#ii am light sensitive you would know this if you actually gave two shits about me <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[calamitydarcy]

always amazing when one interaction with a specific person can just zap your energy and motivation for a bit

[eltanin-malfoy]

Eye For An Eye (Kill Or Be Killed II)

pairing : draco/fem-collegestudent!y/n (not that romantic.. or platonic)

word count : 4.1k

warnings : angst, mentions of murder/poisoning/sex, swearing, smoking

Chapter 1

a/n : any and all feedback is highly appreciated. requests are still open! s/o to @unpeustupide for being a great editor!!!!

Chapter 2 : Eye For An Eye

He’d thought of rushing out after her as she’d been exiting before, but no, that was an awful idea. He did not need the girl assuming him to be some kind of a stalker pursuing her at night, which, after noticing her feisty nature, would likely lead to one of two negative outcomes : 1. She decides to attack him with her umbrella (he could subdue her, for sure, but his skin was sensitive, he didn’t want the bruising to stick out on him like a sore thumb for officers to identify later), or 2. She calls the police (he could attempt to knock her out if she did, but he wasn’t exactly into getting all messy that way, or in any kind of way. He was attempting to kill her with a heavy dosage of potassium chloride, to begin with. Cleanest way possible). So he headed right back to the Employee’s Only room, pouring himself a cup of black coffee and feeling smug at his own genius. Experience really is the best teacher.

Right after his shift, he’d walked home, her name on his lips. He’d whispered it a couple times, any passing stranger might’ve even thought the boy was in love with a Y/N.. but they couldn’t be more wrong, could they? He’d continued to think about her, tried to figure out where she lived, or anywhere else she spent her hours. She’s a student. He thought, puffing on yet another cigarette as he walked up the stairs to his apartment, fiddling with the edge of his coat with his free hand. A university student, right? Didn’t look like a schoolgirl to me. Wasn’t even wearing a uniform to begin with.

He stepped out onto the fourth floor, walking towards his very luxurious place of residence. Sigh. The loud hip hop music playing in his neighbour’s house pounded out as he walked across. He tossed the used cigarette butt in his fingers to the side and delved his hand into the pocket of his coat, pulling his house key out. He walked over to the last door on the floor, quickly reaching to unlock it. He stepped in and covered his left ear, flinching slightly as the pounding got even louder. He walked away from the wall he very unfortunately shared with them and quickly locked the door behind him.

He then scoped out his apartment (not.. very small, just the one bedroom, couch, sub-standard television and a tiny kitchen) to make sure there had been nothing shifted around since he’d left. A necessary precaution, since not only was his landlord notorious for being very nosy, but also venturing into a career path as risky as he was planning to was not without its many, many risks. He then walked over to his (very uncomfortable) bed, pulling off his bulky coat and pacing around a bit.

He wasn’t exactly sure what to do with the girl’s name. It was easy enough to remember it, to write it down in his notebook, to look it up on the internet (on Incognito mode, of course!)… but it wasn’t easy to figure out who she was, exactly, or what way would be easiest for him to get at her. Could just push her into oncoming traffic or something.. No need for the chemicals and everything, seen how easily she falls.  A smile crept its way onto his face as he stared out the window facing the rickety study table he’d somehow managed to buy for his apartment. He shook his head. No. No, it’s too easy. I want to see the light escape her eyes. At first, holding on like as if onto some stray rocks onto a cliff side. I want to see her fight with herself. For her to want to slip away. I want to win.

But how?

He pinched his nose bridge as his brain clouded up with thoughts. How many universities are there around here to begin with? He hesitated, sitting up straight and fiddling with the pale blonde mop of hair on his head nervously. Who’s to say she’s a student at all? Can’t just jump to conclusions like that.. could just fancy carrying backpacks. He shifted towards the side, gaze travelling over the many cracks on the wall. I don’t recall her having a backpack in the supermarket.. so, again, probably a student.

But if she’s a student, she’s got to have somebody paying her fees, right? He furrowed his brows, a bit confused. Oh come on, you can’t go soft just like that.. She’s clearly an awful person, right? All three minutes you’ve managed to see her, she’s shown off nothing but her lack of empathy. Besides, you just need to make sure she isn’t.. well connected. Just separated enough from everyone in her life for no one to notice after she’s been missing for a few weeks. Or months, if that’s possible. He knew this was for him.

Unable to make much progress in that instance, he decided to give it a break and take another fix of nicotine. He got up and eased onto his bed, reaching over into his coat to take out the same pack and his beloved lighter. He then kicked off his shoes, bringing his legs up next to himself. He quickly ignited another cigarette and got up, walking over to the table to stare at the street below. It’s almost December anyways. University final exams have been over a week or so already. She’s either still living at her dorm, which would be.. hard to work around, or has her own apartment, hopefully without a roommate. Or, her roommate may have gone home while she stayed.. or.. maybe she’s home from uni? How the fuck am I supposed to tell-

No sooner had he lit the last cigarette in the pack that all of a sudden, his neighbour actually turned off that goddamn cacophony. Somehow, the silence surprised him. W-what’s happening? It hasn’t been this quiet all fifty days since I moved in! He heard their front door opening and couldn’t help but listen in to what was going on. Not exactly his fault the walls were that thin.

“Seriously? You’re here to see me now? Do you not understand anything about boundaries?” His neighbour’s voice was.. quite loud, to say the least. It was almost louder than the awful music he chose to play at all hours of the night. “Seriously, Cormac? You haven’t returned a single call or text I’ve sent you this whole week! And the last.” The girl’s voice struck out to him like a bullet.

“Y/N, I’ve just been busy.. You know me, baby.” His voice was a bit softer this time, possibly growing afraid in front of that she-devil.

“Oh, shut up. We both know you’ve just been ignoring me. Did you really think you could end.. this by ghosting me?” Her voice rose an octave as she voiced the second part of her question.

“Well.. come on, I wasn’t ghosting you. I just.. forgot to check my messages.”

Draco could almost hear her rolling her eyes. “Just.. stop it. Do you really think I’m that daft? Goddammit! Maybe I am, can’t believe I gave you even a second of my life. You really are as big of an asshole as everyone says you are!”  

“You can’t just.. come to my house and insult me!” He exclaimed.

“You can’t just treat a girl like a used tissue paper.” She shot back.. Shit. “And I’ll bet you’d still text me in a couple of nights when you felt horny again, you bastard!”

One of them then hit the wall they shared and Draco sprung back slightly, not realising how close he’d moved in to eavesdrop on their conversation.

“Fine then, if that’s what you’d like to believe!” Cormac yelled.

“You don’t get to act like the victim, you fucking bastard. Why don’t you go cry in the lap of whichever girl you’ve slept with?” She roared and one of them paced off quickly, walking to the door.

Draco decided to follow along, but trying to come up with a way to piece together a conversation through which he could try and interrogate his neighbour so as to find out as much as possible about his ex. Wait, she bought something for a car. That means she’ll be driving out of here soon.. never mind, there is no parking lot in this sketchy neighbourhood. He shook his head, walking over to his front door, staring out of the small peephole and at the hallway in front of him. He did, in fact, manage to get a good look at this prospective victim.

“If you have a shred of self-respect, don’t you ever contact me again!!” She cried out, kicking the wall to the side of his neighbour’s door, then flinching back slightly in pain. Dumb bitch.

“I will not, you clingy bitch!” Cormac returned, which led to her bringing her palm up and smacking it across his face, leaving a red streak over his cheek. Draco had a sudden sense of deja vu, as though from a dream, or another life..

“I have nothing more to say to you.. “ She grit her teeth and began walking to the staircase, not showing any sign of weakness in that moment. ‘Cormac’ was still holding his cheek, clearly in pain after her attack. The lad even opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it. He deserved that, but, is she really always this violent? Would make it hard to take her down like that..

He quickly walked back over to his bedroom, staring out the window as he awaited her final exit. He reached over and turned off the light, realising that this would be a very good way for her to realise that he was watching her. He watched her step out, shivering slightly in the cold as she crossed her arms. He finally took the last and final puff of his cigarette, and let out a good long exhale. He tossed the cigarette butt out the window, which prompted a soft noise. Y/N turned around at this and even looked up. Her gaze somehow preemptively travelled upwards, staring at the fourth floor windows before pausing for a second at Draco’s own. She squinted slightly and stared down at the floor, before heading off again.

Damn it.

People.

He quickly headed back to his front door and peered out, smiling to himself as he caught a glance of Cormac still stood there silently, for some reason waiting for her to return. He opened the door and proceeded to lay it on thick. The Malfoys were known for being sly after all, and he kind of felt like acting for a bit, anyway.

“Hey, mate. Couldn’t help but hear what just went down.. You doing alright there?”

Cormac’s flushed a bit at this, obviously embarrassed at the way his new neighbour had come to know of him. “Hey.. I.. yeah, I’m okay. Thanks.” He paused for a second, sizing him up. Maybe he’s a little intimidated. Draco could feel how awkward it was getting and decided to take care of that himself. He walked over to his door and held out his hand for him to shake it.

“I’m Draco, some of my mates like to call me ‘Drago’, you know like dragon? Just poking at this huge fear of lizards.” Draco laughed to seem idiotic, yet ordinary. Wasn’t too hard, Cormac forced a giggle. What was he, a fucking schoolgirl? “Sorry I didn’t come to see you yet, moving has been a little tricky.”

Cormac slowly lifted his hand and shook it. “Nice to meet ya. I’m Cormac.” Yeah, I know. “When did you move in, actually? I hadn’t realised..”

“Couple months back. D’you wanna pop in for a beer? Looks like you might need one.” Cormac smirked at this.

“Could never say no to one of those.” Draco grinned and walked back over to his flat with him, opening the door and leading him in. Get him drunk. Get him talking. You can do this.

He took a deep breath.

***

A good hour of stale small talk later, Draco had enough information to have some sort of profile on her. As soon as Cormac headed out the door, Draco locked it behind him and trashed the bottles the bloke had taken upon himself to finish, while he threw out the one he’d decided to have. He decided to write everything up as quickly as possible, wanting to make sure he could get all that information on paper while it was still in his head.

Student at London School Of Business. (of course she picked the subject his father favoured the most!) Seems like she lives somewhere nearby though, wouldn’t be walking around in the middle of the night like that, not too far from campus. He even wrote ‘Ex said the only time he really liked her was when they fucked’ which Draco then decided to strike through. (Unnecessary and irrelevant to case!) Has a public Instagram profile - Oh fuck. He nearly hit follow. Wouldn’t that have been a fucking disaster. He just scrolled through all the food, frivolous spending, and countless other idiotic highlights of stupid Y/N and her stupid friends and her stupid life. He’s probably doing them all a huge favour.

But this was basically all he knew about her. Cormac was obviously uninterested in discussing his now ex, with whom he’d only been with a couple months, and would rather discuss recent soccer matches. Draco politely obliged with that, but was very, very happy to see him off when he finally decided to leave.

After writing everything up, Draco informed his manager that he’d pick up the late shift again the next day, setting out a plan to scope out his victim’s college campus and pick up on her schedule.

***

The next morning, Draco woke up bright and early to the sound of his stupid phone alarm going off. He reached over to turn it off and pulled his patchy quilt over his head, but then soon reminded himself of today’s mission. No. Not today. It’s time.

Draco had downloaded an app onto his phone last night. One that connected people happy to walk others’ dogs. Frankly, he didn’t give a flying fuck about dogs, but, he had to find a way to walk around the area without looking like a total creep. It worked. He managed to find someone nearby who wanted their beagle walked the next morning, so he reached out, and managed to arrange to pick it up at eight o’clock the next morning, which would hopefully be enough for him to make it to the campus in time for her to get there.

He was thinking of putting on a disguise too, but his plan was a bit.. immediate, so he didn’t exactly have a lot of time. He decided to skip his usual long hair routine, those expensive hair products one of the few luxuries he allowed himself to purchase. Instead, he decided to tuck his hair up behind a baseball cap. Not only was that totally uncharacteristic of him to wear, but it also seemed to perfectly mask one of his most striking features. He’d decided to go ahead and shave, however, wanting to hide any of that pale stubble that grew onto his face.

He didn’t exactly own any cosmetics, he’d thought it genuinely wasn’t for him, even after various female friends of his encouraged him to try it. Of course, before, it was also his dad who would clearly have disapproved, but even now, he didn’t understand why he would waste all that money.. in an effort to look better. I look just fine.. but.. I need to look different, for once. But, alas, there was no way for him to contour his face now and make it look even the littlest bit more pointed. No real way for him to color his skin to make him seem just a bit more tanned than he was. So, he decided to just busk it and bear it with a grin.

His clothes however, he decided to change up a bit. He didn’t own a lot of brightly colored clothing at all, and it was almost a joke among his old friends to tease him about how much he fancied wearing dark clothes. But good old Pansy, on his birthday earlier in the year, she’d taken it upon herself to brighten up his closet. She’d bought him a couple of floral patterned Hawaiian shirts, as well as a couple of multicolored sweaters. The Hawaiian shirts would look a tad out of fashion and probably even more weird out like this.. so, he settled on one of the sweaters. He even put on a pair of boxy sunglasses that would block out the greyish sapphire of his eyes.

My best features won’t be on display.. but it works for the cause, he decided, as he looked himself over in the mirror. He set his cap tight on his head and took a deep breath, walking over to his night stand to pick up his phone and wallet. Alright, time for the first step of your first mission. Don’t get too jittery. She’s just a girl. A very rude, annoying girl. He set them in his pocket and cleared up behind himself, tidying up his bed in an to attempt to shrug off his nerves.

Not to mention, stupid. He reminded himself as he stepped out.

***

He headed to his nearest convenience store after he got out, picking up a new pack of cigarettes. He lit one up to fill his insides with tar (rather than with doubt), and walked over to the dog’s owner’s place, engaging in some polite conversation and finally escorting the dog away. It was a small brown beagle, about two years old. The dog sniffed him up the moment he arrived, but Draco managed to get it out of the building without it noticing anything too weird about him.

He fixed his sunglasses one last time as he neared the campus, looking around a few times as the dog walked around and annoyed other pedestrians with its nosy snout. He checked out the map on his phone one last time before finally nearing the campus he’d been thinking about for most of the night.

He reached for yet another cigarette, but fumbled slightly, dropping the pack on the floor. As soon as he leaned down to pick it up, the goddamned dog decided to run up at someone and his leash fell out of Draco’s loose, shivering grasp. It’s the nicotine, THE NICOTINE.

The dog barked, almost in celebration, and continued across the campus, running along the lawns as Draco finally clutched the pack and ran off after him.

You’d never think something so small and annoying could be so fast. His heart began to race, almost uncharacteristically. He was an avid soccer player back in secondary school. He didn’t exactly have a low stamina. Suddenly, the dog stopped in its tracks, sniffing desperately at someone’s grey sneakers. He heard a soft giggle and froze himself, slowly looking up to lock eyes with… his own victim.

How’d this bitch managed to calm down the other? He thought to himself. She didn’t seem to recognise him, so he tried to keep up an act. She knelt down and began to stroke its head, drawing attention to her short, perfectly manicured nails. Fucking priss.

“Your dog is so cute.” She uttered, her voice all flowery and sweet for some reason. He gulped and bent slightly himself, his hands on his knees as he looked down at the mutt. “Thanks.. I agree.” He forced his voice to be a bit more gruff and raspy. Like one of those guys on WWE. She smiled and looked up at him again, almost curiously. “He’s a beagle, right?” He? “Uh.. yeah. Only two years old.” The dog made one of those soft, squeaking noises that made Draco cringe, but she looked at it with even more fondness.

“You’re such a sweet boy, so sweet.” She scratched between his ears and looked up at him again. “He really is. You’ve trained him so well.” He chuckled and felt his cheeks flush. What? You are really out of it today.“Hah.. thanks. He can be a bit annoying sometimes, though.” She just shrugged slightly. “Ah well, isn’t every boy?” She sighed, and Draco was suddenly reminded of last night’s events, which of course, this innocent dog owner knew nothing about. “I guess so.” He didn’t really know what to say at this point..

“But, you seem nice. Do you.. stay around here?” That same smile returned to her face and she fluttered her lashes. What is she doing? She just broke up with that prick last night. “I.. uh.. No.. j-just visiting a friend.”   He croaked out, reaching down and grabbing his leash. “Oh, um, alright. Nice to meet you.” She slowly stood up, smoothing out her hair. This allowed him to get a good look at what she had on : a thick purple turtleneck sweater and yet another pair of dark jeans. That same plaster from yesterday was visible through the fabric. “I should get going..” She started, looking down at the barking dog again. “Bye bye!” She waved at the animal, then up at him again, walking off. Draco did the same, albeit reluctantly.

He turned around and looked the other way, clenching his jaw. You can’t.. get friendly with your victim like that! Thank god she’s so dumb, otherwise she would’ve seen right through your shoddy disguise. The dog yipped again. Oh goddammit. He turned back towards Y/N to see her looking back at him, before flinching and walking off again. What is she doing? She didn’t recognise me. Oh fuck, or did she? She started off at a brisk pace, rounding the corner and walking to another building.

The dog decided it needed to empty its bladder, so it walked over to a brief patch of mud by the concrete to do its business. Draco followed and decided to wait at the position a few minutes, so he could continue and follow her to her first class.

Soon enough, it finished up and he lead it to a courtyard, where there were students sitting around and even perking up as they noticed the dog. Shit.. they’re just going to blow my cover.. I should get out of here. He turned to leave, pulling the dog quickly along with him.

*** Even though his trip to her university had been.. unsuccessful, he reassured himself. Thank god she feels the need to document so much about herself on social media. I’ll get more on her in no time. He headed back to the dog’s owner’s and returned it, lying and telling him he’d been an absolute angel. He rolled his eyes the instant he shut the door, quickly walking off and back to his place.

He decided to smoke a few more cigarettes in an attempt to de-stress and thought to walk down to his apartment building’s basement to kill time until his next shift. He walked past the wall of mailboxes for each of the many flats in the building and stopped as he realised there was something sticking out of his own. He didn’t have the key for it, but the haphazard way this envelope had been wedged in, it was clear he didn’t really need it. He tossed the cigarette in his hands to the side and reached to pull it out.

Careful.. He thought to himself, holding up the metal flap and drawing out the surprisingly light envelope. He wasn’t careful enough, though. The flap drew back alarmingly hard and pushed his hand out of the mailbox, leaving a slight cut on his finger. He drew his hand back and looked back at it, pressing it in an attempt to stop the slight bleeding.

He grabbed the envelope tightly in his bleeding hand and walked back up the stairs, hands in his pockets as he winced slightly in pain. He unlocked his door as fast as he could and walked inside, shutting it behind him as he walked over to his couch. He took a seat and looked the envelope over. Hmm… no return address or sender? That’s weird.

He opened it up, a small trickle of his blood down the side of the paper. He pulled out the letter, which was a single note folded in half. His fingers quickly unearthed the message inside, and he couldn’t help as the feeling of absolute shock flooded his mind, a crease furrowing in on his forehead as his eyes widened behind his dark shade.

Be careful, Malfoy. I can see you.

Chapter 3

[dashielldeveron]

Cedere Nescio, or, Extra Virgin Olive Oil

Tom Holland/Reader. College AU. 

Warnings: dealing with mental health in a Big Way, extreme thirst, language (Latin), and swears. But that’s college, I guess. Notes: Tom’s a theatre major, and you’re a theatre minor.

_______________________________________________________________________

i Maybe you gave off a gay vibe? You really didn’t know. Would that the perception of your sexuality were as clear as those of Achilles and Patroclus.

You sit on the edge of the stage, taking a break from building sets. Tom’s up in the grid, adjusting lights and putting in gels, and his sleeves are rolled up past his elbows, by the grace of God. Even from this distance, his biceps ripple. His eyebrows are furrowed, lines drawn between them, as he bites his lower lip and sticks out his jaw very slightly.

You pop off the cap of a sharpie and hold it between your teeth, never letting it get wet, as you idly doodle perfututum onto the inside of your arm, covering some parallel lines you made with something a little sharper. Perfututum—it’s Latin for totally fucked. And it’s you.

Tom Holland’s untouchable, you know? Everyone, in the theatre department and out, wanted to be his friend; everyone wanted his approval or to impress him, and his genuine approval wasn’t easily earned. He dances through his classes with panache; everything is easy for him, a delight. His laughter reverberates off the walls of the arts building, and good night, did you want to be the cause of his laughter. Sometimes you were, when you gathered enough courage to speak to him, to have a legitimate conversation instead of his instructions to you in scene shop.

He calls down to you to stand centre stage; he’s trying to aim a light in the right direction. You push up on your knees and jog over where he wants you. You would go anywhere he directed you, do anything he wanted, and he didn’t have a clue—that oblivious bastard.

A curl falls across his forehead as he bends over the PAR-can, and you, squinting, hold a hand over your eyes when he swings the light your way. He’s too bright for you to look at.

ii The two of you are practising monologues due for class later that day. You’re alone in a hallway and holding his monologue in front of you. He’s sitting at your side and desperately running his hands through his hair as he strives to remembers the exact words.

“I am the dog,” you prompt him. His profile sharpens when he puckers his lips in concentration.

His eyes light up as he stares determinedly at the top of the lockers, not really seeing them. “I am the dog,” Tom says, bouncing his leg up and down and tapping his fingers on his knee, “Oh, the dog is me, and I am myself—”

He’s fidgeting too much. What you do in rehearsal determines what you do in performance, and this monologue isn’t a fidgeting sort of thing. He won’t stop fidgeting. Why’s he so nervous? Hector wasn’t even this nervous when he walked into battle and to his death. Tom is never nervous, so why is he now?

Hector, however, had verse upon verse written about him posthumously and a hero’s pyre, and Tom wasn’t a legend. You’ll make him one, and even if you don’t, you know he’ll be one some day.

“You’ve got to stop fidgeting,” you say, “Let’s find you something to hold instead of fidgeting.” Both of you glance to your sides in the hallway, but your backpacks are still in the scene shop. Nothing’s around. Inwardly, you beat your chest, fortifying all courage as Hector did for his troops—you roll your eyes in an exaggerated way and, in a stroke of rare brilliance, you say, “Here, hold this.”

You hold out your hand.

Tom’s face breaks into a grin, his even teeth showing, and he glances down at his lap before turning to you, crinkling his eyes in a different kind of smile, a closed-mouthed, tight-lipped thing of beauty that shows acceptance and gratefulness. Tom takes your hand, immediately lacing his fingers with yours, and he squeezes it firmly as he continues his monologue. His focus is no longer casually on the lockers but swops between your hands and your reactions. Tom tries to make you laugh, and he wrinkles his nose in triumph when he does.

When you move onto your monologue, Tom lazily twists the ring on your thumb between his own and his index finger. It’s not a purity ring, but it might as well be (it’s the one from Lord of the Rings). Tom doesn’t know that right now, this moment, is the farther you’ve ever gone with a guy, that this instance of holding hands is the most intimate you have ever been.

You’ve never dated, never been kissed—watched as your friends loved and lost, went on rampages, and downloaded tinder. It’s not that you don’t want these things; on the contrary, according to a BDSM test you made everyone take, you’re the kinkiest piece of shit you know. You hear stories and read a lot of fanfic about one night stands, sex before romance, and loads of kinky shit—things you’d never do in your actual, real life for a couple of reasons, the primary one being that since you got overly attached to cars you drove behind for more than ten minutes, who knows what would happen to you if someone ate you out and never spoke to you again? So, it wasn’t entirely intentional, but you were (fuck, you hated this about you and yet couldn’t bring yourself to compromise [and fuck, you hated this phrase]) waiting until marriage.

Tom slides the ring down to your knuckle. The skin where it usually sits is paler and softer than the rest of your thumb.

iii

Tom’s got bags under his eyes in scene shop today. His hair is dishevelled, roughed up like bed-head, and he’s got grey sweatpants hanging loosely around his hips. And he’s pissed.

When you ask him why, Tom says he had a tough voice lesson, but as the afternoon drags on (and you’re repairing an ancient piano with a staple gun), he, miraculously, allows himself to be vulnerable. He’s not doing okay, and it’s tearing him apart. His relationship with his parents is in an unfamiliar, rocky stage, and he’s lonely, so lonely; he’s secretly a ball of rage that he never shows (you wonder if you annoy him, especially when you talk about Greek culture). So much of Tom is hidden, because he’s insecure about it. He’s the only person you’ve ever met who can rival you in terms of self-deprecation, even though, in everyone’s eyes but his own, he has no reason for it.

Tom is furious at a lot of things, mostly himself, and you want him to be mad at you, in a safe, consensual bedroom sort of setting. He already was dominating socially in the scene shop, since he was more than capable at construction had to teach you, with unconditional patience, how to do anything, seeing as you had never picked up a power tool before this semester. Tom would order you about, and each time punched you in your stomach as you thought about taking commands up a notch. Aut futue aut pugnemus: either we fuck or we fight.

His insecurities mirror your own, save for where he is rage, you are sorrow. Two sides of the same coin, down to your side effects of depression. Loneliness reigns.

At some point, he catches himself, climbs down from the ladder, and grabs both of your hands, grazing the ring on your thumb. “Thank you,” he says, his eyes wide (eyelashes dark against his skin), gripping your hands tighter to show his earnestness, “for listening. I’m sorry for dumping all of this on you; you don’t deserve that. I usually don’t—I’m sorry. You’re very kind. Thank you so much.”

“Don’t apologise,” you say, your fingers curving into the bend of his palms, “I like listening to you. You have worthwhile things to say, and everyone needs to be heard. Don’t feel like you’re burdening me—” You say this, because you worry about it yourself. “—I want to be involved in what you’re going through.”

iv In one of the dreams between pressing snooze on your alarm and actually waking up, Tom wraps his hand around your wrist and leads you up the ladder to the grid, high above the rest of the stage. At the centre, where anyone could see, were anyone in the room, he releases your wrist, links his index fingers through the belt loops of your shorts, and yanks you close to him, his hipbones poking you briefly. Tom’s got your shoulder blades pressed on either side of a pipe holding up stage lights, and his tongue is between his teeth when he grins at you in the moment before.

Who was wearing strawberry chapstick? It doesn’t matter. His lips are pressed to yours, needy and wanting; you feel the crease of his brow through the kiss—don’t, you want to tell him, please relax, for one damn minute. He doesn’t bite but nibbles at your lower lip, and your tongue is on the inside of his teeth when he moves his hands from your belt loops to grip your waist, toying with the hem of your shirt. Your fingers curl into his hair, and you pull at the wisps at the nape of his neck. His breath hitches. Tom breaks the kiss, calls you my girl with a dark inflection, and shifts to kiss your neck, once, before he drags his mouth down your chest, stopping to press his lips at the spot beneath your naval where your shirt has ridden up.

And he’s thrown your shorts somewhere across the grid; your underwear’s been tucked into his back pocket. Tom’s bottom lip is firm as he pushes it up underneath your clit (he’s got friction around all of it now); he sucks on it just barely, and after testing how sensitive you were with the underside of his tongue, he smirks as he swops to the rougher topside. Your hips twitch. Tom holds you achingly still for too long; it doesn’t take the oracle of Delphi to know that you’re close—

But Tom keeps going after you’ve come, and you don’t want to chicken out for fear of what he’d think. With a shaking jaw, you keep your gaze on the ceiling, trying to zone out, because this is too much, all at once, and you can’t ah, ouch, that’s a lot. Your thighs are quivering, and yikes, please, no, stop, even though you still—

“I know it’s intense,” he says, the sound of an air pocket breaking in the second he pulls an inch away, “but you can take it.” Tom kisses your clit and reaches up for one of your hands, the one with the ring. “Be good for me.”

When your alarm goes off, your underwear is soaked, and when you wipe the rheum out of the corners of your eyes, you repeatedly snap the elastic against your skin as you debate whether or not taking a cold shower is worth it.

v The final rehearsal before the show opens, you and Tom are alone backstage. He’s in the lead (and an argyle sweatervest), and you’re one of the minor ensemble characters. You’ve had a hell of a day and are on the cusp of a panic attack, and Tom notices. He guides you over to a private spot and leans on a stack of crates, resting his forearms on top. You copy him, and your shoulders touch.

“How do you do it, Tom? How do you manage to keep it together all of the time? You never seem to crack.” You don’t count that day he vented to you. It wasn’t quite the same.

Tom laughs through his nose and leans close to you. His breath hits your ear and the back of your neck as he says, “To be honest, I’m cracking right now.”

He’s got to be. Rehearsals running until past midnight every night with hundreds of lines in Shakespearean verse, long afternoons building sets, being on duty as an RA, not to mention classes and keeping up with his friends. Oh, and sleep, you suppose. He’s had to shove everything he feels down so that he can deal with the next task. He hasn’t had time to think, and frankly, neither have you.

Tom insists he doesn’t want to talk about himself, because he’s been thinking a lot about that time you spoke to him about holy listening, how most people only wait for their turns to speak and how listening, genuinely, to help and to understand, was a gift that everyone deserves but hardly anyone receives. So, Tom takes your hand (again. It’s become practise for when it’s just the two of you, and you’re unsure how to handle this uncharted territory) and listens.

And thank God someone finally is.

You’re facing him as you speak softly about how you essentially act as a therapist to everyone in the department (even though you are newly learning healthy behaviours yourself), because you want people to have someone who will listen. You check in with people who are going through hard times, and you usually end conversations by asking the person how he’s going to take care of himself later that day. Tom knows this. He’s been watching.

What he didn’t know was that no one listens to you back. Whenever you pry yourself open in a half-hearted attempt to be vulnerable, everyone clams up. They shut down. No one notices when you’re having a hard time—he nudges you at this, and you make a stupid noise, dismissing it. When you mention that no one’s noticed the burn marks on the inside of your forearm near your elbow, he could, for the first time, make out the small, circular burns in spite of the dark, blue light. Tom slumps against the crates, and he rubs the back of your hand with his thumb.

“I’m tired of taking care of everyone,” you say, “I want to be taken care of.”

You’re breaking your chains that protect you from being vulnerable. You can’t watch the shadows on the wall any more. You’ve got to walk out of Plato’s cave and let the sunlight blind you, even though you don’t have a word for sunlight yet, for all you’ve known is a tame fire.

Tom wraps his arm around your bare shoulders (your costume isn’t as modest as you’d like, but for now, you’re grateful). He presses a kiss to your temple and holds it there, and an alarm goes off in your head, as if you’re not the one truly experiencing this. When Tom removes his lips, his furrowed brow goes to their spot. “You’re safe with me,” he says after a bit, “I hear you, and I want to take care of you.”

Both of you jump when other actors start channelling behind you to get to their places. Tom has the first line, but he tightens his grip around your shoulders and quickly prays aloud for you.

vi Closing night, the cast and crew goes to IHOP, and it’s a lot of overstimulation all at once. When they kick you out around one o’clock, your original driver is going home for the weekend, so you hitch a ride with Tom back to campus.

Tom is at a stop sign, his turn signal blinking to drive into the parking lot of your dorm, when you say, “I will pay you ten bucks to keep driving past the school.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Please. I can’t go back there right now.”

With a wry smile, Tom flips off the signal and keeps driving into the night. The city is quiet but still awake, still shining. He cranks up his music and points out his favourite restaurant to you, saying he’ll take you there soon. Next week, you decide. Urban decay increases the farther you get away: flickering street lights, crumbling buildings, a lone shopping cart, that one vape shop that no one goes to unless you feel like getting shot. Neon lights bleed together through the car window, and the stars blur and mumble under his 90s hip-hop.

You take backroad after backroad, curving around trees and into the valley, just going without knowing where, and eventually, you park near an overlook into the valley, showing the city teeming with a quiet energy, with a cemetery behind you in the trees.

You thank him again for how he’s been treating you during the run of the show; it’s incredible to have someone to depend on. To trust. He shrugs it off, and you talk about the show, how things could have gone better, how he did that one gesture just perfectly in the moment, how hey, you didn’t get all of your stage makeup off; let me get that for you, and Tom’s kissing you, lightly, barely, and he swipes some of your hair behind your ear. His nose prods yours when he breaks the kiss so that you open your eyes—he knows it was your first; he wants to make sure you’re okay. You nod, your mouth quirking upwards.

When you’re on his lap and his hands are in your hair (turns out you were the one with the hair-pulling thing, so die mad about it), neither of you are the strawberry chapstick ideal. You both taste like makeup remover, and sweat drips down between his shoulder blades and down your neck. Neither of you was performing for once. It was just the two of you, simple and vulnerable. You made Tom laugh when you pulled away to yawn, and you laughed yourself when you made him gasp at a simple kiss on his neck (muttering “Peccavi,” and refusing to tell him what it meant, even when he threatened to…he couldn’t think).

It should’ve been much too early to do this, let alone ever consider it, but it was Tom Holland, who understood. Courage, dear heart. You’re not ready, but you can promise. He probably knows what it means by now; he’s clever. He’s probably guessed. Just do it. Your cheek is pressed against his when you say, “It’s yours—” You twist your ring off your thumb and slid it onto his middle finger. “—if you want it.”

Tom shifts to kiss your cheek. “Not now. But someday, if you’re ready. If you want me to.” He smiles, and this time, you let the light blind you. “C’mon, love. Tell me what you want.”

_______________________________________________________________________

Peccavi -- I have sinned.

here’s the link to the BDSM test, if you’d like to take it.

[roseamongroses]

W.A.L: (30) “The Last Ending” (ii)

s u m m a r y

Eden was the lowest of the low, a monster, hardly human, and was set to be executed. Roman was on trial, perpetually stuck in time until it was time to atone for his families sins.Neither cared much for staying trapped.So when a Stranger offered freedom, offered peace, offered power, it was hard to say no.Even if it put them on the wrong side of history.

v i b e s

time is irrelevent, homophobia who?, magic and beasts, demigods

w a r n i n g s

Imprisonment, Mentions of execution, Blood/ injuries,  Mentions of past Death, repression, cursing, some  dissociation

c h a r a c t e r s

Deceit(Eden) Sanders, Remy Sanders, Logan Sanders, Virgil Sanders, Patton Sanders, Roman Sanders, Emile Picani, Elliot, Kai, Lauren, Dot

Ship: Roceit

1) (2)   (3)  (4) (5)

(6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11)

(12) (13) (14) (15) (16) (17)

--

Roman picked himself up slowly, feeling those ghostly fingers dig into his skin, dragging closer and closer to his-- He swallowed thick, shaking off that train of thought. It wasn’t that bad. The only proof of what had happened was the loss of sensation around his shoulders. It was a minor blessing that he couldn’t see it. Somehow he knew The Stranger wasn’t lying when he said it was permanent, but for now Roman needed to believe that it wasn’t.

He walked towards Janus, feeling something close to relief as he slid against the wall next to them tucked underneath their still chained hands.

“Are you…” Janus asked, craning his head to better see Roman.

“I’m fine,” Roman mumbled, pressing his face into their side, hands just barely tracing the now healed wounds. Janus managed something comparable to a snort and Roman forced a laugh, wincing at how brittle his voice sounded, “Like you're one to talk,”

“How are you really?”

“I’m fine as this shit can be,” Roman snapped, still trying to will those fingers away from his mind with Janus’s terrible, disgusting, but wonderfully safe stench,” We can still figure a way out of here, especially since that dumbass left us in here alone so we should get you out of those chains first and formos--”

“Roman,”

“What--I’m fine Janus, he didn’t put that curse on me, I’m fine,”

“He touched you.”

“I…” Roman swallowed, “It wasn’t a big deal, you heard him--Sanders are just sensitive--”

“Yes, I know --He tried to touch your wings Roman,”

“He does shitty things, but... some shitty things are worse than others I--” Even though Janus couldn’t see their face he could hear their pain, “He’s trying to wipe out everything I think almost getting a---” Roman stuttered on the word. He couldn’t even say it. It would be too real if he did.

“We need to get you out of those chains,” Roman finally mumbled, reaching for the metal, “--and a plan--I don’t even know how close midnight is what if--”

“We’re not going to do anything,” Janus said.

“What do you mean?”

“We’re not going to try to escape,” Janus said more resolutely, shaking his hair out of his eyes to meet Roman’s gaze squarely.

“You’re not suggesting we give up,” Roman hissed, “I’m not letting you die and I’m certainly not letting that facist fucking weirdo--”

“Roman,” Janus said and Roman quieted, “I’m not saying that I’m just...Right now we can’t do anything,”

“But right now is all we have,”

“I know but…” Janus knew time was a luxury, but right now he felt like the time to rest was a necessity, “I’ll think of something, I promise. But right now I don’t think either of us are in a good enough state to do anything that won’t get us killed,”

“But…” Roman’s forehead pressed against Janus’s, defeated as his hands cradling their cheek, “I don’t like this,”

“Please... do whatever he says tomorrow,” Janus mumbled, letting their breathes sync with his, “I’m not planning on dying, but I need to make sure you get out--just in case it does go to shit,”

Roman sighed, lips pressing lightly against their cheek, “You’re an asshole,” he said, against their skin, “You’re a self-sacrificial asshole and if you think I’ll just leave you,”

“It's not leaving, it's not being distracting,” Janus retorted, “He knows he can use you to get me to do what he wants,”

“Am I...” Roman’s face flitted between pleased and distressed, “Do I distract you that much?” Definitely pleased.

Janus didn’t answer that, knowing that it was the closest thing to agreement he’d get from Roman. Instead, Janus twisted his face quick, meeting Roman’s lips. Janus ignored his sore body as Roman braced himself against his chest, the gold scales pliable under their warmth. Roman’s hand had slipped from Janus’ hair to cradle his face, not quite touching the scales there. And Janus realized that he didn’t care anymore if they did.

It was one of many desperate, tired kisses.

---

It was Larry who had entered the cell to take off Deceit’s chains.

His cheerful demeanor dampened as he unwinded the blood soaked, metal cuffs from around Janus’s wrists, only murmuring apologies when patting the wounds down with alcohol and tightly wrapping them.

When Larry was finally done, Janus sagged all at once, only being caught by Larry’s steady hands. Janus wasn’t sure if he was just unused to his tail or if his body forgot how to sit upright all together. Larry had only left to let Roman change into some actual clothes, but quickly materialized to lead them to the ceremony.

The tomb was silent, it always was silent, but Janus could feel the Misrae’s presences’ pushing against his mind. Some were curious, some seem frantic, some seemed…. tired. As if they’ve seen this before and know that nothing would stop the Stranger from attempting it again.

Janus distantly wondered about all the shifters who’ve walked down this hall before.

Some who looked and spoke like him with strange accents and jagged scales, some who forgo language completely--embraced their anonymity and lose themselves to the shadows, those with feathers that glittered in the sun and voices that always seemed familiar. Theshifters who’ve never left their family, the shifters who had no choice but to leave, so they could survive.

Were they scared? Did they fight or did they take one look at all the promises laid out before them and simply submitted themselves?

Was it the best alternative? Was it the only alternative? Did they feel that rising dread towards the future that only seemed to quiet with a few simple, distant promises, “it’ll all be over, it'll all be gone, you will not suffer, you will grow beyond suffering, you will be more,”

Janus wasn’t sure exactly when this promise of eternal peace, of unfathomable power, became so menacing. He didn’t know when that outstretched hand stretched into claws.

He had been so afraid of becoming a monster that he became willing prey.

Larry had led the two of them down the winding halls of the tomb until the path widened and they reached a gaping cave. Snatches of light seemed to filter from the rocks, making each drop of water glisten, and the muddied path before them shine of clean marble.

“You’re late,” The Stranger said, not looking up as he scanned through some papers.

Janus squinted in the light, a sharp pain encroaching behind his eyes. He tried not to stumble when Larry let go of him. Uneasily, Janus slithered forward towards the center of the room, feeling Roman close by.

The Stranger took a step back, revealing the strange sight behind him.

The rock at the center of the tomb was rubble and twisted amongst it was a single tree. A tree of paling grey that seemed to shine just as much as it waned. The weight of it’s branch thich with thin leaves and dotting, white fruit.

Roman froze, dropping to his knees at once.

At that The Stranger smiled, “So the Sanders does have manners,” he mused, looking up from the papers, “Don’t worry hun it takes a bit getting used to,”

“What’s…?” Janus frowned, glancing down.

Roman caught his eye and gave a grimace, “You don’t feel it?” he said and Janus recognized the tone. It was the tone Roman used when he didn’t want to make assumptions, but was pretty sure he was right. It was the tone Roman used when Janus fascinated him, it was the tone Roman used when Janus concerned him in all the ways that were good.

“Of course he doesn’t,” The Stranger rolled his eyes, “Did you even listen to a word of my plan you im--”

“Yeah, yeah genocide, I got it,” Roman bit back, head still down, hands flat on the ground beside his thigh.

The Stranger’s cool smile seemed to have frozen, the page tight in his hand, “Genoicde is such a human word--”

The cave splintered under Roman’s hands, “Last time I checked, you are human you di-”

“Roman,” Janus pleaded, and Roman fell silent.

“Well, well, well,” The Stranger asked, amused, “You've trained him. I’m almost impressed,”

Janus schooled his expression, forcing himself to look away from Roman, “He respects my decision,” he said evenly.

“So he does,” The Stranger muttered, quickly becoming disinterested. He picked out a page out of the stack of papers, letting the rest fall useless to the ground as he shoved the page in Roman’s face, “Sing,” he said.

Roman raised his head as if it laboured him, curls falling painstakingly slow to the side, and his hand trembling as he grasped the page between his fingertips.

He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

“Sing,” The Stranger snapped.

And Roman did, clumsily, in a broken mismatch of spanish that seemed to cause trembling to move up to their shoulders.

The Stranger only grew more impatient, “In. English.”

Roman whimpered and Janus could imagine how their chest shuddered trying to keep it all in, trying to keep the tightness in his throat locked away, hoping the tears laid dormant in his eyes. How their eyes would cloud and their skin would burn in protest.

Janus forced himself to stay still. He had to betray Roman once more, he had to turn away only once more. If he did turn around, if he did turn to them, he knew he’d get desperate to make Roman okay again. But if he got desperate then it wasn’t guaranteed they’d both be okay together.

“Roman,” Janus spoke, words thick on his tongue, “Please sing,”

Roman cursed and while the silence that followed was thick with The Stranger's agitation, soon enough Roman’s sniffles quieted.

Roman took a breath.

And sang.

---

A Sander’s song was a lullaby, it was a wake-up call, it was the cold distance between stars and the lights that promised you a home.

It said look up, come here, I am waiting for you.

I miss you.

Follow me--take my hand, stay a little while longer, kiss me a little harder.

Let my warmth hold you until you are well rested again.

The lullaby tamed the tomb’s thunderous presence, all the prying minds of the Misrae now gone, even the Stranger looked a little lost.

In this thoughtful daze, the silver tree unfurled.

It’s lanky branches didn’t shoot up, instead the branches to the ground, an intricate pattern that covered the walls and floor. Most of its silver fruit now shriveled and dusty.

Only one dripping fruit remained, it's molten red calling.

Janus slithered across the tangle of branches, Roman’s voice a distant hum that seemed to circle his neck and bind his throat. As if saying “I am here, I will keep you a float”

Janus plucked the fruit, crushing it in his hands and letting the red drip freely as he raised it above his head and opened his mouth for a taste.

[project-00-monster-tord]

Chapter 2: Hate

“I hate it. I hate it here.”  Silently mused a four-year-old child as he dangled his legs along the edge of the tall book shelves while he used the force to move a number of left out datapads and books of compiled Flimsiplasts to return them where they came from.

The temple archives at the moment were currently moderately occupied and only a couple of Jedi were hanging around. His presence was relatively hidden away while he watched over the archive patrons and finished his daily research/reading. His personal datapads and stylus were scattered around as he contemplated how much Bantha shit was he torturing himself since he ended up learning about seven intergalactic languages in the span of two years while also giving time to learn about the galaxy’s politics and fundamental sciences.

“You know that you shouldn’t be up there again, Tord,” admonished an old Jedi librarian which was also formerly Yoda’s Padawan.

“I needed to gather my thoughts, Master Yulio,” the silvernette replied as he gathered his things and placed it in a bright red bag that he personally made. Standing up, the devil horned child then pushed himself off the edge and patiently waited for the floor to be beneath his feet as if the height he just jumped off wouldn’t have killed a normal force sensitive child.

“Seriously, I still can’t believe that Master Yoda had took you in as his Padawan at such a young age and allowed you unfettered access to the Archives and Temple’s training grounds,” the aged Twi’lek murmured as he stared at cold green-gem like orbs and pushed back the icy feeling he was receiving from the overly bright light that the force enshrouded the toddler.

“Master Yoda found me, Master Yulio. He was the one to announce that I was to be his Padawan two years ago and allowed me access to these areas when I asked for it.” Tord reminded as he bowed to his lineage brother in politeness and headed back to his Master’s quarters.

“Kark. I hate this. Why do I have to call people ‘Master’ of all things? Why haven’t the Jedi Order have chosen the term teacher instead? The word ‘Master’ itself could connote a number of things and, for what I see it, I hardly like most of it,” Tord internally complained as he walked and politely greeted those he saw as what the Order thought him to.

Heck, the reincarnated male found himself seething about his current plight and mentally scolded himself for not even knowing enough about the world he was in. After all, he was in the universe of ‘Star Wars’ and as a reincarnator who was able to know that this place originated from some kind of entertainment franchise was just downright confusing and depressing.

For all he was about having an accursed eidetic memory, he couldn’t actually have an advantage of such mental capacities when the knowledge he currently has of the said universe was just surface level. Thinking back to his previous lives, he cursed himself for turning down Tom, Matt and Edd’s interest in Star Wars and thanked whatever higher being was out there during his time as Vlad Master’s adoptive son to entertain his elder brother, Danny, and dad’s geeking over the franchise.

Like, it was because of Danny he ended up knowing about the Star Wars: Old Republic since he played the game along with his halfa hero brother. That, and he also watched the Clone Wars series up until to season six because of him. Then, he knew enough about Star Wars lore from Vlad himself when he was trying to up Danny in his geeks modes and convincing him that Star Wars was pretty amazing. Heck, the only movies he watched of the franchise was Episodes I and II since when Episode III came-out he became far too busy to indulge anymore of such frivolities.

And now…Tord was regretting a lot of things.

He regrets not paying more attention to his elder brother and father’s interest. To be exact, he wants to apologize about the very fact he ended up rebutting or refusing them when they would go on the fan boy modes. Those two half-ghosts at the moment were his saving grace on why he wasn’t so blind when treading through his current weird life. That, and the information he has could be used as a type reference for him in preparation for big events. He could basically pass the things he saw as visions if he does things right Tord mused as he came into his Master’s shared quarters and noticed how the green alien was now waiting at the middle of the waiting area.

“Reading again, you have. Complain the other Jedi Masters, they did. Too cold and detached you are, they report to me.” Yoda greeted as he sat on the standard issued beige sofa and waited for the silvernette to come closer.

Sighing at the others words, the owner of green gem-like eyes bowed to his master after coming closer and floated his things back to his room using the force. Waiting for himself to be allowed to be seated, the green gremlin finally gave a signal which had Tord followed.

“Explain yourself, do you not?” Yoda asked as he looked at his very young Padawan and expected him to at least try to defend himself.

Green gem-like orbs met golden flecked green eyes and answered in an all to factual manner, “You already know the answer, Master. It’s is just how I am. That said, they look into things far too much. They see my coldness and detachment as a sign of falling into the Dark Side when for me it’s just the normal going of life.

I see no Light or Darkness in it. Only varying shades of gray are in my current state therein their worries are for naught. Besides, doesn’t the Tenets approve of such? There is no emotion, there is peace. There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.

What I do of being detached and having no emotions is okay in the Tenets. My interest for knowledge is natural considering where I came from.”

“Prince you were to be, yes. However, now you are Jedi. Different are the duties placed on you, now you should simply be like a child. Grow in the light, connect to your peers you must. The force’s will, follow you must.” Yoda reminded before standing up and heading to his personal rooms.

“Obelia your surname be, you are now a Padawan. Fallen have your world of origin, before the Old Republic and the Eternal Empire. Gone is Earth, gone is your family. Gone is your father’s Earthly Empire. Look not in the past, focus on the present and hope for the future.”

“Yes, Master,” Tord replied as he watched the older Jedi finally disappear from his sights and slumped back on his seat.

“I karking hate this life,” the silvernette mentally remarked and forced himself to direct his time to other much more productive endeavors.

[bisymmetra]

i. title: détente

ii. fandom: overwatch

iii. characters/ships: jack morrison, ; gen, background ships, might be reaper76 if i make this a thing but rn it’s shipless

iv. warnings: uh, discussion of ptsd/panic attacks/nightmares, but like vaguely? like nothing triggery really but if youre sensitive, brief mention of alcohol, more specific champagne and the pop of it setting off a panic attack

v. tags: dogs, im using forty nine for jack’s age bc the timeline’s all over and i put 45 - 55 in a rng and got forty nine, angela ziegler has #connections, this is five pages and just short of 2k words wtf, tenatively, bonnie the dog, therapy dog, this is jack centered tbh but if i write more hana’s getting a cat, idk if i truly like this

vi. summary: “Uh,” Jack says, the stumble coming out before he can stop it. “That’s a dog.”

“It sure is,” Angela says agreeably, depositing it in his arms and sipping her coffee. “Merry Christmas.”

“It’s June,” he deadpanned, as the wriggling little thing laps at his visor.

vii. notes: i wrote this in an hour and i dont know if i truly like it but bonnie the dog is a thing now. i literally just listened to alberta by eric clapton while writing this. will be on ao3 in half an hour. @snowsheba​ saw these hcs that inspired this first. 

It’s four in the morning the first time he tells Angela about the dreams.

Nightmares, really. The kind that leave him grasping at catching his breath, the sweat on his brow chilly wet and clingy in the Spanish night. The kind that leaves your heart thrumming in his ears. He doesn’t - he doesn’t think this is anything important, really. It should be expected, really. He’s old, now, and he’s been military for forty damn years. He’s seen some shit.

Most people who got up real early to find him already awake didn’t question it - dreams of their own, he guessed, or maybe just expecting career military to be up at the crack of dawn. And they weren’t wholly wrong - years on a farm and years in the military have him waking up earlier than most the base, on the nights where he doesn’t wake up around two or three.

It’s the fourth time that Angela’s woken up at three in the morning to find him awake. The kitchen. this time. The practice range twice before, and once in between that in one of the commons, a book on his lap. (He didn’t much like being there, on one of those nights, but he’d had a nightmare about an incident in Kuwait, and the walls of the room had been suffocating. Hana had also been sitting there, playing some vintage game in the low light. He figured they were there for similar reasons, and didn’t say a word for hours.)

“Jack,” Angela said. The clock on the wall is a bright, neon blue 3:49 AM. Jack, to his credit, manages to look up from his coffee and at her. In the fluorescent kitchen light, her dark circles look more prominent, the mess of her hair tied in a loose not. She has a bottle of water in her hand. She looks exhausted. Momentarily, he wonders how much sleep she’s getting, then feels like a hypocrite.

“Angela,” he musters, swallowing. “Lovely morning.”

“The sun won’t be up for another few hours,” she said. “Why are you up?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says, which - it isn’t a lie, really. He couldn’t get back to sleep, after tonight.

“Doesn’t seem like you ever do,” she says, sliding down across from him. “That’s not good for your health.”

“I get a few hours,” he says. Three and a half, tonight. “Could be worse.”

“Jack,” she admonishes. “This isn’t - have you been dreaming?”

“Most people do sometimes,” he says, which - technically correct, but not what she’s asking. There is a beat, which is mostly filled with Angela frowning deeply at him and Jack staring at his coffee. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

Except it doesn’t really work, because Angela is phenomenal at seeing through bullshit, and this isn’t the first accident she’s seen. (There was once, with a bottle of champagne, and the noise and laughing sounds like screaming so easily and. Jack had excused himself, mumbling, hands shaking. Angela had followed when everyone was distracted. Angela knows. How could he think he could win at lying to her?)

“There are people who can help with - everything,” she says. “I know a few that are - they’re good.” Jack fixates on everything but Angela’s face, feeling naked without the visor. He instead stares at where her neck meets her shoulder, the marks Fareeha had left. There’s a stain on her shirt’s collar, of what’s chocolate, coffee, or blood. It’s dried brown, almost reddish brown in the light. Out the window, the Gibraltar night is interrupted with crickets.

He wonders what Angela dreams of. People she couldn’t save, his mind fills in. Genji’s corpse-body, when they first brought him in. People she can’t save. Gunshots.

Jack sighs. It’s a gesture that makes him feel older than he is.

“They’re just bad dreams,” he says, voice low and deep. It feels like a confession. “Omnic Crisis. Overwatch. Old things. I’m an old man, Angela, it doesn’t mean anything’s wrong just because it keeps me up.”

“You’re not that old, compared to the average,” she muses absently. “You’re only forty nine.”

“Fifty in a few weeks,” he said, hoping for a diversion. “I’m not a young man anymore, anyway. And I can’t really see a therapist, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“Why not?”

“I’m legally dead, remember?” Angela nods, clearly contemplative. He closes his eyes. “‘s just dreams, either way. Doesn’t matter a bit.”

There’s a long pause. Angela rises from her seat. “Good night, Jack,” she murmurs.

For days, he waits to see if Angela brings it up again, or tells someone, or something. He’s worried about it.

It’s just dreams, and anxiety and - it doesn’t matter. He just doesn’t want people to look at him differently. But no one does and Angela doesn’t say anything. It’s almost as if their early morning conversation is forgotten.

It’s been nine days when he first realizes Angela didn’t forget at all. He’s sitting in a common room, talked into joining most of the other agents. People are mostly in their own groups. Hana and Genji are playing some Mario Kart thing, the engineers at a table discussing - schematics, he thinks, but he’d heard the words Pop Tarts and doubted himself - Jesse and Hanzo and Fareeha talking in soft voices. Lena, Reinhardt and Ana at a table, Wid- Amelie, he corrects himself - Amelie joining them. Sombra and Lucio at a table hollering about the game Hana and Genji are playing. Who had cajoled two thirds of their ex Talon agents and how is lost on him, but he’s almost glad Gabriel wasn’t here, even knowing - this is a talk for another day. Jack is at one of the old, worn seats, an old book in his lap.

“Jack!” Angela’s voice comes in from the hall, and most look up as she pushes the door open with her hip. It takes only a moment to discern why: in one hand is a mug of what is definitely coffee, and the other is a -

“I got you a present, you’re welcome,” Angela says.

“Uh,” Jack says, the stumble coming out before he can stop it. “That’s a dog.”

“It sure is,” Angela says agreeably, depositing it in his arms and sipping her coffee. “Merry Christmas.”

“It’s June,” he deadpanned, as the wriggling little thing laps at his visor.

“Happy early birthday,” she replies. “You turn fifty in two weeks. There.”

The puppy - which, relatively, is pretty big, a St Bernard if he had to guess - laps at his cheek next. “This is a dog,” he repeats. “Where did you get this?”

“Her,” Angela corrects. “She flunked out of being a therapy dog because she liked to lick strangers or something along those lines. She needed a home. Dogs, I’ve been told, lower stress. You’re going to give yourself a stroke or a heart attack at this rate.”

In that moment, he realizes this is about what they discussed but Angela doesn’t want to say it in public. He can appreciate that much. “Can we even keep a-”

Lena is by his side, scooping her up in a second. Her, the dog, not Angela. “Why are you protesting? It’s a dog! Accept it and move on.” The dog licks Lena’s face delightedly, and everyone resumes talking over each other about - well. Jack rises, giving Angela a look. She just grins back, satisfied.

“Fine,” he acquiesces. Arguing isn’t going to do much, anyway. Angela’d kill him if he tried to return her, anyway, even if he hasn’t had a dog since he was a teenager. His family had kept hunting and herding dogs, all of which loved his mother more than anything. She gave them the most scraps. Lena shoves the bundle of fur back into his arms after one last lick, and he stares at her as she returns to licking his face. Her, the dog, that is. Not Lena.

The dog follows him around all the time. When he sits, she sits on his feet, gets comfortable. Angela tells him she’s a six month St. Bernard. They called her Nessie in training, but she never learned the name and really, it just makes him think of conspiracy theories. (Dimly, he remembers Reinhardt rambling about - he really wants to say Bigfoot, but the memory is twenty five years old.)

He mostly just calls her Dog, which outrages an alarming amount of people. Expectedly, Ana, Lena, and Angela are most fond of Dog. Unexpectedly, he’s caught Hanzo giving her scraps four times in three days. When he enters a room that Hanzo and Bonnie are already in, she’s in his lap and he looks like a deer in the headlights. (It’s actually really fucking funny.)

He sets her on the floor before bed, but she’s always curled up next to him when he awakens, like a really furry pillow.

It takes five days for him to really get used to the idea she could provide actual help.

It’s - another bad dream, because of course it is. Jack gasps for breath, kicks off the blanket, brow slick cool with sweat. His heart pounds in his ears. Him kicking the blankets must of woke the Dog, as she bounces up, presses next to him.

She shoves her head and back against his hands, in a way that would be petting if it was his hands moving, not her body. She licks his face tentatively, as if seeing if that helps. Jack can feel his heart start to slow, faster than his normal calm down times. He moves his hands, callouses running against soft fur. Dog takes this as encouragement, licks him more excitedly. Jack closes his eyes.

Normally, he’d get up. He wouldn’t be back asleep regardless, so he may as well get up. But Dog settles in next to him, and petting her evens him out, makes it easier to settle. He lets himself be lulled to sleep.

In the morning, he names her Bonnie. It seems fitting, somehow. She seems like a Bonnie. He’ll talk to Angela about a collar, soon.

In the meantime, he sits down at the cafeteria table, Bonnie by his feet, and pretend he doesn’t see no less than five people feeding her scraps.

He goes on a day long mission on July 3rd. His birthday’s the next day (he’s getting old, he thinks). It’s a short thing, mission wise. Fifteen hours securing a payload in the heart of London and back.

He’s with Lucio, D.Va, Genji, Mei, and Sombra for it, all these young kids making him feel much older than he is. (Mei, Genji, and Sombra are all in their thirties, he remembers. But he’s fifty tomorrow. They’re kids to him, anyway. They all have much more.. zest than he does.)

He gets back late, and he’s a little sad to not have Bonnie at the door when he enters the room. He discards his jacket to the desk and changes fast, glancing at the bed to locate his dog. She’s sleeping in her exact normal spot, with an approximately Jack sized spot next to her. Jack slides in next to her, and she shifts awake, moving to press into him. She licks his face hello, and he calms her by petting her back for a few minutes.

He breathes easy, relaxed. After a few, he glances at the clock. 12:02.

“Happy birthday,” he hums warmly, closing his eyes.

He sleeps well that night.

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