#hes half dead full of trauma running from several gods

[blindhades]

we're not paying enough attention to the fact that Ody talks about Penelope in his sleep

[sagesariadnd]

Just Rambling About My D&D characters, Part 1: Ryder, Half-Elf College of Lore Bard

Art by Lyssie-chan: https://www.patreon.com/leafsways

Backstory - CW: parental death, parental abandonment, emotional abuse, indentured servitude, murder, fridging

Reynyn Tarrenshout was the child of a barmaid and the estranged bard who bedded her and ditched, as bards stereotypically do. He grew up poor, but tavern life introduced him early to his love of music. Unfortunately he wouldn't get to put that passion into practice for several years, because in his teens, his mother got gravely sick, worsening their financial struggles. Out of desperation, Reynyn turned to crime, and ended up coerced and more or less abducted into a less than savory thieves' guild. The guild abused and isolated him, breaking him down slowly but surely, and when his mother died never knowing where he'd disappeared to, he shut down completely, going through the motions as the guild's puppet.

A few years later, Reynyn found a reason for living in the form of the fishmonger's daughter, Grace. She was the first person in all this time to be kind to him, and his desperation for any form of companionship drew him to her. They dated in secret for a few months, before Reynyn asked her to run away with him, finally finding the strength to escape the guild. Unfortunately, they were caught, and all Reynyn remembers about the fight that ensued was finding Grace with his dagger in her heart, dead. He fled the city blinded by grief and panic, leaving his name behind and now going by the pseudonym Ryder.

Eventually Ryder stumbled into a city, physically and emotionally exhausted and half-starved. Here, he met Ameila Lucyne, another half-elf who took him in and nursed him back to health. He never told her his full story, but she recognized someone running from something when she saw it, and took him in, letting him live in her theater and giving him a job, where he finally began his journey into the bard class.

(We'll get to Ameila in a later one of these posts, by the way. That's some fun stuff)

Assorted thoughts

Ryder was my first D&D character, and is pretty much THE oldest OC I still claim. I came up with him in high school, for an Everquest fanfiction I was writing, as a foil/love interest. He ended up being worlds more interesting than my cardboard cutout of a main character, and I wanted to play him in D&D for ages, but multiple things got in the way of that idea until I discovered Critical Role and finally had my chance to dive into 5e, which is when I heavily polished his backstory and personality and played him in a tragically short lived Out of the Abyss game.

In his original form, he was simultaneously way edgier AND way goofier. (And side note before I continue, there is nothing wrong with having an edgy character. You've just gotta make sure it fits into your game's setting and has a point, and doesn't isolate your character from the party to the point of not being playable with.) The original idea was he was supposed to be a happy-go-lucky jokester who encouraged the Cardboard Cutout MC to loosen up and enjoy life. He was supposed to have been essentially over his tragic backstory, to the point where he seemed to have no flaws at all, except maybe that he was hard to take seriously. Especially since for God-knows-why he originally had a hideously thick cockney accent. When I retooled him, his lighthearted personality was meant to be more of a mask - entertaining others and making them laugh as an escape from his own trauma and guilt. He's also INTENSELY afraid of the other shoe dropping on his life at any moment, and any setback or tragedy is a gut punch that he feels is inevitable. He basically is afraid of pursuing happiness for himself because he's convinced it will get ripped away from him.

Originally, he was literally born into an assassin's guild, and his relationship with Grace lasted longer and was used as leverage against him - if he tried to leave, ~something might happen to her~. He still killed her in this iteration, but it was a trick by the guild because they didn't tell him who his target was. It made sense to my 17 year old brain okay? Obviously, I didn't stray TOO far from the original backstory - when I found the criminal background in 5E, I figured a thieves' guild made more sense and figured out his motivations from there. I also felt like Grace's death in the original backstory was needlessly gross and intimate, but still wanted that knife twist (no pun intended) of Ryder being her killer. So I made it so they did actually try to escape, and left it ambiguous whether her death was an accident or a frame job - fodder for the DM that tragically never got utilized.

Also, he used to be human, before I got inspired to go with half-elf. This was due to an Adventure's League one-shot - my first real time playing D&D before Out of the Abyss - where I was given a premade half-elf bard and I plugged Ryder into that character. That's also why, in Out of the Abyss, he had a pet rat named Pippin - the AL bard was urchin background and came with the rat, and I grew attached and asked the OotA DM if I could still have it.

I do feel a bit bad that even in the retooled backstory, I've still essentially fridged Grace. I'm also admittedly still attached to the concept and feel like pulling it out would completely change Ryder as a character - the trauma roots go deep. If I were to play Ryder again - or in the project I'm working on where he's a character - I'd try to do more to at least not make it all about him, such as potentially facing her family some time later, or other ripples of her involvement in the world. I also wonder if that relationship has become a little more morally grey; Ryder still gets his heart aflutter over any woman who's kind of him, which is exactly how he felt about Grace, so I wonder if he genuinely loved her or if it was pure late-teen hormones and latching onto a bright spot in a dark place for himself. He still hesitates to act on any feelings he has, though, out of fear of the same thing happening again. Maybe thinking more about what his true feelings were makes it potentially better? I dunno, I think it's one of those unfortunate things that may just be stuck here. Granted, D&D backstories are a better place for it than the middle of a story.

Out of the Abyss was a bit more intense than expected, so unfortunately Ryder's humorous side was a lot less seen in that game than I would've liked. But I loved his dynamic with the party, particularly with my friend Foxie's kitsune bard, Soleil. (Gee Saria, how come your DM lets your campaign have TWO bards?) We shipped them pretty much immediately; they had a great sunshine-gloom dynamic and Soleil was a comforting presence that encouraged him to at least not bottle his emotions when things got bad. After a particularly nasty death of one of the party's NPCs, Ryder was one of the characters who failed a wisdom save against insanity and sat on the floor bluescreening for several minutes. Soleil sat with him until he came out of it. That's still one of my favorite moments in all of D&D, even if there wasn't much in terms of dialogue there. It lead to Ryder sleeping next to her during their long rest that night, and they ended up cuddling - she initiated.

I would genuinely love another chance to play Ryder in a longer form game, but at the same time, I've played like two other bards already - three if we count a multiclassed ranger of mine, so I feel like I should at least attempt some other characters first :P

[thaliajoy-blog]

Personal best ASOIAF quotes - part 2 (in no particular order)

⭐ "The stone is strong, the roots of the trees go deep, and under the ground the kings of winter sit their thrones. So long as those remained, Winterfell remained. It was not dead, just broken. I'm not dead either" (Bran Stark)

👉 don't let anyone tell you that Asoiaf is a nihilistic, dark, edgy universe. It is anything but. These last words of the second book, after so much misery has already happened to our dear protagonists, are full of hope. The world is broken but not dead, not dying. It can still be mended.

⭐ "Rubies flew like drops of blood from the chest of a dying prince, and as he sank to his knees in the water and with his last breath murmured a woman's name." (Daenerys visions)

👉 way to talk about a character and to sell him to you, peak romanticism. Poetic ✨. Rhaegar would have liked it.

⭐ "You never knew Lyanna as I did, Robert. You saw her beauty, but not the iron underneath." (Ned Stark)

👉 also superb and poetic (there's a good rhythm to that last sentence, it sounds just right, just like what it means should sound like). Adds to the sense of mystery around Lyanna & the fascination this other dead but romantic figure of the past can evoke in us. The binary between what Ned knew & what Robert knew.

⭐ "Some say knowledge is power. Some tell us that all power comes from the gods. Others say it derives from law. Yet that day on the steps of Baelor's sept, our godly High Septon and your queen regent and your ever-so-knowledgeable servant were as powerless as any cobbler or copper in the crowd. Who truly killed Eddard Stark, do you think ? Joffrey, who gave the command ? Ser Illyn Payne, who swung the sword ? Or...another ?

[...] Power resides where men believe it resides. No more, no less [...] A shadow on the wall. Yet shadows can kill. And oftimes a very small man can cast a very large shadow."

(Varys the Spider)

👉 the classic, of course. I always like these kind of things in fiction, essentially saying that the world's rules are based on complete illusions, that we live and we play in a world whose rules we could control but actually cannot, or at least not yet. Although given his ulterior motives it's possible that Varys is completely kidding with Tyrion there ça and severely underselling his part in Ned Stark's death and the unravelling chaos of Westeros.

⭐ "The world was simpler in those days, and men as well as swords were made of finer steel." (Jaime Lannister)

👉 peak nostalgia here, and that's also a big theme of the book. The idea that the world has gone off balance since their youth, because events happened, choices were made, people died that should not have, innocence was lost, people grew to be worse or to reveal themselves to be worse...the longing for the past is a sort of trauma response.

⭐ "You are her perfect prince, agreed, bright and bold and comely as any maid could wish. Daenerys Targaryen is no maid, however. She is the widow of a Dothraki khal, a mother of dragons and a sacker of cities, Aegon the Conqueror with teats. She may not prove as willing as you wish.

[...]

I know that she spent her childhood in exile, impoverished, living on dreams and schemes, running from one city to the next, always fearful, never safe, friendless but for a brother who was by all accounts half-mad... a brother who sold her maidenhood to the Dothraki for the promise of an army. I know that somewhere upon the grass, her dragons hatched, and so did she. I know she is proud. How not? What else was left her but pride? I know she is strong. How not? The Dothraki despise weakness. If Daenerys had been weak, she would have perished with Viserys. I know she is fierce. Astapor, Yunkai and Meereen are proof enough of that. She has survived assassins and conspiracies and fell sorceries, grieved for a brother and a husband and a son, trod the cities of the slavers to dust beneath her dainty sandaled feet." (Tyrion Lannister)

👉 this speech Tyrion makes remind you of how good with words he is, how perceptive he is, a good guesser, and also gives you chills hearing about the brazen brilliance of Daenerys' story. Most of the nuances of her life are there.

⭐ "When Jaime opened his eyes, he found himself staring at the stump of his sword hand. The hand that made me Kingslayer. The goat had robbed him of his glory and his shame, both at once. Leaving what? Who am I now ?" (Jaime Lannister)

👉 like this idea of a "tabula rasa" : Jaime by this "sacrifice" is now opened to new possibilities, by losing something he is gaining the chance to find other futures than what he (hadn't) imagined. So of course, major identity crisis at 30 and so...leading us to some of the best stuff in ASOIAF.

[dominimoonbeam]

Bad Dog

I got an ask for a fic where Darlin kills Quinn and David takes the fall for it, and this is what I made! I hope you liked it! 

tags: trauma, post-violence, injury, blood, panic, dead Quinn, mention of Darlin’s abusive childhood. 

I really need to do a count on how many times I’ve killed this vamp now...

Posted here and over on ao3!

Darlin & David.

BAD DOG

Darlin stood over his body, waiting for him to get up. Waiting. Waiting.

It was raining so hard that they couldn’t hear their own heart beat let alone his. They could check. They had to check. But their whole body still shook on adrenaline and fear—fear that if they lowered their guard and came too close, he would grab them again. He would break more bones, pin them down, run tongue and teeth over skin. They were so cold inside, even when their blood felt hot rolling down their neck and side.

Something burst from the trees and bushes to their right and Darlin jerked toward it so fast their legs finally gave out, dropping them onto their ass. The huge wolf shifted without losing step, coming right at Darlin.

Their arms came up to guard their face, a swear heaving from their already struggling lungs.

But he didn’t hit them, didn’t even grab and pull their arm down.

David was on his knees in front of them, big hands hovering. “Are you okay?” he was asking, voice louder than the rain. He touched their arms, carefully searching them for breaks and cuts while guiding them down. He swore loudly and clamped a hand over the side of their neck.

Darlin jolted, feeling the pain then. Quinn’s teeth had dug so deep. He liked to bite but it wasn’t usually… He hadn’t been biting, he’d been ripping. For the first time, Darlin looked down at themself. They were still in their jogging clothes. They’d gone out for a run. He’d pulled them right off the trail. Usually when they crossed he wanted to talk, to build to an argument, to play with Darlin’s head as much as their physical safety.

But this had been different. The game was over. Quinn had realized they were blood bound and had enough of it. He was getting rid of a problem.

A problem.

Darlin.

Tears welled up in their eyes. They’d been hunting him, but they’d never really been prepare to…

“You’re going to be okay,” David said, voice gathering a note of panic when he saw them crying. His other hand stroked their hair back from their face. “I’ll get you…” He noticed it then. The fact that he hadn’t noticed Quinn until that moment was proof that he really was dead, because if there had been any life in him at all, David would have registered the enemy the moment he approached.

Darlin wanted to reach up and cover his eyes. They didn’t want him to see it. Quinn was… mangled. He had been so beautiful before, terrible but beautiful. Now? Now he was shredded meat. Mauled. And they had done that. They had killed someone. They could still taste his blood.

Bad dog.

They shuddered, almost a full convulsion and it dragged David’s focus back to them. His hand still holding the wound on the side of their neck.

Bad dog.

Darlin’s parents used to whisper it as something the Department would say. Something they would be branded if they got out of line—if the Department had cause to put them down.

 -

 David felt their pulse under his palm, hot and liquid, trying to escape.

He wouldn’t let it. He absolutely would not lose Darlin.

“Everyone knows I’ve been hunting him… They’ll think I… The Department… Oh god. Will they put me down? Will I be exiled?” Their breath was coming too fast, words tumbling out half-formed. They grabbed at David’s arms, eyes full of wild terror. He knew this distrust—this fear. Darlin’s family had always distrusted authority. They wanted to run free. He knew several of Darlin’s bloodline had crossed the Department. Some went away. Some disappeared. There were a million ways to explain it, but the stories Darlin’s parents had been nightmares. His heart lurched. Darlin was working up to running. Better to die running than be caged.

“It was self-defense. You know that. I know that. I won’t let anyone take you away.” He’d never seen them this scared or this exposed. They’d killed Quinn. Had they ever had to kill anyone before? No. He would know. Not that they would have told him—but that he would have seen the shadow of it in their eyes. Darlin was tough, brave, and fearless. But they were also kind, no matter how they tried to hide it. No matter how hard their parents had tried to beat it out of them. They were a scrapper, but not a killer.

“No one’s going to believe that. I’m a liar and a troublemaker.”

He winced, shaking his head.

A wolf howled on the other side of the park. Milo.

Darlin was supposed to meet up with them for a real run, one on all fours, but when they didn’t show up they’d split up to look for them.

Darlin jerked under him, almost pulling out of the hold he had one that ripped side of their neck. “I-I have to—”

“No,” David growled. “You are not running. You are not going anywhere.”

“D-David… I—”

“You are mine,” he reminded, voice hard. It came from someplace deep, in his core, in his instincts, in his blood. Darlin belongs to his pack, and no one was going to take them from him, not even Darlin’s own fear. The only way they could leave, was if they honestly wanted to, and even then—even if they went to the other side of the world—he would always have a place for them.

He could feel Milo getting closer.

He could feel Darlin breaking, their gaze glued to that body. What would this do to them? How long would Quinn be hurting them?

“David…Please…” Darlin begged, and his teeth ached in fury that they would ever have to beg him for anything, let alone beg him to let them go—let them bleed out while they ran for the woods—let them die alone and free.

David leaned in, hand still holding tight to that wound on their neck. He licked blood splatter from their chin, lips, jaw and cheek. He rubbed his face to theirs while he did, until his face and his teeth were red. Darlin stared at him, confused and dazed from shock and blood loss.

Milo burst from the trees, shifting human and taking in the scene. “What…What happened?”

David turned his head to look back at Milo, the blood on his mouth when he said, “Quinn attacked them. We need a healer.”

Milo took another step to see Darlin, his eyes growing and his hands digging into his pockets to find his phone. “Yeah. Yeah, sit tight.”

David looked down at Darlin, at the confusion in their eyes even as the slipped toward unconsciousness. “He attacked you. You fought. I killed him,” he said, just loud enough for them to hear. Milo might hear him too, but David wasn’t worried about that. When the Department asked Milo what he had seen, he could tell the truth. He arrived, he saw Quinn dead and Darlin bleeding out and David, bloody, holding Darlin together. He could say he saw the blood on David’s face. Milo was smart. He would realize what had really happened if he didn’t know immediately. But he was good pack, and he would also realize why the lie was being told.

No one would question David Shaw’s right to defend his pack, or his standing as a law-abiding wolf in his city. If he killed Quinn, then Quinn had it coming and there was no way around it. Darlin’s neck, Darlin’s whole body, was dressed in proof.

David said it again and again, his free hand thumbing away Darlin’s tears when they fell. He pressed his forehead to theirs when their eyes closed. “You are not a bad dog. You are my wolf.”

[marauderundercover]

This Side of Normal Ch. 10

AO3

Prev

Marinette glances around the silent table, willing Jason to say something. Or do something. Or even Dick. She needed one of them to start a conversation, because Adrien hated awkward silences. And if this silence went on much longer, he was definitely going to say something and then she would regret it. Horribly. 

“These rolls are purr-fect.” Adrien says, out of nowhere. Marinette lets out a groan, of course he’d skip straight ahead to the cat puns. Of course that’s where his freaking mind was tonight. 

“Aren’t they? I’d say Alfred’s cooking is pretty claw-some, myself.” Dick speaks up, grinning at Adrien. Marinette looks at him, wide eyed. 

“That’s it. I’ll find a new trapeze partner and a new best friend. Both of you are out of my life.” She deadpans, ignoring Adrien’s offended gasp. 

“But Bugaboo, who else would give you a hand with your crazy schemes?” Adrien asks, and Marinette turns to him, narrowing her eyes. 

“I swear to god if you take your arm off right now you will never find it again.” She threatens, pointing her fork at him from across the table. 

“But Mari, that joke needs the arm. It doesn’t work without it.” He pouts, she rolls her eyes and turns to Damian. 

“I apologize for him. He thinks he’s funny.” She says, turning her glance back at Adrien. “He’s wrong.” 

“Tt. I’m unbothered by his sense of humor. I have lived with Grayson for eight years. His humor is nothing compared to those horrors.” Damian quips, and Marinette swears his lips almost quirk into a smile. She snorts. 

“Guess I made the right choice in throwing Dick to the curb, huh?” She teases, ignoring Dick’s gasp and Adrien’s reassurance to the man. Honestly, who was the adult here? 

“It was for the best, Dupain-Cheng.” Damian says and Marinette winces slightly. The only person who called her by her last name (in regular conversation, anyway) was Chloe. And while the girl had long since given up full on bullying her, she still wasn’t Marinette’s best friend in the world. 

“You can call me Marinette, my last name is kind of a mouthful.” She says, trying to be nonchalant about it. She’d heard him refer to everyone else as their last name the entire evening. She didn’t want to make him uncomfortable, but him calling her Dupain-Cheng was going to make her uncomfortable in the long run. 

“Very well.” He says, and though he doesn’t say her name, she still counts it as a win. A throat clearing catches her attention and she glances at Jason who was glaring at Damian. 

“What’s up, Jay?” She asks, quirking an eyebrow. 

“Nothing Pixie Pop. Just thinking about the time you kicked the ass of that would be mugger.” He says, and Marinette frowns. Mugger? “You know, the one that was obsessed with you?” He clarifies, and she understands. Copycat had been reakumatized during Jason’s stay in Paris. And he had wanted nothing more than a date with Ladybug. Though, she couldn’t understand why he was bringing it up now. 

“I am so lost.” She admits, shaking her head at her pseudo-brother. He grins. 

“That’s fine, just sharing that you can kick ass with the table. In case someone wants to try something.” He says pointedly. Oh. He definitely caught the heart eyes she sent Damian back in the gym. Can he blame her, though? Her weakness was green eyes. And Damian’s were the greenest. 

“I did walk in on you hogtied, Todd. I assumed she was a reputable fighter after that.” Damian says, and Marinette blushes furiously. 

“I’m sorry, what happened?” Mr. Wayne asks, his vapid (and fake) smile replaced with a faux look of bewilderment. She briefly wondered if it was exhausting, putting on a constant act, until she remembered how tired she was throughout collège, before she started lycée and decided she didn’t really care. Yeah, acting constantly was tiring. But why did he do it? Jason nudges her lightly and she blinks, focusing back on the conversation. 

“Oh, Jason and I sparred. He apparently had forgotten that I use my surroundings to my advantage and that Adrien is always on my side.” She explains, shooting Jason a smug smile. Jason huffs. 

“Not always.” He says, and Marinette raises an eyebrow, crossing her arms and giving him a challenging look. 

“Oh really? Name one time that Adrien took your side instead of mine.” She challenges. She grins as Jason starts to think, obviously wracking his brain. 

“Earlier today!” Adrien pipes up, and she immediately turns to him, glaring. 

“What?” She asks, confused. What had- oh. Of fucking course. “That doesn’t count!” She protests, narrowing her eyes. 

“Why not?” Adrien asks, raising an eyebrow in a challenge. She scoffs. 

“Because it wasn’t a fight or argument or anything. It was a joke.” She says. 

“Are you talking about the adoption shit, cause that was definitely not a joke. All the kids B adopts definitely have trauma and certain features.” Jason cuts in, and Marinette sighs. Of course he would clue in. 

“But- no. No. That was a fluke. A glitch in the matrix, obviously. You literally cannot name a singular other time. And technically, ya big jerk, you didn’t even name this time. Adrien did.” Marinette points out, glaring at Jason. 

“I’m sorry, how long have you three known each other?” Mr. Wayne cuts in again, and this time- this time- she sees that some of the confusion on his face is real. But it looks odd, like he wasn’t used to expressing a real emotion. She really needed to remind herself to talk to Jason about this later. She didn’t necessarily want to make it a habit to stick billionaire fathers with asshole tendencies in jail, but she would. She’d do it for her boys. Any day of the week. She hums in thought, adding up the time. The anniversary of Gabriel’s defeat had been a few weeks ago, which meant-

“We’ve known Jason for just over a year.” She says, before glancing at Adrien and grinning. “But I’ve been stuck with this goof for four years.”

“You know you love me.” Adrien says with a wide grin. She rolls her eyes. 

“How exactly did you meet Jason?” Mr. Wayne asks, and she kind of wants to throw her fork at him. What was it, interrogate the random kids at dinner night? Though, to be fair, they were random kids in his house. But she refused to like the man until she’d talked to Jason about the potential assholeish tendencies. 

“He helped me learn some self defence after I got caught up in an akuma attack.” Marinette lies smoothly. Well, it was technically a half truth. But the Waynes didn’t need to know that she was always caught up in akuma attacks. 

“Akuma?” Mr. Wayne asks, and Marinette glances at Jason with a frown. Had he not told his father about anything? Not even the basics? 

“Wait, is that what the thing that flooded Paris is called?” Dick asks suddenly and Marinette nearly flinches from the memory. That was one of the akumas that still gave her nightmares. One of the ones that was burned in the back of her eyelids when all she wanted was to sleep. And not think about bloated corpses and dead classmates for one goddamn minute. She lets out a steadying breath, glancing at Jason whose face had changed from annoyance to concern. She resists the urge to roll her eyes. She could talk about akumas. It was the past. Sure, she had refused all of the therapy options her parents gave her and Adrien, but she didn’t need it. She was fine. 

“Yeah. Technically, her akumatized name was Siren. But, the general term for those attacks was ‘akuma’.” She says, gripping her fork a little tighter than necessary, grounding herself with Tikki’s reassuring nudges from inside her purse. 

“There were more?” Dick asks, his eyes wide. Marinette glances at Jason and raises an eyebrow. Why had he not said anything? He’d been there for an entire month of Hawkmoth’s reign. He’d seen dozens of akuma attacks. Jason shrugs. Thank Jay. Super helpful. 

“When you get down to it, there were probably hundreds if not thousands more. Some people, like Siren, were turned into the same akuma several times. Some people became a different akuma when they were akumatized again. I think it just depended on the person or their issue.” Marinette explains, hating how dry her mouth felt all of a sudden. She could talk about this. She could. So why was everything a little too bright? Why was the sound of forks against plates a little too loud? 

“Did the Justice League stop it?” Damian asks, though by his tone, he seems to already know the answer. Odd. 

“No, the local heroes did. Ladybug and Chat Noir.” Marinette says, ignoring the constricting feeling in her chest. 

“Why-” Mr. Wayne starts, but Jason clears his throat. Everyone glances at him, and Marinette is unsurprised to see the flicker of anger in his eyes. Especially after she glances at Adrien and sees how pale he’s gotten. She kicks him lightly under the table to get his attention, frowning at him in a silent question. He nods, slightly. She purses her lips, not believing for a second that he was actually okay. But they could talk later. Away from eager ears. 

“I’m sure you remember what Dick said about my phone call from when I first arrived in Paris. Marinette and Adrien dealt with attacks like that interrupting their day to day lives from thirteen to sixteen. I get that you’re not the best at knowing when to drop the damn topic, but I really think you should drop the damn topic.” Jason says, and though he’s smiling, Marinette can see the danger behind it. The warning. ‘Drop it, or I’ll make you’. 

“My apologies, it was just so interesting.” Mr. Wayne says and this time Marinette winces at the falseness in his voice. And the smile on his face. God, this man could not have lasted a day in Hawkmoth’s Paris. 

---

Finally, finally, dinner was over. After the akuma talk ceased, it was extremely awkward. Mr. Wayne looked like he would rather be anywhere else. And Marinette couldn’t blame him, wanting nothing more than to get back to her hotel room and away from the constant lack of real emotion on the eldest Wayne’s face. It was tiresome, just watching him. 

“Thanks again, for having us.” Marinette says, mostly directing her comment to Dick and Alfred. Alfred just nods. 

“Of course! Come back any time. Really soon, actually, so we can work more on the trapeze. I can’t lose my new trapeze buddy.” Dick says with a wide smile. Marinette holds back a sigh, nodding instead. She liked Dick, she did. But she’d definitely have to make sure that Mr. Wayne wouldn’t be around. She still wasn’t sure what to think of him. 

“You should also spar with me, some time.” Damian speaks up and Marinette blinks in surprise. 

“Spar. With...you?” She says, tilting her head in confusion. That came out of nowhere. 

“Yes. You took down Todd easily, and I am far superior. You would actually have a challenge if we sparred.” He says. She smirks, and suddenly, with a burst of confidence she didn’t know she had, says:

“Sure thing, Pretty boy.” Before turning and walking straight out the door. The second she’s outside, she drops her head into her hands. “I can’t believe I just said that.” She mumbles under her breath. 

“Pretty boy?” Adrien says with a smirk, she glares at him and moves down the front steps. 

“Fuck you.” She says, no real venom in her voice. The boy knew how she got around crushes. He’d seen it firsthand. With him. With Luka. With Kagami. With the girl with bright green eyes who worked at the coffee shop across the street from the bakery. She was an absolute disaster. He was worse, but still. He wasn’t the one with the quickly developing crush on the youngest Wayne. 

“Pretty boy?” Jason asks, a scowl on his face as he catches up to the two. 

“Not another word, Jason.” She scowls at him, crossing her arms defiantly. He holds his hands up in surrender. 

“Sure.” He says. Her mind rushes suddenly to her previous thought. Youngest Wayne. Damian Wayne. Hadn’t Lila- she snorts, before erupting into uncontrollable laughter, ignoring the worried looks from Adrien. 

“I- oh my god, Jay.” She manages to say, straightening up and following Jason to the car he was borrowing to drive them back to the hotel.

“I’m completely lost.” He says.

“Join the club.” Adrien adds, and Marinette just laughs again. 

“Your little brother is Damian Wayne.” She says, as if it should be obvious. Jason doesn’t get it, and neither does Adrien. But after a moment-

“Oh my god, that’s hilarious!” Adrien cries, letting out a chuckle. Jason huffs as the trio get into the car. 

“Care to share with the class?” He asks, and Marinette snorts. 

“Absolutely not, I dislike the majority of those people.” She says, referring to the group who was hopefully already in their rooms and not in the lobby of the hotel. “Now it’s funny that your brother is Damian Wayne because Lila made us come to Gotham instead of New York and London, because she’s dating him.” She explains and Jason scoffs. 

“Yeah right.” 

“Obviously she’s not actually dating him, Jay. But it’s freaking hilarious that she thinks she’s gonna get away with it. He definitely goes to Gotham Academy, and people are definitely going to call her out.” She says, not even trying to hide the absolute glee she’s feeling. If there was ever a time for all of Lila’s lies to come crashing down around her, now would be good. When she can’t just run away and claim Marinette set it up. If people Marinette didn’t even know called Lila out, well, that would be irrefutable evidence, right? 

“Her regime is gonna topple and I’m gonna take you guys out for ice cream to celebrate.” Jason declares and Marinette laughs again. She was so against the idea of Gotham originally, but now, with Jason at their sides again, she’d decided that it wasn’t so bad. Suddenly remembering what had been on her mind most of the night, she turns to Jason. 

“Jay, I have a serious question. And I know it’s a little hard to talk about but just know that we’re here for you to support you, and that we’ll figure out a way to make sure you and your brothers are safe and-” 

“Whoa, Pix, calm down kiddo. You’re rambling again.” He says gently, furrowing his eyebrows. He pulls the car over to the side of the road and turns to put his full attention on the two. “What��s bothering you?” He asks. 

“Is Mr. Wayne abusive?” She asks and Jason blinks. “I saw how hesitant you were to call him your father, and you were tense around him a lot of the night. And I don’t think the man had one legitimate expression all night. He was acting the whole time.” Marinette says, looking at him worriedly. “Look, Jay, I don’t necessarily want to make a habit of putting billionaires in jail, but I’d do it for you.” 

“Is he- you would-” Jason stops and lets out a breath, obviously trying to compose himself. “No, kiddo, he’s not.” He finally says. Marinette frowns. 

“Really?” She asks, and he sighs. 

“Yeah, look. Our relationship has been...rough, for a couple years. We had a sort of falling out when I was a teenager and I stopped talking to him for several years. We reconnected a while ago, but it’s still rocky at times. I don’t usually call him dad or father or anything. He’s just Bruce, or B, to me.” Jason explains and Marinette nods, letting out a small sigh of relief. 

“I was worried, Jay.” She admits, and Jason grins at her before pulling away from the curb again. 

“I didn’t even catch on.” Adrien says with a frown. Marinette rolls her eyes, smiling at him with fondness. 

“Course you didn’t Kitty. Reading people isn’t really your strong suit.” She says with a small smile. He huffs, but nods in agreement. 

“True.” He says and Marinette laughs. She could officially take Bruce Wayne off her ‘threat to be dealt with immediately’ list and move him to ‘possible future annoyance’ list. A big improvement for the man, and it would mean she wouldn’t be as tense around him the next time she saw him.

Next

Tag list: @toodaloo-kangaroo @laurcad123 @kittenmywaythrulife @lost-in-the-world-of-maribat @queenz-z @daminette-56

[halfwayinlight]

it’s 100% on track that Laura would insist on a family meeting. and then recurring family meetings until her son and grandson reconcile.

what I think that Nikolas and Spencer are completely missing, though, is that more than it being upsetting for Laura to feel like she’s in the middle and hear them both complain about each other’s behavior (and both have been wrong) while she loves both of them and knows they love each other....

but also... she’s trying so hard to salvage the time they do have together. this is hitting on a lot of her trauma

> Laura losing her entire childhood with her actual mother because she was abducted at birth and illegally adopted

> Laura losing time with Nikolas in his childhood because she had to leave him in order to get away from her captors and rapist

> Laura losing time with Amy and Lesley and Ruby and Bobbie and the rest of her family when she and Luke spent a full decade on the run

> Laura losing time with her kids and family when she was thrown into jail and framed for a murder she didn’t commit

> Laura losing time with Lucky when Nikolas came back and her family imploded for a while because Luke and Lucky were so angry that she had a kid from a forced marriage that she actually missed and cared about because even if the circumstances were awful and she did not get to consent, Nikolas was still her baby/child

> Laura losing years with her mom when Lesley was presumed dead from a car wreck but was actually abducted by Helena Cassadine and nearly catatonic from the trauma

> Laura losing a year with Lucky when he was believed to have died in a fire... but was really abducted and brainwashed by Helena Cassadine

> Oh yeah... What was it four plus years Laura lost when she was in a catatonic state, during which Lulu literally grew up (thanks SORAS)

> Laura losing all these years with Lucky because he’s away all the time

> Laura losing several years with Nikolas both times he faked his death

> Laura losing the past few years with Lulu who is now in a coma

> And Laura losing the past 4 or so months with her family while in safe houses with FBI protection

so maybe those 2 could take a half step back and think about her perspective on this, too. how it’s hurting her and the rest of the family. I think Nikolas has a LOT more time he needs to put into showing love and consistency and a change from his selfishness. I’m not agreeing that Spencer needs to just forget everything. But yeah... they’re not thinking about how this is hitting her at all. thank God for Kevin. He seems to be the person that actually sees it all in this context of how it’s affecting his wife.

[ihni]

Out of the ashes, part 18

For whumptober day 18, “Now smile for the camera”

~~~

Breakfast was a somewhat awkward affair. Joyce had obviously filled the kids in on what had happened, because none of them mentioned anything about a supposedly dead teenager who sacrificed himself for them last summer suddenly appearing in their house. El moved places once Hargrove had hesitantly sat down at the table, though, so that she was sitting next to him, and she put a tall stack of waffles on a plate and slid it in front of him without a word. Will nudged the whipped cream can closer meaningfully, and Joyce refilled everyone’s juice glasses.

Hargrove looked a bit overwhelmed, and he sat stiffly in his chair, having wrapped the blanket over his shoulders. No one really spoke except for a couple of words here and there. After a while longer of the – for Steve – increasingly stressful silence, he stood up and pointedly ignored Hargrove tensing up at the sudden movement. Grabbing a sandwich and an apple, Steve mumbled something about going to check on Robin, and excused himself.

Apparently he had no problems with breaking into secret labs, running from the lab’s guards in the woods, or even sitting next to a sleeping trauma victim and trying to soothe his nightmares – but sitting in a warm and safe kitchen surrounded by trustworthy people and said trauma victim, trying to have breakfast like a civilized person? That was apparently too much.

Silently berating himself for acting so weird, he knocked on the door to Joyce’s room and waited a full four seconds before he entered, in case Robin wasn’t decent. He found her sitting on the bed with papers and tapes spread out all around her, her nose buried in a folder. So engulfed in this was she, that she didn’t even look up when he entered. Not until he placed the sandwich on her knee, did she look up with a distracted smile.

“Oh hey, thanks,” she said and grabbed it before it fell. She immediately stuffed like half of it into her mouth and then spoke without chewing, crumbs flying everywhere, “Oh my god I love you, this is great.”

Steve made a mental note to shake off the sheets before they left. Breadcrumbs in bed was the worst, and Joyce didn’t deserve that.

“Anything we can use?” he asked, indicating the papers around her and nodding at the file she was currently reading. He didn’t ask to read it – it seemed to be page after page of plain text, and the first words Steve caught sight of was all science jargon, so he figured he was better off leaving the reading to someone who would understand it.

From the looks of it, Robin had no problems understanding it. At his question, she actually lit up and shoved a page of mumbo-jumbo in his face. “Yeah, actually! Their main focus seems to have been the creatures in the Upside Down – though of course they don’t call it that – because they’ve been referencing the Mindflayer and the dogs several times.” She took another bite of her sandwich while Steve started munching on the apple. “I haven’t had time to go through much of it – I just woke up – but there has definitely been some less-then-voluntary human trials.” Her expression turned serious as she turned toward him. “I haven’t found mentions of any kids yet, but Steve? If Billy is who they’re referring to in this, then these tapes are probably going to tell us a lot.” She motioned to a stack of tapes next to her. There were five in total, and three of them were labeled with ‘065’ as well as a date. All of them were dated during the last five months. “Do you think Mrs. Byers has a VCR?”

Steve’s mouth got dry. “Uh, I think I saw one in the living room. Why?”

“I think we should see what’s on them.” Steve wasn’t keen on seeing whatever was on those tapes, especially after seeing Hargrove’s injuries up close, but Robin spoke over him before he could interrupt. “No, listen. He didn’t want to go to the hospital, fine. Then we need to watch these so we know what’s happened to him. If we know that, we can go from there. We can help him.” Steve was wavering, and she saw it. “Besides, we need to look through them eventually, to see if it’s something we can use to shut them down. Stop them. For good.”

Steve groaned and put aside his apple. “Fine. But I’m not watching it with Hargrove in the next room. He shouldn’t have to see it.”

On that, they agreed. So they went back to the kitchen, and while Robin sat down and struck up a friendly but somewhat stilted conversation with the kids, Steve discreetly took Joyce aside to ask for her help. She wasn’t overjoyed that there were possible videotapes of what could have happened, but she was even less happy about the thought of the kids or Hargrove witnessing it, so she agreed to help. So when breakfast was cleared away, she coaxed Hargrove into the bathroom for a warm bath (“Take all the time you need, sweetheart, I’ll be close by if you need anything, okay?”), and then sent Will and El to the neighbor’s house – they were, apparently, an elderly couple that Joyce had befriended and used as babysitters when she had to work and no one else was home.

When the three of them – Steve, Robin and Joyce – were alone, Robin turned on the TV and popped the first tape into the player. Mindful of the way Hargrove was in the bathroom, just a couple of doors down, Steve reached for the remote and turned the volume almost all the way down.

Despite that, they could all hear clearly as a male voice said, “Subject 65, fourth attempt at manifesting through electricity”, before whatever was blocking the camera was removed and they could all see what it showed; Hargrove, sitting in a chair – shackled to it, when Steve looked closer – with a bunch of wires connected to various points on his body with leather and metal straps. There was a bite guard in his mouth, and his eyes were wide and panicked. He was shaking his head frantically and fighting against the bonds.

The same voice came again, and this time it sounded decidedly un-scientific when it said, “Now smile for the camera.” And in the next breath, someone flicked a switch that sent an electric shock through the wires. Hargrove threw his head back and screamed through the bite guard; the tendons in his neck taut, his whole body seizing but unable to move from where he was strapped to the chair.

It went on for what seemed like forever, and just when Steve raised the remote to – he didn’t even know what; mute the video, or turn it off or something – it stopped. Hargrove on the screen slumped in the chair, releasing gasping sobs as he tried to breathe, and the voice came back again. “Prolonged exposure, level two; no reaction. Moving on to level three.”

And then they hit the switch again.

~~~

(First) (Previous) (On AO3) (Next)

[ashintheairlikesnow]

i'm fucking losing it about that most recent post and i cannot get coherent words out about it because i get too excited about the possibilities and it is extremely hard to type while flapping but !!! oh my god!!!! oh my godd!!!!!!!!!

CW: Opening to what is definitely going to be a severe trauma response in the next piece, brief victim-blaming language

Jake watches the video, and Laken can't read his expression at all. It's grim, maybe - his jaw is set, and his blue eyes don't leave the laptop screen.

Youtube starts with a stupid fucking State Farm car insurance ad, and Jake is quiet and thoughtful before the ad even ends. He didn't argue with Laken, or suggest disbelief. He only texted come to the house and show me while C is at rehearsal, and Laken had hopped on two buses and walked half a mile, but here they are, now, only a little sweaty for their efforts.

Laken hunches over next to him, their hands over their mouth, thick wavy black hair falling over their eyes. They'd re-shaved the sides yesterday and the air moved over the shorn-short spaces as the fan turned overhead.

They don't speak. They just watch Jake watch Tristan Higgs dance. They watch Antoni, Chris's other brother, sit quietly on Jake's other side, his own dark eyes equally fixed on the screen. When the video ends, Jake hits the replay button and watches it again.

And again.

"This video is from eight years ago," He finally says. His voice is a deep rumble, barely a sound human ears can hear. “I mean, the dancing is from eight years ago.”

Laken swallows and nods. "Um, y-yeah. So he would be-"

"Fifteen," Jake finishes for them. "Give or take. If he's as old as I think he is. And this guy seems pretty fucking sure that Tristan Higgs is dead."

"Right." Laken swallows, uncomfortable. "So, Ben-... You remember Ben. He's, um. Been looking stuff up, and... He sent me some links to, like, old news articles, and... Um..."

"What is in the articles?" Where Jake's voice is rough-edged, struggling for control, Antoni's voice is soft, hazy with his accent, sliding over consonants and coasting the vowels. "What is he sending?"

"So, um, like... This double-... Uh, double-murder and stuff. These people that were killed and just, like, their kid survived, Tristan Higgs. Except then he disappears-... just drops off the face of the earth. But no obit or anything.”

Jake and Antoni look at each other, the men sharing an expression that communicates a wealth of information Laken isn't privy to. But the one thing they don't show is any surprise.

"-and... Ben's been messaging the guy that posted the video, and-... They're gonna meet, um, in a couple days. At, you know where La Mode is? The ice cream place where they filmed that bit in that old Vince Shield movie-"

"I know where La Mode is, yeah," Jake says, watching Laken carefully. He hasn't looked at them like this in a long time, since he first met them - calculating and slightly cold, considering the risk they pose to Chris and to everyone else in his house.

"I also am knowing that place," Antoni says with a nod, putting a hand on Jake's arm. Jake is tense - Laken didn't realize it until he suddenly relaxes, consciously, now. "Why is Ben wanting to talk to this man?"

"I, I don't know. He kind of, he's really intense about this stuff. You know, when he found out Chris was, um, was... a pet..." The word is ash on their tongue, gums up around their teeth, makes their stomach flip in disgust. "... He kind of lost his shit once we got Chris calm about it. I think he thought-... Uh, you know, people like Chris, they get targeted, and... so he's been thinking about that.”

“This isn’t his business, Laken,” Jake says, weary, closing his eyes.

“No, I know, but he's got a little brother who's the same age Chris was when-... this video must have been made. Who’s a lot like him. So I think he's... I don't know. Maybe thinking, you know, if it was his brother, he’d want someone to do all this... if-... if someone took his brother away."

"Yeah, I get it." Jake swallows, sitting up slowly, rubbing at his face. He's got a day-old stubble along his jaw, the kind that made Laken grin a little when they saw the rubbed-red, irritated jawline of the guy with black hair who answered the door, Chris's other brother kind of.

The one that Laken met the night Dylan told Ben and them where Chris really came from. Except... not this. Dylan hadn't known this.

"So, we need to get Chris ready-"

"Get me ready for, for, for what? Laken, why, why are you here?"

Laken closes their eyes and lets out a slow, soft sigh. Of course - the one night they needed Chris's rehearsal to run full-length is the one night he comes back early. They turn to look at Chris and give him a slight smile. "Hey, querido, we just, um-... So, there's..."

The video has still been playing in the background, forgotten, and the music kicks into the crescendo where the second gymnast steps up, catching Chris's attention. "What's, what's that? Is, is, is, is is is it-"

He goes silent as Tristan Higgs steps into place, shoots his bright smile towards Akio Nakamura, and does his first set of flips and spins.

The three of them watch Chris watching Tristan Higgs. They watch his backpack slide off his shoulder and thump to the ground. They watch his eyes - the perfect match to the eyes of the boy on the screen - follow Tristan and Akio dancing briefly back to back, his laughter as he drops his head onto Akio's shoulder.

Something in the line of his shoulders tightens. His skin is pale under the freckles, his hair suddenly seems too garishly bright against the rest of him. There are shadows under his eyes Laken has never seen before. He looks younger... and haunted.

They hold their breath until it ends, the two boys hugging and laughing, Tristan bouncing and rocking and flapping ecstatically when the routine went off without a hitch.

The video cycles to the next one, a different set of Nakamura's. Chris blinks and then looks at the three of them, eyes moving from one to the next. "Why... are you watching... that?"

His voice shifts, change, slips into a drip-drop of words, a slowly leaking faucet language that Laken barely understands when compared to his usual mile-a-minute. He stands perfectly still.

Once again, Jake and Antoni aren't surprised.

"Chrisha," Antoni says, gently. Jake's jaw works, maybe fighting for words that don't come. "That is you, we think. You were... are Tristan Higgs."

Chris's eyes move to Antoni. Then back to Jake. "No," He says, simply. "I'm... not."

"Chris?" Laken feels a wash of uncertainty. "Are you okay? We're pretty sure this is you."

Chris stares right through Laken, eyes empty, full of a kind of fog all their love can't break through. "No, I, I'm not. I'm... not him."

Jake is the one to push himself to his feet first, taking Chris gently by the arm to walk him back towards the doorway. "Chris-"

"I'm... not, not him," Chris says, looking up at Jake, up and up and up. "I'm... not, Jake."

Chris, Laken's sunshine boy, their love and light and life, is a dull bit of broken rock, sodden earth after too much rain, the sooty stumps of trees in an empty wildfire-wrecked field.

"I know it's hard," Jake says, folding Chris into his arms, and Laken watches with a twist of something that isn't quite jealousy, but isn't that far off. Chris will always turn to Jake, first. They can't compete with that - they don't want to, even, they just sort of wish they could. "I know, Chris. But Laken's right, this kid... I think that might really be you."

"No," Chris whispers, burying his head into Jake's chest. "No, no, no. I'm... not. I, I make myself, I made Chris, I don't want to, to, to to to-to be anyone else anymore..."

"You're still Chris," Jake murmurs, and holds him close. "You're still my brother. This just tells us maybe a little bit about what happened before I met you, that's all. That's it, Chris. Nothing has to change."

"Everything changed," Chris whispers, pulling slowly back. "Because I, I did it wrong. I, I, I moved, wasn't... I was, was supposed to hide... and, and be so quiet..." His hands move, one finger up to his lips, as though shushing himself. The empty look in his eyes is cracking open to a well of pain that Laken, for all the times they've held him after nightmares and all the meltdowns they've seen... They've never seen it quite like this. 

He pulls away from Jake, and slowly picks his backpack up from the floor.

"Chris?" Laken shifts forward, but the look on his face when he glances back at them makes them stop short. "Baby, I-"

"Go... home, Laken," Chris says, and turns away from them. "Tris, Tristan Higgs is, is, is, is dead. He, he, he... he he-... he, k-... killed people, and he’s, he’s, he’s dead.” 

He's gone, his feet heavy on the stairs, before Laken can say another word.

Jake and Antoni glance at each other - another immense conversation contained in a single shared look - and then Jake sighs. "Come in, Laken. I'll drive you back to campus. Ant, if you'll-"

"Watch the house and speak to Chrisha. Got it." Antoni gives Laken a soft, sympathetic smile. "These things are not easy," He says, softly. "You cannot pick yourself back up again, simple as that, start a story where you were left off. I will speak with him."

"But, I should-"

"You'll make it worse," Jake says, rough-edged again.

"Harder," Antoni gently corrects. "He will need us, who know what it is they do to our minds, tonight."

"Wh-what do they do?” Laken looks from one of the men to the other. “I, I know memory loss, I get that, and he was clearly-... hurt, so much, but-”

“They take a frightened man-... or, child,” Antoni says, voice gentle as always. “And they teach us that the person we were before was so terrible that the person we are now exists only to suffer.”

“But he’s just a kid, there, in that video,” Laken says, a token protest, voice weak. Antoni’s smile widens, slightly, in its sympathy for them. “There’s no kid on earth who could possibly deserve that. He doesn’t even remember what happened!”

“You do not have to remember a crime to be told you are responsible for it.”

“But-”

Antoni takes their hands in his, looking them right in the eyes. “When you are alone, and frightened, and desperate to survive... you will believe anything that gives you the slightest chance for a way out.”

Laken swallows, hard, thinking of Chris whispering after a nightmare one night, they made me a Romantic pet because I was a slut who wanted it all the time - their sunshine boy, who never ever does, effortlessly believing a lie, repeating back the names they called him, acting unbothered and like he barely noticed his own words.

Laken swallows back a flip of disgust at the idea of a teenager being taught to hate himself that way. 

“Wh-what happens if he remembers everything they made him forget?” Laken’s voice is a whisper.

“If we’re lucky,” Jake says gruffly, “He doesn’t remember it all at once. If we’re not-”

A wail shatters their conversation, a low keening cry from upstairs, muffled by distance and closed doors, a sound of wild screaming wordless grief. All three of them flinch as there’s a resounding crash and a slammed door.

“If we not, that happens,” Jake says, and he’s on his feet and up the stairs before Laken can remind him that he’d said he would take them home. They move to stand, but Antoni lays a hand on their arm.

“Jake, first,” He says softly. “It is easy to be overwhelmed, in these moments. Jake first, and then you.”

What they feel now is definitely a little bit jealousy.

And guilt.

Chris’s screaming, his misery and pain, seems to go on forever, twist itself into the walls of the house and burrow in. Antoni leaves to comfort frightened people who stick their heads out of doors and ask what’s going on, people Laken doesn’t know and has never been introduced to. They look at Laken, consider them, and Antoni speaks to them with soft reassurance while Laken feels helpless, and hopeless, and pointless in this house full of hurting people, while their own hurting person finds comfort in his brother, not in them.

They turn back to look at Jake’s laptop, sitting alone and watching a group of gymnasts hugging after getting their scores, laughing.

The title dates it as a year after the dancing video.

By the time this one was filmed, Tristan Higgs was already gone.

---

Tagging: @burtlederp  , @finder-of-rings  , @endless-whump , @whumpfigure  , @slaintetowhump  , @astrobly  @newandfiguringitout  , @doveotions  , @pretty-face-breaker  , @boxboysandotherwhump  , @oops-its-whump  @moose-teeth  , @cubeswhump  , @cupcakes-and-pain  @whump-tr0pes  @whumpiary  @orchidscript

[welllpthisishappening]

falling feels like flying ['til the bone crush]

Someone should revoke her title. 

They’re trying, Emma supposes. Inevitable death probably means people can’t call her savior anymore, but they shouldn’t call her that now and that’s almost entirely because of what an absolute and complete liar she is. Telling Killian she would have done the same after he admitted he didn’t get rid of the shears isn’t her most massive lie, although it might be her most ridiculous. And they both know it’s not true. She wouldn’t do the same thing, she has. More than once. 

AN: That gif has nothing to do with the story! Here is approximately 3.5K where I once again force Emma and Killian to acknowledge their trauma. Not in the Underworld this time, though! So maybe we’re all evolving here. I blame this gif set, which I saw this morning and felt compelled to write something about. Maybe that evolution is also a lie, actually. 

———

“I lied.” Killian hums, exhaustion clinging to the sound, and Emma understands that. Less so why she’s talking right now, but neither one of those words seemed particularly interested in preserving the quiet calm of this particular moment, and she’s never been a lightweight quite like this. In more ways than one, she supposes. Hazy thoughts drift through her brain, muddled as it is by buttered rum and the steady flicker of flames in the fireplace because naturally this is the sort of house that has multiple fireplaces, and she burrows her face closer. 

To Killian’s chest. 

Takes a deep breath, not quite slow, but maybe a little greedy, and they ordered both things. Pizza and Chinese, half-finished egg rolls and beheaded slices of cheese with extra peppers strewn across the coffee table because Emma always likes that extra bit of crust and Killian’s nothing if not a frustratingly endearing sort of pushover. 

With her, especially. 

She closes her eyes. 

“I lied,” Emma repeats, “in the hospital, I mean. Wrong verb tense.” “You’re not making any sense at all, darling.”

Her nose must be cold — if the way Killian tenses as soon as it brushes his skin is any indication, but Emma knows it’s far more than that and far deeper than that and she might be the world’s biggest idiot. Looming death does that to a person, she supposes. 

Breathing isn’t particularly easy. And that’s not only because she ate four pizza slices worth of crust. Still, using death as an excuse again seems like an emotional crutch and an unreasonable reason, her muddled mind capable of clinging to every single letter in that particular endearment. It might be her favorite. 

She’s not sure she’s ever told him that. 

Stupid, really. 

“I told you that I get it; what you did today, and that part’s definitely true. But, uh, the rest of it. That I would have done the same thing? Total lie, right? I mean, I did it. That’s what happened.” Nothing. Just flickering flames and the quiet hum of a TV, neither one of them has been interested in actually watching all night. Emma doesn’t even know what channel they’re on. For all she knows, the remote’s in the kitchen. 

She counts inhales. Tries to keep her exhales measured, most of her face still pressed into the collar of Killian’s shirt as it is. And it takes about five full seconds before his hand moves, starts tracing a calm line up her spine, following that path until he reaches the base of her neck and the goosebumps that have already exploded on her skin and oxygen is overrated anyway. Holding her breath as soon as his fingers card through the ends of hair is basically instinct at this point. 

“Felt wrong to point that out at the time,” he mutters, “all things considered.” “Been kind of a long day.” “Reuniting with long-lost relatives will do that.” Scoffing is not the best reaction. Nothing about this is funny. Includes far too much death and dismay, and Emma’s gaze flickers up. Of its own accord and something much deeper, like the absolute refusal to accept a world where he does not exist. 

Goddamn Captain Hook. 

She loves him so much sometimes she thinks she’ll simply burst with the force of it all. 

It’s a gross thought, honestly. 

And they’ve already spent far too much time in the hospital today.

“Is he ok? Li—” Cutting herself off, Emma grits her teeth, but one side of Killian’s mouth is already tugging up, and the kiss that lands on her forehead is as soft as anything. Maybe bursting isn’t so bad, actually. So long as she can come up with another word for it. “God, that’s so weird.” Killian hums. “Indeed.” “Thoughts, feelings, et cetera?” “Vast. And none of them particularly pleasant.” “Seems fair. That sort of day, huh?” “Indeed.” They need more blankets. Need more things that are theirs in a collective sort of way, but that’s a dangerous and disingenuous train of thought, and Emma’s fingers twitch towards the fire. To ward off the sudden chill that’s settled between her shoulder blades, and it almost works, but it does absolutely nothing to help the sway of her stomach and the acid lingering in the back of her throat, threatening to burn far more than what these meager flames are able to do. 

“Should have finished high school,” Emma mumbles, “then I could choose more accurate verb tenses from my inevitably vast vocabulary. Did. Have done. Would do again, several thousand times over.”

“That’s the future tense.” None of his words come with any kind of pointed emotion, but Emma hears it all the same. Can see the tightness that lingers in the corners of his mouth and the way he’s holding his shoulders, straight as a line, and some joke about rigging that she no intention of making, and the furrow between his brows makes every muscle in her chest twist. Ache too, for good measure. 

With the promise of everything she wants to say and everything she hasn’t or can’t and—

Fuck magic, quite honestly. And the rules no one’s bothered to mention until now. Seems like poor planning on everybody’s part. 

“You heard me.” “I did,” Killian agrees lightly, and his hand has never actually stopped moving. It’s nice. Steady. Something Emma can almost nearly time her breathing too. “I would also choose that particular tense. If given the choice, that is.” “Do you not think you have that?” “I don’t particularly enjoy the thought. I’m rather partial to the option of whim, you see. Pirate and all that. We don’t much abide by schedules and fated decision.” “Seems like it’d be in the by-laws.” “Well, by-laws by their very nature are rather contradictory to the entire pirate notion, but you’ve got the gist of it at least.” Emma laughs. Doesn’t quite regret the sound, even as out of place as it is — just presses it into the edge of Killian’s shirt and the buttons he never bothers to do, trying to brandh the smell of him and the feel of him into every corner of her memory and she’s not really sure what happens after. Once the prophecy is fulfilled, and all that. 

She’s got too much unfinished business. 

To totally leave this particular plane of reality. 

She doesn’t mention that either. Not when the crux of that business is breathing steadily under her hand, and Emma can’t remember when she moved her hand, only that Killian’s warm under her touch, and he’s always so much warmer. Than just about anything else she’s aware of. 

“I thought you were dead.”

Of all the things Emma expects to happen in the midst of this night and this moment — and it’s really not a very long list, admittedly — that did not even make the cut. Wasn’t a consideration or a fledgling idea in the back of her mind, several different vertebrae almost audibly objecting when she jerks her head up. To find Killian staring straight ahead, lips not much more than a thin line across his face. 

Seriously, the rigging jokes almost write themselves. Which is more than Emma can say about her clearly piece of shit list, as metaphorical as it might be. 

“I don’t—” “—When I saw you,” Killian interrupts, and none of the words shake. Come out like a stream of consciousness and memories neither one of them have able to shake yet. Or talk about. Can’t possibly be healthy. “Chained to that stone, blood dripping into my mouth, and then all of a sudden, there you were. Worried I’d simply dreamt you up, couldn’t imagine how you looked quite that lovely in that hell hole, otherwise.” “Oh, that’s kind of insulting, actually.” “Hair like the bloody sun.” “Better,” Emma murmurs. Reaching up, her fingers tangle with the charms around his neck. Pieces of luck and trinkets she hasn’t learned all the stories to yet. The idea that she won’t makes her nauseous. “You told me ‘you shouldn’t be here.’” “Aye, and I meant it.” “Because you thought…” “Living people don’t often appear in such a God awful place, do they? Not without something tragic happening, and my mind was impressively efficient on that front.” “Which one is that?” “Every threat that’s ever lingered, every person I would have gladly run through if it meant you were safe. Half of goddamn Camelot.” Emma might snicker. Killian’s arm tightens, though. And that’s all she’s really worried about. “I think I could have taken Arthur. Y’know if it had come to that.” “Likely not a very good swordsman,” Killian nods, but that’s only so his lips can trace Emma’s temple and the top of her hair. More than once. Like he’s still making sure. “Pampered prince—” “—He was totally a king, babe. That’s like...the most basic Camelot knowledge.” “Ask me in five minutes if I care at all about anything to do with Camelot.” “Should I time it, or…” He scoffs. Presses another half dozen kisses to any spot he can reach, and he can actually reach a fair amount of places. Emma’s impressed. Swooning too, but also pretty impressed. “I kept thinking about you,” Killian says, softer than the last few words have been, and it sounds like an admission and another promise, and it’s weird that it can be both. At the same time. “This house. What it was and wasn’t. All those possible verb tenses.”

“I’m sorry.” “Ah, that’s not your fault, love. None of this is, really, but—well, it did make it so seeing you, realizing you were there...left all of those thoughts crashing down around my ears, so to speak. Falling apart, like an avalanche of what hadn’t been and what I still wanted so desperately. No matter what Hades did.” “Stupid stubborn.” “I believe there’s something about a pot and a kettle in this realm.” “Don’t have that cliche in the Enchanted Forest, huh?” “Not that I’m aware of, no.” “Maybe you just didn’t go to a good college.” “Tell me every Greek word you know,” Killian challenges, and Emma rolls her eyes. Ignores the first few flutters of a headache brewing at the base of her skull. “It didn’t seem fair.” “Which part?” “All of it is also rather vast, but mostly that if you were there, then it happened again.” Narrowing her eyes, Emma tries to piece together those letters and the syllables they make, only to be marginally annoyed when she can’t make sense of them. Killian kisses the bridge of her nose. 

She might have to go get Tylenol soon. 

“Losing you without fighting, without challenge the goddamn reaper myself, was worse than anything He could have done,” Killian continues, and he doesn’t have to be more specific. “Worse than whatever pain I’ve ever suffered. Cut off twenty more limbs; it wouldn’t even come close.” “Do you have that many?” “Your humor lacks a little something; you know that, Swan?” “It’s a defense mechanism.” He noses at her hair. Drags the soft hum of what could very well be either an agreement or the opposite, or maybe even the sort of deep-rooted understanding that’s allowed him to sneak his way into the center of everything, across her skin. The specifics don’t matter, only that Emma’s magic roars under her skin, an inferno, and a symphony, meeting the challenge that no one has really laid down yet. 

“Do that again,” Killian mutters, a low chuckle as Emma’s scratches at his side. 

“I’m not sure I can, honestly.” “Pity.” “Something like that, yeah. And you’re not totally right, you know?” “Ah, and that’s almost rude.” “I’m serious,” Emma says, “that’s—none of that was your fault either.” Tilting his head only ensures that several strands of hair he still hasn’t bothered to cut fall almost artfully across his forehead, and Emma is grateful to a variety of gods, Greek or otherwise, that Killian doesn’t mention how much her hand shakes. When she tries to brushes them away. His hook finds her wrist instead, cool metal against freezing cold skin, and the state of her tongue is going to be a problem. Large as it is in Emma’s mouth, making it all but impossible to properly swallow while Killian’s lips sweep the bend of her knuckles. 

“Charmer.” “Aye, that’s my endgame.” There’s not enough room between them for him to run his hand across his face like Emma knows he wants to, and part of that isn’t really a bad thing, but the rest just seems like another entirely unfair thing, and Emma knows the rest is coming. Makes tears burn her eyes all the same. “They were just...gone, you understand? No chance to do anything about it. One moment they were living and breathing. Then Liam was dead. Slumped in my arms in the corner of a cabin he was supposed to spend the rest of his career in. He—he would have been a very good captain.” “So are you,” Emma says, fierce and determined, and Killian kisses in the inside of her palm. She’s moved her hand again. To cup his cheek. 

“For a time, maybe. But then she was gone too, and I thought I could feel it, you know. The exact way her heart crumbled in his hand, tiny bits of dust that I never wanted to blow off the deck. Like some of her still managed to stay. Is that—” The muscles in his throat move, jaw clenching, and Emma has to blink. She hopes the moisture on her cheeks isn’t tears. She’s not sure what’s a better option, really. “Must sound daft.” “No. I—I get that too.” “Do you?” “Not the only one who’s watched Rumplestilskin hold the heart of someone you loved.”

He can’t be holding his breath. His chest is moving much too quickly, but the burst of air that all but flies out of Killian is enough to ruffle the ends of Emma’s hair and possibly even dry some of the tears she’s still refusing to acknowledge, and she can’t get closer to him. 

She makes an admirable effort all the same. 

Like occupying the same few inches of space will ensure that she stays there. 

“Did you—” Killian starts, looking almost pained as the words war for his voice on the tip of his tongue. “Did you like her?” That didn’t make the list, either. It’s entirely possible that Emma is just garbage at making lists. She nods. “Anyone who loves you as much as I do is fine with me. Better than, even.”

His expression shifts again. Light lingers in his gaze, cautious hope, and misplaced optimism, gears whirring in his head that Emma can’t almost convince herself she hears. Her verb tense was on purpose that time. 

That’s a confidence boost, all things considered.

“She was something fierce,” Killian says, sounding reminiscent and not as sad as Emma has worried he must be. “Once she got away from him. Could get a grown man to do her bidding with a single look, the kind of glare that’d set you on fire from the inside out. It was—they loved her too. Men on the ship, would have followed her to the ends of the Earth if she’d asked. Probably even if she hadn’t.” 

His next inhale becomes an exhale almost immediately.

“She never would have asked,” Killian adds, almost entirely to himself, but then his eyes are back on Emma, and they’re a little glossy and just as blue and she’s holding her breath now. “She liked you too, I know it.” “I think she thought I was crazy, actually. Gold didn’t really have much tact in the...introductions.” “Ah.” “Right?” “Right,” he echoes, a pale imitation of her voice that makes Emma’s cheeks ache. From smiling. Legitimately smiling. Huh. “But I suppose that’s part of it, though. She was there again, and I—” “—I’m sorry. For...for all of it.” “Still not your fault, love.”

“How did you know?” she asks, and her voice doesn’t sound much like her either. Wobbles and warbles and some other word that fits the alliteration. “About me. And not being…”

“Dead?” Killian’s eyebrows jump. “Strawberries.” “Excuse me?” “That soap you use in your hair. Smells like strawberries, or strawberry adjacent maybe. Manufactured just a bit. I think it’s my favorite smell in the world.” “Backhanded compliment.” “No, no,” Killian shakes his head. His hair moves again. “It’s not. It’s—well, it’s you, love. Smells like everything that you are and—”

“—I’m manufactured?” “If you let me finish,” he chides, and Emma all but yanks her lips behind her teeth, “It smells like home. Smells like falling asleep next to you and a distinct lack of blankets.” He nips at the tip of her nose. She scoffs again; that’s why. “And your distractingly cold feet, and leather jackets, and how the smell clings to the collars, no matter how long it’s been since you’ve worn them. Lingers on your pillow too, and the fronts of my shirt. You fall asleep against me quite often, you know that.” “Can sleep anywhere,” Emma reasons. “Might be my greatest talent.” “I don’t know about that.” “If I call you charmer again, will you hold it against me for lack of synonyms?” “Tell me how charming I am again.” Emma scrunches her nose. “Now it sounds like my dad.” “Let’s leave the prince out of this. He’s only a prince, aye?” “Far as I know, yeah.” “Good, good. Strawberries, love. Touching you helped too, though. If we’re being frank.” “Anything except blunt force honesty seems silly now, doesn’t it?” Killian nods. Slow and measured, like anything else will snap this tenuous peace, and maybe they can just sleep on the couch. Getting up is an impossible prospect right now. Maybe they can make out a little before they fall asleep. 

“It’s a very big house,” Emma whispers, and they should really figure out a schedule for conversations like this. Talking about it all at once is exhausting. 

“It is.” “You don’t want to expand upon that?” “Oh, I want a great number of things I shouldn’t,” Killian admits, “but as much as I appreciate this fresh round of honesty we’re engaging in, the false hope would—” “—There’s no such thing,” Emma interrupts. “False hope. It’s an oxymoron, ask my mother. And I think you should get some sort of crew again.” “How would you suggest I populate such a thing?” She shrugs. Nearly hits Killian in the chin in the process. “Untold stories. Dwarves.” “I will not have dwarves on my ship.” “See, I knew you’d have opinions. And there was a possessive pronoun in there that time.” “Was there not before?” “No,” she says. “Just called it the ship. Like it’s not the most important thing you have.” “Well, it’s not.” Emma’s cheeks warm. “That was very smooth.” “Someone did guarantee I was a very good captain earlier.” Space continues to be relatively minimal between them, but Killian’s nothing if not adaptable, and he works with what he’s got. Swinging Emma’s legs perpendicular over his, she’s nearly sitting on his lap, an arm slung over his shoulders, which makes it even easier to get her fingers into his hair and his head to rest against hers, and he takes another deep breath. “I know you understand, Emma,” he says, soft and serious, and she doesn’t bother doing anything except cling to him. With everything she’s got left. “All of it, from the very start. So I don’t think I’ll apologize, actually. For what I’ve done, or what I’d still be willing to do. I won’t give up on you, do you understand me?” “Didn’t,” Emma says, only a little optimistic that’s the right verb tense. Maybe she can get her GED, or something. Before all of this ends. “In Camelot, or after. Accept or acknowledge, and I probably would have—” 

Announcing that killing Gold for what he’d done to Killian regularly crossed her mind in the twenty-four hours or so before they finally made it to the Underworld doesn’t really have the right sentiment for this conversation. Far too violent, and just as honest. 

She’d consider killing him now, too. 

For everything he’s doing, and everything he hasn’t, and she should have shoved him in that river. 

Killian doesn’t smile. At least not in a way that reaches his eyes, the same ones that are looking at Emma again, all blue and earnest, and his shoulders shift. When her fingers graze his chin, more than stubble there because, she imagines, spending a day or so underwater with a sibling he only sort of wants and kind of knows doesn’t leave much time for facial-type grooming. 

It’s a good look, though. 

Most of them are, in Emma’s experience. 

“This entire time,” she continues, “you haven’t given up on me yet.” “Works both ways, darling.” “That one crosses realms, huh?” “Pick up things spending so much time with you.” There’s nothing extra in the words. No sap-filled sentiment or promises she’s only a little hopeful will become actions. And they haven’t talked about the rest; might not even have time, but Emma will let herself think about all these empty rooms anyway, of the exact shade Killian’s eyes go when he stands at the helm, and she hopes he doesn’t cut his hair. Not yet, at least. Longer strands make it easier to touch him, to leave a lasting mark, and settle into his center the same way he’s taken root in hers. 

They fall asleep on the couch. 

[horrorslashergirl]

Slasher OC: The Shadow

Authors Note: New baby coming through! New baby coming through! Yes, Sir I made another slasher original character, because ideas come and they need to be known.

Full Name: Unknown Nickname: The Shadow, The Lurking One, Salem Age: Late 30s Gender: Male Nationality: American Occupation: Serial Killer, supposed Surgeon/Pathologists Location: USA, Massachusetts, Boston Hair Color/Style: Unknown Eye Color: Unknown Height: 6'5 Body Type: Athletic Languages: English Attire: He wears a pristine black tailored-suit; a black tail-coat with a black button-down, black slacks, and a black vest, the tie a scarlet red. He wears luscious leather Oxfords and black leather gloves along with a black fedora. The last touch is a leather Doctor Plague mask, not one glimpse of skin on display.

Weapons: Shotgun, Throwing Knives, Scalpel, Clamps, Retractors

Biography:

The name was given by authorities of this infamous serial killer as Shadow, which creates havoc in Massachusetts cities, mostly Boston, Salem, and Cambridge. He also received the nickname Salem due to him being more like an urban legend or entity than a human being.

He targeted people at night, most of them being young women, but also adult males or anyone that dares to interfere with his killings. His procedure of murder is so close to perfection that the police investigators suspect him as being a surgeon or pathologist, due to the operating mood to be so precise.

What makes his killings apart from the other serial killers is that he always takes something from his victims; be an eye, a kidney, even the heart, the crime scenes always leave the authorities speechless, the scenes so brutal that they don't let photos be taken to the public eyes.

The authorities had interviewed and questioned over 200 people; surgeons, butchers, criminals in order to find the identity of the serial killer known as Shadow, with no success.

The only one who encountered Shadow and managed to survive was a young college student, named Giulia, who didn't make it out unscarred. She was found by the police half-naked on the streets, running away from the serial killer.

She was found with her hair burned to the scalp by an acidic battery, her canine teeth pulled out, and without nails on her finger.

When questioned by the investigators she made a morbid description of the infamous murderer.

'He is tall and in all black. He doesn't seem human. No human could do this. He pulled all her skin off like she was a rabbit. His voice, makes me wanna throw up, it's so raspy it makes me wanna be deaf so I cannot hear it anymore in my head. What he did to the other girls...I cannot describe. He said that I'm perfect. What was that supposed to mean?'

The events destroyed Giulias's mind and life, now being interned into an Asylum due to severe trauma, leading to aggressive outbursts, nightmares, and constantly hearing his voice.

Personality:

'Shadow', according to the crimes and Guilas vague description, shows characteristics most serial killers have; brutish, sadistic, cruel, aggressive, sneaky.

Despite these negative aspects, he also shows a high superiority on the intellectual level, especially considering that he sends mocking letters to the police, taunting them. This aspect is interesting due to the modern world, he writes classic letters like in the old days. His writing style, very neat and cursive, suggests that he is a highly educated man, especially when he puts in letters quotes from history, literature.

One of the letters sent to the police:

'Dear Boston Police Sir and Madams,

This morning, I was making coffee and listening to one of the ol' classics of Camille Saint-Saëns - Danse Macabre, when the News started on the television and I was so flattered when I was the main attraction told by the news lady, but I must say that the words used to describe me as a Jack-The-Ripper-Ripoff wasn't very equitable, although he is highly fascinating, I advise keeping insults to yourselves, ignorant rats. I don't have tolerance for uneducated low-lives. Now that this has been clear, how are the investigations been so far? All good? Still, trying to figure little ol' me out? My provenance? Think about me as you describe me; a shadow, meaning that I could be right now listening to you chit-chatting over coffee and cigarettes in your cozy offices. Oh! How's my dear Giulia? I haven't heard from her whereabouts since the tv news about her being locked to the lunatics. Ha! She was the perfect little one until she decided to destroy my recreation room. Rude little wench. Anyway, I do hope you all have a gruesome day with more bodies to come.

Yours Truly, The Shadow

P.S: Detective Donald, I give all my greatest greetings to your wife.'

He has shown to have a God complex, mocking the police every chance he has; cheeky, intelligent and sporting a ghoulish charisma, Shadow basks into the terror he inflicts on others.

According to his letters by the police, Shadow gave some clues to the investigators; he is a bachelor.

'I do get lonely, officers you know? Being a bachelor isn't quite a piece of cake and I must say I'm very picky with women. They all scream when I play with my scalpel down their pretty little necks.'

He also stated that he is quite wealthy.

'Money makes me sick. They all think that if you got the greens you're oh so smart, but their brains are as dead as they will be once I have my hands on them. I do have too much money, sometimes stashes of them on the table by the gramophone.'

Power/Skills: Genius-level intellect Immense wealth stashed (according to his letter) Expertise in psychology and surgery Surgical and medical prowess Evasion Stealth Murderous expertise Skilled usage of weaponry Skill in hand-to-hand combat Knifesmanship Torturous expertise Ruthlessness Fearlessness Psychopathic nature Deception Expert manipulator

Hobbies:

Killing people, operating and torturing them, finally stealing something from their bodies, leaving the bodies to the police to be found.

Listening to music, reading all types of books from history to literature to medical books.

Watching the news about him.

Mocking the police officers and investigators.

Crimes: Serial Homicide Terrorism Torture Stealing Body Parts Brainwashing Mutilations Stalking

Type of Villain: Ingenious Serial Killer

[prurientpuddlejumper]

A Punchable Face That I Want to Kiss, Ch. 5 [18+/NSFW]

<- Chapter 4 | Chapter 6 ->

Summary: After your not-boyfriend, Frederick Chilton, turns out to be not-dead, you hope you can elevate your status from fuckbuddies. Maybe be honest about how you feel? But honesty is haaard... especially when he is more closed-off than ever.

(This is probably my favorite chapter. It has actual smut. And ridiculous idiots, and fluuuuuuuff)

5,075 words

After Hannibal fled, leaving a bloodbath in his wake, Dr. Frederick Chilton returned to the land of the living and to administrating his psychiatric hospital as if he had simply been away on vacation.

Likewise, your relationship resumed where it had left off. You thought things would be different now—that you would be more honest with your feelings, and he might open up, too—but nothing changed, except for the things that changed in a direction you didn’t like.

“Oh, Doctor Chilton, I need help,” you purred, leaning seductively against the doorway of his office. He sat up rigidly in his leather chair and stammered a greeting with failed nonchalance.

Since his return, his voice shot up an octave whenever you walked in the room. He was like a shy teenager with his first crush, and you could only assume he was re-learning how to exist in the world after trauma. What else would it be?

Slinking up to his desk, you unfastened the top buttons of your shirt. He swallowed, hungry, but not immediately pouncing upon you with a lewd promise growled in your ear and a firm grasp on your hip like he used to do. New reserves of insecurity crouched beneath his skin like lions hidden in tall grass. It broke your heart to see that timidity in his eyes, but it was all incentive for you to work harder to relax him.

“I’m afraid I don’t have insurance, doctor,” you pouted, pushing aside a stack of papers to sit on his desk. “And mental health care is prohibitively costly because of a broken for-profit system, leaving the most vulnerable populations without access…” you put an emphasis on vulnerable, biting your lip.

He quirked a brow. “Your sexy-talk needs work.” 

“Oh, doctor,” you moaned, sliding off the desk and straddling his lap to pull at his tie. “Until we get universal healthcare”—you brought the end of his orange tie up to your mouth and bit it, gazing coquettishly into his eyes—“surely there’shh some ofther way I can pay you…” you lisped, mouth stuffed full of tie. 

He never knew it was possible to laugh, be annoyed, and aroused at the same time, but you were always teaching him new things. 

“That would be a severe ethics violation,” he said sternly, brows lowered, but clearly teasing. You snorted. 

It was impossible to remain self-conscious around someone flirting so badly. His hesitation melted away as he turned your awkward role-play around on you, so you moved on to phase two. Sinking to your knees at the foot of his chair, half under his desk, you smoothed the fabric of his pants over his lap, rubbing his inner thighs to coax his legs open and position yourself between them.

He drew in a sharp breath, but disguised it as a gasp of offense. “This is highly inappropriate. I am going to have to ask you to leave my office. Future visits will be attended by a nurse to ensure proper conduct, or I can refer you to another psychiatrist,” he said in a dry monotone, fully committed to playing hard-to-get. You growled in annoyance at him in between bursts of laughter. He patted your head patronizingly. “Now, now, I am a magnanimous doctor. I am not angry with you as a patient for this behavioral outburst… just disappointed.”

You licked your lips. Challenge accepted. You ran your hands over the front of his dress pants until you found the outline of his cock, and stroked it through the fabric, arching your back while giving him your best please-fuck-me look. He swallowed.

Unzipping the fly, you reached into the warmth of his pants, searching through a bed of curled hairs until you found his cock and drew it out to admire. The skin was velvety and soft, pulsing with heat as you gave it a few slow strokes, watching it grow larger and more firm. You loved it at its full arousal, when it took its sculptural form and shape with veins running up the underside of the shaft, when the foreskin pulled back and the domed pink head stood out, ready to plunge itself into you. 

God, you loved his cock. 

“On the other hand,” he quickly changed his mind, “perhaps I require a demonstration of this ‘alternative payment.’ For the sake of due diligence.” 

Your brought your tongue to its head and gave a teasing lick, tasting the salt of his precum, then kissed it like you would kiss his lips. You pecked a series of kisses down the length of his shaft until you were buried in his neatly trimmed curls, lips brushing the wrinkled skin of his balls, then flattened your tongue against his cock and traced a torturously slow wet line from the base to the tip. 

“I confess... you are my most attractive patient,” he said in a shaky, staggering breath, one side of his lips quirking upward. His chest was rising and falling rapidly now. He wanted more. “That is very good.” Not content with you stopping to look up at him, his hand cradled the back of your head, pushing you down and urging you to continue. “But I will need more payment than that.”  

Taking his entire thick cock in your mouth, you slid down it until he hit the back of your throat and you gagged, eyes watering a little as you adjusted to having your throat stuffed full of him, jaw forced open wide. His manicured fingers curled into your hair, gently petting you. “Easy,” he soothed. 

It was nice sucking the dick of someone as fastidiously clean as Frederick Chilton. You always appreciated that as you began, moving slowly up his shaft until your lips were only closed around the swollen head, licking it gently, then faster until you felt his fingers tighten. He always tasted faintly of soap and very little else. His sedentary lifestyle helped as well; he was never running around and building up a nasty sweat. It was a pleasant little bonus to the whole affair. His cock was the most delicious you’d ever had.

Your head bobbed up and down in his lap with renewed vigor, building a rhythm with his hand gently guiding you to his preference (which you followed to please him, and deviated from to get a reaction). You loved watching his face—his breathing as he struggled to control it, the way his mouth twitched, and his eyes watched you work. That desperate little whine in his throat when you broke his rhythm, which grew into a low moan he tried to suppress when you started a new one.

He gave you instructions: slower, faster, use your tongue... just like that. Good. You twisted, and sucked, and pumped his base with your hands, gliding your tongue along the underside of his cock until the exquisite moment when he broke down, and stopped trying to keep his breathing (and noises) under control. By the end, he was a shaking mess mess, barely able to stammer out “k-keep going!” You loved to watch the moment he surrendered to you completely, his fingers digging into your scalp as his hips jerked helplessly, and his mouth falling open as he released into you, moaning and gasping so loudly the staff were sure to hear. 

You kept him buried in your mouth as his hot seed spilled on your tongue, swallowing every drop until his muscles stopped their convulsions, and you licked his cockhead clean. Cleaning up was a pain in the ass otherwise (and Frederick might implode if any got on his dress pants), but also, his largely vegetarian diet made him taste exceptionally sweet. You smiled up at him and ran your tongue over your lips as he panted, a sheen of sweat on his brow. 

As he was coming down, the phone on his desk rang, and naturally, the ambitious jerk answered it without so much as a thank you, or even putting his dick away. Orgasm complete: never mind you, back to work. Based on his half of the conversation, it sounded important—something about a publishing deal for a book he writing on Hannibal the Cannibal. The tone of his voice took on that haughty smarter-than-you air as the topic turned to intellectual property rights, and he was clearly driving for more money. So you started sucking his overstimulated dick. He gasped loudly into the receiver, and stared down at you in horror as he tried to cover for it. “I apologize. A bee got into my office, and I have to swat it.” He pushed you off his lap, eyes sparking like choppy waves on a windy sea.

“That was rude,” he growled when he got off the phone, a somewhat deranged smile slanting up one side of his face. He bent you over the desk and slapped your ass, whispering promises into your ear of how he would pay you back later.

You knew he would keep his promises. Each one. He had a lot more aggression to work out lately, and while you weren’t its target, a good hard fuck always made him feel better. You knew when you went to his house tonight you were guaranteed to have a lot of fun in a lot of positions—but you also knew when you were done, he would usher you out with some excuse for why you could’t stay.

That was the biggest, and worst, change. You thought the incident would bring you closer, but he hadn’t let you spend one night with him since the day he was shot.

It made you feel cheap.

Worse, it meant you were drifting apart. He used to be grateful (though he would never admit it) that you were there for the nightmares. When he woke up shaking he would turn to hold you, crushing you against his chest like a teddy until the shaking stopped, and he drifted back to sleep still holding you tight. You would have thought he would need you there more than ever, now. Something made him stop trusting you.

  *****

“Did I do something wrong?”

You were in the cramped passenger seat of his midlife-crisis Porsche cabriolet as he drove you home yet again, and a silence had fallen over him. It was a warm spring night with beautiful stars in the breeze above you glowing their brightest, albeit faded amid the glow of Baltimore’s city lights.

“Not at all. I am simply setting healthy boundaries, darling. I begin to suspect you only like me for the amenities.”

His house was new—he did not want to move back into the place he had found Abel Gideon dissected, and Hannibal had slaughtered and arranged two FBI agents for display—and even more grandiose than the last. All of the staircases were spiral for some unfathomable reason (because it was fancier), and it contained an entire gym, pool, gourmet kitchen, and a television the size of an actual movie theater screen. The bath had hot-tub jets.

Admittedly, it was nice staying there. It made you feel like someone who’d seen the inside of a country club. But his answer was complete bullshit.

“You know I don’t care about all your fancy crap,” you groaned.

“Do I? You told me you only stayed the night because my house was nice, and you enjoyed my coffee.”

Ouch. OK. Called out. “Obviously I was lying! I only like your stuff because it’s part of who you are—I can’t imagine you not being shamelessly bourgeoisie—not because I want a sugar daddy. If that’s what you’re worried about… why don’t we stay at my apartment?”

The thought never crossed his mind that you might call his bluff. He was horror-stricken.

“At your little… chalet?” he said like he was poking a dead bug with the end of a stick.

“It’s an apartment.”

Trapped by his own logic, instead of dropping you at your front door, Frederick got out and hobbled up the narrow staircase with you.

“My god, what is this? For ants?”

“It’s called a full bed, Frederick, and there’s plenty of room,” you answered with a little annoyance creeping into your voice. You knew he was prissy, but from the moment he set foot in your two-bedroom (which you could barely afford) he had been acting like he was in a decrepit slum. It was hilarious, actually, how living like a normal human being made him squirm.

He flopped down into the middle of the mattress, a sullen expression on his face like a toddler in a time-out. “You cannot expect me to sleep on this prison cot.”

“Move over,” you nudged him, crawling onto the covers beside him. “There’s plenty of room if we cuddle.”

He didn’t look interested in cuddling at the moment, however. He stared up at the ceiling like he was about to explode. You smiled. Even at his bitchiest and sulkiest, there was no one else you would rather spend time with. He tugged at your heartstrings. You admired his profile—his square brow that could express so much emotion (right now: petulance), the new scar on his cheek that was clearly the source of some embarrassment to him (though you thought it looked rugged), the stubble down his jaw with the slightest hint of grey. He was just so handsome.

Seeing his scar this close up was rare, as he always tried to keep you on his right side whenever you were seated or laying next to each other. You rested your chin on your arm and smiled at him, but he didn't smile back, or even glance over. He just stared at the ceiling like you weren’t even there. You waggled your eyebrows suggestively, hoping to get a laugh (or an irate glare that was secretly a laugh).

No response at all. He was moody.

You rolled on your side to cuddle him, intent on kissing that scar, but when your hands touched his chest, he flinched, recoiling with a surprised yelp.

That was the last straw. His nostrils flared and eyes widened as if this was the gravest indignity he had ever suffered. He jumped up from the bed frantically saying, “I have to go.”

And he did. Just like that.

You tried not to cry. He was being a jerk. He was going through post-traumatic stress. He just needed space, and it wasn’t your fault, you said, but you counted up all of the ways it was your fault anyway.

You were always so blunt and rude with him. As much as he deserved it when he was being officious, exploitative, surly, or generally the poster child for “check your privilege,” he probably didn’t want to be around someone who called him out all the time. It was a miracle he tolerated you at all. You’d gone easier on him since he returned from the dead, but maybe he simply didn’t want a rude fuckbuddy anymore.

You decided you wouldn’t bother him. He needed space, and you constantly showing up at his office and calling his house wasn’t helping, and it obviously wasn’t what he wanted.

Not three days went by before he called wondering where you had been. You could hear him trying to hide the worry in his voice, and the relief when you told him you were fine, and not angry. He wanted to see you. Not just the usual tryst, either: he wanted to take you out for dinner.

You had no idea what was going on.

  *****

Chilton was terrified when you stopped calling him. His greatest fear hit him deeper than a scalpel—that you were dead. Hannibal was back from wherever it was he went, and he was killing off everyone close to his enemies. Or any other of hundreds of killers. When it was clear that nothing horrible had happened to you, and you were, in fact, alive, he realized his second greatest fear—he had fucked up and finally driven you away.

A few of his exes used to give him the cold shoulder when he had committed some error, like failing to spoil them with gifts or expensive dinners, or pretending to forget their name. Maybe you, too, were punishing him, and he still had a chance to win you back. It seemed very likely that you wanted more from him than just sex. He had been selfish and unreciprocal with you—though outwardly, you never asked for anything else, except to stay the night. But he could never do that, not anymore.

Instead, pampering you at a Michelin-star restaurant seemed like a good start.

  *****

Dinner with Chilton that night made it clear why you had never gone out on a proper date with him before. His world was not your world.

As you walked in, you were fairly sure the maître d' glared at you for wearing what you considered your nicest outfit—but given that your typical dinner was boxed mac n’ cheese in your underwear, your best may not have been up to standard.

Frederick was at the bar waiting for you, severely out-dressing you in a formal black suit and dazzlingly contrasting tie, but didn’t make any underhanded comments on your attire. He crossed the room to meet you, flashing that used-car-salesman smile he hadn’t used on you since the first time you met, and offered his elbow in a revoltingly genteel fashion. It was like he was a stranger.

The the maître d’hôtel guided you to your reserved table, and Frederick set his cane to the side, sat, and crossed his legs. You felt like you were being interviewed. Was this an interview? From an inner pocket of his suit jacket, he produced and handed you a silver-inlaid pen that cost more than your rent.

“I don’t want this.” You left it sitting on the white tablecloth and stared at it like an alien artifact, trying to figure out what made it better than a two-dollar pen from the drugstore. Maybe he could still return it.

He got flustered, blinking in confusion, then held his chin up haughtily, jaw clenched. “No accounting for taste, then.”

You groaned. For some reason he wasn’t pretending to be wounded this time, he actually felt rejected. Over a stupid overpriced pen. “Fine! I’ll take it if it’ll make you feel better,” you caved in, snatching it off the table. “But if we break up, I’m pawning this.”

His mouth curled, primed to make a retort, but then went slack.

Was he thinking of breaking up?

Was that what dinner was about? That’s right—that trick of breaking up in a public space so you won’t cry and make a scene. It would explain why he’d been acting so nervous and distant lately. Why else would he suddenly want to take you out?

An awkward silence fell over the table. You wished this place had paper napkins you could stress-doodle on with your stupid new pen. Was it a breakup gift? Were breakup gifts a thing?

The waiter blessedly interrupted to take your orders, which Chilton gently assisted you with because everything was in French, the menu did not have pictures, and none of it appeared to be mac n’ cheese. He also ordered an entire bottle of Chateau Lafite Rothschild for the table, which you divined from the slight puffing out of his chest was meant to impress you.

When it didn’t, things went back to being sulky and awkward. By the time the bread arrived at the table, he had already downed a glass, and reached to pour himself another.

Instead of grabbing the open bottle, he completely misjudged the distance and knocked it on its side with a string of swears. Dark red liquid poured out onto the table. Acting quickly, you reached to pick it up, but collided with Chilton who was also trying to salvage the bottle, and succeeded only in batting it toward him where a puddle of wine began overflowing over the edge onto his suit.

Puddle! Spilling! You needed to mop up the excess quickly! You grabbed slices of baguette and started soaking it up.

“Why are you using bread when there are napkins for this?” Chilton hissed.

“I don’t know! You’re the dumbass who knocked over the Roth IRA Burgundy.”

His eyes bulged from his skull. “Rothschild! Bordeaux! And it wasn’t that bad until you flung it at me!”

“Do you want to help, or do you want to continue berating me?”

“I am more than capable of doing both!” he cried, grabbing a napkin and righting the bottle.

The table was a complete disaster. Wine even got all over your stupid fancy pen, which matched the stupid fancy pen in his office. Oh. That was sort of sweet, actually. As you wiped it dry, you noticed it had your name inscribed around one of the silver rings.

The waiter hurried over to assist, and Chilton looked positively mortified.

“Sorry,” you shrugged sheepishly. “I’m a little clumsy.”

After much fussing and cleaning was finished, Chilton sat back in his chair, eyes boring into you. He swallowed.

“Why did you...?”

“They already think I’m a mess, this way they’ll at least let you back in here.”

“Well, that is very…” a dark blush crept up his neck from under his collar. “You didn’t have to do that"

You reached your hand across the fresh tablecloth, and he took it, rubbing soft circles in the flesh between your thumb and forefinger. (It was a testament to your familiarity that the massive, ostentatious gold ring he always wore no longer felt in the way when you held his hand.) His eyes lingered on you, and the blush continued working its way up to his face.

Things felt open enough to quietly ask, “So, what is all this, anyway? You’ve never wanted to take me out before.”

“I assumed you wanted something from me; you have been ignoring me,” he bristled slightly at your density. “If this is not it, then what?”

You blinked. He really thought you’d been holding out on him to… get something? And the way his voice strained when he asked, “then what?” told you he would do whatever it was you requested.

You shook your head at the tablecloth and squeezed his hand. “The way you left the other day, I assumed you didn’t want to be around me.”

“Oh.” The brilliant psychiatrist hadn’t thought of that.

He didn’t apologize, and you knew he never would (about anything—it was one of the reasons so many people wanted to punch him), but his demeanor softened and any resentment you’d been holding onto faded with his dumbfounded expression.

“So.” You cleared your throat. “How’s… uh, psychiatry?”

“Well, most daily therapy sessions I have delegated to focus on writing…” He launched into a mundane description of his work, and you just… talked. Like a normal couple. It was strange in its ordinariness, but it was nice to not have your entire interaction revolve around getting dick. It made going back to his mansion after dinner and getting dick even more meaningful. You were sure this time he would let you stay.

When he tried to send you away again, you had had enough.

  *****

“I don’t understand, what changed?” you asked a little too brusquely and immediately regretted it. “I know you need space,” you breathed out in a more understanding tone, “but I need to know where we stand… Do you want to break up with me?”

He froze in the middle of throwing a shirt on over his bare chest and dropped it back into the dresser, turning to gawk at you with shocked-wide eyes. “What? No! Of course not.”

That was a relief at least. “Then why won’t you let me stay?”

He was far too exposed: his abdominal scar still prominently pointing up to his blaze of brown chest hair, and you, ambushing him in his own bedroom. “You cannot let it go, can you? You want to know?!” he snapped, limping resentfully across the room. He had reached a breaking point. “It’s because I cannot sleep with the prosthetics in.”

“The...” your brain crashed and you frantically clicked enter on the reboot screen, “...prosthetics…?”

He scowled. “Did you believe the bullet passed neatly through the copious empty space in my skull without causing any collateral damage? That this little scar is the sum total of my injury?”

Of course. You hadn’t even considered that there was more to his near-fatal shooting than what you saw on the surface. It was breathtakingly ignorant now that you thought about it. He was shot. In the head. He spent weeks at an expensive medical resort where they could perform all kinds of reconstructive miracles, and he let you believe he was dead until they had finished whatever it was they were fixing.

“Show me.”

His face twitched. “You do not want to know.”

“I do.”

“Then I do not wish you to know.”

“Why?”

Emotion boiled under his face, but he breathed in through his nose and kept his outward composition calm, controlled. “It would change the way you see me. Every time you look at me, I do not want you to see that.”

You crossed the room to him. Gently, you put your hand on his arm, and slowly rubbed up and down. His breathing was shallow, controlled but barely. He didn’t push you away. You wrapped your arms around him and buried your face in his neck, listening to his pulse whispering a swift beat. “I just want to know you, Frederick. Please.”

  *****

Doctors had seen it. That was by necessity: he had paid for the best cosmetic prosthetics available in the country to look exactly like his old self, with the exception of the scar on his left cheek which could never be fully hidden.

He had shown it to Mason Verger, but that, too, was different—a mutual display of their motivations for revenge. It was almost a contest to see who was the more disgusting, the most wronged.

You would not be the first to see his face, but you were the first whom he cared about disgusting. The first whom he cared about. He did not want to see you recoil from him in shock. He did not want to lose you. He did not want you to see the darkness hanging over him.

He acquiesced, but refused to make a circus display of taking his teeth out in front of you, and vanished into the master bathroom for a long time. As you waited, you rehearsed not reacting—not showing a hint of shock that would make him regret the choice to let you in—yet as each minute ticked by, you grew more and more anxious.

The door opened.

“Jesus fuck.”

His lower eyelid sagged without the support of a massive chunk of facial bone holding it in place, and the eye within was the milky blue-white of a fish preserved in formaldehyde. The skin of his cheek sagged over half a mouth of missing teeth, and the left corner of his lip hung slightly too loose.

“Eloquent as always,” he said, adding some bite to the word. He hoped you knew what a jerk you were.

You rushed in to hold him, and he stiffened, looking away. “Oh, your eye,” you whined. He must have been completely blind in it, but he masked it so well you never noticed. He flinched as you touched his face.

“Don’t,” he whispered.

You pulled your hand back and searched his expression. “Do you want me to stop?”

He thought about it, and huffed, rolling one eye. You were being so cute, and at least not fleeing in terror. He stuck his chin out. “Go ahead. Do what you want.”

With a sour frown, he let you explore his skin with your fingertips, finding scars and hollow cavities where bone was supposed to be. “You’re missing… oh, god, it must have shattered the maxillary bone, and,” you felt farther back, continuing to find hollow gaps. “Oh god, baby…”

“Do not pity me, it is unbecoming.”

“Heh,” you breathed, slyly sliding your hands up over his shoulders and arcing them loosely around the back of his neck. “I thought you didn’t care about my motivations,” you said, languidly drawing out each vowel.

That earned an irritated look, finally meeting your gaze. You grinned back.

“Sorry,” you said, biting your lip.

You kissed him all along the sagging side of his mouth, pressing your lips to every new contour and texture. A few worried noises escaped his throat, along with half-formed words of caution of what you might not want to kiss, but they were quickly swallowed by groans of pleasure as you worshiped his mouth, reveling in each new discovery. All his imperfections were perfect, and you wanted him to feel that in every touch, filling each glowing breath with all the love and acceptance in your heart.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not anymore, but it itches.”

“I hate itches.”

“As do I,” he breathed.

You kissed him again, this time his tongue danced along your lips to taste you. It darted between your teeth, curling around your tongue as his strong hands snaked around the back of your head, pulling you harder into the kiss. He grunted, teeth clashing with yours as your lips interlocked with feral passion, consuming each other until your lips were bruised and you had to break away, breathless and panting.

“I’m so glad you're alive,” you smiled, trying not to let tears well up in the corners of your eyes. “You came back to me. You’re amazing, you know that? What you can survive.”

His chest puffed out a little. He was amazing, wasn’t he? But when he spoke again, it was sullen.

“I did not want you to see what a monster I’ve become.”

You shook your head. “You’re still beautiful. Absolutely perfect. I’m sorry it happened, but you know I’m going to love you no matter what…” You trailed off as a word snagged in your throat. Did you just say…

“You love me?”

Dry. Your throat suddenly felt drier than sandpaper, and swallowing didn’t fix it. You weren’t supposed to admit that to him. He was going to tease you, to twist it around somehow to use against you—

“I love you, too.”

[musicnoots]

All Roads Lead Me Back To You

Donald Malarkey/Reader

Prompt “You’re yawning again” requested by anon

A/N: comfort with soft!malarkey. love without conditions. 3.2k.

Synopsis: You and Don reconnect after he comes home from the war.

Tags: @gottapenny @dustyjjumpwings @those-dusty-jump-wings @floydtab @wexhappyxfew @meteora-fc @majwinters @dumpofdumblings @rayleighshughes @bandofmarvels @medievalfangirl @curraheev @junojelli @yeahcurrahee @not-john-watsons-blog @alienoresimagines @inglourious-imagines @david-weepster @evelyn-shelby

“You’re yawning again.”

His voice sounds foreign, it feels different. 

Don’s home. Three years later than he promised you back in 1942, he showed up at your doorstep with nothing but his dress greens on and a familiar smile plastered on his face. 

He looks different—he looks older, somehow. You wonder if his eyes had always been this dark, or if his hair always had a tinge of brown rather than the red you grew up with. He smells a bit different, too, compared to the familiar scent of seawater and fresh linen you’ve grown used to, he now smells of burning wood and faintly of cigarettes. He’s grown, you admit, from the boy next door who loved to gift you flowers when the sun glittered golden, to a hero adored by many. 

You remember your most cherished memories on the rooftop of Don’s childhood home, hot summer nights spent watching the younger kids ride their bikes past the streetlight and back, imitating the horns from the boats that reside in the port just mere miles away, enjoying a nice glass of cola together. Oftentimes, you would have stayed there until his father came to crash the party and send you home, but on nights where you and Don were lucky enough to stay until the sun rose again, you’d lay in each other’s arms and listened to the birds chirp the music of Ravel and Satie. On the rooftop where you laid your head on his lap when times were simpler. It became a place where you’d fallen in love with him, another home, though, you wonder if home wasn’t a place but rather the people you love.

This time, you sit upon the tiles of the roof for the first time since Don left in a desperate attempt to make up for lost time.

“Huh?” Your croak. You’re starting to fall asleep on your arms, knees pulled up to your chest. The younger kids down the block, now several years older, have gone in for the night, and you don’t exactly know what time it is.

He rubs your shoulder, the other hand holding a half drunk bottle of Coca Cola and one in yours to match. “You’re yawning, Y/N.”

You’d been cooped up on the rooftop, telling him everything that had happened since he left for the army. Did he ever watch all those new Rita Hayworth films? Did his mom ever tell him about how little Molly dropped out of high school? Did he know that you visited his parents while he was away and every time they asked if you heard from him, you’d always tell them no because he barely ever wrote back to you?

“Y/N,” he repeats again, and this time you look up. He’s still as handsome as when he left all those years ago—red hair, blue eyes, and a kind mouth that knew when to get smart. “Look at me,” he cups your cheek and brings you to face him, “did you get more beautiful while I was gone?”

“God, shut up,” you scoff, lightly punching his shoulder as he laughed. There was the Donald Malarkey you knew growing up. “I swear you may look like a man, Don, but I know there’s a twelve year old hiding in your brain somewhere.”

“And you really haven’t changed a bit, Y/N. Not one bit. You’re still my best friend, you know that?”

“Oh, so you haven’t replaced me.”

“Replaced?” he laughs. “I’ve met a lot of weird and strange men in the paratroopers, but no one has ever come close to you, Y/N, and I swear on my mom by that.”

You roll your eyes, smiling a bit. “Sure.”

“I mean it!” he exclaimed. “They used to ask me: Malark, you got a girl back home? and I would always tell them Nah, but I got myself a Y/N. And I think that’s better than any girl waiting for their handsome G.I.”

The smile lingers on your lips for a little while longer. You’re sitting right next to him, practically attached to the hip, but it feels like nothing has changed since he left. He talks to you as if he didn’t just pack up his bags and left for three years to fight a war—you guess there’s a part of you that just wants to continue where things left off, but you know it’s different now. 

“The kids down the block, they’ve grown up since you left,” you sigh. “Just like the way we did. They remind me of us.”

Don raises his eyebrows and looks at you in amusement. “Did they take the frogs from the pond near the school and make a little swamp for them in their backyard?”

You scoff. “Oh, stop—that was you and you only!”

“Me? From what I remember, you didn’t want to leave the frogs because you were scared they were going to get lost like they don’t know the goddamn place, so I took all four of them and we made a house for them in my backyard,” he said, smiling a bit. “The things I do for you, Y/N…”

“Don’t act like I haven’t done anything for you!”

“Oh, c’mon!” he ruffles the top of your head and you laugh. “God, I’ve missed you and all the stupid shit we do up here…”

The grin on your lips slowly fades away as you start to feel the growing pit in your stomach that something isn’t right about this. 

The last time you and Don had spent the night up on the roof, the night before he left for the army, you remember was your most prized memory with him. A Coca Cola in each of your hands and bellies full of his mom’s world winning apple pie, the stars shined brighter than the whites of either of your teeth, and you could have sworn the moment was perfect as it was. You remember the atmosphere being muddy between you two. He told you he was joining the army the morning of and had you known your best friend was going to leave you for three years fighting a war he didn’t have to fight, you would have stopped being foolish and kissed him. But he beat you to it. 

“So, how was Europe?” you question. You tread on shallow waters asking him, but it was inevitable, and he doesn’t seem to mind.

He shrugs. “It was okay. Pretty at least, could have been prettier if it weren’t for the destroyed buildings and bullet holes through the walls.” Already, you can tell there’s something wrong just from the way he talks. It’s different, it’s almost as if he’s trying to hide something from you. “It fucked me up, Y/N. I’m sorry.”

You frown when he runs his hands over his face and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You didn’t write me back after I sent that letter in November. Not even your parents. What the hell happened, Don?”

“I lost a lot of friends, good friends, too. They were great. They deserved only the best, and now they’re dead, Y/N,” he says in a shallow breath. “Skip and Alex—they were my best buds throughout the war, I think I told you about them in a letter. They got hit by a German shell back in Belgium. After that, there was nothing of them anymore. They were blown to shreds, Y/N,” he whimpers. “I went to look for them and oh my God...there was only blood and dirt. Not even their used cigarette boxes or letters from home, all there was...was this!” He pulls out a cross with a couple broken rosary beads, still unwashed. His hand shakes when he shows it to you as if they’re sacred because in his mind, it’s all he has left of them. “They were my best pals.”

You let out a deep sigh and place a hand on his shoulder. You don’t know what to say. 

Perhaps that’s why he’s different this time around. The amount of trauma he holds in his heart, replaying in his head like the recurring melody of a song, you don’t know if you can ever understand the extent of his memories. 

You’re not asking for his war memoirs, rather, you ask for safe passage to his heart. 

“I don’t regret joining the army, though,” he continues. “I met some really good guys, and I’m proud to have served with them when the duty called, but I lost a lot of them. Skip, Alex...my buddy Joe lost his leg in Belgium, too.” He fiddles with the broken rosary beads in between his thumb and index finger. “Couldn’t sleep after that, war is so...fucked up. I believed those stupid war stories ol’ Howard down the street used to tell us when were in grade school, I just wished he’d told us how death becomes reality.”

The look on Don’s face is somber. You knew all of the people he described to you through the letter he sent you and, in a way, you felt as if you’d known them but nowhere to the extent and connection he had. “I’m sorry,” you murmur, and honestly, you don’t know what else to say. There was never a book on how to console your best friend after they come home from war and even if there was, you know it wouldn’t match up to the sober feeling that stands in between you and him.

“Yeah,” he says, almost as if he, too, is speechless, and you don’t blame him. If you went through something as traumatic as he did, if you ever lost Don, you couldn’t imagine what you would do yourself.

“It hurts me knowing that you went through this alone and I was here...doing nothing, finishing college, watching all those Rita Hayworth movies she made all while wishing you were here to watch it with me,” you sigh. “I’m not asking for you to make me understand—I don’t need to, unless you want me to. I’m sorry if I’m just spewing out shitty words that don’t mean anything to you, they don’t really teach you this in school.”

“No, Y/N, you’re alright. Being here with you after so long...it’s more than enough,” he nods and shoves the broken rosary back into the pocket of his pants. Silence. Don takes a sip of hit soda, the sugary liquid dribbles down the corner of his mouth and he wipes it off with the back of his hand. “You know I was sent to Paris not long after we arrived in Austria...” he says, “and I was gonna write back to you then, but...it didn’t seem right. Not after I left you waiting for months, years, even.”

You shake your head and smile. “Don, you could have left for five, ten years and not written me back and I'd still send you one in a heartbeat.”

The look on his face reeks of uncertainty, but he’s your best friend, and you know he’d do the same for you. You know that because the moment stepped back in Astoria, he’d dropped his bags off at his parents’ and gone straight to you. 

“You come here often?” he asks, and the initial question surprises you.

“No,” you tell him. “Was waiting for you. It’s just not the same without you sitting next to me.”

“No boyfriend?”

“No,” you chuckle and shake your head, lifting the bottle of soda for a sip. You wonder if he remembers what he said the night before he left, but your gut tells you not to mention it, just in case if those feelings changed, too. “No boyfriend.”

You remember the night before he left, how the words slipped from his lips so naturally, clearer than the skies that allowed for the stars to shine through—he could have serenaded you with his words then, and you wouldn’t have noticed anyways. 

“I’m sorry,” he says and hangs his head low.

You knit your eyebrows together. “Why are you sorry? You have no reason to be sorry.”

Don takes another sip of his drink. He stares at the street in front of the house, trying to avoid your worrying gaze. “I’m different. I’m not the same boy you grew up calling your best friend, you know? I think...if I had returned your letters, we wouldn’t be sitting here like two grown adults catching up with each other over a bottle of Coca Cola, I wouldn’t have to explain myself so that you’d understand why I’m not the same—this is just...it’s just bullshit!”

“Don.”

“The reason why I didn’t write you back is because I didn’t think you cared anymore. I felt like I wasn’t making an effort to keep in touch with you not because I didn’t care—I cared a whole lot—but because I didn’t know where to pick up from,” he says. “I was scared you didn’t care anymore.”

You frown. Don’s your best friend, but he acts like he’s just your friend. As if he didn’t threaten to beat up the schoolyard bullies in second grade when you got that horrendous haircut, or when he denied a chance to go to prom with Lucy from English class and instead asked you because it felt like the ‘right thing to do.’ Don has always mattered, whether or not he was with you physically, not because he’s your best friend but because, in a way, it was his existence that made everything feel alright.

“No, Don,” you cup his cheek and lift his head to face you. There are tears in the corner of his eyes and he frantically blinks them away.  “I’ve always cared. I’ve cared since the day your mom invited me for cookies and we ended up having a sleepover back in the first grade, you remember that?”

He nods. “Sugar cookies. They ran out of chocolate chips at the store.”

You find it quite beguiling how suddenly having someone back in your life made everything feel whole again—it’s like Don’s homecoming filled a hole that consumed your heart for the last three years. He was always there to catch you when you were at your worst, and you were there for him. You like to think you and Don were made for each other, maybe it was your inner seventeen year old being foolish again, but you’ve always believed it was true when he used to hold you against his chest on nights like these; when your sodas were still fizzy and the tears in his eyes didn’t exist.

Don leans against you, his cheek rests on your shoulder and you swear, it almost was like what it was before. “I miss the way we used to hang out here,” he says. “I remember we used to sneak up here to eat the rest of my mom’s cookies after bedtime every time. Then the cookies turned into sea salt caramel and then Butterfingers and then, we went to college, Hershey bars.”

You and Don went to college together before he joined the army. It’s a distant memory that still hangs on, but they were good memories. You just wish he was there with you for the last three years. “You know, I used to hang up your letters on my wall while you were gone?”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Gave me the motivation to finish my degree.” You still have them. “Knowing that you were somewhere out there doing whatever you needed to do, I knew you’d come home to me.”

He smiles, and he does it because he knows you’re not looking. “The night before I left...I thought about it. A lot.”

“I’m glad to hear I’m not the only one who does.”

“I thought about you,” he admits. “I thought about how much I missed you and how bad I wanted to sit up here with you and do nothing. I thought about what I said to you, and everyday I wish I’d done more than just say those three words.”

You hum. 

“I wish I wrote those words down in the letters I sent you. I had three years to write three words at least once, and I didn’t. I didn’t know if you still wanted me because I wasn’t with you. I still don’t know if you want me now.”

“I do.”

It’s silent for a short moment, almost sweet. You think it’s because Don’s starting to believe you now. He chuckles and scratches the back of his neck. “I...I'm sorry for creating this between us. If I had only returned your letters, maybe we would have been closer. Maybe then I wouldn’t have put you in this situation.”

“Look at us. All those years you spent training to become a soldier, fighting a war, and we’re still the kids we used to be, drinking soda on the roof of your house.” You rub his arm. “You could have been away for many more years, and still, I would have waited for this moment, to be with the man I’ve loved since junior year of high school.”

It was so much easier than you’d ever thought it would be. Actually, saying it wasn’t the scary part, no—you could have said it without thinking beforehand and still meant it—it was watching Don’s reaction.

First came confusion, understanding, and eventually, joy.

He lifted himself off your shoulder and turned around to look at you, and you reached out to trace the shape of his eyebrow, eyes scanning the rest of his face to come to the conclusion that he’s still as handsome as when he left. He’s so close that you can hear his heartbeat, and maybe if you lean a little closer, feel it. 

“Junior year?” The words leave his lips silently as a sheet of folded tissue paper.

You nod. “Junior year. I think it was when we watched the football team get crushed by forty-two points, but maybe it was way before—I’m not so sure. But what I do know is that, the guy I’ve had a massive crush for years, I have him now.”

“You call that massive?” he laughs and you lean against his shoulder, he takes your hand into his. “I’ve had a crush on you since junior high!”

You smile. You try to recall every moment you and Don shared back in junior high to figure out when exactly he fell for you, but there’s just too much. You like to think that he fell in love as the years passed and you both grew from teenagers into young adults, and you, too oblivious of the fact that he might be your person, your shining star in a galaxy of a billion. 

In a way, you both knew this was bound to happen. Regardless if Don spent five, ten, twenty years overseas, you would’ve still waited for him, because he’ll come home no matter what. Every road he takes will always lead him back to you.

You look up at Don. He’s grinning and parts his lips to speak, but you place a hand on the back of his neck and kiss him, and forever wed your dreams that were once thought to be unattainable; under the same stars those dreams were formed. This moment seemed like forever, as the sun and moon bid each other goodbye and the kids down the block ride their bikes down to the nearby diner, there’s nowhere else you would rather be than in his arms, his touch, his lips...

Finally.

[monotonous-minutia]

same rules as last time, another topic.

Taking advantage of this one to ramble a little on something that’s been on my mind since I saw the ending of the 2006 Salzburg Idomeneo. Pardon my lit crit nerdiness. Also TW for discussions of mental illness and suicidal ideation (in the context of the opera).

Under the line because it got really long…if only I could find this much motivation for my philosophy papers.

At the end of this production, during the ballet music written to represent Idamante’s coronation, they used it as an opportunity to give us some adorable flirting with Idamante and Ilia after the big final chorus and everyone being happy and relieved. I loved that; this opera is so full of angst we don’t get much calm or sweetness aside from Ilia’s aria at the top of Act III (which is still kinda angsty) and the following duet with Idamante. So it was nice to see them finally relaxed and able to enjoy each other’s company without the looming crisis and heavy amounts of despair.

But then at the very very end we get this moment where they both come to an abrupt pause when Idamante sees the ax his father was going to use to kill him with for the sacrifice. Because Idomeneo is the epitome of Useless Tenor, he decided to just leave it lying around.

Idamante just stops in his tracks and stares at it. Ilia sees it too and then she immediately looks at Idamante to see his reaction, and he stares back at her for a minute. They both start to back away and Idamante looks back at the ax and puts his hands to his neck.

First time around this blindsided me and I started freaking out because I thought maybe someone was going to do something with the ax after all—both Elettra and Idomeneo were wandering around in the background at this point so there was a lot of possibility. Or maybe even Neptune. He did give Elettra a dagger, after all, presumably to encourage her to use it on herself. (Arbace in that moment proved himself to be the only tenor with half a brain cell and took it away from her.)

Thankfully nothing along those lines happened, but I was angry that the directors made my mind go there and upset that we couldn’t just give Idamante and Ilia the peaceful happy ending they so deserve by this point.

But the more I thought of it, I started to respect the decision to put that part in there. It does something that none of the other productions I’ve seen have done—it gives us a vivid look into Idamante’s mind in terms of his trauma, which would very likely occur after such a dramatic series of events. And it got me thinking.

Idamante is very clearly depressed in this piece. Pretty much every opera character ever talks frequently about their emotional pain and grief, but basically 50% of Idamante’s lines are about how sad he is about pretty much everything. Almost every time he exits the stage directions say he does so “sadly” or “in despair.” He talks about wandering aimlessly until he dies, seeing no purpose in his life.

He does have moment of happiness—when he thinks his father is coming home, when he finds out he’s alive, when he finds out Ilia loves him, and even when he realizes he’s going to have to die to save his people. But the first experience we have of Idamante is basically him telling Ilia that he wants to die. This is a sentiment he makes more than once throughout the course of the opera. 

In the beginning, he’s celebrating the end of the war and the fact that he can free the prisoners, and his father will be coming home soon. But he’s distracted by the fact that he’s in love with Ilia—whom he does not know loves him in return, because she hates his people on principle for being the enemies of her family (not that we can really blame her for that). She’s reluctant to show feelings for him. As we will learn, Idamante (following operatic convention) perceives the world in extremes; she’s cold towards him which makes him think she hates him. The war is over, his people are at peace, he’s making the executive decision to set the prisoners free so they can live in harmony with his people. Despite all this, he’s distracted by the despair he feels about his relationship (or lack thereof) with Ilia. A depressed mind can’t always find enough comfort in the good stuff to use it as motivation. And she apparently wants him dead. Being a people-pleaser, he offers to let that happen. He just wants to hear her ask it herself. Possibly because he secretly thinks she’s too nice to actually ask that. And if she’s in a place that she would, or even kill him herself, he’s in trouble anyway, so why stick around?

I’m not saying this is solid logic; it’s opera logic.

The second time he says he wants to die is right before his love duet with Ilia. By this point he’s been rejected by his father multiple times and he still thinks Ilia hates him. His people don’t need him, because the king has returned, and aside form that he’s being sent away anyway. He just found out there’s a terrible monster (which gets no other description) running around destroying things and Idomeneo isn’t doing anything about it. So he plans on going after it himself and notes that even if he does mange to kill it, he’s probably going to die in the process, and he’s okay with that because he feels no hope in his life.

Ilia finally tells him she doesn’t want him to die because she actually does love him. Don’t ask me why it took her so long to say this when she’d already asked Idomeneo to basically adopt her an entire act earlier.

Idamante finally feels like he has something to live for. His father might hate him, his kingdom may not need him, but if Ilia wants to be a part of his life, he has a purpose again. This joy does not last very long, though. Idomeneo, who seems to have a habit of coming when he’s not needed and staying away when he is, shows up and interrupts their duet so abruptly that every time the track ends on my mezzo playlist I get whiplash. Idomeneo is upset that Ilia loves Idamante, because that’s just one more person that’s going to be hurt when he sacrifices Idamante. Once again, however, he refrains from telling people what the heck is actually going on, preferring to leave them in the dark, which, if he paid any attention, makes people much more miserable than the truth would. So all Idamante hears is that not only does his father inexplicably hate him, he’s also forbidding him to be with the person he’s in love with.

By now Idamante’s basically experienced the full gamut. He’s been in and out of love with Elettra; he’s suffered the thought that Ilia hates him; he’s faced the joy of finding out that’s not the case; he’s been through the roller coaster of first thinking that his dad is finally coming home after then ten-year war, then despairing at his death, then a few hours later finding out he’s actually alive, only to have his father reject him upon their first reunion and several times after. Further, he just found out (or thinks he’s found out, because Idomeneo is terrible at describing things) that it’s his fault the gods are punishing his people and that this terrible monster is ravaging the city. Now his father is asking him to leave and never return. Idamante says that he’ll do that to please his father, but he’s probably just going to die along the way, and that truthfully that’s what he wants to happen at this point.

The only thing that finally makes Idamante happy is when he finds out that his father has to kill him. His joy is twofold. One, he finally knows why his father has been such a dick to him. Precious sunflower that he is, he thinks it’s totally okay that his father treated him that way because it was apparently out of love. Because repeatedly being rejected isn’t as bad when the person doing the rejecting is doing it because they don’t want to kill you. Even though said rejecting hurt worse than death and almost led to your death anyway. That’s the excuse Idomeneo has. Idamante is not only a victim of the gods, but of one of the most extreme cases of Disastrous Tenor Logic ever seen in opera.

The second part of his joy comes from the realization that he has the ability to save his people. He just managed to kill the terrible monster miraculously without dying, but he only saved himself because he found out his father needs to kill him. And now he’s bursting with joy because he can help his father gain peace of mind and protect his kingdom from the wrath of the gods. He spends the next several minutes forgiving Idomeneo for being an asshole and comforting him, despite the fact that he’s the one that’s going to die. The only value he sees in his life at this moment is the fact that it’s going to end.

If it weren’t for Ilia, who knows if Idamante would have survived, because Neptune sure took his time to intervene. But even after the love of his life rescues him, Idamante still wants to die. He finally has what he wants—the love of his father and the love of Ilia—but he’s still prepared to die because by this point he sees it as his destiny. Once again it falls on him to do the comforting. He tries to convince Ilia to let go, be happy, and let him die in peace. There is very little indication from Idamante that he’s sad about losing his life for its own sake. Only for the way it’s going to affect others.

People who are suicidal tend to think that the world would be a better place without them. Here that is literally the case: the chaos will only cease when Idamante is dead. So not only does Idamante spend the majority of this opera feeling hopeless and wanting to die because of that, he finds out that by dying he’s going to be more useful to the living than if he himself were to continue to live. The inaccurate assumption that the world is better off without him, brought on by his depression, has suddenly become reality. They couldn’t have chosen a better victim.

Then Neptune saves him and announces Idamante will be king (because it’s finally clicked that Idomeneo is doing a shit job) and that he’ll marry Ilia. Suddenly his life has purpose again. Suddenly, it’s not his death that would make people happy; it’s his life.

It’s opera seria so we want a happy ending, and usually we get a happy ending. Not so much with this production, though. The way these directors ended their Clemenza wasn’t my favorite—not nearly enough hugging—but it wasn’t specifically taking a step in a darker direction. It left us with some suspended angst, knowing it’s not possible, after the events of the opera, for things to go back to the way they were before, when people were happy.

This one, though, took things further. As described earlier, we get this eerie moment of Idamante stopping in his tracks and staring at the weapon that almost killed him. No one uses the ax. No one’s touching it. But the sight of it is enough to send him to a dark place.

At this point Idamante has faced, in a remarkably short amount of time, joy, despair, depression, elation, self-loathing, self-worth, suicidal ideation, and the desire to live. He’s basically felt the full spectrum of human emotion. And he’s faced death twice in the span of maybe an hour: at the hands of the terrible monster, and at the hands of his own father.

He was completely willing to lay down his life for the greater good, but an honorable death is still dying. Right now he’s dancing around with Ilia, celebrating life and love and joy, and then in an instant he’s faced with the memory of the fact that he almost died. Now that he has the ability to appreciate life, that concept is terrifying.

Before watching this moment, it had weirdly never occurred to me the lifelong impact that this series of events would have on Idamante. But looking back it seems kind of obvious that it would. In opera we’re used to people just dying, not getting rescued at the last minute. In most productions, Idomeneo is poised to make the final blow before Ilia intervenes. Idamante is certain these are his last seconds on earth, but suddenly the aren’t. He’s given a second chance to live again, but he’s still left with that feeling. That he was going to die. That his father was going to kill him.

So as much as I want them to just have a happy, carefree ending, that’s not realistic. As the Paris Clemenza pointed out, there’s no way things can go back to the way they were before. Idamante is king now (though he’s probably used to that, having basically run the place in his father’s absence anyway). He finally has Ilia’s love and permission to marry her. He finally has his father back, both physically (he’s here) and emotionally (he’s finally being nice again). His people are safe and will be protected. The war is over. The people are united. But the price of this was days (maybe weeks, depending on how the time span is portrayed) of despair, of the wish to die, and finally a near-death experience. This is a recipe for trauma. On the outside his life is now perfect; he has everything he wants. But the mental and emotional backlash is going to be brutal.

All this is to say…after thinking about it in this way, I actually really appreciate that the directors put this in. Yeah, I wish the opera could end on a happy note with some cute flirting and cuddles. But that would be minimizing the significance of the trauma for Idamante. I’ve always appreciated this opera for the way it emphasizes the intense emotions felt by Idamante (and the others, but mostly this kid) which are almost a commentary on mental illness. In some ways it shows us the same ultimatum we see in so many operas: love or death. “If I can’t have this person as my love, my only peace is in the grave.” How many times have we heard that (or some variant) coming from the mouths of operatic protagonists (and sometimes villains)? But this opera has always hit a little different for me. Maybe it’s because of how many times Idamante expresses this feeling, in various contexts. Maybe it’s because of the multiple facets of his life that impact his feelings. Or the complex web of relationships that add their own influence. Or the fact that he’s not making these comments to himself, as we see much of the time in opera, but flat-out stating them to the people in his life who have the power to make him feel better and literally save his life, but who for the longest time refuse to do so.

The ending of this production validates all of that by reminding us that Idamante’s problems are not easily swept away by the proclamations of a god. They’re still very real and very much a part of his life, and will be for some time—maybe forever.

He’s traumatized. Seeing the ax again triggered that trauma, and he’s left with the haunting truth that this trauma may never go away.

It’s honestly a really ingenious device and it just added so many layers to this concept for me.

Although…it would have been nice to see Idamante and Ilia hug before the lights go down.

[atamascolily]

lily watches fma:b, eps. 62-64

Okay, when we last left off, the Big Bad was running around half-naked in a bathroom smiting people in a knockoff young!Hohenheim body, and 50 million people in Amestris had a really shitty day being devoured alive for their life energy before being miraculously restored to their still-breathing bodies by a not-quite-deus ex machina.

hohenheim challenges father to create something and he spits out humans from Xerxes--including the asshole king whose greed destroyed his entire country and people who RECOGNIZE HOHENHEIM.

[like, the trauma here!!!]

[I also like JUST NOW REALIZED that Greedling is the same character archetype as Grimmjow from Bleach - an aggressive, hyper-macho asshole who is a surprisingly fun character to watch break things?]

[FURTHERMORE both 03!Greed and Grimmjow had the same Japanese voice actor, LOLOLLOL]

greed and olivier have a pissing contest, lol

al's body is destroyed protecting may - good thing he's got another one waiting in the wings!

and then it's everyone takes a turn at father - first the briggs soldiers, then roy with hawkeye guiding him, armstrong, lan fan,the chimeras, etc,etc,

roy is so weirded out by being able to cast without a circle, LOL.

father tries to eat greed for more stones

ed swooping in in to defend greed is GREAT

so is watching izumi fight!!

anyway, they finally wear father down to the point where God can fight back and Father vomits him back up again.

... which makes him literally a zombie staggering around for "stones"

ed's automail is shattered, and he's pinned down - al, realizing his armor is cracked and his blood seal is about to break, gets May to make a circle so he can swap out his body for Ed's arm.

it works and ed goes absolutely feral on father.

(the fact that he still looks like hohenheim probably helps ed, tbh)

everyone cheers him on and greed is like "oh, yeah, all I really wanted was FRIENDS,"sob

greed sacrifices himself to keep ling yao from being eaten by father and it's so heartbreaking, everyone loves u greed

greed is like, yeah, kid, lan fan has a stone, take 'em and go home and be emperor of xing like a boss

greed: so epic he gets to die TWICE in this show. AND WE'RE SAD BOTH TIMES BUT THIS ONE IS WORSE.

greed transforms father's body into graphite (using his Ultimate Shield ability) but gets crushed by father.

ed slams a hole in father's chest and all the philosopher's stones leach out of him and then... the black grabby shadow hands emerge from the same hole and pull him back wherever he came from...?

[ngl: I don't get WHY that works, but okay.]

and of course, he gets to monologue about how he just wanted to be free without any constraints, which gets hohenheim all emotional.

Father is back to his flash form in the Gate World and he calls Truth "God" and asks why he didn't like him... and truth's like "because you're a greedy little asshole, that's why"

father is sucked back into the open gate by more grabby shadow hands and says "no, I don't want to go back" implying that this is, in fact, where he came from because the Xerxes alchemists were fucking around with stuff they shouldn't have been.

father is screaming and truth's like, "why? this is TOTES what you wanted, isn't it?being one with god?"

meanwhile, hohenheim offers his own life in exchange for al on the grounds that he was  a crappy dad.

true, sir, but also ed is having none of it

anyway, ed offers his own gate and ability to do alchemy as trade for al's body and truth's like "Sure, yeah,why not"

turns out that even once they've won, hohenheim is still brooding and depressed over father - he blames himself because it came from his blood? Like, dude, there are a lot of things to blame yourself for and you pick the one that REALLY ISN'T YOUR FAULT?

armstrong thanks him for ed and al saving the day and hohenheim bursts into tears and walks off... and goes to resembool to die on tricia's grave?

like, did he even say good-bye to his kids? WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK, HOHENHEIM?

pinako finds him dead at the grave, and tbh, i'm disappointed she doesn't punch him out anyway like she promised

"goodbye, my weird immortal friend"

Anyway, umm... that's basically the end, but let's wrap up with the "where are they now?" final episode!

somehow ling is emperor because he has magic people juice to give the current emperor, which just... seems like it might lead to problems, given what happened in xerxes? Just sayin’. But he’s going to take care of May and her clan, so I guess the show’s just going to sweep that under a rug and pretend it’s fine!

[ling definitely got the best character development of anybody along with Greed]

marcoh shows up with a philosopher's stone, which Roy agrees to use to rebuild his eyesight and also Havoc's legs, which just feels a little too deus ex machina for me, and also kinda shaky ethics here. but roy's okay with it because he's going to rebuild ishval, so...

and apparently scar is gonna be there, too? still forever grumpy, though.

grumman is fuhrer now (??!!) because roy and company are rebuilding ishval, so I guess all that talk about war crime trials was just for show because that sure isn't happening now that they won.

[I'm still bitter because it should have been Olivier!!]

Mrs. Bradley is raising Pride/Selim, who seems perfectly normal, even though Grumman says they'll have to kill him if he does anything evil. Mrs. Bradley says, "I'll make sure he doesn't show anything," which is kinda ominous to me? Like this woman would do anything for her kid. If Pride DOES get out of hand, she's not going to tell anyone.

[also I'm bitter that Pride gets to live and Greed DOESN'T, sob]

Ed and Al hang out in Resembool with Winry for two years until they get restless and go off on adventures again--but separately. Al goes to Xing with Jerso and Zampano (who have suddenly decided they want their original bodies back after being fine with it for the entirety of the series).

That's fine, since Al and May are very definitely a thing, but Ed goes west--which we've never heard from in the entire series--by himself, to research alchemy after sacrificing his ability to DO alchemy. I CALL BULLSHIT.

Winry goes with him to the train station and Ed is so fucking tsundere, I cringed just watching him.

(but also it was refreshing to see a male example of this trope and it was super-cute when he started blushing)

BUT ALSO his proposal is based on "equivalent exchange" - "I'll trade half of my life for half of yours!" - which is simultaneously the nerdiest thing ever and also YOU'RE NOT AN ALCHEMIST ANYMORE, ED, STOP.

Winry says that's stupid, she'll give him all of it,and then starts negotiating to 85%.

but given that Ed is LITERALLY RIDING OFF here, I gotta wonder how the math works out.

A random woman asks why Ed's leaving if he's in love with Winry, and Winry says something about how men left at home cause trouble (which implies she's fine with a long-distance relationship). THIS FROM THE GIRL WHO GOT MAD ABOUT BEING LEFT BEHIND ON *SEVERAL* OCCASIONS IN THE SERIES.okay.

In the credits, we see Ed and Winry have two kids, so... Ed has LITERALLY BECOME HIS FATHER, wandering the earth while his wife raises two kids alone. WHAT THE FUCK. WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.

I just have... questions.

Like... no. Just no. Ed stayed home and he was a great father to his kids, full stop. He did NOT repeat the cycle; he was a much better person than Hohenheim and he proved it by actually BEING THERE FOR HIS FAMILY WHEN THEY NEEDED HIM.

people say fma03 has a downer ending, but this one bums me out WAY more because it feels so ooc and contradicts a lot of stuff that the show has spent so much time building up to.

i am just left feeling very “meh” and also “what was the point of it all?” which is probably not a great place to be after finishing a story.

[vintage-story-time]

Step-Father's Sins by Unknown

Chapter 8

"WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE!" the black haired bear of a man screamed at the top of his lungs.

He stood in the doorway with his hands on his hips, his face very red with his ever-growing anger.

He didn't like what he saw. Melinda still had her face pressed hard against Marlene's open cunt.

Both girls were covered with sweat, and Bernard could pick up the rich scent of lust in the air.

The sadistic man had been looking for an excuse to sexually abuse the teenage girls anyway for a long time.

He felt an evil smile turning one corner of his mouth into a half-smile as he felt his balls start to ache.

Since the crime the girls had committed was intrinsically sexual, so would be the punishment he would give them.

The second he screamed Melinda pulled her face away from Marlene's pussy and whipped around to look at him.

As the black haired girl saw the expression on her step-father's face she could feel her own puss turning white.

All of the blood seemed to drain from Melinda's head as her heart was filled with unadulterated terror.

Not only was she turning as white as a sheet from her fear, but she thought she was going to faint.

Melinda had to take several deep breaths just to keep herself from losing her precious consciousness.

Marlene could feel her heart leap into her throat, making her feel as if she were about to gag.

The younger girl could feel her stomach tying itself into tight knots with her berserk anxiety.

Michele heard Bernard scream and woke up from her deep sleep, lifting her head from her soft pillow.

"YOU GIRLS ARE TRAMPS!" Bernard screamed, still clenching his long strong fingers into tight fists.

"W—W—We're sorry. It w-w-won't happen again," Melinda said, her voice shaky and weak as her eyes filled with tears.

"Sorry is not good enough. You two are going to have to be punished severely," Bernard screamed at them.

Marlene's throat felt as if it were made of chalk by this time. Her saliva gland stopped functioning.

She knew there was no way she would be able to speak. Her voice box was parched and inoperable.

The littler sister knew that dust rather than words would come from between her lips if she tried to speak.

"I want you to stay right here while I go get some things. If you try and get away it will only make it worse."

With that the huge man stomped out of the room and charged down the hall into his own bedroom.

There he encountered his concerned wife, who was slipping on her robe to see what was the matter.

"What is all of this fuss about?" Michele asked as Bernard charged past her to his dresser.

"I just caught your oldest daughter eating your youngest daughter's pussy!" Bernard bellowed angrily.

The man could feel his cock getting larger and harder as he thought about what he was going to do.

"We're in for it now," Melinda said to her pale little sister. Marlene managed a solemn nod.

Suddenly both of the teenage girls were wracked with sobs and great big tears streamed down their cheeks.

Their eyes became red and swollen to the point where the insides of their eyelids felt made of sandpaper.

"What are you going to do?" Michele asked her husband, concerned that he was out of control.

"If they are going to act like tramps, they are going to be treated like tramps," Bernard yelled.

He went to the bottom drawer of his dresser and found the pieces of copper wire he used for bondage.

"Good God, NO!" Michele screamed, horrified as it occurred to her what her sex master was going to do.

"Shut up, woman. You can come watch if you want to. If not, stay here and keep your mouth shut!"

Michele felt faint. She knew that she could do nothing to stop him. There was no way to stop him.

He didn't have to worry about the neighbors hearing anything. The house was in the middle of nowhere.

Michele thought for a moment about calling the police - but she quickly thought better of the idea.

The older woman knew that she would probably be dead by the time the cops arrived at the house.

She decided to follow him to the girls' room and hope she could keep things from getting out of hand.

Bernard charged back down the hall and was pleased to find that the girls were just as he had left them.

Both Marlene and Michele were so petrified with fear that they couldn't have run away anyway.

Even if they thought they could get away with escaping, their legs were too weak to function properly.

Besides, both of the girls were completely naked and they knew they didn't have time to dress.

If they had made it outside that would have had to encounter who-knew-who nude once out at the road.

It didn't seem to either of the girls like a good way to have their first social encounter with the people of Caledonia.

Bernard took charge of things the second he got in the room.

"You get over in the corner and be still," he said to Melinda.

She hopped off the bed and scurried into the corner where he was pointing pronto — without hesitation.

He hadn't even touched her and she was already behaving subserviently to him. He grinned broadly.

He loved the way her round smooth butt wiggled as she moved across the room and his cock stuck out of his robe.

Marlene looked down at his crotch and saw the purple head of his prick protruding far out, bobbing up and down.

For a moment the virgin didn't know what it was. After all, she had never seen a boner before.

She realized immediately that an erect pole of manhood was a lot bigger than she had expected.

Marlene had no way of knowing that her new step-father had an exceptionally large rod. She had nothing to compare it to.

"W—What are you going to do to me?" Marlene asked, her voice so low it was barely audible. She was weeping.

She could feel her tears dripping along the sides of her straight nose to the corners of her tiny mouth.

The droplets of saltwater got on her tongue — tasting bitter and awful. Even the taste of her tears was filled with despair.

She knew deep down inside just what Bernard had in mind. She was going to be completely humiliated.

"First I am going to tie you ... "

Bernard held the pieces of copper wire up for her to see.

"And then I am going to beat you ... "

He raised his clenched fist in the air threateningly.

"And then I am going to fuck you."

Bernard pulled his robe open so she could get a clear view of his ten inch prick!

"NO!" Marlene screamed. Her fear was even worse after she heard him say the magic word. He was going to fuck her.

"I'm afraid so, you little whore. If you want to come, you will come. If you want to cry like a baby then that can be too."

"But, you are going to tear me apart with that thing!" Marlene screamed, finding it difficult to swallow.

Her nose was running and she sniffled as she sobbed. She thought she had arrived in the blazing heat of Hell.

Her sweat turned icy and changed odor. Her fear sweat had the scent of burned almonds. The smell of poison!

Melinda was not blinking and stared at her sister with the blank expression of a sleep-walker.

She had been frightened into a state of trauma. She wanted to look away but her neck would not move.

Melinda found that she wanted desperately to close her eyes, but her lids were frozen in open position.

Even when her eyes began to burn she could not make herself blink, and her knees trembled so hard that she could hardly stand.

She finally slumped to the floor and hugged her knees against her chest, and found that her eyes functioned normally once again.

But the little black haired girl still found that a morbid fascination would not allow her to look away.

Marlene was trying to imagine how far her inner cunt lips would have to open to take his purple glans.

His cock head looked to be the size of a doorknob. She feared he was attempting the impossible. Her fingers clutched the bed.

Her knuckles were all white, and her nipples were still sticking almost a full inch out from her tiny tits.

Bernard set the copper wires on the foot of the bed and removed his robe, being dramatic as it fell to the floor.

"Can't you help me, Mommy," Marlene pleaded as she looked at her mother cowering in the doorway.

"N—N—No," was Michele's weak reply, and she too slumped to the floor and stared at the wall without blinking.

Marlene winced as Bernard grabbed her right wrist and pulled her arm back hard over her pretty head.

He pulled her arm so hard that she thought her shoulder and her elbow would be pulled from their sockets.

Her head and shoulders were pressed back against the bed as he pulled her wrist tight against the bedpost.

The sadistic man then tied the copper wire around her slim, dainty wrist and the bed post at the same time.

It was obvious from his gruff manner that he didn't give a shit how much pain he caused the little virgin.

In fact, Marlene got the impression that the man liked it when she squealed with painful discomfort.

She could feel the Wire cutting into her flesh and she knew there would be red rings around her wrists long after the stringent bondage was removed. If it was removed. For all she knew the man would kill her. He was a raving lunatic, and there was no telling what he would do. Marlene had read about guys that went off their nut and killed their whole families but she never thought anything like that would happen in her household. She knew - Bernard was mean — but not this mean!

Marlene could tell without looking that the fingertips on her bound hand were turning a deep purple hue.

She could feel pins and needles in her fingertips - and then the little girl could feel nothing at all.

The wire was wrapped around her wrist so hard that the circulation of blood was completely shut off to her hand.

She felt her knuckles becoming increasingly stiff until they became frozen in a slightly bent position.

Bernard crossed the foot of of the bed — looking like a wild jungle cat circling his helpless prey!!!

His long cock was bouncing up and down as if it were attached to his loins by a tight-springed hinge.

The little girl tried to imagine that cock going all the way inside her — incredibly deep into her belly.

She was sure that he would tear her womb wide open so that she would die slowly of internal bleeding.

At best the little girl feared that he would render her unable to have babies with his ten inch rod.

Marlene had no idea just how elastic her pussy flesh was. She thought she had no chance of taking him inside.

But she found something strange happening inside her as her terror became sexual in nature. She became horny.

The little virgin could feel the blood rushing to her pussy flesh, making her cunt lips swell rapidly.

It seems that the little girl had inherited the gene that made her ebony haired mother a sex slave.

Marlene was surprised — but somewhat pleased — to find that the fear made her become hot and bothered.

She could feel her cunt getting wet, and she knew the natural lubrication would minimize her inevitable pain.

The man grabbed her other wrist, pulled it back over her head in the same manner, and bound it just as tightly.

She could feel her nipples burning and tingling with hominess. She could feel nothing in either of her hands.

Marlene wondered if it were possible the bondage and the pain were enhancing her physical desire for Bernard's cock.

She wondered if the terror the rape was causing could work as a catalyst for the craving inside her cunt.

Marlene wished all of a sudden that she was a sexually experienced as Melinda. She knew that she would be able to sort all of this out much better once she figured out what the fuck was going on.

Then Marlene realized that she didn't want to switch places with Melinda.

Her older sister looked in bad shape. At least Marlene could still blink and think. She decided to take the cheeriest possible outlook on the impending rape.

She told herself that she was going to spite Bernard. She was going to have even more fun than him during the fuck.

She was going to come so many times that it wouldn't seem like she was being punished at all.

It would see like she was being rewarded for her incestuous affair.

Once both of her hands were bound, Bernard moved to the foot of the bed and grabbed both of her ankles.

He pulled them grossly apart and tied the feet to the bed posts at the foot of the single bed.

By the time he was finished, the little virgin couldn't feel anything in her feet either.

The wires bit into her ankles, and they felt like they had drawn blood in a couple of spots, actually broken through the skin.

The bondage was so stringent that she was held immobile.

She couldn't move her arms and legs at all.

She was helpless.

And that was the way she wanted to feel.

"I've never done this before," she said with a whimper.

"Done what?"

"Had a man inside me."

"You are a virgin?"

"Uh huh."

Bernard placed his palms on his belly and laughed until his whole tremendous body shook.

There was nothing Bernard liked better than popping a cherry. He loved to hear little girls scream in pain.

He knew that Marlene would give out a loud cry of agony when he popped her cherry, and he was looking forward to it.

He could feel his cock shoot upward to slap him hard in the belly when he heard her hymen was intact.

The man wasted no time climbing on top of the little girl, and she could feel his cock pinned against her belly.

The base was touching her pubic patch and the tip was pinned over half way to her tits.

She tried to imagine her internal flesh stretching that far, but it was difficult.

He pressed the full weight of his upper torso against her chest so that she couldn't breathe at all.

He could feel her pebble-like nipples pressing hard against his hairy chest as he showered her face with kisses.

He found her mouth and the little girl knew there was no point in hiding her horniness any longer.

She shot her tongue outward, plunging it deep into her sadistic step-father's mouth, and he roiled his own over it.

He slobbered on her and she sucked noisily at the excess drools his saliva gland was secreting with his lust.

"You want it, don't you, you little cunt?"

"Yes, I want it. I want it all the way inside."

Bernard laughed again, sounding as if Satan had taken possession of his soul.

It was obvious that all civilized behavior had been sucked from the beast.

He was a complete animal. He lifted his hips and his upper body.

Marlene gasped to replenish her depleted oxygen supply.

He supported the weight of his upper body with his left hand and reached back with his right to get a grip on the base of his prick.

He was going to touch her in places she had never been touched before.

He was going to touch her in places she didn't even know she had.

Deep places.

Internal places.

Feminine places

Places she didn't know could reached from the outside.

She trembled with fear.

She whimpered with lust as he moved his cock head to her snatch.

Marlene could feel her cunt lips start to open.

She knew that her inner labia were going to be forced open further than they had ever had to stretch before.

She tried to stay relaxed, but this wasn't easy considering the pitch of the little girl's sexual excitement.

She could tell that the huge purple phallus was going to transform her cunt from a blossom into a full-fledged flower.

She could feel the tip of his cock move between the lips, and she could feel his piss hole pressing against her intact hymen.

Then she felt a horrible pain in her cunt, and she thought she had been stabbed in the pussy with a red hot poker.

She could feel fresh tears welling in her eyes as the agony ran up and down her stretched spine, and she screamed loud enough for Melinda to snap out of her trance for a moment.

Even Michele looked away from the wall for a second to glance lazily, at the bed to see what all of the commotion was about.

"There she pops!" Bernard hissed as he felt the maidenhead tear away from the walls of the little girl's inner pussy.

There was even an audible tearing sound inside her as that wall of membrane gave way under the relentless force of Bernard's huge glans.

Marlene could feel something hot and warm inside her cunt, blending with the natural lubrication already present in there.

She realized, in a moment of raw horror, that this was her own blood she was feeling inside her cunt.

The solution dripping out of the base of her cant had turned pink as the cunt juice and the blood mixed.

She could tell that there was nothing to stop complete penetration.

Bernard was going to keep pushing downward with his tensed hips until his cock was all the way inside.

That was going to be no easy chore, Bernard could tell.

He knew that it would take a lot of brute force to get his pole inside.

Her pussy walls were shriveled and closed from lack of use.

They had to be pried gaping open by his throbbing glans.

Then Marlene could feel the magic spot forming inside her cunt - close to the dimpled mouth to her womb.

It was as if all of the desire in her entire torso were gathering in a tight cluster at that single spot.

She knew that something wonderful was going to happen inside her body when the tip of his cock found the magic spot.

His cock was moving into her love tunnel only a fraction of an inch at a time, in spite of the fact that the huge man was pressing down with his hips almost as hard as he could.

Marlene could tell that she was going to have an orgasm the second he touched that spot, and she could tell that it was going to be different from either the come she had given herself or the come her loving sister had given her with her tongue.

She knew that her clit would only be secondarily involved in the orgasm she was about to experience.

This would be a deep-vaginal come — a womanly internal come.

Marlene was pleased to find that the sharp, agonizing pain she had felt when her cherry popped only lasted a couple of seconds.

The flesh went into trauma and the sharp pain numbed into a dull ache — which blended perfectly with the ache of desire she was feeling ...

Bernard arched his back and thrust very hard, so that the tip of his prick banged against her cervix.

"YES! YES! YES!" she screamed as she felt the explosions of ecstasy roiling through her lower torso. She found that the orgasm was shorter and sharper than the ones she had felt in her love button earlier.

Bernard couldn't believe how hot the little girl had become.

And how quickly! He only had half his prick in, and already she was calling out with bliss in her voice.

She could feel her cunt walls going from dosed to gaping open.

Bernard did not stop pressing down when she came.

He kept pressing, and the going became easier. Her muscles opened with her come.

She could feel the tip of his cock on the back wall of her cant.

That rear flesh would have to stretch three and a half inches before her inner labia could clutch his cock base.

"IT HURTS! IT HURTS!" Marlene cried, thrashing her head from side to side. Her downy bangs clung to the sweat on her brow.

She was so red that she was starting to look purple!

She could feel the blood from her recently opened wound trickling from the base of her cunt slit, and she knew that Bernard and she were making a much nastier stain on the bed than she had used the towel to protect against earlier.

This was a stain of blood. A crimson stain, that would turn brown and crusty when it cooled and became old.

She could feel her cunt hole being stretched to the painful extreme, an acute test of the elasticity.

She could feel the top of his cock, very close to the base of the shaft, rubbing hard against her love button as he pressed against the top wall of her inner cunt with the tip of her glans.

"DEEPER! OH GOD! IT HURTS! DEEPER!" Marlene screamed.

Bernard grinned. He knew he had found another slave.

He knew that the other cunt was dazed and confused in the corner.

Melinda did not seem like she would be hard to train.

Bernard knew that soon he would be master of the family.

Mom and the two daughters would be completely subservient to him.

He would be the all-powerful Sheik. They would be his harem.

With that thought in mind Bernard rammed the rest of his prick into her oozing poontang and she took him like a pro, straining to lift her loins.

He impaled her with his prick, driving deep into her lower belly, filling her awesomely with cock meat.

She squealed with the combination of agony and ecstasy that turned her reeling mind to pinpricks of bright light on the insides of her tightly clenched eyelids.

The man pulled his cock back out of the cunt, and her seething hole made a deep "glug" noise as if slow bubbles were popping at the surface of a sulpher pit.

He could feel her super-tight muscles clenching his cock, sucking it, urging him to thrust it back inside.

She had all but forgotten about the wound at the mouth of her fuck hole.

Her joy was in her abdomen, where her core was to be plowed!

Marlene began to make loud frenzied shrill noises of whimpering anticipation as her inner labia once again stretched to hold the bulbous purple glans at the head of her sadistic step-father's relentless phallus!

The man paused and took a deep breath. Michele, in some vague recognition of the act, knew what Bernard was about to do.

She saw him fill his lungs and puff out his chest.

Her fingertips went to her lips. She was about to watch her husband ram all ten inches of his prick into her daughter's pussy in one fell swoop.

The only sound Michele could manage was a shivering whine.

Bernard clenched his ass cheek and pressed them tightly together.

He rammed down with his hips as hard as he could and Marlene's face contorted wildly with the incredible stabbing sensation she experienced, her eyes bugging outward, great pressure behind the green orbs from the savage vaginal violation.

Blood and cunt juice splashed out of her pussy onto Bernard's huge balls as he tore her with that incredible thrust.

He began to fuck her then. Slowly. Moving his hips from side to side just as much as he moved them up and down.

She was into it completely, and she could tell he wouldn't have to fuck her for much longer before she would have her second come.

She was starting to think that she might be able to come several times during the fuck, rather than just once at a time like when she masturbated or had her cunt licked.

Marlene knew that she was still green — naive — when it came to her body's potential to give her pleasure.

She could tell that she was going to learn more in the next few minutes than many women learned in a life time.

She needed the rape. She knew all women needed the rape.

It was when they were truly dominated that they felt most like women.

Marlene felt very much like a woman as she took his cock savagely inside her again and again. His motion became swifter.

He jerked into her.

Her cunt sucked and splashed. – "CCCOOOMMMIIINNNGGG!!!" Marlene vocalized.

And she did. The little girl was pleased to find that the second come was even better than her first.

Marlene was to come many times during the fuck, her final orgasm coinciding with her sadistic step-father's plentiful ejaculation.

As he felt the comet of fiery pleasure form at the base of his ramrod, he plunged all ten inches inside so he was stretching her inner vaginal walls to full capacity both lengthwise and widthwise.

They came together and sang out with joy. He bathed her inner cunt with his hot sticky silver seed.

And then they were still. He lifted his chest off of her so she would be able to breathe, and Marlene could feel his cock lose its urgent rigidity, allowing her straining cunt walls to relax for the first time in what seemed like an eternity.

Her hair looked darker when it was drenched with sweat and clinging to her scalp and the back of her neck.

Marlene prayed that Bernard would not be mean now that he had appeased his passion for the time being.

But as he pulled his cock out of her cunt she could see that- her punishment was far from through.

She couldn't help but remember that he had promised to beat the shit out of her; As of yet - she had not been badly beaten.

It wasn't a very nice thing to look forward to, but she had more or less forgotten about it during the intensity of the fuck.

Bernard untied Marlene's wires and massaged her hands and feet gruffly so the sensation would return to them.

She was allowed to sit-up, and she almost fainted as she looked between her legs to the stain she had made on the bed.

"Get on your belly," Bernard ordered. Marlene naturally obeyed.

He did not bother to tie her again. She was too weak and contented with her post-orgasmic afterglow to struggle.

Bernard quickly fetched his black leather belt.

"You have been a bad girl and you deserve a spanking," he said. He wasted no time and began to thrash her buttocks.

At first the little girl screamed in pain as the welts rose in stripes across the cheeks of her sweet ass.

But soon those cries of pain turned to cries of pleasure, as the rifling agony was translated into ecstasy by her sexual aroused nervous system.

"Whip me, Bernard! Whip me HARDER!" she screamed.

Bernard was grinning broadly. He flashed his pearly white teeth, and there was a glint in his neat-ebony orbs.

He whipped her ass cheeks raw, until her screams had died down to pathetic little whimpers. She was exhausted. Her ass cheeks burned. Her abdomen was filled with the wonderful glow his huge cock had left.

"Get off the bed!" Bernard screamed. "It is your sister's turn."

[purplepalmdelight]

i wrote again !! full work under the cut, tws in tags

Fandom: Stranger Things (TV 2016) Rating: General Audiences Relationships: Jonathan Byers & Will Byers Characters: Jonathan Byers, Will Byers, The Byers Family Trauma

“The Mind Flayer is out of him. The Upside Down is gone. El is back. Everything is okay now.

Then Will finds a letter under Jonathan's bed, and things don't feel very okay anymore.”

Will took another bite of cereal, watching blankly as his mother dashed about, trying to collect both her things and herself and failing miserably. "God, I'm late-" She tugged on her other shoe and blindly grabbed her keys off the hook. "Ok, I think that's everything." She kissed Will's forehead quickly. She always did that now. It was nice. Kinda made him feel like a kid, and he had to scrunch his nose up out of principal, but it was nice. "Can you remind Jonathan to go grocery shopping later? We're running out of milk."

Will lifted his dry spoon in a kind of salute. "Out of it, actually. And yeah. He's still asleep, I think," he added. Joyce's forehead wrinkled.

"He's been sleeping a lot," she said, in a way that was offhand for her but mildly concerned for anybody less neurotic. Will shrugged.

"I mean, it's break, so…" he took another bite to get out of the conversation. Jonathan's sleep schedule wasn't exactly a riveting topic. Joyce just sighed and went for the door again, though she aborted her movement halfway there and turned again.

"Oh, the uh…" she snapped her fingers. "The shelves. For your room. I got them yesterday. Last night, I guess. But they're waiting to be put up- I asked Jonathan to put them somewhere? I think they're under his bed or something. In the closet, maybe. You can do that, if you want."

He didn't have enough room for all his stuff anymore. Plus, Dustin had given him all his X-Men comics ("You deserve them. And I come over all the time anyway, so it's not like I can't read them whenever.") and that was, like, the coolest gesture ever, but it just exacerbated the problem. The new shelves were more exciting than they really had any right to be, but Will didn't bother tamping down his grin. Maybe some good old fashioned hammer and nails would fix him up. Fix this crazy empty feeling inside him.

The scar from the poker burned, and he shoveled more cereal into his mouth, gesturing to the door. Joyce kissed his forehead again, laughing as he swatted her away, before darting out for work. Will finished his cereal in relative silence.

Did he have to wait for Jonathan to wake up to dig through his room? Courtesy said yes, but like… you didn't have to be courteous with your brother, right? That wasn't a thing. You could totally dig through your brother's room without his permission. In fact, Will decided, it was probably encouraged in the Younger Sibling Handbook. He left his bowl in the sink to deal with later.

The floor creaked under his feet as he crept into Jonathan's room, and he froze for a moment. His brother was tangled up in his sheets, half-dangling off the bed, and Will snickered to himself. Jonathan mumbled something, but he always talked in his sleep, so Will paid it no mind. He tried the closet first. A bust- nothing but too many flannels and four of the same Pink Floyd t-shirt crumpled on the floor. Will closed the door as quietly as he could, rolling his eyes. Jesus, this guy.

He crept over to the bed, resisting the urge to kick Jonathan's hand where it was dangling at knee height. He muttered something in his sleep again and Will mumbled his own mocking gibberish back with a grin. He flopped down onto his stomach carefully. The underneath of Jonathan's bed was dusty as hell, was his first impression, and also had way too much shit. He picked up a stray paper and squinted at it. A math worksheet dated November '79? Seriously? It wasn't even done. (Will's hand brushed over a mixtape that had "fuck you, dad" scrawled on the front, and thought maybe he didn't want to snoop through this shit after all.)

The shelves were shoved up next to some boxes. Will wriggled them, trying to shove them out from under the bed, but they were wedged in tightly, and he had to brace himself against the slats of the frame with one hand and force his toes in the tiny space next to box, using his other foot to awkwardly push the shelves out. He moved slowly- Jonathan would probably flip out if he woke up to Will half under his bed with, apparently, seventy percent of everything he'd ever owned. After several anxious, creeping minutes, he finally pushed them all the way out, cheering silently. His shoulder ached like hell, though. He should've just waited until the asshole woke up.

Will went to wriggle out from under the bed himself, but something caught his eye. There was a flash of white in the slats- a piece of paper? He frowned.

I definitely shouldn't, he told himself. But the curiosity poked him sharply- like a poker, and his side burned- and he crammed his fingers between the wood and the mattress, tugging it out. It was just a piece of notebook paper folded over itself. His name was scrawled on the front.

Will army-crawled backwards until he could sit up, leaning against the side of the bed. He pushed away Jonathan's hand as it dangled in his face and earned a mumbled, "Not the gun," in return. Will gave his brother a weird look. Some kinda dream, huh? He flipped the paper over in his hands a few times, frowning. Was it for him? If it was, why was it stuck under Jonathan's bed? It was a bit too late to put it back, he reasoned, and it was labeled very clearly for him. So he didn't feel too guilty unfolding it. (Not too guilty. Just a little bit guilty. He'd let Jonathan pick the movie next time they watched one.)

Will,

It was a letter. His frown deepened. The penmanship was shaky, like it had been jotted down quickly. Jonathan's handwriting was neat; he wrote every letter like he meant it, like it had to be perfect. Will always rolled his eyes about it, and Jonathan just said it paid to be clear.

I really don't know why I'm bothering to write this. I don't have anyone else to write to, I guess? Which is dumb. It's so dumb. It's bullshit. Everything in this town is bullshit, though.

I miss you. So much. And you would be so annoyed if I said that, because you're okay and you're fine and you just want me to leave you alone, but I miss you. I know you feel like we're treating you like a kid. I'm sorry.

Will glanced up awkwardly at his brother's sleeping face, suddenly feeling like he was invading his privacy. Maybe he really shouldn't be reading this. Maybe he should fold it back up and-

I have to let it go. I know that. That's what everyone's telling me. I mean, not directly. But everyone else is coping, is moving on, and I'm just… I don't know. I feel like I changed, but I guess not that much, huh? Still the same guy. Still just not coping and calling it okay. Still your weird older brother, except now I can't seem to leave you alone. It's like everytime you leave the room, I get this kind of sick feeling, like maybe it's not over. Maybe it's not even real. Maybe I'm still asleep and Mom is still fighting with Dad about your funeral in the living room. Maybe I'm about to wake up and find that you're not here, that you never came back, that they didn't find you.

But they found you. So I should be okay now.

Will twisted slightly, curling up, and let Jonathan's hand graze his knee. Jonathan shifted in his sleep. Mumbled something that sounded like, "Steve." Will snorted before he could help it.

Even Nancy is coping, and I know she's the one that deserves to be like this. I mean, fuck, she lost her best friend. At least you came back.

You're not really you anymore. And that makes sense. That place was awful. Was hell, really. But you're different now. And it's selfish, it's really selfish, but sometimes I just want the old you back. I want everything to be the way I used to be. And obviously that will never happen and at least you came back and I should be okay by now, but everything is so fucked up and I don't know how to deal with it. I wish I had gone to the Upside Down for you. I wish I'd gone. I wish you were happy. I wish Mom was happy. I wish I was happy. I wish Nancy was happy. I wish I didn't feel like I failed you. I wish it hadn't all been my fault in the first place. I wish you would talk to me. I wish I were dead.

Will had to set it down for a second, his heart hammering. He wasn't meant to be reading this. He knew he wasn't. But it wasn't fair to Jonathan if he put this back. If he ignored it. He read the last line again and had to set it down a second time.

I wish I were dead.

None of this was fair.

The scar from the poker burned.

I can't eat. It makes me sick. Makes me think about how you spent all that time without food. Makes me think about how there's a whole other world out that and it took my little brother and he spent all that time without food and now he gets dizzy just walking to the couch sometimes. Makes me think how my little brother wouldn't have had to go through that if I hadn't taken that stupid second shift. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

Will glared at the hand right in front of him, trying to pretend his vision wasn't blurry. "'S'not your fault, jerk," he muttered. He blinked rapidly. "Don't-" he shook his head. This was from a while ago, right? Things had probably gotten better. Things had to have gotten better.

Can't sleep either. Never was good at it, but it's worse now. I keep dreaming about the funeral. I don't want to dream about the funeral. I don't want to dream. The other night I woke up from a nightmare and I went to check on you because I had to check on you because I don't want to think about you being dead and you were also having a nightmare and I almost just shriveled up and died right there because I wish I could help you but I can't even help myself. Even Mom is starting to notice. Keeps telling me to eat more. She's never noticed how much I eat.

I don't really know why I'm writing this, I guess. But I miss you, kid. And sometimes that feels really shitty, because hey. At least you came back. I wish I had gone. I wish I had gone and I DIDN'T come back. I think everything would be easier that way. But I can't seem to leave you alone, so I can't leave now. Even if you want me to leave you alone sometimes, I think I'd get too distracted worrying about you to die. I guess you dying is saving my life. Poetic or whatever.

No it's not. It's fucked up. I'm sorry. I hope you're okay soon. I hope we're all okay soon. I love you, kid.

-Jonathan

Will's chest felt empty. He knew there was something underneath it, something dark and repulsive and cold that was crawling up to choke him, but it just felt so dark, so hollow, like a hole had been punched all the way through his torso. He drew in a breath that came as a whine. Jonathan shifted in his sleep again, mumbling, "Will, no," and he bolted out of the room without conscious thought.

I forgot the shelves, he thought hazily, but his stomach rolled sharply, and he hunched over the sink, retching. His head was spinning. The paper had crumpled in his hand, he noticed distantly, crushed against the ceramic he was clutching. He sank to his knees with another whining noise, clutching at the letter. He felt sick. He felt empty. He felt like punching a wall or something, but his hands were shaking and he didn't know how to throw a punch anyway, so he just sat on the bathroom floor and tried to collapse in on himself as best he could, fill up the space that had been taken out of him.

I hope we're all okay soon, his mind echoed. He choked back a sobbing, hysterical kind of laugh. Yeah. He hoped they were okay soon. Was this supposed to be okay? Was he supposed to be okay by now?

"Will?" Fuck. "Shit, Will-" There were arms around him suddenly, and he let out a real sob this time, crawling into his brother's hug. Jonathan held him tightly, murmured stuff he couldn't really make out but that made him bury his face in Jonathan's shoulder, like he could hide from everything wrong in their lives if he just clung on tight enough. Maybe he could, he thought feverishly, selfishly. Maybe Jonathan could make everything better. Maybe he could just say that he was okay and Will was okay and everything would go back to normal.

But if things were going to go back to normal, Will wouldn't be crying on the bathroom floor. So he squeezed his eyes shut tight and tried to stop thinking about it instead.

"It's okay," Jonathan was saying, his hand stroking Will's hair. His voice was steady. His hand was steady. He was there. "It's okay, Will. You're okay. I've got you, buddy. You're gonna be okay."

Will burrowed deeper into his brother's hug and tried to steady his breathing. Steady, like Jonathan. Jonathan was there. They were okay. Things were okay now.

He found his voice once the tears had run out. It was buried somewhere in his chest, weak and broken, and he had to tug it harshly from under the mess inside himself to make any noise. "I'm sorry," he managed, almost silently. Jonathan hushed him.

"Don't be sorry. It's okay." He sounded so sure of it. Will shifted back to rub his eyes. The crumpled paper pressed into his cheek where he was still gripping it, and he wrinkled his nose, sniffling.

Jonathan had gone very still.

The steady hands fell away after a moment. "What's that?" Will shoved it in his pocket. "Will?"

He glared at the floor. "I was just looking for my shelves," he muttered, and Jonathan took a long, deep kind of breath. He snuck a glance up at him. "Are you mad?" Jonathan shook his head. His lips were pressed together tightly, though, and Will ducked his head again.

They were silent for a while, just sitting there, but Will wriggled his way back into a loose hug and he could breathe steady. Jonathan's chin was propped on his head, and normally he hated that. He didn't like feeling small. He didn't feel small right now, though. He just felt protected. Held.

"Are you okay now?" he finally asked, and got another one of those long, deep breaths in return.

It took a minute to get actual words. "I'm better," Jonathan said, and hugged him tighter. "I don't know if anything's ever gonna be okay. But I'm better." Better was good enough. Will was better too now.

The poker scar buzzed slightly, but he just let out a long, deep breath of his own and let his brother hold him. "Will you help me put my new shelves up?"

"Of course. Maybe you're better with a hammer than last time we built something," Jonathan teased, and he just laughed, and his chest felt warm enough that the buzzing in his side went away.

"Yeah. I'm better now."

He was steady. That was good enough.