out of the study.

Nearly four hours elapsed between that moment and Salem catching Ozma leaving with the girls. Most of that time, Ozma spent at war with themself, torn between their desperation to stay with Salem and their terror of what punishment the Light would inflict upon her, upon their daughters, upon the whole world if Ozma defied him. Salem, meanwhile, was sitting where Ozma had left her in a state of abject shock and horror.

Both were so on edge by the time they came face-to-face in the corridor that they broke at almost exactly the same time, and both remember seeing the other move to attack first. (In The Lost Fable, there is a very brief shot in which Ozma tightens their grip on their staff—bracing themself—and then Salem visibly startles at that movement the instant before she snaps.) Both were caught up in an overwhelming tide of desperate fury and years of pent-up resentment and distrust that had long since eroded the foundation of their relationship, and both were one hundred percent focused on trying to kill the other.

Neither of them knows exactly what happened to their daughters.

& The Rest.

Since that night, Salem and Ozma have seen each other only twice—in the apocalyptic final battle for Ruakh, and in Atlas when she captured Oscar.

Salem has largely done her best to avoid them, not caring what they did so long as she knew they didn’t have all four relics. She never wanted to see them again, after Ruakh. Ozma, meanwhile, has never stopped hating themself for sacrificing her for the sake of the divine plan… but the divine plan is all they have left, and they do not believe she could ever forgive them, so they keep stumbling through the motions of trying. Their paranoia, their tendency to see her in the shadows of every conflict and every grimm, arises from a mixture of intense guilt and twisted longing.

Salem is not aware that they do not have a choice about coming back, and nearly all her hatred in the present is founded upon her belief that they have spent the last three or four thousand years making a deliberate choice to murder an innocent person each time they return, either out of sheer zealotry or an obsessive desire to punish her. The instant she learns this is not so, her rage will rebound tenfold on the God of Light.

The girls did not, in fact, die that night. Ozma’s semblance—once they’re free, once it manifests in its fully-realized form—will reach back four thousand years to the moment the fight began and simply bring them forward. Or it has already done so, depending upon one’s perspective, and they just haven’t arrived at the right moment yet. Either way, to the children it is as if no time passes at all.

(The girls disappear from the scene right before the fight begins, and V9 gave me time travel shenanigans. I am in constant misery. Let me have this.)

[canipetthatdeaddove]

My mom's husband has completely abandoned her, left her off his insurance since last year, and "forgot" to add her during the enrollment period in October for this year.

My mom suffers from epilepsy (grand mal seizures), has had a frontal lobe craniotomy (a fucking lobotomy that made everything worse), still suffers from debilitating seizures, has a sodium depletion syndrome that makes life a living hell (imagine being told you can only have less than a cup of water a day to prevent fluid retention but have to take salt pills, your skin is drying out to the point its sloughing off, your eyes sting from crying literal salt crystals). On top of that, it's just awful to be her - so much unhealed trauma from her childhood and abusive relationships. There's no safe place in her head, so she spends all day watching Korean dramas and doing whatever she can to escape her reality.

David Welch, son of Elmer and Ann Welch, wants my mother to die. He's waiting for it. He's watching it. And I'm helpless to do anything. They had to change her meds over the last year due to finances - not medical reasons. Meds that have Fucked. Her. UP. because they aren't the right meds that work for her. They're merely what she can afford. She can't get the medical attention she needs, she can't go to St. Luke in KC, she can't go to the Mayo Clinic, and she is paying thousands of dollars out of pocket for the meds that are just killing her.

I'm not being quiet about it anymore. If only people whose opinion mattered to him would see. Go see her in the broken home he refuses to pay anything to fix where mold is rife and the plumbing is fucked, the washing machine barely works; go visit her and look at all the bumps and bruises from falling because he refuses to have any accessible ANYTHING installed, her skeletal frame, and read all the hundreds of abusive and weirdly religious messages he sends her.

He could divorce her. He is non-disabled and in full control of his mental faculties. He could divorce her. But I think the fucker wants the attention of calling himself a widower someday.

My mom wouldn't be in this situation if there was anything I could do about it. She has a host of unpleasant mental issues that keep her there, in that depressing home, dying. She doesn't think she's worth fighting for; I know it. A lot of people actually feel that way, too.

I've gone through my seasons with my mom. But I'm sober now. And no matter what the past, her imperfections, the direct correlation to her behavior and my drinking - she doesn't deserve this. And my drunk brother and tweaking fucking sister will probably die from their own addictions because mom will die horribly and miserably before they reconcile, and the pain of it will hasten them to their graves.

I'm in a lot of pain over this, and I am not at the point in my sobriety where I've got a handy set of tools to handle this. Stoicism? Would you? As your mother deteriorates in a perfectly preventable situation? As someone ELSE decides she's not worth it? If you can do that, I can't relate to you. You're in the same category as her husband - a cruel monster.

[filthforfriends]

Chapter 8

Alpha!Damiano x Omega!Reader

Word count: 9.2k

“Whatcha thinking about?” Damiano moves your hair out of the way. At first you assume it's so he can see your face, but his gaze falls to the bite marks. Already his disposition has shifted. He’s looking at you differently, but you can’t pinpoint what exactly has changed yet.

“Your parents.”

“Not the answer I was expecting.” 

“I might as well wear a t-shirt to dinner that says ‘I just fucked your son.’” Dami scoffs at your concern. 

“My parents have been mated for two decades. That’s two decades since they’ve had any compulsion to read others' pheromones.” When a pair mated, the pheromones of other potential suitors lost their appeal and vice versa. Omegas that smelled like their alpha usually became less attractive. Mated pairs fell out of the habit of reading the room because the information was irrelevant.

“Okay, but they’re probably going to check in on you.”

“They will know eventually, yes. That’s inevitable no matter what.” Dami had a point. Still, you sigh anxiously. 

“Do you think they’re gonna go through your trash while I’m still here?” Being confronted with it so directly would be mortifying. He looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. Having a beta parent changed your childhood even more than you’d originally considered. At first you’d thought the David’s were eccentric, but then you realized your dad was just biased. He never went to the support meetings designed for a beta in his position. You dad had this whole inadequacy complex about omegas that you’d accidently internalized.

“Y/n, my parents don’t go through my trash at all.” He looks at you with pity, stroking your cheek delicately. Muffling the sounds of your frustrations, you flip over and scream into the bedding. 

“What about your brother?” Your voice is muffled

“Sandro definitely isn’t going through my trash.” Exasperation is creeping into his tone, but you can’t quell your neurosis. 

“But he might know and tell your parents!”

“If Sandro reads your pheromones, I’ll kill him before he can say anything to our parents.” His brazen protectiveness shocks you. No other alpha is permitted to check your availability, even out of curiosity. 

“You’re mine and he knows better,” Damiano justified.

“Murder definitely wouldn’t make a good impression.”

“Y/n,” he groans, head tilted back. “You’ve already made a good impression. The only person in this house that's gonna judge you is yourself.” You turn sideways and look at him skeptically. “And here's something that will blow your mind. My parents gave us hours of privacy, assuming we’re gonna use it to have sex.” Your eyes go so wide that Dami holds back a laugh which turns into a cough.

“Right. Okay,” you conceded, taking a long pause. “I’m sorry, I just grew up –”

“I know, I know,” Dami softens. “If you can internalize anything, let it be that if there is nothing morally corrupt with your status, there’s nothing morally corrupt about omegan behavior. Remember how miserable you were two hours ago?”

“Yeah,” you admit, begrudging. 

“You cried when I agreed to knot you. That was heartbreaking.”

“I know, Damiano. I was there,” you snap.

“Its okay that sex is something you need to emotionally regulate. It’s never just going to be an activity you choose to indulge in. Stop punishing yourself for not being a beta.” Well shit. With nothing to say, you resort to making grabby hands for Damiano, who pulls you onto his chest. Even being feisty, you’re so vulnerable like this, naked on his bed, still recovering from headspace. He can smell his own semen inside you. It’s all over the sheets too. Damiano is trying to think of an excuse not to wash this bedding.

“What are you thinking about?”

“I’m thinking…about a lot of things, honestly.”

“Pick one.”

“Okay.” Dami purses his lips while deciding on the least intimidating topic. “I’m thinking about how alphas say part of their role is deciding the positions during sex. I’m thinking about how bad I feel for their partners because that's totally wrong.” His answer piques your curiosity immediately. 

“Agreed, but why?”

“Your physical intuition was just,” Damiano pauses, trying to find language strong enough to encapsulate his sentiment. “Incredible. I’m so impressed.” Your cheeks heat up in a blush and Dami can feel it against his chest.

“I wasn’t trying.” 

“How’d you know to take that last position? You even showed me where your a-spot was.”

“I didn’t even know omegas had an a-spot. I thought it was the same as your scent glands. I just wanted to know what it’d feel like to do that. So I did,” you shrug. Your hand is placed on Damiano’s chest, chin propped to see him better. Dami sits up on his elbows.

“Your body just instinctively knows how to make itself cum when you’re submitting,” he marvels. “Omegas will communicate exactly what they need, but they can’t speak in headspace, so their alphas ignore it. That’s so irresponsible.” While his moral outrage at the oppression of omegas is sexy as hell, agitated really isn’t the mood you want right now.

“We really, really need to shower, Dami.” While this functions to shift his focus, you actually are downright disgusting at the moment.

“Yeah, we do,” he groans, pushing you both upright. Damiano puts his cleats in the closet before selecting clean clothes you can wear. He pulls out a long sleeve and a hoodie. He also stacks two pairs of sweatpants and briefs on top of the dresser.

“Damiano, those size small men’s underwear are not going to fit my thighs.”

“Excuse me, these are a size medium. However,” he pauses, looking you up and down a couple times, “you do have a point.” He winks and pulls out some rather unaesthetic boxers, but at least they’ll fit.

Of course Damiano is happy to risk it and sprint down the hall fully naked like a mad man. Personally, you elected to put all your clothes back on.

“No one is gonna see. I didn’t realize I was marking such a prude,” Damiano teases.

“Says the motherfucker who forced me to be abstinent for the past three months!” Dami cackles so hard that he ends up rolling on the rug. You’d think an alpha like him would have a low, sexy chuckle, but Dami laughed like he’d been possessed by a seagull. Meanwhile, you finish fastening everything and end up tapping your foot, waiting for him to collect himself.

“Okay, okay, okay,” he wheezes, standing up. When you follow him into the bathroom a moment later, he begins undoing the buttons on the back of your dress carefully, still letting out the occasional chuckle. You could have wrestled them yourself, but this is so much nicer. It’s a new kind of physical intimacy, being left with just your beautiful, breakable bodies. No longer concerned with being packaged for his consumption, you don’t try to kick off your underwear in a way that hides the discharge on the gusset. Damiano doesn’t tense subconsciously, to show off lines of musculature. These immaturities are for the people you were earlier. 

“Wait, wait. Stay still a sec.” Damiano squatted in front of the cabinet, under the sink, while you went to turn the water on. He pulled out an innocuous navy blue case and set it on the counter.

“We need to clean the bites.” He opens the case and you stand to the side of him, moving your hair out of the way. When Dami puts on sterile gloves, you scoff.

“Really? After that?” you gesture in the direction of his room. 

“This is an open wound,’ he replies, sternly. “I should have brushed my teeth before marking you. There’s so much bacteria in the mouth. It was a stupid thing to forget.” There was a whole market for products used to cleanse before biting, but you didn’t want a sterile, contrived experience. 

Dami starts with iodine, sanitizing the whole area. Then he rinses it out with saline. It's definitely not a pleasant sensation.

“Can’t you just pour some isopropyl alcohol on it and move on?”

“Isopropyl alcohol will damage the skin,” he responds, staying focused. “Unfortunately I do have to rinse this scent gland out with antiseptic.” You wince preemptively, knowing it's gonna sting. 

“Switch,” he murmurs, moving your hair. Wondering why Damiano was examining both sides, you pull away and look in the mirror. He carefully observes your face as you see his tooth wound for the first time. He’d marked and cleaned your left side, breaking the skin in three places. It was gorier than you’d anticipated. On your right there was a nearly perfect indent of his teeth, bruised violet. You try to calm your nerves and take a step back from your reflection. 

“Continue on.” Even if the physical outcome was a little gross, you were beaming. This thing that had been gnawing away at you for months, taking little pieces everyday, was silent. Nonexistent even. You were at peace and not even Damiano’s compulsions could ruin it.

“I didn’t try to break this skin on this side, but I’m just checking.” Instead of watching the whole thing and building your anxiety, you turn around and hug Damiano. The gesture itself is asking for help, for comfort. The cognitive dissonance makes his eyes well up. Marking feels like an act of protection, but once the mechanism is realized Dami’s stomach is turning inside out. In the moment every bite feels like a testimonial of the love he wasn’t ready to confess. Each time he held your flesh between his teeth it was like any other impassioned embrace, but multiplied. Sure he could cuddle you, but biting felt far more affectionate and satiating. 

Once Damiano had surfaced out of alpha headspace it was hard to see these marks as anything but needless wounds. All of the intent to protect and treasure falls away, overwhelmed by guilt. Feeling that he’s far away in his own head, you speak up.

“It actually didn’t hurt at all.”

“Really?” Damiano tries not to sound desperate for vindication.

“Mhm,” you assure. When he refocuses, you brace for the oncoming sensation. “Don’t warn me, just do it,” you squeak, eyes shut. Dami works quicker than you expect, wrapping an arm around you at the same time. It keeps you from pulling away when the cold solution meets your skin. The sensation is less stinging and more oversensitive. Having a bunch of liquid forced inside your scent gland rapidly sucked, but it wasn’t much worse than having a stream of water from the shower hit you at an unfortunate angle.

“Okay, all done.”

“Do I get a sticker?” you joke, pulling away so you can look into his eyes. You know Damiano hated hurting you, even if it was first aid. He gazed at you in that way you were unaccustomed to, like he was letting you see his soul. Wordlessly, Dami kissed your forehead, lips lingering for a few seconds, savoring the proximity. When he moved you expected Damiao to pull his mouth away from your skin, but instead he loosely wrapped his arms around the small of your back. When his lips left your head, it was only to press his cheek to the same spot and sway back and forth. 

“It feels like we’re dancing,” you whisper, folding your hands behind his neck. 

“You know how to waltz?” he responds, voice not as hushed. 

“Do you know how to waltz?” You were aware this man might be full of surprises, but ballroom dancing hadn’t made the list of suspects by a long shot.

“Stand on my feet, I’ll show you.” You heed his request, wobbly.

“This feels really strange, Dami.” He starts stepping in a square shape over and over, movement surprisingly graceful.

“Psh, I bet you did this all the time as a kid.” You try to memorize what he’s doing. It seemed like the full shape took six steps which was confusing because a square has four sides. 

“Nope, never did this.” 

“Well, how did your parents teach you how to dance?”

“They didn’t, but Clio liked to choreograph routines for us.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” You kept trying and failing to accurately predict the footwork.

“So it's one, one, two. One, one, two.”

“Exactly.”

“And how does that become a square?” Dami’s feet stick to the cold tile, making a sound every time he steps.

“Think about it like making two “L” shapes. Outside, inside, together.”

“Outside, inside, together,” you chant, under your breath. “I really don’t have the coordination to figure this out right now, love.” He chuckles as you step off his feet and onto the frigid, hard floor. When you drop your hands, Dami catches one and holds it directly above your head.

“Twirl,” he beams. “No not – towards me. There you go.” Damiano spins you in circles with his hand. It's such a small space there's barely room. Instead of actually turning, you just take quick steps, trodding on your own feet.

“Okay, okay, you’re gonna get dizzy.” Damiano catches you in both arms, holding steady for a few seconds while your balance recovers. “We should watch one of those cheesy movies with a prom,” he suggests, turning on the water.

“Yeah, that sounds good.” It’s a relief not to be the center of his attention for a second. “I’m so glad I’m staying the night. It feels like I spend the entire time dreading you leaving otherwise.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. I hate it.” Damiano steps into the shower and extends his hand to help you. There's a faded orange fish-shaped mat on the bottom of the tub. 

“It’s dark outside, you’re warm and comfortable so your brain starts producing melatonin. Plus I’m there so your nervous system feels safe enough to calm down.” You listen, finger-comb your hair to detangle the ponytail holder. The hot water feels great, but you let Damiano wash first since he definitely needs it more.

 “Leaving stresses me out,” he confesses. “You’re sleepy, so instinctively I want to stay to keep you warm. On the drive home I go through a dozen scenarios. What if someone breaks into your house? What if you lose electricity? If I had just put my foot down and refused to leave instead of being polite….” This whole internal dialogue of Dami’s was a surprise. He moans as the water falls onto him, tilting his head back, eyes closed.

“I’ve been fine for 15 years Dami, you don’t have to torture yourself.”

I know, I know,” he dismisses, changing his tone. “Anyways, you’re gonna sleep so good tonight.”

“After we change the sheets,” you clarify, finally freeing the elastic. While Damiano lathered shampoo into his hair you sudsed up your hands and began washing his back. Whenever he raised his arms it caused his shoulder blades to move and muscles flex. You could feel the inner workings of his body similarly to how your mouth did. You walked your fingers up his spine to his neck, helping him evenly disperse the shampoo in his undercut. Dami hums in delight at the sensation and drops his hands to his sides, letting you wash his hair.

“Turn around.” He pivots so you can get the front of his hair too, like a kitten getting their head pet. You use your nails when working up the sides. Damiano’s hands come to rest on your ass, while you shape the soapy mess into a spike.

“Unicorn horn?”

“Actually I’m going for a cinnamon roll right now.”

“Let me know when you’re done, love.” Damiano’s eyes were closed so he couldn't see your breath hitch. That had to be intentional, calling you love so flippantly.

“Finished.” Your tone was a decent attempt at sounding casual. Once Dami had rinsed his hair out, he pulled you against him and situated you under the water. It flowed down your body, but Damiano’s skin was definitely warmer. 

Dami used this opportunity to wash your back while you leaned against him affectionately. Once he reached your hips, he gave your ass and light spank and you did the same in return. Dami gasped, pretending to be offended. Grinning, you rest your face against his skin.

“How many types of bodily fluids are on us right now?” he ponders.

“Well slick, for sure.”

“Blood: some mine, some yours, some Julio’s.” You gag at the mention of Dami's former teammate.

“I really don’t want to think about that possibility.” Dami steps forward, so your head is under the water.

“Fair enough. Sweat, dirt.”

“Dirt is not a bodily fluid,” you counter. Dami dispenses some shampoo into his hands and massages your head. It must be one of the best sensations ever.

“Unless you mix the dirt with bodily fluids.”

“Damiano! Ew!”

“Okay, okay, sorry,” he laughs. His hands run down the length of your hair, soaping up the rest of it. He focuses on getting your roots, starting from the back of your head. You actually moan out loud, eyes fluttering closed. Dami rinses your hair, then washes your arms, shoulders, neck, and most importantly, bite marks. He’s holding a decent bit of your weight when he moves on to conditioning.

“This feel nice?”

“Mm mhm hmm,” you sigh dramatically. Dami doesn’t just rub the conditioner into your hair, he also massages your neck with one hand, the other wrapped around your waist. You hum in appreciation, trying to remember to stand upright. Trying to think of other places he can massage, Dami rubs the shell of your ear. He runs your earlobe between his thumb and index finger, tugging. This is how you realize that you love having your ears touched.

When you start purring again Damiano wants to jump for joy a foot into the air with a triumphant yelp, but that would absolutely ruin the moment. Instead, he lets the conditioner sit and sways back and forth. Much to Dami’s disappointment, the purring only lasts a minute. Your self-preservation instincts won’t let you really tune out while standing upright for obvious reasons. 

“Oh, wow. I spaced out again,” you yawn, stepping away so Damiano can finish showering.

“Do you – I mean, it's all good, love.” He pauses on the way to grab the conditioner, turning sideways to look at you. Something alpha related is obviously on his mind. 

“You go first,” he decides, ushering you in front of him. You snort as you start soaping up your legs.

“What? So you can enjoy the view?”

“There is no better view, I must admit,” he smirks. Really, Dami doesn’t want to be half way through washing his ball sack when he hears you slip and die because your head is foggy. However, admiring you for the sake of it was a close second, excuse-wise.

“Feel free to bend over a little extra when you – hey!” You flick soaping water at him. “Okay, I’ll stop talking!” he snickers. The stuff that's going through his head is far worse, anyways. It’s a little painful to watch you wash his dried cum off of your inner thighs, but it's also a reminder that you are now his, in a very tangible way. Anyone who knew Dami’s pheromones would know you belonged to him. People from his old school would be reminded of him. People who said he’d never been an alpha because of his condition would have to eat their bitter words. Lord knows if they bothered speaking up you’d tear them a new –

“I take it your towels are over there?” 

“Huh?” You gesture to the linens closet behind the door, all the soap rinsed off. Damiano tries to look at your face, but his eyes keep getting drawn down to the bite mark. The way your hair was resting left it uncovered.

“I’m gonna take that as a yes,” you decide. The water remaining on your skin drips onto the tile for a few steps as you retrieve a towel. You get a second one to wrap your hair as well, the fabric two different shades of blue. Dami is peeking around the shower curtain to watch as he washes.

“Feel free to put your leg up when you dry off,” Damiano encourages, wiggling his eyebrows. You hide how flattering his commentary is behind a not entirely disingenuous look of annoyance.

“Perv,” you grumble. Dami has a very self-satisfied expression when he goes back to showering. You pull on boxers, sweats, and the hoodie to hide your neck before trying to dry your hair somewhat. It’s hard to feel total confidence in clothes that are so unbecoming. At least Damiano will be dressed similarly, so you won’t stand out to his parents.

“Am I gonna look weird, wearing your clothes?” Damiano turned the shower off and stepped out. It took all of three minutes apart for his sex appeal to impede your ability to think again.

“Again,, stop worrying about making a good impression. My parents already love you,” he reassured, toweling off. You make a promise with yourself, not to let slip one more insecure comment this evening. 

“Okay,” you sigh. As he dresses, you can’t help but notice how good the clothes look on Damiano. The long sleeve fits perfectly and the elastic waistband of his pants doesn’t need to stretch. Dami comes up behind you and moves your hair out of the way, pulling the neckline of the sweatshirt to the side.

“What now?” you complain. 

“Just a bandage,” he assures. Afterwards, you carefully situate everything to hide your scent gland, examining yourself in the mirror again. When you reach for the door knob Damiano stops you.

“I can see something is bothering you, what is it?” You sigh in frustration, avoiding his gaze while you look at your reflection.

“I look like this and you look like that,” you gesture in exasperation. Damiano’s eyes flit back and forth for a second. Truly, nothing would be more irritating than him playing dumb right now.

“You look fine,” he shrugs. 

“But I’m supposed to be sexy and womanly! I don’t feel any different,” you admit.

“You are sexy,” he replies and you roll your eyes. 

“Nevermind.” You turn away from him, towards the door, but he catches you.

“What’s not sexy? The fact that you’re wearing baggy clothes? My clothes. My clothes that you let me pick for you.” You grimace at at having so little perspective.

“Right, okay. I’m sorry, let’s just –”

“What's not sexy? Being your first knot and the first alpha that's marked you?”

“I get it,” you blush. He drops his lips to the shell of your ear.

“You have my teeth indented in your neck, my semen inside you, my smell in your pheromones, and I’m the only alpha that’s ever touched you this way. If you were any more attractive to me right now I wouldn’t be able to function.” Dami’s tone of voice makes every hair stand on end. “You’re my omega. How other alphas perceive you doesn’t matter to you anymore.” It sounds like an outright command, which makes you feel meek. You stare at the floor, too intimidated to meet Damiano’s eyes. You’re not expecting the moment of sweetness that follows. He kisses your temple, eyelids, and forehead.

“Sorry, that was too harsh,” he whispers. Dami takes a long pause and sighs heavily.

 “I’m just feeling a lot of territorialism right now and doing a shit job at mitigating.” He puts his index finger under your chin and raises your face. “Honestly, this isn’t like me. I’m sorry, I’ll control myself.”

“Forgiven,” you answer, honestly. 

“I don’t want to drive you away,” he confesses. “I know that's the kind of dynamic that made you hate your status and now I’m –” 

“Shh. Really, love, it’s okay.” The bathroom is humid after the shower, so you reach towards the door knob again, turning away from Damiano. Instead of letting it go, he wraps both arms around you tightly, resting his face on your head. Apparently you aren’t the only anxious one tonight.

“I feel so connected to you right now and I don’t want to drive you away,” he admits. Hearing desperation in Dami’s voice made you hurt on his behalf, so you’re trying to think of the right things to say. Regular platitudes weren’t adequate.

“I don’t want an out. Take it back, I’m not interested.”

“Y/n…”

“I’m serious!” You turn around and stare into his eyes emphatically. He thinks about it for a few moments, then a gentle smile appears on his face.

“Fine. I’m gonna lock us in my bedroom and you’re not allowed to leave ever.”

“Deal.” You punctuate it with a kiss. “Can we go eat dinner now?”

***

It’s a relief that Damiano lets you help him with the dishes after dinner. If the Davids had insisted you stood idly by it would have been hell. This made you feel part of the household, rather than a guest. Contributing made the whole situation secure, and if you were honest with yourself, you needed to feel secure at Dami’s house. With each passing minute it became a refuge from the world, especially when Damiano put oldies rock music on and danced around the kitchen with a wooden spoon.

He had some impressive karaoke moves. When Dancing in the Dark came on, he closed his eyes and did some highly committed shoulder shimmies. By the second verse you had side stitches from laughter. Your right hand clamped onto the yellow, tiled kitchen counter for support. Dami only stopped the gimmick when he accidently ran into a doorway attempting to execute grand finale dancing in the last chorus.

It struck you as a side of Dami you’d never seen before. He was silly, giggly, stupid. Maybe this was his personality as a child, but the stress of his Alpha Dysregulation has slowly smothered it. From the outside he seemed restrained, even sullen. His friends must miss this person: the idiot who ran into things trying to moonwalk with his eyes shut.

The combination of dishes, music, and laughter meant you couldn’t hear what was being said in the next room. Isabella was on the phone with her mother, informing her about the incident before gossip did.

“Today wasn’t as bad as usual.”

“So maybe things are getting better,” Milla suggests, hopefully.

“Maybe,” Isabella responds, ever resistant to undo speculation. On the face call Milla can see her daughter’s lips purse, never the optimist.

“Could you use another set of hands? Has he gotten out of bed yet? I know the recovery is daunting. If you ever need anything –”

“You know, we actually have some help,” Isabella informs, with a cautious smile. She turns the camera towards the joyous ruckus in the kitchen. Dami’s theatrics are definitely not conducive to cleaning success, but they sure are amusing.

“Dam, say hi to your grandmother,” Isabella calls, as she steps into the room.

“Oh!” He turns around, a bit self conscious. “Hi, Mimi! I’m fine, I promise.” Damiano knows he’s the reason this phone call is even happening in the first place. Unsure what to do, you wave, enthusiastically.

“This is y/n, the girlfriend,” Isabella announces. You’re looking for Dami in your periphery for some direction. His grandmother gasps in surprise.

“Girlfriend?” You should probably be insulted, but it’s kind of hilarious.

“Oh, come on!” Dami protests. “I’m not that much of a bachelor, grandma!”

“Mom,” Isabella responds, equal parts shock and laughter.

“Well, I’ll have you know I’m appalled by his lack of manners! Why haven’t we been introduced? Were you raised in a barn for Christ's sake?” Damiano moves so he’s standing next to you, an arm sliding around your waist. “We already knew from the picture in the newsletter.” You look at Isabella and your boyfriend, but they both have questioning expressions. “Izzy, the school newsletter!”

Luckily, Dami had pocketed his phone before dinner and pulled it out. He brought up last week's issue and there you were. The photographer had captured the moment you made Dami laugh on the sidelines, after a player on the opposite team had screwed him over. There was a ton going on in the photo, but it’d been edited so the pair of you were the only thing in focus. It was exactly how loving him felt.

“It’s a great picture,” Mimi affirms. “He’s always so damn serious,” Dami’s grandmother furrows her brow in an accurate impersonation of his strategizing face. “What did you say to make him laugh?” It’s so on the spot that you fumble and tell the truth.

“I was suggesting we break the kneecaps of the guy that pissed him off.” Damiano’s eyebrows are raised in surprise at your honesty. “Fuck, I should have lied,” you groan, only to realize a second later that you’d sworn. “Oh, shit! I mean sorry,” you blush. Mimi breaks out into the best sounding laughter you’ve ever heard. It has the same squawking quality as Damiano’s, but from way down deep, like her whole being finds the situation funny. She even snorts once, clapping her hands in hysterics.

“Okay, I like this girl,” she proclaims. You let out a breath of relief. “Speaking of, did you get a couple good licks in today, before it all was said and done?”

“Mom!” Isabella chokes.

“Don’t act so scandalized Izzy,” she dismisses. Dami grins at the floor, but doesn’t answer, so Mimi turns her attention to you. “Well?” You nod thoroughly. “Good.” When Isabella bashfully resigns to the living room you turn to Damiano.

“So that’s my grandma Milla,” he explains in a hesitant, sing-song voice

“I can definitely see the similarities.”

“You know, people always say that, but I think if my dad was an alpha they’d say that about him instead.”

“Mm mm,” you shake your head. “She has the same spirit as you, but she’s not self-conscious about it.” There's an awkward silence and you dearly wish you knew when to stop talking.

“Excuse me, but I have a mind-reading raincheck today.” There's humor in his tone that puts everything at ease.

“Fine,” you resign, dramatically, slouching against him. Dami chuckles fondly, but underneath it is an appreciation of letting the serious moment go.

At first, you’re so excited about spending the night at Damiano’s that you can’t get sleepy, but that changes quickly. Cuddling in his bed was so relaxing, because you could get as close as you wanted without worrying about prying eyes. Unfortunately, you got so warm that halfway through the movie, you had to change into just a t-shirt. Dami elected to wear pajama pants and no top, which meant your face rested on his bare skin.

You lay on his chest, computer positioned to the side so you could both see. One of your arms was between his lower back and the pillows, the other resting on his stomach. Dami loosely wrapped an arm around you, fingers coming to stroke the skin of your shoulder. When that hand moved to your hair half an hour later, it was only a matter of time before your eyes grew heavy. 

Watching the movie kept you mostly conscious. There were funny parts, where you’d both laugh and the movement of Dami’s diaphragm jostled you. The plot got more serious at the end though, when main characters realized they were meant for eachother. As your eyes stopped focusing all the scenery was reduced to blobs of color. Dami felt you go still, so he stopped the movie a few minutes early. When you didn’t protest he knew you were close to sleep. Straining, he closed the computer and set it on the nightstand. Then he slid down until he was laying horizontally, pulling you upwards on his chest. 

This was somewhat earlier than you typically went to bed on a Friday night. It was the opposite of what you’d expected. During sleepovers with Gia and Xiemma you’d stay up even later. You’d hoped to be up for hours talking with Dami, learning more about his secret internal life. 

Even though you didn’t recognize it, your body was exhausted from being marked. Ovulation could also be a side effect of the accompanying hormonal surge, making the following days of healing even more demanding of your endocrine system. Damiano had the perspective to know that your marking was on the tougher side. It was also an excellent example of how that moment didn’t need to be easy to be beautiful and sacred.

Damiano just watched you for a while. You’d drift off then blink harshly because your internal clock indicated that this was too early to fall asleep. Disoriented, you fought for consciousness. Each instance it took less time for you to recognize that you were laying on Damiano’s chest. You’d let out a breath and slip under again. 

The sound of cars driving by didn’t disturb you, nor did the sound of the bathroom door or shower. Your brain had already identified this as a safe space where you didn’t have to react to stimuli during sleep. Instinctually, it knew this was Damiano’s den. Darkness, quiet, comfort, warmth, protection from predators, his pheromones covering everything. Even with wavering consciousness, you knew this was the best place for deep sleep. Still, your tendency towards hypervigilance wouldn’t release your mind.

You barely managed this thought while Dami shifted around. Laying propped up might be keeping you from sleep. He dislodges the extra pillows behind him to lay flat on his back. Meanwhile, he keeps an arm around you to stabilize. Still all the movement makes you groan in dissent as you wake up. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Dami murmurs, settling. The proximity of his scent glands is immediately inebriating. He still smells like you. If not for knotting earlier today, it’d be arousing enough to disrupt your slumber. 

“Go to sleep,” he orders. It’s not harsh, but there's no room for questioning. You nod against him without thinking and yawn. To Dami’s surprise, this time when you go under there's no fighting for consciousness. You dream only in sound and color. Everything is a shade of Damiano: the gold flecks in his eyes, black body hair, untanned palm, and the rose toned head of his alpha cock. The sounds are unsettling and build to an ever distant crescendo. 

Suddenly you’re not dreaming anymore, but confused between states. It’s too hot and you’re trying to figure out if that’s why you're awake, when you hear the dream sound again. It’s coming from beside you. While the vaguely familiar setting isn’t alarming these sounds are. Finally, you make the connection that these wounded yelps are coming from Damiano because you’re in his bedroom. Immediately you sit up. He’s on his side, head twitching, expression vexed. You pull back the covers to check if he's somehow unwell and notice his abdomen tensing periodically.

“Dami?” you whisper, but he doesn’t hear you at all. You realize he’s having a nightmare. 

“Damiano,” you say in your speaking voice. “Damiano, wake up. Wake up, Dami.” You shake him a few times, and Dami goes from totally unconscious to wide awake and snarling at you in alpha headspace in half a second. He whips around and you scramble to the other side of the bed. By then he’s recognized you.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he croaks, putting a hand over his face. “I’m really fucking sorry. It takes me a second to realize I’m awake. I don’t…” For a moment Dami is lost for words. “I’m so sorry, y/n. Fuck.” He’s got his are you going to leave me expression on. You crawl towards Dami, onto his lap, and wrap him in your arms.

“I’ll know to expect that now, so it won’t scare me again. Are you okay?” He insists on looking down instead of meeting your eyes. “What can I do to make you feel more okay?” you try.

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” he reassures, nodding. He’s out of headspace already which is a relief.

“I get nightmares after an episode, I just thought…I don’t know what I thought.” He growls in frustration. “I thought that, um,” Dami sighs, looking at the ceiling. While he gathers the words you push his hair away from his face.

“Knotting was really comforting for me too,” he admits. “I just felt so safe and in control and calm afterwards. I figured I’d skip this part. I would have warned you.”

“It’s okay,” you yawn, “Can you get back to sleep? Is there another medication you need to take?” Damiano shakes his head, and moves to lay down again. 

“It’s just a regular nightmare.” You get off his lap, trying to figure out how or if Damiano wants to be touched. “C’mere, I’m sorry.” He pulls you onto his chest, where you’d lain earlier. You couldn’t get comfortable this time, and realized that had little to do with positioning. You sit up, but Dami still won’t make eye contact.

“Look at me.” He heeds your request, face strained. You run the back of your hand down his cheeks and your finger along the bridge of his nose.

“This doesn’t make me not want to spend the night or damage our relationship. You’re allowed to have quirks. I get nightmares too. However, you’re not allowed to feel like shit over this. Okay?”

“Okay,” he responds automatically. You lean down and kiss him once.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” he says, letting out a sigh of relief. You repeat it once more for comic relief. This time the kiss is longer, there's passion.

“Okay?”

“Okay!” he chuckles, rolling his eyes. You plop down on his chest again, kissing the skin there too.

“Good job not offering to take me home in the middle of the fucking night.” Damiano snorts and rubs his face harshly.

“You’re welcome.” The adrenaline clams and you’re able to fall asleep faster than expected. Your head starts to swim, impossible to hold a train of thought for even a second. Damiano is totally still, but unnaturally so. He doesn’t seem comfortable at all. Half-awake, you crawl up his body and messily kiss his neck, nuzzling Dami until he finally takes a deep breath.

“Cuddle,” you mumble, flipping onto your side. Damiano slides in behind you as the big spoon, taking deep breaths of your smell. He bats your hair away from your neck and puts his face there, self soothing with your pheromones. The full body contact and proximity to your scent glands calms Dami down quickly. Once he yawns you allow yourself to slip into sleep. Briefly, you dream again. This time in words that you can’t make out, as if heard from underwater.

“Sogni d’oro, cuore mia. Sei la cosa più bella che mi sia mai capitata.” 

***

There was light behind your eyelids, but your internal clock indicated that it was far too early for that to be the case. This wasn’t your bed, but it did smell like Damiano so you didn’t startle. Instead, you rolled over and pressed your face into the pillow, enjoying the scent.

“Y/n? Y/n,” you hear in a sing-song voice. “Are you awake, kitten?” Maybe it's the time, but that nickname is getting old. Damiano strokes your hair, moving it away from your eyes so the light can reach. The bedding rustles as he slides in behind you, pulling your face away from the pillow. Instead of opening your eyes, you flip over, face pressed to his chest.

“Hey, wake up. I brought you something,” he whispered, excited. His hand slides up the back of his t-shirt. You had to change into something cooler because Dami’s body was like having a portable heater in bed. When he’d described his instinct to stay and keep you warm, you hadn’t anticipated how literal that was. In the dead of winter you barely needed a blanket. 

“Y/n, open your eyes. Please? Pretty please,” he coos. You do so, but press your face against Damiano further to avoid the light. He kisses along your hairline and all these relaxing, gentle touches are shit motivation to become fully conscious. You’re about to coil yourself around Dami so he can’t move when he pulls away and sits up. 

When you envisioned sleeping over at Damiano’s, it involved staying in bed until 11 am, watching him sleep. Waking him up slowly, or maybe with a sexual favor. You’d laze around for hours in your own little world, drifting in and out of consciousness. It did not involve being denied snuggles. You seek Damiano out, shifting so you were propped up, mostly cognizant. Opening your eyes is vastly unpleasant and you end up squinting, barely able to see Dami’s face.

“Okay I’m up,” you groan.

“Not a morning person I take it?” His tone of voice is way too chipper. It sounds like he’s been up for a while and looks like it too. Damiano is already fully dressed and groomed, ready to start his day.

“What time is it?” How are you the exhausted one when he’d had the nightmare?

“It’s almost 9am, so we have plenty of time to –”

“You woke me up at 9am on a Saturday!?” you screech in disbelief. “I thought you cared about me! Uhg,” you flip over in exasperation, hiding under the pillows again.

“I do care about you!” he defends. “I wish I could let you sleep, love.”

“Then why am I conscious?”

“I made you breakfast, ingrate.” 

“Liar,” you grunt. There's no way a 17-year-old alpha made breakfast for his non-mate, especially after having sex exactly once. 

“Yes I did, look!” He sounds so convincing that you roll over and scan the room. Set on the desk directly in front of you is a tray with breakfast food.

“Oh my god, you made me breakfast!?” you exclaim in surprise.

“Yes!” Finally, you sit up, stacking the pillows behind you. This pleases Dami and he gets up to bring the tray over. It's such a sweet, unexpectedly domestic thing to do that you’re still struggling to process. 

“You can cook?” He’s enjoying that you’re impressed, but playing it cool by shrugging his shoulders.

“I put a pastry on a plate and made eggs and bacon. That barely counts as cooking.” He crawls in bed next to you, so you start eating. Eggs are revolting as soon as they get cold, and you don’t want to be rude. 

“I can’t fucking believe you made me breakfast in bed.” How a cynic like yourself ended up with such a sentimental alpha was a total mystery. “This is so sweet, but, um, why?”

“I just really want yesterday to have been special.” Suddenly he’s not so cocky, spayed out across the bed. Dami sits up and moves across from you, thoughtful.

“It was special,” you assure him. Your free hand reaches forward and squeezes his own.

“I know, but I had a whole plan for when I marked you and it was gonna be romantic and relaxed. There were going to be candles, mood lighting, and special sheets. There was music, too.” This man was so damn Italian sometimes.

“I liked our first time as it was,” you assure. “Why don’t you play the music for me now?”” Even under your adoring gaze, he’s dissatisfied. 

“I haven’t finalized the playlist though.”

“The playlist!?” you exclaim, in surprise. “Is there a mating playlist too?” It's teasing, but Damiano bristles in a way that indicates yes. Your mouth falls open in surprise. 

“Okay, well I didn’t expect any of that so I’m not disappointed.” This doesn’t appear to soothe anything, and you knew Dami’s ability to get hung up.

“I don’t want you to feel like it wasn’t special,” he confesses, picking at a callous. 

“Baby, you could have marked me in a barn and I’d be happy.” Dami chuckles, running his hands through his hair. “With chickens, pigs, and a cow all watching.”

“Voyeur farm animals.”

“In the hay and the horse shit, yes.” He relaxes and you’re celebrating your victory, ready to pounce, when Damiano gets up from the bed. 

“Not to be an ingrate, but do you suddenly lose the ability to make breakfast by 11 am?

“No,” he sighs, gazing at you while you chew. “There's a game at 11 today, like last week.” He’s visibly nervous, seemingly unable to get comfortable.

“But you can’t play until the sports board clears you.”

“Right, but I can still watch and support.”

“Okay,” you intonate like it’s a question. “Alternatively, you could stay in bed with your girlfriend for several more hours. Personally, I prefer that option.”

“Me too,” he sighs, face falling. “And I feel terrible because I know you need to rest after marking, but my mom thinks we should all go. It’s for appearance’s sake, to make it look like yesterday wasn’t a big deal.” You move on to the pastry, thinking as you chew.

“If it looks like you and the team are on the same side things will be easier during the meeting?” In a life where giving the right appearance was vital, no wonder Damiano became so great at concealing himself.

“Exactly.” Damiano looks up with such soulful eyes, hoping this isn’t offputting, hoping you’re willing to freeze your ass off and come to the game.

“Fine,” you groan. “Bring blankets so I can fall asleep on you at this ungodly hour.”

“Deal,” Dami beams, not even trying to hide how much this means to him.

“Also I need caffeine and clothes.” He springs upright and goes over to his closet. You already know the item of clothing he’s going to choose, without even looking over.

“If I’m wearing your soccer sweatshirt, what are you gonna wear?”

“How did you – I was gonna wear my one from last year,” he admits.

“So we can match?” you cringe. He clicks his tongue, thinking for a moment. 

“I’ve just been quite literally marked as yours, love. Wear your own sweatshirt. I'll wear a Romero scarf like Emmaline and Athena do.” 

“And your scrunchie, but I want it back after.” He points to your right, and your turn around to see the scrunchie you lent him last game around the bedpost.

“I can’t believe you kept it.” Dami is bashful about how much of a sap he’s being, but also operating with an excess of alpha confidence from marking you yesterday. It’s an interesting combination that looks damn good on him. 

“Okay, so get dressed and I’ll get coffee.” Dami hurries out of the room before you can call him a whipped. Yesterday’s clothes are hung from a knob on the dresser, totally clean. Did this family ever sleep? 

“Thank your dad for me,” you call, as he closes the bedroom door. In the end, you borrow leggings from Isabella to wear under the dress and layer on a coat of Damiano’s, along with the scarf.

“You might be warmer just wearing my clothes,” he worries.

“And will you be providing the red letter A or do I have to find that myself?” Dami rolls his eyes while handing you the mug of coffee. 

“Is there anything I need to know for today?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well I’m not great at nuance or subtlety. If I’m gonna be playing a part I need specifics.”

“You’re not gonna be playing a part,” Damiano replies, looking hurt.

“Dami…” you sigh, putting a hand on his arm. “I’m not the type of girl that always has the perfect platitude for every situation. I never know the right thing to say.”

“That’s not true,” he counters, brow furrowing. “Seems like you’re the only one that says the right things to me.” Instead of using words, you set the mug down and kiss him. He responds with so much passion that you’re bending backwards trying to keep up. Dami keeps trying to push his tongue past your lips, but you're keeping your mouth sealed until after you’ve brushed.

“I don’t care about morning breath,” he whines, like a child about to throw a tantrum. You shake your head. When Dami opens his eyes to pout he’s reminded that you’re wearing neither bra nor pants. He goes feral and tries to haul you off the ground so he can hold you up by your legs around his waist. While he grip on your thighs is sufficient, it is too fucking early for anyone to attempt to pick you up. Being far from a willing participant ends both of you on the ground in a tangle of limbs. 

“It’s too early for this,” you groan, as Dami cackles. “I wanna drink my coffee. I wanna brush my teeth. I want to put on some fucking clothes. Leave me in peace!” you holler, stumbling upright. Rather than be offended by your outright rejection, Damiano just rolls around cackling like he had yesterday.

“Are you unable to stand and laugh or something?” This only spurs him on, until you find yourself chuckling for no reason whatsoever.

“Stand and…and laugh,” he wheezes. Dami tries to catch his breath while crouched on the floor. He’s so distracted that he misses seeing you fully naked. By the time he’s recovered, you’re buttoning your dress.

“Wait, take it off again! I missed it!” he whines, petulant. You shake your head, secretly enjoying the flattery. He lets out a dramatic huff of disappointment and falls backward, like not seeing your boobs took all the wind from his sails.

“Do you want to stare at the bite marks while I brush my teeth?” Dami perks up and follows you to the bathroom so obediently that you have to kick him out while you pee. He changes the bandage again and applies more ointments. It’s probably pointless, but it makes Damiano so satisfied with himself that you don’t have the heart to mention it. 

“Ready to go?” He’s watching you brush your hair intently from his seat on the bathroom counter. Damiano had tried maintaining a grip around your waist as you did so, but he kept getting in the way. He didn’t need a black eye from a hairbrush along with everything else. 

“Almost. I just need to grab – oh, thank you.” Dami hands you the scrunchie and you debate making him wear it instead. He’s been so earnestly sweet all morning you’d feel bad even teasing him. Of course alphas get clingy after marking, but didn’t predict being glued to the hip. Dami seemed too cool to even have the capacity for such behavior and yet he was staring at you like an abandoned puppy to their foster parent. Meanwhile, you were just trying to get your hair in a ponytail.

Once your hair is fastened, he hops off the counter and kisses you with both hands cupping his face. Dami’s thumb pulls gently at the side of your mouth, but then he loses patience.

“Open your mouth,” Damian orders. His change in demeanor was surprising and you comply. Immediately, he was back to being soft again, eyes fluttering closed, tongue tracing your lips. You met him in the middle, while still allowing Damiano to have the dominant physicality in the interaction. His thumb on your chin effectively keeps your mouth from closing. He licks and kisses and massages with his tongue. 

Even when Dami pulls back you don’t dare assume he’s done. His controlling hand is still firm on your face and he leaves long, passionate kisses on the corners of your lips. He finds your cupid’s box and forehead before finally pulling away. In the meantime, you’ve gone from standing upright to leaning against Damiano, subconsciously seeking his touch. You catch yourself about to scent him.

“Mm, your mouth tastes delicious, love, but it’s time to go.” Instead of just whipping around and wrenching the door open, Damiano takes a moment to make sure enough of your bodily awareness has returned. After a few seconds, he’s convinced you’re not going to keel over, and finally releases the supportive hold his other hand had found on your waist. 

True to form, you fall asleep on Damiano’s shoulder just after the car leaves the driveway. Sandro is being dragged along as well, and seems even less happy than you are to be on this expedition. 

“You played soccer too?”

“Basketball, but Dam is better than I was.” While the man in question grabbed blankets from the house, you chat with the elusive older brother.

“I’ve heard about that in school, but I’m not into sports at all. Damiano said he'll make me flash cards because I’m not picking up the rules well.” Sandro huffs and takes a long drink from his coffee cup.

“Yeah, that sounds like Dami,” he mutters. “You have my condolences. Basketball is a pain in the ass to pick up as well. He might make captain this year so…”

“So I should get studying?” you fill in.

“So he’s gonna be an ever greater neurotic pain in the ass,” he clarifies. You both chuckle and this seems like a pretty good first interaction. 

“I don’t really understand why any of it’s important, to be honest. I feel like team sports is a cult you have to be indoctrinated into as a child, otherwise it always looks like a bunch of lunatics in tinfoil hats talking to the moon.” Sando guffaw and isn’t actively frowning for the first time this morning. Progress.

“He said you were funny. That’s good. Humor makes everything bearable.” “Okay, okay!” Damiano chirps, opening the door and throwing no less than four quilts on to your lap. He climbs over you to the middle seat he’d insisted upon taking. You always complained about ending up in the middle, but this felt odd. Damiano used himself as a human barricade between you and Sandro, who happened to be another alpha. It was so unnecessary that you actually caught Sandro’s eye behind Dami’s back inadvertently. He’s lent forward, rapidly whispering with his parents. Sandro’s got one eyebrow cocked and an amused smile curling the left side of his mouth upward, expressions always lopsided.

“Oh, and I got these as well.” Matteo hands two picnic blankets to Damiano who piles them on top of the quilts you’re already holding. The stack comes up to your chin now.

“I think she’s gonna be warm enough, Dam. Careful not to smother her.” You’re not sure if the second clause is about blankets or Damiano’s attention. 

“Since when is my omega’s well-being your responsibility?” he snaps.

“Y/n’s well being is y/n’s responsibility and I’m going to be cozy,” you pipe up. This seems to squash the combativeness. Before Damiano can get hurt feelings you move on.“I appreciate everyone being so thoughtful. Please wake me up when we get there.” You fit the quilts at your feet and lean on Dami’s shoulder. Before getting comfortable, you lace your fingers together and squeeze his hand. His gaze is uncertain, so you kiss his arm and nuzzle affectionately. Thank you. The words are formed with your lips only, just for him and he knows it. Damiano relaxes, and the fact that you’re using him as a pillow helps. He’s staring intently and you can feel it with your eyes closed. Anyone else observing you so closely would be unsettling, but not your alpha. He’s as still as a statue and the car is quiet as all five of you drive through the chilly, clouded morning.

Notes: a series of loving scenes post their first time��️ in preparation for the emotional rollercoaster that is chapter 9😈 Thanks for reading!

- XOXO Eden

Masterlist

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[fictionadventurer]

Have you ever seen the George C Scott one? Wasn't bad but not a particularly great Scrooge, but really good Tiny Tim, fantastic Ghost of Christmas-Yet-To-Come and probably the best Marley ever put to film.

I have now! It was already on my list, because at least two or three other people have mentioned it, and I've finally finished it.

Thoughts:

When it comes to atmosphere and mood, this is my favorite so far. It's so cozy and Christmassy and has all the vibes I love from the best '80s shows and period dramas.

That '80s atmosphere comes with some weird '80s computer effects, which is both unsettling and endearing.

Scott's Scrooge is charming--too much so. I like him from the beginning. He seems less like a harsh, disgusting miser and more like someone's grouchy but genial businessman uncle who just goes too far with his jokes. Like, the way he laughs through, "Every idiot who goes about with Merry Christmas on his lips should be boiled in his own pudding and buried with a stake of holly in his heart," makes it seem like he doesn't really believe that, but is getting carried away with his own joke. It seems like he just needs a minor attitude adjustment rather than a complete character reformation, which makes him not really Scrooge.

I don't remember what I thought of Marley one way or the other.

I loved that they included the fireplace tiles with the Bible scenes.

I didn't much care for this version of the Ghost of Christmas Past.

This is the only version I've seen that includes Scrooge rhapsodizing about his childhood reading, and I love it for that.

Yet again we have Scrooge's father hating him for killing his mother in childbirth. What part of "Fan is much younger than her brother" do they not understand?

This Belle was gorgeous, and pleasant enough, but I didn't like that they had her break up with Scrooge after he was late meeting her. It made her objections come off as passive-aggressive pettiness rather than mature reasoning.

I adore that this included the scene of Belle with her daughters. I'd given up hoping I'd ever see that scene in an adaptation, and they did it so well.

The Ghost of Christmas Present was fantastic. Looked great, had a good demeanor. At least until the scene in the Crachit house, where he became too harsh and mean. And what is with adaptations making the end of Christmas Present a horrifying nightmare moment?

Tiny Tim is adorable. The whole Crachit family is a bunch of adorable moppets. I love them to bits. This is just about the only "God bless us, everyone," that felt like something an actual child would say, because his adorable little lisping voice sounds like he's repeating something he's heard adults say before.

I liked that Scrooge played along with the party games. Did not like that they framed it as "he's sneering at these idiots who can't get the answers".

The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come looked fantastic.

This might be my favorite version of Mrs. Dilber. She's not shrill or grasping--just a genial old lady who justifies herself, much the way that Scrooge does. It's a much more interesting and realistic-feeling take.

Scrooge was so dedicated to justifying himself every time someone criticized his behavior that his arc just didn't feel real to me. He was denying he needed to change, then denying that the dead man was him, so the last-second change at the gravestone didn't quite feel earned.

I figured Scrooge's genial nature would make his post-reformation scenes excellent, and I was right. He seems like a charming old man who should have a bunch of daughters and grandchildren. Makes me really mourn what he missed out on with Belle.

Though I didn't like his behavior at Fred's house. Instead of being uncertain and repentant, he seems smug and self-assured. Practically inviting himself over.

Tiny Tim running to Scrooge at the end was adorable and I may have shrieked at how cute it was.

Overall, not a very accurate version, but I love it for including some of my favorite non-adapted book scenes, and I love the atmosphere so much that I will likely visit it again.