#at that point he’s an old abused dog that does not trust the hand that feeds

[syndianites]

Call me a fool, but Jayce looks like a man who whimpers when you tug on his hair

[willowed-wisp]

ghost as a dad ( part two ) [ simon riley ]

part one | part three

- Definitely takes your eldest to base when she can walk small distances with him on occasion.

- He literally crouches down and holds her little hands. Her doe eyes wandering everywhere, a pinch of awe and a little bit of fear but when she looks at her dad she gains the courage to continue.

- Definitely calls her, ‘pumpkin’, ‘princess’, and other things that has uncle Soap like a puppy dog.

- Johnny is the only person he trusts with her on base- he is your kids’ god father, along with Simon’s brother, Tommy.

- When Simon notices her getting sluggish, “Come on, sweet pea,” holding her with caution as she has the nerve to bonk him on the nose when talking to his superiors, “what has mummy been teachin’ ya, huh?” Not mad at all, impressed even- she had an impressive right hook for such tiny hands.

- Her head shook, “Not mama, dada,” her finger pointed over to someone, “It was Soapy…” Simon had been on the verge of hysterical laughter but contained himself- remembering the encounter later that day. Even telling you over dinner.

- He has two personalities when your son is born, maybe it was because of his abusive childhood that drove him to leave home but he had a mental block after learning the baby was a boy.

- All of his worry melted away in the delivery room- Simon was the first to hold his baby boy. Something he’d missed with your daughter.

- He decided to be a better father figure to his son than his dad. The BEST father figure even if it fucking killed him.

- Simon’s mother was watching your little girl at home. It was the afternoon that you went into labour. 6 hours down the line it was over and you were hell bent on getting back home.

- Simon takes care of the nitty gritty for the first fortnight, while you get proper rest.

- He rarely sleeps while deployed so he’s used to taking the night shift on. Until your stubborn ass gets him to allow you to take it and that he doesn’t need to do that every night of the week.

- Simon gets his best sleep when your daughter crawls between you in the middle of the night.

- His heart breaks when he sees this little blonde haired figure swaddled in a fluffy blanket waddle through the door he leaves ajar for this exact reason. “What’s wrong, pumpkin?”

- She shuffles over to him, blanket falling at her feet as she jumps into his open arms, “Couldn’t sweep, dada,” Clung to him like a koala bear.

- He gives a gentle boop onto her nose, making her giggle, “Guess you’re gonna have to sleep ‘ere then…” Plopping her down in the middle and giving her one of his pillows.

- She’s such a deep sleeper- good when the baby cries but a nightmare trying to wake her up without getting kicked. She was her dad through and through. Down to the brown eyes, to the little mannerisms she has.

- When she starts nursery, Simon is on school duty. He loves making sure his little girl gets there safe and sound. Ditching the car parked near the packed nursery before walking hand in hand with his pumpkin.

- You wait in the car on the first day, with your boy in his car seat in the back of the Land Rover. In tears watching this 6’5” man crouching down to hold his four-year-old’s daughter’s hand.

- When he returned to the car, his hand at the back of your head dragging you into a breathtaking kiss. You were taken aback, “What was that for?” Said between laughs.

- Tears trapped in his gentle eyes, “You gave me the best kids,” your fingers brushed by his lips before he held them in his, “Thank you…”

- Definitely hangs whatever artwork your girl does on the fridge, praising her macaroni art pieces.

- Gets a call while on base, “Mr Riley?” He acknowledges it’s him. “Hiya, it’s the nursery… there’s been a situation. Y/D/N has gotten into a scuffle with one of the boys…”

- “Is she okay? She hurt?” He blurted out and did the maths on how quickly he could get to his daughter. Not caring how this looked to the other guys.

- “No, Y/D/N punched one of the boys in the face. They were picking on her, when’s the soonest you can pick her up?” He had to hold that laughter, reign it back in a cough.

- “I’ll be there in ten…” He hung up the phone, now giving a small chuckle.

- Price is the first to speak up, “What’s got you so happy, Riley?”

- “Y/D/N just punched a bully in the face…”

- Gaz raised a brow, “That’s a good thing?”

- “I’ve never so proud in my life…”

- He goes to the nursery, doing an act in front of the staff before they get to the car, “Don’t be mad at me, dada…” His heart crushed as she said that, as if he would ever be mad at her.

- “No more punchin’, okay? Call ‘em a prick instead, alright?” Then he turned to her fully. Fist outstretched to her, instead of bumping it she slapped his knuckles. He’d have to teach how to fist bump, “Don’t let people pick on ya… I’m always here…”

- The next day, you received a call. From the nursery… telling both you and Simon to come in.

- Simon carried your son, sound asleep on his dad’s arms. You could tell the staff were maybe a little intimidated by your husband. You were before you discovered he was such a kid under that tough exterior.

- His eyes softer than they had ever been looking at his children, “What’ve you done now, missy?” You studied her features, so much of you in her but that look was all Simon. Determined and a slight scowl, yeah that was Si alright.

- “Y/D/N called one of the other children, something beginning with ‘P’ and ending in ‘Rick’,” Something told you she had some influence from her father.

- He fist-bumped your daughter when you were walking back to the car. You’d have a word with Simon later that day but for that moment. To see him so at peace and her little smile… you wouldn’t spoil that for the world.

- When your son was four years old, you saw the difference with how Simon treated the pair. He instilled kindness in him, took him to football games with the members of 141.

- It affects Simon to be away from them during deployments but you’re the best mother to them. He couldn’t ask for a better partner.

- He lets the kids colour in his tattoos… a pink skull on his arm… green fire… they used sharpie/permanent markers. During deployment it breaks his heart to see the colours fade, he contemplates filling them back in but he says to himself, “Gotta get home so the kiddos can do it…”

————

taglist:

@thychuvaluswife @foxygirl-4287

[hollowed-theory-hall]

Thank you so much for your posts defending Sirius. 🙏🙏🙏 It's so refreshing to read! I'm always a bit taken aback when people say that Sirius' projects James onto Harry tbh - or even that Harry was looking for James in Sirius. I mean, he was the connection, but that's it. They were always so clearly precious to each other (at least to me lol). Honestly, it reads to me like Harry has the least in common with James, on a deeper level. Like, sure, the surface stuff is there but their childhoods, lives and values were so fundamentally different. It's rather sad.

You're welcome and thank you for the kind words! 😊

Yeah, I love Sirius and Harry as individuals and their dynamics with each other. Like, I made it no secret that Harry's my number 1 favorite precious son, but Sirius is a close 2nd most favorite of mine. I just love Sirius a lot, especially in my more recent rereads.

Sirius isn't the image of perfect mental health (how could he be after 12 years in hell?), but he is clever and sensible and much more mature than I'd expect him to be. He so clearly has Harry as his first (and really, only) priority.

Sirius and Harry don't neatly fit into a father-son dynamic, and it's a result of both of their lives up to this point. Harry never had a parent or adult he could look up to as a parent. He was abused all his childhood, and he learned not to trust adults, and yet he trusts Sirius with everything, and he does so easily. But Harry isn't exactly looking for a father, he thinks he is, but he is too independent for that, too uncomfortable with authority of any kind. I think he trusts Sirius as much as he does because their dynamic isn't a neat parent-child one.

And Sirius was sent to Azkaban when he was 21! (younger than I am, which is insane to me) Like a 21-year-old isn't that different from an 18 or 19-year-old in behavior and development, and sure, the war matured him, I'm sure it did. But the kind of maturity war brings is not the same as being allowed to age and grow up. This means Sirius, in his head, is younger. Yes, he is an adult and he can and does act like one, but it is easier for him to connect to Harry and his friends as equals than to the older members of the Order. Like, we see him having fun talking to the younger members more than the older ones (except Remus who's an exception due to their shared past), as Azkaban did stagnate Sirius' development. He was probably quite mature even before Azkaban in ways, war does it to people, being an eldest child with a younger sibling can do it. Even before Azkaban, he was willing to lay down his life for James, Lily, and Harry with no hesitation. But he still has that early 20s behavior to him, especially in OotP when Grimmauld Place brings back all his worst and best memories while being locked there:

“Speaking of dogs,” said Snape softly, “did you know that Lucius Malfoy recognized you last time you risked a little jaunt outside? Clever idea, Black, getting yourself seen on a safe station platform . . . gave you a cast-iron excuse not to leave your hidey-hole in the future, didn’t it?” Sirius raised his wand. “NO!” Harry yelled, vaulting over the table and trying to get in between them, “Sirius, don’t —” “Are you calling me a coward?” roared Sirius, trying to push Harry out of the way, but Harry would not budge. “Why, yes, I suppose I am,” said Snape. “Harry — get — out — of — it!” snarled Sirius, pushing him out of the way with his free hand.

(OotP, 520-521)

Harry, the 15-year-old, needs to be the adult for two 36-year-olds in the above scene. It shows their dynamic isn't a neat one, it's messy and it's between two traumatized individuals who are both trying to protect each other because they are the only thing close to a family that either of them has. They both know what it is to be completely on your own, and they try to be there for each other in their own way.

Honestly, their dynamic kinda reminds me of the one I have with my mother, tbh (if less intense and with way less trauma, lol). Like, yeah, she's my mother, and she would make huge sacrifices for me, but we talk more like we're best friends and not like a mother-daughter. We go shopping together, we gossip and talk shit together like friends do (like, I'm an adult now, so it makes sense, but it was like that when I was 14-15 too). So, like, I know how a dynamic of a parent-child where the child is really mature and independent so they're sorta treated like a friend can be. And it's a lot of fun, I mean, I love my mom and we're still really close friends (although this style of parenting isn't necessarily good for everyone).

And Harry is that. An incredibly mature and independent child who doesn't actually know how to have a parent. And Sirius is not trying to be his father, he isn't trying to be James, which results in their something between a parent-child to close friends dynamic we see. But even with this, Sirius doesn't really see Harry as James, nor does he treat him as James. He sees their similarities, that do exist, but he sees Harry as Harry. Harry who is younger than he is, who he is responsible for, and who he needs to teach and protect. With James, I think it was the opposite. James was kinda the unofficial-official leader of the Mauraders, Sirius usually followed him around (so did Pettigrew and Remus) so their entire dynamic was different. As peers, yes, but, peers where Sirius would defer to James in a way he doesn't with Harry. With Harry, he listens carefully without the friendly shit-talk I'd expect him and James to have and is willing to give out advice that James likely wouldn't have asked for. He'd move heaven and earth for both of them because that's how Sirius is like when he cares about someone.

In my headcanon, how Sirius treats Harry is closer to how he treated Regulus than how he treated James. He is half in denial about it, but this half-parental half-friendly dynamic is probably close to what he had with Regulus. Like, older siblings tend to be the more responsible ones, but it's exaggerated when the parents are absent, neglectful, or generally not overly involved, even when the age difference isn't a large one. I think when they were younger, Sirius, as the heir, got more attention from his parents than Regulus who was a bit overlooked as a child. I honestly think that as children, Walburga and Orion raised Sirius and Sirius raised Regulus (in a way. And in a joint guardianship with Kreature). Baby Regulus looked up to baby Sirius and followed him around constantly and it hurt Regulus so much when Sirius left. I'm sure when they were younger, Regulus would come to Sirius with his issues and Sirius would sit and listen and try to give his advice the way we see him do with Harry.

As for Harry and James being very different on a deep level, yeah, that's definitely the case. Like, they have some surface similarities, besides their looks, but at their cores, they are very different people. I think James' priorities near his death were closer to Harry's, but they had such drastically different experiences growing up and just existing. I think Harry's anger is James' though. I mean, we see Lily when angry, she doesn't curse anyone, or get volatile, instead, she removes herself from the situation (or gets sad in some instances, like with Petunia). Lily is cold when angry. James, on the other hand, is more volatile, we see him curse in anger, cursing Snape after he calls Lily a mudblood. I think this is something Harry shares with James, his volatile temper. But his values, his priorities, his compassion, and his self-sacrificing tendencies are much more Lily than James.

[morimakesfanart]

Sindria's Prophet #42

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [17] [18] [19] [20] [21] [22] [23] [24] [Intermission] [25] [26] [27] [28] [29] [30] [31] [32] [33] [34] [35] [36] [37] [38] [39] [40] [41]

[AO3] [wattpad]

Sinbad x OC

*emotional and physical flashbacks described for Mori's 1st POV *Child abuse and domestic violence mentioned throughout Mori's POVs *Sinbad officially enters his yandere era at the end of the chapter. He'll be like this for several arcs before he recovers ~POV Sinbad~ The shock and fear on Mori's face was a clear answer. Somehow in the next 5 years, Sinbad would have originally become someone willing to destroy the world. He had always wondered how much he would change while pursuing his dream. Just what was the taboo information? What secrets did it hold that would make him willing to do such things? Sinbad smiled for their benefit. "Mori, it's okay." As his words sunk in, their fear started to release them enough that they were actually seeing him again. "Since I know now, there's no way I'll repeat the same mistak-" "Why would you think that you're the one??” The words burst out of them like an accusation and desperate plea.

---

~POV Mori~ I didn't mean to cut him off. The question was out of me before I realized I had found my voice -not that I kept it past that.

Why was Sinbad able to consider that he will start the 2nd Calamity??? I couldn't look at Ja'far for more information because I was barely comprehending Sinbad. I was definitely experiencing tunnel vision and not the fun type.

His smile was unchanging. "You said there are people that think they are chosen by Fate and would ignore the risk of the taboo." I was hearing Sinbad's words but why was he saying them?? "You also said the tragedies in my past were caused because I think that way, didn't you?"

'The taboo, hubris, the tragedies from Adventures... Oh.' He was answering my question.

"In your visions, my death occurs around the same time you said the 2nd Calamity will happen. It's just like how King Solomon died after using the taboo information, isn't it?" Sinbad had truly figured it out.

'If only I hadn't gotten drunk that night and spilled about his death. No, even if I had let some things slip, both of these two have been clinging to their denial for over a decade.' But they definitely believed what they were saying or they wouldn't have brought me this deep into the Purple Leo Tower. The jeweled mosaics on the walls and intricate patterns of the glasswork lanterns made it undeniable where we were. The fact that they were taking this so seriously had uncapped an old venom in my heart so I couldn't stop it from making my stomach turn no matter what they said.

Ja'far attempted to placate me. "There's no vision you could tell us that would be more shocking than this. I promise I will believe whatever you tell us from your visions."

'Does he actually mean that? Mr. Stabs as a warning?' I couldn't bring myself to check Ja'far's expression but I felt both of their eyes on me. All of my muscles tensed. I've dodged surprise attacks from closer in my own home and from point blank from a dog with separation anxiety. The faded scar from the dog on my upper lip was the only remaining proof and would have been much worse if I wasn't good enough at dodging and deflecting to normally not get hit. ((It's almost completely faded now btw :D))

Sinbad's voice was full of an emotion I couldn't comprehend properly. "I understand that you must be surprised that we figured it out, but know that we decided to tell you because we want you to trust us." His gentle smile only made the hole in my stomach greater. "Do you remember how you told me that there's more than one way to change? That I can choose a new path whenever I want?"

The person encouraging Sinbad to dirty his hands all these years was Ja'far. Sinbad would express the smallest amount of remorse or guilt and Ja'far would shoot down that line of thinking. What was stopping him from doing the same thing right now? I was too scared to look. He refused to accept the mere concept that Sinbad had the potential for the same evil as other Kings.

I know some ways to de-escalate a situation to prevent someone from having a violent reaction to a call out. And if that doesn't seem to work, I also know how to influence when they snap. An attack is an opening to escape and, depending on the person, an outlet for the emotion so they can actually have a civil conversation. But there wasn't a 100% guarantee that Sinbad could prevent Ja'far from hurting me if he snapped.

Sinbad leaned forward and picked up one of the Fate scrolls I'd made. My eyes followed his movement and the waves crashed into me when I looked at the table. The distance between the metal vessels and where those 2 were sitting was too great for them to reach without getting up. They made a point to sit away from their metal vessels, and made sure that they sat on the opposite side of the table from me so there was something separating us. Sinbad even said he knew their weapons made me nervous. They knew I would panic about this and wanted to put my mind at ease. 'I'm having a PTSD attack.' Them putting so many precautions in place was the first thing to start setting me off, but I couldn't deny that I would have panicked, regardless, the moment Sinbad explained they had figured it out.

Memories from the other me fluttered across my consciousness and I accepted their influence. They helped ground me faster than I would have with my own experience alone. Anger management issues and violent tendencies aside, Ja'far was not one of my past abusers. And no matter how manipulative Sinbad can be, he wasn't one either. Neither of these men were my enemy. Projecting doesn't help. My defensive anger was subsiding, but not my fear. I still knew what these men were capable of even if they weren't likely to direct it at me. But if I couldn't mask this feeling, I didn't want to be afraid. Being angry was so much easier.

--- ~POV Sinbad~ Mori sat there frozen. Anger, desperation and fear took turns on their face while they were unable to respond. Whatever plan they made to avoid the 2nd Calamity was completely destroyed. But lying to them, and hiding this would have been worse in the long run; Sinbad was sure of that now. How long were they testing and judging him for a sign of his future self? He'd never earn their trust that way. They were only panicking because he had moved things too quickly. It looked like they were barely breathing until they glanced at the metal vessels on the table. Even though he had prepared for this possibility it still hurt to see it happen. Mori really was this scared of both of them deep down. It's no wonder they were unable to see him as a real romantic option.

For now, the only option he had was words. Hopefully over time, Mori would come to understand that he truly meant them. He held up a scroll to emphasize his point. "I know now that you were also right about me ignoring my intuition. Even when I first arrived in Reim and got swindled I ignored the feeling that something was wrong because I was blinded by opportunity." He placed the scroll back on the table but didn't remove his hand from it. "After how things ended in Riem I started turning to others for help but I was hiding the truth of what I was asking because I didn't want to disappointment them again." He laughed at his past self and shook his head. For the first time in a while he was excited to be able to try something new in his pursuit towards his dream. "I'm human even if I can feel the waves. I'm not going to blame my mistakes on fate anymore."

--- ~POV Mori~ 'That isn't Sinbad. That isn't the Sinbad I read about!' The Sinbad I knew shouldn't have been able to accept he was a human person instead of chosen by fate -not while he could still feel the waves. (Although he was quick to accept it when that happened.) I was only in this world for two months. How had he made such a leap in such a short period of time? Sure, Sinbad is shown changing his stance quickly and without shame multiple times in the series, but-!

'No. There's still a chance this is all a show.' I knew this pattern. He could just be saying this to sedate me. Eventually he will grow tired of this and then he will stop pretending. When an opportunity to gain more power shows up, it won't matter what he's been saying, he'll dirty his hands like he did in the original. I won't believe him until he actually makes a different decision during a major event. Trusting him before that would just be setting myself up for failure.'

I subconsciously glanced at Ja'far for confirmation. 'Oh.' That was not an expression he used when he agreed with the situation. But it was one he wore when he had to accept it regardless. 'They really did talk about this before coming to me. Ja'far was forced to accept that Sinbad did those things, and is choosing a different path now because Sinbad said so.' That meant Sinbad really meant everything he was saying.

'Of course Ja'far would be uncomfortable. Whenever Sinbad said he wanted to change Ja'far was the one that talked him out of it. Even if you say that Sinbad's decisions are his own, Ja'far will still blame himself for not noticing the truth.' That scowl was because Ja'far sucks at coping with guilt. He grew up having to ignore and deny his own guilt to live as an assassin, so of course he couldn't understand Sinbad until now.

I knew something felt different about this Sinbad for a while. He trusted me. Really trusted me and the things I said about Fate. He would look for supporting evidence and cracks in my words to find what I wasn't saying, but he believed that I wasn't lying. And more than that, he had no problem making changes based on the new information I shared. Which was something he did in the original but not when it came to his self perception.

My eyes grew warm with the threat of tears and I held my breath on instinct. This didn't feel real. 'If this really is a fanfiction then this has to be a doomed draft or something, right?' This was more than just trusting my words; Sinbad read the scrolls and was able to accept and acknowledge his own flaws as a human person. He was already starting to make changes based on this information that was new to him.

"You're always like this." I sounded bitter. I was bitter but not at Sinbad or Ja'far. "Whenever you get new information and perspectives you have no problem changing your actions to accommodate them. I already knew that, but" being on the receiving end is...

He made it look easy. 'If it's so easy then why couldn't they do it?' Why did I have to grow up in a situation where I had to see words as more important than a person's willingness to follow through? I had forced myself to suffer through so much because of that conditioning.

My legs would not be able to support me if I stood -let alone carry me out of here. Since coming to this world I had managed to cry a few times. Back home I was so practiced in holding it in that I didn't know how to let myself cry anymore, but this place made me feel safer than I had been in ages. I could only hope I'd be able to hold out until I left.

--- ~POV Sinbad~ "Can I have a minute please?" Mori covered their face with their hands.

"Of course."

One minute easily turned into ten.

"You're correct." Their voice came muffled through their hands, so they dropped them. The eyes that peeked up at the King were very tired and glossy. "You will use the taboo because of the opportunity it poses in contrast to the recent losses." A deep breath. Mori glanced between the two men and their show of faith on the table. "They were so unexpected and great that you finally realized you're a flawed human like everyone else."

Mori had previously said he would repeat the mistakes of his past. Was it something like that that would originally lead him to realize he's human?

The Prophet held their hands together in their lap. The growing acceptance on their features was heartbreaking for multiple reasons. There was a pain in their eyes that he recognized from many people he had saved. He had the sinking feeling that Mori's ex wasn't the only person that had hurt them. Sinbad gripped both arms of his chair to stop himself from getting up. If he moved while they were this fragile he'd definitely startle them.

Mori took a slow breath to keep control of their tone. "I don't know what your specific thoughts were, but there was a point that you thought of your parents as you were processing it."

Of course he thought of his parents and childhood. When his father was alive was the last time he felt like a 'normal' person. After that he couldn't act like the other children in his village. His mother's health declined, so he had to start working much earlier than others. And then the war took all of the able-bodied men, so he had to help the whole village, not just his mother. Sinbad normally says that his citizens are his family -he knows most of them by name and walks amongst them regularly- but he hadn't felt that type of connection between a close group of people since his parents died. And after learning about Magi and being a Singularity it made sense to him that he couldn't find anyone he wanted to start a family with. Who could possibly stand next to a Singularity as an equal? Who could possibly be his family? Sinbad found himself answering these questions and remembering his parents since meeting someone else who could feel the waves of fate. So realizing he's human would definitely lead him down a similar line of thought. ---

~POV Ja'far~ King Sinbad had once explained that Mori was the type to turn away when admitting to a painful truth. So when they looked towards the windows and their arms wrapped around themself to grip their sides, Ja'far knew their words were going to carry more weight.

"Even though you knew no one else wanted you to do it, you kept finding yourself wanting to anyway. You couldn't understand why until you-" They cut themself off and after a moment found the will to finish. "...Until you went through with it. You realized it was because you wanted to see how far you could go with your own strength as a human. For the first time in your life you relished in your own power and coveted something just because you wanted it."

Sinbad was greedy. Everyone knew that. Even the Djinn had to cut him off from capturing more Dungeons. It was obvious that Sin found using his power thrilling. But it was also true that all of the power and wealth Sinbad was gathering and using was in the name of his dream. The only things Sin ever sought out for indulgence were travel, alcohol or sex. Even all of his personal possessions were easily replaceable things. Ja'far had to ask, "Wait. If the thing holding back Sin's greed all this time was him thinking he's some chosen one," he sent a glare at the King in question who flinched as if to confirm his words, "then why have you been trying to get him to accept that he's human? It doesn't make any sense."

Mori turned back to them. "He'll figure it out on his own no matter what happens," she glanced at the King in question but couldn't hold it, "so I just wanted him to get there when he hasn't experienced such a major loss." Ja'far turned to Sin as well to see his eyes widening and a hand raising to cover his face. "If he has the time to become self aware instead of his desperation making him impulsive, then he can find something to focus his greed on that won't hurt others or disappoint himself in the process."

It was a good thing Mori wasn't looking. The smile growing on Sinbad's face was one he rarely wore, but Ja'far knew it well. At least Sin had enough shame to cover his mouth even as he said, "Yes. I believe you might be right about that." He couldn't look away from 'his Beautiful Prophet' if he tried. The King had realized what he 'needed' to move forward and he wasn't going to accept 'no' for an answer. "But now I'm curious. What made you think you could convince me?"

Sinbad wasn't looking at Mori the way he looked at his possible one night stands. It was somehow worse. This was the very greed that was at the root of their problems. And yet Ja'far couldn't bring himself to truly consider reeling Sin back in. Mori had managed to break through the mask that they had all watched slowly form on their King with no way to stop it. Ja'far couldn't judge if any of this was right for Mori, but it was definitely good for Sinbad and Sindria, and by the sounds of it, better for the whole world. Was this why Hina and Drakon kept pushing for Sinbad to settle down? Mori's face reddened. His overly flirty tone was not lost on them. "Well, because you felt remorse. Both in the past and future." They twisted to try to turn more away while staying in their seat. If they weren't saying something important, Ja'far would be gathering his things to leave the two alone. "Even when you used the taboo, you left openings so someone could try to stop you. And when several came to talk you out of it, it took a while but you were relieved to find a new answer even though it was too late to stop everything completely." A pause. "And in the end, you used the last of your strength to make sure everyone else had a chance to survive. So I knew you would be at least willing to listen to me..." The smile on the King's face softened. He only waited one beat before standing and walking over to her. Mori flinched when he kneeled on the floor by her feet but relaxed when he took her hands. The General didn't need to see the rest. He silently grabbed his things and left. Ja'far sighed. This past month he had been hoping their theory was wrong, that -if nothing else- the pattern wouldn't repeat again. His chosen master both was and was not the person he thought. All of this turned his stomach into knots in a way he hadn't experienced in at least a decade. He believed Sinbad when he admitted to the past. He would always follow whatever choices Sinbad made. On occasions like this, the ex assassin couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. It's why he had always advised Sin to stick to his plans, his dreams, his methods, the thing that had worked all along. Change was here whether or not Ja'far was ready for it. And it was necessary. ((A combination of working on this chapter and other self help let me finally reach the point of being able to truly mourn the relationship with my ex. One night in the middle of summer I felt my brain rewiring when it finally all hit and I cried. Thank you all for sharing in this journey with me :3 I'm not done this story yet though! This is just the first of my bigger therapy goals being achieved :D The next is trying to feel comfortable being in a relationship again once I realize I can trust that person enough to try. This took a bit longer to get out than I thought, and not because of making the JJK fic. The antibiotic I had been on started causing too many problems, so I had to switch again. The good news though is that it's almost completely out of me :D I was told that by the rate I'm going I might actually be infection free by February!! I hope everyone had a good holiday, and will have happy New Year!))

[nightingale2004]

Severus as Spiderman au! hcs

(Remake. I hated my old one 😫)

We're doing this again, I see. *Sighs* Very well, but this is the last time we do this. My name is Severus Snape, and for the past couple of years. I have been London's one and only Spiderman. I'm sure you know the rest

Severus was bitten by a radioactive spider, which gave him spider abilities apart from web fluid in his wrists

Severus lost his mother (she was his uncle Ben moment)

His home life still sucks since his father is still an abusive drunk

His school life isn't that much better. He gets bullied by the marauders. He and Lily drifted apart, but he gained a new set of friends

Severus is a chemistry, science, and tech nerd with a tongue that can cut through Steele and a glare that sets you on fire

Is best friends with Charity Burbage, who is the captain of the dance team, and the hogwarts Hufflepuff cheer squad and Aurora Sinistra, who is his academic rival and head of the astrology club (she and Charity are obviously dating)

His suit is black with green highlight outlines w/ a hood

When he first discovered his powers, he accidentally punched a dude in the Alley who tried to rob him to the point where he flew to the other side. He also started to notice many other things along the way

He designed his suit by himself, including his own web shooters out of stuff that he would find in Hogwarts or in the streets

He started out clearing the streets of thugs in Spinners end, then all of Cokeworth, and then he expanded to all of London, but he always keeps an eye in his neighborhood

Spiderman Severus is a little opposite of normal Severus. He has dry humor, he is still sarcastic, has a smart mouth, is witty, and he does try to bring up the mood but fails most of the time

Is not seen as a hero but more of a vigilante

Has saved the marauders more times than he can count and deeply regrets it all the time, but at school, he has his ways of getting even with them

Charity is the only one who knows he's Spiderman because she notices every time he dissappear and notices his changes throughout the years, including the many scars, bruises, and bandages he had that he lies about a lot that she now helps him take care of.

Severus, despite helping the police and keeping everyone safe, is being chased down by Harrison Evans, who is the police chief and Lily Evan's father

He learned how to fight due to his father. After that, he has been teaching himself how to fight and even visits the gym in spinners end

When he's not Spiderman, he has a job at a pharmacy and library. He also does little favors and odd jobs to earn a little money every now and then

When he's not at home, working, going to school, or being Spiderman, he either trains or goes to one of his hideouts, but his favorite is in the inside of the clock tower where he mostly takes shelter

When things get bad at home, he either goes straight to the clock tower hideout or to Charity's home and crashes on her couch (she insisted/ threatens him to do so if things get bad. SHE REFUSES TO LET HIM SLEEP ON THE STREETS)

The "prank" still happens in this universe, but the only difference is that they unleashed a rabid dog on severus instead of a werewolf

He took an internship at Riddle Co. after he graduated due to Lucius's recommendation where Severus worked in the science department thinking he was doing something important, but after a year or two, he found out a few things and dug deeper into the company and found out that they were actually doing terrible things to a lot of good people in London

After he found out about it, he spied on them as severus and tried to take action as Spiderman.

When he dug himself deeper, he reported the information to people he could trust. Chief Harrison Evans, Dumbledore, who's both a headmaster and a public political figure and his right hand Minerva McGonagall

During the process of taking down Riddle Co. and his secret group called "The Death Eaters", they targeted both Dumbledore's people and Severus's people, including Harrison Evans, Lily Evans, and Charity Burbage

After Tom, his company, and his terrorist people were brought to justice, it didn't go without its consequences. Harrison and Lily lost their lives in the process, including Lily's husband, James Potter, and left their son Harry, an orphan

Severus gave up being Spiderman after that and became a professor at Hogwarts. But after a few years and a lot of encouragement from Charity. He put on the suit again and continued to protect London

He got a job teaching at Hogwarts as a chemistry professor and uses his spider senses to keep an eye on his students when his back is turned (he always catches them if/when they cheat)

He watched Harry Potter almost constantly after his parents died, but he never interacted with him until he had to save him as a child once as Spiderman. Now he interacts with him almost too much for his taste due to Mr. Potter being a student at Hogwart.

He also lives at Hogwarts, but he still has his own base of operations in the clocktower for Spiderman, where he keeps an eye on things

Dumbledore knows about Severus being Spiderman and has hinted at it. Severus was shocked but not too surprised he knew.

Is still friends with Lucius and Narcissa, but he also uses them to stay updated on the former members of the "Death eaters," but he still cares for them and for Draco

(A little birthday present for Professor Snape. Happy birthday, and you all enjoy)

[leafnyx]

Whumptober Day 15: Childhood Trauma - Micah Bell

Word count: 1k

Warnings: Child abuse, dog trauma, reference to dog abuse

Setting: Pre-Rdr2 / Chapter 3 - Clemens Point

A/n: I like the idea of Micah’s name being Abel before he inherited the name Micah (reference to The Devils by Amras) but for this fic his name was Cain because it fits with the story :>

(This is a part 1 to my previous Morbell post for day 8, but can be read separately)

Cain Bell is sneaking up to the property of a barn on the outskirts of a small town. At only 10 years old, this isn’t his first robbery but none of his previous ones have been credited to himself, they’re all said to have been done by Micah Bell Jr., his father.

Cain and his brother, Amos, are both competing to get the name of Micah Bell the 3rd, they’ve been competing since childhood. Their grandfather had the name, who passed it down to his son, and now it’s being passed down to whichever one of the twins turns out to be the better outlaw. Cain feels like he’s been fighting for the name since he was born, but it feels like his brother doesn’t have the same want for it.

Amos has never been the competitive type, he has complained multiple times about going on robberies, that is until his grandfather beat the complaints out of him.

Cain jumps over the fence of the property, now officially in. He looks back towards where his father is in the forest. Cain has been in-trusted to do this job on his own, he just has to get in, get the money, and get back out, easy enough right? That is until an unexpected factor comes sprinting towards him, a guard dog. His father didn’t tell him that there would be a dog on the property.

Cain tries to get back over the fence but before he’s able to the dog is already on him, biting his leg. Cain does his best to hold back a scream as he topples back over the fence and off of the property. The dog continues barking at Cain as he covers his mouth with a hand, letting out pained whimpers.

——————

Cain sits up on his bed, tired, rubbing his eyes. His leg is bandaged up from the dog bite that he got the previous night. He can’t remember much from after the bite, but he does remember his dad yelling at him. He always remembers those moments.

Abel walks up beside Cain.

“Are you okay?” He asks, worried for his brother, but all Cain lets out is a tired “I’m fine” before turning away from his brother.

On cue, their grandfather bursts through the door, making the two young boys flinch.

“Abel, Cain, get up! We’re going hunting”

“But.. Cain’s hurt” Able says, wearily since he knows not to talk back to his grandfather.

The old man turns to fully face Able and stares at him “what did you just say?”

“Nothing” Able quickly replies, turning away from his grandfather.

“It’s not my fault Cain wasn’t quick enough to kill that mutt before it bit him, because of his accident, we didn’t get the money. Now get up” Their grandfather walks out of the room.

Able looks over at Cain, giving his a sorry look, before walking out of the room, leaving Cain alone again.

Cain gets up from the bed, wincing as his hurt foot hits the ground. He hobbles out of the room as quick as he can, which isn’t very quick.

Once he gets out of the house, he gets onto his horse and him, his brother, and his grandfather leave for the forest.

——

Cain moves slowly, aiming his rifle for a deer a few feet away from him. He moves forward but suddenly his leg gets caught on a thorn bush. Cain lets out a surprised shout, falling over and alerting the deer who runs away.

Abel quickly rushes over to Cain after hearing the shout and offers his brother a hand to help him up but Cain pushes him away, getting up on his own.

Their grandfather walks towards them and Cain freezes, scared.

The wildlife in the area all fly or run away from the area, leaving it barren and quiet apart from the old man practically screaming at the young, hurt, child.

Cain holds back tears threatening to spill, his leg bleeding from the cuts in his already hurt leg. Cains grandfather grabs him by the arm, dragging him back over to their horses, Abel follows quietly behind.

The ride is quiet, Abel and Cain not knowing where they’re going, until they pull up to a familiar homestead.

“You’re going back in there and getting the money you failed to get yesterday.”

Cain freezes on his horse, not replying.

“What are you waiting for, go!”

Cain hobbles off of his horse, wincing as his feet hit the floor. He slowly wobbles over to the fence, wearily climbing back over it, just as he did last night. And just like last night the dog sprints towards Cain, teeth bared and barking.

But unlike last night, Cain pulls a gun out and shoots the dog before it’s able to bite him again.

-

Micah jolts awake, his arm hitting a bottle beside him which smashes to the floor. He’s sitting at a small table in camp, where he passed out the previous night. He quickly sits up, looking around camp as if any of his relatives are there watching him. Micah pushes himself up off of the chair, and walks over to Pearson’s wagon, grabbing a bottle of beer.

He pops the lid off and drinks as much of it as possible in one go when something pokes him in the leg. Micah flinches, the phantom pain from the bite which healed long ago causing him to move. He looks down to see a dog who looks similar to the one from his past, a dog who shares the same name as a boy the world forgot long ago.

Usually Micah would kick the dog, the underlaying fear showing as anger, but today he doesn’t have enough energy in him, with the memory so fresh in his mind.

Micah almost runs into the trees beside camp with the bottle of beer he took, trying to escape the ghosts of his past.

[eyes-talks-ocs]

Buckle up, rambling about my story characters and how depressing their lives are 😬

tl;dr Macaw and Dog have an unhealthy codependence on one another. Both in a bid of protecting one another and trying to show the other that they legitimately care about each other's well being. One being the reactive force, acting purely out of reasonings of trauma. The other being the one with rose colored glasses and taking the abuse because that's how they feel they can help the most. A sacrificial punching bag.

--

I'm currently working on a ref sheet for Dog and got to thinking about it.

Can we just stop to look at the dynamic between Dog and Macaw?

It's a loyalty to a detriment. Mostly for Dog.

It's a strange friendship between them.

The two have been nearly inseparable for the past 8 years. Macaw took over the care of the kid after his older brother was brutally murdered (kinda Macaw's fault...) Suddenly becoming a caretaker for a young child caused Macaw to abandon everything/everyone in his life at the time (honestly for the better tbh).

Macaw would kill to keep Dog safe. There would be absolutely no hesitation. There would be no hesitation to give his life either if it was needed. Not only because Dog has become such an important piece in his life, but because Macaw also feels it is his duty to do everything in his power to keep the kid safe. He got his only family killed, he's going to do everything to try and rectify that sin.

Macaw also relies heavily on Dog to keep him grounded and to stay relatively connected to reality when he's having a hard time with his mental/emotional/drug issues. Macaw uses Dog as a thing of comfort. One of the only stable things he's ever had in his life. He can trust that Dog is always going to be there and that Dog is a 'safe' person. Only one other person in Macaw's world is deemed 'safe' and he's out of reach out of necessity unless Macaw wants to walk back into his old life, a very dangerous place to be. (This would be Tomás.) They've been living together for long enough that Dog knows what to do and how to handle him when he's in a bad way or in a manic fit. Again, besides Tomás, Dog is the only one that can get through to him when he's not in a good headspace. Dog can keep him calm and reasonable until the worst of it passes.

On the other side of things. Dog idolizes Macaw to the point of 'he can do no wrong". Even though Macaw can be and has been very 'wrong'. Dog will make excuses or even take blame for Macaw's actions. Giving Macaw the pass on being held accountable. Dog rarely confronts Macaw about his dangerous/harmful behaviors. Out of not wanting to see things for how they are, but also because deep down, he does fear Macaw and confrontation isn't something Macaw handles in a civil way.

Unfortunately, because Macaw feels safe with Dog, Dog takes the full brunt of Macaw's toxic behaviors and habits. Some of the behaviors are purely trauma responses, and Macaw might not even realize he's being abrasive and abusive. Others though, he does know right from wrong. But Dog will sacrifice himself and take Macaw's bullshit to keep others in the clear and to keep Macaw satisfied.

Much like Macaw would do for him, Dog would sacrifice himself or kill in defense of Macaw. Out of gratitude for protecting and taking care of him, but also because he feels bad for Macaw. Almost in a way of pity. Dog knows the horrors and torture Macaw has lived through and knows just how much it all haunts him. He wants to prove to him that he's not alone and that there is at least a singular person that will do what they can to take care of him when he needs it. A favor returned. Dog has found Macaw drunk and crying too many times to ignore. He just wants Macaw to feel loved and seen as a real person not just a thing to be used. He knows that Macaw isn't actually an evil person. Only doing everything in protection of a wounded soul.

Macaw probably would be long dead (likely by his own hands; purposeful or accidental) if it weren't for Dog, and Dog probably wouldn't be around either without protection from Macaw. Lost to the streets and the monsters that live there.

I love the dumpster fire that are my characters.

[greenelight]

a   detective   &   a   FBI   officer   go   head   to   head   into   the   police   department.   yeah   ,   never   heard   that   joke   before   either.   ever   since   the   FBI   has   been   thrown   into   this   heartbreaker   case   ,   it's   been   nothing   but   a   hassle   for   mason   to   deal   with   ,   with   so   much   paperwork   to   fill   out   &   phone   calls   to   handle   on   top   of   the   work   he   already   does   trying   to   investigate   these   crimes.   &   to   make   matters   worse   ,   they   send   in   the   most   hard   ass   ,   least   kind   person   mason   has   ever   had   the   ❛   joy   ❜   to   work   with   &   from   day   one   he   &   parker   have   butted   heads   on   how   to   go   about   solving   this   case   ,   both   of   them   having   different   sets   of   expertise   &   strengths when it comes to this line of work.   there's   only   so   much   you   can   do   to   solve   a   case   of   this   magnitude   &   mason   is   the   real   key   in   all   of   this   ,   seeing   as   how   he   has   been   targeted   by   hearbreaker   specifically.   &   yet   even   then   parker   won't   see   how   to   solve   this   case   from   his   point   of   view   &   honestly   ?   mason   is   done following the rules &   playing   nice.

the   moment   the   door   to   his   office   closes   shut   ,   mason   unleashes   hell   unlike   ever   before.   he   gets   angry   &   frustrated   fairly   often   on   this   case   ,   but   this   is   the   first   time   he's   ever   yelled   at   anyone   before.   ❝   you   are   unbelievably   out   of   line   ,   ❞   the   agent   spits   back at him   &   mason   laughs   at   the   very   idea   ,   shaking   his   head   as   his   hands   slam   onto   the   desk   table.   ❝   i'm   out   of   line.   sure   ,   okay.   &   you   belittling   my   experience   &   progress   in   this   case   isn't   ?   i   didn't   ask   for   your   help   ,   parker.   the   FBI   fucking   butted   their   heads   into   other   people's   business   like   they   always   fucking   do.   they   don't   trust   us   to   finish   what   we   started   &   then   they   take   all   the   fucking   credit when the work is done.   you're   just   a   hired   hand   ,   man.   the   dog   they   sent   to   sniff   this   case   out   &   solve   .   .   .   &   in   a   shitty   way   ,   might   i   add.   you're   good   at   what   you   do   ,   i'll   give   you   that   ,   but   this   is   MY   case.   mine.   you   know   why   it's   my   case   ?   it's   been   my   fucking   case   since   i   was   assigned   to   it.   since   i   found   the   first   set   of   finger   prints.   since   the   fucker   decided   to   kill   my   damn   abusive   ex   &   left   his   old   jewelry   on   my   door   step   !   ❞

rage   surges   in   him   to   a   point   where   he   chucks   his   pencil   cup   at   parker's   feet   ,   not   trying   to   hit   him   , but   more   so   just   because he needed   to   throw   something to release some steam.   hands   dive   into   his   already messy hair   as   he   turns   his   back   at   the   agent   ,   well   aware   of   what   he's   just   done.   yes   ,   he   was   out   of   line   ,   but   so   what   ?   isn't   he   allowed   to   get   pissed   ?   to   get   mad   ?   people   are   dying   every   fucking   day   because   of   this   asshole   ,   so   he   can't   help   but   be   mad   .   .   .   but   even   so   ,   parker   doesn't   deserve   his   fury. at least not to this degree. ❝   just   go.   fuckin'   get   out   of   here   ,   man.   ❞   mason   doesn't   even   bother   to   look   at   him   ,   too   angry   &   embarrassed   to   even   try.   ❝   go   ahead.   report   me.   tattle   on   me   to   your   big   head   honcho   in   quantico   or   whatever.   i   don't   care.   but   when   you   wanna   solve   this   fucking   case for real   &   you're   ready   to   fucking   listen   &   follow   my lead   ?   who   knows   ?   maybe   i'll   answer   the   call   ,   maybe   i   won't.   ❞

˗ˏˋ     ᶤᶰᵗ·     mason’s   NYPD   office   ﹕   the   parent   trap.   co   -   starring   @agentnash   as   parker   nash.

[tommyxgrace-always]

Symbolism in peaky is exclusively around Tommy. The horses, swan, the sapphire, photos are all portrayed via Tommy. So the same goes with the cage too. In the shot we see him go in and out of the cage but that cage also has two birds. And the set up is in ruby’s room with lizzie waiting in the cage, ready to flee. The above description you posted from another person is summarising the same idea I was trying to explain. Tommy is caged in that marraige with Lizzie because he wants different things. They have different needs. Tommy is burdened with his trauma, his regret for hurting his family and his mission to change the world for better. He wants to redeem himself of his sins but to do it, he will have no limitations and he is afraid he will hurt people. Same thing was quoted in s5 with Ada “when he tries to do good, innocents get hurt”. Which again points to why that marriage had to break. Lizzie wants him to leave everything and live up a mountain, that is not going to help him grow. He will continue to riddle in his chaos of he has nothing to work towards.

This is my last response to you too. We fundamentally disagree on the idea about tommy and lizzie. My view is they are over for good. There is no potential of getting back together because it is pointless and serves no purpose anymore. They were caged in a marriage where neither of them was fulfilled. And I agree symbolism is at multiple points. Throughout s6, there is a recurring theme of their hands break away at various points, that also foreshadowed the break up. Also as you said, they did not part in anger or resentment. It was just acceptance. Lizzie must be disgusted at one point but she looked like she finally accepted the fate and is not angry. She looks tired when she speaks.

I also understand your point about growth but they grew diagonally. Tommy went from treating her like a property and insulting her to respecting and caring for her as a wife and mother of his children (although not let her in like a true partner). Whereas Lizzie went from blindly loving him and being submissive to calling him out as a bullshit husband who needs to get his act together. But now they are stagnant and growing together is not possible because they have differing priorities for the future.

The burning of the vardo- I don’t agree with this one. Its a standalone reference. Tommy’s old life is burnt and he will rise like a phoenix through the ashes. No reference to cage, in-fact he is free from it all.

Basis of their marraige- I think Ruby was the primary reason for marraige but I do see the other things you mentioned. Cillian said he married her for loyalty. I think her reliability, familiarity with his business and family and trustworthiness made her the ideal candidate for a convenience marraige. Tommy was not looking for love again. But he did want a mother for Charlie (parallels with John and his reason to marry lizzie). I think Tommy saw her as one of his henchmen like Johny dogs. He would trust them with his life. Tommy also ordered whores in front of lizzie and chases May, so i think he likes her and values her but also was never commited or showed any real feelings for her. After marriage we do not hear of Lizzie’s activeness in the business. She is part of the board because of shelby name just like linda but i think she is full time mother. Thats why I said Ruby was her only connection to Tommy and she was her strength to carry on when Tommy is aloof and secretive.

Linda made a choice to leave. The attempt to kill arthur was in frustration and anger over her friend being attacked. But we see from the start how serious linda was getting to leave him. And after arthur is saved, she does CHOOSE to leave.

The three birds- I completely disagree on leaving out lizzie. They all have bad marriages, call it abusive, manipulative or troubled but they are all facing issues. Arthur and Linda do not have a history of abuse, Arthur does get angry but we have seen him treat linda tenderly for many many years. While he physically intimidates her, Tommy is no less. The “my property” scene was utterly toxic. Many lizzie fans view it romantically but its a highly unequal dynamic. The reason we didn’t see tommy getting too physical is because lizzie is submissive, she wasn’t standing up to her decision like linda was. They both write the letters and contemplated divorce but lizzie backtracked. We did not even get a true reaction from tommy before she submitted herself. His expressions and throwing her in bed showed his intimidation. Lizzie and Linda both made choices. Possessives something tommy also showed through Mosley so i think that was a regular husband reaction for them. Lastly, the reason i said the three birds are a foreshadow is because s6 and s7 changed drastically after helen. Maybe in original script, its another person who was supposed to die.

I also disagree that Diana coerced Tommy to sleep with him. Tommy had a choice. He could have chosen to not do it to go back to his wife. But he chose to go ahead because his primary focus was poor people. Also Tommy continued to sleep with prostitutes and the show made it clear by showing it in the first episode of the season. To me it was done deliberately to show that Tommy may be doing his husband duties but he still not committed to lizzie as a husband.

Swan symbolism - Swan symbolism is about Grace and it is exclusively stated by the production team and steven knight himself. Throughout s5, swan represents Grace. The ballet about love also showed tommy and grace’s story. Even though Linda was parallelly shown, we could see it in Tommy’s expression that he was thinking of Grace. Grace’s breadth is also heard in the background when the swan is about to be shot. Grace’s ghost is a representation of his dark thoughts and declining mental health. Ut it also represents how he longs for her and the void she left was never filled.

Singing like songbirds- interpret however you want. Diana relieving herself on tommy or the other way around. My point was it does lead to the break up. For lizzie, it is Tommy who betrayed her. Many fans like to blames diana or mosleys to break them up. Just like they blame grace or grace’s ghost to say tommy cannot love lizzie. But i think its bullshit. Tommy is his own man who makes his choices. He whores himself if needed to get what he wants. When the mosleys test him physically, he decides to do whatever they say. Not because he is coerced but because he has a bigger end goal. He eventually got what he wanted. But lizzie felt betrayed because she expects him to be a different man than who he is.

Billy grade scene - my point was lizzie finally accepted who he is. I understand its not a new revelation but lizzie still had an idea of him. That someday he will leave all the lies and rest with her in the mountains. She even says “we dont need more money, we have enough” again pointing to some disillusionment that tommy will leave everything to flee with her because they have enough money. He calls himself cursed but lizzie was trying to talk him out or distract him. But she gave up now and accepted that he is cursed, never to be around other people.

It does related to finn more. Finn is family. The Shelby’s have a strong protective instinct when it cane to family. So even though he was neglected by his brothers. Finn was still expected to be loyal to family. As a Shelby he has enjoyed privileges in life and he should have been responsible to make the right choice.

the motif around the caged songbird is not about lizzie and tommy's ultimately doomed/unhappy/futile marriage, you actually have to take into account that it's a reoccuring one and when and how it shows up in the show to make proper sense of it and why it's used in that scene between them in the finale

[flightfoot]

You think Ladybug will ever tell Chat about having Alya(Rena & Furtive + Scarabella) as a second partner who is also her Co- guardian since prett much the beginning of her guardianship, or has that ship sailed?

Seeing that plot thread still not being touched upon for no reason while Marinette has Alya with her each and every day to talk to (most importantly the CATACLYSM incident for which Adrien conveniently never needed support for. Support that Marinette on the other hand got from Alya :/), but Adrien is stuck with Monarch his abusive Father now trying to groom him and a best friend who for some reason doesn't quite understand enough how dangerous Gabriel is to his son... it just continues to sting while watching. I just wanna watch this show normally again without it STILL leaving a bitter taste in my mouth for Adriens sake, can this just be over now? Can this boy just have SOMEONE on his side besides Plagg and his own (overly taken advantage of by the show) out-of-this-world resilience?

Even Nathalie is not entirely save to rely on bc she still on the evil side and yeah, ik Adrien has Marinette now but

Man I just wished that boy was allowed to have anyone else really on his side than just Marinette and Ladybug in what sadly limited support he can get from her often bc of the usual circumstances. I get that he's her love interest and it's HER show but the story is just straight up refusing to give Adrien any other options to get help besides Kagami that one time in Determination and thank god for that one

What reason is there at this point to not have Ladybug tell Chat about Alya in a mature (LONG overdue thanks to Multiplication) conversation so they are a team of three? It just feels like complete secrecy towards Chat out of principle now. Monarch KNOWS. Just TELL HIM so Chat has ANYONE he could secretly visit too when he needs someone to talk to! How hard is that? Marinette wouldn't even "loose" any time with Alya, Chat can just join their sleepovers they seem to be doing almost daily now. So you can still even include Marinette in that! *yells into the void for 10 years out of frustration*

And I would just be more bothered by this whole situation if that secret is only allowed to come to light by force somehow in the Kwamis Choice or some other plan Monarch had. That's just gonna force Adrien to find it out in the worst way possible AGAIN and he has to mostly swallow it down and be nothing but supportive for Ladybug AGAIN bc him finding out is gonna make her sad so that has to be priority, which will be it.

Aaaaaaaaaaaargh! I don't wanna be so negative about this but I'm so annoyed Dx Why does this show always have to be so one-sided in all of this?

I think the ship has sailed on Ladybug telling Chat exactly how involved Rena Furtive has been, and for how long. Chat knows that she was around more than he'd been told about, and I think that's all that's gonna happen with that story thread. Chat is very content to let sleeping dogs lie. So long as Ladybug needs and wants him and does appear to be trusting him with information now, I can't see him poking at old stuff. He is forgiving and understanding to a fault.

And yeah I wish Adrien could have more of a support network! I'm glad that Marinette has Alya, because she needs someone to talk to about everything secret identity related, but Adrien doesn't have that same luxury. I agree, he does have out-of-this-world resilience, which I wish he didn't need as much as he did. Let the boy break down and not be okay, and have someone there to catch him - and not JUST Marinette, as much as I like the cute scenes between them.

I did love Kagami in Determination. She's very to-the-point and forceful, she's not exactly a comforter, but she wants the best for Adrien and will help him to get what he needs. I'm rooting for her to become Adrien's confidant, especially since it'd explain why Adrien lied to her so often. If Luka gets to be aware of why Marinette couldn't tell him the truth, then Kagami should get that same luxury.

I don't fully agree about Ladybug telling Chat that Alya, specifically, is her confidant though. There's some secret identity problems there. If Chat gets mind-controlled, he could spill that secret, and then Monarch's even more likely to go after Alya than he already was, and to learn Ladybug's secret identity by doing so.

I do really want Adrien to get to have some breakdowns and need comfort and have that comfort get to actually be the priority at some point. To not have Ladybug have a breakdown at the same time, and Adrien to have to force himself to be strong for her. I really want him to get that kind of comfort and love and to just... not HAVE to be super resilient all the time.

[bonny-kookoo]

𝓖𝓸𝓵𝓭𝓮𝓷 𝓗𝓸𝓾𝓻 🔞

BDSM • Rope Play • Toys • Subspace • Dom!Kook • Rigger!Kook • Oral/Cunnilingus

He watches the way your eyes look at him- he'll never get tired of it and he'll never get used to it either. It makes his heart flutter, sends shivers over his skin, and fills him with a feeling he only ever gets with you.

He finishes the last knot, hands well trained and mind focused on his task.

Only once he's finished does he step back a little admiring his work and your body decorated in it; your eyes are closed, breathing steady, calm and relaxed as you've fallen into your very special headspace already. He feels proud at being able to help you reach this point of mind- after all, it had taken you both some time to realize that none of this was bad at all.

He remembers when he'd first started to develop his interest in the scene, his former girlfriend and even friends shaming him for being a sadist with sick thoughts when it came to sex- degraded as a pervert and embarrassed to the point of leading him to quit his job and move into a completely different city, far away from his old past. It's where he'd met you; a coworker at his new job, sweet and caring as you've helped him get settled in. He'd fallen for you quickly- trying to maybe even see you as a new start.

But the thoughts and fantasies, they never stopped, tainting his mind.

He'd been a bit more than tipsy one night with you as he'd spilled those dangerous desires to you; explaining how badly he wants to see the rope on your soft skin, to have you let go all control and just leave everything to him. The morning after that talk, you'd spoken to him about his words, and he'd tried to deny it all- but you knew him.

And you wanted this just as much.

Before Jungkook, there have only ever been men in your life that used you. Your father used you by trying to force you into a career he was never able to achieve himself. Your brother later abused your kindness by living in your apartment and never paying rent for years, simply because you did all the chores and paid for everything. And your boyfriend had used your trust- sleeping around while you always waited loyal like a dog for his return.

But Jungkook was different.

And it took some time, but he happily gave that to you if it meant he'd be the man to earn your trust like that. Control was something you didn't like giving up- but under his watchful gaze and gentle hands, you felt safe, comfortable, protected.

There's a smile on his lips as he approaches your body, bound by ropes that form patterns over your skin as you hang from the ceiling- your eyes slowly opening with a glazed over look, hazy and happy. His hands move over your skin, softly touching, chuckling a little when you jerk a little as his fingers touch your breasts, nipples hard and perked up instantly at his antics. You're completely at his mercy, thoughts blank as you anticipate what he's got for you this time. It's always special, always new, always exciting.

He walks around you, always touching, always sure to remind you that he's still there, before he picks something up, fumbling with it, before adjusting the ropes and knots tied around your core. You're bare, no clothing whatsoever, but you won't need it anyways for what he's planning. The small toy is inserted slowly, silicone butterfly sitting snug against your core, held securely there by some of the soft ropes, before he turns it on.

He's being nice this time- the first setting the lowest.

You quickly become aroused, steady buzzing of the toy accompanied by your soft breaths, before you begin to move a little, swaying. But his hands stop you from doing so, holding you securely as he turns the intensity up.

He's sometimes a bit of a sadist, but he's always playing it safe. Never risking, never bringing you into any potential danger.

He pulls away the toy, instead running his fingers over the top of your core over your clit, down between your legs, right over your hole, never entering. He smiles a bit at the fact that you're more sensitive to his touch than any toy he could ever use on you. You're his- he shouldn't be surprised. But he still can't help but be, every now and then.

He removes himself from you completely except for one of his hands still keeping contact with your leg, watching with eager eyes how your glistening heat looks, desperate for attention. With the way the sun stood now, you're dipped in gold it seems- skin an even shade, while his eyes follow a small drop of your arousal dripping down on the small carpet below you.

He never hangs you too high, always thinks of emergency ways out for you. So it's no wonder when he gets on his knees, that he's pretty much eye-to-eye with your desperate heat. His fingers grip the rope around the inside of your thighs to keep you steady, pull you towards him before he starts to devour you slow and sensual. He doesn't have to rush; you're already caught. There's no way you'd run.

He knows by now how to use his lips, his tongue, even his teeth. He doesn't mind getting messy either- only goal on his mind to see you absolutely wrecked with bliss. You're royalty to him; not a mere princess, never, but a queen deserving of everything he can give to you.

You're his queen.

And so he makes sure to bring you pleasure whenever he can- detaching himself from you as he wipes his mouth, before he undoes his pants; strings of his sweatpants quickly undone before he pushes them down, the fabric together with his underwear falling to his ankles while he grabs a familiar foil package from close by. You're almost instinctively squirming at the sound, at the promise it holds. He's ways so warm, and heavy, and big- filling you up and making you feel so nice every time.

He knows you like to help him get ready, but today he'll do it himself.

With the latex condom over his swollen length, he finally positions you for him to enter you slowly. He doesn't want to hurt you, but there's no need to worry. With all the preparations, you're eager to take him in, welcoming him into your warmth as he holds onto the ropes, using them to meet his thrusts halfway. Your eyes are closed, mouth open as you don't hold back any sounds. He lives it like that- loves when you're just yourself, nothing else.

And its already taken a toll on him as well;his end quickly approaching him, one hand leaving your body to press his thumb onto your clit- already enough to make your legs shake, clenching around him and bringing him over the edge as well.

He takes a moment to stay inside you, before he slips out, discarding his condom and pulling back his pants before he helps you out the delicately made harness, your body leaning yearly on his before he helps to clean you up, letting you lie down on the couch. He joins you soon enough, using the familiar lavender lotion on the places the rope had dug into your soft skin- hands gentle before he holds your naked body close, blanket around you.

He knows you'll need a moment to come back around. But it's totally fine;

He loves taking naps with you as well.

[soldierswar]

A Puppy

Bucky x Reader

Wholesome fluff

Plot: You and your fiancé Bucky have been fighting about getting a puppy for a little while. But what happens when you don't give Bucky much of a choice?

“Y/N we’re not getting a puppy,” Bucky groaned.

“Why not?” you pouted.

“What the hell are we gonna do with a puppy, doll? They are so much work.”

You and Bucky had been bickering about the idea of getting a puppy for the past month. It was always a dream of yours to have a husband and a dog that you could cuddle with on the couch while watching a movie. And now that you were engaged and about to get married in a month, naturally, the next step would be getting a puppy.

Unfortunately, Bucky didn’t agree.

“But come one, babe,” you whined while batting your eyelashes.

“You love dogs.”

He pointed a finger at you.

“I am not falling for that glossy eye trick of yours again.”

You smirked. It really was his downfall sometimes. But much to your dismay, sometimes he had more self-control than others.

“Puppies can be messy,” he pointed out.

“My little sister had one and trust me, they take a while to get house trained, and you have to get up early to walk them every day. And they can get so stubborn.”

“And we can learn how to train him. Come on, Buck. You’ve been through a lot worse things in your life than getting a puppy.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“We’ll talk about it later, I’ve gotta go.”

This usually meant that you weren’t going to talk about it until you decide to start nagging at him about it again.

You sighed pretending to admit your defeat while he started to put his shoes on.

Then you noticed his pause. Not just any pause, but a suspicious pause.

“Y/N?” he questioned.

“…What was that sound?”

Your heart stopped the second that he asked you that.

“What sound?”

He glared at you suspiciously.

“Come on,” you reasoned.

“We live in an apartment building. There are lots of sounds.”

He didn’t stop glaring and slowly stood up and stepped over to the door of your office.

When his hand reached the doorknob and opened, you gulped. And of course, he saw what was really in your office.

“Yeah…I fucking thought so.”

Your new dark grey Pitbull puppy scurried out of your office and jumped on Bucky. Bucky didn’t react. He just stayed still.

“If it makes you feel any better I got him at a shelter. He’s 2 months old, and house trained.”

You held a guilty look on your face.

“I knew I should have been suspicious when you referred to our hypothetical puppy as a ‘he’.”

You shrugged.

“Freudian slip?”

“We’re not keeping the dog,” he huffed.

You frowned.

“Why is that your decision?”

“Why was that your decision to get this puppy?”

He looked down at the puppy that innocently tilted his head. How could he say no to that little face? You certainly couldn’t resist him at the dog shelter.

He shook his head and put his other shoe on before leaving.

“We’re gonna talk about this later.”

Okay so now he was down to talk.

When Bucky left the puppy made his way over to you for you to pick him up.

“How did you manage to get out of your crate?”

Of course, he couldn’t answer, but he just panted while enjoying scratchies.             “He’ll come around,” you assured him.

He barked happily.

“I promise.”

…

(Cont.) Day 1

When you walked in the door you were surprised to find Bucky home already. You had only left an hour after he did, and you were only gone for an hour. What surprised you, even more, was that the puppy was on the couch with him with his head comfortably resting on Bucky’s leg.

“Uhhhh…Hey there.”

Bucky was startled and looked down at the little guy.

“He um…” he began explaining.

“He was crying to get out of your office when I got here. It was irritating.”

“Mmhmm,” you answered as you began taking the groceries out of their bags. That included puppy food, bowls, and toys.

“What are those?” he asked.

“What does it look like?” you retorted.

“Umm, it looks like you’re getting ready to make him comfortable here.”

“Well if the shoe fits,” you shrugged.

“We can’t keep him, Y/N.”

The puppy then climbed onto Bucky’s lap nudging onto his shirt for attention and more scratchies. And for the next two minutes, all he did was give you reasons why keeping a dog would be a bad idea as he mindlessly and continuously pet him without even realizing it.

In fact, if you didn’t know any better you would think that this was even relaxing Bucky. Either way, he was talking to deaf ears. All you could do was watch your fiancé subconsciously make this puppy the happiest pet in the world.

When he realized what he was doing he picked him up and passed him over to you.

“You have a week to find him a new home.”

You gave him angry nostril flares. But you then thought about watching Bucky bond with the little guy that he claimed he didn’t want.

“We’ll see about that.”

…

Day 3

Three days. Three days since you brought the little guy home and Bucky still insisted on giving him up.

You were glad that he at least didn’t want you to take him back to the shelter. He wasn’t cruel like that to put him back in a cage.

You constantly bickered on why you guys couldn’t keep him. Especially since one of his first arguments was that puppies were hard to house train. But he had owners for a  little while before being put in the shelter. So he was already house trained. And then he’d claim that he just didn’t want to keep a dog…Yet his actions said otherwise.

When he wasn’t around you, you caught flashes of Bucky looking like he kind of liked him. You’d catch him giving him attention for a few seconds while checking to see if the coast was clear. Or even giving him a treat every now and again just because he did something cute. If you didn’t know any better you’d think that he was starting to like him.

That’s when you realized…You were wearing him down.

Good boy.

…

Day 4

“Alright Smokey, sit.”

The puppy sat and waited for Bucky to give him his treat.

You rubbed your eyes unsure if you were seeing what you were seeing, or if you were still asleep and just dreaming. But sure enough, it seemed like this was really happening.

You looked at where you had last left the leash and it wasn’t there. It was on the counter…And the puppies’ paws were wet. And what did he just call him?

“Did you walk him?”

Bucky snapped his head in your direction startled by your presence and immediately hardened his expressions hoping that you didn’t notice his little tender moment. But there was no way that you were letting this go.

“Did you just call him…Smokey?”

He froze.

“I…I um. I mean I figured we should call him something for his new home. We can’t have people think that we’re abusing the little guy.”

You were suspicious at how fond he sounded talking about him. In fact, how long had he been calling him Smokey?

“Smokey,” you called out in a soft high pitched voice in his direction. He immediately snapped his head, let out a little happy bark, and trotted over to you.

He had definitely been called Smokey for long enough. And the little guy seemed to like the name.

“Did he wake you up or something?” you croaked, sleep still heavy in your voice.

“No,” he answered.

“I just couldn’t sleep after 3 am so I just took him out early.”

He said that with a smile on his face, and you raised an eyebrow.

“Okay,” you said.

“Well, I’m going back to bed. Have fun with each other’s company.”

…

Day 5

“No, buddy you give me one paw, not jump up to give me two” Bucky sighed sitting on the floor in front of Smokey. Smokey gave Bucky a frustrated bark because of the withholding of another bite of his treat.

You couldn’t help but feel your heart just turn into goo inside of your chest. They just had to be the most adorable pair.

A few hours ago you walked into the apartment to find Bucky asleep on the couch with Smokey laying comfortably on his chest, with Bucky’s hand resting on him. You had never seen Bucky look so comfortable sleeping without you, or even take a midday nap. Another thing to point out was that Bucky just seemed overall a little more relaxed in general since you brought Smokey into the house.

Before it could go any further you decided to break the news to him.

“I think I might have found a home for him.”

Bucky frowned while letting Smokey chew on his index finger.

“What?”

“Yeah, this couple from Colorado seem really interested in him.”

His face dropped a little bit before catching himself to seem more neutral.

“Well,” he said.

“I mean…I guess he might like the countryside?”

He picked Smokey up and held him against his chest while scratching his neck.

“You think you’ll like that?”

Smokey looked him in the eyes and barked.

“There’s also another couple in Brooklyn that are considering taking him too.”

He looked a little more intrigued. As if he was pleased that Smokey would be a little closer to you guys instead of being in another state.

“Are they close by?”

You smiled.

“Yeah, actually. I think we might even know them.”

He looked even more curious.

“They’re this pretty hot couple that is engaged,” you began.

“The guy isn’t quite sure about wanting a puppy, but his fiancé is getting him around to the idea and he’s minutes away from giving in. I think you know him. Tall guy? Metal arm?”

Bucky shook his head.

“Okay, I get it,” he groaned.

“I mean I’m not sure about them quite yet, so I can call that other couple in Colora—”

“Y/N, stop.”

He held Smokey up like Simba and looked at him fondly.

“What do you think?” Bucky asked Smokey scrunching his face at him.

Smokey leaned forward to kiss Bucky’s forehead.

You walked over to your room and picked up the phone making the phone call that you needed to make.

“Hello?” you said when the call started.

“Hi,” I’m calling on behalf of Smokey.”

“Okay, I get it!” Bucky exclaimed making you chuckle since you could hear him from the living room and of course through the phone.

When you went back to meet them, Bucky was still sitting on the floor playing with little Smokey who was rolling on the floor and play biting him. And then he asked you,

“There’s no couple from Colorado, is there?”

You snorted.

“Of course not.”

“I haven’t put one ad out on the internet.”

Bucky side-eyed you, and you gave him an overexaggerated innocent grin.

“You win this round future Mrs. Barnes.”

…

Day 7

This was it. Your dream had officially come true.

You and Bucky were snuggling on the couch watching a movie, and there Smokey was curled up in a ball on your stomach.

In all honesty, you weren’t even paying attention to the movie. All your attention was the impossibly cute little creature laying on you absorbing every pet that you gave him, even in his sleep.

Every time you looked back up at Bucky, you noticed that his eyes weren’t even on the tv either. You couldn’t keep your eyes off of the cute.

“Can we keep him?” you whispered for the 100th time that day.

And just like the other 99 times, he kissed you on the head and whispered exactly what you didn’t want to hear.

“As long as I’m still his favourite.”

[nikkywrites]

Haunting Instinct

Summary: Olive ran from her past, years ago. Spent every minute trying to forget it. But it threatens her when a friend admits to giving an old enemy her name, warning that they’re still looking for her.

Warnings: childhood abuse if you squint hard enough, a bit of a mental breakdown/panic attack.

*****

Braden is complimenting her hair, calling her pretty like that undoes the last minute of her life, like that will earn him back the trust he's just crushed in his hands.

He just—

Her ears are roaring with the racing pound of her heart, drowning out his empty, pointless rambling compliments — a nervous habit, like the tick he does with his left hand. He's doing it now, she notes, as she struggles to breathe past the heated clench and frozen tremble of her throat. Her mind buzzes with his earlier words, echoing without diminishing. And beyond the nervousness sitting plain on his face, there's a flickering hope in his eyes. That the paper mache compliments will mend the chasm he's just dug between them.

Olive is harder to impress than that, harder to distract.

Though it doesn't stop her from noting it, from noticing. Trained instinct has her taking in everything and filing it away. She tastes old copper in the back of her mouth. She doesn't want that instinct anymore. Doesn't want to be her mother's daughter. Doesn't want to accept that Braden's given her up.

And the audacity of him to try to sweet talk his way out of this. How dare — sure he doesn't understand the full gravity of this, but — how dare he? This isn't a simple mistake. This isn't something he can talk his way out of.

He could say anything. Call the shit in the sewers beautiful. It would be as relevant, as important, as true as what he’s saying now — something about her coat. It was pointless. His opinion, subjective and changeable and voiced in the worst wrong moment.

That’s not where her focus really is though. All of her that isn’t half-stuck in a memory (sixteen and cold and guilty) is honed on him. What he said. What he did.

To think she thought him a friend — a brother.

She’s hyper vigilant. Noting the tiny details of his mannerisms in case there’s something important hidden there. A deeper, larger betrayal. A trap.

She cocks her hip out, hand gravitating to rest there, knuckles tight against the flight instinct she’s holding back. She swallows around the fear coated in her mouth. And, drawing on years of repression and pretending, composes her vocal cords enough that she can speak without her voice shaking. Confrontations, after all, are pitiful if one (she) breaks down during.

“What?”

She doesn’t have the time anyways. The clock is ticking, whatever answer he holds. She’s been found.

He chokes, mouth stumbling over what sounds like three different sentences as he processes her question. A flash of fear, briefly overtaking the nervousness. "You are!" he insists, not noticing the panic flared in her eyes, pressing on his stupid disjointed point like she was doubting his admiration. Like she has an insecurity issue, like she doesn't believe him. Like calling her pretty is the only thing he's said.

Like that's the only thing she could possibly be questioning.

He's ignoring the truth, she knows. Avoiding the worst, trying to see the mundane in this. Yet not seeing her mindless cast off to his words that she's projecting to cower behind. He should know better, on many counts. To ignore what he admitted, not seeing the truth of her posture, be it in the projected or the real. (Because how can he not see the panic? Her heart is beating in the base of her throat, pounding through her skin, beating at her collarbones, how the fuck can't he see that?). She doesn't care what he thinks. Especially now.

When he's daring to ignore it. What he's done -- given her name to those guard dogs. Fucking ignoring it. Does he think it doesn't matter?

His body language is screaming fear, too, his brown eyes focusing on hers and flying around like the man he spoke of will come back and clobber him. His fear is reassuring.

They're not coming. For the moment, she is safe. Safe to confront him. Safe to efficiently burn the bridge he's trying to rebuild between them.

She falls back into her head, into control. (It's dangerous to get distracted when you're scared, a voice hisses, familiar in ways she's tried to forget).

"What" —she clears her throat, staggering a step forwards to enter his personal space. "Repeat what you said," she strains, voice low, so wary of prying ears.

She needs to hear him say it again.

Ensure that her mind is not playing tricks, hearing betrayal where there was just an innocent compliment (not that she needs it. She doesn’t care what anyone thinks about her appearance. It held no value). She needs to hear that confession clearly, when the drumbeat of her heart doesn’t fuzz out the end of it.

Maybe she’s losing her mind. Let that be the case. Let her be overreacting to a compliment.

She needs to know if he’s really turned her in. If their friendship is truly lost.

If she really has to leave.

Braden sputters.

Olive would laugh if she wasn’t so fucking scared. This was absurd. This was important, how can he just — talk around it like it’s not there? Be able to even pretend to think that complimenting her makes up for shoving a knife in her back? Betraying her. Ruining the life she’s finally settled into.

She stifles it easily, thanks to the crawling feeling trailing up and down her spine.

His shoulders hunch in and forwards. “Olive, I— I didn’t mean to,” he chokes out, almost too breathy for her to decipher but relieving in that he’s finally acknowledging it.

A snort threatens to bubble up her throat at that, harder to bite back than the laugh. Does he really think that’s enough for her to forgive and forget? A wordier oopsie? This is her livelihood on the line. Her life. Her voice strains with the effort of holding in the mistimed amusement.

As if she could forgive or forget this.

(It’s what she gets for making a real friend).

"No," she spits out, low and stony in hopes that the message will beat itself into his skull so he’ll give her a moment to think without the backdrop of his fearful rambling. She just needs a moment. God, what was she going to do? Was he even after forgiveness? He has not asked for it or apologized properly. Is he not sorry? He’d hardly been able to admit his fault in the first place.

Was it no accident? Was he willing?

“How is that a fucking mistake?”

Her tone makes him flinch. It hurts and gives her some sick pleasure. A sinking guilt. She doesn't want to enjoy his fear, even if he should be feeling it.

There's a part of her, though, a part that has always longed to be comfortable that wishes he said nothing. It would damn her, but. She wouldn’t have to deal with this, if he hadn’t. She’d be stuck with demons she’s far more familiar with than him, in this context.

His throat bobs. There’s a bruise, green-blue, poking up out of his collar. Olive had noticed it when he walked up, of course, had been on the cusp of asking about it when– when he admitted what he did.

Then she knew.

He got it from whatever Hero captured and interrogated him. And he just — told him everything about her.

And, well, the part of her brain that’s scrambling to exonerate him thought that he was reluctant, that he had no choice. That it hadn’t been something he chose and there was still something to salvage. Except he hasn’t apologized and she doesn’t see any signs of guilt crushing him to the floor. He looks spooked and beaten but otherwise fine. He’s shaking in his fear but he’s able to look at her. If he felt anything about what he did-- he wouldn’t be able to look at her so easily. The guilt would be too much.

He’s not guilty and her pursuers know more about her than they did before they found him.

Braden made his choice.

“How could you?” she breathes, hurt lingering in the lightness of the question.

Olive backs up, retreating from the shuddering feeling of realization that’s beginning to flutter down around her. She calls it disgust, trying to be rational. To think she’d thought him a friend. Family, even. A tremor slams against her shoulders. She starts to turn, spin a 180 on her toe and get the hell out before her past catches her, but she stops midway, clicking her heel down.

“I can’t forgive that,” she says, unsure if she’s saying it to him or herself. This is no time to be forgiving, she tells herself, the words echoed in her voice and a much harsher one. Forgiveness is weakness. Weakness is getting yourself killed or worse.

She peers at him through narrow-lidded eyes, jaw tight against the hope plummeting down her throat. He does not look guilty, or sorry. Just afraid. Afraid of her and… not of her. If he was that scared to face her, a text would have delivered the message the same. Yet he insisted on doing it personally.

Why is she staying? She should be gone. Not hesitating. Hesitation was a fool’s game.

“Olive…” he stares at her with big, wet eyes.

He came seeking comfort, she realizes, for his fear of her to be unfounded. But he blocked out that chance by saying the one thing that would make her run. Her self-preservation was too strong to risk everything by staying so she could keep him from breaking. He wounded her freedom and came to her to— what? Make amends and pretend he did nothing at all?

“You should,” she says, “never speak of me again. Forget we were ever friends.” She has to look after herself — the first rule. The most important. If he’s a traitor, he’s a traitor.

Nothing to salvage from that.

(Everything to salvage, if she just learns the details. She should. Was it just her name, innocent enough or does he know, somehow? Know everything she’s been running from?)

She’s not one to hold a grudge (liar), but she’s not one to sweep away the past without proper rectification either.  If he doesn’t fix the bridge he’s started burning, if he doesn’t convince her that he wasn’t eager to throw down the match, she’ll watch it crumble into the river.

This can become water under the bridge or there can be no bridge for the water to race beneath.

It’s his choice.

It shouldn’t be. He shouldn’t get any more chances. She should leave, but. Aren’t the details important?

“Twenty minutes,” she sighs, with a grumble. She’s gotten too soft. “Come on.”

She completes her turn and lifts her foot to take her first step towards a nearby bench. This is necessary. She needs the details, the who and the why and the what. And if he happens to explain himself, fix things. Well. That’s his matter. It’ll be hopeless if he tries but it’ll speak volumes to his motive whether he does or not.

It’s not a surprise, though, really, that he hasn’t tried yet. She knows him (that’s why this is stinging so much) but it still hurts that he’s not trying to smooth it all over immediately like she might have hoped. They’ve argued before but only over petty matters and misunderstandings they were able to talk out. There are no words, she reminds herself sternly, to make what he did right.

He sold her out.

He didn’t assist in a ploy to capture her (thank god. If he was in on it and smooth enough, she might have fallen for it), but he gave them her name which is a secret she’s kept for years. It was a starting point, them gaining headway on their fucking investigation that had nothing to do with her.

Or, well, it did. Had everything to do with her, in a sense. Not in how they think, though, potentially. Are they looking because of Wisconsin or because of that last job? She has skeletons to hide and some do lie where they are looking but she refuses to be buried for her family. The skeletons buried back then weren’t buried alone and she won’t suffocate for things her family forced her to do, the only thing she knew how to, won’t fall alone to mask their sins. She’s shrugged off everything she can from them, skeletons and memories and a name she does not respond to (but not, her brain snarls, the instincts. She knows better. She’s failing. It’s a miracle she isn’t caged or dead).

She hasn’t associated with them for years (since she was able to escape), longer than she’s been keeping her name private from the people who are desperately searching for a weak link in her family’s bloodline, for a chance to tear them all down. She has what they want. Names and addresses and aliases. But turning them in means doing the same for herself. Meant facing her demons. She won’t go down for her family and she’ll drag Braden down if he tries. She’ll ruin him if he even attempts to ruin her.

She won’t enjoy it. She never has. But she is capable of it, even without the shadow of her family as a threat lurking at her back. She learned from the best and those lessons linger.

“What?” he calls, too loud on the sidewalk.

She can feel his presence behind her, hear him scrambling to chase her. Her nails dig into her palm. She stops to glare at him over her shoulder. Was it not obvious? “You have twenty minutes,” she repeats. “I want everything you’ve said. Cooperate and I’ll call us even. I’ll let you go, just this once.”

She’s gone soft.

Why is she giving him the chance? He betrayed her, gave her name. Names can be traced to places traced to her. Does he not understand that? Does he not understand why she’s doing this? Why she’s threatening him with things she’s not sure she can carry out? Why she’s pulling back from their friendship?

She settles on the bench, the cold biting through her jeans.

His loyalty has a price.

A scuffle and some questions and he spit up everything they wanted to know. Someone like her can’t be close to people whose loyalty can be tarnished. Whose loyalty can be bought. She has secrets and a life she has to struggle to keep. Civilian life was hard. He was a threat to that.

Maybe she’s being a little irrational. Overreacting like her family is known to do because he didn’t tell them anything important, just an alias she can throw out and use to guide them on a wild goose chase, but he was put under pressure and he caved.

If he was willing to give her name over a little scuffle, a few bruises, what would he give over a broken bone? His life?

So no. She wasn’t overreacting. He settles beside her, clumsy and hesitant. He was a threat to her. She was going to leave, for good. Had no choice. It was run or be caught.

Too soft, she mourns. Civilian life is getting you killed. She can’t have friends that know who cave. He can’t– betray her, even if it was minimal, and expect her to welcome him back. She’s forgiving, she knows, with his mistakes but he’s never messed up like this before, putting her in danger.

He’s had the chance (a simple phone call to a hotline available at all times). This is the first time he’s taken it.

“Olive, please,” he begs, fingers twitching to grab at hers. She keeps her face smooth and thanks herself for telling him another alias as her real name even if that is the name she likes best for herself, one she’s particularly fond of. If she’s being honest… she doesn’t have a ‘real name’. But the one her family gave her isn’t the one he knows. If it was, she’d already be behind bars. “They had a gun on me, I didn’t know what else to do!”

Olive’s blood runs cold.

A gun? That– no. That was wrong. Extreme, out of place. There shouldn’t have been a gun, not if…

Heroes don’t threaten lives like that. Not directly, at least. Lord knows they were responsible for their share of injuries and worse but those were always a byproduct of Super Battles, of subduing Villains — easily explained and pardoned. She could see them scuffing Braden up a bit and threatening him, but a gun? That was horribly out of character.

That means—

“Did you see them? Notice anything that stood out?”

She has a sinking feeling.

She knows the culprit behind this, now, and it’s not the one she originally assumed. But it can’t be. But it could and if she’s right, she can’t blame him. She can’t say he’s a liability or a threat if she’s right.

It would change everything. But she prays it isn’t. Let it be that the Heroes or agents are too eager, that someone stepped out of line and Braden betrayed her. That’s easy. She can cope with that. It hurts but the alternative is so much worse.

Please let her not be right.

“I… it’s fuzzy,” he says, frowning at his knees. “My head felt weird. I didn’t… their voice was odd, too.” His brows pinch together. “Echo-y. I don’t know, it was… weird.”

Oh.

Oh, no.

“Were you told to lead me somewhere?” she asks.

He looks at her, eyes damp. “No.” He shakes his head.

Olive pulls the corner of her lip in her teeth. “Did… did he tell you to tell someone something?” She’d say that name, the one he would have said, but. She doesn’t want to out herself unnecessarily. She doesn’t want to wrap her tongue around the acid in those syllables.

She’d die before someone calls her that again.

“Yes.” He hesitates, eyeing her in a new way, pupils blown wide and whites stark. “...how did you know that?”

“Because.” It’s her turn to hesitate now. She glances subtly at her surroundings, at anyone who may be listening, pairing memory and guesswork against the people milling about. What if he’s here? “That was… I know who that was,” she explains, in the vaguest way she can. Then, because the truth is already confirmed and she owes Braden for doubting him. “That was my uncle,” she whispers, like the dark secret it is. It only makes sense.

The fogginess, the voice… She always hated Uncle Felix’s power.

But how did he find her? How did he find him? She ran alone, no one to pull her plans from. She was careful to keep her current self from her past, from the people she shares blood with. Paper trails were easy to follow and hers leads to the east coast, to Florida.

She’s not on the east coast. Not in Florida.

“What?” His eyes, comically, widen further. “Your Uncle?”

She nods. “Probably.” There’s a chance it was his son – they were still waiting to see if he picked up powers and there was a chance he inherited them from his father. She swallows, breath catching. “What were you told to say?”

Braden dips his chin. “I, uh, was told to tell– um.”

Olive’s hands shake. Don’t say it, she pleads. Aloud, she fills in his hesitation. “A Villain?”

“...yes.” He nods.

“And you were told…” she trails off, for him to complete her sentence.

He tugs at his left thumb, his nervous tick popping up again. “To tell… them,” his eyes lower to the concrete, “that they will not be able to stay hidden.”

Olive’s breath shudders out. 

She thought they wrote her off. A lost cause.

“And,” he continues, “that they will not stop looking.”

“Oh,” she practically mouths, the word dissolving like medicine tablets in water around her. Her family was still looking. Time has not freed her as much as she hoped it would, has not watered her from their memory or lagged their search. “Oh.”

“That’s not” —Braden clears his throat. “What does it matter?”

She shifts her feet under her, pressing the balls of her feet against the floor. Adjusting her weight as assurance that despite how it feels, the world has not fallen out from under her. “That’s a long story,” she says. Pulls air into her lungs and pushes it out. As long as she is still drawing breath, she can salvage things. Herself. “You should go. It’s…” she stands, shoving her hands into her coat pockets. “I have to leave and… it’s dangerous for you.”

“I–” his hand brushes near her elbow. Ghostly. She is unsure if the touch is meant to be soothing for him or her. “I already know,” he says, an odd sadness to his tone. “Let me help you.”

“We’d have to leave for good,” she tells him. “It wouldn’t be… entirely legal. I don’t know that we’d ever stop.”

He shifts to the edge of the bench, clasping her arm tighter. “But I won’t be left alone,” he says slowly, like a realization, “will I?”

“I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head, stares up at her. “We’re friends, right?” he asks, and she knows that her answer is important. He’s pieced it together. He’s not tossing her aside. She still has a reputation and he can’t ignore it. But he’s not running.

She nods, after a heavy moment. “Yeah. We are.”

“Then let me come with you.”

“You won’t be able to take that back,” she warns.

“I know. You’re family.”

Her breath catches. She holds his gaze. She should leave him behind. It was easier to find a pair than a lone person. But he knows too much. Fragments of the bigger picture, a past she swore when leaving that she’d never share. He was a friend and she trusted him, despite all the reasons she shouldn’t. “Okay,” she whispers. “If you’re sure.”

He grins. It’s lopsided, imperfect, but genuine. “I said I’d follow you anywhere, didn’t I?” He stands. “Us against the world, remember?”

She huffs, half poking-punching him in the side. “I was giving you an out, asshole. This isn’t a joke.”

“On brand, though.” He tips his head back. “Always knew you had a shady past.”

“Too soon,” she says. It was more than shady. Was awful. And they were on a time crunch. She was prepared to disappear, but she wasn’t prepared for him. She had to adapt. “I have a safe space,” she tells him. “It should be okay while I get you figured out.”

“Okay,” he agrees.

She sees how this overwhelms him, how out of his depth he is. It’s to be expected. He’s normal, from a normal family, he grew up living a normal life. He didn’t grow up in a family of Super Villains.

“I’ll keep you safe,” she promises, the words slipping out without her agreement.

It’s something she wants to promise. That means it will be hard for her to have. She’ll have to fight for it to be true. That’s fine. She’s fought before. She can hold her own. She can keep him safe, too, since that’s what he wants and she’s weak not to do what’s best for him. She’s been hungry for a friend like him since she was a little girl, shaking from her mother’s harsh tone.

“Don’t worry,” she tells him.

He clings to her arm, probably bruising her, but she doesn’t care. She’s had far worse. “Okay,” he says. “I trust you.”

Her chest constricts. What did she do to earn him? This fathomless trust?

She’s a criminal. And yes, she’s seen him like a brother, but. Family-like ties have never been sturdier than any other. But Braden… she bonded to him so deeply. Cared so damn much. Her mother would have opinions on that. Bonds are means of destruction, dearest. You must not have any. They’ll ruin you.

Looking at Braden, the person who’s never questioned her, who has become her piece of normal, who has always welcomed her, she amends her mother’s warning into a hope. They can save you, too.

And if she has to run forever to keep that, the normalcy he brings her, so be it.

She’ll do what she has to.

*****

Olive and Braden will be coming back, eventually. How do you like them?

Taglist: @super-writer-gal @mr-writes

[cdroloisms]

Dream tried to stop Wil from creating L'Manburg, Phil tried to stop him from blowing it up, BOTH value people over items and builds, Phil has said that they're replaceable but people aren't, Dream traded spirit for his best friends fishes (we kno he's not someone to talk abt feelings:[) BOTH were kind and selfless but used by almost if not everyone, BOTH were ready to be THE VILLAINS if it meant everyone else could live better after. ONE of them always had someone there, ONE didn't. Intentional?

aaaa sorry for the really inconsistent posts ,, im gonna try to post a little more in the next few days. i have a few things written up, so look out for them? maybe? for now, have this *gestures vaguely* thing ,, it’s kinda a mess but *shrug*

phil is such a fun character, anon, especially for all the reasons that you mentioned in the ask!! he’s a really fun character with a lot of complexities that go (sadly) overlooked by a large portion of the fandom, but he’s super cool even tho i havent analyzed him too much. hope you enjoy (and i hope my interpretation of c!phil isnt too ooc lmao) 

tw: mentioned blood, injury, implied torture/abuse, starvation, trauma, mentioned death, prison arc/pandora’s vault

When Techno first brings Dream back from the prison, Phil doesn’t quite know what to think.

“I don’t trust him either,” Techno assures him, but there’s a flickering anger in the backs of his eyes, one that had emerged ever since he came back from the prison with the other man in his arms, and Phil knows his friend well enough to know that the words are empty in the face of the piglin hybrid’s particular brand of to-the-death loyalty. He shakes his head in reply, refusing to voice his thoughts for Techno’s sake, at least, but the look that the other slants at him suggests that he’s caught onto them all the same.

At first, the work is thankfully mindless; even if Phil has reservations on the man that Techno has more or less dumped into his house, he would hardly wish the clear suffering he’s been through on anyone. The first few days pass in a flurry of brewing potions, wrapping and rewrapping dressings, stitching up cuts and setting broken bones straight. The damage is extensive; Phil has to take more than a few breaks to just leave the house and breathe - he’s far from a stranger to blood and carnage, had received the title of ‘Angel of Death’ for a reason, but even he had never been particularly familiar with this form of cruelty. Torture was a level of violence that extended beyond what even he was willing to bestow - his hands may have caused many deaths, and the weight of each one would continue to haunt him for the rest of his life, but even those had the mercy of being a quick end. The wounds and scars that ripple over Dream’s skin, thin and stretched tightly over his bones with little muscle and fat left to cushion them, speak of horrors that were anything but merciful.

“I didn’t know they were capable of all of this,” Techno says, once, as they huddle of Dream, wringing towels in cold water to wipe his feverish skin. Techno’s hand reaches for the ribboning gold-filled scars that remain from the execution - carefully, Phil raises his hand to let his fingertips brush over them as well. “I mean, I knew he was dangerous and all, but-”

“I know, mate,” Phil looks back at Dream’s face, tight even in unconsciousness, at the darkened, hand-shaped bruises that remain around his throat, at the scar that runs over his left eye, clearly meant to mirror the same one that makes its way down the duck hybrid’s own face. “You said that Quackity and Sam were working together?”

“Yeah,” Techno’s expression darkens, eyes focused somewhere on the wall, seemingly very far away. He said that nothing happened to him in the prison, and he seemed relatively unharmed when Phil activated the stasis chamber, but ever since he came back, sometimes he’ll have moments, and Phil can’t help but - wonder. “Quackity does the dirty work, Sam gives him the way in and out, probably also the tools to do it. It’s-” he huffs a short, self-recriminating laugh. “It’s bad, Phil.”

“Mate-”

Techno shoots him a look, and Phil cringes, knowing already that he’d used the wrong tone. Even with the execution, Techno had been adamant to hide all traces of his own terror and fear away from him, masking it all with fury for Phil’s own sake. He knows, just from the way his old friend looks at the ribboning scars that remain sometimes, that he is far from as over the whole ordeal as he acts, but Techno never wants to talk and Phil never knows the right time to ask and they smooth it all behind plans and explosions and hope that the TNT can blow apart the trauma, too. He’s got a sneaking suspicion that the same thing is going to happen, here.

“As soon as we can,” Techno starts again, pointedly shifting his eyes away from Phil’s face, “we’re calling a Syndicate meeting to figure out what we’re going to do about the prison. Like- come on, man, you couldn’t make a more transparent abuse of institutional power if you tried, really-” he looks over, uncharacteristic uncertainty warring over his features. “If you think that’s good, I mean-“

“Of course, mate.” Phil’s voice softens. “Whenever you’re ready.”

‘Whenever he’s ready,’ as it turns out, is easier said than done, becoming even more evident when their charge wakes up from his days long spell of unconsciousness. The worst of his injuries have, under their careful care and the benefit of many potions, healed enough to no longer directly threaten his life, but the vast majority have quite some time to go before being healed completely. Being as the goal was torture and not death, most of his injuries weren’t made to be life-threatening, but rather to cause as much pain as possible - from the grimace that twists Dream’s face when he struggles to force himself awake, they’re doing their jobs.

“Hey, mate, slow down,” Phil murmurs, pressing the man down by his shoulder when Dream weakly tries to push himself up and off the bed, and his struggling only lasts for a few more minutes before he gives up and slumps against his pillow, eyes cracking open and seeming surprisingly lucid.

“Where-“ his voice is wrecked, and Phil reaches for the glass of water at the bedside as Dream coughs. “Where am I?”

“You’re at Techno’s house,” Dream’s eyes widen and then slip closed as he processes the information, a wrinkle forming between his eyebrows as they knit together. “We broke you out, after Techno escaped with a stasis chamber with your book. Do you remember?”

Dream gnaws on his bottom lip. “Um- yeah. I think.” His head turns as his eyes crack open again- “Techno-“

“He’s out, right now. He’ll be back in a bit.”

“Oh.” Dream falls back into the bed, strength seemingly sapped from the short conversation. His breathing stutters, then steadies. “Okay.”

Recovery is slow. Phil doesn’t actually find himself seeing the man very often; now that he doesn’t need around-the-clock care anymore, he’s moved back into his own house, letting Techno do most of the work when it comes to rehabilitating the escaped convict crashing at his house. As he begins to spend more of his time awake and aware, he brings a whole slew of new problems; Phil catches him screaming one day, blurting harsh, angry words as Techno reads, unbothered from the other side of the room, and he stops in his tracks standing awkwardly in the doorway.

“Um-“ he winces when Dream curses, smashes something against the floor, and then curls into himself at the sound. Techno doesn’t even flinch. “Am I interrupting something?”

Dream stomps away, face flushed, arms wrapped around himself. Techno raises an eyebrow.

“You lookin’ for something, Phil?” he asks, and the unpleasant knot in Phil’s chest refuses to unwind.

The episodes, unfortunately, don’t seem to get much better. Though he’s rarely outright violent, Dream looks constantly murderous, usually muttering underneath his breath about something or another while he stalks the grounds of Techno’s house. It’s not too long before Techno sends him out to work around the house instead of just moping within the cottage, which also means that Phil sees him a lot more - tending to a small farm behind the house, feeding the dogs, hacking away at mobs, and usually complaining the entire time. It’s unnerving, even as injured and unarmored as the man is, to see him walking around like this; despite his rather pathetic appearance, swamped in sweaters that dwarf him thoroughly and thin enough to look like the slightest breeze will knock him over, his eyes are flinty and intelligent and bubble with promises of revenge.

“FUCK!” Phil turns to see him slamming a shovel into the snow, stomping away into the woods, and his hands tighten around his cup of tea. Next to him, Techno shrugs.

“Nerd’s got a few issues,” he drawls, and Phil laughs shortly.

“That seems like an understatement.”

“He’ll ease up in time,” Techno sounds surprisingly confident, completely content despite the muffled curses that come from the woods next to them. He’s probably used to it, with Chat and all, but Phil can’t quite seem to find the same calm.

“I just don’t know, mate,” Phil shakes his head. “You sure having him around is the best idea? He doesn’t seem...stable.”

Techno looks up at him over the rim of his cup of coffee. His head tilts, considering, but there’s a small smile on his face that tells Phil that Techno, inexplicably, doesn’t share the same sentiments. There was always a part of him that was, for the lack of a better word, softer than the rest of the server for his self-proclaimed rival, a sort of understanding that Phil could hardly hope (nor would really want to) understand.

“Don’t worry, Phil, if he tries anything I can always just tie him up in the attic or something,” Phil huffs a small laugh, amused, and nods to concede the point. “And- well, call it intuition. You could really try talkin’ to him, you know. He reminds me of you, sometimes.”

The words stick in his head despite his best efforts, rattling in his skull when he tries to sleep, lingering when he catches glimpses of the green-clothed man stalking around their properties. He can’t imagine what would’ve prompted his old friend to make the comparison, can’t think of a single thing (besides their affinity for the color green) that would mark him as similar to the - from what he’s heard - deranged menace with a particular penchant for destruction (not that his rants and fits of anger are doing anything to correct that impression). Even so, Techno had sounded so sure when he’d made the comparison, the words offhand like he’d thought them a million times before, like it was a simple observation that held no more weight than commenting on the color of the sky. Phil watches as Dream lugs a pile of logs behind him, huffing at one of Techno’s dogs that comes to chase and nip at his feet and grumbling loudly before faceplanting into the snow. He just...can’t see it.

Days later, Wilbur comes to visit, a grin on his lips as he dramatically recounts his newest exploit: a nation by Las Nevadas, a supposed safe haven away from the glitter and glory of Quackity’s city; it sounds brilliant, it sounds lovely, and more than anything it sounds stupid, and Phil tells him as such immediately.

“You’re being reckless,” he rants at his son, wings flaring outwards and only barely noticing Dream watching from the corner of his eye, “What are you doing- picking fights with Quackity? Starting another nation- didn’t you see what happened to the first two you made? You’re going to get yourself killed, Wil!”

“Well, I’ve already seen what’s on the other side of death, and it’s really not that bad-“

“You’re my son!” The words are angrier than Phil would’ve liked, and he knows that he looks ridiculous and overbearing, criticizing the actions of his fully grown son, but all he can see is Wilbur’s face, slack with pain and grief, stained with ash and soot as his eyes flutter to half-mast in the midst of the rubble of a country he loved and destroyed and destroyed him in turn. “I can’t lose you again, Wil!”

Wilbur doesn’t quite storm out, but it’s a near thing, leaving with a clipped goodbye and leaving Phil seething on his doorstep. He spends the rest of the night pacing around the house in a sort of mad frenzy, wings stretching and folding over and over. Not for the first time, he longs for the sky, to feel the air through his wings and let the world fall into pinpricks below him; it’s this that leads him to the roof of his house, staring stubbornly at the clouds as the sun sinks down to the horizon.

“Hey.”

Phil startles; there, down below him, is Dream. He rocks back on his heels, seeming awkward, before clambering up the wall (Phil rolls his eyes at the ease with which he scales it, the feeling in his chest almost fond) and settling himself on the shingles at Phil’s side.

“Hey, mate,” Phil shakes his head. The fondness leaves, and the irritation that had risen at Wilbur’s words, earlier, comes back full-force. “Sorry- Wil came to visit, we talked. I just needed some time to think.”

Dream hums in acknowledgement, and they fall into a comfortable silence, watching as the sun dipping down past the mountains in the distance.

“You know,” Dream starts, sudden, “I told him the same thing.” He looks up at Phil, eyes faraway with old memories. “Wilbur, I mean. When he made L’manburg- I told him he was being reckless.” He shrugs. “I guess he never listened.”

Phil pauses, Techno’s words ringing in his ears. He reminds me of you, sometimes.

Dream looks surprisingly normal up close - face no longer reddened with fever or pale from blood loss, even the scars fail to really take from the boyishness of his face. He bites his lips, eyes falling away at Phil’s scrutiny, golden blond hair flopping over his forehead, newly trimmed to be something a little closer to his old length, at least in the front, the back pulled into a small ponytail. He’s young, and shockingly awkward, teeth worrying his lip, hands fiddling with each other, shifting his weight from one foot to the other several times a minute. He looks like a kid.

“He never does,” Phil lets himself smile, watches as Dream smiles back, almost like they’re sharing a joke. He wonders how well he really knows the man behind the mask. “Want to come in for some tea?”

Dream smiles wider, and something old and worn in Phils chest, knocked loose ever since he felt his son fall limp in his arms with his own sword shoved between his ribs, falls back into place.

“That would be great,” Dream replies, the words almost hopeful, and they go inside.

[henryobsessed]

The Veterinarian and the Werewolf - Chapter 8

Word Count: 1879

Warning: trigger - hunting, and demeaning verbal abuse.

A/N thanks again to my beautiful @sillyrabbit81 for your editing and @amberangel112 for your encouragement.

Chapter 8

Henry could not understand why Jessie was still considering going out with this jerk. He huffed at Joe’s words and was pleasantly surprised at Tom’s reaction. Pleased to have someone in his corner, he nuzzled into the young man’s arms. It felt nice, an odd feeling of loss and regret pulled at his soul. He hadn’t seen his nephew in five years, he would be fifteen years old now four years younger than Tom. Memories of their last time together flooded his mind, the feel of his hands running through his fur. Even then he had refused to change, sadly his nephew had never known him in Human form.

The packhouse was large, made of local stone it would be considered menacing to outsiders. But for those invited in, it was a house filled with love. They had found Henry and his nephew Adam just outside their forest line, half-starved, dehydrated and desperate for care. The pack doctor had tended to Henry whilst one of the pack's mothers had shared her milk with the little pup. Adam had captured the mother’s heart and at Henry’s approval had adopted him into the pack. Henry had grieved the loss of his only kin but been so grateful to them. He knew he could not look after the little one, not with his heartbroken in pieces.

Over the next ten years, he had come and gone from the house checking up on Adam, watched as he grew strong, not only physically, but emotionally he had developed into a beautiful soul. Their last time together they had sat just like he was now with Tom. He had curled up next to Adam, his head in his lap, Adams fingers running through his fur. “I wish you could change for me Uncle, I see all the other dads and sons playing together and I love the idea that when I change next year we can run together. Then I can finally talk to you and hear your voice back. But I want to know what you look like, to be able to hug you like I see that others hug their dads.” His face had added to Henry’s grief looking so heartbroken and longingly at him. He had tried at that moment, had attempted to honour his request but his human side was so lost, hidden in pain. He had left the house that day, knowing even if it broke his heart, he needed to let his nephew grow with his new pack and not be held back by him.

Now nestled against Tom he regretted that decision. He heard a chuckle soft and happy. “Well look at you two. I would never have guessed Wolfy could be so comfortable with another human. I haven’t seen him like that with anyone except with me. What’s your secret Tom?” Her bright eyes landed on Tom who had continued to scratch behind Henry’s ears.

“I don’t know Miss Jessie, but I have always loved wolves, well any kind of animal really but especially wolves.”

She seemed thoughtful as she eyed them both making Henry wonder what she had planned. “Tom, are you free tonight? I have a date and I really don’t want to leave Wolfy alone again.” Henry felt Tom stiffen. Wondering what was wrong with the request, he moved his head to look up at the boy.

A brief look of disapproval flashed in his eyes before they softened as he looked down and saw Henry watching him. “Yes, Miss Jessie. I would love to spend more time with this beautiful boy.” Internally he chuckled at Tom’s words, if only he knew he was twelve years older than him.

That afternoon Henry, Jessie and Tom spent out in the garden. Tom seemed to fit beautifully into their friendship group kneeling beside Jessie as they planted new flowers and shrubs where they had pulled up the weeds. Together, Henry dug the holes, Tom placed the plants and held them in place whilst Jessie filled the soil around them. Henry enjoyed hearing the light conversation between his Mate and his new friend until it became heavier. “So, Tom, when did you begin to love wolves? I know your father traps them, so I’m interested as to why you don’t follow his belief.”

Tom continued to work, as a gentle hum was heard working up from his throat. “I know why Dad does it, although I don’t think he is correct. He blames the wolves for his loss of cattle, but I haven’t seen that many around. The wild dogs are more to blame but he won't listen. They have a group that meet purely to discuss the wolf problem, but in my whole life, the only large group I have seen was back when I was four. It’s the first and last time Dad allowed me to come to a hunting party. Mom was horrified that he was taking me, but I wanted so much to be with Dad, and he wanted me to be just like him.”

Henry shuddered as the boy spoke as if by some force of nature, he knew that he was about to hear what had happened that day. He also sensed the grief radiating off the boy, wanting to calm him he pushed his body into Tom’s side. Nuzzling his head as if to say, “It's ok, I’m here for you.” Tom let out a heavy chuckle as if he had heard Henry’s voice.

He sat back looking down at Henry as he spoke, “Thanks Wolfy, you would think that I would not remember something that happened that long ago, but it's imprinted in my mind. They had been tracking a pack that had only just entered the area, convinced the rest of the ranchers that they were a risk to our lively hood, that we couldn’t let them nest here. So, the best of their marksman left, when we found them all, sitting around a tree, curled up sleeping, all I wanted to do was go play with the cuddly animals. Dad kept pulling me back holding me still and quiet. I didn’t understand until the loud bangs began.”

Tom’s voice wobbled at this point and Jessie who had been silent up till this time also came closer. She pulled him into her side, her arm encasing his thin body as his shoulders began to shake. “I started screaming as I saw a single wolf with a baby on its back running away, Dad aimed for it but I managed to push the barrel up making him miss. I got the thrashing of my life that night. I couldn’t sit for a week, but it was worth it. I was never allowed to come again after that, not that I wanted to. It took a while, but Dad eventually began to trust me enough to check the traps. I am glad too because it meant I could help this fella.”

Jessie held the boy as his sobs subsided. Henry was trying to hold his anger in, these were the people who had destroyed his family. And yet this one boy had not only saved him once but twice, his gratitude was the only thing stopping him from wanting to go rip the throats out of the group. Ignorance and fear were the driving forces that ended his family, if only they knew the wolves would only ever take a sick animal, and sometimes the young, never the strength of the herd. They would never kill without need. But the wild dogs he had seen were giving us a bad name.

Jessie's voice interrupted his thoughts, the softness not hiding the grief in her own. “Was that near here Tom?” How did Jessie know?

“Yes, Miss Jessie, by the tall tree in the middle of the forest.”

She silently picked up the tools, both animal and human watching her, wondering what she was thinking. Sighing she stood up, “Come, it’s getting dark and I need to get ready for this date.” She walked silently back into the house. The boy and the wolf looked at each other before both followed.

Jessie fixed dinner for Tom and Henry then left to dress, leaving the pair to their own devices. Tom seemed quiet after revealing his early childhood trauma and Henry was eager to help calm the boy. After eating, he plodded into the living room, jumped up on the couch and yipped in Tom’s direction. Chuckling, Tom responded, “You want to watch some TV boy?” Nuzzling the remote, he yipped eagerly hoping to distract the boy from his thoughts.

Tom settled next to him and picked up the remote, they settled on watching a rerun of M.A.S.H before they both heard the clicking of heels and the rapping of knuckles on the front door. Open-mouthed both Henry and Tom sat dumbstruck as Jessie walked down the stairs in a light yellow sundress her dark hair flowing softly twisted into waves. “Wow Miss Jessie, you look amazing” got in first before Henry followed with his eager Yip. Giggling Jessie smiled softly at them both, “Ok I won't be out late, but even so, don’t get up to any mischief”

This caused both Henry and Tom to laugh, one sounding more like a series of yips. The door opened and closed and Jessie was gone. Together the two sat, watched movies and shared some popcorn that Tom had found in the pantry. Just as the end of a Witcher episode finished they heard yelling coming from outside. “I don’t give a dam Boyd, you had no right to hit that poor man, It was an accident.” The front door opened as Jessie stormed inside, the front of her dress had a brown stain down the side of her skirt.

Next Boyd came crashing into the room his face red as he reached out to grab Jessie's arm, this caused Henry to jump into action his snarl reaching the ears of the big man before he saw the wolf racing towards him. Jumping back almost stumbling over the kitchen chair Boyd’s face grew hotter, “Keep that mutt controlled Jessie otherwise I’ll control him for you with my shot Gun.”

The air went still as Henry felt Jessies and Tom's hands on him, “That is enough Boyd Hatfield, you are no longer welcome in this home. Get. Out!” Surprise filled Boyd’s face as he not only recognised Tom but registered his marching orders. Menace replaced the look of surprise, “Listen here little girl, you better watch that attitude of yours. I’ll allow you to cool off but we are not finished talking, and if you value the life of that mutt you will do as your told.” Punctuating the statement with a nod of his head he turned and strolled out the door.

Heart pounding he turned looking up at Jessie who seemed to have lost her speech, her face pale and her hands shaking. Tom moved swiftly pulling her into his arms as she began to cry, frustrated that it wasn’t his arms holding her, Henry pushed his body against her to show he was there, but inside he was furious. That man had threatened not just himself but Jessie, but he had to focus on her right now, she was more important no matter how much he wanted to go after him.

Chapter 9

[fascination-street-writing]

Somewhere to Begin | Pannacotta Fugo x Ghirga!Reader

He has always adored you, like the sun and the moon and more - but he had a brilliant way of convincing you otherwise.

- 200 Follower Giveaway Piece iii for @idontlikerisottounlessitsnero​ -

Content Warnings: Not SFW Content, Post Break-Up, Emotional Hurt & Comfort, Regret, & Explicit Sexual Content (Aged-Up Characters)

You had promised your brother Narancia to never involve yourself directly with Passione; even the occasional stay for a meal at Il Libeccio made him antsy, yet you failed to see the harm in sharing a plate of bruschetta with Fugo, or a pot of hot tea with Abbacchio – two of his closest companions. It was only fair that you ought to spend time with the men who gave you unbridled protection at the behest of nothing more than goodwill and magnanimity. Not that you needed such security, but it kept street thieves from picking your pockets, at least.

You had promised him indeed, and now that he lies in the casket before you – clad in the suit from your mother’s funeral that you never thought to see him wear again – you intend to keep it. Giorno had offered to have an outfit tailored for your brother, but you refused him with consternation that your he would not be buried in something from the boy responsible for his death.

“No,” you had told him, cold as the wall of ice that has crept around your heart, while clutching the woolly material to your chest. “This one will do nicely.”

And so, the mortician severed the seam along the back of the jacket and draped a silk sheet over Narancia’s legs so that no one would be wiser to fact that his ankles stick out past the bottom hem of his trousers. It was bad enough that you could not afford the casket on your own. You knew better than to believe it when Mista told you that it and the headstone were paid for with the money yielded from the liquidation of Bucciarati’s assets. If that were true, then why not pay for a new suit, too?

Trish snatches a single white lily from the memorial wreath and tucks it between your brother’s still, clasped fingers. She hides her grief behind a pair of sunglasses that do not match the overcast weather that looms above your heads. You had not wanted to wait so long for the funeral – for two months, Narancia’s body had been left in the morgue to chill on ice, par Giorno’s insistence that the service must wait until his transfer of power over Passione has finished.

Thus, for two months, you had lain awake at night, shuddering at the melancholy and its melody that reminds you how you your brother died without saying farewell – his platonic little soulmate. Giorno may have his victories and suffer for them, but you would not let him entomb Narancia in the mausoleum with Bucciarati and Abbacchio.

“He’ll be buried next to our mother,” you said to the new Don with indignancy. “After everything you’ve taken from me, let me have this. Lascia che mio fratello torni a casa – let my brother come home.”

Your wish was granted, though you suspect it only so because he was growing tired of fighting with you over burial rights and passages. The congregation is kept small, consisting only of yourself, Mista, Trish, a tortoise named Jean-Pierre Polnareff, regrettably Giorno, and a handful of bodyguards, though the latter kept their distance from the immediate service; it would not come as a surprise to you, should you learn that the men in black suits were employed to protect their Don from the mournful sister of the deceased.

The handkerchief clutched in your grasp is damp with past tears. Not even your father had come, despite your pleading that he ought to pay his respects to his only son. Too preoccupied with his floozy of a new wife and her children from two previous marriages than to love his own – you never needed him in your life anyways, because you had Bucciarati. Now, you suppose that you must be a proper orphan.

You do not weep when the casket seals and cleaves the line of sight betwixt you and your brother forever. You do not weep when the mechanical apparatus lowers the coffer made of Osage orange wood into the steel vault that already holds your mother in oak. You do not weep when the gravediggers shovel the dirt mound back over the crest of opened earth.

You do not weep until Mista clasps your trembling hand, pulls you to his chest, and embraces you amidst the anguish that burns you alive. His is the consolation that you needed, but never thought to ask for, though it is not his touch that you long for. One by one, the attendees disperse for the train of luxury cars and you remain alone with the gunslinger who had been courteous enough to come without his oddly patterned beanie hat.

“Why don’t we get going?” Mista urges to coax you away from the gravesite – away from yourself and the suffocating agony. “Giorno’s having dinner for us all, back at the estate.”

You pull away. Rivets of mascara stain his white dress-shirt. “You can go on ahead,” you tell him, not quite liking the way your voice strains in your throat. “I’m not hungry.”

“Then, let’s go grab some coffee or something –”

“I’m fine, Mista.” He frowns and averts his gaze. “I have some things I need to take care of.”

“Oh?”

You tug your cardigan closer to your chest. “I’m going to collect Narancia’s belongings from our dad’s house. Not sure what I’ll do with it all, but I know it can’t stay there.”

Mementos of life, from when things were far simpler and your brother far more alive. Family photographs with tattered edges and holes of where your father should have been, wedged between unread and abused schoolbooks. Worn out blue jeans with patches of fabric scraps from your mother’s old dresses that you had sewn on for him. A collection of empty glass soda bottles. CDs and cassette tapes of Snoop Dog, Tupac, and whatever other American rappers had appealed to his tastes.

“Alright, I guess. Promise me you’ll call when you get there.”

Soon to be packed away in cardboard boxes and to be stacked precariously in the living room of your studio apartment – another gift from Bucciarati – with nowhere else to go. You simply cannot afford to rent a storage unit downtown.

“I will.”

Mista does not offer to help, because he knows you will refuse it. With that, he takes his leave of you in the cemetery. Left to your solitary devices, you clench your fists and stew on hatred and loathing for none other than Giorno Giovanna. You do not blame Narancia for his eagerness to trust the boy so quickly; his charisma, as appealing as it entreats to the willing, is an infectious disease.

If not for Giorno, your brother would have been buried two months ago. If not for Giorno, your brother might still be alive. And perhaps you must resent Fugo too, for what he has done – or rather, the lack thereof of doing; yet for everything, you are incapable of such feelings, as you have always been fond of each other. The optimistic heart within you stands that he has saved you from suffering more – that in his choice to stay behind in Venezia, it only meant you would not have to bury him, too.

Because surely, his unrestrained anger would have gotten him killed – if not before, then certainly after Narancia’s death.

With a quivering sigh, you turn from this dreary place and meet his illegible violet stare. A row of crackling headstones separates you from the boy whom you love more than life itself. Fugo clutches a pretty bouquet of daffodils wrapped with parchment paper and a white-string bow – your favorite flowers, though you wonder whether they are meant for you or your brother’s fresh grave.

You do not know, nor will you ever, as he sets the flowers atop the nearest monument and makes off, as if on sabbatical to you.

And it fills you with nothing more than bitterness.

“Everyone misses you,” Mista confesses between a sip of tea and a bite of strawberry cake. “You should come around sometime soon.”

Nearly a year has passed since the funeral, and you have yet grace anyone from Passione with your presence, with the exception of Mista for weekly sojourns to Il Libeccio to catch up on life – because, as you have learned, much can happen in seven days’ time. With each occasion of crossing the archway’s threshold into the private dining room at the back of the restaurant, you find yourself preening for two heads of black hair – one neatly combed and clipped, the other a sprawl held in place with an orange headband –, taut lips painted in black, and Fugo. And every time, you are left with the kind of disappointment that curdles your soul like sour milk.

“Who misses me, Mista?” you reprimand, pointing your icing-lacquered fork in his direction. “I barely even know Trish, and I have no interest in ever speaking with Don Giovanna again.”

You wish Giorno would call off the bodyguard who trails you every waking hour of the day; it makes you feel like a child who has proven herself untrustworthy to her parent. But you have done nothing deserving of such punishment. You suspect that his intent is an extension of the olive branch treaty that does not exist between you two – a reiteration of Bucciarati’s protection that should not have to be reiterated, because he should not be dead, either.

Or, alternatively, he wants to irk you so far that you might barge into his office one day – fuming with unspent determination to admonish him regarding his dominion over your life – just to trap you in a conversation wherein he might attempt to suspend your animosity towards him. Alas, you are simply not interested; you will scorn him, because it is all you can do.

“Forget I asked . . .” Mista trails off, swirling a dollop of whipped cream with his knife. “So uh, by the way, have you seen Fugo lately?”

Just the utterance of his name has you perking in your seat.

“No.”

“Hm, well, rumor has it, he’s working at the public library. Shaking people down for late fees or something like that.” It is not implausible to imagine Fugo in the position of extorting old ladies and young children for overdue fines – but, you know that it is only a jest. Regardless, he has always been the type of boy to surround himself with books instead of people. “Why not visit him sometime? He’s not affiliated with Passione anymore. Or, not now, at least.”

You stab at a strawberry. It bleeds beneath the weight of your fork.

“I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?”

Mista’s question is one that you ought to be asking yourself, as you sit here at the scratched pine desk of the library – pretending to study for an upcoming exam on the history of art in Pompeii – though you look up from your scrawl of notes every few minutes to see if Fugo should pass you by; perhaps pushing a cart of books to be put away, or branding return cards with a plush red stamp to mark the date in two weeks’ time.

You have seen him only once more since his implied attempt of reconciliation at your brother’s funeral. It was by chance that you should wander into the same café as him that day; and by extended odds that – while you stood over his table with a sad smile and a cup of coffee – he stood abruptly and left without finishing his own drink. He had not even bothered to wish you well.

Today, you catch him on your way to the reference section. The look of hurt in his eyes – like salt instead of sugar on the tongue – brings a scowl to your face. “Please, Panni,” you plead, and though your fingers ache to catch his hand with your own, you refrain for you know the gesture is a crossing of the line between you two. “Can’t we just talk?”

“No,” he says, so dry and unrecognizable. “I’m not getting paid to do that. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Panni, I – Please, don’t do this. I already lost my brother: don’t make me lose you, too.”

A fuse switches in his head, and you have been the one to flip it. He clutches the encyclopedia in his hands with such fervor that his knuckles pale, and for a moment, you wonder if he means to hit you with it. And maybe he thinks it too, but he drops it atop the ground as soon as the thought crosses his mind. He takes a step back, as if you have scorned him – maybe, after all, you have.

The cover spills open, and the pages bend against the hardwood floor. You wish he would do the same to you – to disclose his grievances and let you in. Instead, it is the toxicity of acrimony “Don’t ever come near me again,” Fugo warns. “Haven’t you realized by now that I never want to see you again? Get out of my life – get out of my dreams – and leave me alone.”

You will save the tears for when you stand in front of the bathroom mirror tonight before bed to wash away your makeup from the day, amongst other regrets. But you will never understand the guilt that suffocates him – a noose that is just taut enough to keep him breathing – each time he looks at you, and even when he does not. You are everything he has ever wanted and more.

And you are the emblem of everything he has ever done wrong.

“I still care about you,” you tell him with an affirmation that will not fix the desolation. “Doesn’t that mean anything?”

He bites his lip and looks away.

“I know you’re hurting. I am too. So, can’t we heal together?”

“Are you stupid?” You grimace at his words. “I told you to go.”

There is no chance to dispute it, nor to bid him an aggrieved adieu, because he is gone again. Burying him might have been easier, after all; a corpse cannot remind you of what a fool you have become.

And so it seems to you that dying dreams are the best ones.

Adulthood is ��� as you have found in your years of treading its waters – a dreadful inevitability. You and your brother’s boxes have outgrown that compact studio apartment, though for years, you had made it work perfectly fine. When Giorno pulled the strings to terminate your lease and forcefully relocate you into a sizeable townhouse in the Chiaia district, you wanted to hate him for it – for his reminder that you cannot sever your connection to Passione. Yet, boggled down with university loans, you were in no position to turn down his assistance.

And he knew it, well.

A pretty townhouse located in one of the nicest regions of Napoli cannot bring Narancia back, nor can it attune for every bit of suffering incurred since his death; but if it is a strain upon the aging Don’s wallet, then it is all the better.

On the day of your fourth birthday spent in solitude, you treat yourself to a tub of gelato and a dress from the costly boutique across the street that you will never wear because you have no need to. It will hang in your closest amongst other unworn gowns, still pinched with price tags, that you have impulsively accumulated over the years – a hereditary habit of your mother’s that had caused more than a few spats between she and your father. You know your vice, but there is something so gratifying about it.

You sink into the tweed couch that does not quite match the architect’s vision for the living room – with its crown-mould white walls and hardwood floors the color of wenge; too clean and proper for what furniture you have kept from your former residence. Silver spoon clenched between your teeth as you page through television channel after channel, you balance that melting gelato on your lap. Perhaps you should have grabbed a straw from the kitchen as well.

The evening passes by, uneventfully so. You have spent it spoiling yourself and replying with fabricated enthusiasm to incoming text messages from study mates, who wish you well on this happy day – as if you have a reason to remember your twenty-first beyond the accomplishment of finishing the entire tub of would-be-frozen lemon curd without incurring a single regret or twinge a of brain-freeze. You have gotten rather good at knocking back shots without needing to stop for breaths, too.

At the ringing of the doorbell, you are torn from the real estate program that you have invested so much time these past few hours. Mista, no doubt – come to deliver a gift and takeout because he knows you have not eaten properly tonight. You have no room left in your belly, but whatever he brings will make for a decent meal tomorrow.

You do not bother to tidy up, and when you open the door, you wish you had. Illuminated only by the balcony light stands Fugo with a bouquet of daffodils, a bottle of sauvignon blanc, and a remorseful, sheepish smile upon his handsome face.

Get out of my life – get out of my dreams – and leave me alone.

“Uh . . . “ He trails off before he has even begun, perhaps taken aback by the widening of your eyes and the disheveled appearance that, despite your own judgement, he thinks to be the most beautiful vulnerability in life. He speaks your name with the kind of tenderness that you have not felt since you were teenagers. “Buon compleanno.”

You need not ask how he found you, because you know without question that either Mista or Giorno had told him. “Why are you here?” you ask.

He clutches the flowers a bit tighter. You do not move to take them; however, you have already decided on which vase you will place them in. “I wanted to wish you a happy birthday. And give you these.”

The bottle of wine feels far too heavy in your arms – and the daffodils, as if they might float off in an unforeseen gust of wind. “And, to apologize. For too many things that I can’t ever make right; although, if you’ll let me, I’d like to try.”

“Fugo, I . . . I don’t know.”

“Please, [Y/N]. That day in the library, all those years ago . . . I never stop thinking about the horrible things I said to you. It killed me – it ate me alive; I thought for all this time and before that you hated me, because of what happened to Narancia. Because I wasn’t there to save him.”

“It hurt when you told me to get out of your life, but I listened, and I did it.”

He brings the heel of his hand to swipe at the tears in his eyes. The curling of his other fist is a gesture that terrifies you – although, not for your own sake. “I couldn’t face you. I was scared to look you in the eye, because I thought you hated me,” he mutters like a broken record as his voice cracks with agony. “I thought you hated me, because of him.”

He stops, throwing his head back with a groan. The apple of his throat bobs up and down as he chokes down a sob. He refuses to look at you when he speaks again – too afraid to come undone before he has made his peace with you, his greatest loss. “We were young. Probably too young to even understand what love really meant. But, dio dannazione, you were the most important thing to me, and I understood that more than love.”

His words have always held the capacity for swaying you, as if they replenish the empty spaces within. It is why, as you open the door wider, you let him fill you once again. Fugo contemplates the crannies of your living room, hovering above the couch that you insisted he take a seat upon – he remembers when you bought it, because you had dragged him to the furniture outlet that day. He pretended to be annoyed, though in truth, he was beyond elated that you had chosen him over Mista, or even your brother.

“I guess I should put these in a vase,” you say about the bouquet of flowers. “They’re beautiful, Fugo. Thank you.”

He nods, suddenly entranced by a photograph of Narancia that sits atop the fireplace mantel. You do not notice his unease.

“I’ll grab us some glasses, too.”

You find your vase in the kitchen cabinet niched into the alcove above the refrigerator. Its emerald swirls glisten under the twine of the recessed lights that add no character to the room. So much for a birthday spent in reclusion, you chide alone. Deep within you sits a fire that longs to ignite – to send Fugo away in some thwarted act of retribution for the very loneliness he inflicted upon you years ago; as if to say that the rejection suits you well.

Of course, you cannot deny that your heart leapt into your throat when you saw him standing before the front door, a vision of a man who still held those inklings of boyish charm that you fell for in your adolescence. They say you should not dote over the first person beyond your mother and father to call you pretty; it is weakness to complacency. Your life has never been one of convention – and so by that right, who there is to insist that you must abide?

Bearing a content grin, you trim the stems one-by-one to better fit the vase. In synchronous rhythm to the next, the green stalks bounce from the cluttered countertop to the floor. You have only just stuffed the flowers back into the vase when the shattering of glass resonates its way into the kitchen.

The photograph of Narancia lies amongst bits of broken frame and wreckage. Face buried in his palms, Fugo crumples until his knees meet the ground; he shakes, as if smothered by a chill. When his hands fall to smack the coffee table – baring his grief, in all its pandemonium – you catch them and force his arms around your waist instead; his fingers lock together, holding you in place. He whimpers against your stomach. Already, you can feel the wetness of tears through the fabric of your overstretched shirt.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry, [Y/N]. I’m sorry.”

Your own fingers curl through his strawberry blonde hair – a means of stability as you too have begun to cry. “It’s just a picture frame,” you promise, and it is the grandest thing he has ever heard. But it is more than a box made of wood and glass – it is an impossible longing. “I’m not upset at you.”

“I . . . Okay.”

Mindful of the mess, you rock him backwards until he is lying down. You join at his side, take his hand into your own, and wait in silence for the moment when his misery will dissipate for clarity. Regardless of the circumstances that have brought him here tonight, you are grateful for it – even if your birthday is spent wallowing in irrevocable regret.

Above all else, you know that he has always adored you, like the sun and moon and more – but he had a brilliant way of convincing you otherwise.

Your thumb coaxes over the back of his knuckles. “There’s a crack in your ceiling,” Fugo announces, nonchalant and monotone.

“Where? I don’t see one.”

He raises an unoccupied finger, and you follow its gesture to the corner of the ceiling, just above where the moulding meets. It is no longer than the length of hair from his head, and quite honestly, not an underlying issue of foundational complications. Still, you indulge him. “Oh, wow. I never noticed.”

In this hasty repertoire of patterns, you fall into stillness again. “Panni,” you whisper with the utterance of his endearing name. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He squeezes your hand.

“But it’s getting late. Why don’t you stay the night?”

Truthfully so, you cannot send him on his way in such a state of disarray.

“I can make up the couch for you, if you’d like.”

“Yes, please,” he murmurs.

However, you do not make it far because he has – inspired by a need to express his devotion and apologia – pulled you atop himself, hands braced on your hips as you balance on bent knees and grasp his shoulders. Tenderness is becoming of the boy – no, the man – who looks up at you as if you are the embodiment of everything good that exists in one life to the next. It is a side that he has never shown to anyone other than you.

You covet it like a piece of cherry-flavored candy, even when you lean down to capture his lips and nip at his tongue that likewise explores the long-forgotten caverns of your mouth. It is a distraction of meaning and not; from the broken frame, loss, and perhaps everything in between. Every attempt to catch a breath of air is met with resilient protests of needier touches and not before long, you lie on the couch – shedding your clothing like the skin of the woman you no longer wish to be – and let him in.

Bare chest to bare chest, you cup his hardness as he places his fingers to your untouched folds. You mean to tell him that you love him, but the penetration of unpracticed digits to your core stifles the very thought from your scattering mind. In dark closets and empty rooms, you two have had your share of imprudent experimentation with one another’s bodies in the past – and nothing more than warm, tentative touches that lead to girlish giggles and boyish huffs.

Fugo pinches your nipple, drawing a plush gasp from you; it urges him to do it again until at last you are throbbing with need from your lower half, your pelvis jerking upwards to meet his for the stimulation of wanting. His breath ghosts your face, and you think you smell wine – a drink for good luck, you think, because despite the distress manifesting in his soul, his mannerisms are otherwise as habitual as you might recall from moments of normalcy.

It feels wrong – to be filled with such wanton, salacious desire within the very hour that you have both spent in mourning of your brother and everything else that has been discarded to the wind, to be picked up by someone else. Yet tonight, you will not sleep with Fugo to forget your blue heart, nor for celebration’s sake as you embark upon another year of being – you will sleep with him, because you have grown tired of learning how to end your days without him.

“I haven’t . . .” You trail off, mesmerized by the way his violet eyes look at you; though puffy and stained red from crying, you take them in as he cocks a brow, imploring you to finish your thought. “I haven’t been with anyone else since you.”

“Good,” he sighs, and you think he is trying to hide a smile. “Me neither.”

Braced by his arms, you are flipped onto your stomach. The tweed upholstery bites into the soft flesh of your breasts with each jostle elicited by the curling of a finger within you. You push backwards until you swear you can feel his fingers against your cervix.

“Oh my god,” he groans, flexing out as if to move deeper. “Ti senti così bene.”

“If it feels good, then do something,” you whine, hands dug between the cushions for support.

But, to your chagrin, he takes his time to admire the way your folds pulsate around just two fingers. You glisten like a gem – his gem. Indignant with petty annoyance, you pull away and straddle the lithe, albeit toned, legs that dangle off the edge of the couch. Arms thrown around his neck, you sink down until you have reached your fill of his manhood.

“I did tell you to do something,” you sigh at Fugo’s displeasure, biting your lip as you adjust to the size of his shaft. “Didn’t I?”

He kisses you once and moves grasp your backend. You savor the feeling of him ingulfing you. “I was distracted.”

You would laugh if not for the anticipated bulging inside you as Fugo buckles into your heat. The sight of your jostling breasts with each bounce of you on his cock is a page of some heavenly doctrine – one that he should study and commit to forever. He moves with strength that he reserves for moments of rage, and even his fingers dig into your skin hard enough to leave bruises for the days to come. You do not mind; they will help you to remember the best night you have had in years.

With a cry that blossoms into a moan that tells him that he has treated you well, you ride out your orgasm and slump against his chest in your own exhaustion. When he reaches his peak, he slides out; you reach for him – dampened with your slick – and finish him until white pearls bead at the tip and trickle over your working fingers.

Foreheads pressed together, you flash tired grins before settling against the cushions, your head pressed to his chest and his arm braced around the small of your back while his fingers trace shapes against your perspired skin.

Panting, his heart skips every few beats – like a song, sung only for you. Content with that which has returned itself to you, you fall asleep to the sound of this lovely little love affair.

| 4966 Words |