#i grew up so poor and struggled until last year and still struggle

[upperranktwo]

I had a fun day today!!! Going to a con with my sister is always a good laugh and glad to have managed to get some decent things!!! Has definitely made me super tired tho!

[pastorpresent]

tw: abuse, eating disorders, mentions of alcoholism

One of Wade's earliest memories was being four years old, sat at the half rotten kitchen table, sobbing hysterically over the food on his plate - all while his parents screamed at each other in the background.

"He needs to fucking learn, we're too poor for his fussy ass to waste food!"

His dad, getting in his mother's face, hands curled into fists as a warning, or a threat.

"I know, but he's not gonna fucking eat otherwise, and you heard that doctor. He's underweight as it is! I've got his chicken nuggets in the freezer-"

A smack, and the reverberating sound didn't even make Wade flinch anymore. He was kicking his tiny feet, trying to lift the fork to his mouth to end all of this, but it's like his body just... couldn't do it.

He was trying to be a good boy. He really was. He didn't want mommy getting hurt because he couldn't be good. It wasn't fair.

"Eat, Wade. Now," and that was definitely a threat, the words growled in his face, and Wade let out a sob as he quickly shoved the forkful past his quivering lips.

"You don't move from this fucking seat until this plate is empty. We clear?"

The grip on his arm hurt, but he knew if he tried to squirm away it would only tighten.

"Y-yes sir," he hiccuped, and his dad smirked, triumphant. As if he'd won, and his tiny self couldn't explain it but it made him feel like crying harder.

It took two hours, and tiny bites, but he finished the meal.

He didn't feel right the rest of the night. It was gone and done, but he felt utterly sick, like he needed the food and the taste out of him, and it didn't matter how many times he scrubbed his teeth with his spongebob toothbrush, up on his tippy-toes to reach the sink, the taste wouldn't fade.

He'd ended up spewing the meal back up a few hours later. He hated throwing up because of how shaky and weak it made him feel, and yet that night? He'd been practically giddy to have the food out of him.

It was the first time, but it wasn't the last. It may of been his earliest memory, but he had hundreds more exactly like it as a kid. Sat at that stupid table. The plate in front of him. Tears in his eyes.

Half the time, he'd just take the beating. At least he could settle after that, and not agonise for hours over the foods presence in his stomach until he was able to get it the fuck out.

He expected to grow out of it, as he hit his teens. He did start actually trying new foods, to usually poor results. His grandmother had scoffed, labeled him 'fussy', her eyes as disapproving as her sons. Wade had accepted the label, wore it with a twinge of embarrassment- because while he was good at not taking himself seriously, it still sucked ass not to be able to order off the adult menu in most restaurants and to turn down completely normal adult snacks because he couldn't stand certain textures or tastes.

He never grew out of it, in the end, but the list of foods he deemed as 'safe' did expand just a little.

It wasn't until he was older and they learnt about neurodivergence in health class that he ever heard a description accurate to his relationship with food. Avoidant restrictive food intake disorder. ARFID.

Wade had scribbled it down in his textbook, and ended up being late home from school that day because he was busy looking it up in the school library.

He could've cried with relief, honestly. A word. A diagnosis, even if he'd never get an official one. He wasn't some unique, one person freak show. It was a disorder. A disorder a lot of people suffered with.

He still struggled, but it was nice to have that layer of understanding.

His mutation made it worse. Changed the texture of his mouth, his tongue, and so things that had once been safe no longer were. He was practically starting from scratch, but he managed.

He got his ramen. His chicken nuggets. His boxed mac and cheese.

It was all fine and dandy and hey - on the plus side, the nutrionless crap he was eating couldn't kill him now! Unless heart disease could beat out regenerative healing, but when he considered how often Logan must've destroyed his liver by now - he figured he'd be fine.

Well, it was all fine until Logan moved in.

Him and Al never really 'cooked". They'd get take out, where Wade could get exactly as he wanted, or if not they didn't really eat together. Al would have whatever she was having, and Wade would knock himself up something of his own, and other than an occasional lighthearted comment about Wade having the dietary choices of a toddler, not much else was said. Al's comments didn't bother him anyway, because he knew they weren't insults. Didn't sting like his father's words.

He did their grocery shop too, so it all worked out fine.

When Logan moved in, he wanted to be helpful. He was struggling to find a job that would take him without a social security number or any form of identification that didn't technically belong to a man everyone knew to be dead. It meant he couldn't contribute to the rent and bills, and Wade knew he felt guilty about that even if he'd told him a million times over that it didn't matter.

He loved having Logan around. He'd pulled him from his own universe to be here. Giving him a roof over his head and sharing his bed while Al took the pullout really wasn't a big deal, and absolutely not something Logan had to repay him for.

He started taking on the domestic duties around the house as a way of payment anyway. The apartment had never been cleaner, that's for sure, and he took Mary Puppins on all of her walks.

It was fine. Everything was fine. Until Wade had came home from work one day and found that Logan had took it upon himself to go stock up on groceries, and cook dinner.

Wade hated how nervous seeing someone standing over a fucking stove made him. He knew a psychiatrist would probably give some dumb spiel about PTSD and unresolved trauma, but Wade just felt like a fucking idiot, freezing up in his own kitchen at the sight of Logan cooking and humming along to their old, shitty radio.

"Hey, how was work?" Logan glanced up from the steaks sizzling in the pan.

Wade needed to get it the fuck together. He couldn't let Logan realise how pathetic he truly was.

"Fine, dull," he replied with a shrug, hanging up his jacket and trying to quell the rising panic, but the smell alone was a lot and he could already feel his body tensing up, his fight or flight kicking in, and he wanted to scream and rip his own skin off because it was so fucking dumb.

"You alright, bub?" Logan asked, pulling Wade from his thoughts.

He nodded.

"Yeah I- need to shower," he excused, figuring it was a good enough reason to dip out and try to get a fucking grip.

"Alright," Logan said, eyebrow raised, "well dinners probably gonna be ready in twenty minutes or so."

Wade nodded, plastering on his best grin, "can't wait, peanut," he said, before quickly rushing out the room.

//

He felt like he was walking into the lions den, entering the kitchen. The shower and ten minute self pep talk did very little to fill him with confidence. Logan and Al were already sat at the table. Mary Puppins waited eagerly at their feet.

"There, the fuckers here. Can we eat now?" Al demanded, and Logan rolled his eyes but he was wearing one of those almost fond smiles, "go ahead."

Wade took his usual seat next to Logan, between him and Al, and picked up his knife and fork, staring down at the plate. Steak, mashed potatoes and green beans.

A normal fucking meal for an adult, and yet Wade felt his stomach tying itself into intricate knots just looking at it.

Al and Logan were chatting about the movie they'd watched last night, but their voices were muffled and distant. He scooped up a tiny bit of the potatoes, shoving it in before he could change his mind, forcing his throat to work and swallow it quickly. He could still taste it, could feel the texture imprinted onto his tastebuds.

He could do this. He could. Just get through one measly meal, and it would be fine. He already knew how strange he came across, and it was an honest to God miracle that Logan had stuck around - what if this was the final straw? Watching Wade waste the perfectly good meal he'd stood and cooked for him in favour of something beige and cooked in the microwave?

If he was going to lose Logan, it would have to be for a hell of a better reason than that.

He kept going, so focused on getting the food down that he missed the worried glances Logan was throwing his way.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but his thoughts were interrupted by the clattering of silverware.

"That was delicious. Who knew your dumbass could actually cook a meal?" Al commented, and when Wade looked up both of their plates were clear. He looked back to his own. At the single missing green bean, and pitiful dint in the mashed potatoes. The hardly distinguishable sliver of missing steak.

"I'm two hundred years old, picking up some hobbies here and there becomes a necessity to maintaining sanity," Logan shrugged, smiling, but it didn't feel like it was fully a joke and it only made Wade feel that much more guilty.

"Well, it's Wade's turn for dishes so I'm off to bingo. Don't wait up," Al left the table, barely side stepping Mary Puppins, and Wade could feel Logan's eyes on him now.

He didn't dare meet his gaze, forcing a bite of steak past his lips.

"What's up with you? You not into steak?"

There was no bite behind the words, and yet they made his breathing pick up all the same.

"I- I am, it's- good, honest. Thank you," he said, taking another bite, ignoring his body's protests, suppressing the shiver.

"Wade. Look at me," his head snapped to Logan. He was already in trouble. If he started being bad and not listening, it would hurt more, and he couldn't-

"Hey," Logan's voice was oddly soft when he spoke, but firm enough to get his attention. He reached over, pushed Wade's hands down gently, uncurled his fingers from their white knuckled grip around the cutlery.

Wade watched him do it, utterly confused.

"I'll eat it. I will, I'm trying," he hated the childlike panic that had taken over his brain. He felt like that four year old again, staring at his plate with a wobbling lip and damp eyes.

But he felt helpless to stop it.

"Do you not like it?" Logan asked.

Wade was biting his lip hard enough that he tasted blood, "it's... thank you. For making it for me."

"That's not an answer bub," Logan hummed, "do you like it or no?"

Wade chewed the torn skin of his bottom lip. Shook his head once. Tried to get his body to calm the fuck down.

Logan reached over. Wade flinched, cringing in on himself, eyes squeezed shut, bracing for an impact that never came. Instead he just used his thumb to release the lip Wade was using as a chew toy from between his teeth.

"Ok, that's alright. No worries, yeah? You want me to make you some of that ramen stuff you like instead?"

"I- I have food, you cooked me it, I shouldn't..." he trailed off when his throat felt tight.

"And you don't like it, which is completely fine. I'll clean up, you go sit on the couch and I'll bring you some ramen in soon."

"Logan-"

"Wasn't a request, bub. Go pick us a movie to watch," Logan stood, piling up all three plates, and Wade could've cried with relief honestly.

He got up and went to the couch, picking out Shaun of the Dead and sticking it in the pink Hello Kitty DVD player he'd scored years ago at the thrift store. He sat down, but his leg was bouncing like crazy and he couldn't get his eyes to focus.

Logan said it was fine, he reminded himself. He wasn't angry. But what if he was lying? What if he was just trying to lure him into a false sense of security? Make that first hit hurt even harder?

His dad had done that, in the past. Wade never understood why. Boredom, maybe? The same cycle of screaming at him, beating him bloody, rinse and repeat probably got old he supposed.

By the time Logan came over, bowl of noodles in hand, Wade was struggling through a fully fledged panic attack.

"I'm sorry, sorry, I'll- been bad, I'm sorry," he couldn't stop shaking, his breath punched out of him as he curled in on himself, burying his head in his knees which he pulled up tightly to his chest.

'You're a little pussy, no fucking son of mine. Stop hiding, boy!'

"Wade, Wade no. I'm not angry, you didn't do anything bad," he felt the couch dip next to him, and an arm wrapped around his back, pulling him against the solid warmth and familiar scent of Logan.

"I'm sorry," he didn't feel capable of saying anything else, and Logan shushed him softly, reaching out to grasp his hand, "it's fine, really. Look at me, sweetheart."

Wade reluctantly lifted his head, looking over at the older man who's face was filled with a genuine concern.

He hated that. Hated that he was so much of a fucking freak, making Logan worry about him because he couldn't get a damn grip on his own thoughts. He knew comforting people wasn't something that Logan necessarily enjoyed, and it was ridiculous and unfair for him to have to do it over something so small and dumb.

"I-"

"Shhh, just breathe. In and out. Slowly," Logan guided, emphasising his own, his thumb rubbing gentle circles around Wade's shoulder.

Wade copied. Eventually, he felt his body relaxing somewhat. He didn't realise he was leaning so heavily against him, eyes slipping closed, until one of Logan's arms wrapped around his waist.

His cheeks burned, but Logan wasn't pushing him off, and there was something soothing about his body heat and listening to the beat of his heart, even if it was muffled by the metal binded to his ribcage.

He wasn't sure how long he lay snuggled into Logan's side, but eventually he felt able to speak a bit more, his throat not so tight and brain not so crowded.

"My dad used to... get mad, if I didn't eat what I was given. Used to beat me for it," he said quietly.

Logan was silent for a long moment, and Wade almost pulled back just to see if he could read his expression. The hand on his waist tightened, fingers slipping beneath his shirt to run patterns over his hip bones.

"Dad's fucking suck. Hell, I killed mine. I wish I could kill yours, for doing that to you."

A sick, deeply twisted part of him wanted Logan to do it. Wanted to watch as his dad squirmed on the floor, covered in blood and bruises, all while he begged for mercy from an angry man who was so much bigger and stronger than him. Poetic justice really, but...

"He's already dead, sadly. Heart attack a few years ago."

"I'd say sorry for your loss, but I'm not," Logan commented, and Wade snorted against him, "yeah, me neither."

The silence returned. Wade hated silence, usually. Would say any dumb shit to fill it. Except it felt kind of... nice, right now. Comfortable. He didn't mind stewing in it for a few minutes.

"You know I'd never..." Logan trailed off, struggling with his words for a moment, which was odd. Wade had never heard him do that.

"I'd never hurt you like that. I know that sounds dumb, given the fact we fought each other a million times in the void, but I wouldn't..." he trailed off again, grunting in frustration.

Wade finally lifted up enough to look at him.

"I know. It's different when we fight, anyway. I'm immortal. You're immortal. I get my own hits in, and I fight dirty. It's a level playing field. With my dad... he started when I was four. I didn't have much of a chance," he shrugged, ignoring the flash of anger on Logan's face at the number, "I kind of like our fights. They keep me on my game, and I know I can't actually hurt you permanently. It's more like..."

"Play fighting?" Logan finished, his tone teasing but Wade knew he was serious, knew it was probably the only accurate word for what they did, "yeah," he grinned, and Logan chuckled.

Silence returned, their gazes locked. Logan's eyes went impossibly soft, "you alright now, bub?"

Wade nodded, leaning into the touch of his hip, bringing his own hand to rest on Logan's chest, "yeah, thank you."

"You want your ramen?" Logan asked softly, hurriedly adding, "if not that's okay, you don't have to. Just don't want you going hungry."

Wade nodded, and separated reluctantly from Logan to grab the bowl. He immediately felt a brief shock of that familiar panic and dread, but forced himself to remember that Logan wasn't mad, hadn't left him, he was right there.

He started eating, and Logan's arm returned to his waist, tugging him back in against his chest so he was situated between the older mans legs.

He looked up with a small smile, but Logan was pointedly watching the TV, even if the corners of his lips twitched upwards.

Eating the noodles was easy, and Wade didn't realise how hungry he'd been until it was gone.

"Can I ask you something? You don't gotta answer if you don't want to," Logan asked, taking the empty bowl from his hands and putting it on the coffee table.

"Sure," Wade shrugged, getting comfortable against him.

"It's... safe foods and stuff, right? You can only eat certain things? It's got a name, an annogram... starts with an A, I think?"

Wade sat up fully, brows furrowing as he looked over at Logan.

"ARFID. How do you know about that?" He asked, head tilting to the side. It's not something he had even knew where to start explaining to somebody like Logan. He worried he'd have the same outdated 'kids are just brats these days' kind of outlook on it that his dad did, but he scolded himself for that. Ever since they'd met, Logan had proved his stance on most topics was oddly forward thinking. Wade remembered one particularly impassioned rant about gay rights one night when some old trump clip had played on the news.

He just didn't expect Logan to know what it was at all, nevermind identify the behaviours as such.

"I never taught at the mansion, but I was around a lot. Charles said the kids liked me, for some reason, and I sort of became... not a counsellor, because I'm too fucked up for that, but just someone who the kids knew they could come to. Few of 'em struggled at meal times. Would come see me and I'd make chicken nuggets or whatever they felt able to eat. Sit with them while they did," Logan had that sort of glossy distant look in his eyes, the same one he always seemed to adopt whenever he'd reflect on his past.

Wade felt ready to melt into the damn couch cushions, his love for Logan increasing tenfold. There was a niggling sense of envy, too, just below the surface. He was glad the kids Logan cared for weren't abused for something out of their hands. That they were understood, even if only during their stay at the mansion.

But it didn't stop the jealousy from burning low and ugly inside of him. He never got that, never had an ounce of understanding from anyone. He was punished instead. Not starved, because he was always offered food technically, but in a way...

"I'm glad they had someone like you to support them. I'm sure that meant a lot," Wade said, no jokes, his face serious.

Logan looked away. That look grew more haunted, and he shook his head, "very little consolation considering most of them died because of me in the end."

"Lo, you didn't-"

"I know," Logan interrupted, his face completely unconvinced, "I know you disagree, that's fine. We don't... let's not talk about it again," he said, and Wade didn't want to drop it, wanted to argue until he lost his voice that what those people did wasn't Logan's fault - but it's an argument they'd had a million times over, and he never made any headway.

It always ended with Logan storming out to a bar to get pissed, likely in some dumb effort to prove how 'terrible' he was, and then they wouldn't speak for a few days until they both missed the other's company enough to put the debate and their pride aside.

So as much as Wade wanted to argue his point, he let it be done for now.

"Do need you to do me a favour though, bub."

"Hm?" Wade hummed.

"A list - all your safe foods. Bit pointless me shopping and cooking if I don't know what you can eat," Logan said, and Wade's throat went completely dry.

He'd wrote a list once. Only once. When he was nine, when he'd convinced himself his parents didn't hate him - they just didn't understand, and he could help. He wrote a list in his wobbly handwriting, the foods he liked - the foods he wouldn't need to expel from his body. He'd drew pictures next to each one. He'd gave it to his dad with a smile.

The smile had been slapped off his face. The list had been hung on the fridge, the only piece of his artwork to ever feature there, as a warning to his mother about what not to buy on their grocery trip.

And now here Logan was. Asking for one, so he could make sure he could stock those things, cook them for him.

He all but threw himself against Logan, who merely grunted at the impact, wrapping him easily in a hug while Wade practically squeezed the life out of him.

"Thank you," he mumbled against his neck.

"Don't mention it."

[dittanyinbloom]

Baby Fever

Ominis Gaunt x Fem!MC. 11 years after the events of fifth year. Could been seen as a final part to Note Taking. But trilogy is so sweet I didn’t want to include smut.

Summary: Anne is struggling after the birth of her child, and Sebastian has too many kids of his own to give Anne the proper care she needs. Sebastian calls on you for help, but your husband Ominis insists on coming along despite his affinity for children. 13.3k long so grab some tea besties.

Warnings: 9.5k of fluff and angst and Ominis healing from childhood trauma and then about 3.5k of smut. Breeding kink but like- it’s sweet I swear. Maybe a bit of cockwarming thrown in there (Sorry, Jesus. I’ll repent later). Minors DNI!

.🍼🌿🍼

Y/N,

I hate to do this while business is booming for you, or should I say blooming? Sorry. I need a bit of humor whenever I can get it. Anne is not doing well since having the baby. She’s been on bed rest and she’s a complete mess. I can imagine you ridiculing me, but I am allowed to say such things. She is my twin after all.

Her husband still isn’t back from that work trip. My wife has been asking around the Ministry for me, but no one knows anything. He wouldn’t have missed the birth of their daughter. And she’s four days old now, the cutest thing, by the way. She's starting to look just like Anne’s baby photos.

Anyway, I’m getting off track here. Sorry if this letter is scattered. I’ve got all four of my kids here with me. Their mother has to work while I’m taking off time to look after Anne. Obviously, someone has to earn money for the abundance of school robes we’ll be paying for in the very near future. They can’t be home alone with the youngest being only one. He’s walking now! Have I told you yet? Well, standing and wobbling. He’s getting there. Gonna be the next Slytherin Quidditch Captain in no time.

All this is to say, I need some help here with Anne. Helping her and taking care of her newborn is a two-person job. My kids make it a three-person job. I’m drowning a bit in diapers and screams and tears. Think everyone here has had a tantrum today alone, including me.

Needing your help desperately, my dear sister-in-law of mine. Don’t let Ominis roll his eyes when you read him that bit. He is my brother, blood be damned.

Sincerely,

Your Most Handsome Brother-in-law

S.S.

P!S! Please for the love of Merlin, bring washcloths. Between everything I’m trying to keep up with laundry and it’s simply impossible.

You glanced over the top of the letter once you were done reading it aloud. Contrary to Sebastian’s predictions, Ominis was not rolling his eyes. In fact, he looked forlorn and pale. Not only was he worried about Anne’s safety considering her poor condition after having the child, but he was no doubt worrying about Anne’s husband who was actually quite a lovely bloke. He fit in just right with Anne and Sebastian, and he very quickly grew on Ominis despite his attempts to keep the jokester at bay. In his eyes, Ominis had enough of that energy with Sebastian and Anne, who had been handling her curse greatly in the last few years and was back to her wild self, until the pregnancy complications that is.

What Ominis refused to acknowledge was that Anne’s husband didn’t have the mischief or malice of Sebastian and Anne. He was just a golden, loveable, arguably dopey guy. His love for Anne was so pure. He bawled multiple times on their wedding day. Being gone for so long during the latter days of Anne’s pregnancy was unlike him. And to miss the birth of his firstborn child, and likely their only considering the complications, was beyond excusable. Not that he would even try to excuse it because he was truly that honest of a man!

And then there was Anne, the most heartbreaking part of the letter. The doctors had her on bed rest seemingly indefinitely. She spent the last two months of her pregnancy in that dreary bedroom. When her husband was forced onto his work trip a week and a half ago, you closed up your magical plant shop and stayed by her side until the baby was born. A girl. She was born healthy with the cutest button nose. You held her for hours after she was born while the healers and Sebastian all huddled around Anne in worry.

Once Anne was safe and resting, Sebastian had tiredly collapsed on the couch next to you. You hadn’t seen him that exhausted since you were teens still in school, causing mayhem that affected yourselves more than others. His wife had been watching over all four of their kids all day so that Sebastian could spend that moment with his twin. You put the baby girl in her uncle’s arms and the two fell right asleep just like that.

It had only been a few days, but you were wanting so desperately to get back to the little girl. And while Sebastian’s kids were a handful, to say the very least, you wanted to see them as well. You had done your fair share of babysitting those mongrels, so they were quite attached to you. Their obsession with you and inclination to always come visit and run up and down the hall of your home was actually welcomed, as crazy as that sounded.

By the time you realized you loved children and wanted some of your own, you were already deeply devoted to Ominis. Because of his past, he wasn’t too enthusiastic about having children of his own. That was fine. Sebastian seemed set on having plenty for everyone.

Ominis stood from his velvet armchair and announced, “I’ll grab the washcloths.”

“Ominis, you do not have to go.”

He had stopped in the middle of the hall to ponder it. His head shook in disapproval. “I’m going to look after Anne. You’ll look after the baby. Sebastian will pack up the Quidditch team and head home so that Anne can rest in a peaceful house. Does that sound like a plan?”

You met him in the hallway and took his hands in yours. Butterfly-soft kisses were left on his knuckles. You spoke firmly and slowly to make your point. “You do not have to go with me to Anne’s. I can take care of both. It’s okay.”

“Don’t insult me,” Ominis insisted with a harsh whisper. “I won’t faint at the sight of a child, and if Anne needs me, I will be by her side. She is my sister.”

You chuckle, lightening the room for a moment, “Oh, so Anne is your sister, but you can’t admit Sebastian is your brother.”

“That’s because Anne is my sister through and through, but Sebastian can’t just claim such a title just because his kids call you Auntie. Such a thing has to be earned! Bestowed upon!”

“Okay, okay,” you giggled and smoothed his shirt across his shoulders to calm him. “You know he only says it at this point because it gets a rise out of you. And perhaps that’s why I bring it up too. You’re cute when you go red.”

“Oh, well thank you for adding to the stress,” Ominis shortly huffed in annoyance then turned to the bathroom to grab your house’s supply of washcloths.

Usually, he went along with your playful tones unless he was really out of sorts. You frown and follow right at his heels into the bathroom. “Sweetheart, we are all stressed. I’m sorry to make light of things in such dark times, but you always say you enjoy my light. I’m only trying to help you feel better.”

“I know. But right now-“ Ominis pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can I just be alone for a moment? Why don’t you go pack up those strawberries for Sebastian’s kids? You know we won’t finish them before they go bad if they stay in our kitchen.”

With your head hung low, you trudged to the kitchen and began to ransack your cupboards for potential meals. If things were really as bad as Sebastian made them seem, he likely didn’t have time to cook properly for the kids, Anne, and even himself. A few sandwiches and the berries would make a healthy enough lunch. If Ominis was truly planning to go with you, Sebastian really could head home for a break like Ominis suggested. Sebastian could no doubt figure out dinner for his kids at his own home with the stress of Anne and the newborn off his shoulders.

“I’m sorry for snapping,” that was Ominis leaning against the doorframe to your tiny kitchen. He looked exhausted as though he fought some great battle during his moments of solitude in the bathroom. He hated this side of himself, the one that could be so cruel. With his history and his trauma from his childhood, you didn’t ever fault him for being triggered.

The entire friend group was blissful until Sebastian started having kids with his wife, which was only a year or two into having your adult jobs after graduating from Hogwarts. Ominis had gotten used to them, slightly, but now with Anne having a child, he felt like he couldn’t turn in any direction without feeling an immense guilt.

“That was hardly snapping,” you kept up your light tone. It wasn’t an act. You really weren’t fazed by his behavior. These were stressful times for everyone. “You’ve bitten me before, so I think I got off a bit lucky this time.”

His cheeks turned a light shade of pink. After all these years, you could still fluster him. It was actually one of your favorite pastimes. How much teasing could Ominis handle? You were always itching to find out.

“That- that was one time. And you- you said you liked it,” Ominis straightened from his lean against the doorframe as he stammered on, “And that was different.”

“I did like it,” you reassured him. Memories of that night fluttered back. The sting in your shoulder. The cold from the blood dripping down. Tasting metallic on his lips afterward… “Maybe if you would bite me more, I wouldn’t have to keep pressing your buttons to see which one ignites that side of you.”

Ominis rubbed his face as though he was tired of your antics, but his cheeks turning a deeper shade, nearly all red now, told you all you needed to know. “You drive me crazy, you know that?”

“Didn’t I just admit to doing it on purpose?”

Ominis could hear the knife come out into the cutting board. He tilted his head. “What have you been up to in here? Thought you were going to grab the strawberries.”

“Sandwiches for everyone. Doubt Sebastian has had time to make lunch yet. I’d rather make them here than amid whatever chaos is happening there.”

Then Ominis was behind you, gently placing a hand on your shoulder to map out where you were. It glided down to the small of your back and then snakes around the front, his other joining as his body pressed into yours from behind. His chin rested on your shoulder. His chest rumbled against your back as he spoke, “Forgive me for taking my stress out on you?”

“You hardly said anything, Ominis. There is nothing to forgive.”

His lips pressed right at the back of your jaw where it met your ear. “Maybe I’m asking in advance for tonight.” Then his mouth opened. His teeth grazed your skin so lightly you thought you imagined it. And then, rather evilly in your opinion, Ominis stepped back and released his hold on you. “Hurry up with those sandwiches. I’m going to handle a few things before the trip, but I’ll be waiting by the fireplace to floo by the time you are done in here.”

Sure enough, your husband was waiting for you patiently at your fireplace after you finished packaging up the lunches. He held out a hand to steady you as you stepped up on the brick, hardly a necessary gesture, but he was being extra sweet with you while he still could.

“I put a closed sign out on the shop,” he sounded almost formal about it.

“Thank you,” you breathed out in gratitude, “I completely forgot.”

“That Alihotsy is getting a bit big for the nursery. It’s extending across the walkway. Startled me for a second.”

“Sorry. Yes. That fellow from Honeydukes is meant to come by sometime this week for it. I’ll have to write him to explain that we are looking after Anne. Maybe he wouldn’t mind if we dropped it by late at night on his doorstep?”

“Maybe tomorrow night. We’ll be too tired after this.”

You chuckled and shook your head. “You always talk me into being lazy with you. Promise you won’t talk me out of it tomorrow too?”

“I would like its leaves out of the walking path, so I promise, tomorrow night we can take it to him. I won’t drag you to bed too early.”

“But I do look forward to ending up in bed with you after.” And with that, you threw down the floo power and were transported to Anne’s bungalow in Feldcroft. Upon entering, the first thing you noticed was the noise. There was a baby crying, kids screaming, and footsteps pounding around on the hardwood floor.

“I said to get that thing out of here!” That was Sebastian, sounding exasperated.

“I can’t catch it!” His oldest child, who was seven going into eight now, whined back.

“Then chase it out the door! It can’t be in here. It- oh! Y/N. Thank Merlin you’re here. Popped in at an awful time. Sorry for the mess.” Sebastian, while cradling his youngest in his arms, a baby who was about a year old now, kicked a few toys out of the way so you could step off the edge of the fireplace.

“Auntie Y/N!” Three children trapped you with hugs from all around. Then behind you, Ominis popped up in the fireplace and the three were rushing to embrace him as well.

You chuckled and put a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder to ask, “Seb, why is there a chicken on the couch.”

“It’s on the-?” Sebastian turned and started to wave the brown chicken off of his sister’s couch. “Shoo! Shoo! You are lucky I haven’t cooked you yet!”

You rolled your eyes and pulled out your wand. “Levioso. Accio.” The brown chicken squirmed in your arm, but you held it at your hip and then turned to the three kids with an eyebrow raised. “Who brought a chicken in the house while Auntie Anne isn’t feeling well?”

None of the kids said a word, but the two oldest shoved each other while they all stared at the floor in shame. You sighed and said, “If you go and collect all the toys in the house and put them in the diaper bag, I will give you the surprise I brought.”

The kids lit up. Their guilt long forgotten.

“A surprise?!”

“What is it?”

“Ah, ah, ah. Pick up your toys first.” Then the three of them were off collecting the messing they made and putting it in their youngest sibling’s enchanted diaper bag.

You put the chicken in the backyard and came back to see Sebastian and Ominis having a chat on the couch while the baby while trying to pull itself up on the side to join in. Ominis flinched when the baby grabbed his pant leg. You were quick to dive down and pick the little one up, grunting as you did so.

“My oh my, you have gotten big! What are they feeding you? Rocks?”

“That one’s gonna win the World Cup. I just know it. Gonna be the best Beater there is.” Sebastian played with the baby’s chunky ankles while you held it. It cooed back at him as if it understood and agreed.

You laughed and moved the baby to your hip to then use your free hand to touch Ominis’s shoulder. “You wanna go check on Anne while we set up the picnic for the kids outside?”

Ominis nodded and stood up to leave. He seemed thankful to have an excuse not to join the chaotic lunch plans.

Sebastian smiled wide. “Am I hearing this right? You brought lunch?”

“Just some sandwiches and strawberries. Figured you hadn’t had the time.”

With an exasperated sigh, Sebastian leaned his head against the back of the couch and closed his eyes. “You thought right. It’s been… a lot. The baby is sleeping now, I mean, the other baby, the newborn, Anne’s baby.” Sebastian paused for a second then whispered, “That’s still so crazy for me to say. I’m so happy for her.”

“You and your cousin are going to be the best of friends!” You told the one-year-old on your hip. So close in age. How fun! They’ll only be a year apart at Hogwarts. Bet they’ll get into even more trouble than we did.”

Sebastian covered his face and groaned. “Merlin, don’t say that. They already make me crazy as it is. Can’t imagine how I’d handle them being as wild as us.”

“Sebastian, there was a chicken on the couch when I got here. You may want to mentally prepare yourself for all sorts of Hogwarts shenanigans.”

Meanwhile, Ominis was knocking on Anne’s bedroom door and waiting to hear her voice before letting himself in. Sebastian’s kids were still being rather loud, but the decibel levels had greatly depleted. Ominis shut the door gently, but firmly, hoping to trap out any further noise. Their little feet could still be heard scampering about the echoey wooden floors as they searched for their abundance of toys to put away.

“Thought you two must have arrived,” Anne sounded exhausted. Ominis’s heart immediately ripped in two. He hadn’t heard her voice so raspy since they were teens. Anne had mostly healed from her curse. At around the ten-year mark, she decided she wanted to try for a child. She and her husband were happy and head over heels in love. They just wanted one child to share the love with. The risk was great with Anne’s past, but she didn’t want some retched curse to stop her from living her life the way she dreamed.

“And it was a good thing we did. Sebastian’s kids were terrorizing your home.”

Anne laughed at that, though it was quiet and airy. “They are just playing, Ominis. That’s why kids do. Not a dull day around here lately, that’s for sure.”

“Still, I’m sure you could rest better if it was quiet.” Ominis took a step to the right, meaning to meet her at her bedside.

“Wait-,” Anne croaked out, causing Ominis to freeze. “The bassinet is on this side. Come around to the other.”

Oh, right. Ominis swallowed thickly. He had forgotten about Anne’s baby for a moment. The room was so peaceful. It was hard to believe a child was in here with them. “Right, sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, Min,” Anne reassured as Ominis walked around to the other side of the bed. “Just didn’t want to bump into it and wake her. She’ll be hungry when she wakes up.” Which was Anne’s way of gently warning him that the baby was probably going to cry for food soon that way he didn’t panic when he heard it.

Ominis cautiously sat on the side of Anne’s bed and asked, “Anything I can get for you? I’m here to look out for you, and Y/N is going to look out for the baby once she feeds Sebastian and the kids and sends them home.”

“Honestly, I was dying of boredom before you came in. Just you being here is enough.” Anne placed her hand over Ominis’s and squeezed. “And how is my Y/N doing? How’s the shop coming along?”

There was a thankful sigh of relief from Ominis’s lips at the subject change. He could talk about you and the shop for hours. “We’re loving it. She put me to work though with all the upkeep. I’m regretting cutting back my hours at the Ministry. At least they didn’t make me sweep.”

Anne’s soft chuckle sounded much closer to her normal self this time. Ominis let some of the tension in his shoulders release from knowing Anne wasn’t feeling too much pain at the moment.

“You know, they would take you back full-time in a heartbeat if you offered.”

“No, no,” Ominis quickly backtracked with a smile, “No, trust me, being at the shop is a walk in the park in comparison to the Ministry’s paperwork. The half of my week there is like a vacation. Besides, it’s right next door to the house. No travel sickness. And the greenhouse smells lovely. Much better to work in than those dingy offices.”

“Hey now, don’t talk bad on those dingy offices. I can’t wait to get back to them in a few weeks. I’ve already planned on how to reorganize mine. Bit of spring cleaning.”

Whatever was going on with Anne, Ominis had assumed it was to do with the curse. Hearing her so confidently say she would be back to work soon made Ominis tilt his head in confusion. Was she being her stubborn self, or were things not as bad as Sebastian’s letter made it seem. It was always hard to tell with the twins. Anne played everything off as fine, but Sebastian acted like Anne’s paper cuts were life-threatening.

“Planning to get back there so soon? Well, don’t strain yourself. The office will still be just as meek and dusty no matter how long you wait.”

“Suppose so. Might be nice to spend some extra time just with her.” Ominis couldn’t see it, of course, but he knew Anne was referring to the baby in the bassinet on the other side of the bed.

There was a soft knock on the door, and with Anne’s approval, you cracked the door open just enough to peek your head in. “Up for a few visitors? The kids want to say goodbye one by one. I’m including Sebastian in that category too, of course.”

“Hey!” Could slightly be heard from the hallway.

Then, one at a time, you allowed the kids to give their Auntie Anne a kiss goodbye. Lastly, Sebastian went in with his youngest in his arms. Anne chuckled at the red stains on the baby’s hands and shirt from the strawberries. She could picture how it probably mashed the berry in its hand before shoving it in its mouth and likely missing its mouth entirely so that the strawberry ended up mostly on the ground. Her heart tinged a bit. She wished she could have joined them for lunch and not been forced to stay in her tiny bedroom.

“Get some rest,” Sebastian mumbled as he kissed her forehead.

“You too,” Anne replied. “Thank you for looking out for me these past couple of days, but go home and relax. Ominis and Y/N will take good care of us here.”

Then Ominis felt a hand on his shoulder. By the way it lightly massaged him, he instantly knew it was his wife. She leaned in close to whisper to him, “I’m going to walk Seb and the kids home to make sure none of them wander off. They’re a bit ornery today. Will you be okay without me?”

A pang of guilt stabbed him in the stomach. Ominis hated that he was the one you were worried about leaving while Anne was quite literally bedridden. It was embarrassing that you felt as though you needed to check in with him before taking a quick walk just a few houses down to Sebastian’s place. His…affinity to kids was bad, he knew that, he knew that you knew that and that’s why you were being overly protective. Still, it hurt his ego just a bit.

“Take your time. We’ll be okay here,” Ominis whispered back, trying his best not to sound short. If there was any uneasiness in his tone, he knew you would drop everything to comfort him. That couldn’t happen now. Sebastian might have needed your help walking the kids back, but Ominis knew that it was partially an excuse on your part to spend more time with them. He didn’t want to take that from you.

The baby, well, Anne’s baby was sleeping anyway. Sebastian’s was blowing raspberries while Anne was cooing a goodbye to it.

He waited until he heard the front door close to admit to Anne, “You asked how she’s doing… I don’t think she’s happy.”

“With the store?” There was a hint of terror in her voice as if Anne feared it was something worse.

After a moment of silence, Ominis shook his head no. “I can tell she wants more. She grew up in a big family and then Hogwarts was always just as loud and chaotic. At first, I think she appreciated the peace and quiet after we got our house, but lately… Lately, I wake up in the middle of the night and she’s gone. She goes and falls asleep by the gramophone in the living room as if she needs the noise for comfort.”

A gentle hand touched his shoulder as Anne said, “Oh, Ominis…”

“I think she would be happier if she were with someone that could provide what she wanted, but she’d never admit that.”

“No, she wouldn’t. I know you can’t see the way she looks at you, but you’re her world. Don’t ever even suggest such a thing to her. It would shatter her. She is happy with you, just you. We’ve talked about it before, she and I. She is content with being an aunt to Sebastian’s kids, and now my girl. Please don’t worry over this in the slightest.”

Anne’s comfort eased his pain, but the guilt of it all still weighed him down. They chatted for a while about Sebastian’s wife and her exciting job until you made it back to the house. You leaned against the doorframe of the bedroom and listened to the two old friends talk for a while before interrupting, “Do you want to have a bath while I change your sheets for you, Anne?”

“Is that your way of saying I smell?”

“Your hair is a bit of a mess,” you joked as you walked up to her side of the bed and gently moved the bassinet so that you could help Anne up.

At the sound of shuffling and Anne wincing, Ominis offered, “Do you want me to-“

“It’s alright,” you said, suspiciously quick. “Us girls have got this. I’ll just set Anne up in the bath. Do you want to start removing the blankets?”

Ominis stood from the bed and started to remove the covers at your request, albeit a bit reluctantly due to his confusion and frustration. Why didn’t you let him carry Anne to the bathroom? It wasn’t like the intimacy mattered. He couldn’t see.

Wordlessly, he carried the laundry to the back porch and then felt through the linen closet for another set. The two of you met back in Anne’s room at the same time. You kissed his cheek and took the fitted sheet from him to start unfolding it. That was the only covering you managed to get on before the baby stirred in the bassinet. It started to cry out, loud and demanding. Ominis flinched and clutched the blanket he was holding while you scooped the baby up in your arms.

“Oh, that sounds like a hungry cry,” Your voice was soft and unfazed by the cries. “Come on. To the kitchen, we go. I’m going to show your Uncle Omi how to make a bottle for you.”

Ominis tensed at that. “Why? I thought we agreed that I take care of Anne and you take care of…her.”

“If we really are going to be here the next few days helping out, you might as well learn.” You didn’t say anything more as you headed to the kitchen. It was up to Ominis whether or not he followed.

And follow he did with a heavy sigh. Anne’s kitchen was far more spacious than your own. He still hadn’t mapped out where everything was since it all seemed to spread apart. There was even room under the south-facing window for a breakfast nook area that had the perfect view of Feldcroft. You stared out at it wistfully. Down the way a bit, you could make out Sebastian’s two oldest digging away in their front yard. They had told you on the walk back that they had been trying to dig to the center of the earth. You had laughed and told them they would need a pretty long ladder, but you didn’t discourage their determination.

“Do you want to hold her while I grab the-“

“Just tell me where it is,” Ominis insisted, sounding a bit exasperated. His heated tone made you giggle. When you first met him, he used to always be on edge like this. There was a cold exterior about him that was snappy and sarcastic. In his defense, Sebastian was putting him through a lot at the time with his unforgiving plight to find a cure for Anne. But you didn’t mind it then just like you didn’t mind it now. Ominis was complicated, and that’s what drew you in.

“A step forward and to your left. Should be a cylinder tin on the second shelf of the cupboard.” Your direction was easy to understand and deeply appreciated.

Sometimes at work with the Ministry, Ominis would ask something like, “Which one?” Only for his coworker to inevitably reply something stupid like, “The green one.” He never had to prod you for more information. If only he could bring you everywhere to direct him like this. Though, maybe not while you held a crying baby in your arms.

“I’m putting an empty bottle right beside the tin here. But first, we need to set up the kettle.”

“Are we making tea for Anne?” This he was familiar with even in Anne’s kitchen. Ominis made quick work of taking the kettle from the stove and filling it in the sink.

“Just heating up the water a bit. Not too hot. I’ll show you how to check the temperature after we’re done. While that’s heating, you can measure the power. There should already be a scooper in the tin. Two scoops should be plenty. She’s still so tiny.” You took a moment to admire the baby girl in your arms. She really was the spitting image of Anne.

While you rocked her to soothe her cries, Ominis poured two scoops of the formula into the bottle and tried not to grimace at the sour smell of it. Now he understood why babies smelled the way they did. It was a mix of this awful powdered milk and the starchiness of baby powder. Very off-putting and unpleasant.

“Water should be warm enough now. I’ll tell you when to stop pouring. Go slow,” you directed. You stopped him just at just a quarter full and reached to touch the bottle to feel how hot the water was. “Just a splash of cold water and that should be perfect.” Ominis brought the bottle to the sink and literally just let the smallest splash into it. You giggled and prompted, “Okay, maybe two splashes.”

Next, you handed him a clean top for the bottle which he took a moment to stir on straight then asked, “Are we done here?” in a very bored tone.

You smiled as you shook your head and clicked your tongue. “Always so impatient, my love. The powder needs to be mixed in. You’ll have to shake the bottle and-“ Ominis started shaking the bottle immediately, wanting to get this over with. Formula sprayed out of the nipple and got on the kitchen floor, Ominis’s hair, and your face. He froze, realizing his mistake.

Your laughter was so intense that you doubled over, clutching the baby to your chest so that you wouldn’t drop her during your fit. Ominis was blushing, but the sound of your laughter made him smile sheepishly.

“I am an idiot,” he proclaimed.

“Yes, yes your are. You have to cover the tip of the nipple.”

“Excuse me?” Ominis sounded almost offended. You laughed harder, not being able to take much more of this.

“That’s what the rubber part of the top of the bottle is called! It’s not like I came up with it!” After taking a deep breath to calm yourself, you reached over and placed Ominis’s finger over the tip of the bottle. “Okay, now you can shake it without making it rain indoors.”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled shyly.

“I love you,” you answered.

Once the formula was mixed up, it was time to test the temperature. “This part is simple. Hold out your wrist,” you told him. When he did, you guided his hand that was holding the bottle to dab the slightest bit of formula on his inner wrist. “Do you feel that?”

A flash of uncertainty washed over his features. “Yes, but how do I know if it’s right?”

You held out your wrist, lighting bumping it to his so he knew where you were. “Let me feel and I’ll tell you.”

The fingers of his free hand drifted across the palm of your open one, acting as if he wasn’t sure where your wrist was. You had a smug smile knowing it was all for show. You had made your movements very clear. He only wanted to touch your hand, but you weren’t about to call him out on that. The bottle dipped to let a drip fall on your wrist. It was like warm. Not too cold that the powder didn’t mix in properly, and not too hot that it would hurt the baby.

“This is perfect. You want to test it on your wrist again so you can remember this temperature for next time?”

He snorted and insisted there wouldn’t be a next time, but he tested the formula on his wrist once more and looked rather deep in thought as if trying to memorize the feeling. You kissed his cheek and thanked him while taking the bottle. A weight lifted off Ominis’s shoulders when the baby stopped crying in your arms. He let out a heavy sigh.

“Glad that’s over.”

“Well, get used to it because it’ll probably happen every four hours or so.”

That statement did not spark joy for Ominis, but you hadn’t been trying to. It was the truth. This was the reality of helping out Anne right now: a crying newborn.

“Let’s go check on Anne in the bath.” Now that was a statement Ominis didn’t mind. You followed him down the hallway and stood at his side while he knocked on the bathroom door.

“How are you doing, Annie?” He asked in a soft tone.

“Just fine, Min! I’ll be getting out soon. How’s the baby?”

“Ominis made her a bottle!” You cut in proudly.

Anne paused a moment then asked, “‘S it poisoned?”

Ominis rolled his eyes while you responded, “No! I watched him like a hawk. I promise! He did great!”

Anne’s laughter echoed in the bathroom. “Well, then thank you, Ominis!”

In the living room, you nestled in on the couch, using the armrest to support your elbow. Holding the baby in the kitchen that whole time had made you ache. She wasn’t heavy either, maybe six pounds at the most. You couldn’t fathom how Sebastian held his youngest all day. That baby was huge!

“Anything I can get you?” Ominis was hovering over you from behind the couch. His hand was resting on the back of it and his fingers were reaching up to brush your shoulder. It was clear he wanted to touch you, but you were holding a baby and that terrified him.

“Maybe turn on a bit of music? There’s a very fancy-looking phonograph sitting in the far corner on your left. It’s begging to be played.”

Your wish seemed to be his command. Ominis brought out his wand and used his sensing charm before pointing it precisely at the phonograph. The needle reset itself on the record and began to play a beautiful sonata. It started out with a feathery light piano that was quickly joined by a set of strings. You weren’t well versed enough in muggle music to know if it was a violin or cello, but its tender tones took the lead of the song while the piano supported the beat and background. There was just a hint of a wind instrument harmonizing with the main melody of the strings. It wasn’t prominent enough to tell if it was a flute, or perhaps a panpipe…

“Come sit by me,” you requested dreamily.

With the music and the airy sound of your voice, Ominis was lost in the moment. He kissed the top of your head then walked around the front of the couch to be next to you. The string instrument started to swell. His hand rested on your knee as he sat down and immediately inched higher and higher until his forearm bumped your elbow and he briefly wondered why your elbow was sticking out like that.

Reality came hurtling back like a bludger. His hand jolted off you as if your skin burned him. He had forgotten about the baby being fed in your arms.

Ominis hoped you hadn’t even noticed his slip up, that you were too lost in feeding the child. With the way you were talking to it, Ominis felt as though he was in the clear. You were commenting on how the baby’s hand was curling around your ring finger. It seemed to like the smooth texture of your wedding band.

“You trying to steal my ring, little one? Four days old and your mommy has already trained you to be her little niffler? Well, I’m very sorry. You can’t have my wedding ring. I love it too much. You can have your own if you choose to get married one day.”

“Anna and Sebastian are probably competing to see who can have the most mischievous child,” Ominis said mostly to himself since he assumed you were lost in your own little world.

“I wouldn’t put it past them,” you joked in return. “And you can put your hand on my thigh if you would like. It is not going to offend the baby.”

Sometimes he hated how in tune you were with him. Ominis put a hand back just below your knee and squeezed to show his annoyance with you, a move he often did to fluster you and keep your teasing mouth quiet.

The move was not working out in his favor while you were holding the baby, however. You gossiped to her, “Oh, Uncle Ominis is mad at me for some reason. I’m in such big trouble. He’s got the grumpy pout. I think he’s feeling a bit bashful that I called him out, what do you think?”

A loud thud sounded from the bathroom. Ominis was standing in a flash. You dropped the bottle beside you on the couch to grab him by the shirt, insisting, “You take the baby! I’ll go get her!”

A look of annoyance washed over Ominis's face and he defied your request, “Are you insane? Just let me-“

“She’s going to want it to be me, not you.”

For the first time since your school days, he bitterly reminded you, “I’m blind! It’s not like I’ll see anything!”

You were standing now, matching his volume. “She’ll just want a woman there that understands-“

“I’ve known her a lot longer than you have! She’s a sister to me, I understand her perfectly! She-“

“She’s still bleeding,” you whispered through your teeth, “You know, down there. That’s why she’s been on bed rest. They had to give her muggle stitches.”

Ominis paled and swallowed quickly. He had assumed Anne was hurting from the curse. The last thing on his mind was average birthing complications. “Oh.”

“Sit down on the couch and put your elbow on the armrest,” you insisted in a very angry tone that you only ever used on Sebastian when he was stepping out of line, which was very, very rare these days. Hearing you so angry sent a shiver down Ominis’s spine. He sat, but panic was bubbling to his surface when he realized why you told him to put his elbow on the armrest.

“My love, please, I’m sorry, I can’t- Don’t make me-“

“It’s a newborn, Ominis! She isn’t going to remember this moment! You can’t possibly do anything wrong. Just feed her the rest of the bottle!” Your screaming made Ominis snap his mouth shut.

You leaned down and put the baby, who was now crying from her bottle being ripped from her and all the commotion, into his arms with a gentleness that shocked Ominis. How you went from screaming at him to carefully making sure the baby’s head was supported on his arm just right, he would never know. The bottle was picked up from where it had rolled to the other side of the couch and put firmly in Ominis’s hand with a bit more fire to your placement this time around.

“Feed her. She can’t cry if there is a bottle in her mouth. Relax your shoulders. I’ll only be gone a minute.”

Then your footsteps were fading. Ominis couldn’t stop his entire body from shaking. The baby was still crying, and although the only other sound in the house was the soft piano and strings coming from the phonograph, Ominis was overwhelmed to the point of shock. The baby weighed in his arms, but not nearly as much as he expected it to. He had held Sebastian’s firstborn twice: once when it was a month old and then one other time when it had just started crawling. Sebastian’s baby was never as feather-light as the dainty little thing crying in his arms now. It didn’t even stretch across Ominis’s chest. Tiny little feet were kicking his right arm that had been white-knuckling the bottle. They were covered in fuzzy knit socks that felt soft and plush against his arm with each weak kick.

The baby seemed to kick some sense into Ominis because he realized it would stop crying if he would just hurry up and give it the bottle. At first, he tried placing it in the baby’s flailing hands, but it wouldn’t take it from him. Was holding a bottle not something babies could do for themselves? He was pretty sure Sebastian was able to hand his youngest a bottle and walk away. Why didn’t this one know what to do?!

Ominis was ready to give up, but he didn’t know how to move the baby properly or where to put it even if he had the nerve. The couch? Would it roll off? The floor? Surely that wasn’t appropriate.

“Fine! Fine,” Ominis grumbled. He set the bottle between his legs and then hesitantly touched the baby's chest and glided up to feel where its mouth was. The thing was so tiny, and even though Ominis was holding it, he still expected it to take longer to find its mouth. But before he could pull away, the baby sucked his pointer finger in and bit down. It might have not had any teeth, but its gums were still brutal!

“Ow!” Ominis hissed and yanked his finger away from the little gremlin. He shook his hand with a dramatic flair to lessen the hurt. The baby went right back to crying. “That was uncalled for.”

Finally, Ominis was able to get the bottle in the baby’s mouth. There was an annoying squeak from it sucking on the rubber, but other than that the living room had turned back to its peaceful state. The record on the phonograph was playing a more upbeat tune. All was well.

Meanwhile, you had sprinted into the bathroom panicked and breathing heavily. Anne was lying on her back near the sink, about a meter from the tub.

“Anne!” You gasped and hurried over to her.

“Oh, hey,” Anne laughed lightly, not acting injured in the slightest. “How was your domestic disagreement? I have never heard you two argue like that. It was quite entertaining.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Mostly just embarrassed. I slipped while I was brushing my teeth. Wasn’t even walking or anything, just tumbled over for no reason. Held onto the sink though, so it wasn’t too bad.”

“You need help up?”

“Yeah. My hip is pretty sore, as if it wasn’t bad enough down there already,” Anne always kept a light tone to not worry others. You understood the sentiment. She didn’t want to be treated like a child or hovered over. Sebastian used to do that to her constantly, he had gotten a lot calmer over the years, but Anne hadn’t learned to get rid of her coping mechanisms yet.

“Let me dry the floor then I’ll help you up. Looks like a hurricane happened in here. Were you playing with the bath bubbles?” You joked to put her at ease.

She sighed gratefully for your calm nature. “Maybe. It had been a while since I’ve had a bubble bath. Might have got a bit carried away.”

You dramatically dragged a towel along the floor at the edge of the tub and asked, “A bit?”

It took some patience, but you managed to get Anne to her bed. There was still only the fitted sheet in place, so you added the bedding around her and made a point to tuck her in so tight that she couldn’t even wiggle. She shoved your hands away, laughing at your antics. The two of you chatted for a bit about your new plant shop and whether or not you missed working at the Ministry.

In the living room, the light squeaking of the bottle stopped. Ominis frowned in confusion. He could feel that there was still a bit of liquid sloshing around in the glass. Would the baby start crying again? Why had it stopped eating? Fearing the worst, he set the bottle down on the couch beside him and then leaned his ear in close to make sure the baby was still breathing. He placed his hand over its chest to feel the rise and fall. The tip of his middle finger touched its chin and the bottom of his hand was over its stomach. How could something be so small?

The baby’s hands latched onto his, one grabbing his thumb and the other his pinky, holding Ominis against its chest. Ominis blushed at the contact. The hands were soft and oh, so tiny. It could hardly clasp his thumb properly. Its breathing started to slow. The record on the phonograph came to an end, leaving a soft scratching sound to fill the room.

“Alright then,” his voice was but a whisper so that he wouldn’t disrupt the tranquil atmosphere of the room. Having his hand cradled like that made his heart clench tightly and painfully. The baby’s little cotton clothes were slightly wet around its neck from the formula, but other than that, Ominis didn’t mind that his hand was trapped.

His own breathing started to slow for the first time since arriving at Anne’s place.

A few moments later, you had been sent by Anne to collect her child. She wanted to snuggle with the baby while they both had a nap. The fiasco in the bathroom had worn her out.

The last thing you expected to see was a soft smile on Ominis’s lips while he seemed to be resting. The baby was pulled in close to his chest and was clutching into Ominis’s hand. They both looked fast asleep. The sight filled you with warmth. Your eyes softened, and you nearly wanted to shed a tear. Instead of disrupting them right away, you turned off the phonograph that had been playing nothing and washed the unfinished bottle in the kitchen sink.

When it came time to finally collect the baby from Ominis, you felt slightly guilty for dragging it out for so long. He just looked so precious holding a child. It was doing things to you, making you yearn for things you had sworn off thinking about.

With the utmost care, you reached to scoop the baby out of Ominis’s arms. His left arm tightened around the child, drawing her closer to his chest.

“Don’t,” he whispered.

That was…odd. Was he talking in his sleep? You couldn’t recall Ominis ever doing such a thing.

“It’s just me, love. I’ve come to relieve you from your babysitting duties. Sorry it took me so long.”

You tried going in for the exchange again, but Ominis insisted, “Just another moment, please. Just one moment.” His voice was breaking. It was clear now he hadn’t been sleeping at all to begin with because a tear escaped from the corner of his eye. It had been quite some time since you had seen Ominis in such a fragile state. When he would open up about his family and his childhood, sometimes he would get quiet like this. In those times, he had held onto you like you were driftwood in an ocean of terror he was drowning in. The way he was cradling the baby so close to his chest now meant he was anchoring to her at this moment. You couldn’t bring yourself to take her from him, even if the baby’s young mother was wanting to see her.

The only thing you could do was sit beside him on the couch. Your head rested on his shoulder and your hand rubbed in soft patterns across his arm. A few moments later, you had to tell him, “Anne sent me to collect the baby.”

Ominis nodded and softly said, “We shouldn’t keep her waiting any longer then. You can- you can take her now.”

There was a tense static in the room. The last thing you wanted to do was end this moment. Even with Sebastian’s for at born, Ominis had never asked to hold them, let alone hold them longer the few times he had been forced to.

“Why don’t you just carry her to the bedroom for me, hm?”

That was not what Ominis wanted to hear. His eyes widened with fear. “I can’t I- I don’t know how to.”

“It’ll be alright,” you were already adjusting his left arm so that he was providing better support underneath her as you spoke, “Just support her bum here. You can use your other arm too if you’re unsure. Just bring that one to cover here and- There. Now you’ve got a very good hold on her. After you get up from the couch just put it right back there where I showed you. I’ll lead you to the bedroom. Come along, now.”

Before he had time to come up with an excuse, you were dragging him up from the couch and guiding him to Anne’s room. Usually, he hated being guided places unless the situation was dire or he was in a big crowd. Sometimes people at work would try and guide from around the building. He took a bit of offense to it. If he ever needed a guide, he could just use his wand!

But now he was holding this tiny little thing in his arms, and it was alive and depending on him not to trip or bump into something. Without fighting it, Ominis let you hold his elbow and guide him across Anne’s house to the master bedroom. You had him sit in an armchair in the corner of the room as you joked with Anne, “You said, ‘Bring the baby’, and I wasn’t sure which one so naturally… I brought both.”

“You two look good like that. With her,” Anne commented as you put your hand on Ominis’s shoulder.

You were thankful Ominis couldn’t see your flush or the warning look you gave Anne. Around Ominis, you tried your hardest to avoid the topic of starting a family of your own. Your mother mentioned it every time the two of you visited her. She wanted grandkids. Usually, Anne and Sebastian were safe to converse with because they knew Ominis as well as you did. A comment like that almost felt out of character for Anne, especially since she was so protective of Ominis.

“I’ll have to take your word for it,” Ominis replied smoothly.

“Have you burped her yet?”

“Have I what?”

You laughed and patted Ominis on the shoulder. “That can get messy. Why don’t we let Anne do that, hm?”

“I can do it,” he offered quickly. “Just tell me how, and I can do it.”

You draped a towel over his shoulder and directed him to lay the baby against it. It didn’t take long to burp her. Ominis winced at the wet gurgling by his ear and the pungent, sour smell of the formula coming back tenfold. You giggled at his reaction and seemed to be cleaning up the baby’s face so that Ominis could go back to snuggling her.

“I’m glad you two are getting along. I’d hoped you would. After all, she’s named after you.”

A beat of silence dragged by before Ominis was able to ask, “What?”

“My little Minnie. Cute, don’t you think?” Anne smiled softly. “You were always there for me when Sebastian and I had our falling out. I appreciate you and I’m thankful for everything you’ve done for me.”

“Minnie is such a sweet name,” you commented once you realized Ominis was too stunned to respond. “Perfect for this sweet little girl.”

A couple of hours went by while you and Anne chatted. Ominis didn’t move from the armchair with Minnie and never once complained about his arm going numb from holding her.

Went you stood up so go start something for dinner, an Apparation crack sounded from outside. All three of you were alert and tense, wondering who it could be. You brought out your wand and headed to the front door, but it burst open before you had the chance to get there.

“Anne?!” The desperate cry of her husband called through the house. His heavy footsteps sprinted for the bedroom. Blood and scrapes littered his face and his hair and clothes were in disarray and even looked a bit singed. “Are you alright?” He raced to embrace her.

“You’ll have to give her up now, my love,” you whispered in Ominis’s ear while Anne and her husband reunited.

With a heavy sigh, Ominis stood from the armchair and approached the side of the bed Anne’s husband was standing on. He tearfully took Minnie from Ominis then looked at Anne in disbelief.

“She looks just like you.”

Sebastian’s wife was standing in the entryway, looking just as disheveled as Anne’s husband. While you and Ominis left the bedroom to give the new family some privacy, Sebastian’s wife explained, “There was a dragon attack that led to a cave-in. He was trapped for nearly a week.”

“Lucky you were able to find him. You’re amazing, honestly. Are you okay? Do you need anything? The both of you look like you got in a fistfight with the dragon!” You told her.

“Nearly did! Its tail swung at me at one point. It’s been an eventful day. All that’s on my mind is getting home to the kids and Sebastian.”

“We’ll be heading home as well, I think. Stay safe.”

With her gone, you cleaned up a few things around Anne’s house. Ominis tagged along on your cleaning spree, but he was nearly silent while doing so. You worried today might have been too much for him, but you would decide you would wait to check on him until after getting him to the comfort of your own home.

“You can floo first, Ominis! I’ll be right behind you. I’m just going to throw this blanket in the laundry bin.”

He was gone in a smokey, green flash. As promised, you traveled just a moment later. You hardly had a second to focus on the blur of your living room before a pair of hands were haphazardly dragging you forward until a rather demanding set of lips landed over yours. In his defense, Ominis had warned you earlier that day that he would be taking his stress out on you.

“What a lovely welcome home,” you comment when he pulls away, thinking it would end there.

His voice was a bit raspy in your ear, “Tell me what you’ve been wanting, and I’ll give it to you.” And although the sound of his voice was arousing, you could tell he wasn’t talking about anything sexual. There was a pointed annoyance in his tone. The unspoken dream you’ve been trying to keep to yourself secret all these years seemed to be weighing down on the both of you.

“Ominis, I don’t expect that of you. Is this because of what Anne said about us looking good with a baby? She was only teasing, Ominis. You know I would never ask that if you.”

Lips started to trail down your neck, tasting you. Between kisses, Ominis was whispering, “So good to me. Trying to hide her desires. It’s okay. I want it too.”

“What do you mean?” You managed out between gasps. His hands were exploring every inch of your body as if he didn’t already have you memorized. It took all of your willpower to restrain yourself and pull away from him because he seemed as though he was going to continue on without clarifying if you weren’t going to make him.

He groaned as if he was the one losing out on pleasure by you pulling away. “Want it too. Wanna give you a baby,” he whined softly. The words shocked you enough that your hold weakened. Ominis took the opportunity to lean back in, but you put your hands on his shoulders to hold him at bay.

“I think you caught an illness while at Anne’s,” you say in a worried tone. The back of your fingers pressed to his forehead. “Yup, just as I suspected. You have a bad case of baby fever. I think a good night's rest will be just the cure.”

Rolling his eyes at your antics, Ominis insisted, “I’ve thought about this before, and I know you want one. I don’t need sight to know how you feel about Sebastian’s kids. You are always coming up with excuses to be with them longer. It’s okay. I’m not going to be angry if you admit it. I just want you to be happy.”

“I am happy. I’m happy with you. I don’t need anything more. I would never ask for anything more.”

Ominis rested his forehead against yours. “I know you would never dare to ask. That’s why I’m offering.”

“And you’ll regret offering such things in the morning,” you reminded him.

“No, I won’t.”

“I know holding Minnie was overwhelming for you, but don’t let those new emotions cloud your judgment. You’ve never wanted kids before this. Just think for a moment and-“

“I have thought about it, many times. Maybe I’ve been apprehensive to the idea, but that was before. I thought it wasn’t possible for me to connect with children, that I wouldn’t be able to care for them the way a parent should. I thought I’d be cold and distant like my parents, so I didn’t want to bring a child into this world for them to feel alone and unwanted. But now, with her, I was able to care, to- to…”

“To love?” you offered

“Please say you believe me,” he sounded so lost and broken.

Your hands cupped his cheeks as you wiped away his tears of frustration. “I believe you. I never doubted that you wouldn’t be able to love our child if we had one. I just assumed you didn’t dare to let yourself try because of your parents. I love you, Ominis. Of course I want to have your children. I want them to be just as stubborn, but just as caring as you. I want them to have your sarcastic wit but also your devoted loyalty. It’s something I’ve thought about endlessly, so don’t think I’m turning you down when I ask for you to think on it just a while longer. Let the emotions from today come back down. I’ll make us dinner, we’ll go to bed. Then, whenever you are ready to talk about this, we will.”

Ominis managed to look disappointed but grateful at the same time. “I’ll think on it.”

And think on it he did, or simmer was a closer description. While you were in the kitchen, he pretended to read with his wand. There was a moment of uncertainty when he thought about how holding Minnie had made him feel. Would he be able to connect like that with his own child? But then again, how could he not? His own child would be half you, and he loved every part of you, even the side of you that thought you knew what was best for him by making him sit with his thoughts.

After a while, you brought him a cup of tea and kissed his temple. Ominis mumbled a thank you and continued to pretend to read. He could tell by the way you lingered in the doorway as you left the living room that you had used the tea as an excuse to check in on him. Instead of clueing you into his thoughts, he remained aloof and sipped his tea without showing any emotion positive or negative. The last thing he wanted was to hear you ramble about how he wasn’t in the right headspace to know what he truly wanted.

What he wanted was to be buried deep in you as he came. He wanted to, for once, not ruin his adrenaline rush by pulling out at the last second. He wanted you to have his child. He wanted a family with you, and he didn’t want to waste another second before starting it. This was something he should have done years ago.

“Dinner is ready,” you announced. There was a tremor in your voice as though you were nervous to speak to him. You spent the last thirty minutes hiding in the kitchen and wondering if he was cross with you since he hardly spoke at all when you brought him tea.

“It smells lovely in here.” Ominis played along with you, pretending not to notice your slip-up.

“Thank you. What were you reading?”

“A book that Sebastian’s wife recommended about keeping dragons.”

“That sounds intriguing.”

“It is.”

And that was all you got out of him. Ominis finished his food before you then disappeared to the kitchen to do the dishes while you sat in silence at the dining table. The wine wasn’t strong enough to keep your mind from worrying. How long would things be like this? Usually, Ominis was easy to get through to, so your arguments never lasted long. Would this remain an unspoken thing in your marriage for years to come? Forever?

You tiptoed into the kitchen with your empty plate. Ominis had done most of the dishes except for a single pan and the plate and fork in your hands. Even though you were trying to be as quiet as a mouse, Ominis held his open hand out in your direction and said, “Your plate.”

Reluctantly, you handed him the dirty dish. “Thank you for cleaning.”

“You cooked, so I cleaned. No reason to thank me. It’s only fair.”

“You’re right,” you whispered quietly.

Ominis raised his brow. “What? No comeback? No telling me how wrong I am for not accepting your gratitude? No making me think about it before I decide I want to do the dishes?”

“So you are mad at me!” You said it like it was an accusation. “I knew it. You’re being ridiculous! I’m only asking you to think on this before you decide!”

“You think I haven’t thought about it? Nearly ten years of marriage and you don’t think I fantasize about what it would feel like to hold you while my child is growing inside you?” He dried his hands on a dishrag and then leaned against the counter, looking exasperated. His volume hadn’t matched yours yet. He was holding back.

“You don’t have to do this just because it’s something I want!”

“Just because I’m scared doesn’t mean I don’t want it too!” His yell seemed to echo in the tiny kitchen.

After a second of trying to remind yourself how to breathe, you felt horrible for letting it escalate so far. Hearing Ominis was scared just made you want to comfort him. You spoke softly, “Ominis-“

“No, don’t do that. Don’t pity me and try to comfort me. Don’t use that as an excuse for us not to do this. Either you want us to have a child, or you don’t. I need you to be fully in on this as well. I’ll need you to show me how to make a bottle a few more times, how to change a diaper, and how to hold them properly. I need you to be patient with me, but I don’t want you to pity me. Is that understood?”

“I understand.” His words started to sink in. He seemed satisfied with your agreeability and turned back to the sink to finish the last two dishes. When the water cut off, you were still frozen in the center of your kitchen and trying to figure out if this was all real or a fever dream.

Ominis was humming a melody that had been playing earlier on Anne’s phonograph as he put away the pan he cleaned last. When he passed you by, a hand reached out to touch you. It dragged across your stomach to your hip and squeezed.

“If you are feeling against the idea any sort of way, now might be your last chance to speak up,” he warned, “I won’t be able to hold back tonight with this on my mind.”

“Don’t hold back-“ Was all he needed to hear before you were backed up against the kitchen counter with his lips how and heavy on yours. His approach was usually far more gentle. The two of you could kiss for hours before he’d even cop a feel. Now his hands were unbuttoning your clothes at your waistline and tugging the fabric down with haste.

This is what you’ve been dreaming of. Only a handful of times had Ominis ever devoured you in such a way. Things were more heated when the two of you were younger, exploring each other, and having uncontrollable urges. Since marriage, Ominis had calmed in that sense. You lived together, so he had the ability to take his time and appreciate every inch of you. It was always about bringing you pleasure as many times as the night would allow. Tonight was a stark contrast to those gentle touches.

Before you knew it, he had your panties around your ankles and was telling you to sit on the counter that he had just cleaned. You hopped up as told, but your position still didn’t have his approval. His fingers hooked under your knees and yanked so that your ass slid across the counter until it was nearly hanging off the edge. He smirked at the feeling of your heated core bumping into his dress pants.

“Right there. Stay right there on the edge for me.” And then he was sinking to his knees. His hands held your inner thighs to keep you from trying to close them, not that you would have.

His mouth was everywhere except the one place you wanted it so desperately. Your clit ached for attention. It seemed like Ominis would be taking his sweet time with you after all. This was usually welcomed attention, but tonight, you wanted him inside you more than anything. You didn’t even need to finish yourself as long as he spilled inside of you.

But even though your mind didn’t need an orgasm, that didn’t mean your body wasn’t craving it. Your hips bucked slightly when his nose nearly brushed against your clit. His hands held you down on the counter as he chuckled. The vibration of his laugh made you quiver.

“Don’t fall off the counter, now. Twisting your ankle won’t get you out of taking my cock. I’d just lay you on the bed and elevate your foot with pillows before filling you up.”

“Ominis,” your voice came out like you were scolding him. He’s spoken dirty before, but never quite like that.

“Just today you admitted in this very kitchen that you push my buttons on purpose to get me to snap and bite you, yet I’m the one being told off. And for what? Making sure my wife’s hypothetical, hurt ankle would be taken care of before I give her the child she so desperately wants?”

“I- oh-,” You lost your train of thought as his lips brushed against your clit before taking it in his mouth and sucking. The feeling was too much after waiting for so long. You squirmed again, this time to get away. The feeling in the pit of your stomach always felt better releasing when things had been slow and steady. Now, you could feel the tension building alarmingly fast.

Ominis took your hips trying to move as a sign of your eagerness. His tongue lapped up your wetness that had started to seep out. Then, it dipped inside of you and his nose rubbed against your clit. Your hands were gripping the edge of the counter to keep yourself from flying off.

Now you were saying his name like a prayer. Your breathy pleas were quite the opposite from how you had just scolded him a few moments ago. Hearing you pant and mumble his name made him smirk. You could feel the corner of his mouth rise slightly against you. That action was enough to send you over the edge, almost literally if Ominis hadn’t been holding you in place on the counter. He kept his tongue in place to feel you pulse around it, though he was careful not to overstimulate you and ruin your high. Only when the pulsations slowed to nearly an end did he pull back and stand up.

“Such a good girl for me. Coming on my tongue and sounding so sweet.” He kissed you with the taste of your juices still on his tongue. You hadn’t even dared to let go of the counter while Ominis got to work unbuttoning his own pants. “Was gonna wait to have you in the bedroom, but I don’t think I can.” And then, he was lined up at your entrance and pushing in.

His movements were slow as he took you in an all consuming kiss to distract you from the stretch. Normally, you could handle whatever Ominis threw at you. This time, you were sitting nearly upright because of how close Ominis held your for the kiss. The position made it hard to take him fully, at least in an enjoyable way. You tried leaning back, and while that did help things start to feel pleasurable, your hand had landed in a stick of butter. The plate clanked against the counter. You immediately cursed under your breath.

Ominis, having heard the plate, had the audacity to laugh at your demise. He pulled out and scolded you, “You aren’t making a mess of my clean kitchen, are you?”

“It seems like you’ll have to wait until we get to the bedroom after all, and now I’ve got to wash my hand as well!”

His hands didn’t leave you the entire time you stood at the sink to try and scrub away the slimy mess on your hand. Even while walking down the hallway his hands were at work taking off your shirt and throwing it who knows where. Needless to say, you were both naked by the time you made it to the bedroom.

Vibrations ran down your neck from his voice mumbling while his lips were against your skin. “Lay on the bed.”

You had expected his hands to be all over you again the moment your back landed on the mattress. Instead, Ominis felt around for the pillows at the head of the bed. He tapped your hip. “Lift up.”

It was hard to deny his odd request because of how deeply you loved when he got a bit bossy like this. You lifted your bum so that he could slide a few pillows under you. The gesture seemed sweet, but entirely unnecessary. You’d been married for nearly nine years now, it wasn’t like you were delicate in the bedroom.

“You’re very sweet, my love, but I don’t need this to be comfortable. You won’t break me.”

Ominis stilled. His hand rested on your thigh. It looked as though he was debating something. “It’s not… for your comfort.”

“Then why are you- oh.” You swallowed your words when it set in. Your hips were high in the air like this. Gravity would make the mess Ominis was about to make stay inside you instead of seeping out.

“But are you comfortable like this?” Ominis ran his hand from your hip to your breast. His hand squeezing around you was faint and soft, more akin to a tender caress instead of anything overtly sexual.

“Yes,” you earnestly answered.

“You might have to stay like this for quite some time,” Ominis leaned closer to your ear to whisper, “Can you handle that?”

You nodded, then felt stupid before replying verbally, “I’m comfortable like this. I can stay as long as you think it’s necessary for it to… set in.”

His hand moved from your breast to lay over your heartbeat for a moment. A satisfied smirk spread across his lips. “Your heart is racing.”

“I might be a bit excited.”

“Oh yeah?” Both his hands smoothed down your body until they rested on your hips. He got on his knees between your legs. “Is that what people are calling it these days?” His thumb messily rubbed over your clit then dipped down between your folds to feel the sticky arousal that had been leaking out of you since the kitchen. There wasn’t much of a rhythm to his movements because he was just wetting his hand so that he could lubricate himself, but still, his hand touching you there in any capacity made your breathing pick up.

You were mumbling his name all desperate and breathy. Ominis chuckled at how needy you sounded. Giving you what you were begging for, he lined himself up, which caused you to whimper even more because his tip dragged across your clit a few times before he found your entrance. As he started to sink in, you sighed in relief. This angle was much better than sitting on the counter. With surprising ease, he nearly bottomed out. There was just a pinch of tightness that made him still for a moment.

His lips were leaving tender kisses across your chest and neck while he let you adjust to the feeling. You were mumbling into his neck for him to move, to take you. Your neediness made him want to give in to those desires, but Ominis wanted to memorize everything about this moment. The smell of sweat and sex in the air was absolutely vile, but incredibly mouthwatering all the same. He could go deeper than he ever had before at this angle, but that area felt tight around his tip. Ominis pulled out slightly and thrust back in slowly, being careful not to go too far and hurt you.

“More,” you were begging, nearly crying in the crook of his shoulder.

Not being able to deny you a second longer, Ominis started to thrust his hips. It wasn’t shallow, but he still wouldn’t let himself go further than the two of you were used to. Your arms wrapped around him and your nails lightly skimmed across his shoulders. He shivered and his hips stuttered unevenly, accidentally driving deeper into you. Immediately, Ominis pulled back and whispered an apology in your ear, but you held tighter onto him.

“Again, do it again.”

A tentative hand brushed the hair off your forehead so Ominis could kiss it. He pushed in deeper, but deliberately slow so he could listen for any signs of discomfort. His thumb found your clit again, hoping to give you a bit of pleasure to combat the fullness. The second his thumb grazed over you, your walls convulsed around his cock and your body shook erratically.

Ominis felt his own waves of pleasure building. On instinct, he tried to pull out to finish on your stomach. Your thighs wrapped around his waist to hold him in place.

“Please, come inside me. I want to make you a daddy.”

Your words made the tips of his ears go red. But now that he wasn’t so lost in the moment, he remembered the whole point of the evening, why he had made you rest your hips on a pile of pillows, and why he was able to reach this deep inside you in the first place.

“Stop me if it hurts,” was all the warning Ominis could give before his hips started to rut against you, hitting as deep as his length would allow with every feverish thrust. His pelvis was hitting your clit each time, Turning you right back into a moaning mess beneath him.

“There, right there.”

His breath was hot and heavy on your neck, “Gonna fill you up with my seed, sweetheart. I’m gonna fuck you just like this twice a day with your hips all high and willing to take me until we find out it worked. And then, I’m going to keep coming in you every night after to celebrate. I’ll fill you up so good, that we won’t know if it’s my come or my child growing in you that’s making you bigger.”

Talking dirty wasn’t new for Ominis, but it was rarely obscene and never, ever like this. That with how deep and fast he was fucking you made you speechless, breathless, thoughtless. You couldn’t even see straight, so you just held onto him for dear life and panted, but no breath was deep enough to fill your lungs or call you down. The tension in your entire body builds to the point that your leg was cramping. You wrapped it around Omni’s leg just to ease the pressure, but Ominis saw that as you wanting him to go harder.

So he did. His hips snapped into you hysterically. You cried out in ecstasy as another orgasm hit you like a train.

His hips faltered and he groaned as he came while your walls relentlessly milked his cock. You couldn’t stop writhing beneath him. Feeling his warm spurts of come paint your walls and add pressure made your intense waves of pleasure drag out. Ominis was on his elbows and panting, his lips right above yours. You already couldn’t breathe, but you pulled him down for a kiss regardless.

“I love you,” he gasped as he pulled away from the kiss. “Was that okay? Are you hurting? Should I get you a-“

Ominis had started to move, but your arms wrapped tighter around him and your walls clenched around his length. “Don’t move yet. Stay. Just stay.”

Seeming to understand and reciprocate your need to be close, Ominis rested on an elbow and then used his other hand to caress your body as if you were made of glass. “I’m not going anywhere, love.”

The two of you laid like that for a while just playing with each other’s hair and whispering sweet nothings. Soon, Ominis started to get hard again inside of you. He slyly shifted his hips, but his excuse of getting more comfortable didn’t work on you.

“Ominis,” you whined in an exhausted tone. How was he ready to go again!?

His kisses on your neck paused while he laughed against your skin. “Well, I did say twice a day until we’re certain, didn’t I?”

[dolleminas]

I think the last few days really taught me (but what I secretly already knew) is that middle-class women have very little solidarity, let alone empathy for working-class women. It's not only women, it's men too, but it's just glaringly obvious when we supposedly should fight for women, up until it's middle-class women fighting for poor women. There's solidarity, up until a certain point.

Let me paint you a picture. It's summer, I've just started getting back into the workforce after years of crippling illness. I'm meeting with my job coach. A lovely woman, and we get talking about why I want to go back to work.

"Part of it is that I'm bored at home, but I'd be lying if finance isn't a motivator too."

She scoffs good-naturedly. She says, money is not important! The important thing is that you have fulfilment in your work!

I look around myself. We're sitting in her garden. The garden of her two-story house. It's bigger than my entire home. I say I would like to be able to eat, to pay rent. She brushes me off. She doesn't get it. I don't think she's ever had to go hungry.

Let me paint you another picture. I grew up in a neighbourhood full of people like me. The homes were built from the rubble of WWII. When I laid in bed, I would brush my hands over the walls and feel the grit and the dust stain my fingertips. Sometimes it would even stain the bed. My bedroom is hardly bigger than a broom closet, but it's all I know. Most of my neighbours are immigrant families and poc. That's where the government puts them. Crime is rampant. But it could be worse. My mother buys hand-me-downs from the neighbours for me. Other kids bully me for my clothes. During the christmas holidays, the school has to board up the windows because of vandalism. We sit with our coats on in class because heating costs too much.

Still, I know people who have it worse. My mother has a part-time job as a receptionist and my grandparents help. When I wear holes into my underwear my grandmother silently buys us some more. I have never known underwear without holes in them. When we go on vacation, I feel rich. I know many kids who don't. My mother only has to take care of me.

This all makes it that much more of a slap in the face to see women claim to be supporters of women, so-called feminists but have absolutely no empathy for poor women. And most of the time they don't even know it. They have an idealised world-view. A, 'just do x' or 'just do y' and my personal favourite 'well I'd never do that!' or even 'you have options.'

No. No, don't. Be quiet, be silent, listen. If you have solidarity with women, then listen about the lives you have not lived, the struggles you have not struggled with. Do not come from a place of 'I would never' because you cannot, with any resemblance of accuracy, say that until you have lived it. Poor women aren't stupid or lazy, stop thinking of us as such! Stop blaming us for the life we were born into, the life we often are unable to escape.

Sit down, listen... and don't expect poor women to have solidarity with you if you do not have it with us. You, the privileged one. The idealistic one. The one who never knew how it was like to go hungry as a little girl and have to watch your mother lie to you about why.

[topgunruinedme]

Bite me (Bruise Me), Fight Me (Loose me Too)

Whumptober: Day 15, Pained hugs/“I did good, right?”

Word count: approx’ 10.7k

Character: Jake “Hangman” Seresin

Rating: Mature

Summery: Jake had had a lot of uncertainties in life, but love was the one thing he did know.

Ao3 account: TopGunRuinedMe

Warnings: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mention to medical disorders, Undiagnosed Medical Issues, Poor lifestyle, Neglect, Child Neglect, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Forced Prostitution, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Jake is not the prostitute, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Jake is struggling to adapt, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, Jake just wants to be loved, Jake "Hangman" Seresin Needs a Hug, Hurt Jake "Hangman" Seresin, POV Jake "Hangman" Seresin, Jake "Hangman" Seresin Has Bad Parents, Jake "Hangman" Seresin Has Mummy Issues, misconception of love, Mental misconception of Love to avoid trauma, Author may be a little tipsy writing this, Normal people become alcoholics to cope:Jake seeks out fights, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Mainly Hurt, Little comfort, I Have No Idea How This Got So Long, NO Spell Check, I've been writing so long i'm now sober, Physical Abuse, Not for the character you think, We Stan Yote, We must pay for his therapy, Miscommunication.

~~~~

Jake had had a lot of uncertainties in life, but love was the one thing he did know.

He grew up in a hole in a wall, one bedroom apartment just shy of the ghetto, his family, small only a member of two, were food stamp users, and he was only in school due to the tax payers dime. His mother worked two jobs, day shift at the supermarket and nightshift at the petrol station where she would occasionally let him sleep in the backroom on the couch until he was eight years old and finally deemed responsible enough to stay home, although he still preferred the store in summer because they had aircon, and heating during winter. But despite his mother working herself haggard to make barely enough to keep a roof over their head always managing to get enough money to scrap together rent, even if she went out at night and came back at odd hours a bruise or two with a cracked smile, she always made it happen. Just like when she tried to put food on the table, sometimes his only meal would be a bag of skittles if she could spare the change, or if they rationed enough they could make a loaf of bread for two weeks, if they eat around the fuzzy green spots. He had eaten it once, so ravenous not realizing it, and had spent the whole next two nights paying for it, weak and shaky over a toilet bowel vomiting up more weight than he could risk losing in his mother arms who cried softly as she rocked him whispering her prayer into his skin.

But even when he went to school in thread bare clothes, a bag his mother had found in a dumpster still relatively usable even if one strap was broken and had to be tied back together every so often, and a hole or two in his old sneakers; that had dried blood strained on the inside from where his feet had rubbed them raw last summer when his socks finally gave out and he had been to afraid to mention it to his mother until she had spotted the sores and cried herself to sleep that night. He still managed, despite his hindrance, he had the reading skill of a high schooler, math of a 4th grader, and an active sport level in intensive sports despite the fact he was skinny, thin and all but looked like wind would brush him away, his lungs burnt under each long sprint and bones aches after each tackle, but he loved it.

No one cared if he was skinny or weak, no one cared if he looked like a ghoul or worse barely functioning clothes, just that he could catch the football and sprint with it fast enough that people rarely caught him before he reached the touchdown line, or that he was able to take off from the start line with such a steady pace that he could outrun most of the older kids in a 200m race.

He had potential his coach had told him; he could very well become a professional runner or player if he put in the effort. He had simply nodded along knowing it wouldn’t happen, he couldn’t afford it, and he wouldn’t dare ask his mother. He had to be smart, he had to be active, he had to be healthy; because he needed the skills for a decent job, he needed to be fast to get between jobs quickly and on time, and he needed to be healthy so someone can take care of his mother when she got sick and tried to work through a fever again like she did last winter. Someone had to do something because she was working herself into the grave and he knew it.

But despite it all, the long hours, the mood swings, his school accomplishments and little to no encouragement at his mother’s numb subconscious he knew she loved him, even when some days she laid in bed with no energy to get up, or when he had to help her to the table and cradle his palm to his chest after burning it on the stove, even after the countless times his mother had told him it was hot, to make breakfast because it was the least he could do. At least until he was old enough to do some work, he knew Mr. Martian needed his lawn moved, maybe he could ask the man. He was sure he’d let him borrow the machine and do it for him, he could he was sure of it, if he reached up high enough to grab the bar.

He had heard the other kids the other day talking about how they get money for doing chores, things like taking out the garbage and clearing their rooms, washing dishes, and washing clothes, but he had never gotten any, and he did that daily between his own studies. He always had to sneak out of school and run home just so he could drag the tied off bag of garbage down the two flights of stars past 6B who always stood on the stair landing to watch his pass day in and day out, gaze roaming over him but never asking to help so maybe he was just supervising him so he could tell mummy he did his chores. He had never earnt anything for it so maybe he wasn’t doing enough, he could do it. Get pocket change, that’s what they called it, he could give it to mummy to help. It would help, he was sure of it.

He had been slightly older, when his mother had been fired from the store after falling asleep too many times and had been employed at a mum and pop diner, who allowed them to come in early to eat pancakes for breakfast on the house three times a week, when 6B spoke to him for the first time.

“Hey kiddo, Why don’t you do that before you go to school?”

He blinked pausing mid pull to look up at the man who had overlooked his task for the last two years, now at 10 years of age, having grown slightly taller and more lanky but his baby checks finally starting to fill in with one semi-stable meal in his life, the older man’s lips tugged up in amusement at his own question.

“The racoons” he replied simply, “If they go out too early then they get into it and open the bag and fight over it then it just makes a mess and they wont take it away. But if you take I just before then they don’t get the chance because that’s when Miss Whennies cat Tinkles is watching guard, he always stands right next to it and warns them off”.

“The racoons” the man nodded along as If it made sense, “You know I could always use some help” the man cocked his head, “I’ve got a bad back you see, and a big strong boy like you would be able to do it nice and quick”.

He hesitated, grip tightening on the bag, “I uh- I have to go back to school sir-“

“It would only take a moment” 6B assured, “I’ll give you $5 for it, for being such a good boy”.

Five dollars? It would be easy money and it’s almost three times his spending money, it would allow them to buy milk for once, and he missed milk. He bit his lip slightly contemplating it before sighing leaving the bag on the landing before jogging back up the stairs towards the man whose smile grew wider.

“See I knew you were all grown up, a big boy now aren’t you?” 6B asked with his smile, and he shifted, a weird feeling blooming in his chest at the sharp smile trying not to flinch at the weird itchy feeling he got when the man reached out slapping him on the shoulder. Hand lingering as it drifted down to squeeze his arm before settling on his lower back tugging him closer leading him back towards the man’s still open apartment door. The man’s hand was warm nudging him forward, resting down on his lower back like Santa did when he used to sit on his lap at the mall; 6B hummed happily, “Growing some muscle on you boy”.

The door was closer now, held ajar by an old wooden chair wedged under the door handle, which sat under a small sign painted onto the door. The letters were faded and scratched off but he had been reading for a long time and he was really good at hangman so figuring out words with missing letters was his special skill, he squinted slightly trying to make sense of the white lettering.

Sper.

No Supr

Wait… Super.

He frowned slightly, that’s weird, Super, he wondered what it meant. He of course knew about comic books and superheroes, but the whole point of being a secret hero was to not have the word painted onto your door.

“I play football now with the bigger kids” he offered in response to the man. They were much rougher when they play so he had to train with them more often to get stronger, he liked some of them though, they helped him. Sitting beside him counting when the other two stood on either side of the bench hands hovering on either side of the bar with the black bits encouraging him to lift them, ensuring him again that they were right there in case it got too heavy.

“Hmm, I bet that makes you nice and strong. All sweaty and warm when you play too. Do they still make you wear those shorts? The little stripped ones?” The man asked.

He didn’t get a chance to answer.

The door to the stairwell opened and he jerked to the side frightened as feet raced up the stairs in a hurry, almost tripping over his abandoned bag looking startled, his mother's wild hair, purse thrown over her shoulder, hand holding the rail for support as she looked down at the bag confused then up to them, her eyes lingering on his started expression then the warm hand on his back.

“Jacob,” her tone was sharp, and angry. “Come here”.

But he hadn’t done anything wrong. Truly. He was going to go back to school, he really was. “Mum, I was just going to help him with his trash then I was going back to school I promise-“

“Now Jacob” she warned sharply.

He felt uneasy, stepping back away from the hand that seemed to drop reluctantly as he stepped down the stairs, between the two tense and glaring adults, into the safe embrace of his mother, who reached out and grabbed hold of his wrist, tugging him close the moment he was within range, almost tripping him down the stairs in her haste to hold him close.

“Benjamin,” His mother hissed angrily; one hand cradling his neck holding his face to her stomach, the other resting on his back desperately holding him close, the pressure half muffling the conversation as if shielding him from it. “What the hell do you think you are doing”.

“Your late on rent”, 6B replied calmly, “The boy’s just picking up your slack”.

The arms around him tightened and the whine left his lips before he could stop it as the pressure grew and he bit his lip sharply, 6B chuckled, although he didn’t know what he found so funny.

“Don’t ever come near my boy again” his mother warned sharply, her voice low and it gave him goosebumps, he hadn’t heard it like that before, not since she yelled at him for knocking over one of their rare drinking glassware, causing it to break and she had yelled at him not to move until she cleaned it looking half between wanting to throw him down the stairs herself or cradle him between her arms.

“Pay rent on time then, that way that sweet little face of his won’t pay the consequences, because I don’t know about you but I am just dying to see what they look like filled”.

“Jacob”, his mother’s voice trembled, he hummed not able to shift enough to look up at her and he wasn’t sure he wanted to, “Go to school, I don’t want you to leave until I come and get you after work alright?”

“Okay” he muttered quietly into her stomach, half disappointed he wouldn’t be able to get Mr.6B’s trash for him and earn that $5, but she didn’t release her grip when he tugged back. “Mum-”

“I don’t want you coming home during school anymore, do you understand me?”

“I-“

“Do you understand?”

“Yes Mum!” he huffed finally breaking away, slipping out of her arms and she looked crazed, lips bitten bloody, gaze wild looking half like she wanted to lung out and grab him again, “I'm going” he hastily assured making his way down the stairs not looking back as he caught the end of the conversation as the door swung shut and he took of racing to get back on school grounds before class started back up.

“What do I have to do to make sure you never touch him again?”

“You know what you have to do, with tax”.

~~~~

He loved his mother, and he knew she loved him. Even when she grew closer, more obsessive. She started to demand she came along to his matches, or for him to walk straight to the store after school instead of hanging out with friends and do his homework in a booth at the diner until he was well into high school and many years into the less affectionally known name as the diner boy.

But it was there that Pops had silently slid across a Naval brochure when his mother’s back was turned, it had been there that his normal meal 3 days a week turned into if you wash the dishes, you can come and eat anytime, and the older couple became Nam and Pop, the two who allowed him in at ass-a-clock in the morning if he came knocking after another fight with his mother. It was there Pop had opened up an old wooden box aided by candle light and shown his medals still as shiny as the day they were pinned across his chest and told him in a harsh whisper of the horrors that came with them. He explained it all, his role as a SEAL, the ground staff, the naval aviators, and the deck hands. The fliers, builders, lawyers, leaders, and the engineers. Anything he could want, all at his fingertips, and Pops was all too willing to walk into the recruitment office and hand it in himself; if he wanted.

If he wanted. If he wanted to leave all this. If he wanted to leave the diner, to leave his mother, to leave this shitty town he’s hated since he was a kid. To leave their half broken down apartment, and to leave their sleezy super long behind in the wind. To leave poor mister Pickels, the kitten that had accompanied Miss Whennies after Tinkles passed, a kitten which soon grew into a large orange ball of fluff and had well outlived its owner. If he wanted to leave…

And what’s worse? He did.

He wanted to leave. He did.

But he couldn’t.

Not with her. Not while she stayed here and suffered by herself, while that man sucked her dry of everything she had, raising her rent every time he felt like it just because he could. The man who no longer intimidated by his stronger build or his nasty glares, who simply grinned at him sharply in response, wondering down the hall calling out his mother’s name with a sing-along voice in a way he knew would make his teeth clench.

And he wanted to leave, so desperately that he could pull his hair out, bloody and raw, and tug the teeth from his head with a pair of priers and no painkillers, and it still wouldn’t compare to the pure desperate need to leave. So desperately that he could cry and yet knew it would solve nothing. Because people like them? They don’t get a happy life; they don’t get other options. They worked to live, live to survive, and survive until you couldn’t give anything more, but overall, you never truly accomplish anything.

He knew what it looked like, if he applied. A poor kid from the ghetto, they’re going to think he’s gang affiliated, he wasn’t, sure he knew some kids from school, he knew what they did, but he never stuck his nose where it didn’t belong and they stayed clear of him in response. He worked hard to get where he was, he wouldn’t let something like that get in his way.

Not now. Not after everything.

And he wanted to apply, if only to get out of here. He wanted to, had the flying folded in his pocket, in between his pillow case and pillow as he slept, keeping it with him as a reminder of what he could achieve, all out of eyeline from his mother. A small token, maybe a daydream, something he knew would never be achieved, but it was nice to hope.

It would be nice to hope, he reminded himself as he woke in the morning with a wince, tugging his shirt down from where it had risen during the night hiding the forming bruise brushing it off as another sport related injury, the three bruised patterned indents all too real to pretend otherwise. He sat at the table staring blankly into the oatmeal, the same three patterns etched into his skin sitting mere milometers from him, waving around flamboyantly as his mother complained about something he had heard a million times. The same rings that had punched their marks into his skin, arms that had left darkening bruises wrapped around his ribs, the love carved into his skin, aches into his bones.

He felt each ounce of her love with each inhale, with each cough or whistling breath, and each sharp movement just like he had when he was a kid. The way she would squeeze too hard after a long shift, but he never complained because he missed her too, even if it made his ribs ache, or he was short of breath, he held his tongue and let her hold him; arms wrapped tightly around his body during the night preventing him from moving from her grasp as she squeezed. Because his mother loved him, the marks proved it, he had learned early on to hold back the whines of complaint in the morning when he woke to the marks dug into his skin, or the way his breath hitched or came with a wince. Because she loved him, she said so. She loved him.

And that was the reason he couldn’t go.

And that was the reason he left.

The reason he had tried to close the door on the face of two uniformed men who came knocking, papers in hand claiming he had to come with them, that he belonged to the Navy. Like he was property. Their star-sparkled stupidly clean shoe that was polished to the point you could see your own damn reflection out of them, that made him want to slam the door on their shoe all that harder blocked him, wedged between the two pieces of wood looking bored at his temper.

“Seresin, come peacefully-”

“For the last time, I didn’t sign up” he glared, “So, piss off”.

“Son you’re only making this worse for yourself, you had a clear recall date if you had second thoughts, you missed it.” he blocked out the officer, his attention dragged to his side as noise came from within he apartment. Worry bubbling as he heard his mother move around when she should be on bedrest, her latest cold having sent her to bed earlier in the week and had refused to let up for a moment.

Annoyance flooded through him mounting on his already building irritation at the knowledge they had woken her form her much needed sleep, he twisted to look at her finding her ending the kitchen walking towards him, dark circles under her eyes, betraying her exhaustion from her gaunt haunted look to the tremble in her hand. She looked wearily, approaching slowly, twisting something between her palms fiddling with it as the ruckus the two men grew louder when the officer realised he was blocking out his speech.

“Mum,” he called out gently “Go back into the bedroom I’ll be right there-“

She croaked, foot staggering her hands reaching out to the nearby counter as she forced herself closer, “I did”.

“What?” He frowned confused, half distracted glaring down the officers whose hand pressed hard against the door feeling it budge slightly much to his own annoyance, “Mum go back to the room ill-“

“I signed you up”.

He paused, staring at her, his pause allowing the officers to push him back by a hand on his shoulder causing him to stagger back as the door swung open.

“Ma’am, please allow us to resolve this peacefully. Recruit Seresin has been MIA for his first week of introductions-”

“You what?” he cut the man off staring at his frail mother who looked so painfully guilty and relieved at the same time, gut clenching and chest tightening feeling like he had just been thrown into a cheese grater.

She bit her lip, sighing heavily before holding out the item she had been fiddling with, a well-loved, folded and slightly dammed pamphlet. The naval pamphlet. “I found this under your bed, I- Pops told me you were thinking about it and the deadline was coming up and you never asked me about it and you never filled it out, so I did”.

“Mum-”

“You can’t stay here the rest of your life; you cannot rot away between these four walls like I am. I refuse to let you” she demanded, on the verge of tears voice trembling, “You deserve something much better than this Jacob; you always have. Don’t squander your chance to get out of this hell hole because of some misplaced honor”.

“That honor is my mother”.

“And your mother is asking you, to go”.

“You need me here, pops and Nam need me here-”

“Go Jacob, go” she whispered, “Please, make something out of yourself. If not for me, then for you. Because if you don’t take this chance, you’re going to resent me for the rest of your life, and I can’t stand to think of it”.

“But i-“

“You can write them a letter once you get to base, explain it all. Trust me, they’ll forgive you. Please, pack. Please Jacob”.

And so, he did. He packed the small measly items he owned, that still fit in that shitty backpack from so many years ago, the trusty thing having lasted all through his schooling with a caring hand, he had kissed his mother goodbye and felt his ribs ache under the force of her hug until one of the officers physically pulled him away and lead him down to a car.

A car that led him to the most physically challenging part of his life, the best part of his life. He had been offered temporary quarters, a package of standard clothes, uniforms, and PT gear, all new. Brand new. Clothes just for him and packed in the bottom was a pair of sneakers, and dress shoes. In his size. He was offered a meal plan of daily meals, three times a day. Showers, wherever he wanted, for however long he wanted in exchange for letting them buzz his golden locks, and a bedroom, sure he had to share it with a roommate who was out of state and being flown out to the base, but it was his.

And somehow one of the worst things his mother had ever done to him, turned into one of the greatest. The bruises had faded with time and so had his anger towards her, and all too soon the dorms began to fill in. The hall loud and brash with kids his age moving in, laughing and being crass, as he waited for the hall warden to snap at them to behave appropriately, sitting on his bed picking at his fingers having long had the habit of biting his lip ripped from him having already spent time under the man, tugging at the skin around his nails flitching as he heard the key turn in the lock of the door, eyes flicking to it instinctively.

He glanced up as the door opened unusually nervous to meet his roommate for the first time only to pause, a laugh bubbling from his lips before he could stop it. The man blinked at him in the doorway, hair buzzed, skin tanned, but he knew. He had lived with them for fuck sakes. He laughed, and laughed and laughed, until the man, unimpressed, tugged the door shut trapping them within, throwing his duffle on the unclaimed bed and crossed his arms, tense, jaw clenched, glaring him down hostilely.

“What,” the man growled out.

He grinned unable to stop himself, “You know when I said I came from the ghetto, I didn’t expect them to put me with the only god damn colored kid on the block”.

~~~~

It started with the shoulder punches.

He hadn’t realised it was an issue until Javy had sat him down with a worried look, whispering quietly about some rumors flying around behind his back because he was hurting other kids. Kids he had thought had been his friends. His face had twisted into an incredulous disbelief, then hurt, and anger, he hadn’t hurt anyone.

He had then nervously asked Javy if he believed them, the man had hesitated before admitting he tapped rather hard when he was showing affection and maybe it was a misconception, a misunderstanding, that he should try being gentler.

He didn’t understand.

So, Javy had shown him, tugged down his shirt, unbuttoning it enough to tug down sleeve enough to show his sholder where the skin was splotched in different colors. He had stared at it, then stared at it some more.

They had bruised. They were old. In different stages of healing. He had been so focused trying to spread his love with the others he had neglected Javy, his love already fading from the man’s skin.

He swallowed hand grazing over the skin his jaw clenched and Javy had just mused quietly reassuring him in worry “It’s ok Jake, It’s ok”. But it wasn’t.

He had tried, to fix it. He tried, but he couldn’t get it out of his head. The rumors, his ‘friends’ and how could they say something so horrible? He didn’t want to hurt anyone, he hadn’t! Truly. He was just trying to show them he liked them, trusted them, loved them, and they had thrown it back in his face. He wondered if his marks still bloomed on their skin in the face of their betrayal, if they would look at it at night lips curling up disgusted by their own actions. If they stared his love in the eye and disregarded it so easily.

He never spoke to them again. The kids. He shut them out when they came back from break, just brushed past them in the hall, refusing to answer them when they came up to him to start a conversation, staring at them blankly when they demanded to know what the hell his issue was, if he thought he was too good for them, and all he couldn’t think about was, was his mark still on their skin? Did it burn so close to its maker? Did the blood curdle and run through their veins aware of its carrier’s actions.

Did it hurt them as much as they hurt him?

So he set himself up, he strengthened his accent, he acted cocky, irritable, and made sure to rile up everyone around him until they couldn’t stand him, until everyone saw him as unapproachable. Everyone except Javy who stared at him at night sitting on his bunk with a lost expression, but despite the others trying to pull him away, Javy stuck to his side closely refusing to leave him too. Even when everyone hated him, when people began to abandon him in hops refusing to cover his back Javy came in clutch every time without hesitation and together they became an unstoppable duo. Together, they became family, brothers, each mark at a time.

It didn’t stop the way hurt festered in his chest when he passed those kids, who had become adults, in the hall as they leaned over and whispered to another kid who looked over at him and smirked laughing. He knew. Everyone did. It was about him. He steeled his jaw throwing them a cocky smirk and thrived off the sneer he got in return.

“You shouldn’t taunt them” Javy scolded.

“I’m just having a little fun Jay” he rolled his eyes, nudging the man with a loose knock to his shoulder and Jay staggered to the side slightly, hand twitching like he wanted to reach up and caress the mark, his jaw tightening as he stared at him before moving again, likely reminding himself this wasn’t the time or place to savor the mark.

He never did. Javy was weird about them, almost moving as if he wanted to hold them, cherish them, looking tense when he gave them when others could see, before locking himself in a bathroom stall or dressing quickly so he didn’t have to look at them. Maybe he was embarrassed.

“It’s ok Jake” Javy had whispered into the night, thinking he had gone to bed hours ago as he spent his time counting the cracks in the wall, still terrified to move as the boy sighed shifting as the bed creaked, “I know you don’t mean it. I know you love me truly”.

I do love you.

So why does it feel like you don’t understand how much?

Then came Bradshaw and everything fell apart.

At first he had loved it, Bradshaw was older than them, more reactive, and he had that fire-like attitude at him. His iron-clad control was frustrating, but if he gave him fuel, the man would throw it back at him, but if he tugged long enough the man would spit at the fire, and it would bloom into a wildfire. Beautiful, but dangerous.

He couldn’t help it. It was like an addiction. He needed to see Bradshaw react, to see those ambers glow. He ignored the warnings, the stern lectures, and bulldozed through them and day by day he watched as that iron-clad control snapped piece by piece, scaffolding flattering and crumbling down around him. He loved that he could use his jabs and taunts to drag the man out to play with him, it was exhilarating, he loved the thrill it gave him, feeling as if he was on the edge of his seat every moment he was around him, dancing on his toes, and Bradshaw strutted around like a ticking time bomb and he intended to make him explode.

Most of all he loved the way he could punch the older man in the shoulder and bubble in excitement as Bradshaw would return it as good as he gave it, and for once in years, he had a bruise. A dark blemish that spanned across his shoulder, next to his collarbone, on his right side, right over his heart. It aches when he moved, tugged when he stretched, expanded when he breathed, and he could feel it in every living movement and he loved it.

Then it all went to shit.

He didn’t know what happened. He had taunted him, and Bradshaw just snapped. Suddenly the usual jab to his shoulder wasn’t just his shoulder, it caught him by the chin, causing him to stumble, then to the gut, and a hand wrapped up around his throat, body breathless, slammed back up against the wall and, this didn’t feel like love.

This, hurt.

He remembered the gasping, chocking on air as Javy held him close barking at Trace to get a handle on Bradshaw, holding his steady on shaky legs. The man’s terrified gaze roaming over him looking more devastated at each impact point, hands roaming over his tense stomach and already red and blooming jaw, he could feel it, the blood pulsing, the tenderness.

“Fuck you, Seresin!” Bradshaw snarled over Trace’s shoulder looking like a dog foaming at the mouth, Trace’s hand was on his shoulder hissing at him to back down, to not make this worse. “The only place you’re going to lead people is to their grave, you’re like a god damn hangman. The only person who wants to be your friend is death itself”.

And there it was. The death wish. The curse. The enigma.

His callsign.

The issue with living on a base is that gossip travels quick, its twists, and it never does the spoken any favors. But once someone caught ear that he grew up in the ghetto, it was over for him.

From that moment on he had been called Hangman, the man who seeks to kill all those around him, a mercenary, a curse, a bad luck charm. Death. Flying with a yoke in hand.

It never occurred to him to report the attack, or to register the way Bradshaw tiptoed around him for a bit as if waiting for the axe to fall. A blow that never came.

He never did get over the way Bradshaw’s bruises ached in his skin, how they slowly faded but his words stuck sharp like a knife between his ribs. And the colours he had looked forward to everyday, ones he had squirmed in anticipation to watch bloom across his chest, left him in an odd feeling of displacement. Bradshaw was avoiding him with a clenched jaw, Trace alongside with him. And all too soon, his skin was unblemished again.

And he hated it.

Unloved, and a death calling.

How fitting.

He never escaped it, not when Javy earned his name, not when graduation came and they were awarded their callsigns officially, his tag already printed before he could request it. His instructor smiling proudly, whispering teasingly “the mercenary” as he pinned it to his chest, staring at him with this expectation and declared in front of everyone, awarding him his rank, and officially alienating him, because who wanted deaths calling on their squad?

“I expect you to earn our country some kills, son”.

And he had. First air-to-air kill in centuries. And what he hated about it most? It proved them all right, because when it came down to it, he didn’t hesitate for a moment pulling that trigger. He didn’t flinch, think, or anything. In fact, if anything, he took satisfaction from watching it fall out of the sky, droning back to the tower over coms, reporting the kill without really hearing it.

Then he earned a new name.

The executioner.

Everyone hated Hangman, but everyone wanted to know the executioner. To hang off his arm, to brag they were friends, to buy him rounds of drink all to celebrate the life he had taken, and that night he came home with bruises brooming across his chest, back, and arm, from drunken rumbles, and sloppy disported punches in congratulation.

And he felt like he could breathe again.

He shouldn’t be happy for taking a life, but it had earned him marks. It earned him love. And he missed it so much he could scream.

~~~~

Top Gun wasn’t any different than it was the first time. Whispers still followed him, his reputation one step behind him, and Brashaw. Bradshaw stood in his way, that hostile look, the same clenched fist, the threat of his love, and yet the man just taunted him with it. And he was so close, so close. So frustratingly close, Bradshaw fist wrapped around his jumpsuit dragging him close as he laughed exhilarated, arm raised fist ready only for everyone else to jump in, to tear them apart, screaming at each other. And Bradshaw had been ripped away, the Captain jumping between them. Bradshaw might be stupid, but he wasn’t stupid enough to ignore a Capitan.

He wanted to throw himself off the carrier. To shove his yoke and crash into the ocean. He had been so close and all he had to show for it was the faint red marks of Bradshaw’s nails from where he as twisted the fabric of his flight suit in his fist.

And it wasn’t enough. He felt like he was going insane, like he had been going through with drawls for years and he just wanted it to stop.

“Jake” Javy stared at him with that same worried look that’s been following him for years, “Maybe it’s time we talked about it”.

Talk about him. About his obsession. About Bradshaw. About everything, and he wasn’t ready.

“Maybe its time you went to see someone”.

“why?”

“To talk to them…about this”.

“I talk to you”.

Javy never answers, just gives him this exhausted look, a haunted piercing gaze that reminded him too much of his mother the day he left, a gaze that cut through him and reminded him of every mistake he’s ever made. Missing Nam’s funeral, never visiting his mother, sending letters, responding but never taking that step to actually seeing her. Being well over due to heading back to that damn town to see Pop, to meet the grandson he spoke so fondly of that had taken over the business a few years ago. Mik. Something. It wasn’t important. Not really.

So he clenched his jaw and ignored the disappointed look, gaze trailing over Brashaw as he danced around in the sand, those muscles shinning in sweat as he tacked Neil to the ground successfully distracting he man allowing Trace to score a goal her Rio by her side faithfully managing to knock peoples ankles out from under them before they knew what was coming.

Then it came. And they crashed. Bradshaw was picked, and Maverick fell. But then Bradshaw fell with him. Love, Bradshaw so loved to taunt it in his face, even in his dying moments.

Each mark, each punch, each heated argument, and clenched jaw screamed, I love you, I love you, I love you~

And he still went after him, because Bradshaw had loved the Captain too.

But then, they lived. And he was flying like his life depended on it, and it might have, his heart pounding in his chest and he was scared it might stop if he didn’t get there in time. He hadn’t hesitate that time either, guns switching to missiles before he knew what he was doing, tone flooding through his ears fingers already pressing down the trigger before he could check which jet he had caught. Then there was smokem, and they lived.

They all lived.

The aftermath is what caused the issues though. His life was always complicated with Bradshaw around. But this time it appears the man came with an extension, the Captain, Mitchell, Maverick. His Godfather.

A father figure, who wouldn’t take no as an answer, who tugged him forward into a hug and he just stood there because where the hell had it come from? But then, it kept happening. Maverick keeps hugging, soon it became a usual pastime for the man making his rounds ensuring he patted, hugged, or kissed each and every one of them goodbye before he left and it hurt.

Usually, he was quite open to hugging, welcoming the family outlet of love. But this, he didn’t know what this was, and he hated it.

He didn’t know what he did to make the man hate him so much but it hurt, seeing the other smile brightly, Mavs soft expression welcoming them into his mismatched family alongside him, to hug him but only offer him the physical object, to wrap his arms around an empty vessel, and it ached.

He didn’t understand.

And it appeared it was becoming a common response to the man named Maverick.

Mav claimed to love him, he hugged him, he smiled so welcomely and treated him as if he was one of his one, and yet, no matter how many times he checked his in the privacy of his own home, on the verge of tears at the sight of the unblemished skin. Why was Mav allowed to love everyone but him?

Why must they taunt him with it? What did he do?

He didn’t understand.

~~~~

To be honest, letting a bunch of slightly tipsy aviator lounge around an open hanger with years’ worth of projects building up to fidget with, was only going to lead to a disaster.

Some perks of being somewhat buddy buddy with aa almost retired Captain meant accompanying the team to group outings at the man’s hanger out in the desert, it almost meant lounging back in a sun in a lounge chair drinking a beer watching Bradsh- Bradley tinker around with some object, that he thinks used to be an engine before it was deconstructed, that the older man had dragged out of the Captains workshop and began to fiddle with; apparently deeming him as his official supervisor since the rest of the group had disappeared into some other part of the hanger and Bradshaw wanted to enjoy the warm sun as well, even if it was heating the metal and causing the man to hiss in annoying under his breath in a muffled curses anytime he burnt himself.

In the most part he was enjoying himself, who wouldn’t he was practically on holiday, baking in the sun, a beer in hand, couldn’t ask for anything better. It was almost sweet serenity. Almost.

“Shit!”

His eyes snapped open eyes settling on Bradley whose teeth were gritted, blood trailing down his arm, hand clamped down on the rapidly bleeding wound. He jerked up not even glancing at the beer that he had knocked from his hip down onto the concrete where it spilled, as he stumbled out of the chair to his knees beside the man already ripping off his t-shirt and whacking Bradley’s hands away to see the damage for himself, before wrapping the fabric around it in an attempt to stem the bleeding.

“Mav!” the cry sounded raw, fearful.

The cut was deep, from his elbow down to mid-forearm, bleeding, pink and soft, gushy under his finger tips and he tried not to think about the fact his fingers were literally in Bradshaw’s arms, touching the mutilated flesh.

“MAV!”

He felt sick, Bradshaw was rapidly losing color and blood was pouring into his lap, onto his jeans as he tried to stem the bleeding, cursing as he grabbed Bradshaw’s limp hand from his thigh pressing it against the wound snapping at the man to hold it there. Before hastily unbuckling his own belt, not blinking over the mess he was making as he ripped it from its loops, looping it around Bradley’s bicep tightening it in an attempt of a torniquet, it was tight, probably too tight but he had to stop the bleeding-

“MAV!”

He was brushing away Bradley’s hand away, not that it did much good, the sticky blood coating his skin, and his stomach churned. And for once he was willing to admit he felt truly petrified, Bradley’s limp arms, pale skin starting at his wound, and blood in silent horror.

“MAV-!”

“Jesus, I’m here kid” Mav grumbled from behind him, “What do you nee- Bradley!” Something shattered on the ground but then there was Mav by his side nudging him out of the way, taking over. He shuffled back slightly leaning against his chair, feeling unstable all of the sudden, like the world was spinning around him. He stared at his hands, coated in blood, jeans ruined, shirt unsalvageable, but Mav was already calling for the rest of the group and, how had no one heard his screams?

Had they ignored him? At the cost of Bradleys life?

Mav was shoving Bradley into the arms of Reuben and Billy, Nat already having run off to get the car, as Mav ordered them to take him to the small hospital that was apparently in the next town over and then- Mav was in his face. His hands on his knees and Mav was- Mav.

“I’m here sweetheart,” Mav ran a hand over his knee soothingly and his breath shook before realising he’d been muttering the same word over and over again, mav. Mav. Mav. Mav. MAV.

“I’m here sweetheart, but I really need to go. Bradley’s really hurt and we have to get you up with the others so we can get you changed and ready to go see him all patched up because I think you’re a little shaken Jake. Come on up we go-” Mav had a hand on each of his elbows urging him up with him easily shouldering his weight as he stumbled around like a drunk fawn. He didn’t- he just- he was

“He was so pale” he crocked, pleading with Mav, begging him. For what?

“He’s ok, he’s never been any good with blood. He’s okay Jake” Mav reassured him gently tugging him further into the hanger, he followed blindly. That, that’s what he had been looking for.

He’s ok.

He’s never been good with blood.

He’s okay.

Okay.

Mav pulled away slightly, ensuring he had his feet under him, but his hand flew up clenching at Mav’s bicep even as Mav releases him completely, clearly desperate to follow after his son, in all but blood. His voice trembled, croaking, eyes flicking over Mav’s face trying to determine the man’s emotion from the small mini-markers, trying to figure out what he did wrong.

Why are you leaving?

“I did good, right?” he asked, clarifying desperately, watching as Mavs brows furrowed slightly shifting impatiently, urging someone over his shoulder towards them as he tapped him on the shoulder squeezing it.

I need you.

“Yeah kid, you did good” Mav smiled softly, “Callie’s going to help you alright? I think you going into a bit of shock. It’s alright, no one was expecting it to happen. Cal, make sure he gets out of these clothes feel free to the stuff in the backrooms, I should have some old stuff from my flight mates stores in there that should fit him, he needs lots to drink, lots of electrolytes and sleep” he informed her, Neil sliding up beside her nodding along, gently wrapping his arm around his chest from behind transferring the weight as Callie patiently tugged on his fingers until they no longer clenched the Capitan and held them within her own.

“Come on Jake, let’s get you into a nice warm shower and-”, he couldn’t focus on Callie, throat dry, staring into an empty spot.

Mav was gone. The moment his grip was released he sent the two a grateful smile before turning on his heel and taking off out of the hanger. Gone.

Mav left him.

And he wasn’t sure he could forgive him.

That night he held his own waist, arms wrapped around himself as tight as they would go and held on. Through his sobbing hiccups, through the pained hiss and clenched teeth, his ribs squeezing tight as he let out a muffled low whimper of pain, refusing to let go, until he could see the darkening skin through his blurred vision. And then, maybe then, he could pretend Mav loved him too.

~~~~

Being asked to stay behind after class by a commanding officer was fine, being asked to stay behind after class by Maverick, was not. Let alone for the man to come up to him and ask him personally to come up to his hanger after work so they could talk about some things, he might as well have a better chance throwing himself into a jet turbine and hoping to live to tell the tale.

The drive was long, perhaps that was on purpose, to allow him the chance to shrug of today’s lesson and his worries. Maybe t had been intended that way but clearly Mav had never taken the time to know him. Instead, it gave him hours to hyper-analysis every interaction with the man and his classmates for the last two months trying to determine why the hell he was being issued an informal reprimand.

A lot had happened in the last few months, the daggers had been officially named as a squadron and they had all been issued their new enigma, he wore his quite proudly as did many others, the group as a result became somewhat closer, spending more time together. Or at least attempting too. So in response he had attempted to share his appreciation as well, but it was always one step forward and two steps back, it seemed almost like every attempt he made they would shut off a little more from him, each shaken head, each retreat, each stiff pool game when he offered to play with them and they’d brush him off, and each a disappointed murmur plunging a knife through his chest: Nat shook her head muttering disappointedly sighing in a way he hadn’t heard in months, “Same old Hangman”.

He didn’t understand, and he was started to get really sick of being left outside the loop.

He swallowed thickly as he pulled up to the fenced lot letting himself in as he pulled off the dirt road onto the slightly gravelled section Mav had donned the parking and put the truck into park, taking a moment to flex his fingers around the wheel trying to take deep even breath, to counter the way his brain seamed to twist and twirl trying to dig him further into a hole he didn’t want to get stuck in.

“You can do this” he reminded himself softly, “You can do this”. It can’t be that bad right? If he was anything bad, Mav wouldn’t have dragged him all the way out here, he would have just ordered him to his office and been done with it. Right?

“Do you plan on sitting in the car all day Seresin!” a voice called out.

He let his eyes fall shut head bumping back against his head rest before opening the car door and sliding out, “Thought I’d take a moment to enjoy the sun sir” he called back. The last one before his execution that was.

“You didn’t have a chance to do that on the drive in?” Mav asked coming into view lifting an eyebrow, wiping his hands on a cloth, dirty and stained but it appeared to be doing its job.

“I’m from Texas pops, we do everything differently, it’s easier if you just accept it” he grinned, pushing back his nerves as he strolled closer shoving his hands into his pockets, “So, what’s up, you’re not going to kill me and burry me out here are you because it think the Dingos might get me before the Eagles do” he commented lightly. If anyone would be able to kill and get away with it, it would be Mav. Hell, he already had the perfect stretch of land for it and enough connection to make a viable alibi. Maybe he shouldn’t have come…

Or at least told someone where he was going.

Where the hell was Javy when he needed him, they could have matching gravestones.

Mav huffed, lips twitching in amusement as he tucked the rag corner into his back pocket letting ti hand, “Now why would I do that? I just called aside in front of the class, that’s too suspicious, even for me”.

He shrugged, “Bradshaw would probably help you hide the body”.

Mav frowned “You saved his life, twice now”.

“Small details”.

Mav hummed, “Come on, we can talk inside”, Mav turned leading him further into the hanger, his gaze couldn’t help but drift to the darker spot of concrete where he knew had blood splattered over it a few months ago, unable to bring himself to make the trip out here since, only to find a pristine surface. He swallowed thickly before following the man in.

So, Mav’s suspiciously good at getting rid of blood stains. Great news.

He has the burial sight, the extra hands, an alibi, good clean up products, all he needs now is motives.

He go down that list worryingly quick and he’s hardly made it past the threshold of the property yet. He sighed signing his own death certificate and allowed Mav to lead him into the kitchen where the Mav placed a bottle of water chilled from the fridge onto the counter gesturing for him to take him, placing the counter between them.

He was a tad ashamed of the way it set him slightly more at ease.

It didn’t take long the tension building awkwardly between them before Mav sighed heavily suddenly looking his age, frowning heavily brows furrowing in worry as he leaned over on the counter glancing up, clearly unsure how to approach the subject, “Look Jake…some of the other had some concerns about your rough- uh… treatment! Towards the others, and I think it’s about time we address it”.

Rough treatment?

Rough?

“Look Jake” Javy squirmed uncomfortably, “There this rumour going around….that you hurt some of the other guys…”

Rough?

“I didn’t- Javy I would never- They’re kids!”

I-

“Jake?”

He hummed, not really registering the way his grip around the bottle tightened a tad too much causing it to creak, or how he straightened slightly as Mav pushed of the counter staring at him fully in concern, “Are you alright?” Mav asked.

It was happening again.

It was happening again.

It was happening again.

He swallowed thickly, hand raising up the flesh under his shoulder, under the collarbone over his breast over his right side, digging his knuckles into the flesh, and into an older bruise, feeling the flash of the sharp pain restart his system, the haze beginning to fade.

“Jake!” Mavs sharp tone tugged him further out, those egal eyes tracking his hand rubbing at his chest, eyes narrowing, “What’s wrong with your chest”.

He dropped it, “Nothing. You we’re saying”. About how everyone hated me.

Mav stood his ground staring him down, but so did he. After all, Mav was the one who taught him how. Mav bit his lip slightly before relenting, acknowledging that they were just as stubborn as each other and they likely wouldn’t get anywhere unless one of them submitted and they both knew it wouldn’t be him.

“Jake, come on tell me what’s going on” Mav shoulders slumped, “I can’t lead a time if you’re fighting within it”.

“I don’t know what they’re talking about” He gruffed out. “Why don’t you ask them if your so un-bias”.

“Come on kid, work with me here.-“

“No! Because why am I the only one here? This is a team issue, no? Where’s the team?” he waved his arm in a wide swipe his distress beginning to grow, “Why am I the one singled out? What because Bradshaw doesn’t like me, which means Nat didn’t like me and she’ll willingly spread that distrain to everyone if she could and-”

“Jake” Mav warned lowly, “Enough”.

“I am not the only person on this team!”

“I’m aware” Mav replied calmy, “However it’s your actions that they’re concerned about, so I want to hear what you have to say before I go through with anything”.

So, there is a reprimand here.

Bradshaw doesn’t like me: Motive.

He pushes himself away from the counter not caring about where his bottle dropped as he tried to put distance between the two of them, feeling uncomfortable, scratchy, and- I don’t understand, I just don’t understand, I DON’T UNDERSTAND-

Then suddenly he couldn’t breathe. The stress builds and his chest and- and- suddenly all he can do is wrap his arms around his waist in an attempt to release the building pressure suffocating him, and squeeze. Breath hitching, sharp gasps, nails digging into his flesh then- strong hands settled on his arm, one on his wrist tugging it away from himself sharply, the other just above his elbow on the opposite arm holding him still. He clamped his eyes shut refusing to look at the man, breath trembling in uncontrolled panic. Mav tried to pull his other arm away from his body but he jerked away, hands holding him still clamped tightly, but a pained hiss made its way through gritted teeth. His eyes opened, shiny and wet as Mav stared him down silently bringing his right wrist to his left holding them together loosely giving him the benefit of the doubt as he gently tugged up his shirt, letting out a shocked breath at the sight of the bruised and damaged flesh. Mav’s fingers trailing over the tender skin feeling his abdomen flex to get away from the prodding fingers, worry shining in Mav’s eyes making a wounded noise as he traced a larger bruise from his belly button wrapping around to his hip bone and lower two ribs.

“Sweetheart” Mav breathed, “Who did this?”

He blinked, jaw shaking slightly as he cleared his throat, staring at Mav’s worried expression in confusion. “What?”

“Who hurt you, sweetheart?” Mav’s eyes looked wet, peering up at him, fingertips ghosting over the bruise as if afraid he’d hurt him if he touched it further.

“No one hurt me, Mav” he frowned.

“Jake, I swear if someone’s-”

“They’re love marks” he explained softly in confusion reaching down and Mav let his hand fall, he reached for the bigger mark and traced it lightly, “See this one is darker? It means it’s full of love. This one?” he shifted over lifting his shirt further ignoring the keening noise Mav made when he revealed the black and green mark over his heart, “It’s lighter, it’s fading, the love”.

Mav stared at the marks silently, gaze flickering over the newest ones looking more and more troubled, before gently asking “Who did this?”

He blinked, “I did of course”.

“Wh-why?”

“Because…” he frowned, “Because you were punishing me, and I- I didn’t know why and I just thought maybe if I could-”

“Wha- Jake, honey. I’m not punishing you,… how am I punishing you?” Mav’s grip on his elbow tightened slightly squeezing in comfort, his gaze seeking him out, genuinely confused.

He shifted uncomfortably under the gentle gaze, feeling himself sinking under it unable to stop himself, squirming as he muttered, “Your hugs,…they’re wrong”.

“How? Wrong how, Jake”.

“I don’t know!” he bit his lip tugging away from Mav, the man only let him step back a step before he was right there again, keeping his hands to himself but making sure he didn’t flee in his agitation, “Ok. They’re just wrong,” he gritted his teeth, turning his gaze, dancing over the counter, his abandoned drink, to the oil stain on the floor, a machine with a toolbox open where Mav had clearly been working before he arrived, anything to avoid the mans gaze. “They’re just empty. Like they don’t mean anything, you love everyone else so clearly, but then you get to me and it’s like you have nothing left to give, and- and- they don’t hurt Mav! They’re meant to hurt, to squeeze, to hold you so tight that you- you fuse, to make marks so I can see your love and-” his breath shuttered, voice trembling like a loose leaf in the wind.

“Oh, Jake” Mav’s voice sounded wrenched, “Darling, hugs aren’t meant to hurt you”.

“But I-“

“Sweetheart, bruises aren’t a good thing, they’re bad. Really really bad” Mav explained softly, “Hugs aren’t meant to hurt you, you’re meant to feel safe in them, melt into them, sleep in them.”

He was trembling, he could feel it, his jaw wobbling as he sniffed, throat bobbing, fingers unconsciously tracing over his dark skin, the only constant in his life since he left home, “But I- I cant get love without them Mav” he admitted with a wrenched whisper, quickly followed by a halted sob, chest heaving in effort as he tried to supress his tears at the sudden overload, “I don’t know how, this is all I’ve known. This means love”.

This meant love. It always had. Since he was little, since he curled up next to his mother and she help him close, or her holding him by the hand as they crossed the street or in stores, she only held on so tight because she was worried he’d get lost, or that he’d have a nightmare or fall out of bed. She did it because she cared.

“There this rumour going around….that you hurt some of the other guys…”

“Look Jake…some of the other had some concerns about your rough- uh… treatment! Towards the others, and I think it’s about time we address it”.

“They’re just kids!”

He- he had been hurting them? But it- it meant love. Didn’t everyone know that? When he nudged their shoulder did they just think he was hurting them, just because he could. When he nudges Javy…Shit Javy. Did he think he did it on purpose? Did he think he was hurting him?

“It’s ok Jake” Javy had whispered into the dark room, “I know you don’t mean it. I know you love me truly”.

He felt sick. Did everyone think he was some sick dick who hurt people just because he could? That he’d debase himself to hurt kids because he was bigger and wanted to dominate or intimidate them? Did- did Bradley just think he was edging him into a fight? Was…was that all they were to Bradley? Just some dick he used to fight within the academy. Did none of it mean, I love you?

“It doesn’t,” Mav said softly, “it doesn’t sweetheart”. Mav lifted his hands slowly giving him time to move before cradling his cheeks gently, wiping away the tears that had escaped that he hadn’t even noticed, “Do you feel this?” Mav asked softly, “How gentle I am?” Mav’s hands dropped down to wrap around his waist holding him close, giving him the option to step closer, “Feel how I hold you? Like you can just lean into it? that you can trust me to hold you?”

He hesitated slightly nodding hesitantly searching the older man for anything that told him not to trust him. Feeling as if his world had just been turned upside down, like he was miss stepping within his own body.

Mav smiled softly, “Then trust me”.

He swallowed nervously before leaning forward slowly placing his weight on the man, Mav takes it easily and he allowed himself to exhaled softly embracing the warmth of the other body, muscles relaxing like puddy, but despite allowing himself some freedom he still felt like there was the ghost of an expectation for the arms around him to tighten like a cobra and rip the hope from his still beating heart. He felt like he was about to stumble into a trap, like he was trapped in a bird with no power, a faulty ejection and just holding on for the ride, trapped in a freefall not knowing when it would stop.

“This is love” Mav mused. “Gentle, soft, and not painful”.

“My mother loved me” he muttered defensively, desperately, “She did”.

“I’m sure she did” Mav agreed gently, “She had had a different way of showing it. But us, the daggers, we show love a little differently alright? So, you’re going to have to get used to soft and gentle for a while, can you do that?”

He bit his hip hesitantly before nodding, allowing himself to tuck his head into the junction between Mav’s neck and shoulder listening to Mav hum lowly, just holding him swaying lightly allowing him to sink into the new feeling. To become accustomed to it.

To give it a long forgotten name,

Love.

[adorablegorilla]

Now that it's the start of a new year, I figure I may as well talk about something I said I would back when I first finished Lingering Echoes: the parallels between Ebenholz and Gertrude. Spoilers for the story of the event under the cut.

Both Ebenholz and Gertrude are from noble lines that lost their power and standing due to the defeat of the Witch King; Gertrude's family as followers of the Witch King, and Ebenholz as the bloodline of the Witch King himself. While they came to have different outlooks on their noble lineage, it still led them both to look at the world from a place of privilege.

Gertrude desperately clung to her privilege as a noble the way her father did, going as far as to assassinate her own brother to preserve the little power her family had left. Ebenholz came to despise his Noble position as Graf Urtica, but he undoubtedly still benefited highly from it. As much as he hated being called "coddled" - understandably so since he was essentially locked up raised with the intent of turning him into a useless figurehead - a gilded cage, while a cage, is also still gilded. His indignation at Czerny's criticism, his shock at Kreide's living conditions, and his not-uncommon use of his noble status to get his way all speak to his pampered life, as much as he hates the idea.

The greatest connection between the two of them however, and the point that inspired me to write this, is they both ultimately desire the same thing: Freedom, and more specifically, Freedom from the Witch King's legacy.

Ebenholz was experimented on as a child to become the Witch King's host, and then made into a figurehead with his title of Graf Urtica. He desperately wishes to be free of both the voice of the Witch King within him and his title of Graf Urtica, so much so that he was willing to go along with Gertrude's plan to extract his Voice of the Mundane, at least at first. Gertrude may have arguably been even more trapped by her nobility than Ebenholz; raised in a family that taught her to cling to whatever power she could, she saw no option but to bow to the loyalists of the Witch King because without the power and standing only they could grant her she would essentially have nothing. So she let them control her and played as their puppet until she couldn't take it any longer, until she gave up and decided she would have her revenge and freedom both. Her plan was essentially to lash out at the Loyalists; it wouldn't have destroyed the true masterminds - she admitted she didn't even know who they were - but it would kill the ones monitoring her, destroy the last of the Witch King's bloodline, and finally granted her the freedom she wanted through death. If she could have that, what does it matter to her if a handful of nobody Infected die? Her plan came from a place of callous privilege and suffering equally.

I believe that if the events of Lingering Echoes hadn't happened, if Ebenholz hadn't met Kreide and Czerny, he may have ended up like Gertrude: A bitter, arrogant, callous and lonely noble, blinded by their own privilege and suffering to the rest of humanity. When Gertrude made his proposal to him, he was so desperate he was willing to go along even though he knew it seemed shady, and although he did become morally opposed to it when he realized that the Resonance between him and Kreide's Voices was hurting the Infected, a large portion of his thoughts was on the possibility of him being implicated. I'm not even entirely sure if he would've said no outright to the idea of killing Kreide if him and Kreide hadn't bonded together throughout the story.

But that is where the crucial difference is: throughout the story, Ebenholz bonded with Kreide, came to learn how the poor and the Infected live and of their own plights and struggles, and was humbled by Czerny's lessons. Through all of this, he grew as a person, and came to realize he didn't have to be alone, that he didn't have to suffer alone, and that despite the tribulations he'd faced in life it didn't mean his life was defined by his suffering. While Gertrude's story was essentially about her giving up, Ebenholz was about him realizing there are things in his life worth carrying on for.

That's what I love about this event, and about Arknights. Just because a story ends in tragedy, doesn't invalidate the hope and joy and bonds that were made. We can still grow from it. We can still move forward.

[faithfromanewperspective]

the western sydney work ethic, mental health, burnout, inequality and ableism

inspired by ashton irwin on artist friendly with joel madden and 17902 sustainable urban development at the university of technology sydney

I’ve teased the idea of writing this post for a while now, and now I’m sitting in my borrowed bed in Sydney with the graphs and maps from my course still at the back of my eyelids and still processing the Vibes of catching up with my childhood friends and wondering if it’s too early to go to bed if the sun’s still up—it’s time to let it out. Because I found a bunch of seemingly unrelated things and put them together in a way that helped me process my upbringing and the way it’s positioned me as I go through life even now.

For background of this post, the Greater Sydney metropolis has a very stark rich/poor divide, where a large strip from the west going to the south of the city have been left behind in a variety of ways. In my uni course I see the maps on income, education level, job overqualification, crime, violence… they’re nice and set out, and they validate what I already intuitively knew—just like everyone who grew up in the area I’m going to refer to vaguely as Western Sydney. These graphs put words to something I’ve lived when I was too young to process it, something I hear the impacts of in 5 seconds of summer’s songs like I’ve never seen in any other art ever.

I know many people relate too and I don’t want to say you have to be from Western Sydney to get it. There are plenty of other places with similar trends, but this strip of suburbs, half a city, is where I grew up and the case study I’m going to use for the phenomenon I’m going to describe in this post.

Having spent the last decade and a bit in a more conservative, more sheltered area of suburban Brisbane, where people take it slow and at least attempt to have fun without getting completely wasted; where people have high expectations for their lives and livelihoods they never quite meet and where they’re the kind of emotionally aware that you hear all about how stressful that experience is: this was the backdrop of my teens and young adult years to this point. It’s where I learned about mental health and neurodivergence and ableism and where I really explored what faith and spirituality is to me. It’s where I never quite felt comfortable when people were too polite, where I poured all the belief they had in me as a gifted kid plonked into that environment I wasn’t native to into the delusion that I could deconstruct the unequal education system of their own creation if I only worked harder than anyone had ever worked before. Then they would finally listen. It’s where I tried and tried to get help for my mental health and wasn’t listened to either, not when I presented so well and was simply unable to unmask until I was unable to mask at all. Where the slightest bit of hope caused me to forget everything that was hurting me, making it a struggle to work through even to this day. where I wondered if I was some superhuman for the fact that I can work my ass off without even realising it’s hard work, a smile on my face and arms open for connection as always (the mark of health they say) while being desperately unwell, hurting, thinking I had it good compared to some of the people I’d see crumple under the pressure, I should be kind to them (not understanding why I found them so, so relatable).

I am not a freak of nature, or superhuman, though I am neurodivergent and twice-exceptional. I am the product of my upbringing and my ancestors. I carry generations of culture from hectares of foreign lands my ancestors made their homes on (ethically questionably in some cases I do acknowledge) and became part of the ecosystem of. It is, like most difference, a gift and a curse. Something that makes certain measures of ableism not apply to me, but creates others in their place. I’ll get into this more later.

in the strip of suburbs united by demographics we call Western Sydney, farmers from the notoriously difficult land of the Murray-Darling and immigrants from everywhere on the planet, some Indigenous but few Indigenous to Australia, make up classrooms, neighbourhoods, workplaces. Think I Am Australian by The Seekers, but just the verses, as a snapshot of some of the stories representative of the people. Interwoven in the landscape. We celebrated Harmony Day on the 21st of March in my primary school. Everyone had a different cultural background. We heard different languages spoken on the street. There were stereotypes. There were scared people trying to find their tribe, build a life in Australia, away from the larger scale farms, get their kids a good education to do a trade or go to university. Fear and angst and hurt coexisting with an appreciation of the juxtaposition of others you’d never head admitted out loud. But the second verse of the Australian national anthem was written just for us, or might as well have been. Beneath our radiant southern cross, we’ll toil with hearts and hands… google the lyrics, you’ll get it, you’ll see why I wish the rest of Australia did too: for those who’ve come across the seas, we’ve boundless plains to share, with courage let us all combine to advance Australia fair…

No one with the power to acknowledge this I interact with these days remembers the second verse. Except 5 Seconds Of Summer, in their ridiculous little promo videos, who I’d bet the rubble that’s left of my parents’ old house as the new owners turn it into a mansion because Gentrification, have no idea of what a meaningful gesture that is.

I can feel the wounds of being torn from the good parts of that experience closing over. And so it’s time to give the often forgotten stories on an often forgotten piece of land that made me and also these four wonderful humans who we are today, the credit it deserves. Start by telling our stories.

One thing I love about Artist Friendly is it cuts straight to it. Joel Madden is just incredible like that—in a world coming out of the 2010s pop decade of dancing while the room is on fire (bloodhound, 5sos) put your rose coloured glasses on and party on (Katy Perry’s chained to the rhythm) (these I would consider more analytical quotes of the era, one whose vibe was ‘forget all the pain in the world, let’s party and sing about how horny we are’ which for all my cynicism I did find fun)—he kept up his punk edge, kept investing in new musicians, searching for and investing in what’s real. He also really loves Australia, and when you put our underdog-supporting attitude next to Good Charlotte’s songs you understand why. Anyway, the episode pretty much opens by him asking Ashton about his background, and relating from the perspective of working-class-emotionally-unavailable/immature-parents-who-showed-their-love-through-provision-and-really-did-try-to-be-there-but-had-none-of-the-resources. I like the positive take. It’s high time we stop being classist and ableist towards the people who’ve met our needs as much as they were able, but it still wasn’t enough. Who taught us how to take opportunities, work to prove our worth, and through it all couldn’t even afford therapy.

I used to think my family was rich because we lived in Australia and my parents had gone to university. Never mind the fact that I was born when they were barely older than I am now. Never mind the mould in the walls or sneaky Tuesday night washing of the school uniforms in the summer when we got sweaty and there weren’t any spares or the mismatched bargain bin clothes we wore or the bedroom I shared with my sisters. I knew the people I compared us to. And now I do really believe if I’d grown up a bit less frugal or even a few k’s out of the area I did I wouldn’t be who I am. I wouldn’t have the perspectives I have, nor would this podcast episode have me feeling so seen. Like, yes I lived a bit further into the city than these guys, close to the train line without any farmland where the house values shot up seemingly overnight and meant the area I grew up in is experiencing a very weird disparity as two cities collide within it today. But we grew up in the same era in western sydney, we grew up loved and knowing that was a privilege and we grew up knowing from a very young age we had to spend our whole lives working hard if we wanted life to be manageable and we better be polite and better not ask for too much.

yet we also grew up with hurt. From the trauma we inherited from our caregivers as we encountered the attitudes and fears with which they faces the world. From what we saw our peers go through much too young to be able to draw boundaries with the empathy we felt too much of and understood nothing of. From broken family relationships that were all too common. From religion that hurting people used to cause or at least stagnate hurt instead of healing.

when I was burning out and struggling as an unrecognised neurodivergent I used to wonder why my father would place such value on the Protestant work ethic when Jesus died exactly so we wouldn’t have to strive. And I acknowledge that the PWE is harmful to many disabled folk or literally anyone who has experienced the demands of life and had their stress invalidated for it. Including myself. But never having the expectation of a life of ease and luxury? I do appreciate that. It’s given me a whole different metric for how I view life, one none of my friends except those who are from those years of my life understand. No one in Brisbane or my online international friends seem to get it. But I’m sure when you see yourself in this post, that some of you will (we might be the largely unheard minority but I’m sure we exist. Joel Madden is proof of that). It’s given me a differently calibrated emotional pain scale in many ways. Different standards for when the warning lights come on (and I’m very perceptive of angst and disappointment and always see them in others to be worse than they are because of it). And when I look at everything this band has accomplished, I know it’s the same for them.

I have spent a lot of time these last years advocating for neurodivergent acceptance. I’ve done so in a way that made sense of the decade previous, of existing in a world of inequality I’ve always been so sensitive to and of expectations that I took on as opportunities (because what else have I been trained to do)? And yet so much of it is about funding and resources. And when there isn’t that? You make room for my favourite thing ever: grassroots, unofficial but beautifully organic loving neurodivergent affirmation. Plenty of rural folks, my grandparents included, hate labels, prefer focusing on strengths and equipping young people based on those than accommodating difficulties. They’re often seen as conservative, bigoted, ableist, and some of them are. But they bring with them an important lesson about how to live with the realities of the economy that they struggle in too, too much to support someone else. They don’t have the same impossible expectations of their neurodivergent progeny and protegees and community members that many who hold in their heads an idea of perfection they hope to bring to their families do (the kind of things sometimes only a diagnosis can free someone from, and nothing from the memory and shame of) and that—that is an important attitude for all of us to have.

Some people are unconventionally neurodivergent affirming while knowing none of the terms, or maybe trying to hold off using them because of the same economic and confidence reasons I’ve tried to unpack. Some rely on simple kindnesses and explanations that centre around possibility, and go nowhere near deficit. Some people know intuitively or through hard life lessons themselves (usually the latter) the value of stripping all but essentials from the functionality of everyday life. Not making it any harder than it is.

Of course you can drum on the tables in math class. My son is a musician, I get how it is.

Liz Hemmings is the only valid neurodivergence parent—I’ll say no more, it is how it is

Sometimes when we advocate for things we have to be aware that the way the dominant in-power often wealthy culture has figured it out isn’t always the best way to do things. Environmentalism is a prime example of this. This is why we need brown environmentalism and to decolonise and listen to our Indigenous stewards and share power.

You can take a lot of lessons from a place that’s as culturally diverse as Western Sydney. And you can see how a work ethic is facilitated, rather than gatekept. You can see why Ash, when asked by Joel if he’s scared of every getting back to that life (ref to poverty) his attitude is actually one of gratitude and almost reverence for the place that shaped him, that brought the band together and everything that came from that point forwards. That shaped their attitude and birthed the grit that got them through being on tour with one direction and I don’t think he said it but in Ash’s case I bet the empathy he has for the fans and the way he just wants to connect and create a fun experience but also one where we’re deeply seen by moving songs is because he knows what it’s like for so many people. You can’t not if you grew up like we did. You can see why Luke at any chance will say ‘we’re from Sydney Australia’. It has a way of sticking to you, the rich culture that’s a patchwork of orphaned cultures, the way everyday life is like one of those adventures you emerge from with strong bonds usually only found in fantasy novels. You can see that the band is proof that those bonds exist in real life.

after a decade and a bit pretending I know what leisure is and how to have fun without Bad Angst I’m glad that this proof is still in my life. I’ve still got close friends from primary school and few can boast that (we might not quite be Calum and Michael in that regard, but they still have other friends from primary who they’ve kept in touch with despite geographical separation as I have).

Now I’ve acknowledged this and traced the strings that are much easier to see when my own life is mirrored in a podcast episode, maybe I can find the good among the cultural dysphoria in the circles I do have in Brisbane, and do value still for what they are even if they’re not quite the same. Now that I can see how a world of too many opportunities and not enough freedom can burn someone out who came from this background, with the type of brain that flourishes on being a latchkey kid and sketchy hangouts with deep conversations and questionable substances but crumples under expectation and too much choice and politeness, I can put my life back together in a way that validates who I am and where I come from, rather than what those around me tell me should be good for me.

as, I can tell by this interview, these guys have. I want to be able to talk about suffering without people acting like it shouldn’t be something we can comfortably say out loud, as Ashton does here and through music. My art isn’t quite the same, but the purpose behind it is so, so similar. I relate a lot to the importance he places on spirituality, even if I’ve tried to do something with Christianity that it, in the mainstream at least, isn’t built for and probably can only partially do on its own. Maybe the epitome of humility is being able to learn from other religions and see them as gifts from God even as, and I include Christianity here as well, anything can be dangerous if used in a way that it wasn’t meant for: anything with power to heal has power or hurt too. I’ve got so much respect for how Ash does it. I think this episode really cemented for me that, and I feel like it’s something we as a fandom don’t talk about enough because of their characterisation (and fair enough, if you’re famous you don’t want people dissecting every part of you, and I’m not going to do that just give a generalised compliment): these guys are so incredibly resilient and intelligent and invested in creating healing and they’re really fucking good at it. They might present themselves as goofs with one braincell that create bops and fan over other celebrities as if they themselves aren’t famous too, but so much of that is humility and them baring themselves in ways that are sustainable and really emotionally mature (for the most part) to be relatable to us as fans and invest in making that connection genuine. They’re not pretending, because they understand how it is to be human.

and you don’t get there by being some sort of Untouchable Philosophical Genius Figure. you get there because you’ve lived in community and you’ve survived hard things because of other people who’ve done similar and created authentic art too. You get there often because you have to: because putting on a fake show and doing stuff for likes and popularity was never going to work and will only screw you up in the long run and you’re worldly enough to see that from a young age and learn from your own intuition and empathy and experiences. You get there because you lived your whole life being resourceful and being street smart and doing what it takes to make good decisions and invest in yourself (who else do you have who’s worth more than that) and your future. Doing what it takes to make sure you’re alive to learn how to do better at things you’re behind in that might keep food on the table in the future, because there’s none of that oh-it-won’t-happen-to-me attitude. That part is very sustainable which I love. I also really really relate to it and have found it something I would get complimented on when I was younger, too young to be so mature. But I never attributed it to myself. I knew somehow, abstractly, I was disabled and nearing my limit and everything I do I did so I could survive. It’s the western Sydney work ethic.

and yet this often beautiful phenomenon has its ugly side. If you know you’re neurodivergent even without the words—more often than not the only people you see who you relate to are those who didn’t make it, who fell off the horse of functionality and into things like addiction and other things that exacerbate the inability to empower yourself. You figure that when you’re honest with yourself you’ll be dead by 25. Sometimes you give up on trying to prevent that and wonder if it’s even worth it to attempt to keep going: is your life really worth that effort?? What I’ve described is a combination of the experiences of many people I know, aspects of it are mine, and aspects mirror things I know these guys have mentioned about themselves (I’m going to leave it at that vague level of detail). You wonder why people believe in you, is it only because any other option is unmentionable? But what if you let them down like you know (fear) you will? And burnout is the epitome of this: the need to let go of trying. And without a decent amount of privilege it’s impossible to return from.

I’ve been there and scrounged at straws of privilege I do have, pretending I’m doing my job to the level that others expect while letting go of every expectation I have on myself. Still problem solving outside every box on how to get back on my feet because I know nothing else, radically accepting that I might not and whittling down all my needs in life to the most essential, that I might still survive even at my limited and diminishing capacity. While always relating to those our society sees as failures. I’ve borrowed from other cultures that aren’t my own to have a stubborn sense of worth while trying to keep afloat in a society and economy that says it’s conditional. My spirituality comes in here, as do my problem-solving skills: again, maybe this culture fears burnout more than anything, but maybe it has half a toolkit on how to get out of it. Only half. I have to pair it with what I learn from others too.

and even through that, I’m immensely privileged to have savant skills and a generally able body. Just like when you make it big as a musician you’re privileged by that. Against a backdrop of I’m-nothing-special. I’ve always struggled with questions of my felt worth, because I’m so conscious of my privilege and ability that sometimes I get the two muddled (though I know my ability doesn’t define my worth in things I do poorly at, and my persistence technically doesn’t either but I’ll be damned if I don’t try and try and actually find doing badly more validating of how I see myself than when I do well, so I chase it again and again, my dad is the same, it’s what makes us so adventurous). I understand the consciousness of things that are going well not lasting, and pouring creativity for new ventures into things like selling candles. Instead of letting achievements make me believe I’m someone more important than I am, using them as ways of giving myself space to do whatever’s next, dial off the pressure a little bit.

I understand appreciating others’ sensitivity and the social capital they bring everywhere rather than their material wealth or achievement and when Ash praised Calum for that and said it made him look bad I felt that. Both the experience of being that counter-cultural person who doesn’t give a shit about money but values connection so, so much more (and from all I’ve written, you can see why, can’t you) to still never being able to be as good a person as I see the need for in the world.

I understand missing family and constantly grieving that, as I weigh up the city of my childhood with the friends and culture I love versus the city of my youth with my feathered family who are my children and who I hate to miss birthdays of and the like, same goes for my sisters and parents and grandparents, the way Ashton, the only band member with younger siblings, hates missing all their milestones too. I feel privileged that Brisbane and Sydney are so close to each other and nothing in my life is as far as Los Angeles. I understand the nostalgia for Sydney. This whole post is proof of it.

I understand the unbreakable bonds between people who make this kind of art together. I understand putting disagreements on the back burner and realising the connection through writing is so much bigger and the connection can overcome whatever is going wrong. Heck, I feel privileged to understand and relate to how such brilliant brains work (nature: neurodivergence I won’t go any further into as well as nurture) as well as the environment that made them what they are.

all my life I’ve longed for that kind of community and connection I’ve seen largely in fiction, sometimes between people in real life. And I think having written this analysis (it’s taken me til my bedtime or later) I do have all the ingredients there. All the ability to make it, both in the practical way I relate to and am there for my friends and whatever I do in my silver bridges tag. In the neighbourhoods I eventually design that foster communities with all the good parts I’ve described but without the inequality and minimal poverty and hurt and violence. To everyone who’s shown me these things in myself that are so worth working for and I know I’m not savantly immediately good at, I am so so incredibly grateful. the city as a whole. My family and friends. The celebrities I grew up nearby and those who invest in people like them. People like me. May I keep investing in people: people like you. because what is humility but knowing there’s always something to learn, and what will bring all of us forward but learning it and putting it into practice in love and empathy that drives a grit that no amount of striving for striving’s sake can manufacture?

[an-active-rabbit]

// Okay, I'm scared and things are going to get bad for my family once stuff starts changing for the worst, but I will continue my blogs even if they become illegal. I will persist, and my content will still be here for those that need it in the coming darkest time. To me, this is not political. This is a threat to the human rights of every minority group, and the election was the point of no return. I will fight, and let my muses be a source of joy for us who fear for our lives.

// Addendum: I, mod Sunny, am an asexual non-binary AFAB person who is neurodivergent. I am a survivor of an early childhood full of bullying, physical abuse, and emotional abuse. I am an atheist who opposes all religious cults who grew up religious until it was used to hurt me.

// To the one soon to be in power and his cult followers, I am a walking incubator who can't understand adult things. A poor little girl with autism who was led astray by 'transgenderism' and just needs to find the right man to 'fix' my asexuality before 'my clock runs out.'

// Those who get to know me can see that this is a lie. Ever since I was young, I did not experience gender the same way others did. I liked to dress in cute, feminine outfits, but I was a tomboy by nature. I was a voracious reader by the time I was 4 and I loved solving puzzles on websites I don't remember the URLs for. I never went to pre-school since I lesrned to read, my reading comprehension surpassing that of my peers easily.

// After many years, I met my best friend and we bonded over our favorite fandom. My love for RP started with him, and our friendship has never wavered even when their 'friends' tried to turn me against him, isolated them from me, and then he moved after graduating high school.

// When they came out to me when I was 16, I realized that I could question my gender and sexuality too. I was not 'led astray' by him, they just opened my eyes to the possibility. I researched, learning about so many amazing things. I identified strongly with asexuality, and still do to this day. I then began to question my experience with gender, and realized that it was a fluid thing. I found labels that described my gender, and over the last 4 years have simplified my label to non-binary for convenience.

// My family, while not understanding it, have shown that they care enough to accomodate me. My dad began wearing nail polish and skirts, and my grandmother has bought binders for me with the knowledge that they improve my mental health by reducing gender dysphoria.

// My family, who do not believe that Project 2025 will be implemented, have unknowingly screwed themselves over and supported a man who plans to take actions that will make it very hard for my youngest brother who needs a variety of medications to regulate the 'seizure cycle' caused by a genetic mutation. My other brother, who has fallen down the right-wing pipeline due to his struggles as a neurodivergent white cis man, is too indoctrinated to see clearly. Out of all my family, despite them being the ones who taught me to think critically, I was the only one who voted against the death of people like us.

// If the ones in power had their way, I'd either be gone now or scared to the point of conformity. I am scared indeed, terrified even, but I will never conform to their expectations as long as I am alive. They can take away my right to express myself as I am, but they will never kill the resolve that kept me going as a child. Never let them take away your will to survive, and whatever drives it. Live, so they see that we will not give in.

[snowball-doie]

more dad!johnny pleaseeeee

ok this has collected dust in my inbox long enough--

he's such a comfort parent, honestly. any time reyna or jooha are upset about something, they have so many parents to choose from for comfort, but there's a fair amount of times where they seek out johnny specifically because of the way he gently lifts them into his arms, kisses their cheek, and sits down with them to listen to whatever's going on. "i-i can't figure out this w-word... in en-english... and i-i-i have a t-test... tomorrow....." poor jooha sobs between sniffles. johnny's heart wrenches in his chest seeing his kids cry-- it literally makes his whole week go downhill, okay. so that's why he's the laughter machine of the household. IF HIS KIDS ARE UPSET, HES DOING SOMETHING WRONG!!! this man is making all kinds of jokes all the time just to see his kids laugh. his favorite thing is when he really gets the joke right and reyna ends up laughing on the floor for a good 5 minutes. "it really wasn't that funny," jungwoo says. "she thinks it is, leave her alone," ahri responds. because he and doyoung make the meals, and jooha has that phase where he won't eat any of johnny's cooking, johnny will sulk a bit, but reyna'll always go up to him and pry her thumbs in his mouth so that she can drag his lips into a smile until he cracks and laughs. "thank you, princess," he'll tell her before pulling her in for a close hug. johnny's so kind and gentle around children, but especially his kids. he never, ever raises his voice, even if he's so mad he could throw something, you know? he'll take a deep breath and try to handle the situation calmly. if, for whatever reason, a day comes when he's so fucking pissed that he can't handle himself, rather than yell and cause a scene, he'll pass the responsibilities to someone else for a bit so that he can take a walk to cool down. it's gentle parenting, but not....... in a "hands off" way. his kids are still disciplined, and he makes sure that they're not rowdy, unruly kids. because he's not really the "favorite" dad and he doesn't have a favorite between reyna and jooha, he's the perfect middle parent-- and, honestly, the boys always admit that without johnny they would all be struggling to be the best kind of dad they can be for their kids. he's the steady head of the house. "hey! no running in the living room! jooha, come help me make dinner. rey, go practice with appa tae before appa jae takes you to the office." "yes, daddddd...." jooha's love and understanding of making homecooked meals comes from johnny. it took a long time before johnny himself grew up and learned how to be a family man-- a lot of his younger years were spent fucking around, so he hardly knew how to make an egg, alright? but he knows that jooha is a curious kid who wants to learn everything there is to life, and that includes taking care of his family. "only a teaspoon of fish sauce, okay, not a tablespoon like last time." "okay, dad." and when reyna comes to visit the office, he's being his silly-goofy self....... johnny's really good at dancing and performing, so he picks up on choreographies faster than some of the others. so while they're all taking their time learning, he has time to goof off with reyna. when she's small, her favorite thing is do airplanes with him. they'll also chase each other around the practice room-- he's got the grinch run going just so he stays ahead of her but isn't being unfair because of his age and height. "i'll never understand how you of all people don't want another kid," ahri tells him one night, "you're so good with rey and joo." "they're all i need. my attention'd be too split up if we had another kid, i couldn't be fair to all of them." and that's what makes johnny so special. the care he puts into showing his kids all the love in the world, taking interest in their interests, teaching them things they need to succeed in life. he's the most loving, hands-on dad there is.

[fangirleaconmigo]

I’m struggling tonight, friends.

Tw: death, suicide, loss of friend, homophobia

Last night a friend of mine posted a tiktok saying she was “out”, blowing the camera a kiss.

I did not understand until today that this was her suicide “note” and that she was dead, until her mother and brother posted on Facebook today.

I’m so heartbroken. She was such a kind person. She had severe chronic pain, so she was too disabled to work, and on her “good” (just meant she could move around) pain days she’d organize in the community to serve and feed the unhoused. She had regular sandwich days where we’d make food and drive around giving it to people. She organized the businesses to put these flyers up with logos so people who were homeless knew they could go on and get coffee and food.

She didn’t do these things for her resume or to get into school or something. She was already well past college and could not work. She just did it because she cared about people and she thought someone should do it.

She was so divise in town. So many people LOATHED her because she was “encouraging” homeless people to come to our town. People literally want you to arrest poor people on sight. And people harassed her all the time for it. But she fought for what she believed in. She’d go to city hall and city council meetings to fight for housing to be built and for the cops to stop hassling people.

I live in a small right wing mostly evangelical town where almost 70% of them voted for trump. So let me tell you that people either loved her (like I did) or LOATHED her.

Then to top it all off, she was lesbian. An extremely tall, butch lesbian. So when people couldn’t get her to stop helping homeless folks they’d be vile and homophobic. And I know it hurt her so badly. She just wanted for people to see that she was a good person, not the degenerate they would accuse her of being. She loved people and she just wanted them to like her too, or at least to dislike her for fair reasons.

When I first met her about ten years ago, I advised her to be careful with the people in town she was calling her friends. She was new to town, but I grew up here and am queer myself and knew all too well. I told her that these people were homophobic.

She was SO CONVINCED that she could just love the bigotry out of them. That she could just be caring and funny and be a good person and that would change them.

I watched her become slowly disillusioned when she realized that was not how it worked. People would smile to her face but turn on her fast.

We had a float in the Christmas parade for our volunteer group and her wife chose the theme of Up (the sweet Disney movie) and so we invited the scouts to ride the float with us in keeping with the theme of the movie.

So this local asshole woman posted on Facebook that my friend was trying to recruit kids to the gay agenda and warned everyone to avoid her and not go to the parade. She implied she was gonna molest these kids and make them all gay???

I don’t really know why I’m telling you guys all this. I guess I’m just angry. It’s not fair. It’s not fair that kindness isn’t valued in this world. It’s not fair that people are shit and homophobic. It’s not fair that someone who was so fucking compassionate and empathetic and sensitive was dealt such a shit hand with her chronic pain.

I guess I just want people to know about her.

And I’m so broken hearted and for some reason I want to go kick everyone’s ass who was ever mean to her and I don’t know how that would help. She got sick of this town and moved away. She moved somewhere better.

But she still had so much pain. Her chronic pain was not helped by successive operations and hope was in short supply. Plus, she had been through so much trauma emotionally. She was raised a Mormon and had spent many self loathing years in the closet after the trauma of being raised to believe she was an abomination. (I’m not sharing anything private by saying that, she did a few interviews and essays on the subject, so it’s public record)

And now she’s gone. And now I hurt all over and I can’t stop crying.

Why is it the people who feel everything have to suffer the most, while the assholes of the world who bully gay people and who treat homeless people like crap sleep like logs at night. Why are good people taught to hate themselves because of their gender presentation and sexuality. Why is so much shame and pain heaped on people for being fucking born. And all in the name of god.

I’m just so angry. I’m just so sad.

I try to keep it light on social media as much as possible but my heart is just broken right now. I’m watching her goodbye video as well as the “it gets better” video she did years ago before the illness and I’m just aching.

Anyway. Here is me and my friend at the Christmas parade. We still had a great time in spite of the fucking haters. I organized a cheering section for her and it was loud as hell when we walked by.

I loved her. She was lovable. And I wish she was still here. But I’m glad she’s not in pain anymore.

[wifiwuxians]

I've been wondering who shio is since I saw u mention him first but kept forgetting ( the crowd is shocked ) so pls feel free 2 dump abt him bc I wanna knOW

OOH SHIO check out his little refsheet i was aiming for cartoony i promise his proportions are normal i just went spindly halfway through

shio yomotsu! last name shio, given name yomotsu! a pretty terrible name for a sweet boy, like you coulda just named him yomi! i've posted about him on my main but this ISN'T MY MAIN so i'll retell in a sparknotes edition >:3

growing up in japan under the fist of an abusive father, his world was flipped when his mother finally had enough and killed the man in self defense. smuggling both herself and her son out of the country in a crate, she settled down in china in a tiny apartment, working cleaning jobs and keeping yomotsu a secret. he grew up in that apartment, keeping quiet and still when his mother was gone, and still remaining rather quiet and still whenever she was home. despite her barebones knowledge of mandarin and her lack of time to teach him, as well as her poor health and their meagre funds, the two considered their living conditions to be an improvement, and were happy, as happy as they could reasonably be. so, of course, i had to ruin that by killing her off LOL,, her illness caught up with her and she wasn't able to treat it. yomotsu had to live with her corpse for a while as he sank into despair, and only once the water and the electricity stopped working did he snap out of his stupor.

running out into the streets to beg for help, he was unfortunately intercepted by some thuggish men, thrown into a car and driven to his new life, where he'd be beaten, tortured, starved and trained into becoming a ruthless and efficient killer (and jack of all trades). i need to reiterate he had no idea what was happening to him, or why; up until one day, a young boy came into his small room to tend to his wounds and give him some food. this boy also began to teach him mandarin properly, and with the kindness and gentleness he showed yomotsu, he had no problem then becoming this boy's bodyguard and personal assistant.

now he's just about devoted his heart and his life to this boy, xing zhi, who is not the heir to the mob yomotsu works under, but may as well be since he takes on all the burdens. yomotsu, or shio as he's more commonly addressed, is a hitman, bodyguard, errand boy, shadow... you name it, he does it. keeping quiet all those years in his tiny apartment have made it easy for him to simply stand and listen during meetings, absorbing all information. he's the picture of devotion... to xing zhi, who wants the mob to collapse.

when his personality is able to shine through, he's playful, bubbly, charming and seemingly unaffected by all the bad things he's done or have been done to him. his devotion isn't restricted to xing zhi, either, though he is his treasure; if you are kind to him, if you give him the time of day, he is devoted to you, too. it's the only way he can feel good. it's the only way he can feel right. running himself ragged for the hint of a smile.

i usually draw him banged up in some way because he gets into very close quarters sometimes, and people don't like being told their business. people also struggle when they die, sometimes. and also he's being hunted LOL

this is only scratching the surface of all that is shio and his story (he's the main character!!) but it is a good place to start? maybe??? fkjsgkjga THANKS FOR ASKING !!!!!! <33333

[fleshengine]

Woah you look really good on your tummy Tuesday post, how long have you been on HRT and when did you start if it's okay to ask? :0

:P that's a lil personal but I'll talk about it, my story's kind of unique so I think people should hear it. Also this was originally just one giant block of brain-dump text but I decided to split it up a lil, you're welcome.

I've been really trans since I was a kid. Like my sister used to dress me up in her clothes and princess outfits and stuff and parade me around while calling me a feminine version of my name. Which sounds like bullying but like I loved it, so... I also did the classic "play a game and make your player character a girl" thing that a lot of transfems do. I played Halo Reach with my dad (love him btw) and would make my custom Noble Six a woman. There was a bunch of other little things like that, but you get the gist. I also used to pretend to be a girl and got groomed on omegle but that's a different story.

So I came out when I was like 13 or something and my parents were that kind of supportive where they use your pronouns but want you to wait a year before getting on hormones. So I think I was like 14-15ish when I finally got on E (because when we started it then took a while to get on it horray for fucking bone scans). In the time between I came out and finally got a histreline implant and E my voice dropped a ton and my shoulders filled out and I grew a fucken adam's apple. I was on sublingual pills for a couple months but they sort of gave me massive mood swings and I turned into a giant bitch so my parents and I decided I should switch to patches.

Pills gave me a decent amount of breast growth and it was pretty awesome but patches slowed that down. (I didn't really notice at the time but nerve remapping also happened and now my dick doesn't work right lol.) It's probably something with my skin or whatever, but patches just did not work for me and while I was on them I saw very very little development. It didn't help that they were an absolute pain in the ass, would get sticky and leave gunk on me and also come off in the shower sometimes. I've heard they work for some people but they were not the right fit for me. It doesn't help that during that time I started to struggle a lot with internalized transmisogyny and also a sort of... trauma based aversion to femininity?

So I made the kind of stupid decision to just... quit E and detransition to be nonbinary. No hate to people who detransition, or enbies, it was just me being a dumb kid again. Thing was I still had a histreline implant in me keeping me from producing T, and I actually got it replaced during this time, so I just had no growth hormone in me. I was Very Androgynous and it was pretty cool to ask people what they thought my agab was. When I met my current roomy and his partner apparently they had an argument where they disagreed on my agab. Which tickled me pink when I learned about it months later. Anyway it really should've been a hint to me that it always pleased me immensely when people thought I was born a girl. Like... I'm genuinely impressed at how unperceptive younger me was about that. You poor little idiot, you like it when people pick up on your feminine traits, go back on E.

It wasn't until the last bit of my second year of college that I started using they/she, I had finally gotten a group of Very Queer friends who supported me and I guess I felt that experimentation would be okay. I also ummm... started being active here on tumblr? Surrounding myself with weird transfems helped me feel more normal about being a weird transfem. So like... thanks girlies :). From there it was a pretty quick pipeline from they/she to she/they to she/her to she/they/it. Honestly the it thing didn't really start as a trans thing, I had a dnd character (that I later realized was a Identity Crisis Character) that went by it/its exclusively and my dm started using it with me outside of dnd and my brain liked it.

Anyway, after some quick phone calls and blood tests and bullshit I got back on E in December of 2023 and I've been on since then. I'm doing injections now and even though they're a little scary I really like them. Oh I also got my histreline implant taken out and I'm on spironolactone now which is fun. Maybe it's because I'm an adult but I find the mood swings lessened as well as the headaches. I've also noticed a decent amount of growth since I started as well as more nerve remapping and I finally have those puffy nips everyone talks about all the time. Currently I think most of the growth is going to making my tits wider as opposed to adding depth, which is fine with me. I really want to get on progesterone so they can grow nice and big, but my old doc said it was a bad idea and we should wait for the early structuring to finish because starting prog too early can cause nip deformities. My new doc has no comment because I haven't talked to her yet lmao.

Anyway that's where I am rn. Got my E raised again a couple weeks ago >:) Thanks for asking, sorry if this is rambly. My journey of self discovery had an entire death and rebirth like I'm a hero or some shit.

[bones-and-whatnot]

Monster Prom Fantasy AU

Based on the costumes from the auditorium. most of them are written so you could imagine them to be humans or to still be a fantasy society of monsters— whatever floats your boat, I go back and forth myself.

THE PALACE

The Princess Miranda: The youngest of the king’s daughters. Adored by everyone in the kingdom (whether they like it or not). She is rarely ever seen, but people are always talking about her— what she’s wearing, what her favorite things are, who she will marry, what would be the best way to kidnap and/or kill her…

Count de Lioncourt: Another noble, who has only taken up residence in the palace very recently. He is supposedly related to the royal family, but it’s unclear how. He doesn’t want to be king— any fool can be king— but he definitely wouldn’t mind having a comfortable position by a monarch’s ear, safely away from the public eye. And the poor sheltered princess could certainly use someone to help her make… well-informed decisions.

Ser (Dame?) Schmidt: First name Victoria. The newest recruit to the knights of the kingdom; she is very, very eager to work her way up through the ranks. Above all else, she is loyal to the princess.

THE FOREST

The Sting in Yellow: A mysterious, quiet swordsman who travels the wood. They strike fear into the hearts of all who see them… although no one is really sure what exactly they do.

Bruyn the Green: Long ago, a terrible dragon dwelt in the forest. Every year, in mid-April, it would approach the kingdom and ask tribute of the people in form of their crops and livestock. At last, the dragon was slain, but the whereabouts of its body are unknown and legend says it merely slumbers beneath the earth, and will one day rise from the dead.

In the heart of the forest, there sits an enormous tree. It has no name, but according to myth, it dates back to a time before we walked the earth. There once was a curious wolf, who lived in a pack with his brothers. One day, despite their warning, he strayed too far from the rest of the group and became lost in the woods. The wolf spent many nights trying to find his way back to his home, not eating or sleeping until he eventually expired of exhaustion. Roots and wood grew over him that night, and he became a beautiful tree, home to birds and squirrels and insects of all types. At night, the spirit of the wolf leaves the tree to continue his search, but must return before daylight. It is said that the whistling of the wind through the leaves is his mournful howl, crying out for a family long since dead.

THE LANDS BEYOND

Amira, Mistress of the Flames: An evil sorceress in eternal conflict with both the Demon King and His Highness King Vanderbilt. From her tower in the outlands, she controls an army of flaming skeleton warriors and screaming fire spirits. It is rumored that she can scry through any flame anywhere in the world. So the next time you think about lighting up your fireplace, ask yourself: are you really that chilly?

The Demon King: Son of criminals exiled from the kingdom, the man now known as the Demon King grew up in a harsh, inhospitable region of the outlands. By the time he was six, he had killed the leaders of the three bandit groups who controlled the area and formed his own army of scoundrels and brutes. Today, the lands beyond the kingdom are in a constant power struggle between the Demon King’s hordes and the legions belonging to the Mistress of Flames. The leaders of the two factions hate each other with burning passion, but they hate the King Vanderbilt even more.

The Automated Man of Culeicester: The Automated Man is all that remains of Culeicester, an ancient city of wondrous scientific marvels located in what is now the distant badlands of the continent. The Automated Man still remains in the city’s ruins after untold years, continuing to fulfill the purpose for which he was constructed: To tend to the mythically beautiful Gardens of Culeicester. Of course, the land is now so arid that only the hardiest plants requiring the least water remain, but still the Automated Man works, untiring, as the lone bearer of all Culeicester’s lost knowledge. If you can find him (and convince him to step away from his plants), he is a powerful asset.

THE ROGUES

Vera Oberlin: The greatest assassin you’ve never heard of. Those who are unfortunate enough to know of her existence say that she was raised in the mountains by panthers who taught her the savage ways of their claws and teeth. They say she has a city of gold underneath the city streets made from the riches of those she has killed. They say no one has ever seen her face and lived to tell the tale. Whether these things are true, no one can say for sure, but the mysterious Vera seems to be on a meteoric rise through the kingdom’s underworld. The suspicion of most in the know is that she has her eye on the crown.

Doctor Geist: You can call her Polly. A physician and mixer of medicines who recently arrived to the kingdom. Her past is unknown, as she gives a different answer every time. She is quite cheerful, and despite the nature of her profession (or perhaps because of it), has a very carefree attitude towards death, usually only reacting to harm coming to her patients with mild surprise or disappointment. She tends to be rather… experimental with her procedures and concoctions, and self-tests liberally. There are rumors of a connection to the criminal underworld.

Zed, Scribe of the Zoites: An energetic young woman, the church Zed was raised in encouraged her to go on a pilgrimage and learn the ways of the world after she became a bit overzealous in her duties of cataloging information on the group’s members. Because of her close connection to her god, she possesses second sight and can see the alternate paths people’s lives may take, which she dutifully and eagerly inscribes (along with most things she sees) on the scrolls she carries with her. Being a prophet isn’t all fun and games, though— Zed is often tormented by visions of awful futures or dreadful pasts where her god enacts terrible punishment on the world. She is motivated by desire for knowledge and for new experiences of any kind; she wants to learn about and chronicle as much as she can and isn’t about to let silly things like “morality” or “boundaries” keep her from that goal.

[stargazer-sims]

Journal Entry #54

Journal Entry #53 // STORY INDEX

Victor

Hey, everyone.

I wanted to record something tonight to tell you that Yuri and I are okay. My last entry was kind of raw, and both of us were struggling really bad, so I figured it was only right to let you know that we came out the other side of that situation. Yuri fared worse than I did, but he's still here and that is what's important.

I'm gonna be honest, it's been a tough few days. Yuri stopped eating again, and I'm really worried he's going to end up back in the hospital if he doesn't get something more than water and soy milk into him soon. It's been doubly stressful because Fox somehow got the idea that it was his fault, and I've had to deal with that too.

The small bit of good news was that Fox understood when I explained to him that Yuri refusing to eat isn't a new thing, and it had nothing to do with him. He seemed reluctant to come back after that, though, and although I tried to encourage him to stick with us a bit longer, ultimately I told him it was fine if he didn't want to.

With one hand free, I'm able to cook, feed myself and do the majority of my own personal care, so I'm not dependent on someone else now. Yuri can at least get out of bed and take himself to the bathroom, so that's no longer an issue either. Some of the housecleaning is still a bit much for me to manage on my own, but I reasoned that the world wouldn't end if the laundry didn't get folded or the kitchen floor didn't get swept every day.

After talking it over, Fox agreed that he'd still come by every couple of days to help me do household chores, but he said he didn't want to look after Yuri any more. I wasn't happy about it, since I think Yuri still needs help maintaining his full personal care routine, but what could I do? I had to acknowledge what Fox wanted.

That might've been the end of the matter for me if Yuri hadn't acted so obviously relieved when he found out Fox wasn't going to be taking care of him any more. If I hadn’t known better, I might’ve thought something bad happened between them, but I knew Fox had been extremely careful. He never touched Yuri in any way without asking first, and he handled him like glass when he did. Sure, they’d had their disputes over food and eating, but Yuri is just as difficult at mealtimes with me and with his parents, so I didn’t see how that'd be any worse with Fox.

From what I observed, Fox had been giving maximum effort, and Yuri hadn't been making it easy for him. And yeah, I get that Yuri's in physical pain and that he's going through a lot psychologically, and I know that makes him frustrated and irritable, but I didn't think it was okay for him to take it out on Fox. I especially didn't think it was okay for him to play on Fox's insecurities. I mean, that poor guy hasn't had an easy life himself. He deserves to be built up instead of being torn down for a change.

Seriously, you guys have no idea how much I wanted to call Yuri out on that, right then and there. I'll concede that I let him get away with a lot, but I love him, and I've learned that love is just as much about helping your loved one learn and grow as it is about all the warm, fuzzy stuff. Sometimes growth is hard, and it might not feel like progress at all when you're going through it, but the end result is usually worth it.

My Grandpa Michael says love is like growing roses. You might not want to cut them back, but pruning them actually helps them get stronger. He says you've got to be careful, 'cause you also have to know when to prune them and how much to cut. And I mean, Grandpa Michael should know. He was married to my grandmother for over forty years, until she passed away, and you don't get that far without understanding what love is. Also, they grew the most gorgeous roses in Brindleton Bay together, and Grandpa Michael still tends them and refers to them as "Lydia's roses".

I haven't seen my grandfather or any of my relatives in Brindleton Bay for over two years, but I know I'll at least see Grandpa at Mom and Julian's wedding. I think he loves my mom as if she's his own daughter, and he stayed close with her and me after my dad and sister passed. At this point, none of us could imagine him not being a part of our lives and being there for all our major life events.

After the wedding, I might go back to the Bay with him for a visit. It'd be nice to spend some one-on-one time with him. We could geek out about sports, do all kinds of fancy cooking, and probably spend hours at the local fitness center. I'm sure there's a lot of maintenance work I could help him do around his place as well. Really, I just want to hang out with somebody who gets me on a fundamental level, and to take a break from all my regular responsibilities.

Oh, and maybe this is kinda off-topic, but in case you're curious, Grandpa Michael isn't my only surviving grandparent. My other set of grandparents, Isabella and Giancarlo DeLuca, are both alive and doing well. They moved back to Tartosa the summer Leo and I graduated from college, so about four years ago now. According to Nonna Isabella, they wanted to spend their golden years in the place where their lives began, which made a lot of sense to me. They immigrated a long time ago, and all their kids — my mom, Uncle Stephen and Uncle JP — were born in Canada, but although they built a life in Willow Creek and are naturalized Canadians now, I'm sure their hearts will always be Italian.

Ugh...yeah. Sorry for getting off-track there. I'm really tired, and I guess you guys have figured out by now that it's harder for me to concentrate and stay focused when I'm like this.

Anyway, back to what I was originally trying to tell you. You might be impressed to hear that I managed to hold back from lecturing Yuri about how he'd been treating Fox. If I'd confronted him about it right away, we would've ended up in an argument. I didn't think he could spare the energy to fight with me, and I can tell you that I certainly didn't have the wherewithal to argue with him. Since discretion is the better part of valour, as they say, I opted to wait for a more appropriate moment.

As it happened, however, my appropriate moment never came because his mother got to him before I did.

Mrs. Okamoto dropped in unexpectedly yesterday afternoon with some sort of soup she'd made for us, and the first thing she said after greeting me was, "Where's your friend? Is he upstairs with Yuri?"

"Um... no," I said, hesitant to tell her too much, but also not wanting to keep the truth from her. "Fox isn't here. He, um... the arrangement wasn't working out for him."

I should've known better than to hope my mother-in-law would let it go at that. "What do you mean, the arrangement wasn't working out? And didn't any of you think it would have been a good idea to tell me or Kenji that the situation had changed? It's not as if one of us hasn't been here with you every night."

"I thought Yuri was going to tell you," I said.

"Why would you think he'd take responsibility for telling us?"

"Uh... because... Like, I don't think Fox was comfortable, and Yuri wasn't very, um... diplomatic? He was sort of feeling like... uncharitable? But, I mean, if I realized he wasn't going to tell you, I would have. It was just—"

She must've noticed that I was getting flustered, because her demeanour softened a little. "No, it's all right," she said. "You're very responsible, and I know you would've told us if you didn't think we already knew."

"Sorry," I said. "I guess I should've told you anyway."

"Perhaps, but it doesn't matter now. At the moment, I'm less interested in who told me about it than I am in why it happened in the first place. Was there a problem?"

"Not from where I was standing," I said. "Fox was doing amazing, as far as I could see."

"Hmm..." was her response. "Well then, I suppose I'll have to ask Yuri about it, won't I?"

I can't say I was overjoyed when I imagined how that would go, and I questioned whether or not Yuri would even tell her the truth. I had a bad feeling he'd try to blame it on Fox when it was unequivocally not Fox's fault, and let me tell you, I definitely wouldn't have been pleased if he had done.

On the pretext of listening to an audiobook in my room, I followed my mother-in-law upstairs when she went up to talk to Yuri. I put my earbuds in, got my phone out of my pocket and laid down on my bed, but I'm sure you've probably already guessed that I didn't actually open up my audiobook app to play anything. As rude as it is to eavesdrop, I'm not even going to pretend I wasn't intending to do it. I totally was, because I wanted to see if Yuri would admit to his mother why he didn't want Fox here any more.

I eased one earbud out of my ear far enough so that it wasn't blocking sound but so it still looked like I was using it. Sneaky? Yes, but it was effective. I discovered that if I lay with my head facing the open door and didn't move around too much, I could hear most of what Yuri and his mother were saying.

They started with small talk, and I wondered if maybe she wasn't going to bring up the subject after all. But then she must've seen her opportunity when he asked her if she was planning to stay with us for the rest of the day and overnight.

I should explain, she and Mr. Okamoto have been taking turns spending the night with us since Mom and Julian and Uncle Kaz left, and they don't usually come until seven or eight in the evening. Fox would usually leave around five o'clock so he'd have time to help make dinner at home, which meant he rarely crossed paths with Yuri's parents.

"No," Mrs. Okamoto said, in response to Yuri's question. "I need to collect Yuki from school and drop her off at your grandmother's house, and then I've got to go back to the school for a parent-teacher conference. Your father's in Kyoto with Hana for a medical appointment today, but he'll be coming to stay with you when he gets back."

That was news. I didn't realize Hana was on speaking terms with her father, much less that she'd want him to accompany her to a doctor's appointment. Then again, Hana's getting really close to her due date, and maybe he insisted on going with her because he didn't want her driving. Whatever it was, I filed that bit of information away in my brain on the chance that it became relevant later.

"Oh. I was hoping it'd be you," Yuri was saying. "I wanted you to help me wash my hair. Papa always makes such a mess. He's not very good at cleaning up, and I don't want Victor to have to mop the floor. That's still too hard for him."

"I would've thought washing your hair was something your friend Fox could help you with," Mrs. Okamoto said, and the words rolled off her tongue as innocently as if she knew nothing whatsoever about Fox's sudden departure. "I'm surprised he's not here today."

"He's not coming back," Yuri said. "And he's not my friend."

"Oh?" Mrs. Okamoto contrived to sound suitably curious. "Why isn't he coming back?"

"Because Victor told him I didn't want him to."

That was a twist I hadn't seen coming. It was Fox's decision not to come back, and although It was fairly clear Yuri hadn't wanted him here and was glad to be rid of him, I hadn't expected him to tell his mother I’d said or done anything to facilitate it. He sounded so proud of it too, like he was boasting about how I'd saved him from some horrible fate. Not that I wouldn't have protected him if there really had been any risk, but that's not how it happened at all.

The way Yuri was recounting it to his mother was such a gross misrepresentation of the situation that it was all I could do to make myself stay in place and not run across the hall to interrupt. But then I remembered I'd already mentioned to Mrs. Okamoto that Fox hadn't been comfortable staying. She's a smart lady, and I admonished myself that I should trust her. She'd draw the correct inferences.

She didn't disappoint me. “Yuri, are you certain it was Victor who told him?”

“I wasn’t there when they talked," Yuri replied.

"So, you don't know that Victor asked him to leave."

"Yes I do, because Victor always makes sure I'm safe."

"I see," Mrs. Okamoto said. "So, am I to assume you were unsafe with that young man here?"

"Yes," he said.

"Did he physically hurt you, or touch you inappropriately?" she asked. "Was he unkind to you?"

There was a long silence, and it was killing me that I couldn’t see what was going on over there. Unless there was something Yuri hadn't revealed to me, the answer I was expecting to hear was 'no'.

After a minute, I caught a weak and tearful-sounding, "No, but..."

"But what?" Mrs. Okamoto prompted.

"He made me feel so awful," Yuri said. He sniffled loudly enough for me to hear it from my room, and I imagined him scrubbing tears away from his eyes with the heels of his palms, just like a toddler would do. Sometimes I find it cute when he does that, but in these circumstances? Not cute at all. "He said I need to try harder, and he wouldn't listen to me when I said I couldn't do things, and... and he was treating me like a child."

"Were you behaving like a child?"

"I don't do that."

"No stubbornness, then? No pouting or temper outbursts?"

"I don't—"

Mrs. Okamoto's next words weren't spoken in a mean way, but there was also no mistaking that she wasn't impressed with her son's attitude. "A little self-awareness wouldn't go amiss here, I think."

"Excuse me? Are you... are you implying I'm immature?" I could already hear the outrage starting to build in Yuri's voice, even though his tears. "You don't even—"

"Yuri," his mother cut him off. In the two simple syllables of his name, her tone conveyed everything; she wanted the truth and she was not having any of his nonsense today. I could easily picture her wielding that same authority in a business meeting when somebody was about to go off on a baseless rant about something. "Mature people don't throw tantrums or manipulate others as a means to an end. They communicate their needs and concerns clearly and honestly. Do you think you can do that?"

"So, you're going to treat me like a child too?"

"If you insist on behaving in that manner, yes," she said mildly. "You know what Papa says. People tend to address others according to the level of maturity they display."

Yuri made a sound of frustration. "If you aren't going to at least try to have some empathy, can you please leave? I don't need any more stress. Is that clear and honest enough?"

There was another pause, and then Mrs. Okamoto said, "I love you. From the moment I found out I was having you, I loved you more than I've ever loved anyone or anything else, and every time I think about you hurting in any way, it hurts me as well. But, I'm your mother. My purpose isn't only to love you. It's also to teach you."

"Teach me what? That I'm dishonest and immature and not self-aware enough?" "

"Yuri—"

"You might as well just say it. Is you goal to teach me I'm a terrible son and a useless failure as an adult? Then congratulations, I suppose, because you've absolutely done that."

"Okamoto Yuri, I did not come here to be disrespected by you," Mrs. Okamoto said, and no joke, I felt a little scared despite the fact that she wasn't talking to me and that I couldn't even see her.

Like, you know you've crossed a line when your mom starts using your whole name. Usually, my mom would be screaming it, often loud enough to be heard at Leo's house, four doors down the street from ours. Victor Thomas Edward Nelson, if you don't get your butt back here in five minutes, you're in big trouble!

It was the same with Aunt Millie. Leo said he knew he was gonna be toast when his mom started busting out "Leonardo Stephen DeLuca!" with enough volume to be heard from my backyard. We used to tell Ellie she didn't know how good she had it. None of us has ever heard Julian raise his voice for anything, let alone to shout Ellie's full name over half of Willow Creek.

But as much as I dislike it when my mom yells, I think if I had to pick, I'd rather have the yelling than the calm, firm voice Mrs. Okamoto was using on Yuri. It was like steel wrapped in velvet, and I'm pretty sure me and Leo would've been terrified if Mom or Aunt Millie had spoken to us like that when we were in trouble.

I half expected Yuri to apologize immediately. It's what I would've done. I probably would've been on the floor, bowing to her and addressing her as Okamoto-sama, and begging her to forgive me. We've been getting to know each other lately, and I feel like we’ve been warming to each other a lot, but that doesn't mean I'm not still afraid of her.

Yuri, apparently, did not share my sentiment.

I could tell he was still crying, but that didn't stop him from sounding as if he believed he had the stronger position. "Interesting, because I wouldn't have thought you'd come here to disrespect me in my own house."

I physically cringed at that, not just because Mrs. Okamoto's reaction was likely to be unpleasant, but also because I had no problem imagining a response with the exact same delivery coming out of Mr. Okamoto's mouth. For all Yuri's insistence that he's nothing like his dad, he kinda is, which maybe proves the theory of nature over nurture.

Part of me wanted to stop listening at that point, and I almost turned on my audiobook for real, but another part of me was drawn to the drama across the hallway.

"If you think honesty is disrespect," Mrs. Okamoto said, "then I'm afraid you've still got some things to learn."

"There's a difference between being honest and being hurtful."

"Yes, there is," she agreed. "The difference is in how you react. If someone else's honesty hurts you, then you ought to ask yourself why that is. If the truth hurts, it's usually because we don't want to admit something about ourselves."

"I don't want to have this conversation," Yuri said.

"Well, I certainly can't force you to," said his mother. "But, if you don't want to talk to me, perhaps you can discuss it with your father instead. He had to learn that lesson too, and it took nearly losing the people he loves most before he accepted it. Maybe his perspective would be more convincing."

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean is that I might've stayed in America with your uncle if it hadn't been for Victor's accident."

He sounded incredulous. "You came back for Victor?"

"I came back for you," she said. "Because I thought you might need me. But, what I'm saying is that when I left last autumn, I had absolutely no intention of returning. Or at least not until your father came to his senses."

"Came to his senses about what, exactly?"

"Came to his senses and realized that he was harming himself and everyone around him," she said. "He was trying to build a wall around himself because he seemed to think it was a way of protecting everyone, but he was still getting hurt and all he really accomplished was to push everyone else away."

"What's that got to do with me?" Yuri said.

"It has everything to do with you."

"How?" Yuri asked.

"Papa was scared and angry and frustrated about things in his life, but instead of talking about it, he was behaving like a child and taking it out on the people he should've trusted to help him get through it," she answered. "He was upset because he felt isolated, as if no one cared about him, but the way he was dealing with it was isolating him even more." Her voice was quieter as she added, "Does that sound familiar?"

There was an even longer silence than the previous ones, and then I thought I heard Yuri say, "I'm sorry."

The next thing I knew, he was pouring out the whole thing to his mother, telling her stuff that he’d never said anything to me about. Although I probably could've inferred some of it, other parts of it were a revelation, and not necessarily in a good way.

He told her how he hadn't really wanted Fox to come here, but he agreed to it for my sake because he knew I was worried about not being able to take care of him myself and because I thought it was an acceptable alternative to the home healthcare program. He endured it as long as he could, he said, and he'd tried not to complain too much because he didn't want to seem ungrateful. But he'd been struggling because Fox was encouraging him to do more and more things for himself and didn't seem to understand when he explained why he couldn't do them.

"I cried every day," he said pitifully. "I didn't want Victor to know, because he doesn't like to see me crying and I didn't want to upset him.”

"You didn’t think he’d want to know you were unhappy?” Mrs. Okamoto asked.

“It wasn’t just being unhappy,” Yuri said. “It’s a lot more than that. It’s… everything. My whole existence. It’s just… all pain, all the time, and sometimes adding one more thing is too much. But, how was I supposed to tell Victor that?”

“You’ve told me,” she said.

“You don’t look at me the way Victor does.” The words came out low and strained, as if he was trying to suppress a sob. “He… he wants to fix it, but he can’t, and he gets this helpless look. It breaks my heart, Mama. I hate being responsible for that.”

“You aren’t responsible for Victor’s feelings,” Mrs. Okamoto said. “It may seem that way, but he’s the only one in control of how he responds. Perhaps I don’t look at you the way he does because I’ve learned to accept your illness and everything that comes along with it."

"Victor knows all about it too."

"Knowing and accepting are different," she said.

I had to think about that for a minute. Did she have a point? Do I really not accept Yuri's illness?

Yes, I do know practically every unpleasant detail of it, and I know how to take care of him. I recognize that he'll always be chronically ill, and that there'll be times when he's well and times when he's really sick. But, is that really acceptance?

Maybe it isn't.

Knowing all the facts is one thing, but being okay with them is another, and I can't say I'm not resentful and angry about Yuri being ill. You have to understand, though, I'm not directing any of that toward Yuri. He can't help being the way he is. It's more like I'm resentful toward the powers of fate or whatever for causing him to suffer this much, and I'm angry because I can't do anything to change it. It's not fair, and it hurts so damn much that I can't even find words to describe how agonizing it is. Just as Yuri said, I want to fix it, but I can't, and that makes me feel defeated, powerless and so overwhelmingly sad that it's as if my heart is being crushed.

I guess it's kinda like what I went through after losing my dad and sister. I experienced all the emotions; denial, sadness, rage, guilt. I did everything I could to find a place in my mind for my grief, to make sense of something utterly senseless.

With Dad and Caroline, I was stuck on sadness for the longest time. Years, in fact, and it's only been since this past summer that I've finally come to terms with it, learning that I can coexist with it without it taking control over the trajectory of my life. It's okay to still feel lost or sad or angry sometimes, but I also understand that wishing for the events of the past to be different is futile and only causes me more pain in the end.

I'm not there yet when it comes to Yuri's illness, and I'm not sure what to do to get there. All I know is, I want to be part of the solution, not part of the problem, but I definitely can't do it on my own. So, I guess the best course of action would be to talk to my therapist about it, right? We've already discussed my challenges as a caregiver, so this likely won't be unexpected for him, and maybe he'll have some good insights to help me move forward.

It's weird, me wanting to involve my therapist. It's super weird to me that I even have a therapist, 'cause that would've been so far off my proverbial radar in the past, I probably would've laughed at anyone who suggested it. But now, I like to call it the silver lining that came out of my accident. If it hadn't been for that, I still wouldn't be seeing him, and maybe I wouldn't be making as much progress on self-improvement.

I realized I'd missed part of the conversation between Yuri and his mom when the sound of him sobbing pulled me out of my musings and back to reality. Evidently, Yuri was determined to say whatever was on his mind regardless of his emotional state, because he was getting choppy bits of sentences out between gasps for breath.

He was crying so hard that I could barely make out what he was saying, and the first thing I was able to catch was, "I hate eating. You know I hate it!"

"You need to eat, Yuri," his mother said gently.

"I know, but I don't want to."

"Why don't you want to?"

"Because it's too difficult," he said. "Fox kept making me do it by myself, but it made me feel worse, and he talked down to me as if I were a little child and I was acting out and being difficult on purpose. But... I really can't do it. I tried so hard to endure it, but I couldn't any more, and I just... I want... I want it to be... be over."

His words got almost completely lost in tears after that, but I thought I heard something about wanting to sleep forever, and about respecting his wishes, and about his whole life feeling out of control.

His mother let him cry for a bit, and then she said, "Did you tell any of this to Victor?"

"N-not really."

"Then, how did you expect him to help you or to respect your wishes?" she asked. "He loves you unconditionally and he's a wonderful caregiver, but he can't read your mind. Neither can I, nor your father, nor anyone else."

"I... I know. But..."

"You need to let us know how you feel and what you need."

"I'm tired of being weak," he said. "I'm tired of being a failure and a disappointment and... and a burden to everyone. Maybe it'd be better if I wasn't even here, because then I wouldn't be hurting everyone I love."

"Darling, look at me," Mrs. Okamoto said, and I envisioned her sitting down on the bed and cradling the side of his face in her hand. "No one would be better of without you. We love you, and we want you to be here. Do you understand?"

"You don't understand. I... I'd be better off," he said. "Mama, please... I've suffered long enough, and it's not fair that everyone else has to suffer because of me."

"We can get help for you,"she said.

"I don't want any more help. I'm trying to tell you, that's the problem. Everyone always has to do everything for me, and I don't want that. I'd rather live an independent life, or... not at all."

"Being ill and needing help are things that are entirely beyond your control," she told him. "You're not disappointing anyone, and you aren't burdening us by asking for help. What hurts us is watching you pretend things aren't as bad as they are and seeing you try to fight all alone, and finally reaching a breaking point like this."

"But, don't you want me to be independent?"

"I think you misunderstand what independence is," she said. "It has very little to do with how much you rely on others and everything to do with how you handle your responsibilities. If you can't do something on your own, the responsible thing to do is to ask someone to help you. Your independence is in your ability to make your own choices and to do what you need to do to reach your goals."

"I don't have any goals," he said. "They seem kind of pointless."

"Do they?"

"They do when I know I'll never achieve them anyway."

"What do you think you can't achieve?"

"What can I achieve when I'm like this?" he countered.

"Tell me something," Mrs. Okamoto said. "If you could make one wish come true right now, what would it be? Anything at all."

I was surprised at his answer. "Papa asked me that too. I told him I'd like to go to Sulani with Victor."

Mrs. Okamoto didn't seem surprised at all. "Could that be a goal?"

"No," Yuri said. "We're never going to be able to do it."

"Why not?" Mrs. Okamoto asked."

"Because we spent all our money on the down payment for Victor's haunted house, and once we get there, we'll be spending more money on furniture and a car and his university tuition and who knows what else."

"What if money were no object?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I know you told Papa you wanted to go to Sulani," she said.

"He told you that?"

"Yes," she confirmed. "We discussed it, and we also talked about it with your grandparents. You didn't have a honeymoon, and none of us gave you a wedding gift, so we decided that we'd like to pay for your trip, if you really want to go."

"What?" Yuri blurted.

That was more or less my reaction, too. I literally had to put my hand over my mouth to prevent myself from making any noise. I was shocked by the proposition. I'd like nothing more than to go back to Sulani and to take Yuri with me, but like him, I was resigned to the idea that it'd be a very long time before we'd get the chance, due not just to our finances but to his health and everything else going on in our lives.

"We were going to wait until you were feeling better, and Papa and I were planning to tell you and Victor together," Mrs. Okamoto said. "But I think this is the right time."

"Why do you think this is the right time? How is it right?" he demanded and, far from sounding pleased, he still seemed angry. "I can barely leave my bed, never mind leaving the country. I don't know if I'll even be well enough for our move. How can I think about going on a vacation?"

"I don't mean now is the right time to go," she clarified. "I mean, this is the right time to tell you. Clearly, you aren't ready yet, but perhaps you'll find some motivation to set some goals if you have something to look forward to."

"Such as?"

"You tell me," she said. "If you can't think about going on a vacation, then think about your move. What would you need to do to be ready for that?"

"Besides packing, and starting my immigration paperwork, and spending even more money on our flight?" he said. "Get better."

"And what would that look like?"

"You expect me to say eating on my own, don't you?"

"No," she said. "I don't. I expect you to tell me what your definition of getting better is."

"Being able to get up and do things for myself," he said. "Not being a drain on everyone around me and not putting all the responsibility for everything on Victor's shoulders. Not being constantly tired and stressed, and I don't know... Actually feeling there's some reason to be alive."

"What's causing you the most stress?"

"Eating," he replied, likely to the astonishment of no one.

"Is there anything that would make it less stressful?" she asked, and then added, "Something other than someone feeding you."

"Dr. Kasongo suggested tube feeding," he said. "Victor thinks I don't know he was talking to her about it. I think they were trying to keep it from me until the doctor felt like it was absolutely necessary, because they were worried I'd be upset. But, I... I might actually want that. Do you... do you think it's awful for me to want it?"

"If you'd like my personal opinion," she said, "I think that's a bit extreme. There may be something less drastic you can do before resorting to that. if you want to know whether or not it would be a good solution for you, though, I think you should speak to your doctor about it yourself."

"I don't know if I can," Yuri said.

"Of course you can," she said. "I'll come with you, if you like."

"Really? What about Victor?"

"If you'd rather have him with you, then certainly, he should come."

"No. I want you to come," Yuri said. "But—"

"You have to tall him," Mrs. Okamoto said firmly. "No more keeping things from him, all right? I think you know, marriages can't survive too many secrets, even if you believe you're keeping them for the right reasons."

"Even if I want to protect him?"

"Remember what I told you," she said. "You're not protecting him by hiding things from him. I'll come with you to talk to the doctor, but I need you to promise not to keep anything from Victor from now on. Not about this or about anything else that's upsetting you."

"Okay," he said meekly.

"And if you're worried about him keeping things from you, I'll be addressing that with him as well."

That was the moment when I stopped listening. My mind was already spinning from everything I'd overheard, both positive and negative. The prospect of getting lectured by my mother-in-law was one thing too many for my brain to process. I finally opened my audiobook and started listening just to distract myself from panicking.

Up to then, I thought Yuri and I were doing okay with our communication. Yeah, we have our problems, but I believed we were pretty much open with each other. It was jarring to view it from somebody else's perspective and to see we may have been hiding a lot more than either of us realized.

Something else to work on, I thought.

It's okay, though. We're all works in progress, so there'll always be something to do, and I'd rather know what I need to fix and do my best to make changes than to just blithely go about my business and never understand that I could be hurting someone. Like, ignorance may be bliss for the ignorant person, but not for the people around him.

Change is hard, but I think that thing about pruning the roses applies to ourselves as well as our loved ones. If I want to bloom, I may have to cut back a few of my own branches too.

[finyx7733]

06/06/24

Affirmations: I am worthy of love I am capable of great things I am not a burden I am made of stardust and magick

How do I feel physically today? I feel really good today. I managed to fall asleep around 10pm last night and didn't wake up until 8 am this morning. I guess I needed the sleep. My body feels well rested and I am ready to take on the day.

Am I intellectually stimulated? I have been doing some research on Paganism and BPD, so I would say yes, I am being intellectually stimulated. It feels nice to be doing something productive and I feel like I am learning a lot. I will post my findings at a later time once I have more information.

How do I feel emotionally today? I am feeling great! my mood has improved greatly since yesterday. I don't feel like crying or breaking anything. I feel at peace, which is a rare thing for me, but it's been happening more and more since I moved here. I had a nice cup of tea this morning and just sat with my thoughts. I put it out into the Universe that today was going to be a good day and so far it has been.

How do I feel spiritually today? Like I said before I feel at peace today, my spirit is calm. I've already started practicing what I'm learning. This morning while I was making my tea I did a little manifestation spell, a prayer that today would be a great day and that I would have the energy to finish the tasks I set out for myself and so far it worked. I am looking forward to learning more and using what I learn in my everyday life.

Today is a lazy day for me, I have to clean the closet and declutter the bedroom but other than that I don't really have anything planned. Mimi is heading to work around 1 and boy is she just not ready to go. Poor thing is super sleepy and drained. I now know why I've been manic and overly emotional this past week, usually a week before my period starts I am an absolute wreck, my emotions fluctuate I go from being manic to being severely depressed. Well, this morning it decided to rear its ugly head. Which means this week is going to be emotional for me. I'm hoping this won't be the case but that is how it usually goes.

Last Mother's Day Mimi's mom, Whom I will not refer to as my mom, taught me how to crochet and I absolutely LOVE it. I am working on two blankets one for myself and one for Mimi. I'm hoping to have them finished by next winter, I'm a beginner so my progress is a little slow but I'm really proud of the quality. Mom says she is surprised at how well I'm doing. This makes me feel really good. I'll post pictures of my progress. I am really grateful for Mimi's mom, she is the kindest woman who welcomed me into her life with open arms. My own mother died from small-cell lung cancer seven years ago and life just hasn't been the same. Our relationship when I was growing up was very strained, she had her own mental health issues she was struggling with, and at times she would take that out on me, but as I grew up and became an adult our relationship flourished and she became one of my closest friends. When she died I was left to pick up the pieces, it's something I still struggle with. Mimi's mom treats me like one of her own and it warms my heart and brings me a peace I didn't know I would ever feel again. I've been doing a lot of research on BPD there are so many things I do because of this illness that I never even realized. It is helping me to understand myself better and I am looking into coping skills and something called DBT. I'm compiling notes so I can make sense of things. I can get sidetracked fairly easily so sometimes research is difficult for me. Mimi and I are watching a movie called The Stand, it's really good. I know they made it into a TV series I'll have to watch it. I really enjoy the movie so I'm sure I'll enjoy the TV series. Well, I am going to watch the movie and do some more research. Ta for now. <3 Fi

[soul-wanderer]

Alright, it’s been a few days since the last episode aired, and I figured I wouldn’t become any more chill about this, so we might as well tackle this rant regarding people’s judgement of Theo’s character and the underlying racism issue in this debate.

Let’s start off with the fact that we’ve slowly been learning more and more about Theo’s past, which is relevant when it comes to unpacking his current behaviours. In 05x17 we learn that Theo’s best friend, who turned out to be gay, was rejected by his own parents due to their beliefs and that Theo let his friend crash at his place until said friend’s dad showed up at his house with a gun, ready to kill his friend. We then subsequently learn that this both highly affected both Theo and his friend, to the point where Theo is still getting emotional over it when telling this story years later.

We also know that Theo grew up in a tight-knit but poor community and that he lost his dad when he was eight years old and that he still misses him, which becomes apparent after the barbershop fire. We also get glimpses at the overall tone within the community, when his friends/family sort of tease him about the person he’s become, and it’s clear that Theo is struggling with that, because on one hand his career is important to him, but on the other hand it has removed him from his community, especially because he tried so hard to blend in at the SFD and part of him is probably still trying to prove that he is worthy of his career, despite where he came from.

In 05x04 Theo tells Vic about his previous relationships and pretty much admits that they were all toxic (”I didn't think it was real if it didn't make you want to kill yourself”) and that Vic was the first person he didn’t have to prove his love to.

Fast-forward a few years, we get to Theo’s time as a captain at another station and to his friendship with Travis and Michael. The three of them were best friends until the tragic accident that cost Michael’s life. There’s never been any doubt that his death has absolutely wrecked Theo, to the point where he asked for his own demotion, meaning the SFD did not find him guilty, simply because him misjudging the situation was a mistake - a grave one, but a mistake nonetheless, and mistakes do happen, because we’re all just humans after all. It is also important to note that Travis, at this point, has fully forgiven Theo, which he keeps making clear, by reassuring Theo in everything he does. He even goes as far as saying, “No, you’re not [screwing it up]. You’re figuring it out. There’s a big difference. You got this, man. You’re a great firefighter. I’m proud to call you my captain”, which is a big deal, because the last time Theo was captain, it got his own husband killed and Travis, of all people, was ready to forgive him for the mistake he made and trust him to be captain again.

So, let’s get to the good part now. The part where Theo is clearly stressed to the max and to the point where he has seemingly random outbursts because he feels like he’s losing control left and right - something he absolutely wants to avoid, because he wants to do better, because he doesn’t want to lose another person, because there is so much pressure on him, and large portion of it is coming from himself. And Vic keeps pushing and probing, which is absolutely understandable, but Theo clearly isn’t at a point where he is ready for confrontation, but needs reassurance and support instead. It doesn’t make him a terrible human being, it just makes him about as flawed as any other person on that goddamn show. I mean, remember how much Maya screwed up as a captain at first? And the team still managed to give her another chance, so why not extend the same second chance to Theo?

And this is where we get to the uncomfortable part, because part of the reason why Theo is very much judged differently than Maya (or any other captain on this show), very much feels and looks like underlying racism and very much matches what we know about his past. Theo himself has told us between the lines that he is working hard on his career and to be professional and be taken seriously on the job. Which, given his ethnicity and upbringing, is probably really fucking hard. If we take one look at the captains and other people in leadership positions, it’s not hard to figure out that the majority is middle-aged white men. And well, Theo is not that. But Theo worked hard to get there, to prove himself worthy and capable of this position. Even when he doubted himself after the mistake he made. And he still does - doubt himself. Which proves that he has the heart in the right place, because he cares. He cares about his team, and he cares about doing things right, and he knows when he is messing things up.

And most of all, he knows he is going to be treated differently, he is going to be judged harder, for messing up. He is going to get judged for his temperament, for his words, for his manners. He is going to get judged for everything he is and for everything he isn’t. And even Vic acknowledged his code-switching as a means of survival, but sometimes that still isn’t enough and Theo is painfully aware of that, too.

The bottom line: Does Theo need to learn how to handle the pressure differently? Sure! But what he needs, is the support and reassurance of his team - and Travis gave him exactly that, and Andy was trying to give him that, too, and I’d like to believe that this kind of support is what is going to help him find a balance and escape this crushing weight of responsibility he is facing, simply because of who he is as a person.

And I am sure Andy and Theo will get past their “argument” soon enough, because they both have a similar temperament and grew up in similar communities, so if anyone understands Theo, it’s going to be Andy, of all people at the station and because Theo clearly felt terrible once he learned that Andy was trying to do something nice for him.