#international snail papers day

[subby-sab]

Today is 7th of April.

Today is World Health Day, National Beer Day, International Beaver Day, International Snail Papers Day.

[bunny-lily]

Tether Me - Chapter 3

Pairing(s): Geto/Gojo/Reader Summary: Your soul housed a violent anathema whose sole purpose was to torment you with the notion that nowhere is safe. You can’t stay here, you can’t stay there, you can’t stay anywhere.

It reminded you of that one immortal snail hypothetical. No matter where you went, it would always follow you.

If that was the case, then, where was that feeling now?

The bickering boys in front of you, the idyllic mountains that curtained the shallow canyon, this cozy home and the terrifying one you owned – why didn’t they spur that fight-or-flight instinct in you? What was different about Japan, about this location?

Why did breathing feel so easy?

…How long would this sovranty last? CW: No y/n | polyamory | slow burn | slice of life | alt au - no curses | fluff | light angst | eventual smut | forgive me, there's internal monologues | I like using big words... | Gojo & Geto are whipped for you | emotionally constipated reader | (most of the tags have been condensed, you can find the full list on my ao3 here)

AN: Additional tag warnings: suggestive content, smut, masturbation, degrading names/language to self. There is 1 (one) mention of reader being mildly interested in nutrition facts. Just a small warning. It's very, very brief, but I figured I'd better be safe.

Ch: Prologue | Ch: 1 | Ch: 2 | Ch: 3 | Ch: 4 | Ch: 5 - 1 | Ch: 5 - 2

WC: 14.7k

“Whatcha makin’?” Satoru grilled you. Again. 

He was relaxing on his forearms on the kitchen island, right leg bouncing on the circular step of the barstool, having pestered you for the nth time in the last 20 minutes alone.

You ignored him, focusing on whipping the egg whites, occasionally sprinkling more of the sugar you set aside into the mix. He had an electric mixer, one of those super pricey ones, too, but you preferred doing it by hand. Your entire arm was killing you, but you had better control like this. 

You also just didn’t know how to operate the electric mixer.

You were pleasantly surprised to find that he already had all the ingredients you needed – ‘Ijichi tries to bake sometimes. He chars the cookies every time, though.’ – so a trip to Granny’s shop was spared. As was the trip to the bakery, that was pushed aside for another day.

Satoru’s and Suguru’s eyes were needling into your back, way too intense and nerve-wracking for comfort for such a menial task. You weren’t expecting them to both want to watch you fulfill your promise to make something for the former. 

You also weren’t anticipating the latter’s presence, the added weight of his appearance making your wrist shake, and it wasn’t from exerting yourself with the egg whites.

“You could just use the stand mixer,” Gojo informed you.

He reminded you of an impatient bee; buzzing around you, epicurious about anything sweet, and a bit annoying. Otherwise harmless, so long as you didn’t try to steal said sweets.

“Yes, I know, thank you,” you replied flatly. “I prefer whisking by hand, though.”

“Why? That just seems tiring.”

It was, but you weren’t about to tell him that. “It’s easier for me to discern the stiffness of the peaks this way.”

“But it takes so long,” he complained, then added an extra few choice words under a whisper. “I’ll make your peaks stiff…”

Suguru chimed in. “Be patient, Satoru. Baking takes time, you can’t rush the process.”

You were quick to become very appreciative of that man. He was the real angel on your shoulder, supporting you and defending you from his best friend’s complete and utter gremlin chaos.

“But it takes so loooong,” the aforementioned gremlin whined louder. 

Suguru groaned quietly and extended an apologetic smile to you when you pivoted to look at them. Satoru had his head laid down on the counter, nose smushed and stupidly long arms stretched out across the surface. You ruffled his hair as you passed him to grab the baking tray and paper he found for you earlier. 

He tilted his head enough to show you a closed-eye mien of happiness, lips curled like the Chesire cat’s. He really did remind you of a feline a lot of the time, he downright purred when you ran your fingers through his enviously soft tresses.

Shit. You wanted to touch them again.

You retrieved the tray and strutted back to your bowl of semi-prepared batter. “Do you want me to tell you what I’m making now, or do you want it to be a surprise?”

His head popped up. “Now! Wait– no, no, surprise! Oh, wait, no, hang on,” he rambled, warring with indecision. 

Suguru met your gaze and stood up from the stool he’d picked out, coming to stand beside you and bending so you were face-to-face. “I’d like to know now, if you’re willing to divulge,” he pointed at himself, the corners of his lips tugging upwards.

You made a show of deliberating his request, pressing the side of your index finger against your bottom lip as you tapped your toe and furrowed your brow. Your eyes sparkled as you beckoned him closer with your hand, choosing to heed his request, and motioned for him to turn his head to the side. 

Having him this close to you was making your heart flutter like a canary behind the protective bars of its cage, chirping and tweeting. The warmth of his skin radiated in pleasant waves towards you, and the notes of his aura grazed against your cheeks once more; warm chai on a mellow night.

This was dangerous, yet you craved more.

You noticed the gauges in his lobes as he did so, appreciating the disks of deep blue as you leaned closer and cupped your hand around his ear, whispering into it.

He rose back up with an approving nod. “Oh, he’ll like those. Keep it a secret.”

“What!?” Satoru cried out, rounding the island sharply and closing the distance between you in two steps. “That’s cruel! You can’t just tell him, then not tell me!”

You patted his chest and lightly bumped him out of the way with your hip. “Sorry, it’s two-to-one. You’ll have to be patient to find out. I don’t think it’ll be hard for you to guess, anyway.”

“Is it too late to kick you out?”

“Yes,” Suguru answered in your stead. “She’s baking something for you, she gets to bully you a little in return.”

“Thank you, Geto-san,” you bowed exaggeratedly to him, then began folding the batter and adding drops of food coloring to it.

Satoru sulked. “She doesn’t bully me a little, she bullies me a lot.” 

The kokushoku-haired boy clapped his hand on the other’s shoulder. “It’s good for you. Character growth, it’ll teach you some humility.”

“Oi! Who’s side are you on, anyway?” He accused him with a pointed finger pressing into his chest.

Suguru raised his hands by his shoulders in mock surrender, a shit-eating grin pinching his cheeks. “Hey, I’m just the mediator here.”

“‘Mediator’ my ass. You’re just defending her because she’s making cookies–”

“Not cookies,” you and Suguru corrected in sync.

“–or some shit.”

You rolled your eyes, muffling a laugh against the back of your hand while you scooped the batter into a piping bag. You’d have to replace it later and leave an apology note for Ijichi. Not that they were used much, from what you could tell. Once the bag was full, you twisted the top shut and snipped the bottom to let the round tip free, fighting to not make any terribly tasteless dick jokes in the process.

You couldn’t do that in polite company.

Polite company was Geto.

Satoru and Suguru bickered back and forth behind you as you concentrated on piping facile, even circles onto the baking sheet. That was the hardest part for you, getting them to be symmetrical. You had to flaunt your skill. You had an audience of two stupidly attractive men awaiting your results.

You released the breath you were holding when you finished the last row, smug that they were all perfect. You set aside the nearly empty plastic bag and lifted the tray an inch off the counter and dropped it a few times, shaking loose any bubbles.

Whooh, the majority of your work was done now.

The tray got pushed aside to let the batter rest while you cleaned up your station of a few things. “Satoru.”

“And you– ah?” He answered, pulled out of his boyish spat. “What?”

“French, American, Swiss, or Italian?”

“Uh…” He gave you a flat, confused squint while you and Suguru waited for his decision. “American…?”

“Good choice,” you nodded, relieved you wouldn’t need to do any more heavy lifting. For this, you could use the stand mixer. After you figured it out, that is, but you had plenty of time to do that now.

Except for the fact that it was on top of the fridge.

For some fucking reason.

You planted your hands on your hips, staring up at it angrily.

Your mother and father both just had to be short. What a cruel joke the universe has played on you, putting you in a house designed specifically around a tall freak and his freakishly tall family. You hadn’t seen his folks, but it was easy to assume, given the door frame heights. RNG could only get you so far if the right genes didn’t run in your family.

Gritting your teeth, you stepped closer to the fridge, placed one hand on the front side that didn’t have the ridiculous LED touchscreen panel on it, then jumped on your toes, trying to reach the object.

Your fingers could only ever barely graze the base of it, no matter how hard you tried. Shit. Alright, plan B.

You twirled around to face the now silent pair that were observing you with amused, wry smickers, clearly entertained by your struggle.

Oh.

Your plan B was to grab a chair from the dining table to use as a stool, but somehow that felt more humiliating than plan C.

“Help,” you requested with faux meekness. “Please.”

“Help with what?” Suguru drawled with a coy lilt. “Use your words, angel.”

You pressed your lips together to stave off the flood of lewd hormones that threatened to drown you under their heady waves. He really meant it when he said he was going to use that nickname, and you were struggling.

“Please, help me get the thing down from the fridge.”

“What thing?” Satoru goaded you. “Be more specific.”

Plan B was looking to be a lot more viable now. What was a bit of your pride worth, anyway?

Your nostrils flared and you forced your blood to cool. “The stand mixer. I…can’t reach it.”

“We can see that,” he confirmed as he approached you, hands casually stuffed in his pockets. “You are pretty short.”

Your tongue started moving before your brain could register, let alone approve of, just what you were mouthing under your breath. “Yeah, well, why don’t you put some inches in me…”

Your eyes widened and you slapped your hand over your mouth, watching in mortification as his surprise morphed into absolutely elated revelry. 

“What was that, princess?” He took a step forward, you took one back, one more from him, one more from you, all the way until he had cowed you against the far counter, his hands trapping you in on either side. “Wanna say that again?”

“N-No! I said nothing!”

“Didn’t sound like nothing to me,” he lolled his head to the side, peering down at you through those cetacean lenses.

Are his eyes gray? You questioned silently as you attempted and failed to process how you got yourself into this position, all of it coming so fast. They’re so light. His glasses make them look blue.

“Oh?” Suguru voiced as he came to stand beside you two, bending to have his face in your line of sight, further causing you to shrink. “What’d she say?”

Satoru chuckled darkly, making chills shoot up your back and heat pool deep in your belly and high on your cheeks. “Correct me if I’m wrong, princess, but I do believe she told me to ‘put some inches in her’.”

Your face felt like it was fluxing off. Sweat formed at your hairline, your arms shook as you gripped the counter behind you for dear life, you were dying. 

“Is that so?” Geto spoke in a hush. “Didn’t know this one had such a mouth on her. I think I know how to put it to better use to keep her from talking back…”

That’s it. You died. You were dead, right? There was no other possible, reasonable, believable explanation for how you got yourself stuck in this situation, pinned in place by a set of large hands and the striking stares of two illogically beautiful men who were just eating you alive.

“I–” you stammered. Forget speaking, you were straining to so much as breathe normally.

“Got nothin’ more to say, mochi?” The platinum boy whispered into your ear, hot breath brushing against sensitive skin and making you jolt. “Done bein’ a brat?”

You gaped at them with round, unblinking eyes, flickering back and forth between the two as they played Judge, Jury, and Executioner on your innocence – or lack thereof. You gulped with some difficulty, stunned into silence when Satoru cupped your cheek with a big, warm palm.

He’s touching me, oh, gods, what’s he doing, why is he getting closer–?

He swiped his thumb over the curve of your cheekbone, just under your eye, and pulled back only enough to show a smear of pink along the digit without moving an inch away from you. Batter – a spot must have gotten onto your face without you noticing. 

While maintaining direct eye contact, he stuck his tongue out and salaciously pressed his finger onto it, sliding it down to spread the mixture onto the length of it, ensuring you witnessed every. Single. Micro. Movement. He closed his mouth, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he visibly swallowed, then his lips spread into an equally satyric smirk.

“I knew you’d taste sweet,” he purred and stepped back, leaving you disconcerted and dazed as he walked off like nothing happened, sitting back down at the island and picking up a conversation with Suguru.

You hadn’t even seen the other one move, let alone get the stand mixer down from the fridge and place it on the center of the marble countertop while they chatted about something you couldn’t hear past the shrill ringing in your ears and the deafening pumping of the stupid organ in your chest that refused to shut the hell up.

Time seemed nonexistent and all too pervasive as you took long seconds – or minutes? – to come back to yourself. Forgetting how to operate was a bizarre sensation, motor skills shot down as you went through a system reset.

You numbly gathered all the ingredients you needed, laying them out in a neat line that you, in full honesty, should not have been able to create with the way your hands vibrated. The boys seemed none the wiser to your plight, and you were thanking whatever remaining lucky stars you had that they weren’t pointing out what a fucking mess they turned you into in the span of less than a minute.

Buttercream.

Make the buttercream.

You’re fiiiiine, all good, mhm. Not like you had your entire spirit gashed right out your body by the primes of godliness across from you or anything, nope. You were a fully functioning, intelligent, strong, capable woman that wasn’t losing her absolute fucking shit.

You swear you heard laughter that distinctly resembled your mother’s, letting you know you were on your own with this one.

Traitor.

Willing your body to calm the hell down, you plugged in the mixer, messed around with it a bit, and got to making the filling for the macarons. You threw in the butter, watching it get tossed and beaten around until it succumbed to the paddle and became creamy and smooth.

Watching butter get pounded into submission was inherently satisfying to you, scratching some itch deep in the back of your skull.

You wondered what that said about you.

You glanced up at the boys and pinched your brows together. You shouldn’t think about potential kinks in front of them. For all you knew, they could read your mind. Best not to risk it, you could save that subject for later in solitude.

Or just stuff it in the ‘Problems to Deal With Later’ box you hid under your metaphorical bed with the rest of your dilemmas, never to be seen again. Whichever came first.

Vanilla extract…powdered sugar…sloooowly, now.

‘Slowly, now,’ he whispered in your ear and oh god oh fuck, you were fantasizing, nope, stop it, bad, fuck.

You bit the inside of your cheek hard, flinching at the pain. Phew, it brought you out of your imagination. You shamed your pussy for being a mindless whore. She couldn’t just wait until you were alone, huh? Had to humiliate you in front of the most unbearably sexy men you’ve ever seen?

Why am I like this.

“All good?”

You jumped with a startled squeak and saw Suguru inspecting you with a curious tilt and a knowing glint.

Crap, could he actually read your mind?

“Uh– yep! All good!” You affirmed a smidge too quickly and cleared your throat to drive away the squeaky chipmunk in your gullet.

Who needed lucky stars, anyway?

Satoru jutted his chin towards the counter behind you, where you left the tray. “Why didn’t you put it in the oven?”

Oh, sacred distractions, how you loved them.

“The batter needs to sit for a bit,” you told him. “Needs to form a layer around the outside called a skin. A little bit like a crust.”

“Cookies with a crust?”

“Not cookies,” you and Suguru corrected a second time, then you proceeded. “It’s to prevent the shell from cracking.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t guessed what it is she’s making yet,” Suguru commented, resting his temple against his fist. “You’re, like, the pastry expert here.”

You both watched as the gears visibly turned in Satoru’s head. He alternated between inspecting you, the mixer filled with now finished filling, and the untouched tray. He squinted, and then a lightbulb went over his head.

“Macarons!” He exclaimed, shooting upright with his Colgate teeth on display. “You’re making macarons!”

You cheered and clapped for him. “Hey, he got it! Good job!”

The boy lifted his chin and puffed out his chest like a proud peacock. “That explains why it’s taking so long.”

You deflated with a groan and rolled your eyes. “I find it hard to believe you’ll die just because you have to wait a couple hours.”

“Couple hours!?” He nearly shrieked.

“Is he always like this, Geto-san?”

Suguru was exceptionally entertained, you could practically feel it in his gaze and oh, shit, I know that look. “Only when he has a cute girl baking for him.”

Goddamnit.

Sly, accursed fox. 

You really should stop talking, you just kept getting yourself into shit like this, where you had Olympian gods flirting with you and you couldn’t tell if they were being genuine or patronizing. Either way, it wasn’t good for your poor little core, nor your other core. Y’know, the messy one between your thighs that liked to cause you a lot of trouble. You weren’t sure where it got the audacity from.

Seditious bitch.

Okay, so, dodging them wasn’t working. What about playing into their games?

“Hmm, you know, I only agreed to do this because you asked,” you tapped your chin, speaking in a false trill.

Both tunneled in on you. 

Ah, this was bad. Worse than willful ignorance.

“Which one of us, mochi?” Satoru queried. He acted so kind, so curious, but you could hear the underlying warning in his tone. Be careful how you answer.

“Can’t it be both?”

Air rumbled low in Suguru’s throat, danger flashed in Satoru’s eyes behind those filtered glasses, and you knew you were boned. And not the good kind of boned.

Mama, I’m doomed.

“Careful there” Suguru hissed, steepling his fingers and hiding his mouth behind them, as if fighting to maintain control of himself. “You’re playing with fire.”

You never were the biggest fan of things that were too hot. Blistering summers without a wind to balm your sere skin, campfires that only ever blew sticky smoke in your direction, tea too piping to sip at when you were parched.

But these boys, who had flames crackling and sparking in the bottomless pits of their pupils? You’d happily let them reduce you to ash. 

“I like the heat,” you whispered and stuck your tongue out at them, then pulled off a switch in personality you, frankly, were not aware you were capable of. You went right back to being polite and well-mannered as you disconnected the paddle attachment for the standmixer, scraped off any buttercream stuck to it with a Maryse spatula back into the bowl, and stuck the bowl into the fridge to chill.

You heard Satoru curse as close to silently as he could, Suguru’s teeth audibly clenched, and you knew they were both trying to dare you to do something like that again by burning you with their glares. You paid them no mind – on the outside, at least. 

Your insides, on the other hand, were a tangled disaster of nerves.

One part of you was questioning where you got the gall, the courage, the bravura, another was having a breakdown from your momentary valor evaporating, leaving you questioning what in the finest shite you were thinking. Oh, and, yes, how could you forget the part of you that was busy waterboarding your panties with far too much slick for it to be normal?

For fuck’s sake, all they did was say a few coy words, and it got you this heady? How far you’ve fallen. Tragic.

Fighting against needing to shift your shorts into a more comfortable position (which would be one hell of an ask since there wasn’t a spot untouched by your dew), you instead very feebly tapped a circle of batter on the tray with the tip of your finger, testing the shell strength. Thankfully, it seemed they were good to go, as none of the batter stuck to your pointer.

Satoru celebrated when he spotted you moving the tray to the clearly incredibly expensive (preheated) oven in his house. You slid it onto the rack, shut the door, and began fiddling with the settings until–

“Ah,” you clapped your fingers against the heel of your opposite hand, congratulating yourself for figuring out the timer. “15 minutes!” 

“Finally!” Satoru exclaimed.

“Don’t get too excited yet, space cowboy,” you shut him down. “They’ll need to cool after that, and I’ll have to put in the filling next. Then they’ll be ready.”

He wailed and flattened his upper body across the island. “Whyyyyy?”

“It’ll feel like less time if we do something to distract you,” Suguru patted his upper back. 

“I don’t wannaaaa,” he bleated like a wounded creature, attempting to garner sympathy points, as if that’d make the macarons bake faster. His head shot up, fingers pushing up his glasses that started to slip down. He reminded you of a grumpy rabbit, stomping his little (big) foot when his human angered him. “These macarons better be worth it.”

You pulled out one of the bar stools and wiggled onto it, your feet dangling high over the ground. “How long did you think it takes to make macarons?”

“I dunno, like, half an hour?”

“Aren’t you the pastry expert here?” You mused.

Satoru crossed his arms over his chest and lifted his nose pompously. “I’m a connoisseur, not a baker.”

“Maybe you should learn,” you proposed. “You’re good at cooking, right? You can probably pick up baking quickly, then you’ll have a greater understanding and appreciation for baked goods.”

Geto’s nose scrunched up. “That’s not a good idea.”

“Eh?” You batted your eyelashes. “Why?”

“If Ijichi is bad at baking, Satoru is catastrophic.”

The catastrophic baker tugged at the hairs on the back of his head as he avoided eye contact. “I set the kitchen on fire once, is that so bad?”

“How the fuck did you set the kitchen on fire with an oven?” You blanched.

“Oh, no, not the oven,” the noiret clarified. “He tried to fry the croissants. Insisted it’d make them ready to eat sooner.”

You paled like a ghost. “So– so, he, wait– wait, waitwaitwait, he tried to make croissants, the notoriously difficult to make viennoiserie, and thought frying them would be a good idea?”

“What’s a ‘viennoiserie’?” Satoru asked innocently.

“‘Nother word for pastry,” Suguru said, then addressed your question. “Yep, just about.”

You thwarted the desire to place your head in your hands and tug at the roots of your hair. “What the fuck.”

Satoru appeared torn between looking sheepish and looking peeved, not enjoying the criticism. “It was one mistake. I mean, really, I don’t get why you can’t let it go already.”

“He basically raided my pantry every day while his kitchen was getting doctored. He found my hidden stash of chocolate on day two and devoured enough to make himself sick, and then some,” his poor best friend said with a grimace. “It was hidden for a reason. But it did reveal how poorly my chocolate was concealed, so I upped the security on it. Thanks for that.”

“You don’t even eat sweets,” an allegation was thrown at him. “How can you hoard them? Selfish.”

“I hoard them because of you,” he faulted. “I like having them occasionally, and I’m saving you from cavities and tooth rot.”

Gojo squinched. “I brush my teeth very well, thank you kindly.”

“Remember when you got that one really bad cavity as a kid?”

“Oh, so, we’re just airing out dirty laundry, eh?” Satoru slammed his hands down on the marble. “Weren’t you the one that ate so much spicy ramen in grade school that you threw up and tore your esophagus?”

Suguru flinched and pressed his palm against the lower half of his face, blood draining from the top down. “Why’d you remind me.”

“Wait, what?” Your brows pushed up. “What happened?”

He sighed the sigh of an old man who was about to recount his whole life story for the millionth time. “I like spicy food–”

“Loves spicy food,” the other adjusted.

“–and was addicted to it as a kid. I had one too many spicy ramens when I was, I think, twelve or so? My stomach didn’t like that, and fought back with a vengeance. I had to go to the hospital and get a feeding tube put in while I waited for my esophagus to heal.” 

You winced and sucked your teeth. “Yikes, I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” He relaxed, shifting his hand to support his chin. “I recovered and learned a valuable lesson.”

“Not that it stops him from devouring spicy food any chance he gets,” the towhead teased.

“I eat it in moderation.”

“At least two meals a day,” he shot back.

Suguru glared at him. “You’re no better. You practically live off of sugar, ninety percent of the stuff in your fridge is some kind of confectionary. Don’t get me started on the cupboards.” 

You perked up, connecting a couple dots. “Oh, so that’s why I had to dig through, like, three mini cakes to find the eggs.” You slouched onto the counter. “What do you need three cakes for, anyway? Birthday coming up?”

Gojo merely shrugged. “I like cake. Ririka-san said she had extras she didn’t want to toss out and asked if I wanted them. You expect me to say no to that? It’s free cake.” 

“You’re not exactly hurting for money, Satoru,” Geto sighed and rested his forehead on the webbing between his thumb and index finger. “But I suppose it did reduce waste, so, I guess it’s fine.”

“See?” He preened. “I’m a good person. I’m a great person.”

“Good people don’t say they’re good,” his friend deadpanned.

“This one does,” he hmphed, facing you and imploring your support, “don’t you think so?” 

You pinched your chin and counted spots on the ceiling while humming, pondering. “You did take me in…but you’re kind of a whippersnapper…” 

“Whippersnapper?” He gaped incredulously.

You pretended to not hear him. “Hmm…yeah, I’d say you’re a decent person.”

“Hah!” Satoru smacked the smooth surface underhand, beaming at your mutual companion. “See? What’d I tell ya!”

“Give it a few days,” Suguru warned you, his cheeks squeezing his eyes shut as they got pushed up by the corners of his mouth. Gods, that face was too cute.

You jolted when the oven timer went off and hurriedly rushed to check on the macarons. This step was vital – a minute too long or too short could spell demise for the treats. You cracked the door open a smidge, peeking through the gap to inspect them.

No cracks, crisp edges, cooked but not browned, perfect.

You turned off the oven and opened it fully, pulling on the silicone heat gloves to protect your skin, after which you eased the tray out and set it on top of the cooling rack nearby like you were handling pure gold.

Once they were balanced and safe, you threw off the gloves and belled, rhapsodic. 

“Yippee! Now, we wait for them to cool, I add the filling, and they’ll be ready to eat!”

Your poor benefactor behaved the way a child would: pouting and bordering on a tantrum. “Come onnnn already.” 

“He’s always like this, you said?” You turned to his best friend, who sent a sympathetic expression your way.

“Yes, and you’ll be living with him for the time being. I wish you the most sincere good luck I can muster.”

“Woooow, just throwing me to the wolves, huh? Er, wolf, singular,” you placed your hands on your hips.

Something flashed behind his pupils, his lips curling as he rested his chin on the back of his overlapped hands, and you felt a chill shoot up your spine.

Oh. Oh, dear.

His voice took on a husky croon, solidifying your place in hell. “Who said I’m not a wolf, too?” 

Satoru blew air through his lips. “Oooh, edgy, how scary.”

“Shut it, Moon Moon,” Suguru snarled at him, all edge lost.

You involuntarily cackled at the lackluster insult. How fitting.

They certainly had the physiques of wolves. On the contrary, their personalities reminded you of cats. Or, rather, Satoru was a cat, and Suguru was a fox. His narrow, sly eyes had all the hallmarks of a kitsune in disguise, swishing tails hidden from sight, visible only to those enlightened. A stalker, one to hide in the bushes, crepuscular, using the depths of twilight to mask his measured movements.

Then there was Satoru.

A Ragdoll, made entirely of absurd amounts of fluff, sass, confidence, and a healthy dose of vainglory. An oversized animal that thought he was still a lap kitten, deserving of all your attention and energy. Trying to push him off your legs that were quickly losing blood supply was nothing short of criminal and a villainous sin. 

Where the black fox was stealth and meticulous perspicacity, the Ragdoll was the type to walk into a room it knows you aren’t in and yell at the top of its lungs to summon you.

He’d steal your chair, just so you’re forced to interact with him, even if it meant shooing him out of the seat (assuming he’d be willing to give it up, which was often a resounding no). Your food? No, you’re mistaken, that’s his food, he’s just being charitable and altruistic by allowing you to eat it. You should have been thanking him with your forehead on the floor.

God-complex ass. Lovable ass – phrasing.

 “Heyyyyy,” the lovable ass gave you puppy-dog eyes. “What flavor did you make the macarons?”

“Didn’t you get to taste the batter that was on my cheek?” You jammed away any lingering feelings bringing up that little incident might have tried to rear.

“It wasn’t enough,” he squalled. “C’mon, just tell me!”

You shook your head. “You’ll just have to wait. I gotta leave something a surprise, don’t I?” You doubted it’d be hard to guess, since you hadn’t gone out to buy any new flavor extracts.

“No!” Satoru shouted at the same time as Suguru said (much more calmly), “yes.”

The two boys scowled at one another, devil and angel respectively, tugging you in two directions. 

There was a vague memory that flashed behind your eyes, though you weren’t sure if it truly was one. An inception, a memory of a memory of a dream forgotten erstwhile. A snapshot of two boys arguing that bore a remarkable resemblance to the ones before you. A ball tightly gripped, a threat heavy, a silence haunting. 

It was gone as apace as it came, ceding only a ghost of a memento to a past you did not live.

Boys, you carped internally. At this point, it was definitely possible Satoru would combust if he didn’t get to stuff his mouth with your baked goods. Lucky for him, they were finally ready to be assembled, a task that went by surprisingly speedily.

Probably because they had shut up and let you focus, rather than distracting you. Two rows of sandwich halves flipped over, generous dollops of frosting applied after you packed it into a baggie, the other halves placed on top, and–

“Voila!” You sang as you carried the plate of neatly piled rounds of pink to the island. “Bon appétit, mes messieurs. J'espère que vous l'appréciez.”

“Oooh, French,” Gojo swooned as he studied the plate. “Tryin’ to seduce us, pretty girl?”

You picked up on his unexpected patience, having expected him to dive for the snacks once presented. “So, now you’re taking your time?” You crossed your arms.

He shushed you – “did you just shush me!?” – as he canted his head this way and that, observing the coralish-red pastries from every angle. “This is a vital part of the process. I’m checking the quality–”

“Satoru, I will beat your ass.”

“–and appearance. Presentation is important, ya know?”

The raven on the next seat over smacked him upside the head. “Would it kill you to have some semblance of courtesy and respect? She baked for you, try to be polite for once.”

Satoru growled as he rubbed the spot he was hit. “It’s called honesty. Some view it as the ultimate form of kindness. I heard it from a wise man once.”

Suguru’s brow twitched, irked by his audacity. “You can’t just quote your own words and call yourself wise.”

“I can, will, and did,” he proclaimed as he picked up one of the sandwiches and popped it into his mouth. Didn’t even bother to nibble or take a diligent bite, nope, right down the hatch it went.

You swear your adrenaline spiked at his reaction.

Satoru moaned like a college girl getting her cunt licked for the first time, good lord. The sound genuinely caught you completely off guard, impressed by how high-pitched his voice could go. You knew you were good at making them, but you weren’t sure they were that toothsome.

“I take back everything I said,” he confessed around the confection, still moaning. “The wait was so much more than worth it.”

“There’s no need to exaggerate to show your appreciation, either, Satoru. It comes off as insincere,” Suguru sniffled as he plucked up a sugary sandwich and examined it, holding it between his fingers. It looked comically small in his large grasp. “Though, I’m sure that…”

You could visualize his words dying on his tongue as he took a nibble and stiffened in place, bewilderment dawning on him. Each character tumbled away, lost on the same path his train of thought vanished on.

Shit.

That response was bad. Right? It had to be bad, nothing joyous came from–

“Wow…”

“Right?” Satoru exclaimed loudly, clapping the man on the back. “Right!? And you thought I was exaggerating.”

“I stand corrected,” Suguru maundered. He stared down at his half-eaten food as if it held all the answers in the world.

Then proceeded to shove it in his mouth and snatch up a second one.

You were baffled, flattered, and skeptical. “You guys don’t have to pretend they’re good if you don’t like them.”

They paused mid-chew to pin you in place with their intense, dumbfounded veneration, and you regretted ever opening your mouth.

Gojo was acting like a man trapped in the middle of Death Valley during summer who stumbled across the one oasis that happened to not be a delusional mirage created from dehydration, heat stroke, and the blistering weather. His eyes, wide and unblinking, refused to move off of your face, like you’d just told him that, no, we can’t stop at the oasis for a sip of water.

Geto wasn’t any better. You got the sense that he would’ve taken less offense if you’d called his mother a monkey. Which is a hell of a leap, since you were talking about baked goods.

“You’re kidding, right?” Your host garbled around his food.

“You don’t have to act humble,” the other man disapproved. “These are really good. We aren’t lying.”

Your lips scrunched to the side in apprehension. Were they trying to spare your feelings? You were…distracted several times during the process. Maybe you added salt instead of sugar? Was powdered salt even a thing?

You wouldn’t know unless you tried them for yourself. You filched one, analyzed it, and took a cautious, tiny, itty-bitty nibble. Followed by a second, much larger chomp and released a relieved purl when nothing but berry treacliness met your tongue. 

You weren’t a worldstar chef by any means, but, ugh, you did make some pretty rockin’ macarons.

Satoru and Suguru obviously shared your sentiment – the first one even more so, and he wasn’t shy about showing it. Were they worth sounding like he just had the best orgasm of his life? Debatable, but you weren’t going to take that away from him.

Sure, you were enabling his sweet tooth to hell and back, but it meant you got to stay under a safe roof and beneath the cushy blankets of the guest room bed.

His enjoyment was a reward in its own right, too.

You’d make these every day if he wanted, if only to see the gleam of the pure, intoxicated, glucose-induced high in his dilated pupils.

Sugar was to him what catnip was to a kitty. Which was a dangerous realization for you. You’d have to tread the line of confections-related conversations carefully, lest you land yourself a job as his personal at-home baker.

Which actually wasn’t all that bad of an idea. You’d get to chill in a mansion with a hot spring in the backyard, cozily nestled higher up in the valley. It was decently cloistered, you could forget the existence of that stack of sticks under your name, and, hey, you might get away with not needing to pay rent! Win-win for everyone involved.

No, you were not willing to discuss the logistics behind that. Let a girl daydream, ladies deserve to fantasize about the wildest shit. Like becoming a sugar baby without needing to do anything nefarious. Was it so wrong to want to be spoiled?

A little voice, high-pitched and frightened, clued you in on a little clause in any contract you might consider signing: do not tie me down.

Alright, a little rephrasing was needed, then: was it so wrong to want to be spoiled, without the risk of being forced to remain in that position indefinitely?

Normally, you experienced a tightness in your chest when those kinds of words filtered into your consciousness, making a sense of cold spread from your solar plexus to your fingertips. It instantly changed your mood, made you go from cheery to withdrawn. 

Your soul housed a violent anathema whose sole purpose was to torment you with the notion that nowhere is safe. You can’t stay here, you can’t stay there, you can’t stay anywhere.

It reminded you of that one immortal snail hypothetical. No matter where you went, it would always follow you.

If that was the case, then, where was that feeling now?

The bickering boys in front of you, the idyllic mountains that curtained the shallow canyon, this cozy home and the terrifying one you owned, why didn’t they spur that fight-or-flight instinct in you? What was different about Japan, about this location?

Why did breathing feel so easy?

…How long would this sovranty last?

You elbowed aside that conversation for another time. You were going to enjoy every moment of this while you could. If you were at peace, you weren’t going to sabotage that. It was unique, foreign. No area, no city, no home had ever brought you this kind of emptiness in your head, and you were desperate to hold onto that feeling, to milk it dry.

Starting with this little moment of domesticity, sharing food with your…friends?

Friends. Friends who took a great liking to what you made with your own two hands.

You should sneak some away from Satoru to give to Granny, Shoko, and Utahime before he ate them all.

Oh, speaking of.

“Hey, Satoru,” you called out.

“Hm?”

“Are you and Iori-san exes?”

He ‘hah’d and Suguru coughed on his snack, nearly suffocating. “Nah, she wishes.”

You raised a brow. “She seems like she hates your guts.”

“She’s just jealous of my devilishly good features.”

Not trusting his story, you turned to Suguru, who was patting his chest. Bless the boy, he was always there to shed light on the truth.

With regards to making fun of Satoru, anyway.

“He antagonizes her,” he told you after choking down the frosting he partially inhaled. “Spends every second bullying and annoying her anytime they’re near each other. She also swings the other way.”

“Ahh, gotcha,” you thanked him, stepped over to Satoru, and flicked his forehead. You chided him as he clutched the spot with his hands and fussed dramatically. “Be nice to Iori-san!”

“Wh–” He glared up at you. “She’s just as mean! Why aren’t you shaming her?”

You planted your hands on your hips. “She’s your senior. Respect your elders.”

He jutted out his lower lip. “That’s so not fair. Aren’t elders supposed to be setting good examples for their kouhai? It’s her fault I’m like this!”

You and Suguru displayed twin deadpan lours. Raised brows, narrowed eyes, the whole nine yards.

Satoru grimaced. “Ugh, ew, don’t do that, that’s creepy.”

“What’s creepy?” You asked, perplexed.

“You two are matching, it’s weird.”

Suguru gave you a sidelong glance that you returned, judging the validity of Satoru’s claim.

You cracked first.

The edges of your mouth twitched and you pressed them together into a thin line, jaw tensing as you tried to maintain your composure. The corner of his mouth pulled up a millimeter and you popped, giggling against your hand as you faced away.

He shook his head and chuckled, the noise balmy and charming.

An amicable silence fell between the three of you, filled only with muted chewing and the occasional appreciative drone.

It may well have been inadvisable on your part to fall under the spell of the alluring siren that called you to drown in the depths of comfortable mundanity, to breathe in liquid mercury in the form of idle acceptance, but how could you not? 

When you had two magnetic entities drawing you in, giving you a taste of something so normal and natural when all you’d ever known before was diffidence, could you really be blamed for willingly closing your eyes and falling backwards off the cliff that once kept your footing stable? Could you be faulted for the rush of pure adrenaline that coursed through your veins when you gave in after resisting for so long and got to feel the wind bosoming your form the way a lover would?

You knew the ground was speeding up to break your fall, to eviscerate you, turn you into dust made of microscopic shards of glass, but you had plenty of time to pull the cord to your parachute. A little indulgence never hurt.

Right?

─────•(-•ʚɞ•-)•─────

“Good girl,” a voice murmured in your ear, sultry and seductive, praising you while you suckled lewdly on a pair of fingers that tasted sweet and rich and distinctly of berries. It sent chills all over your body, from your scalp, down your spine, all the way to your curled toes. “So needy, aren’t you?”

You nodded vehemently, breath hitching as plush lips traced the curve of your ear. You sucked harder, laving your tongue around and between the prodding appendages.

A different voice, no less enchanting and blazing, came from the figure that draped himself across your back, one arm wrapped around your midsection, his skin igneous against yours. “Greedy brat,” he cooed, his tresses of ivory tickling your temple and cheek. He slowly pulled his soaked fingers from your mouth, spreading them to display your saliva webbing between. “Just one man isn’t enough for you, huh? Need two to cure your insatiability? To fuck you stupid?”

“I–” you gasped, words caught in the back of your throat and fizzling away when his warm hand grasped your breast, wet digits pinching your nipple between his index and middle fingers. “Oh– fuck.”

Black kite eyes occupied your blurry vision, a bewitching smile lifting the corners of his lips. He came off as virtuous, a god amongst men, but the pure and raw hunger in his eyes promised only your corruption. 

A fallen angel, a deity that chose to paint his feathers midnight, to dive into the allure of sacrilege and build a throne for himself to sit upon. He chose to rule over this ungodly land of heathens and desires. To pull you down to the depths with him, that was his purpose.

His eyes vowed to drown you in them, to make you as lecherous for them as they were for you. To make you yearn and crave and need them. To have them pressed against your body, invading your veins, speaking sweet nothings into the bottomless, most primal part of you until you could think of nothing and no one but them.

His scorching fixation drew you to him, the elfin star reaching to be coaxed into his gravity, to be torn apart at the atoms by his bare hands.

The presence behind you was just as cosmic, tugging you the other way, trapped within a binary astral system that encircled you until all you knew, and would ever need to know, was their names. You were ensnared in their push and pull, hands held by each of theirs, pressed between leviathan celestial bodies, and there was nowhere else you’d rather to be.

You were Persephone to their Hades, both holding one half of the same pomegranate, tempting you to bite into each. A silent urge to sink your teeth into the rich fruit, let the acidic, covenant-binding juice of gods flow into your core, spread through your entire being until you belonged to them and they belonged to you. 

You hungered for it, wished to see and feel the coquelicot essence of the berry spill from your lips, curve over your chin, drip onto your bare breasts like fresh blood. 

You wished to have their tongues on your flesh, licking the circumfluous juice as if it was the ichor of life itself.

Deft hands slipped between your thighs, prying them apart. Cool air brushed against your flushed, dripping womanhood, drawing a sharp inhale from you. You squirmed when the hand on your breast shifted to tease and torment your other nipple, the arm still holding your midsection loosening enough to allow strumming fingers to walk down your stomach.

Past your navel, across your womb, over your mons, until–

You chirped when the pad of his middle finger slid through your heavily slicked folds and pressed directly onto your hypersensitive clit, lightly pushing back the hood to expose more of it, all on display for the raven before you.

The swan chuckled deeply against your back, sending the vibrations directly through your ribs and into your stuttering heart. “So sensitive,” he drawled, nipping at your pulse through the tender skin of your throat. “We barely even touched you and you’re already soaked, princess.”

Firm palms massaged your thighs, ensuring they stayed open, forbidding you from covering yourself. You were theirs to watch, to toy with, to covet and fuck and ruin. 

“Our poor, pretty angel. Desperate,” a wicked laugh escaped from lush lips that hovered just over your own, so close yet so far beyond reach.

“P-Please,” you shivered and whined when the finger on your burning, twitching button circled it lazily. “Fu-uck.”

“Use your words, sweetheart,” one of them instructed you – you no longer knew where they began and you ended. “Tell us what you want, and we might reward you.”

You took in a shaky, uneven breath, attempting to steady your voice. Hell, to find it at all. “Y-You. Need you. Please, gods– ah!”

“Which one, love?”

“Both! Both– both of you,” you choked out, bucking your hips against the hand cupping your heat. It wasn’t enough, you needed more, you needed them. All of them, every inch, every fraction of their beings melding with yours.

“Really, now?” A hot breath fluttered over your ear. “Such a spoiled little lover. Are you sure you can handle both of us?”

“Yes– oh, god – yes, please, ple-ase!”

You could feel their voices more than you could hear. One’s chest was flush to your spine, your nails digging into his forearms. The other breathed your air and gifted you with his own, a promise that you were only able to fill your lungs with oxygen because he allowed it. 

This was hell. It had to be. They were so close, so fucking close, but they weren’t giving you what you wanted. You asked so nicely, begged them, you were impatient, aching for them to the point it hurt.

“If you say so,” he – who? – huffed, amused. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

Their warmth and scents mixed with your own, blistering against your damp skin, scalding you from the inside out, and how ready you were to plunge into the waves of magma below. You were doomed the very moment you said yes, from the second your eyes met theirs. You were destined to fall from the heavens into their cocooning embrace, and you willingly leapt from the clouds, chasing after them where they awaited you with open arms.

The set of fingers on your clit left to graze your entrance in ringlets that were far too languid for your liking; another grasped your chin between them, tilting your head up to peer into vortices of lust, venery, and depravity, threatening to suck you in and never let you leave.

What they didn’t say in words, they commanded with their searing idées fixe; they molded you into the perfect doll for them, the captivating nymph that curled her fingers towards herself, luring them to join her in the goddess’ blessed pond. 

He leaned in, his soft pants fanning over your lips, right there, a millimeter more, almost–

You startled awake with a gasp, shooting upright onto your palms as you struggled to inhale and exhale properly. A thin sheen of sweat covered your entire body, making your exposed skin shimmer under the moonlight pouring in from your window. 

Your heart raced in your chest, and you took long seconds to grasp your bearings and figure out exactly what occurred. Your heavy lids batted, trying to ease the grit from them. Everything remained fuzzy, recollection failing you…

As you began to calm down, you shifted your legs and abruptly stopped, cringing. The answer came like a slap to your tit.

You weren’t just wet, you were submerged.

Someone could squeeze water out of a rag and it'd still be less wet than you. You were utterly sopping, soaked right through your panties, a sticky mess of slick coating your pussy and the insides of your thighs.

Great.

This forsaken song and dance again.

Your cunt throbbed, clenching and mourning the loss of your high. Your nipples were painfully stiff, your clit screamed for attention, and all you could do was fall back on the bed and spread out your arms in defeat.

A wet dream. You had a fucking wet dream. And not just any wet dream, no, of course not. Nothing in life was ever simple. Not for you, never for you.

You groaned and pressed your hands against your face, trying to wrest away the image of Suguru and Satoru drawing you thin between them, turning you into a babbling, pleading mess, pining for the attention of your gods. The heels of your palms dug into your eyes until spots appeared, but all that did was make the images more clear.

Hell. Now what?

Feeling particularly uncomfortable, you chose to start by shimmying your panties off and tossing them into your hamper without getting up, exhaling heavily as you glowered at nothing in particular and zoned out.

Sure, you could try to go back to sleep, pretend it was possible and that you’d return to happy, not-lewd dreamland, act like your disgustingly blasphemous subconscious didn’t create the hottest dream you’ve ever had, but you knew that wasn’t going to work.

You grabbed your phone and squinted at the screen when you checked the time. 4:17 AM. Taking a bath at this hour would probably wake someone in the house. The better option was to grab a hand towel and use the sink to wipe yourself off, then lay awake and scroll mindlessly through your phone until you inevitably passed back out.

But…you felt so empty. And so fucking horny, it genuinely hurt. You didn’t know it was even possible to get this aroused, and you were paying the cost for it.

You worried your bottom lip between your teeth, nipping at the dry skin. Your fingers twitched at your side, fighting a war, debating.

…Once would be okay, right? Just once, to fix yourself up and get rid of any lingering ideas you had about the two boys. Yeah, that was okay. Probably. It’s not like they were going to know anyway, and you could go back to sleep after you took care of your…needs, then wake up as if none of this ever happened.

Alright. Yeah. Yeah, that’s fine. That’s the plan.

You swallowed thickly, noticing how viciously parched you were, but that could wait until you were done.

Your fingers tapped apprehensively against your stomach, yenning yet still uncertain. They trailed lower and lower, following the same path from your belly button to the apex of your thighs Satoru had taken in your delusion. A quickie. You’d be fast, and then forget this entirely.

You sucked in a hiss through your clenched teeth when your icy fingers brushed against your tender, swollen clit that was weeping for attention. Jesus, when was the last time you were this sore? This irriguous? Had you ever been?

You couldn’t tell if your fingers being cold made it worse or better. You weren’t sure why they were so frigid when the rest of you was combusting. All you could remember was a large, warm hand and addicting digits toying with you. This simply wasn’t sufficient in comparison – quite literally opposite in every way – but it was all you had to work with, so it would need to do.

You swore as you began rubbing the ticklish bundle in quick circles, your free hand swiftly shoving itself under your shirt to grasp your breast. You pinched, tugged, and twisted your nipple between your thumb and forefinger, lamenting the lack of satisfaction. It wasn’t fucking enough. Your digits felt too stiff, too glacial, for what you really wanted – what you urgently, critically, dolorously required.

You rubbed faster, pressed that sorry little nub down harder, dug your nails into your nipple, Christ, you were going to cry.

Why, why, why? You were right fucking there, on the cusp, more than ready to tumble off the cliff and let the swift fall break you into a million pieces.

Please, please, please! Please, fuck, just let me cum!

What were you missing? You had no trouble with this in the past, your hand was your best friend, now it was betraying you. Was your cunt too slippery? Was the frost of your touch driving your orgasm away? What was–

Your stilled as a sinful, dreadful thought crossed your mind.

This…all of this was caused by them. Not directly, but by proxy. It was because you were dreaming of them that you landed in this messy, painful spot. Your body forced you out of your own dream, effectively cutting off your lifeline of pleasure.

So, what if you…

You shook your head, winced, reconsidered, then repeated that process about a dozen more times. If you vowed that all this would remain here, in this moment, then there wasn’t really any harm in it, no?

You squeezed your eyes shut tight and slowly picked up the pace again, squirming under your own ministrations. You let yourself draw pictures behind your lids, visualizing the pair of boys, pretending it was their hands on you instead of your own. You picked up where your dream left off, the tick before Suguru’s lips were on yours. 

His hands massaging your thighs, teeth nipping at the tip of your tongue, kurobeni locks tickling your forehead and cheeks – it was shockingly realistic in sensation.

Satoru was playing your body like a harp, drawing and pulling on the threads of your being, strumming them until he was the reason you were writhing and panting and moaning in subdued notes on your bed that took more effort to contain than you’d ever care to admit.

Your high came mind-numbingly soon. Where you had been trying to wrench it from yourself with immense difficulty a minute ago, now you were teetering over the edge. You only had to do a smidgen more to reach your freefall.

It came naturally to you.

Whined, breathy, pitchy, louder than you had any permission to be, you uttered the two names that sent you careening from elysium’s clouds.

“Mmph– S-Sat-toru, Sugu–”

You were fairly certain you saw the eternal gardens of Eden somewhere between that nanosecond and the next. 

You broke like an over tightened violin bow, the hand twinging your tit shooting up through the collar of your shirt to slam against your mouth barely in time to muffle the piercing cry that tried to fly out from your bitten lips. Your muscles tensed, trembling violently. Your hips bucked against your hand, your back curved further than you thought possible, and your pussy squeezed around nothing so tightly that you believed if anything had been inside you, your pelvic floor would have cut off its circulation.

You rode out your ascent and dive for as long as you could, dragging it out with unsteady, arrhythmic, back-and-forth massaging on your twitching, overstimulated button until you lost all steam and flopped back onto the mattress, hands separating from your body like glue.

You panted heavily, staring up at the ceiling blankly, sprawled out as you tried to catch your breath. Your head was empty, limbs still shivering with aftershocks of the strongest orgasm you’ve had in a while.

You brought your arm over your face, watching your fingers glisten with your slick as you wiggled them around. The wetness sticking to your cunt and thighs was growing more and more uncomfortable by the second, too slippery without purpose for being so. The sheer amount of honey you produced was a disturbance on its own, but now you had to deal with the mess you made between your legs, on top of your post-nut clarity.

You needed God.

“What is wrong with me…” You mumbled as you rolled over to climb off the bed, feeling particularly disgusted with yourself. How the hell were you supposed to face Satoru and Suguru now that you had rubbed yourself off to the thought of not one, but both of them?

Shit, all of this because of that godsforsaken dream. 

You shuddered, heat flashing through your body at the memory, and you quickly smothered the kindling. You weren’t hankering for a second orgasm at this time.

You wiggled off the edge and eased yourself onto rickety legs, using the mattress for support while you gained back your strength. You turned cautiously to check the sheets, and nearly collapsed in relief when you found no evidence of the heinous crime you just committed atop it. 

God bless, you wouldn’t have to deal with trying to sneak the sheets into the laundry without getting caught, or come up with a passable lie to explain that the oddly damp and sticky patch wasn’t the remnants of your orgasm, nuh-uh, nope, not at all. 

You weren’t a very good liar when put on the spot.

Little victories.

You crept around, tugging the hem of your shirt down over your thighs as you located things to freshen up with, thankful that the article of clothing was long and baggy enough to cover your shame. The moon, round and silver, lit up your room a smidge too clearly for your liking. You really didn’t want to see yourself in any way for the time being.

The hall, unlike your room, was sorely lacking in light.

With a small towel and a change of panties in hand, you carefully eased open your door, and glanced both ways like you were a child sneaking off to steal candy from the kitchen. It was crepuscular as fuck, but you had to ensure there wasn’t anyone who could see in the dark. Unreasonable line of thought, but who cares.

Coast clear.

You booked it towards the bathroom on the tips of your toes, rushing as soundlessly as you could to dive behind the door to safety. You didn’t let yourself breathe until you closed and locked the barrier with minimal noise. Mission successful.

Your eyes squeezed shut at the suddenness of the bright light flooding the bathroom when you flicked the light switch, your fingers scurrying to hit the dimmer and un-blind yourself. Bleh. Pain.

After your eyes adjusted to the light, you took one glance at yourself in the mirror, in all your mussed-up-hair and flushed-cheek glory, and instantly swiveled your head away. If your face wasn’t burning before, it certainly was now.

Your reflection would just have to remain a mystery until you could stand to look yourself in the eyes again. Which could take a long while.

“You depraved bitch,” you muttered to yourself scornfully as you turned on the sink, waited until the water was hot, and dunked the towel in it. “Goddamn slut. One was bad enough, but two?” 

You worked quickly to wipe the tacky smears from your skin at the crest of your thighs, fussing and reprimanding yourself all the way through.

Unfortunately, as much as you wanted it, your shower would have to wait until morning. You feared boiling the shame off your flesh at this hour would be too conspicuous. You grimaced as the fibers of the cloth rubbed a smidge too harshly against your tender sensory nerves, and you took extra care to not aggravate your horniness again. 

The band of your panties snapped against your hips, grounding you further, and you decided you’d been punished enough (for now).

Back in your room, you flopped onto the bed face down, abnormally fatigued. The forbidden rendezvous in the eclipse of the waking world and following nutty nut (heh) wiped you out from head to toe. Not bothering to pull the blanket back over your yet-to-cool-down figure, you nuzzled into your pillow, and conked the hell out.

─────•(-•ʚɞ•-)•─────

You had mixed feelings on how rested you felt when you woke up.

On one hand, it was delightful to open your eyes and feel energized after a yawn and a ferocious cat stretch, but the way you got there made it feel like an undeserved good night’s sleep. 

You mulled over it as you zoned out in front of the pot on the stove while you waited for the buckwheat you tossed in to finish cooking. 

Technically speaking, you did use the boys to get your rocks off, but could that really qualify for the ‘morally incorrect’ category when it was not soundly your fault? It’s not like you sat down and had a heart-to-heart discussion with your brain and pussy about giving into your perversion within the safety of your insanity.

Okay, insanity was a stretch, and definitely an over exaggeration, but it was your best excuse. Some cog had to have been knocked loose in your thick skull for you to succumb to your cravings the way you did. 

Or, you know, you argued with yourself, maybe it’s because you live with a stupidly hot guy and he has a stupidly hot best friend? Is it really so hard to imagine you’d get horny over a couple of model-worthy men?

Yes. Yes, it is.

You ran your hand through your hair as you switched off the heat on the stove, deeming the seed ready, and retrieved a bowl from a nearby cupboard.

You weren’t one to fall so low. If you masturbated to anyone, which was already rare as gold, it was some rando on a porn site. You didn’t know them, they didn’t know you – hell, they didn’t know you existed for starters. Free content without being perceived, win-win for everyone.

What curse infected your system last night to make you do the things you did? 

Gods, it was a really good orgasm, though.

It sat on the forefront of your mind the whole morning as you went through your routine. As you showered, got dressed, washed your face, brushed your teeth, and now, as you made what was basically brunch given the hour. You were having a tug-of-war with yourself, which was cool and all, but why the hell were Satoru and Suguru the ones on your shoulders debating your moral compass?

Debating was generous. It was more so Suguru reassuring you, telling you that it was alright, just a miscue in your judgement, everyone had a moment like that at least once or twice in their life. Satoru, meanwhile, took great delight in howling like an incubus and teasing you relentlessly about your misfortune.

Neither were actively discouraging you from being a degenerate, but you pined for death regardless.

Unintelligible inveighs spilled from your lips, aimed at nobody in particular as you scooped the buckwheat into your bowl, poured milk in with it, and sprinkled sugar overtop. You were mildly gratified to see Gojo had the seed, as your childhood comfort meal would aid in overcoming your newfound psychological complications.

“What's that?” Gojo's voice scared the balls off you as he spoke directly into your ear, bowing over your back. You physically felt them pop off and roll away like wayward marbles, never to be seen again.

Metaphorically. And–

Oh, god, Gojo.

How the hell does a giraffe manage to move around like a mouse?

You can do this. This is fine. You totally didn’t have a sex dream about him and his best friend, not at all, how could anyone dare to think so? You only had to act normal. Act good, this was normal, you were normal. It wasn't weird. It's only weird if you make it w–

“Buckwheat cereal,” your mouth answered for you. You suppressed the urge to sag in relief when nothing atrocious came out of it. “It's good for you.”

“...Explain.”

You angled your head to face him, fighting down the gasp and blush that wanted to spark to life at his proximity. Oh, he was, like, right there. “It's cereal…but with buckwheat.”

A frown marred his pretty face. “Is it sweet?”

“To everyone's taste. But for how I make mine, yes.”

“Lemme try.”

Your body moved on its own without any instruction – or permission – from your nervous system. You scooped up a spoonful of the cereal and brought it to his mouth as he stayed positioned behind you.

Which was a horrible fucking mistake.

His hands grasped your hips to hold you steady as he actually said ‘nom’ and closed his luscious, puffy, pink lips around the utensil. 

Oh, my god.

If you thought the dream was bad.

He pulled away from it, though didn't retract his hands as he contemplated your choice in food, chewing slowly. He gulped too freaking loud, and beamed childishly. “More.”

You scoffed and lightly bumped your hips back into his, pulling a muffled grunt from him (oops). “Get your own. There's plenty on the stove.”

You weren’t sure if it was reprieve or disappointment that filled you when he released you and stepped away, inspecting the pot on the stove. “How do you make it?”

“Scoop some into a bowl, add milk and sugar. Boom, buckwheat cereal.”

“Is it really that simple?”

You snorted. “Yes, Satoru, it is. The only ‘hard’ part is cooking the ‘wheat itself, which is kinda like making rice.”

“Huh,” the boy vocalized as he followed your instructions. “Won’t the milk make it cold, though? Or is it supposed to be?”

“Again, it’s to everyone’s taste. You can heat up the milk if you want it to be warm. Buckwheat is surprisingly versatile,” you briefed. “High in fiber, antioxidants, anti-inflammatory, and – now that I think about it, it could be especially good for you, since it can help manage blood sugar levels.”

“Nerd,” he quipped.

You scoffed as you spooned some into your mouth and oh shit, oh fuck, this was the same spoon he used, was this an indirect kiss? Was this weird? He didn’t seem to care as he grabbed his own utensil and propped himself up against the counter with his lower back.

This is fine, you said as you banged your head repeatedly on the walls of your mental prison.

Pretend, pretend, pretend. Confidence was basically just really good lying. “Excuse me for being weirdly curious and just collecting random fun facts.”

He quirked a brow, eating up his own bowl. “Oh, that’s it?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Satoru plainly shrugged. “Thought you might have been someone obsessed with nutrition facts or something.”

“I mean, I try to be a little careful about what I eat, but I’m not gonna sit and make calculations on every little thing I shove down my throat.”

A cruel sort of evilness curled the corners of his lips. “Is that so?”

You were going to shoot him one of these days for making you nearly inhale a kernel. Figuratively, duh, but nevertheless. Or perhaps literally. Whichever came first.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re annoying?” You probed.

His grin grew, as if this was something he was proud of. “Plenty, but none as cute as you.”

What a novel and unique method for making your cereal hot, using you as a human fucking conductor. No wonder the messy thing between your legs controlled your subconscious. It was Satoru’s fault all along.

You felt a mite less guilty about using his face as spank bank material.

“I’ll add ‘incorrigible flirt’ to the record, then,” you chuntered.

“And ‘good looks’,” he inputted.

You mimed writing. “E-go-tis-tic and con-cei-ted…”

“Oi!” He jutted out his lower lip. “O’, cruel temptress, you wound this one. You’re lucky I like you.”

A sizable chunk of your food attempted to get stuck in your throat, forced down only by sheer will alone. You froze, waiting for the world to collapse, for the walls to cave in, for the adrenaline to drown you in anxiety, for the air-raid sirens to start blaring. You waited, and waited, and waited.

Nothing came from his confession. It was a light, playful thing, sort of meaningless in the grand scheme of things. Your fight-or-flight had been triggered by less before, but…

Two seconds was all you allowed yourself to hesitate for, lest you look the fool. Two seconds of atypical…normalcy.

“You’ve known me for, what, three days?” You pointed out.

Satoru scraped up the last bit of his food and placed the bowl down to rest his weight on his elbows that he set on the marble surface behind him. “I’ve got good instincts. Gut feeling says you’re interesting, and I like your vibes. That’s all I need,” he disclosed.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel the same way. He was…easy, for lack of a better word. Talking to him came effortlessly, with lively chatter and content silence in the gaps between conversations.

Trust your gut instincts.

“Feeling’s mutual,” you admitted, softer.

That earned you a brilliant smile, stretched from ear to ear, and it made something docile and tender flutter in your heart. Not the rapid palpitations of attraction or flusteredness, no. Rather, it resembled a tea light, something mellow and snug. 

Seeing him happy makes you happy.

You didn’t get long to dwell on it. “Hey, you still wanna use the onsen?”

His invitation wiped out all your brooding thoughts like a whipping gale, replacing it all with sheer zeal and glee. The moment you’d been waiting for! Now you didn’t have to awkwardly ask!

“Uh, yes? Hello? Is that even a question?” You gawked.

The pale-haired man simpered as he took your bowl from you – oh, when did that get empty? – and nodded towards your room. “Got a swimsuit?”

Thank the ever blooming stars above, you did.

“Yes!” It was taking everything in you to not start bouncing around like an overjoyed rabbit. The urge to zoomies was strong with this one.

“Great! There’s a shower outside and on the right, just past the partition when you go out the back,” he instructed. “Tradition calls for bathing in the nude, but I’ll spare you from that this time.”

Fuck ye– this time?

You were already moving along, shouting a high pitched ‘thank you!’ over your shoulder as you darted towards your room to retrieve a towel and your bathing suit, forfeiting your chance to voice that concern aloud. He was likely teasing you anyhow, and there was only so much flirting you could take before you’d combust.

You had no intention of testing your mental fortitude. Not until you got to turn into a boneless puddle of jelly beans in the onsen.

Was there some way to see a scoreboard of your times for ripping off your clothes? Because you were fairly certain this time would contend for first place with the time you tried the shower here for the first time. And, on top of that, you know that cute swimsuit you got eons ago, thinking you’d have a ‘hot girl summer’, only to never once wear it? You finally had a reason to pull it on and pose in front of the mirror in your room!

A tad late (or early?) for a hot girl summer, but damn, you looked good.

Satoru was nowhere to be seen when you skedaddled out of your as-of-current sanctuary, which permitted you to jog across the house to the back door on your tiptoes like a villain in a cartoon. You even did the evil little giggle, too.

The trees surrounding the backyard provided abundant protection from any potential gales, but the shade they shed made goosebumps rise all over your body from the chill, urging you to speed over to where the outdoor shower was to race your ass into the hot spring.

The shower itself was gorgeous. Dark, slat-wood tiles acted as protective walls, giving you decent privacy for a quick rinse. And the water?

Heaven.

Your only experience with outdoor showers before had been those super shitty beach ones, the type that half-sprayed, half-poured freezing cold water on you that did fuck all to get any sand or dirt off you. Plus, they were out in the middle of the beach anyway, so you’d end up getting sand on your soles afterwards anyway.

You were not expecting the water to be heated, or the ground to be free of debris (how far your standards have fallen), or anything beyond just a pole that water came out of.

Rich people. You gotta suck up to them more often, dignity be damned.

But you had a delightful bonus! You didn’t have to suck up to Satoru for these benefits! It remained to be seen what you would have to do after your free trial expired, but three days in, and you were more than ready to suck his dick to keep sitting pretty and living the life.

Okay, too far, but could you be blamed?

No. Most certainly not. No, you were not open for debate on this. You knew anyone else would think the same.

You hosed yourself down as thoroughly as your impatient self could handle, lest you perish before you got the chance to get a taste of rapture. Apparently, though, Satoru was faster. 

Shock-white hair, dripping at the tips that had already begun collecting steam, alerted you to his presence as you tossed your towel onto a nearby bench. You had turned into a shivering mess in the seconds it took you to walk over and you were greatly looking forward to the deliciously painful sting that came from transitioning into hot water while cold.

He tilted his head back with that giraffe neck of his, the curious ‘oh’ of his mouth maturing into a smirk big enough to make dimples appear in his cheeks.

“There you are!” He called out. “You took forever, thought you slipped and died or something. Get in already, the temp is purrrrfect.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” you retorted as you sat down on the edge of the basin and dipped your feet in, hissed like a demonic cat wrangled from hell, then slipped in completely. Shudders wracked up your entire body, scalding you from head to toe – ah, but then, bliss. “Fuuuckkk…”

“Feels good, right?” He chortled and you nodded, your eyes slipping shut.

“God, it feels so good,” you slurred out contentedly as you sank down lower into the wonderfully hot piscina. You set the underside of the back of your skull on the ledge behind you and let yourself turn into a happy little jellyfish. “You’re so lucky.”

Satoru scoffed. You peeked one eye open. “I don’t actually get the chance to use it all that much nowadays.”

Your lips pursed in a pout. “Why not? You rich kids don’t have to work, right?”

“I am the heir to the Gojo clan,” he reinformed you. “My dad’s still kickin’, so he does all the major shit, thankfully, but I basically have to be on-call. Boring ass meetings, talking to even more boring ass people about,” he rotated his hand in a general all of this motion, “boring ass shit.”

You sat up properly, suddenly hyper aware of your position and whose company you were in. “Is it difficult?”

He tipped his head side to side, working out a crick. “Eh, nothing I can’t handle. I’ve known I’ll eventually inherit the family business since I was a kid, so I’ve been exposed to it all pretty much since the day I could walk.”

Guilt was knocking on the door of your sternum. Lifelong misconceptions of trust fund babies led you to have a mild prejudice against them. Social media didn’t help, with all sorts of platforms hosting blogs for the filthy rich who posted all hours of the day. Were all rich kids destined for the same, or was it only a few, like Satoru?

How could a petty commoner like you ever hope to understand?

You could start by learning.

“What’s the family business, if you don’t mind me asking?” You scooted closer.

“Politics,” he said as he propped his arms up on the stone behind him. “Like I said, boring shit.”

Ugh, politics. No wonder he was so disinterested, you would be, too. “How long has your clan been around?”

He blew air out past his lips, counting in his head. “Some one-thousand years, I think?”

“Yeesh,” you fluttered your lashes. “So you come from old old money, huh?”

“Ee-yup, pretty much,” he crooned, doing a complete flip in attitude from ennui to playing the part of charmer. “Which means I have plenty to spoil you with, pretty girl.” 

You rolled your eyes and cupped water in your hands to splash him. He bayed in offense and splashed you right back, soaking your hair and face aggressively. He cackled like a mad man as you wiped the mineral water off your scowling features. That didn’t count, his hands were way bigger than yours.

He dipped a finger under one lens of his shades, rubbing away whatever liquid had gotten caught beneath, giving you the perfect segue to probe about them.

“Why are you wearing those glasses all the time? Can you even see through them with all this steam?” You inquired skeptically.

Satoru tapped his left cheek. “Sensitive eyes.”

“Or,” you proposed an alternative, because that was too easy, “you’re hiding something.”

His lips spread in a compelling grin. “Why don’t you come and find out?”

Don’t mind if I do.

You reached for his sunglasses, wiggling your fingers like you were about to cast some spell on him with a witchy smile. You expected him to maneuver away, angle his head so you couldn't actually get them, but he surprised you when he let you take them without any struggle.

You slid them off the bridge of his nose, fingertips brushing porcelain skin, and revealed the true hue of his eyes to you for the first time.

Your breath left your chest in a swift exhale, the vacuum of space stealing the air from your lungs.

You recalled what you thought of the sky the first time you had seen it from Satoru’s backyard, through a seamlessly cut circle sitting above the treeline. You remembered how you thought it was the brightest blue you had ever seen.

You took it all back.

This was the brightest blue you’d ever seen.

Prismatic eyes peered back at you, shimmering and shifting between shades of an early winter morning and oceanic depths, galvanic and otherworldly. You didn’t know how it was possible to have irises so vibrant and enthralling, how they caught the light and shattered it infinitesimally, scattering and dancing about like glittering snow. You swore that if you sought hard enough, you could see the crystalline shards glisten like rainbows whenever rays of luminescence caught them at the right angle.

At their darkest, they were cresting, bioluminescent waves crashing over the shore of a chilly evening on a beach, or a bouquet of blue orchids, or the celestial eons above when they began to shift from midnight to dawn, before the sun had awoken.

At their lightest, they were diamonds, multifaceted and nearly iridescent. The shimmering of a fairy’s wings, the first sip of spring, the water of the everblue hot spring behind his home as it subsumed you – calming, serene, warm. You yearned to take a deep breath, dive under the water’s cusp, and remain there forever.

A seraphim’s wings beat, thousands of eyes blessing with eldritch purity, each centered on you.

From the cascading snowdrift of his nitrogen-dipped lashes flocked with millions of ice crystals, to the gems he called irises, down to the voids of his pupils as they dilated, consuming pools of excruciating delphinium into trenchant rings.

They threatened to sink and drown you in their zeros, to poison you with a drop added to your wine, and you'd swallow all of it down in large swigs and thank him for it. You’d do anything to feel his hyperborean venom in your bloodstream.

You wondered if they collected sunlight during the day and glowed in the pitch of night, reflecting like vitreous ponds filled with veiled secrets known only to gods and the man in front of you, the one that ruled above them all.

He could make the boughs of celestia bend and lower for him, as if kneeling to respect their king. He could buckle any will with just a brief coup d'œil, make the strongest, most powerful people grovel at his feet, make the choirs of the universe sing for him and him alone, anything he desired.

But, he chose to lay his sights on you with playful mirth and gleaming excitement glissading within them.

“Careful, princess,” he preened, migrating towards you, a hunter stalking his prey. “Keep looking at me like that and I might get shy.”

Speckles of sweat slipped off the high curves of his cheekbones, dotting his forehead and temples, plastering his lily-white hair to his fair skin, and you decided on the spot that you were a slave to Gojo Satoru.

Ruin me.

Your lips tingled, parted as you beheld him in latria, begging to feel his upon yours. He was there, nearing, close, closer, closer–

“Ah, there you two are,” you jumped away from Satoru like he was a scorching bonfire you nearly leapt head first into, Suguru’s voice snapping you out of your muzzy revere.

You could have sworn you heard the boy you so nearly touched swear something foul under his breath, but you were too busy dying inside to pay attention. You whipped around, your fingers clasping the rocky shelf of the spring hard enough to break through it, gripping to it for dear life. Focusing on Geto as he approached grounded you and gave you a modicum of the stability you needed to recover because holy shit, you were about to kiss his best friend, what the hell is wrong with you.

“I heard back from Uncle Han,” Suguru updated you as he took a knee on the mildly damp stone in front of where you were peeking up from the hot spring. “He’s an acquaintance in the construction business. He said he can come over sometime tomorrow morning to inspect your house, just to see the condition it’s in. He won’t have any free hands soon, but if the thing is in a decent enough state, we could get started on it ourselves.”

“‘We’?” You tilted your head askance.

He raised a brow. “Yes, we. You, Satoru, me. What, did you think we were going to let you do it alone?”

“It’s just…” You chewed the inside of your cheek. “I don’t know how much to pay you.”

“Pay us?”

“Yeah,” you flicked your sight between him and Satoru. “Plus, I’d feel bad making you work for me.”

His forehead creased as if you were saying something completely absurd. “Who said that we’re charging you, or that you’re making us work for you?”

Now it was your turn to be taken aback. “Uh, because it’s labor? Aren’t you guys busy?”

Suguru arched forward a fraction, maintaining intense eye contact that refused to abate, seriousness etched into the tempered chocolate of his optics. They demanded your full attention, an unspoken command to meet his gaze and never look away unless he gave you permission. 

You feared he never would – or, perhaps, wished. 

“Satoru spends most of his days like a spoon-fed child who only has to occasionally go out of town to assist his dad, or fill out some paperwork when Gojo-san is too overwhelmed. I help out my folks with their farm in the mornings and sometimes an hour or two after noon. We have more free time than we know what to do with.”

Satoru sidled up to you, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you into his side. Everywhere his skin touched yours burned, hotter than the prickling, fervid loch submerging you below your ribcage. His beaming face entered your field of view, brilliant azures drowning out the rest of the world until only butterfly pea and black tea remained.

“It’ll be fun!” He touted, fingers squeezing your hip affectionately. “Tall, dark, and stupid over here’s right, we’ve been needing something to do.”

Mr. Tall, Dark, and Stupid’s expression dropped into a vexed glare. “Eat a dick and die, Satoru.”

“You first.”

“I’ll drown you in there.”

“Not if I strangle you.”

“Good luck reaching me, shitstick.”

As entertaining as their bickering was, you needed to say something before the very important conversation got completely swept away. You reached up to touch the dark-haired man’s hand as it hung lazily over his raised thigh, but stopped short when you saw liquid drip off your wrist. You didn’t want to get him wet, so you used that hand to draw his attention with a downward wave of your digits.

“Thank you, Geto,” the outer corners of your eyes crinkled.

His bristled temper died down, ire replaced with an irrefutable fondness in the gaze he directed at you. His hand flipped over and clasped yours, preventing you from withdrawing, unbothered by the dampness clinging to your heated palm. 

He looked at you like you were the only soul worthy of seeing the curve of his lips draw upwards to match yours, the only one whose knuckles he’d lift to graze a featherlight kiss to, the only one who’d be able to coax an unseen side from him without a fight, needing only to merely whisper his name.

Sealed with a velvety promise when it spilled from his tongue into the space reserved for you, them, and no other.

“Suguru.”

banner by cafekitsune ♥

taglist: @kimi01985

[ichoosechoasandbeingqueer]

Sneak Peak of The Darker Generation AU

In which Fili's emotional state is at breaking point and Kili shows his undying loyalty to his brother again.

Trigger Warnings: Notes of depression (light), self harming thoughts (light) and fits of rage, mentions of bulling.

...

When Fili woke up the next day he felt numb, if not, a little empty. He noted that he was alone in his bed when he languidly looked around, and the sun was creeping in through the window at a sluggish pace. The furs were tucked in around him and he assumed Kili had done it as he left. It was a small gesture, but it made his heart stop hurting for a small moment.

He was far too late to head down to the forges to help (something he was rather grateful for) and he would have to guess his scheduled classes with Balin would start soon.

The house was quiet enough for it to be empty but he didn’t move from his bed, his tired body tucking the blankets tighter against himself, not wanting to risk facing his uncle so soon after his outburst. He knew he would have to eventually however, and he closed his eyes again fighting an internal battle with his thoughts. He let out a loud huff as he spied some of the papers and lesson books strewn on the floor, a reminder of his anger last night and his now broken shelf.

As much as he wanted to hide from the world, the sight of the crinkled pages of his books made him cringe and get out of bed to fix them. Using the momentum of getting out of bed, he dressed, combed his hair back into a simple braid and wondered out the door of his family home. There was no point in putting off the inevitable after all.  

Moving emotionlessly through the streets he let his feet guide him to his whitebeard teacher. His body was on autopilot and he shrugged off the usual stares and whispers that followed him around town. Even the lingering snark of “goldilocks’ that echoed past him was ignored, the painful insult barley a scratch against the pain he held in his heart as he walked with his head bowed. He had no strength to defend himself against the sharp and accusing words of his more condemning dwarven peers.  

Kili had expressed his surprise when Fili had arrived for their lessons but he was thankful that instead of pressing on about what was wrong, Balin simply left him be. Two hours dozed on at a snail’s pace and Fili hadn’t leant a thing, letting his glossy eyes gaze over the paragraphs of written history without focus or interest. He could barely recognize the letters let alone read what was in front of him. 

Training with Dwalin had been the same thing. Almost robotically Fili forced his body through the elementary warm up moves and basic drills that started their sessions. The old warrior had been more concerned about what was wrong with him, having missed his presence at the forges that morning (and having to deal with a very distant Thorin), but as Dwalin wasn’t one for words himself, he took a stance in the ring and ordered the young prince to let himself unwind.

At first, his punches were just as weak as his heart felt. Numb and unfeeling, Fili’s knuckles barely met Dwalin’s palms, the sensation making him feel even more weak than the screaming doubts in his head. He thought about his uncles’ words for last night; the way he barely looked over his paper when he had spoken to him, the way he had been scolded for his prideful display he so rightful deserved to be proud of.

Neither darrow expected the livid snarl Fili let out as he began to hit out harder, his heavy limbs moving faster and stronger. Dwalin furrowed his brows together in concertation as the prince sped up, his fists working fast to block and protect his face.

It had felt different to anything the young prince had known before, striking against his teacher without restraint. He held no plan in his mind, no focus on how hard to hit or where to aim to take his opponent down the fastest. The only thing on the young darrows mind was to hit and hit hard.

Just like the night before, his cold heart had erupted into flames of anger and envy and pain. Fili could feel his skin tingle as he bared his teeth, uncaring and unrelenting, a tiny part of him relishing in his acidic like rage. It etched its way through him like a corruption until he enjoyed the burn in his system.

His muscles screamed and protested their abuse and far sooner than Fili would have liked, his body began to slow down. In one last ditch effort of fury, he reeled his fist back and pushed it forwards with a roar. It was primal and gut-wrenching and scratched his throat as it escaped, but it was enough to let everything out and as he sunk down to his knees, panting and shaking, the cold numbness seeped into his bones once more. Any feeling of aliveness or power drained from him as he sobbed into the itchy sand beneath him.

Kili was by his side in an instant and it made Fili feel sick at the concern that shone through his big brown eyes.

He didn’t deserve his brothers worry and comfort.

“Fili? What happened?” the younger asked slowly.

He could only shake his head in stubborn refusal, “I’m fine,”

“Your obviously not fine brother, you can tell me remember? I can help you,”

“What if I don’t want your help?” Fili spat back, bile in the back of his throat as he watched the words cut into the youngest Durin. He didn’t want to hurt his brother, but he couldn’t stand being looked at with such pity. 

He wanted to apologize and hold Kili close, to cry into his shoulder and beg him to forgive his pathetic display, to let himself be cared for and to feel safe. Instead, he pushed Kili off him and stormed out of the arena, purposely ignoring the two calling out after him. His tears blurred his vision and he gave into the dull throbbing of his heartbeat in his ears as his feet dragged him on.

He had lost track of the time as he walked and his instincts were barely aware that he had at some point walked into the woods that surrounded the small town. An itch in the back of his mind screamed that it wasn’t safe, that there were reports of wags and orcs in the area, another itch scoffed at its concern and cooed at him to go deeper, to get lost among to trees, to disappear.

Who would miss him after that pathetic display anyway?

It was well after dark when he registered the door he was standing in front of was his own. He had at somehow made it back.

He stared at the handle, unsure of what to do. Did he walk in? Did he knock? Did he turn away and brave a freezing night on the floor of the open forges?

He stood for another moment, the feel of his body swaying on his feet nauseating. He had not eaten since last night and he could feel a headache starting to form behind his eyes.  

Then, the door opened on its own accord, his uncle in the doorway blocking the light from inside. He looked his nephew up and down and took one of his smaller wrists in his hand, moving him gently and checking he wasn’t hurt.

He knew his uncle would not find anything however, the pain he was feeling was not etched on his skin.

“Where were you?” Thorin asked. His voice was quiet but Fili could hear the emotion behind it, how he was holding back his anger. Holding back his disappointment. The young prince swallowed and opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

“Dwalin and I searched for you for hours, do you know how late it is?”

He didn’t risk his voice this time, using all his strength to nod his head no.

“Its past midnight, Kili fell asleep waiting for you at the door,”

His uncle took a step to the side and sure enough, Kili was curled up on the mat beside the doorframe. His eyes were puffy and he was gripping one of Fili’s jackets in his sleep. He had obviously been waiting for him so he could wrap his eldest brother up in the warmth of his jacket.

In truth Fili hadn’t noticed the time or the cold as he had trudged along and his guilt from earlier tripled as he looked at Kili’s sleeping form at his feet. He looked between his uncle and the hallway in question.

“Inside,” was all Thorin said and Fili didn’t take another second, ducking his head and stepping into the house. “Your mother was worried sick; I could hardly get her to bed. Balin was searching the town, Dwalin searched the entire mountain. He told me what happened at training,”

Fili felt himself pale under his uncles watch. His hands clenched into fists and back in worry. He hadn’t even thought about that, about his uncle finding out about his rage and loss of control. He dared to look at Thorin’s face. It held no emotion, but he looked tired. Dark bags under his eyes and pale skin behind his greying beard, he looked rather how Fili felt actually.

“They went home about twenty minutes ago. You have a lot of apologizing to do in the morning,”

For the first time that night his voice worked and a croaked “Yes sir,” came out.

Thorin locked the door behind them and blew out the candle sitting on the dinning table. He said nothing more and with one last look of disappointment, he went upstairs.

Fili let out a shaky sigh and waddled over to his brother. In one swift movement he scooped him up from the floor and carried him up to his room.

Kili wriggled in his arms as he set him down on his bed.

“Fili?” he asked groggily, “Fee did you come back?”

“Aye dear brother, I came back. I’m so sorry, I had no idea the time or your worry,”

“Of course I was worried. You practically exploded on Dwalin and then ran away, why in Mahal’s name wouldn’t I worry?”

“I yelled at you, I pushed you away,”

“You were hurting,”

“No, you didn’t deserve that, no matter how I was feeling,”

Kili squinted at him through the darkness, “You’re an idiot, you know that?”

“Aye, I know” Fili agreed.

“I love you, you know that?”

That caught him off guard and he paused, silent and frowning. Kili had never been one to shy away from expressing his emotions, he wore his heart on his sleeve and reminded his family how much he cared about them regularly, but he always meant it when he said it and Fili felt truly treasured to hear the words come out of his mouth. It also made his stomach churn in shame. His brother loved him and all he had done recently had hurt him.    

“Fee,” his brother sighed taking his hand, “If you have to run away again, at least take me with you?”

Fili shook his head, “Why would you want to come?”

“Cause you’re my brother Fili. Where you go, I go, ok?”  

“Ok,” he finally agreed, not feeling at all deserving of his brother’s loyalty at the moment. He made a move to the door and Kili let out a distressed sound making him race right back to his brother.

“Just…” he stuttered, eyes wide as he looked between Fili and the door, “please don’t go again,”

A stinging pain caught in his heart and he nodded his head, sitting down and tugging off his heavy boots and socks. Wordlessly he took the jacket Kili had clutched in his hands and wrapped it around the two of them before tugging up Kili’s covers over their shoulders. 

He hugged his brother close and whispered apology after apology into the darkness. 

He would have to face his mother, his teachers and his uncle in the morning, but that fear paled in comparison to losing his brothers forgiveness. He knew he could face anything, as long as his brother was by his side.

[cangrellesteponme]

here for ya !

How was your teaching job ?

Do you take notes by hand or do you type it on the computer ?

Do you have any pets or do you wish you had any pets ?

teaching was mortifying and great! i almost passed out on day one (i am not exaggerating. i had my mentor take over the last five minutes of the class because my frail little body couldn't take it) but aside from that, i struggled a normal amount (so a lot. but i handled it) and did lots of cool things! i think some of the kids even liked my class a little. i even did a fun little exercise to help them memorise the comparative forms of adjectives and they did well. what i'm less happy about was dealing with colleagues, which was horribly hard, but i don't think i said or did anything terrible so they probably just think i'm a little weird but in a cute dumb intern way. i have no idea what my mentor thinks of me though. that freaks me out a little tbh.

(more things happened, and i have many complex thoughts and feelings about teaching, and l'éducation nationale, and what it is like to be in a collège REP+, and how excluded i felt at times, and the things i've heard, and the discomfort of being in power yet not, and all of those things. but that's. complicated.)

i'm much faster by hand, because long nails make typing slower, so i'm an old-fashioned pen and paper person most of the time! though for some of my classes (especially translation and literature) i occasionally take notes of my computer. but i remember things way better when i actually write them, so i should stop doing that

i've never had a pet, though i've kind of wanted a cat for most of my childhood. well, i'm bound to eventually have a dog, as my partner has one (we're a very serious thing thus their dog is my son through the holy bonds of qpr)... so i'm going to face that phobia (i'm being dramatic. it's fine). aside from that i think i would be fine with most animals, really - my favourites are snails though, that's been a thing since i was around three. but i don't really want them as pets. i think i'll just get my little dog son, maybe some kind of reptile i'll give a silly name to, that i'll be fine.

[albertonykus]

Doraemon Vol. 5 from The Complete Works of Fujiko F. Fujio

The stories in this one were published in 1972–1978. I found picking a highlights reel difficult here, because only a few entries stood out to me as obviously “iconic”. That’s not to say that the stories in this volume aren’t enjoyable, but it’s hard to identify any that had a noticeable impact on the rest of the franchise, or left an especially strong impression on me personally. Then again, these lists are always going to consist of arbitrary selections based on my own experience and biases, so I really have nothing to complain about.

“デンデンハウスは気楽だな” (“The Cozy Snail House”, 1975): Nobita’s mom falsely accuses him of hiding his exam paper, so Doraemon gives him a snail shell that he can retreat into as an act of protest. It’s soundproof, internally spacious, and nearly indestructible.

“ぼく、桃太郎のなんなのさ” (“What am I for Momotarō?”, 1975): The crossover story with Bakeru-kun. Bakeru enlists the help of Nobita and Doraemon to investigate whether the Japanese folktale of Momotarō might have been a true story.

“オーバーオーバー” (“Exaggerating Coat”, 1976): Nobita thinks going outside is boring, so Doraemon lends him a coat that makes him view everyday situations as an unfamiliar, thrilling adventure.

“お金のいらない世界” (“A World Without Money”, 1977): Nobita creates an alternate reality where money is undesirable: customers are given money in exchange for goods and services, workers hand money to their employers, beggars ask people to take their money, etc.

“ころばし屋” (“Knock-down Hitman”, 1977): To get revenge on Gian for bullying him, Nobita borrows a hitman robot from Doraemon. (It doesn’t actually kill its targets, but instead makes them fall down three times.) The trouble begins when Nobita accidentally becomes its target...

“ドロン葉” (“Camouflage Leaf”, 1978): Nobita helps an abused dog by giving it a leaf that grants transformation powers (based on Japanese folklore about raccoon dogs).

“あの日あの時あのダルマ” (“That Day, That Time, That Daruma Doll”, 1978): Nobita gets into retrieving long-lost objects using one of Doraemon’s machines. Doraemon is worried that Nobita will get lost in the past and neglect to move forward, but Nobita is inspired to work hard after finding a Daruma tilting doll given to him by his late grandmother.

[gendervapor14]

01746 birthday bash ~ day five ~ chapter 50: hopeless

content warnings: heavy angst, alcoholism word count: 577 words brief summary: my take on my favorite scene in law's backstory: rosinante breaking down in tears the night before he becomes just "cora".

happy birthday 01746. my sweet little fucked up story. i can't believe i created you. ♥

Crickets droned on. Law snored softly. Every page was a blur. The sea, the sky, it was all merging together.

Ten hospitals. Six months. All of it, equivalent to nothing.

The fire before him was crackling low, on its way to self-extinguishing. Still hot enough to render paper to ash, little orange worms of hot ember dancing along tattered edges. Lazily, his hand rustled around within the roomy pockets of his coat for any pages left behind. He hardly skimmed them before tossing them in.

“Enemy.” burned quickly. Of course the World Government tainted hospitals. I can’t believe how desperate they are.

“We needed a better plan.” was gobbled up eagerly by hungry flame. So inclined to cover up their own horrible misdeeds, they purposely miseducated trained professionals. People who are trusted with life itself.

“Marines.” fluttered into the fire.  I’ll never wear that justice coat again.

With a defeated belch, Rosinante stared at the sleeping snail planted on top of a stack of sea charts. Receiver firm in hand, anyway. “I wouldn’t pick up if I were you, either. I promised I wasn’t going to do anything stupid.” He mumbled, “Then I quit my mission for half a year. Never called, never looked for you.”

For a moment, he waited for a reply that would never come. Hung his head and let his heavy eyelids flutter shut. “I did exactly what I said I wouldn’t do anymore. I disappeared.”

The receiver hit the dirt without a sound. His hands fisted around the book of sea charts in his lap. His brother’s beloved sea charts. The solution, he thought, the diamond in the rough. He tore out a handful of pages and whipped them over the cliff’s edge, towards the sea. Ancient maps tore and fluttered in the wind until they clung to the surface of the water. Slowly breaking down, deteriorating.

And then, he downed the rest of that sweet bottle of white wine. The bottle he saved for months now, the cure bottle. The celebration bottle. Tasted bitter as hell.

What the hell am I doing…? I’m completely isolated now, forcing this poor kid to relive his horrible childhood, over and over again. I might as well have crucified him outside a church and lit a match. He stared at the blurring waves, legs folded up, moonlight turning dark feathers a glistening violet. His sickness is only getting worse. It’s not even the will of D driving me anymore. I don’t care about that anymore. I’m not sure I ever did.

When he dies, then what, Rosinante? What purpose do you have? You’ve turned your back on your family, blood and otherwise. There’s nothing left.

An aftershock of rage coursed through him. He swayed up to his feet, shoulders trembling. Threw the empty bottle against the rocky surface, hard, internally delighted with the sprinkle of glass, the shattering echo. The heat prickled then, sparked up from his sternum, clogged his throat, his nose. His eyes. I just…I feel so sorry for this damn kid. He’s got Flevance under his skin, his family’s death in his eyes, and my brother’s wretched strings tangled around every limb. He needs help, but it just seems so impossible…and if I give up…if I do nothing…he’s going to become just as miserably dangerous as Doflamingo. But what am I supposed to do? Love didn’t save Sengoku, Tsuru, or Sora from my stupidity. Love won't save Law from White Lead Disease.

read the full story here ♥

previous entry here!

[bestmessage]

International Snail Papers Day Messages and Quotes

Let us honor our newspapers by wishing everyone around us with inspiring quotes and sayings on newspapers. Share on Facebook, WhatsApp and Instagram the unique International Snail Papers Day messages, wishes and greetings to make this day a memorable one.

[gebryan]

HUGWIND! Day 97 (April 7, 2023)

HAPPY UNIVERSAL GLOBAL WORLD INTERNATIONAL NATIONAL Good Friday Day of Remembrance of The Victims of The Rwanda Genocide Hospital Admitting Clerks Beaver Snail Papers Karume Make The First Move Metric System Motherhood and Beauty Beer Coffee Cake Girl Me Too Nico No Housework Pet Health Insurance Poet in A Cupcake Public Television Walk to Work Health Marbles Day! Welcome to A New Daily Feature…

[ofbeautsandbeasts]

You're very welcome @jennyfair7!! 💖 So nice to see the snails again!

I'm surprised it finally got there. I believe I sent it on May 29th...so that's like 40 days in transit! 😮 The way I wrote the address probably delayed it...I didn't realize the back had such a weird format until it was time to write my card. I also didn't realize they required 3 stamps to send an international postcard or I would've saved more room for them.

Anywho, Peru was definitely an enchanting country and I'd highly recommend it to anyone reading this! 😁 5 years of Duolingo helped a lot, especially with reading instructions/signs and ordering food, but I was still pretty useless when people said things to me in Spanish (unless they enunciated and spoke slowly 😅) Fortunately if you stick to touristy areas, most people speak enough English that you can get by.

The main downsides to Peru were having to use bottled water all the time (for drinking and for brushing teeth), not being able to flush toilet paper, having to haggle with vendors (no prices on anything), avoiding iced drinks & salads, having to speak to the customs officer alone (they won't let you go with your s/o 😭), not having reliable hot water in the shower, and getting winded from climbing stairs in high altitude places. And most of the hotels weren't very soundproof, so I'd be woken up around 6am for one reason or another 🙃

Other than that, the ancient sites & works of art were mind-blowing and their culture is wonderful 🥰 They have plenty of interesting traditional foods, such as grilled alpaca, rotisserie chicken with aji amarillo, ceviche, rice with duck, jumbo corn, and chicha morada (I listed my top faves). We tried the guinea pig twice and it was better grilled than fried. In its fried form, it had a strange distinct taste, which I assume is simply guinea pig taste...but it was a bit off-putting. 😅 The Lima Airport has a fantastic food court. Their McDonald's even serves bone-in fried chicken comparable to a good Popeye's 🍗 I strongly recommend Pardo's and La Lucha 🤤

As awesome as Machu Picchu was, I enjoyed Sacsayhuaman even more because there were several remarkable natural rock formations in addition to the man-made stone walls, which are constructed of such huge rocks that it's difficult to fathom how the Incans put them together. It's also great being able to free-roam and not feel as crowded as I did at Machu Picchu. Not to mention, there were a bunch of llamas & alpacas that I could pet and take photos with 🦙

Another excellent place was Manos de la Comunidad, which was a free petting zoo in Cusco where you could feed the llamas, alpacas, vicuñas, and huanacos with long grasses and take photos with them. They also had two Andean Condors in a large enclosure and it was incredible seeing the male spread its wings! At the end of the tour is a huge store with high-quality alpaca & vicuña items. I wanted the vicuña plush made of vicuña fur for $160...but alas, it was simply too much. I settled for a smol alpaca fur bird plush for $15 instead 😆

If you're into erotic art, I'd recommend the Museo Larco in Lima and the Parque de la Fertilidad in Trujillo. The park has scaled-up statues of erotic ceramic vessels from the ancient Moche culture, but if you want to see the actual ceramic vessels, you'll have to go to the Museo Larco. Fascinating times 😂🍆

One last nice thing about Peru is you have sticker relief instead of sticker shock. Souvenirs, hotels, food, and tickets were so much cheaper there! I found the lowest souvenir prices in Cusco and the highest in Aguas Calientes (near Machu Picchu), but still reasonable 😎

Thank you so much for the postcard, @ofbeautsandbeasts ! It was such a nice surprise to receive in the (snail) mail 😁 Your trip to Peru sounds like it was amazing! I’d love to go there, someday 🦙🏔️ What was your favorite part?? Thanks again for thinking of me! 🥰

[dailysmalljobs]

Was Yoda a medieval monk? It takes a museum curator to tell you. Guardian Careers

New Post has been published on https://dailysmalljobs.com/was-yoda-a-medieval-monk-it-takes-a-museum-curator-to-tell-you-guardian-careers/

Was Yoda a medieval monk? It takes a museum curator to tell you. Guardian Careers

uUntil the advent of social media, being a curator at the British Library was a lonely, outside job. In many ways it still is for Julian Harrison, curator of pre-1600 historical manuscripts. Behind the scenes he cares for priceless collections that include copies of Beowulf, some of the world’s oldest Bibles, the Lindisfarne Gospels and Henry VIII’s state papers. He currently curates exhibitions such as Magna Carta: Law, Liberty, Legacy The difference for Harrison these days is that he does it all with a virtual audience of thousands.

Harrison has worked at the British Library since 2006 “I can’t imagine how we could communicate what we do without the occasional story in the media,” he says The transition began in 2010 when the library started an experimental blog to chart the digitization of Greek manuscripts. “It was a special thing for a special audience,” he added.

This pilot project was developed at the British Library Medieval Manuscripts Blog, a vivid and illuminating account of the curator’s life. “We use it to promote what we do,” Harrison said. “A popular post explains why we don’t wear white gloves when handling manuscripts, but we also strive for a non-academic readership. Our most popular post is Knight vs Snail which shows why images of armed knights fighting snails are common in illuminated manuscripts.”

These images have proved very popular online. “People often don’t realize how beautiful illuminated manuscripts are and how technically proficient they were in the Middle Ages,” he says. Then there are pictures with a comic twist. One of Harrison’s posts is entitled Lolcats of the Middle Ages, another features a doodle figure, curiously looking like Yoda from Star Wars. The images appeal to the same online audience, Harrison noted, that enjoys watching cats play the piano on YouTube.

When Harrison took over the Medieval Manuscripts blog it had two hit readers a day. Now its record daily traffic stands at 36,000. A supports this Twitter account With 23,400 followers, and it’s clear that rather than doing a quiet, hidden job, his daily life as a curator is being presented in a new, exciting way.

“We’ve got an incredibly international readership,” Harrison said. “We have visitors in every country you can think of with the exception of Antarctica, Greenland and North Korea. We get a lot of inquiries from people who want to do the same thing as us. Many young aspiring curators. social media Certainly the dynamic has changed.

Harrison talks about the enriching effect of social media; How it allows many people a peek into a world that was previously hidden from them. And just as Harrison found an audience by chronicling the life of a curator, James Rebanks, a shepherd charting his work at Lakeland Falls, attracted a formidable social media following with daily tweets.

Rebanks has built a social media following, tweeting about his work as a shepherd. Photo: PR

Rebanks tells me he’s long wanted to write about his work as a shepherd, a job still guided by the ancient rhythms of the annual calendar. There are spring, summer lambs as he sends his flock to fall, autumn fair and winter darkness. His life is closely tied to the landscape. “It wasn’t until 1998 or 1999 that I wrote for the magazine that we [shepherds] did,” he says, “but the Twitter part was completely accidental. It started when some friends encouraged me to tweet about the farm.

He wrote his first tweet on 18 January 2012, An image of his flock in fawn green falls under a dark winter sky, it set the tone for what followed. Beautiful pictures of sheep herding through skinny northern lanes, playful shots of his college at work, snippets of rural wisdom and insight. “I was nervous,” Rebanks says. “I started anonymously and didn’t appear at all in my first 13,000 tweets There are many shy and modest people in the society. I never post pictures of people I don’t approve of.”

But soon Rebanks was attracting a following, a Twitter swarm of her own that numbered in the tens, then hundreds, and then thousands. “It took a while to get to 700 followers,” he recalls. “Then it doubled in 2014 and now it’s really taken off.”

Today Rebanks has 57,000 followers on Twitter who travel with him to the falls and back to the market. Last month she tweeted about the birth of 10 sheepdogs, Posting a video clip to Vine That has been viewed 780,000 times. All this attention has propelled him into the mainstream. His first book this month, shepherd lifePublished by Penguin. It is currently being read as a Book of the Week on BBC Radio 4.

“The reason I’m doing this is because I think we’re the forgotten people in the landscape. The Lake District is the chocolate box, the picture postcard. People forget us. What I’m really doing on Twitter is ‘we’re still here’,” Rebanks said. is about an infectious enthusiasm about what you love and sharing it with other people.”

Like Harrison, Rebanks’ success lies in opening windows into hidden worlds, an enduring attraction of social media. This is something that novelist Clare King also tried to achieve. He had not previously documented his writing life but decided to Start a blog While he was working on what would be his first novel, rainbow at night,

Her posts chart the writing process, practical tips on the novelist’s craft, and her experiences in the publishing industry. “I didn’t really expect people to listen to me because there are so many writing blogs out there,” she explains. “But it was a way to publicly state my intentions and therefore hold myself accountable.”

This regular, well-crafted mediation by a working novelist found a like-minded, engaged audience on Twitter. Raja lifts the lid on an industry that many want to break into, but has long been considered mysterious and exclusive to outsiders. Have any of his readers or followers gone on to get their own publishing deals?

“Yes, many have and I am always happy to hear and share their good news. We all need a little cheerleading in this world,” she says.

Funded by Career Inspiration Hub Parenting jobs, all content is editorially independent except for pieces labeled “brought to you”. Find out more here,

Looking for a job? Browse Parenting jobs Or sign up Guardian Careers For latest job vacancies and career advice

#Yoda #medieval #monk #takes #museum #curator #Guardian #Careers

[thebirdandthebee]

Easy As

A Carmen Berzatto Universe

Vanessa Monaghan is the breath of fresh air that Carmen had been gasping for.

This was a request from my inbox, thank you for submitting!

Page 8: Salt n Vinegar

There were few thing better than coming over to Vanessa’s after a long day at the restaurant to see her laid out on the couch, a few candles lit, and the living room lights dimmed lowly.

She was scrolling on her phone, dressed in his sweatpants and one of her shirts, an open beer on the coffee table and a half-eaten bag of salt and vinegar chips.

“Carm?” She poked her head up over the back of the couch.

“Hi,” he greeted, stepping in, dropping his backpack and leaning over, kissing her. “Mm, vinegar.”

“Did you bring the goods?” She asked, eyeing his empty hands.

“Yeah, yeah, two beefs, no peppers, just onions,” he rattled off, showing her the brown paper bag.

“Actually three beefs if you think about it,” she winked, making him roll his eyes but blush nonetheless. “Get over here, I’m tryna sit in your lap,” she insisted. Carmen dropped his coat, running his hands through his hair. He managed to wash up pretty well at the restaurant before heading over to Vanessa’s, hating the smell that clung to his skin and clothes from time to time.

He crowded into her personal space, tucking her between his legs as he threw his feet up on the ottoman.

“How was your day?” She asked, unwrapping both of their sandwiches carefully, tucking the ends into the foil and napkins.

“Long, but good,” he shrugged. “We got slammed for lunch and we sold out our Thanksgiving to-go meals,” he listed off. “Next week Syd is hosting a pairing class and the food and wine writer from the Trib is coming.”

“Babe, that’s great!” She smiled, leaning back and kissing the underside of his jaw. “Does that mean you have the night off?” She asked.

“The night and the next morning,” he grinned. He slid his hand under the hem of her T-shirt, just tucking his fingertips into the waistband of his sweats. He didn’t realize how much of a skin-to-skin contact person he was until he got together with Vanessa. Now, it seemed foreign to be the same room and not have a hand on her in some form. “How was your day?” He picked up the beer she’d cracked open for him.

“Good, our intern class for this semester is winding down which is hard, but five of them have jobs lined up and we offered to my favorite one,” she smiled. “Ben, he’s a cutie and he works super hard. Next week we’re onboarding a new client, another restaurant,” she wiggled her eyebrows.

“Anybody I know?” he asked.

“Duck Wok, it’s a family place that’s opening up a second location,” she explained. “Food is really good but their branding and physical spaces need some help.”

She settled into his lap, chowing down on her sandwich as Carm ate his, and they both became enraptured in scrolling through the Tik Tok videos on her phone.

Half an hour had passed and she was still nibbling away at her chips.

Carm snagged a few himself, popping them in his mouth.

“I honestly don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat salt and vinegar chips,” he said, having a pretty good landscape of her snack storage at most times. He rarely ate a complete meal at home, but would rather ransack her pantry to down as many calories as he could before tucking into bed.

“I know, I haven’t had them in forever,” she agreed, scrolling. “I literally only ever crave them when I’m on my period – that and Swedish fish, but it’s been a while,” she shrugged.

The two returned to scrolling on her phone and she took another sip of beer.

A beat passed.

“…couldn’t be that long.” Carmen said, his mind inching forward at a snail’s pace.

Vanessa was silent, her mind, however, was whizzing by like an F1 race.

“It couldn’t have been that long, Vanessa,” Carmen said, not realizing he was repeating himself. “Because it happens every month,” he concluded in a scholarly manner.

Another beat passed.

“Vanessa?” he cleared his throat.

“Carmen,” her voice felt robotic and she dropped her hand, looking ahead at the wall in front of her. How long had it been? Vanessa meticulously got her period at the start of the month – she and her college roommates always joked that Aunt Flow came just in time to pay rent. It had been that way for years.

So did she get her period in October or not?

The she remembered the 48 hours of sex she and Carmen had over Halloweekend, with her winning The Bear’s costume contest when she dressed up as Carmy (it was very easy for her to source the look).

She hadn’t had her period since September. It was now November 8th.

“Carmen, we need to get a CVS now,” she said, sitting up fully and looking back at him with a wild expression. They jumped off the couch at the same time, the bag of chips flying in the air. He shoved his feet into his Crocs faster than she could get her boots on and twenty seconds later, they were wringing their hands in the building elevator.

Not much was communicated, but when the elevator doors dinged open, they set off toward the front of the building like they were being chased by Michael Meyers. Fortunately for them, there was a CVS just two blocks away settled between a Jersey Mike’s and a T-Mobile store.

“Fuck, which one do we get?” Carmen asked, holding up a ClearBlue and a First Response.

“Both, get them both,” Vanessa insisted, already chugging a giant Evian she’d pulled from the cooler. “I want one with words and one with lines,” she explained. Carmen swiped his cared through the cashier’s stand and while they didn’t run home the same way they ran to CVS, they certainly power walked.

Carmen sat on the edge of the bathtub as Vanessa filled two little shot glasses, setting them on the counter.

“Okay, I gotta dip it and then put the cap back on,” she read the instructions out loud, seemingly to herself. Carmen’s heart was beating out of his chest.

Had the bathroom always been this bright? Had the grout between the floor tiles always been gold? How odd, gold grout.

He looked up at Vanessa, who still had his coat wrapped around her and watched as she completed what looked like a silly little experiment. Now, she was glowing in the bathroom. After sticking the caps back on the tests, she set them on the counter and stepped back, staring at them intently.

“Three minutes,” she explained, looking over at Carmen, who seemed a lot calmer than she felt, at least, from the outside. Vanessa set the timer on her phone.

She stepped aside him and climbed into the bathtub, drawing her knees up to her chest.

“Have we not been careful enough?” She asked, “I mean my shot is supposed to be 99% effective.”

“And we only have sex like… what? 10 times a month?” He counted out on his fingers. “Maybe more?”

“More,” Vanessa agreed with a nod. A moment of silence passed. “Fuck,” she sighed.

“I can cut out of lunch shift all together,” Carmen said diligently.

“What?” Vanessa reared her head back.

“Syd can take over lunch, I can do mornings and then you can go to the office and we can trade off in the afternoon,” he rationalized.

Vanessa was stunned, but she melted shortly. She raised herself up to sit on the ledge beside him.

“Carm, you’re such a good man,” she smiled, holding his face in her hands. “But we’re not ready for this!” She sighed, “The Bear is rolling right now and I’m hitting my stride at work… and selfishly, I want you all to myself.” She searched his face for reaction.

“Whatever you want to do, I will support you 100%,” he replied. He romanticized, just for a moment, flipping pancakes in the morning, tucking schoolwork into a little backpack and sitting on the train – two little sneakers on the ground next to his. Maybe his blue eyes and her dark hair, or her brown eyes and his curls.

But he agreed, they weren’t ready. They hadn’t even been together a year yet and he felt the same – he wanted Vanessa to himself a while longer.

“You’re gonna be such a hot dad,” she laughed. Carmen’s cheeks flushed pink.

“This was actually me trying to trap you, because you’re gonna be a fuckin’ smokin’ hot mom,” Carmen said, causing her to laugh hard enough to bring tears to her eyes – or maybe the tears were already there.

“What are we doing?” She laughed, wiping one away as it just spilled over the edge of her lashes.

The phone timer went off.

“I guess we’ll find out,” he said, looking over at the counter where the two tests seemed bigger than before.

“I’ll take one, you take the other?” She offered. The climbed out of the bath slowly.

Vanessa picked up the ClearBlue, a wave of relief washing over her body.

“Negative,” she said, holding hers up to Carmen, who was staring down at his intently.

“Honestly, I don’t know what this means,” he held up the test with a lone vertical line.

“It’s negative,” she laughed, a weight lifting from her chest.

“Oh,” he blushed.

“Thank god,” she sighed, tossing the stick in the wastebasket, Carmen’s following shortly after. She could see the mixed emotions on his face and wrapped her arms around his middle. “One day,” she said, looking up at him gently.

“One day,” he agreed, “just not today.”

[lazarettta]

The Babysitter

Characters ( Ally Mayfair-Richards x Reader )

Rating (T) Word Count ( 2.9k) Warnings ( None, bad flirting, writing while intoxicated)

“For dinner! I'd love to come home with you for dinner.”

“Well what else would you be coming for?”

“Dessert.”

It was another late night studying on the living room floor of the Mayfair-Richards household. It wasn't uncommon for you to spend a majority of your nights here during the week and sometimes the weekend if you were needed and you usually weren't. Not that you would've minded anyway, your weekends weren't busy—mostly spent either dead asleep or trying to get out of plans you didn't want to be a part of anyway to get more sleep.

But it wasn't everyday that you were able to work for a Senator either, so even if you were busy, you weren't going to tell Ally Mayfair-Richards that. Not that she was a mean boss or anything, she was the Senator for crying out loud. And...okay yes, maybe you idolized the woman a little though it may be because you're studying law but honestly who wouldn't idolize this woman? She went through so much shit getting to this point in her life and career.

And she was hot. She was really hot but you kept it in your pants, but your eyeballs? Different story. You were just grateful that she chose you to watch her son when she was away, especially after you knocked over your entire cup of tea in her living room on the very carpet you were sitting on, and you were just a hot mess.

You thought you blew the whole thing, but the moment she produced the NDA to you a few days later when she called you back for a 'second interview' which included Ozzy this time, you'd been ecstatic and nearly knocked over another fucking cup but Ally was faster than you that time.

The giant TV was playing in front of you across the room but it was just the news channel but the volume was pretty low because Oz was asleep upstairs and you weren't really watching it anyway, you had your airpods in listening to Beyoncé and trying to create a decent scenario for one of the ten theories your professor assigned. It was due the next day so you thought picking the easiest one would work in your favor but it was turning out to be your worst nightmare—and you'd regretted choosing sleep over this, kind of.

You'd been so engrossed in your work, and music, you didn't hear the front door open and shut somewhere behind you or hear Ally quietly talking on the phone, her high heels click clacking on her polished wood floors as she came into the living room. Ally paused slightly at the sight of you and her coffee table, your books and yellow pads scattered everywhere, your head bopping slightly to whatever you were listening to as you scribbled away.

Ally smiled softly, and continued on her way upstairs to check on Ozzy knowing that she was going to find him safe, clean and fast asleep with a full belly. You'd been his nanny for four months now and you were such a blessing for Ally, she'd been reluctant to hire and trust another person with her baby boy but her career was too demanding and Ozzy was only ten. He could stay home alone for a few hours maybe, but not days or even a week or two.

After everything, Ally did have cameras around her home on the outside and she had one directly over the stairs because it overlooked the foyer and parts of the living room from an angle. She didn't want too many camera's inside of her home in case they were hacked but she wanted something at least.

Ozzy's room was dark except for his nightlight by the door and Ally quietly made her way inside, carefully sitting on the edge of the bed and pushing his curls from his face. She was ever thankful that he finally stopped having those horrible nightmares, it meant that she wasn't wasting her money on therapy sessions.

When Ally came back downstairs, you were predictably in the exact same spot you were in and Ally finally did away with her coat, placing it over the spine of the sofa and she stepped out of her heels before coming around and plopping herself down, careful not to knock over your stack of books.

The sudden movement startled you out of your skin and you quickly pulled out your airpods and looked at your boss, “Hey! Sorry, how long have you been home?”

Ally smiled down at you tiredly, practically sinking into the sofa and you could feel her exhaustion rolling off of her in waves, and you couldn't help but sympathize because damn, and you thought you were tired.

“I just got in, I'm sorry I didn't call earlier, things got busier than I expected and then everything went into chaos.”

You smirked when she threw her hands up half heartedly with a roll of her eyes, “Would a glass of wine help?”

“No, but it would definitely be a start if you join me for a glass?” she raised an eyebrow, and as much as you wanted to say yes you've already procrastinated enough and you really didn't need alcohol in your system around her lest you say something you absolutely shouldn't.

“I would but I have to finish this and it's getting late. Do you mind waiting up until my Uber gets here?”

“It's really late, you should just stay the night, (Y/n).” Ally sat up then, waving away your comment, though now she was closer and hovering over you a bit, “I'll take you home tomorrow after breakfast, that sound fair?”

It wouldn't be the first overnight stay but it would definitely be the first time that she'd be home too and you just couldn't say no to that even though you probably should have insisted more that you go home, but you accepted her offer without further debate. You'd gone back to your assignment, minus the airpods this time, and Ally got up to go to the kitchen and you could hear her fixing herself a glass of wine.

Ally set a bottle of water next to you on a coaster before settling back in her spot and finding something to watch on TV, and of course you noticed that she was a hell of a lot closer than she was before.

Your pen had paused on the yellow paper and your eyes glanced over the same sentence three times before your mind processed that you could practically feel the heat from her legs next to your arm through her slacks, and if you leaned just an inch you'd be touching her. You fought the urge to look back over your shoulder, but instead you looked up from beneath your lashes and saw that she was browsing the movie channels at a snail's pace.

Behind you, Ally was sipping her wine in one hand and flipping channels with the remote in the other but her eyes were nowhere on the TV screen. But she noticed the moment your pen stopped moving and your shoulders tensed more than usual, she'd been watching you closely and curiously.

“You okay, honey?”

You turned around to answer her with what you hoped was a calm smile and wished that you hadn't, really. Ally was going to kill you sitting the way she was sitting, her energy screaming big dick and the top three buttons of her shirt were undone and her hair was a little messy. Either she was going to give you a heart attack or your libido would.

“Sweetheart?”

You blinked, coming back to reality so fast you would’ve gotten whiplash, “Uh, yeah...maybe I guess I’m just tired too.” Yeah right.

You chuckled nervously, embarrassed really, and licked your lips again and Ally tracked the movement with rapt attention not that you would've caught it because you were busy being mortified being caught staring like a creep.

“Are you sure? You look flushed, drink some water,” you smiled at Ally, ever the mom.

“I’m not—” not what? Thirsty? Yeah you were but not for some water.

“You’re not what?” Ally pressed, still holding you hostage with her eyes alone.

“Not thirsty for water.”

Ally raised an eyebrow, the corner of her lips twitching and you hate that you noticed, “Oh? Then what would you like to drink if it’s not wine or water?”

Good question. One you didn’t have a good answer to. Not trusting yourself to formulate words into an appropriate sentence, you just nodded and turned back around and grabbed the water she brought you. You were determined to ignore until you were finished with your work—for the sake of your sanity and dignity.

Fuck.

Still watching you, Ally laughed quietly into her wine glass and finally settled on a movie, keeping the volume low as she got comfortable. Deciding to let you off the hook for not answering her question. (This time.)

~~

A few days later...

It was another late night for you but you weren't working for Ally tonight, so you went to the gym instead after studying. You were still wearing your tights and sports bra when you left, only throwing on a jacket because the night air and sweat weren't a great mix.

You didn't have anything at home to eat that wasn't expired or so frozen it came from the ice age...it all went in the trash so all you had left in your fridge was a case of water and cheese sticks. It wasn't surprising though, you spent a majority of your free time at Ally's home and you just ate lunch and dinner there usually. So you went straight to the grocery store after your workout with your trainer.

“Hey (Y/n)!” you looked up and internally groaned, rolled your eyes and threw a whole bitch fit.

You offered Sean a tight near sarcastic smile, “Sean. What is up.”

“Nothin',” he said, leaning against the counter he was standing behind with a cheesy smile, his eyes leering—and it made your skin crawl, “Just working...you?”

“Uh,” you were already over this conversation, “Same, anyway—”

“You still work for that crazy killer lesbian?”

You stopped, pivoting back around slowly to see if he was joking or not, of course it was hard to tell because he was looking at your ass, but the minute he turned around his eyes laser beamed to your chest. Specifically your pebbled nipples and the bars pierced in them. You moved the labels of your jacket to cover them fucking pig.

“Uh, my eyes are up here and two, that 'crazy killer lesbian' is your Senator.”

He shrugged, “I didn't vote for her.”

“I'm...okay, it was nice talking to you but I have things to do.”

“Well, wait,” he moved in front of you, stopping your escape, “That's not what I wanted to talk to you about actually, uh, but listen...do you maybe wanna go to dinner with me this weekend? My treat?”

You raised an eyebrow at him, completely unimpressed with his audacity, “You literally just called my boss a crazy killer lesbian and now you're expecting me to go to dinner with you?” as if, you wanted to add but held yourself in check—barely.

“I'm sorry about that,” Sean only shrugged but he was bashful about it but it only served to irritate you further because it was obvious that he didn't quite mean it and you were mentally slapping yourself for just not ordering that damn pizza.

“Whatever, goodnight Sean.”

you tried to move around him but he shifted, keeping you in place and you knew you could've just turned around, you should've but he would've just followed you, “Well wait, you never answered my question. About dinner?”

“No.”

“Well, wait a minute...why not? The lesbian thing? It was just a joke. You can take one, can’t you?”

“And I'm not laughing, get the fuck outta my way Sean—”

“You—”

“I believe she told you to fuck off.”

Sean's eyes snapped up over your head slightly, and you would've laughed at his stupid face had you not been pivoting around yourself, your eyes meeting a very familiar chin and you looked up, but Ally's eyes weren't on you but instead glaring daggers into Sean. He'd be ten feet under if she got her way with that look. You wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of it. (Maybe another version of it...)

“S-senator?”

“Oh, I'm not the crazy killer lesbian anymore? How disappointing.” when Sean could only stare at her like a fish out of the water, Ally stepped forward—a lot closer to you and you didn't have the strength to move or even look away, “I believe you were told to leave. Oh and if I even hear that you looked at or said anything to (Y/n) incorrectly, you're going to have a lot worse than a harassment complaint from a Senator to deal with.”

You didn't see him leave but you heard the squeaks of his sneaker and in seconds flat you and Ally were alone in the cereal aisle and you had absolutely no idea how to even breathe at the moment, much less process that she just saved you from...whatever that even was.

When Ally was satisfied that Sean was gone, she finally looked down at you—there was still a fire in them that you couldn't place but her brown eyes were softer than they were a few seconds ago, and you felt your shoulders relaxing slightly.

“Are you alright, (Y/n)?”

You cleared your throat, taking a small step back—but you still felt exposed under her unblinking stare though not in the same way you felt with Sean, it was the complete opposite, “Yeah thanks to you, so um thanks...a lot. Your timing is impeccable, but what are you doing here so late? Where's Oz? Is he okay?”

Ally smiled at you, shaking her head disturbing her always perfect hairstyle, “Oz is fine, or at least he will be, he must've ate something today at school and it's not sitting well with his stomach,” Ally rolled her eyes but not at the fact that her son had food poisoning but that he had food poisoning from the school lunch. She could only imagine that other children—reforming school lunches was already on her agenda but now she was seriously considering moving ahead of schedule.

“Oh no, how bad?”

“Not too bad...he'll be okay, I'm just here for medicine to stock up on,” Ally reassured you, her eyes flickering over your shoulder for a second, “What are you doing out so late?” and wearing that? She mentally added, but held her tongue because she knew that it wasn't her place to comment on your attire—not that she was complaining about it, but Ally just didn't like the way Sean was leering at you either. She was a hair away from showing him how she earned her title.

Suddenly aware of how much skin you were showing, and that your jacket fell open again but unlike with Sean you didn't feel the need to really cover yourself (even though you knew that you should've). You appreciated her eyes more than his...and probably anyone else's.

“Oh, I went to the gym and since I don't have any food at home...”

Ally chuckled, “Is this your way of asking for a raise?”

“No! No, no you pay me plenty...I'm just too busy to cook is all and then I'm just too tired to eat sometimes. College life.”

“I was teasing, welcome to adulthood. It doesn't stop,” you laughed along with her but you both knew there was truth behind those words.

“I shouldn't keep you, I know you have things to do.”

“You know, I doubt you're going to get a decent nutrient meal here tonight, especially shopping while you’re hungry...” Ally hummed, seemingly thinking hard about something before opening her mouth to carefully speak those words, “You're more than welcome to come home with me for a late dinner if you have nowhere else to be. I'd be more than happy to feed you.”

Heh. Feed me what? You blinked, mildly surprised with how fast your mind went straight to the gutter and you felt your face heating up faster than a house fire, and you had no doubt in your mind that your boss knew exactly what she was doing to you.

But she didn't, Ally didn't have one clue to what was happening in your mind because her own mind was a pile of scrambled eggs while forcing her eyes to stay above your neck. You were both very much still in public.

And the last thing Ally wanted to do was make either you a cliché, especially with her being a public figure in a male dominant career field, both in politics and her restaurant.

“Unless you had your sights set on cereal?” Ally coughed lightly, suddenly nervous and you realized that you'd been standing there staring at her like a moron this whole time.

“No, I'd love to come home with you,” you said cheerfully, meaning every damn word for different reasons, and you smiled at her, before your eyes widened when realizing how forward you sounded, and suggestive as hell, “For dinner! I'd love to come home with you for dinner.”

“Well what else would you be coming for?”

“Dessert.”

Direct result after two blunts...sorry if it's kinda lame tho lmao I went in thinking I was writing smut and gave up somewhere

[sssardonian-ssserpent]

In Other News, Rich Man Adopts Filthy Child

Me and @ruddygore were goofing around about the idea of Ruddy looking at my Pentious and adopting him as His Boy after the two butted heads as their first meeting. We then came up with a silly little idea where we wanted to see just how fast Pent could get adopted by Ruddy if they'd existed in the same universe. The answer: Almost Fucking Instantly.

Phineas rolled his shoulders as he stepped off the train, trying to stretch the stiffness that had settled in after a long train ride back to London. Visiting the country was fine for pleasure, but the journey was tiring to do twice in one day, especially paired with having to deal with the latest empty headed client with more money than sense trying to fawn their way into his good graces. But no matter. It was over now, and he could go home to his family, where they actually said what they meant and there was none of that miserable posturing the elite seemed instinctively driven to do.

One last shake to loosen everything up, and with a firm hand on his cane, he set a brisk pace in the direction of his home. Nobody would bother a man like him, his fine clothes and stony expression nearly guaranteed it, but he wasn't about to let his guard down in this part of town. The world was full of idiots of every class, and the last thing he needed was to waste a few hours of his valuable time getting another body dragged off to the Thames because some drunkard was too cross-eyed and pumped up on his own bravado to notice his fellows backing away.

No drunkards today, it seemed. A small mercy, but enough to draw a pleased hum from his chest. Which was cut short along with his stride as his attention was drawn towards something more interesting than his internal monologue. He'd left the station behind without any trouble, but as he rounded the corner his eyes were drawn to some sort of commotion across the street. What the devil were they doing over there that was causing such a fuss?

The commotion, at first, didn’t seem to be anything too apparent. Just the same old rabble of the commoners and the middle classes bustling to and fro their dull day to day lives, walking in vast groups both along the sidewalks of the city streets and along the roads when there were no visible carriages or trolleys that were threatening to run them over were they not able to get out of the way in time. But this one seemed to be going slower than normal, much to the chagrin of a few souls, seeing as they were the ones stirring up such a ruckus to begin with, shouting and yelling and otherwise carrying on, shaking fists clutching suitcases and canes and rolled up newspapers in the air as they all yelled and screamed, their heads looking as if they were about to pop off from fury. It seemed as if one person was going slower than they would’ve liked, one that Phineas couldn’t quite see among the many figures that surrounded them, keeping them from view, but the crowd’s displeasure at his meager slowness certainly seemed to be apparent, judging by the shouting and how many more people were opting to move around him rather than slowly walk behind him.

A voice, no doubt the one that was moving so slowly, kept trying to speak up, a high pitched croak of a voice that sounded thin, almost reedy, but kept getting cut off at every turn.

“Will you get a move on! Come on, you got two legs that aren’t broken!”

“I-I actually-“

“Walk faster than that! What are you, deaf?! We have places to be!”

“I-I’m sorry, I’m trying my-“

“Get out of the damn way if you’re gonna move at a damn snail’s pace!”

“Please, I just-!”

“GET OUT OF THE WAY!”

“GAH!”

There was a shout and a horrid crash as a figure came tumbling down onto the pavement, a hat falling askew and a briefcase, worn and looking ready to all but fall apart at the seams, popping open to scatter what looks to be collections of papers, clothes, and even what looks to be a large folded up metal wheelchair all across the ground, the chair itself skidding on it’s side all the way across the street until it stopped right at Phineas’s feet. He could now see the figure that had toppled over, a boy, no less than 17 at least, crumpled on the ground, dressed in a thin dirt smeared suit that looked to have patches sewn in around several different places, skin a sickly pale white as his face scrunched up in pain, dozens of feet moving to step around him or over him as if he was nothing more than a roadblock, his hands scrambling to grip at a sturdy looking wooden cane, pressing it on the ground in a vain, feeble attempt to push himself up. His legs seemed to sluggishly scrape and kick feebly at the pavement for a moment, almost as if he was trying to stand on ice, all the while people kept stepping over him, his face contorted in a mixture of pain, shame, and misery, face growing flushed as the boy suddenly bowed his head and started to cough, hard and heavy. It sounded painful.

Phineas watched mutely as the boy, because that was beyond any doubt just a boy being screamed at, tumbled to the pavement. He didn't say a word as he leaned down to pick up the contraption. A wheelchair, perhaps? Yes, he could see how it would unfold. But he had bigger things to worry about than the engineering of a wheeled chair. Like the fact that his brain was two steps behind his body, which was already marching across the road with the chair under one arm and his cane brandished in the other as he let a strangled hiss escape from between his clenched teeth.

Ah, there it was. Snapped back to reality and full of a sudden rush of incandescent rage, Phineas opened his mouth, letting loose a snarl as he swung the heavy grip of his cane against the skull of one man, then another. Another ducked, already running into the crowd and bowling over bystanders to escape. Pathetic, the lot of them. So bold when they had an easy target, but the second they faced punishment they quailed. One man with a large stick was all it took to break them! And they dared call themselves civilized! Another swing, more of these spineless cowards balking and backing away, if not running entirely. He'd heard bones crack, but he didn't care. He kept swinging his cane and gnashing his teeth until he was damned sure nobody dared try and step into the space he'd carved out around the fallen boy. And then he stilled.

He turned to finally face this new person, this strange and filthy child. His cane was dropped, wool overcoat quickly shrugged off and draped over the boy's shoulders before he knelt to begin gathering what the stranger couldn't reach. He was clumsier than he liked, hands still shaking with leftover rage, but he had to get this up before it was lost to the wind or more of the idiot rabble. Only once he was certain he had it all did he finally stop, suitcase left open, placed next to the stranger with the wheelchair laid over everything else. "You. Boy. Are you hurt?"

It took a few moments for the boy, shaking and coughing on the ground and struggling to even so much as sir up right, to even realize there was a commotion at all, much less that someone had come to his aid. But the sound of sudden pain, of the hard and heavy whacks of a cane cracking over skulls and splattering blood across the pavement was enough to have him slowly look up from where he was sprawled across the ground, just in time to see a man in the finest looking clothing he had ever seen in his life standing over him, a finely polished cane clutched in his fists as if it was a club, waving it around the second anyone dared to draw near, eyes gleaming with anger, teeth gritted with rage. It was the most horribly angry he’s ever seen anyone in his entire life, and as those eyes turned to him, he couldn’t help but feel himself flinch, a part of him somehow waiting to feel that cane start to beat down upon his skull instead.

But instead, all he felt was something soft and warm drape itself over his shoulders, and he blinks at the sudden feeling, looking down to find an ornate wool coat, the same one that the man with the cane had been wearing, the buttons a fine ornate gold, the fabric feeling so soft to the touch it almost felt like silk. He takes a moment to rub the fabric between his fingers, shakily keeping one elbow underneath him so he could partially sit upright, and he feels himself jolt a touch at the sound of a voice speaking up, just above him. He looks up just in time to see the man placing down his suitcase next to him, all his papers placed underneath his wheelchair so it wouldn’t blow away, and he can’t help but feel a slight chill slide down his spine, cautious and hesitant. “I..” His voice was still a soft croak, and he pauses to clear his throat, his heart pounding fiercely in his chest like it was about to burst, breathing a bit shallow. “I…I’m ok…I think…I just need to…try to stand…” He moves to push himself up on his cane again, legs shaking horribly, muscles already starting to fill with that deep ache, that deep, deadweight chill that made him feel as if his limbs were being stabbed by thousands of tiny needles and drained of all feeling. He could still move them, they weren’t entirely numb yet, but he could already feel his calves starting to grow stiff, limp, his feet already fully gone, and he can’t help but grit his teeth, eyes squeezing shut, just barely able to shift himself fully upright, now sitting on his knees. “…Damn…”

He watches the stranger struggle to his knees without comment, an arm half outstretched in case he had to lunge to catch this feeble waif. But it didn't seem the boy could stand on his own, at least not without serious pain. So Phineas plucked his cane off the ground, swapping it out for the wheelchair in the suitcase so nothing blows away while he sets it up. "Don't force it, boy. Whatever condition has you in this state, it's clearly painful." A pause as he tests the chair, giving it a roll, then a push down on the seat to ensure it wouldn't collapse under a weight. He'd never had to put one of these contraptions together himself, but the design was straightforward enough that he felt mostly confident in his ability to puzzle his way into a proper assembly.

Phineas glanced back towards the owner of the chair, trying to soften his voice to something more friendly. The poor boy had just watched him attack an entire crowd, and was clearly in some form of pain. It was a vulnerable position, the last thing he needed was to be afraid some wealthy stranger would hurt him as well. So he smiled, ice blue eyes warming as he lowered down to a murmur. "How about we get you in this chair instead of on this filthy street, hm? I'll help you up."

At the sound of the man’s voice, low and gruff and cautioning him to stay still, he finally ceases his attempts to bring his legs up under him so he could stand, instead letting out a heavy, pained sigh as he leans his arms against the top of his cane for comfort, reading out with one hand to slowly pull his own legs closer to himself and out of the way, not wanting people who may attempt to walk by to trip over him and draw even more attention to himself than he has already. He looks up as the man moves to try and unfold his chair from his briefcase, silently wincing once or twice as the man begins to bend it in a way it wasn’t supposed to, but thankfully corrects himself before anything can break, and soon the contraption was set up, the metal bars set in place with precise clicks so that they wouldn’t buckle or bend back in without warning.

He nods a touch toward the man, partly out of thanks and partly out of gratitude for setting up the chair at all when he hadn’t asked him to, and begins to pull the chair closer to himself, only for the man to speak up again, a gentle looking smile on his face that he wasn’t quite expecting. It was enough to have the boy blink for a moment or two, eyes glancing back and forth between him and his chair, before he moves to bite his lip, shifting a touch before nodding. “A…Alright. Uh…Thank you, sir.” He moves to hold out a hand for the man to take, skin looking sickly pale and his hand visibly trembling, be it from nerves or something else it was hard to tell.

"Sir is correct, technically, but you can call me Phineas. Phineas Theron Villin, at your service." He grips the boy's shaking hand in his steady, warmer one, squeezing gently before he lifts the boy up in one smooth pull. After years of lifting literal metal men, he was almost surprised at how little effort it took to pull an entire human up. But he could think about that later, first he had to get this urchin seated in his chair and fuss over making sure his coat sat properly on the scrawny frame he'd placed it on. Ah, and the suitcase of course. His cane.. Too many things left on the ground. The suitcase is shut and handed up to the stranger, cane tucked under his arm, and a last look around just to be doubly sure there were no papers or clothes that were about to be abandoned from his carelessness.

Only when he was completely convinced that things were as right as they could be did Phineas finally put his full attention on the child in front of him, leaning down to adjust the lapels of his patchwork suit. He'd never pass as even middle class in those rags, but he deserved the dignity of not being rumpled on top of it. The boy had been making an effort to be presentable, clearly. To what end, he could hazard a guess. Suitcase of papers, likely the best suit he could afford.. Well. Phineas would get his answers soon enough, no need to speculate further.

"Alright. I think that's everything up. Are you comfortable? Well settled?" On reflex, his hands continued to fuss over the smaller frame as he spoke, brushing off dirt and tugging things into place. "Apologies for the lack of introduction earlier. I was ah.. Distracted, you could say. What's your name, my boy?" Of course he'd laugh at his own joke.

The boy wasn’t entirely expecting to be lifted off of the ground so easily, eyes widening a touch with a gasp as he felt his shoes almost lift off the pavement entirely, nor was he expecting the man who was lifting him to be able to do so that easily, blinking in shock even as he felt himself be seated into the wheelchair, his legs being properly set up to fit his shoes into the pedals set in the front, his arms settling down onto the wheels of the chair as if it was as natural as reflex to him. He was left to stare with wide eyes as the man moved to click his briefcase shut and hand it to him, moved to hand him his cane, both of them he silently moved to place upon his lap, still feeling a touch numb from the shock, gaze still fixed on this stranger that knelt down in front of him and began to fuss over his patchwork suit, brushing off his shoulders, adjusting his bow tie and lapel, making sure his hat was properly fitted back on. He had never met someone who had been willing to do any of that for him, much less a random stranger, and it was enough to have him frown ever so slightly, brows furrowed in confusion.

“…Richard. My name is Richard Brooks, Sir. I..” He goes quiet, as if unsure if he could keep speaking. “..Thank you for…helping me.”

Phineas nods, repeating the name under his breath as he finishes his fussing and stands back up to his proper height. "A pleasure, Richard Brooks." He offers his hand again, for a proper greeting this time. "There's no need to thank me. I wasn't about to allow that sort of uncivilized behavior to go unpunished right in front of me. I'm no saint, but I am a gentleman with standards, which these degenerate swine seem to have never so much as heard of." His lip curls, but he shakes his head and moves on.

"But that isn't important. You're skinnier than my coatrack, my boy, and about as weighty. Have you had a single meal today?"

Richard slowly moves to take Phineas’s outstretched hand as he offers it, giving his hand a soft, almost timid shake, still finding himself quite shaken up by the whole situation to begin with, idly wondering why exactly he had bothered to have been saved at all, especially by someone as seemingly wealthy as him. He could tell just by the look of the man, and by the look of that coat, that he was of a far, far richer blood than anything Richard could even come close to, and it was enough to make him feel idly nervous. At the sound of Phineas’s disdain for the people surrounding him, Richard lets out a bit of a weak laugh, a soft huff more than anything, eyes glancing aside. “I, uh…wouldn’t go so far as to call them that. I was..in the way..”

He looks back up at the sound of a meal, and as if to answer that question, his stomach lets out a loud growl, and his cheeks start to flush, hunching his shoulders a touch. “Ahh…I hadn’t, no. I had been…hoping to eat on the train down at the station. They…give out free food to passengers, so..”

He watches Richard curl in on himself, lips pursing in thought. Not a penny to his name, most likely. Heading to the station, likely to leave London and go back wherever he'd come from. Which meant that suitcase probably had everything he owned in it, aside from the clothing he was wearing. And he could have lost it because people were too damn impatient to let him walk at his own pace. Ugh. There really was no place like London.

A nod of his head, the elder coming to a decision right there on the spot. He'd already put time and energy into helping this boy, it wouldn't hurt to sit down and share a meal with him before the two parted ways, now would it? He had questions to ask, little oddities he'd picked up on. The wheelchair, the papers he'd caught glimpses of while he was picking them up.. This fellow might have some potential, it'd be a shame to waste it. And if he didn't, it'd be a story to tell his family when he got home. "Come along then, Richard. I'm going to buy you a meal."

Richard, not expecting the sudden offer of a meal, can’t help but blink and look upwards toward Phineas with a look of shock and brief confusion. He slowly places his hands on both wheels of the wheelchair, even as he slowly furrows his brow, lips turning down into a cautious frown. “..Pardon, Sir?”

"I said I'm buying you a meal, boy." He snorts, shaking his head before he reaches down to put a hand on Richard's shoulder. Maybe he was too forward, he'll try again, more gently. "You can decline if you'd like, but it certainly wont put a dent in my savings, and you look like you've been subsisting off air and not much else. Let me put some a hot meal into your stomach before you go anywhere. I'd hate to see a light breeze sweep you away."

Richard stared for a few moments, the feeling of Phineas’s warm hand on his shoulder being enough to make him shiver briefly, like he wasn’t expecting it. He stares up into the man’s face as he talks, gentle and relatively tame, and slowly the nervous tension that was wracking Richard’s frame begins to lessen ever so slightly. “I…Are you sure?” His frown grows a bit more pronounced. “I don’t want to intrude on any plans of yours today or anything.”

"I'm sure. The only plans I had for today are done, and they were about as exciting as laying facedown in a mud puddle while a horse and carriage roll over you. Buying you a meal promises to be a far better use of my time. Especially if what I suspect may be the case proves true, and you had a hand in the construction of your collapsible chair." He grins, tilting his head slightly to the right. "What do you say? This could work out for both of us."

Richard goes quiet for a moment, eyes glancing back down toward his own chair, then back up toward Phineas’s grinning face, then back down toward his chair again. There was a brief moment of silence, before Richard finally moves to let out a sigh, and faintly offers a nod. “I’ll be honest, sir, you have to be the second nicest person I’ve met in London so far, and frankly my day so far has gone to absolute mickey bliss, so…If you’re offering, I certainly won’t turn down a meal.”

"Very good then. Here's my card." Phineas rises to his full height again, reaching into his suit to withdraw a calling card he offers out to the morose youth. Sir Phineas T. Villin. Automata, Clocks, Mechanical Marvels of Every Sort. Custom Pieces for the Distinguished and Discerning, Provider of Security of the Highest Caliber. He might as well offer the poor boy some sort of idea who he's dealing with, if he's about to spend an hour or more prodding him for information. Now to find some dinner. He knew a few decent restaurants in the neighborhood, but if he was going to treat this boy to a meal, he'd make sure it was more than just decent.

Ah, he knew just the place. It was a few minutes out of his way, but that hardly mattered. He turns, gesturing in the direction they're about to head before he glances back towards Richard. "Come along then, unless you need me to push you?"

Richard moves to accept the card with little complaint, taking a moment to look over the fancy cursive that was currently written on the white, gold trimmed paper, and for a moment, he blinks, before his breath catches in his throat and he feels his eyes widen. Phineas T. Villin. The Phineas T. Villin. He can feel his hand start to quiver a touch, feel his heart start to pound, and Phineas can all but see the life breath itself back into the boy’s expression as his eyes suddenly light up with excitement, that sickly pale skin and the tired look in his eyes all but seeming to drain away in an instant as he moves to quickly pocket the card, gripping both wheels in both hands and moving to start pushing himself forward toward where Phineas was starting to walk, balancing his suitcase and cane on his lap with veritable ease. “IT’S YOU! Oh, oh good lord, it’s actually you! F-Forgive me, Mr. Villin, Sir, I-I was so exhausted and shaken up from everything that I didn’t even recognize you! I, uh, I’m actually a big fan of your work sir! Incredibly so!”

He'd never seen someone react so strongly to a piece of paper in his life, but Phineas wasn't about to complain. It was a genuine relief to see Richard look a bit less like a living corpse, and the fact that he now looked downright ecstatic was the cherry on top. He'd never expected to run into a fan, he didn't even know he HAD any fans, outside of repeat customers who never gushed the way Richard suddenly was. But this was good! This was good. He knew who he was, he was a fan, that meant it was even more likely that he was some sort of aspiring engineer as well.

Phineas smiles, falling into stride next to Richard and tilting to one side so he could place an encouraging hand on his shoulder. "I'm glad to hear it! You must be some sort of inventor yourself then, no? I suspected as much, I'd never seen that exact model of chair in any paper that I recall. I don't believe any on the public market can compact the way yours does, certainly not small enough to fit into a briefcase. Did you come to London looking for work, Richard?"

“Oh, yes I am, actually! Not entirely an inventor yet, no, I have yet to actually start up any sort of business of inventions yet, but I certainly aim to be one, Sir!” Richard’s voice had a whole lot more energy in it this time, a whole lot more glee than the soft, hoarse croak that had been his voice when he first spoke up, and even his eyes seemed to be filled with a gleam in them that reflected an excitement that was downright palpable. He grins up toward Phineas as a hand moves to his shoulder, then he glances back down toward the wheelchair as he pushes it along, idly lifting a hand to scratch at his cheek as he does so. “I actually built the chair myself, you see. I could never afford one, seeing as my mother and father work inside the sewing factories far from here, and my sister was spending all her time trying to sell artwork and settle down with a husband. I ended up just snagging whatever parts I could to build it up myself, and I wanted to make it compact enough so it could be travel size. It’s…partially why I came to London, actually..” His voice begins to creep back down to something more dejected, more downtrodden, and already the life begins to drain away from his face, sullen and robbed of any light. “..I wanted to make something new. A new invention entirely.”

Ooh, that was a touchy subject then. But perhaps it didn't have to be. Phineas offers a sympathetic grimace, squeezing Richard's shoulder in comfort. "Let me guess. Everyone turned their noses up at you, didn't they my boy? I'm afraid the wealthy of this miserable pit are a rather stupid lot, too obsessed with appearances to care about things like potential, or intelligence. The lot of them barely have enough sense to fill a teaspoon. You could have created the cure for all the world's ills and they'd still have snubbed you. If you aren't rich enough to buy their respect, nothing is excusable."

He scoffs, but continues. "If you could build a chair like that from scrap parts, I'm sure you have the brains to create plenty of inventions. It's simply a matter of cash. And lucky for the both of us, I'm always keen to snatch up any promising talent I spy. If you're interested and can show me some sort of concept, or better yet blueprints, I'm sure I could set you up with a starting investment." But first, food. They'd arrived at the restaurant, and Phineas didn't even stop to glance at the staff at the doors before he swept into the establishment with Richard in tow to find himself a seat. They knew better than to stop him here, they'd serve him at any table he chose so long as he kept tipping as generously as he did. And if anyone had questions about his company, they knew to keep it to themselves so long as Phineas had his cane gripped the way he did.

Richard can’t help but go silent as he listens to Phineas’s whole talk, as he listens to the man rant about the elite and the upper class within the city, and a part of him can’t help but feel his heart clench a bit in his chest, can’t help but feel his gut twist itself into a knot of how what the man was saying was true, right down to the letter. It was horrible, really, to think that all because he didn’t have a fancy title that he would’ve been tossed to the wayside, tossed and left to rot as scrap, as junk, as another pitiful face among the pile, and it made his heart sink so heavily that he swore he could feel it start to snap off it’s own veins like heavy strings. But then Phineas keeps on talking, and he glances up toward him, eyes slightly wide in awe, and he frowns ever so slightly, confused yet again. He opens his mouth, but as they near the restaurant, he clamps it shut again, eyes going slightly wide as he takes in the sheer opulence of the place, the way decadence all but seemed to drip from every inch of the building as if it was the Sistine Chapel in Italy, pausing for just a moment in front of the doors before managing to push himself inside after Phineas. He keeps himself silent, almost as if he was too afraid to speak, and his shoulders hunch at the looks that were being given by the staff, all but feeling their eyes burn into the back of his head.

Phineas glanced back towards Richard after the silence continued on for more than a few moments, taking in the way he hunched in on himself with a furrowed brow. He looked like he was expecting to be hit. Then again, maybe he was. He'd flinched earlier as well, and Phineas had already seen how he was treated by the average person firsthand. Well now that simply wouldn't do, now would it? No. If Richard was in the company of Phineas T. Villin, he was as safe as one could be in this city, and he'd happily remind any would be aggressors of that fact with the business end of his cane.

But Richard wouldn't know that, not yet. He'd just met him, after all. So Phineas finds them a table in an out of the way corner, waiting until Richard is close before he takes a seat and leans in to murmur. "Be at ease, my boy. Nobody will give you any grief when you're with me. I'm wealthy enough that nobody questions my eccentricities anymore, and that means I can drag a rag tag youth like yourself anywhere I please. And if anyone does cause a problem.." He wiggles his cane threateningly, eyebrows raising as he smirks with eyes that looked far too mischievous for a man that old. "They'll regret it quite quickly. Now, take a menu and order anything you like. I want to see you put away a proper meal, with dessert. No arguing."

It takes a moment for Richard to pull the chair out from under the table so he could move to push his own wheelchair into it’s place, taking a moment for him to place both his briefcase down onto the as well as placing his cane up against a nearby wall, and as he hears Phineas move to start whispering his way, he looks up to watch as the man makes his threat to anyone who tries to say anything about their presence in the building quite clear, lifting up that cane of his to give it a soft wiggle, a bit of blood still present on the end of it where it had smacked into people’s skulls and split noses. He couldn’t help but feel a touch better, admittedly, a soft, slight grin growing upon his lips, and he offers a soft nod, voice a touch quiet but now raising up a bit. “Thank you, Sir. I do appreciate this, really.” He moves to pull one of the menus close, opening it and starting to peruse through it.

"Of course you appreciate it! If I'm really the second kindest person you've met in London, you've met some rather terrible people!" Phineas barks out a laugh, ignoring his own menu entirely in favor of watching Richard settle in to start poring over his own. Good, he was actually intending to order something then. That saved Phineas from having to guess what the boy might enjoy and bullying him into eating something. People acted so guilty over being given a meal sometimes, it was the silliest thing.

Confident Richard wasn't about to make a break for the door, Phineas cast his eyes towards the rest of the restaurant, catching the attention of a passing waiter with another small wiggle of his cane and smirking as the man nearly jumped out of his skin and skittered away. It only took a few moments before he came hurrying back, a bottle of Phineas' wine of choice quickly opened and poured into a set of wine glasses. Phineas' smirk only grew as the waiter hurried away again, turning his attention back to Richard. "If you prefer a white, or something nonalcoholic, feel free to tell the waiter when he comes back with my appetizer. They already know what I get here, so they don't even bother asking anymore."

“Heh…Well…Considering the only people I’ve met in London were the people who rejected me at the door..Yes, I’d say they were generally terrible people indeed..” He offers a slight, softer chuckle, a bit more awkward than Phineas’s more boisterous laugh, his eyes scanning over the menu once more, biting his lip at some of the entrees they offered. Irish beef stew with a side of a roasted turkey sandwich, finely cut slabs of tuna rolled in batter and cooked with bread crumbs with a side of diced salmon mixed in with a salad, cuts of lobster meat cooked with ravioli and served with vodka sauce, so many meals that he could never afford in his life, meals that costed more money he’s ever seen in his life. It made his stomach growl all the louder just thinking about it it, causing his cheeks to flush ever so slightly, his eyes flicking back up toward Phineas tentatively, as if hesitant to ask. “…Would an appetizer be alright too, Sir? I…haven’t really eaten all day and…Well. It’s fine if not, I just thought I’d uh…ask.” His voice was quiet, as if he was afraid that the offer of a meal would be revoked the second he tried to step out of the thinly veiled lines, his eyes darting up toward the waiter as he filled their wine cups and then looking away just as quickly.

He moves to pick up his own respective glass, giving the wine a soft sniff before tentatively moving to give it a sip. The surprising tartness of the grapes was enough to have him blink, and he smacks his lips once, twice. “Hmm…Never actually had wine before. More ripe than I thought.”

Phineas opens his hands in mock surrender, chuckling rather affectionately. The poor boy so was nervous even now. Not that he could blame him, of course, but it reminded him of his daughters in their youth, so nervous about being seen as unladylike if they ate too much. It was rather endearing. "My dear boy, I heartily encourage you to order an appetizer! Order the whole menu if you wish to, it wont hurt my wallet any. I promise, I didn't bring you here expecting you to order a single plate of the cheapest item and nothing else. I said a proper meal and dessert, and I meant it. Anything you want, as much as you want. If you can pack six servings into that tiny little body of yours, get yourself six servings."

A pause, and he taps a finger against his temple. "And five of them can be dessert, as long as one is something heartier. That and not drinking enough wine to get completely sozzled before we talk business are my only restrictions. After that, you have free reign on your imbibement, if it pleases you."

“Oh. Uh, yes sir, of course, sir.” He moves to put down his wine glass as hastily (but as carefully) as he can, not wanting to run the risk of accidentally getting himself drunk or tipsy by drinking the wine before he could get any proper food in his stomach. “I, ah, don’t think I’m starving enough to order the whole menu but I’ll certainly take some of your words to heart. You’ll have to forgive me for my…skittishness, I..never been to a actual proper restaurant before…The best I could get in my home town were bars and taverns for the sailors that would come in from fishing out in the sea and all.” He glances back down at the menu, eyes sliding over the appetizers, spotting at least one that sounded openly interesting; an exported food from what seemed to be China, a mixture of something called egg rolls served with cheese dumplings and sauce. “Most of the fish they brought in was standard cod or crab. You’ve never heard of the place, I imagine. Little town near the coast called Rockside.”

"I haven't heard of it, no. That's no surprise though, I rarely have reason to visit fishing villages. My clients mostly reside in lavish country estates close to very well to do farming villages, or here in London." Phineas shakes his head, thinking about his trip from earlier that very day. Certainly nowhere near a fishing hamlet, nobody with money would ever settle somewhere where they may be downwind of fish. "No matter, if you ever wish to visit, or return to properly live there, I will gladly accompany you on the journey to ensure you arrive safely. Though it sounds miserable, if I'm being honest."

Anything else Phineas intended to say was put on hold as the waiter approached, a plate of various finger sandwiches being placed in front of him before the waiter turned expectantly towards Richard, expression schooled into a blank professionalism.

“I see. It…It is a rather droll pace to live, I will admit. Not much to do there but drink, eat, sleep, and the only real job options available to most people who aren’t carpenters or shop-keeps are to work in the fisheries…or the sewing factories..” He goes slightly quieter at that last part, moving to take another slight sip of wine, before he blinks up toward the waiter as he approaches with a plate of small sandwiches, watching silently, until the waiter’s gaze turns to him. He feels himself stiffen a touch, realizing the waiter was waiting for him to speak up, and his jaw opens up and down for a moment before he happens to find his voice again. “Oh! Uhh, the-the wine is fine, thank you. I don’t need another drink.”

He turns back to the menu, feeling his heart skip a beat in his chest and his hands start to quiver a bit at the thought of accidentally making a fool of himself. He usually wasn’t this panicky. What was wrong with him? “I…would like to try out the egg roll appetizer please.” He has to bite back the urge to ask if that was alright. Of course it was. They wouldn’t have it on the menu if they couldn’t serve it to him.

Phineas watches Richard stumble through his first ever order at his first ever restaurant, one hand drifting in the direction of his cane just in case. But he needn't have bothered, the waiter wrote down his order without so much as batting an eye. A crisp nod and generic "We'll have that out for you shortly, sir", and they were left alone once more.

Which meant there was no better time for Phineas to lean in and congratulate his little protege, irrationally proud of him for doing the smallest thing. "Good, Richard. You did well."

Richard didn’t even realize how much he was holding his breath until the waiter had walked away, to which he lets out a heavy sigh, a slight chill going down his spine as he does so, unable to keep his hands from ceasing to shake even as he moves to hold them close to his chest, rubbing them together to bring warmth to his limbs; despite the respite from the chill outside he still felt quite cold to the bone. He flashes a grin up toward Phineas, small and slight, as he hears the praise, a small part of him idly wondering if the man was secretly laughing at him for anything that he may have done wrong. “Ah…Thank you, sir.”

It was all well and good that his appetizer would arrive soon, but Phineas wasn't about to make Richard watch him eat while his own stomach was growling. So after picking up a little sandwich of his own, he slid the plate over to Richard's side of the table, tapping the plate to draw his attention to it. "Sandwich, my boy? There's a variety to pick from. Watercress and cucumber, egg salad, and salted meats of a few different sorts. Or maybe you'd like the smoked salmon? The bread is quite soft as well. And before you say anything, yes. I'm sure, I insist, and I shall in fact, not take no for an answer."

“Ah..I..” Richard pauses for a moment as Phineas makes it quite clear that he will not allow him to not ear any of the sandwiches, and he moves to quickly nod, moving to pick up one of the smaller roast beef sandwiches to add to his plate. “Of course, sir. Thank you, sir.” He adds another roast beef sandwich to his plate, picking the first one up and starting to nibble on it, slowly, carefully. He wasn’t taking large bites, despite the sound of his grumbling stomach; clearly this must’ve been a young man that hadn’t had much food to go around and learned it was better to eat small amounts and save the most for later.

Phineas almost complains when he sees how slowly Richard was eating one little sandwich, but stops himself with a small cough, settling for shoving his own sandwich into his mouth to buy a few seconds of silence as he chewed and pondered. This boy looked half starved, you didn't get into the state he was in from a bad day, or even a bad week. If he was from a poor fishing town, like he'd said, with no prospects, no money, and a physical disability that had kept the *elite of London* from recognizing him despite likely desperate efforts, he'd likely been well and truly destitute for a long time. Perhaps all his life.

He hums thoughtfully, taking a sip of his wine to wash down his sandwich. Perhaps he should offer the boy a lifeline, directly. "Richard, how would you feel about working for me? I touched on it earlier, but we were a bit distracted at the time." A hand is lifted to interrupt anything Richard might try to say, Phineas letting out a little "Eh-peh-peh" of protest. "Before you leap to conclusions, my boy, you are allowed to say no and still get a meal. I am buying you this food with no strings attached. I promise you that no matter what you say, you will leave with a full stomach. But I want to offer you a chance to impress me with your ideas, and you clearly know enough to at least be a useful pair of hands in the workshop."

The sandwich itself actually tasted remarkably pleasant, the bread soft and sweet, the meat of the beef tasting salty, fresh, juicy, and the sheer flavor that danced over his lips was enough to make him want to shovel in the sandwich as fast as possible into his mouth. But he held himself back, merely moving to take a slightly larger bite than before, despite the low, heavy grumbling of his stomach that rumbled through his guts in protest, and as he chewed, Phineas moved to speak up with a request that all but made him freeze. He sat there, sandwich sitting in his cheek, as the man talked on further, his eyes growing steadily wider as the offer went on, his heart all but skipping in his chest. He finally takes the moment to swallow, going silent for a moment, before he speaks up, voice a touch shaky. “R..Really? You’d..You’d make an offer like that? To me?”

Phineas nods, taking another sip of wine before he places his glass back on the table. "Of course I would, my boy. I don't make a habit of letting hard working talent slip through my fingers, and you're clearly driven. You came to this city to work and make something of yourself, I want to be part of that. I'll provide you with room and board, and the same starting wage as any other employee. It wont let you live lavishly, but you'll be comfortable. You'll help me in my workshop, and after hours you can make use of my resources to pursue your own interests. If you impress me, you'll get whatever raise seems proportionate."

“…I see.” He goes quiet for a moment, frowning down toward the sandwiches again, his brow furrowed. “I’ll admit, I’m not entirely understanding why you’d be so generous as to do that, sir…There hasn’t been anyone really who ever looked at my work with machines and saw any potential at all…The best I could make back home was my wheelchair and..Well…” He bends down toward his briefcase and slowly opens it up to pull out a few of the papers from before, moving to hold them out toward Phineas for him to look over. “These. These are the ones I made before I came to London.”

On the blueprints would be a few simple looking designs of clocks, some being coo-coo clocks, the others being towering grandfather clocks with intricate designs of cogs and gears. The coo-coo design appeared to make it seem as if the face of the clock was supposed to pop outwards and allow the coo-coo bird to pass through, to which it would flap little mechanical wings and snap it’s beak as if it was tweeting before it would slip back inside the box. The grandfather clock meanwhile was supposed to have a see through door in it’s frame, showing off all the whirling gears and clicking cogs, and as usual, the pendulum that swung back and forth.

Phineas accepts the blueprints, flicking through them with a calculating gaze. Nothing about them stood out as lesser, all the designs were there, understandable, and seemed entirely competent to even his trained eye. This boy had designed and drafted out a series of what could be perfectly respectable clocks of fine workmanship. Which proved the point he'd had yet to make. He hands the papers back, humming happily before bothering to answer the poor boy's inquiries.

"Why would I invite you to work for me? Simple, my boy. To you this is legible, and to me this is legible. And I must say, you did a fine job with these. But to the average person, we may as well be speaking another language entirely. You take your talent for granted, and I don't mean it as an insult. I did as well, for many years. But you must understand. The average person of any age or class would not be able to draft the blueprints for a functioning clock of any sort, let alone multiple of different sizes and shapes. If you can manage this much with only the paltry resources you could scrounge, I'm sure you could do far more with access to what I have to offer. And even if not, if the best you could ever make was a clock, it still makes you a cut above the rest."

“..Really?��� That gets a little bit of life to fill the young man’s eyes again, like he hadn’t even considered the fact that somehow his skills made him worthwhile at all to begin with. He glances back down at the blueprints he had mentioned, then back up toward Phineas, before staring back down at his blueprints again. “I…never considered the notion that these actually meant anything. I mean, I have, it’s why I came to London, I had wanted to see if I could prove myself to the Queen and her top scientists. Show them what I could do…” He moves to fold the blueprints back into the suitcase, before pulling out another, moving to hand it over toward him. “…I had wanted to make something new.”

On the blueprint, there was a sketch of some sort of design that Phineas had frankly never seen before. It was a wide thing, a tall thing, composed of glass and cogs and gears, with wires and a mesh of metal sitting within the middle of a large glass dome. Richard looks away as he sees Phineas holding it, looking almost ashamed. “It’s, uh…I wanted to create something that could create an electric current. Not like a telegram, more like a bolt of lightning in the sky. Something that could genera energy via electricity, in a single concentrated point, and…use it to power people’s homes. Use it to power cities, ships, anywhere at anytime. It…It took me months to make and build by myself, and when I had finally presented it to the Royal engineering division, it…” He goes quiet. “…It worked. It worked, and they told me to get lost.”

Phineas accepts the new blueprints, but doesn't turn his attention to them yet in favor of listening to him airing his grievances. Once his guest falls silent, he harrumphs and stands from his chair, dragging it around the table to sit next to Richard. An arm goes around the smaller man's shoulders, crumpling the wool around him as he gives him a little squeeze. "That won't happen again, my boy. Now, let's take a look at this design of yours."

Another squeeze, and Phineas turns his attention towards the blueprint in front of him, using his free hand to trace over the lines as he muttered theories under his breath. Fascinating..

Richard wasn’t expecting the sight of Phineas moving around to sit closer next to him, nor was he expecting the sudden feeling of the man wrapping an arm around his shoulders to offer him a soft squeeze, his gloved hand feeling warm against the meager cloth of his suit underneath the wool coat he still had draped over his shoulders, and he can’t help but glance up toward the older man with a look of shock, eyes wide with a sort of confused awe. He turns back toward the blueprint design as Phineas begins to trace over it with a finger, and Richard is quick to join in, moving to point toward various parts of the design. “Ah, that’s where the wires can be hooked up onto the chassis. That’s where the current is meant to be charged and how it’s supposed to circulate through the glass. I sort of thought of the same design of gas lamps and how the flame is controlled behind a thick glass frame, and I wanted to make it more sturdy to handle the electric force and all.”

"I see! So you created a fully functional electrical generating machine and the idiots of the engineering division told you to get lost? I'm not surprised. You've already heard my opinions on the matter, it doesn't bear repeating." Phineas sneers, lip curling in disgust. Of course those pompous idiots would dismiss this, a commoner, thinking he could create something worth their time? It'd be laughable to anyone too comfortable in their own superiority. Well, it was their loss and his win now, he wasn't about to be taken in by their idiotic obsession with titles meaning worth.

Another harrumph, and he squeezes Richard once more before releasing him from his half hug, so he can gesture at the blueprints in front of them with both hands. "This is brilliant, my boy. That's all that needs to be said. I would be glad to help you fund and market these, under my name or your own. Eat a sandwich."

Richard feels another soft squeeze on his person, another hearty half-hug against his shoulders (the first time he had ever been hugged by anyone other than his sister) and his eyes blink up toward Phineas as he praises the genius of the invention, eyes sliding down toward the blueprint than back up toward the grinning face of his idol, an idol who was calling his work that of brilliance when others in the Queen’s palace had dismissed it as a hackjob that would never fully take off. He feels something prickle at the back of his eyes, feels a rush of emotion causing his shoulders to shake, and he moves to close his blueprint to tuck it away, turning away in order to try and hide the tears that were starting to bubble up. “I…Th-…Thank you, sir..” His voice is thick with emotion, and he clears his throat to try and clear it. “I…I would be happy to…to work with you..”

Every time Phineas thinks he has a solid grasp of just how miserable this boy's life must have been, he gets caught off guard by some new emotional response that heavily implies even worse was lurking in the past. What, had he never been praised before? He seemed ready to burst into tears over hearing the slightest approval. Phineas raises an eyebrow, but puts his arm back around Richard's shoulders to drag him back in. No no, young man, there will be no hiding from Phineas T. Villin. "And I'll be glad to have you as an employee, Richard. We'll worry about the specifics of all that tomorrow. Today we'll get you fed, a bed to rest your head on, and I'll show you the workshop. How does that sound?"

The tears start to leak down ever so slightly at Phineas moves to drag him back in, as another warm half-hug comes in to squeeze against his shoulders, tears that he is quick to wipe away as his lips tremble and his cheeks redden from the strain of crying. He sniffles once, twice, then nods softly, keeping his head down to shield his face from Phineas’s gaze. “Th…Thank you, sir…That…That s-sounds wonderful, sir…” He sniffles again, harder, and he absently wipes his face with the back of his sleeve, having no handkerchief to his name. “..A..Apologies for the…I’ve had…a very horrible day and…” He trails off, trying to reel his tears in.

Was he wiping his face on that dirty-- Of course he was, the poor boy probably didn't have a single extra scrap to his name to even call a handkerchief. That suit certainly hadn't come with one. Phineas shakes his head, dragging out his own from his breast pocket and reaching over to press it into Richard's hands. "You don't need to apologize, my boy. It sounds like today has been one blow after another and left you reeling. You're strong for keeping it together even this long. But you're safe now." He was safe now, Phineas realized. He'd already decided, at some point, that this boy was coming home with him instead of to any apartment. He had guest rooms, he could find a place to install a lift so the poor thing could reach the second floor. And the children would love him like a brother, if he could adjust to being around so many people.

A soft jostle, his shoulder pressing against Richard's as he teases softly. "A little wine has a way of loosening up all the pent up feelings people hold down. It's alright, it happens to everyone."

That seems to get Richard to give pause, at the sensation of a soft silken handkerchief being pressed to his hands, glancing down at it in order to admire the soft feeling against his gloves, and for a moment he glances at it quizzically before he realizes what he was supposed to do with it, shoulders hunching a touch as he moves to press the soft cloth to his face to wipe away his tears, ears starting to burn as he feels a tinge of embarrassment creep up the back of his neck. He can’t help but let out a brief chuckle at Phineas’s teasing, soft and full of relief, and he nods a bit. “C..Considering I’ve never drank any wine before since today, I would certainly say so…” He finally moves to pick up the half eaten sandwich that was on his plate, moving to finally eat the rest of it as he lowers the handkerchief down from his face, eyes slightly puffy from the tears but looking much better. He pauses to chew and swallow, before picking up the other sandwich, the quick burst of tears seeming to bring back his appetite. “Thank you, sir. For..Well, for all of this. You certainly didn’t have to.”

"I didn't have to, you're right. But really. If I hadn't stepped in, for one thing, my daughters would have never forgiven me. And for another, I'd have never forgiven myself. You were being humiliated for the simple act of trying to walk independently down a street, minding yourself and not bothering anyone else. The people who took issue with your mere existence deserved what they got and then some. Perhaps they'll remember their manners next time they're out in public." Phineas huffs, nodding his head decisively. That'll teach those swine to hold themselves to a higher standard, even if it's only out of fear that some maniac with a cane would come bloody them again.

And what good timing, here comes poor Richard's appetizer, egg rolls with cheese dumplings, as requested.

“Right, sir, of course. Thank you.” He nods again, a bit more decisively, then perks up a touch as he sees the waiter coming his way with the appetizer, the sight of the food all but making his eyes glint with hunger, with awe of how the food would taste like. He watches as it’s set down onto the table, next to the plate of sandwiches, and as the waiter turns to face him again, he feels himself jolt a touch once more. “Oh, of course.” He briefly flips through the menu again to the entrees, biting his lip for a moment. “…I would like the breaded tuna and the side salmon salad, please.”

The waiter writes down his order, only sparing Phineas a quick glance to check for the expected nod. Same as usual, then, no surprise there. A polite confirmation that their food would be out soon, and the two are left to their own devices again. Phineas keeps his arm firmly around his new charge, a hopefully reassuring weight on his smaller shoulders. "Fine choice, my boy. You mentioned you were from a fishing town, but they mostly brought in only the standard cod, yes? Is fish a favored meal of yours, or is this an experiment in a new setting?"

“..You could say it’s a mixture of both, sir.” He nods a bit, moving to pick up an egg roll to examine it, finding the shell to be a lot more hard than he was expecting. “Fish was mostly the only thing we could afford to eat, aside from the occasional cabbage or lettuce. If we saved up, we could get chicken, but we could only afford to do that in the winter months…So, most nights it would either be cooked cod or cabbage soup with salt..” He moves to take a bite of the egg roll, crunching heavily against his teeth, and as he chews, his eyes widen a touch, taking a moment to swallow before he takes a much more eager bite, obviously trying to restrain himself from shoving the full roll into his mouth.

Despite his best efforts to contain his amusement, Phineas snorts at the sight of Richard's reaction to a simple egg roll, giving him another squeeze to show it wasn't meant to mock him. "Good, hm? I'll let you eat in peace before I chatter your ear off, go on. There'll be time for all that when you've taken the edge off your hunger. Judging by all the stomach growling, you may demolish that platter before the main course even arrives." With that, he reaches down, scooping up one of his sandwiches to shove into his mouth. See? Being quiet. Talk after food, let the poor boy actually eat.

Richard, having heard proper encouragement, seems to take his words to heart, eagerly chomping down on the rest of the egg roll before moving onto the next egg roll, the crunching of the shell quick to fill the air as he all but scarfs down the food, not so much that it was considered a break-neck pace, he was taking enough time to chew and swallow properly and to not choke, but it was very clear that if the boy could eat any faster, he would be. He occasionally moves to pick up the wine, taking soft little sips, and soon he moves to pick up the fork to prod at the dumplings (they didn’t come with any chopsticks) before managing to skewer one, bringing it to his lips before moving to pop the ball of dough into his mouth, eyes also widening as he eagerly starts to chew.

Phineas watches him eat for a few moments, and once he's confident the boy isn't about to choke from eating too fast, he turns his attention to his own appetizer. He's ignored it long enough, better put those sandwiches away before the bread got too soggy to hold together and he was left with a mush. Plus, he had quite a bit to think about. Richard had said some concerning things, and that needed consideration.

If he really had grown up eating nothing but fish and cabbage, and maybe chicken.. Well, that wasn't very hearty at all. No wonder he was so skinny. Did that mean he was malnourished? Perhaps he needed a doctor's appointment. And new clothes. Definitely new clothes, that suit wouldn't keep him warm, beyond just looking terrible. Hrm...

By the time Richard had devoured all of the egg rolls and dumplings, he had much more color in his skin already, not enough to make him appear healthy, no no, but definitely enough to make it appear like he wasn’t about to keel over after five seconds. He moves to take a slightly more heavy gulp of wine before carefully setting the glass down, taking a moment to wipe his mouth with the handkerchief he had been given. “…Wow. That tasted…far better than I was expecting. Better than anything I’ve ever had in my life…” He then starts to look a touch sheepish when he realized where was nothing left on the plate for Phineas to try. “Ah..Apologies, sir. I should’ve asked if you wanted some.”

He blinks, coming out of his thoughts at the sound of Richard's voice. Apologies for..? Oh, right, the food. Sharing appetizers and all, the boy likely felt there had been some obligation he'd forgotten in his hunger. Poor thing was so nervous about making a misstep. "Oh, don't apologize. I've been here enough times that I've sampled just about everything on the menu at least once. And beyond that, you needed them far more than I did. You actually have color in that ghostly face of yours now, thank goodness." Phineas chuckles, lifting the arm around Richard's shoulder up to brush his thumb over the boy's cheek. "Glad to know that blood still flows in your veins."

Seeing that smile on the older man’s face and hearing that Phineas wasn’t at all angry at him or displeased for devouring his appetizers, it was enough to have him let out a brief sigh, letting out a soft chuckle at his own sheepishness, feeling his cheeks grow slightly warm as the sensation of Phineas’s thumb brushing over his skin. “Heh. I…suppose that is a good sign, yes. I…I will admit, my health hasn’t been the best. Part of it is my own fault, of course. Hadn’t really been eating much ever since I came to London and all. Everything here is so expensive and I was only given so much to keep myself going.” He moves to take another soft sip of his wine. “So I’ve mostly been…drinking coffee. Eating what little breakfast the hotel I’ve been staying at offers. Not much else.”

If Phineas' eye twitched, he isn't saying anything about it. But in the back of his mind, he's already making a note to call his preferred doctor and schedule a house call soon. But Richard didn't need to be stressed out with that, not yet. Focus on the positives for now, all the serious talk was for tomorrow. So he nods, withdraws his arm back to his own side, and gently elbows his young dinner partner. "A coffee drinker, eh? You and my wife will get along then. She's never been much for tea, always oversteeps it somehow, but she can make a phenomenal cup of coffee with even the lowest quality grounds. Don't know how she does it, something about her little setup and specific water temperatures. But no shop can compare to hers, you'll see that for yourself."

“Heh. Is that so?” Richard can’t help but raise a brow ever so slightly at hearing such a fact, and it was enough for him to crack a grin. “I’ll be honest, the hotel I’m staying at doesn’t have much more than tea under it’s free food policies, so needless to say, I wasn’t getting as much coffee as I used to back home. Went through such bad withdrawal that I think I ended up breaking apart a gas lamp and bought coffee grounds to use the lamp as a makeshift coffee brewer.”

Phineas' eyebrows shoot up, the mental image of Richard having to try and hand make some kind of brewing station from a gas lamp enough to leave him in some momentary limbo between amused and horrified. Desperation really did seem to haunt this boy's every waking moment, it seemed. Goodness..

"Well. You don't need to do that in my home, my boy! Just make sure you eat something with your coffee wherever possible, helps keep you from crashing or getting those terrible headaches." A pause, and he shrugs. "According to Madeline, at least."

“Heh. I will…definitely try and remember that, sir. I will try. Again, I will admit I do tend to get a bit too absorbed in my work at times, and when that happens, more often than not, I end up looking up and realizing the sun’s gone down and everyone else is asleep.” He sips his wine a little bit more, draining it down almost empty. “I’ve found that sleep doesn’t really come to me much anymore after the accident.”

Oh, that sounded serious, actually, maybe he should let the boy get this off his chest. Phineas reaches out again, not going for the half hug again, only resting a hand on Richard's nearer shoulder. "That's alright. There will be plenty of people to help keep you from working yourself to death."

He glances between the nearly empty wineglass and Richard's face, part of him worried that the openness was a product of tipsiness. He'd never had any wine, and he'd started on an almost empty stomach, after all.. But if he wanted to share, well. Phineas would listen, and not mention it again if he didn't want to discuss it. "Why is that, Richard? What was the accident?"

“..Oh, right. You wouldn’t know.” He seems to be briefly confused for a moment, but then the recognition clicks in his mind, and he lets out a sigh, heavy and clearly that of great pain to the poor boy’s conscience. “..Well, I wasn’t actually always like this. Bound with a wheelchair and cane and all. I wasn’t born this way, which is what I’m sure you were assuming. No…” He shakes his head, trailing off for a moment. “…My parents worked in a factory. A sewing factory, ran by a man named Charles Ricket. As did my sister, when she got old enough, and eventually, me as well.” He pauses to shift a touch, one of his hands drifting down to his thigh to start rubbing at it, squeezing it, like he was trying to knead the aches out of it. “It was how we could afford food and housing, you see. It was always something I was told. That we had no choice but to work, and if I tried to say otherwise I’d get a smack over the head. I worked there for about 7 years. Started when I was 8, and stopped when I was 14.”

Phineas suddenly finds himself having to practice levels of self restraint he only ever had to wield when dealing with the Queen's court, blood pressure spiking dramatically as he tries to keep his expression calm. Nothing Richard said has been his own fault, there was nothing to be gained by yelling here. He knew, he knew. But even so, he felt the urge to express his rage somehow. Deep breath in, deep breath out, and he gives Richard's shoulder a soft pat.

"Your parents failed you, but what made you stop? The accident, I assume?"

“..Yes.” He nods once, then finally moves to pick up the rest of his wine glass to drain it before setting it down. “It was…a cold day. I was 14 then. The boss, Ricket, he often had me climb up on balconies or underneath the machines to handle small repairs or to untangle threads that got tied up, because I was the smallest one there and I was able to fit. One day, he told me to climb up the balcony that would put my right up close to the machine’s threading wheels to untangle two strings that got wrapped together and was causing the whole machine to catch on itself. But the balcony was old, covered in rust, and I could tell just by staring at it that the bolts keeping it on the wall wouldn’t hold. I tried to tell him, but he wouldn’t listen, and when I tried to get my father to hear reason…” He trails off again, looking away. “…He wouldn’t defend me.”

Deep breaths, Phineas. Deep breaths. Do not start throwing things, stay calm and let the boy get this off his chest. Pitching a fit in the restaurant helps nobody. "I see." He turns in his chair, facing Richard more fully. "Charles Ricket... I'll keep that in mind. Bastard is going to rue the day he-- But no, tell me the rest of your story, dear boy. Your father didn't protect you, failing his primary job as a parent, and I can hazard a guess as to what happened next."

Richard stares at Phineas with slightly wider eyes than before, almost as if he was starting to become a little bit wary of the man’s temper, and he frowns a touch harder. “…Are you certain? You look a bit…erm…red, sir.”

Ah, of course Richard would notice. He shakes his head, sighing heavily. "To put it simply, Richard, I'm a father, and taking the best care I can of my children has always been a point of pride for me. It is my firm belief that being a parent gives you a duty of care towards the person you created. Hearing stories of other fathers failing their children quite as spectacularly as yours failed you in that moment? It enrages me.”

Phineas runs a hand through his hair, taking another steadying breath. "But you aren't in any danger, I can promise you that much. Nothing you endured was your own fault. Now if your father were here, I couldn't say the same for him."

“..I see..” He nods a touch, some of the tension already draining away in his shoulders, and he moves to let out a soft sigh, hand moving to press down against the both of his thighs, squeezing again, as if delving into the memory alone was enough to fill them with aches and pains. “Well…I finally climbed up onto the balcony after the boss threatened to dock my pay. Walked about halfway before…the whole thing fell. Fell out from under me like it was a house of cards. I remember falling and…hitting the ground. But not. I remember feeling the wind knocked out of me, the sensation of something cold on my back, of my skin feeling…wet.” His hands start to curl into tight, shaking fists. “I couldn’t…breathe…All I could do was lay there, wanting to move…to breathe…to scream…But I couldn’t…I couldn’t even feel any pain, I just felt…cold. Cold and numb.” He takes a slightly shaky breath, shoulders trembling. “…I remembered thinking before everything went dark that I was going to die.”

He listens to Richard quietly, his jaw tightening as he clamped down on his own feelings. Fourteen, he'd said. A fourteen year old boy, a child, overworked and then failed by his father, sent out into danger at the behest of a failure of a boss who couldn't even be assed to pay his workers enough to survive. Richard could have died. It sounded like he nearly had, and he'd certainly been maimed to say the least, left to rely on a cane and a wheelchair. If he'd been unable to work, his parents had likely been furious, if they'd already been willing to beat him just for not wanting to. As if it were his fault.

Phineas rumbled low in his chest, reaching over to drag Richard against him. No half hug would cut it this time, the boy needed to be wrapped up and kept safe from the world for a moment.

The sudden feeling of being pulled into a hug was something that Richard wasn’t really expecting, to the point where he seemed to freeze in place for a moment. But then, slowly, his eyes close, and he slowly leans into the embrace, ever so slightly. Not so much moving to hug back yet, but definitely accepting it, using it to ground himself, breathing becoming slightly less shaky. “..I…I landed on sheet metal. It cut into the base of my spine, and…it almost completely severed my legs from my spinal cord. When I finally woke up, I was back home…And I was told by my doctors that walking again was..was impossible.”

Impossible? But he'd been walking earlier that day, hadn't he? Unless he meant walking normally. But no, if he'd been stuck with whatever doctors his family could afford, they likely hadn't bothered taking the best care of him they could, if they even went to a proper doctor at all and not some quack with a bag of chemicals preying on the desperate. But that wasn't important. This was about Richard.

He hummed, slowly rubbing a hand against Richard's upper back. "It sounds to me, my boy, that you've been making a habit of proving people wrong when they underestimate you. But I'm sorry you went through that. I don't think I'd have been able to pull through, in your shoes."

“…I almost didn’t..” Richard lets out a heavy sigh against Phineas’s chest, eyes still closed. “…4 years. I was stuck in my bedroom in a small cramped house with a leaky roof and barely a candle and books to keep myself company, for 4 whole years. I could still move my legs, ever so slightly, I knew I could still walk. The doctors were wrong, I knew it, so I just…kept practicing, every day. Stretching my legs, walking from the hall and back, and then sitting in my room for the rest of the day when things got too much. I almost never went outside because it constantly rained and I didn’t want to risk being outside in a downpour and unable to move if my legs gave out when I wasn’t ready. Read the same books over and over, worked on my same wheelchair, my same cane, staring out that same damn window. Drinking down that same damn medicine..”

Phineas opens and closes his mouth a few times, brows furrowing as he tries to form any sort of response beyond some sort of horrified shock. Four years of that? The same thing, every day? For FOUR years? He'd have lost his mind. Anyone would have, and a mind like Richard's would have been painfully under stimulated. He squeezes the boy tighter, burying his nose in Richard's hair. Seems like he's going to have to make a trip out to.. Rockside, was it? So he could have a word with a certain factory owner.

That was for later. Focus, Phineas. "You were very strong, Richard. I'm glad you're here now."

“..Thank you, sir..” He sniffles a touch, but doesn’t seem to be in danger of crying like before, merely leaning into the warmth of the man’s arms. “I…I was very desperate to get out of there, as you can imagine. And now that I’m out, I…I don’t want to go back.” He shakes his head, ever so slightly. “Not to that rotten cesspool of a town…”

"You won't have to, so long as I have any say in the matter. But, is there anyone there you'd want to write a letter to? To let them know where you've gone, or where to contact you?" Likely not, but Phineas felt it would be better to ask, just in case. He couldn't even predict whatever horror Richard would just casually mention next.

“…There is my older sister. Her and her husband were the ones who managed to gather enough money to send me to London in the first place. I’d want to let them know where I am, at least.” He sniffles again, moving to idly rub at his cheeks with the handkerchief again. “Not my parents. Wouldn’t want them to come by and somehow drag me back.”

"I'd like to see those fuckers try it. It would be the last thing they ever did.." Oops, ignore that, he didn't mean to say that out loud. Phineas clears his throat, moving on quickly as a distraction. "Ah, but, of course. We can have a letter sent to your sister by tomorrow, not a problem at all."

Oh good, here comes their food. Phineas keeps his arms firmly around Richard, completely unbothered by being openly affectionate in front of the waiter as their plates were quietly placed in front of them.

“..Thank you.” Richard didn’t visibly respond to the notion that Phineas would murder his parents if they ever came looking for him, and instead merely shifted his head to hide his face a touch as the waiter came around to place their entrees down, only waiting until said waiter walked away from him to finally turn his head back to the table, gazing down toward the dish, of the large breaded cuts of steaming hot tuna fillets, of a large, finely dressed salad with cuts of salmon scattered within them, and he feels his stomach rumble again. “…We should probably keep eating, sir.”

All that emotional talk, and then, like a switch, he wants to go back to eating? Phineas stills for a moment, then chuckles softly, resting his forehead on top of Richard's head for a moment before obligingly pulling away to sit in his chair properly. "I'm glad to see you're done with the anxiety over enjoying a meal, my boy. And quite right, we should eat while our food is hot. London is a cold place, after all."

And just like that, he smooths his napkin into his lap and tucks in to his meal, the smell of his stuffed and roasted pheasant on a bed of vegetables wafting up to delight the older gentleman. Ah, just the thing after a long day.

Richard himself also moves to quietly begin eating his meal, the crunch of the breaded tuna starting to fill the air as he takes a small bite with his fork, his eyes widening at the flavor before he once more moves to begin eating at a careful but rapid pace. The poor boy must have quite the iron stomach to be able to wolf down an entire plate of appetizers and then move onto eat his entree with a gusto that only came of a recently starved man. By the time he moves onto his salad, the tuna was entirely gone, and Richard moves to begin mixing his salad up to ensure the dressing coated both the salmon and the lettuce and cherry tomatoes in equal measure.

Richard was eating, so Phineas lets the boy eat his meal in peace without any further commentary, shockingly, too distracted by his own hunger now that he had a proper hot meal in front of him to shovel down his throat. The waiter crept by soon after they started digging in, quietly refilling their wine glasses. Seemed that Phineas was very particular about not wanting chit chat from the staff, and they were left almost entirely alone while they dined. JUST the way he liked it.

It wasn’t long before Richard also moves to begin chomping down on his salad, eating a little bit slower this time, but still just as hungrily as before, occasionally pausing between his eating to take sips of the wine after it’s refilled. His eyes are zeroed in on the salad, concentrated entirely on the food, and once it’s finally over and done with, is when the fork and bowl are gently set back down onto the plate, and Richard moves to wipe at his mouth again with the handkerchief. “Amazing…I never thought fish could taste so good. And I thought I was sick of eating fish by now. Heheh..” He lets out a soft little chuckle.

Phineas nearly chokes on the last few bites of his pheasant, snorting in an undignified fashion. Finally, the boy cracks a joke! Good, good. He was perking up, the food was doing it's job. A moment while he finishes chewing and swallows his mouthful, clearing his throat before he responds. "Get used to it, my boy. No assistant of mine is going to subsist on cabbage and cod if I have any say in the matter."

His plate is pushed away, a few stray vegetables left floating in the thin gravy of the pheasant's own drippings. But he was well and truly satisfied, no need to gorge himself. "Have you thought about what you'd like for dessert?"

“Dessert…Honestly I hadn’t thought about that. Was too caught up on how good everything tasted, but..” He moves to pull a small little side menu close, taking a moment to read it. “..Cheesecake with red velvet crust, chocolate lava cake with toffee crunch, mint chocolate chip ice cream along with two scoops of standard chocolate…They all sound good…Hmm…” His eyes narrow a touch.

"Anything you want, Richard. We'll be back here again, you'll be able to sample all the desserts eventually." Phineas lifts a hand, signaling for a waiter to begin making their way over. "I for one, usually get the syllabub or some brandy snaps. Both are quite light, but delightful. However, if you prefer something flavorful and heavy, I'd go for the lava cake, or the brownies. Both are quite rich, you'd enjoy them."

“Hmmm….I think I may go for the…” He trails off, moving to glance up, waiting as the waiter prepares their pencil and notebook, and glances back down toward the menu again. “I’d like the lava cake next, please. For dessert.”

"And I'll have the brandy snaps. That'll be all." Phineas hands his menu over to the waiter, who offers a shallow bow before leaving to go relay their dessert orders. Interactions done, Phineas leans back in his chair, stretching out to give his back a satisfying crack. "Mmmh, very good. Are you feeling the life return to your frail little body, my boy?" And without even waiting for an answer, he carries on. "Ah, yes. What color would you like for your bedding? I'll see about re-dressing your new bed when we get home."

Richard, also moving to sit back in his chair, lets out a brief little chuckle upon hearing Phineas’s remarks. “I…will say that I do certainly feel a little better, sir. A little warmer, though I can’t say if that’s the wine talking or the food making me feel less shaky.” He pauses for a moment, eyes trailing off to the side before he smirks a touch. “Is it bad that I want to say purple? I never got the chance to pick my own bedding and all and…I always liked the color purple..”

Phineas shakes his head, smiling to himself as he chuckles. Certainly not the color he'd expected, but a fine choice. "Purple bedding? We can do that. If we don't have any, we'll make a day out of buying some. The nicest purple we can find. You'll get to do more than that to your room, of course. But we'll start with the basics. Is all the clothes you own in that suitcase of yours? Do you own any sleeping clothes?"

“Ahh..” He trails off for a moment as he glances down toward his suitcase, brow furrowing a bit. “Yes, they all should be. And yes, I packed a pair of sleeping clothes. Had to wash them every time I wanted to sleep in them, but yes, I have a pair. Pair of sleep clothes, work clothes, and…Well..” He gestures to the patch suit he’s wearing.

He nods, lips pursed thoughtfully. "We'll get you some new clothes, whenever you feel up to it. The kids should have enough that you can borrow so you have a few days to settle in and adjust, if need be. And if not, I can sew you at least a few basic shirts and pants once I take your measurements. They won't be the fanciest, but they'll suffice."

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate it, sir. You certainly don’t need to be going so far as to do all of this for me, but…I am very grateful. More than I can honestly express at the moment. But I do know that I will make it up to you at some point. I swear by that.” He nods a touch at that, lifting up a hand to form a cross over his heart.

"My boy, you're under my employ. That makes you my responsibility now, and I take my responsibilities seriously. Beyond that, you're been dealt such a horrid hand by life and still managed to claw your way this far. I want to see what you'll do when you're given the space and resources to thrive.” Phineas nods at Richard, reaching over to pat his head. Just once, but firmly.

He accepts the head-pat with a soft giggle, and he nods once more, his grin a bit more bright than before, a bit less shy. “Of course, Phineas, sir. I’ll do my best to show the investment is worth it, then.”

Phinease gestures towards the desserts being carried towards them by their waiter, smirking knowingly. "Pah! My boy, you're more than just an investment. But I like that spirit. Take a few days to relax before you throw yourself into work, I want you to have a chance to breathe. You're a person, not a cog."

“Ah.” He pauses a bit, smiling a touch sheepishly as he realizes it would probably be best to not go burning himself out again after being fed properly for the first time in days, and he nods twice. “Of course, sir. I will try my best. I may get a bit..twitchy, but I will try.”

"You're allowed to fiddle, of course! You'll have your whole room to decorate as you please, and if you want to set up a small workbench in there I wouldn't deny you that much. But I wont be putting you to work making anything for business purposes until you've had at least a week to relax, get your bearings, and eat regularly. I want color in those cheeks, young man!" He pokes one of the aforementioned cheeks, cheerily ignoring the waiter setting their desserts down and swiftly retreating.

The sudden poke to his cheek is enough to have him biting back a giggle again, but he does smirk as he moves to bat aside said prodding finger away from his skin, nodding twice as he does so. “A week to relax, and then business as usual. Of course. I can do that. I think.” His eyes dart away, as if looking a touch unsure, but then he moves to pick up the spoon to start prodding at the lava cake before moving to dig his utensil in to carve out a piece. “I honestly don’t think I know how to properly do that but I will certainly try.”

Phineas shrugs, picking up one of his brandy snaps to wiggle threateningly in Richard's direction. "Ah, but you see my boy, I'm afraid that you'll have me there to assist you. Your anxiety will have to best me in single combat, and you've seen what I can do."

“..I kindly ask that you don’t beat my anxiety to a bloody pulp with your cane, sir.” Despite the obvious playfullness present, his lips still twitch up in a slightly nervous grin, his eyes flicking toward the end of said cane that still had bloodstains on it from where he was sure he heard it crack a skull or two. “Speaking of which, uh…Are you not worried of those men going and fetching the coppers for going and copping them a mouse? I’m grateful for what you did, of course but I’d hate to see you have to go and stand in front of a barnaby rudge all because you wanted to help me out.”

A glance at his cane, and Phineas snorts. The poor boy was worried for him after all that? Fair enough, the average man couldn't go swinging at the public and get away with it. He shakes his head, eating his snap before he answers. "They won't touch me. I'm rich and old and eccentric, and I've got the favor of the crown. Beating the rabble off some waif is only going to get me called gentlemanly and heroic. You'll see it in tomorrow's paper."

“…Huh…Well. That’s convenient, I suppose..” He can’t help but feel a little shocked by that, but also at the same time, not surprised at all. It was a sobering realization, to know just how..untouchable someone like Phineas was, and it was something he mulled over as he moved to take a bite of his chocolate lava cake, chewing for several seconds before the flavor finally hits him, and he smacks his lips twice after he swallows. “Hmm. Tastes a tad more bitter than I thought.”

"What, life or the cake?" HOO! Give Phineas a second, he has to slap his own knee for that one. It was terrible but he's proud of it. "Ahem. Anyway, it's horribly unfair, I know. I've tried all sorts of things to outrage the gentry, and without fail, they'll tie themselves in knots to excuse it. Long hair? Letting my daughters doll me up before a party? Refusing to paddle my children for their tantrums? Acts of actual violence? All handwaved or outright praised. Just because I was born wealthy! It's insane."

The sudden pun is enough to have Richard snorting for a brief moment, a choked back bit of laughter that leaves his shoulders briefly shaking, chortling a touch as he recovers from the joke. But then he pauses, moving to look up toward Phineas as he does so, a sudden excited glimmer in his eyes. “…You wear it long too?” He moves a hand to the bun on his head to point toward it. “I..try to keep it hidden under my hat and all, but, well. Not very hidden if my hat gets knocked off.”

Phineas nods, taking off his top hat to reveal an elaborate updo, braids twisting around braids and all held down with a ribbon. "Of course. I started so my daughters had more than just their poor mother to practice on, but I found it suited me quite well. Normally I wear it more visibly, but today was very busy, so I had them put it up in a more protected style while I was getting all my papers together. I'm sure they'll be happy to do yours as well."

“Wow…I didn’t think anyone else would wear it like mine.” He lets out a soft chuckle, moving to pick up his top hat from where he had set it with his briefcase to place it back atop his head. “I grew it out like that when I was recovering from the accident and I just…never wanted to cut it. It felt better with it long. Felt right, not sure precisely why. But it feels right anyway.” He moves to take another bite of his cake, smacking his lips again. “..Must be dark chocolate they used then..”

"Dark chocolate, yes. It makes a more visually pleasing cake, and beyond that, too much sweetness would be overwhelming for most." He busies himself putting his hat back in place. "I can't get a good look at it, obviously, but from what I can tell your hair is clean and well maintained. As long as it stays that way, I take no issue with you having it as long as you like. It suits you."

“..Thank you, Sir.” He nods a touch, a small smile drifting up onto his face, moving to take another, slightly larger bite of his cake, now almost all the way done with it.

That seemed a good place to end the conversation and let the boy finish his dessert, so Phineas turns his attention to his brandy snaps again, only keeping one set aside to offer to Richard once he was done with his dessert.

It wasn’t long before the rest of the lava cake was completely gone, save for the chocolate sauce that was smeared onto the plate, Richard wiping at his mouth with the handkerchief before moving to tuck it back into his coat pocket. He glances toward the snaps, glancing back up toward Phineas before he moves to slowly pick one up, keeping his movements slow and careful, as if he was afraid the back of his hand would get slapped at. “..What are these?”

He nudges a snap closer to Richard's hand, humming encouragingly. "One is for you, go on. They're brandy snaps. You take sugar, butter, and syrup, melt them together, pour out a thin layer to cool, and then shape it and pipe in your whipped cream. There's no alcohol in them, usually, but this restaurant does put a little brandy into the whipped cream for flavor."

“..Huh..” He stares at it for a moment before he moves to pick it up, raising it to his mouth to take a bite, a bit of the cream smearing onto his lips, which he’s quick to lick away, eyes once more widening at the taste, no doubt a signal that it was a flavor he enjoyed. He quickly shoves the rest of the snap into his mouth, cheeks puffing out a touch as he chews, only pausing to swallow before his lips turn into a wide grin. “Wow. That’s actually amazing. Much better than the other sweets I used to have back home.”

"I thought you may like it. It's a very interesting little dessert, not too heavy on the stomach. Have another, if you like! Though I don't know where you're keeping all that food in that skinny body of yours, are your legs hollow? Phineas chuckles fondly, sliding another snap over to Richard before taking the last to nibble on. A fine, rounded out meal, and the boy was already looking leagues better than when they'd arrived. How satisfying.

“I’m not sure myself. I guess I just have a hardy stomach, perhaps?” He weakly shrugs, but then moves to take the offered snap, biting into it with as much gusto as before. “Don’t know if I’ll be able to push myself on the chair all the way back to your estate with a full stomach though. Don’t want to be moving too much, lest I end up sending it all back up.”

"I'll push you if you'd like." Phineas pauses dramatically, eyes turning mischievous again. "Or you can grab onto my coat tails and get dragged along like a carriage behind a horse. That'd be quite the sight." Snrk. "But no. I'm happy to assist, you've got a suitcase and a cane to juggle, and mine as well if my hands are going to be busy."

“Ah..” His cheeks flush at the image being brought forth of himself being pulled along the sidewalk by using the tails of Ruddy’s coat, and he holds up a hand to quickly dismiss the idea, smiling a touch more awkwardly this time. “I’d rather you push me, sir, I don’t need to be pulled like a carriage. That just sounds like a recipe for disaster.” He pauses again, then starts to flush harder. “…Or was that a joke?”

"No, I'll push you. Genuinely. I don't mind helping, I don't want you to strain yourself trying to reach where you'll come to call home." Phineas reaches over, patting Richard's arm reassuringly. Poor boy.

“Right, of course.” He nods a touch, looking a bit more settled. His eyes flick from the table to Phineas, then back to the table again. “..Are we all done here, or..?”

"We are. I already know what everything here costs, they don't bother me with a check anymore." Phineas stands from the table, reaching into his suit to withdraw his wallet and leave a handful of bills on the table. It was almost the cost and a half, but he didn't seem bothered. "Shall we?"

“Ah, yes, right away, Sir.” He moves to pick up both his briefcase and his cane, pulling them both onto his lap, taking a moment to get them in a comfortable spot where they weren’t pressing into his legs before he moves to give Phineas a nod. “I’m ready when you are.”

Phineas pushes his chair in, nods at the waiter, and takes the handles of Richard's wheelchair, pushing him out the door and back into the streets of London. Off they went, towards the fine houses of London's elite.

The actual walk to the finer, more richer areas of London was quite the scenic route. Away from the cramped inner city streets with the dozens of crowds and carriages walking past, away from the ringing of bells and the cries of newsboys trying to sell the latest paper, and Richard couldn’t help but find himself looking around at all the sights as the city fell away to large, gated neighborhoods, with towering mansions that he’d never seen before and finely kept gardens that seemed to brim with life and flowers of all shapes and sizes. It was enough to make his eyes go wide, his jaw drop a touch, and he couldn’t help the look of shock on his face. “..Good god…I knew the West side of London was the posher side but I didn’t think it could get like this..”

To Richard the walk was scenic, but to Phineas it was entirely mundane, if comforting. Once they were out of the cramped streets and crowds he could breathe better, letting out a soft sigh as Richard stares around them and takes in the sights that had become unremarkable to his older eyes. "It's certainly nicer than the other areas. Smells better too." And more spacious, greener, quieter... More in many ways.

Ah, there they were. The duo had arrived at Phineas' home, a sprawling mansion in gray with pristine white trim, and wrought iron nearly dripping off the building, dark green ivy trained up the sides in elegant, snakelike swirls. At the gates stood twin tin soldiers, who mutely opened the gates at Phineas' approach. Very normal.

Richard’s eyes go wide at the sight of the gate, at the sight of the automated tin soldiers as they move, and his head slides from left to right, left to right in order to let him see every movement they made, every shaking twitch, every chugging clank of their metal bodies, and his lips slowly raise upwards into a grin. “I always wondered how you got them to move like that. How they can respond to commands like that, even silent ones.”

Phineas snickers, pushing Richard through the gates and up the path towards the house as the soldiers close the gates behind them, resuming their silent guard. "In a week's time, you'll start learning the tricks of my trade, my boy. You'll be helping me build them, after all. Now hold on, I'll have to get you over the lip here." They'd arrived at the door, the shallow step up to the porch enough to give Phineas pause. It shouldn't be a problem, just a quick lean back so he could get the front wheels... casters? Over the edge and lift Richard up. But it felt rude to do without any warning at all.

“Really?” His eyes go wide at that and he almost twists around completely in his seat to gaze toward Phineas, his eyes wide and his face filled with a sort of excited joy, as if he didn’t expect to actually learn the secret to what made Phineas’s infamous tin soldiers tick. He then pauses as he realizes Phineas was about to push him up onto the porch, and he moves to grip onto his things as best he can, giving a nod. “I’m ready, sir!”

He was lifting the boy in more ways than one, it seemed! Good. "Yes, my boy. You're my assistant, that means assisting me. You'll start with simple things. Shaping parts to specifications. Then I'll teach you the assembly, and before long we'll have you making the foot soldiers. And after that we'll climb up the ranks, and complexity. You, my boy, are going to be in for quite the ride." Up they went, and once solidly on the porch, Phineas released the handles to come around and unlock the front door. But not with any key, no. He opened a small cabinet next to the front door, and tapped a series of numbers in on some form of grid of circular metal buttons. And with that, the door swung open on its own, a light flicking on in the entryway.

"We'll get you set up with an entry code tomorrow, but I doubt you plan on leaving the house tonight?"

Richard’s eyes went wide as soon as he heard about how he would soon be taught everything about the soldiers, everything about the advanced metal automatons, and he already felt like his heart was gonna explode from the sheer excitement of it all, his grin growing so wide it almost looked as if his lips were threatening to rip right open from the strain. His eyes scan over the strange number code, watching as Phineas inserts the code in, blinking as the door swings open as if by magic, and he looks fascinated, leaning up from his chair ever so slightly. “Wow, a number system instead of a lock…Incredible..”

Phineas snorts, nodding towards the keypad. "Hah! I can dispel the mystery behind this easily enough. You'll appreciate it. There's a lock in the door, but each number in the sequence sends an electric pulse that moves the inner tumblers. By putting in a recognized sequence, the tumblers all align like a physical key has been inserted. If you put in a wrong number at any point, all the tumblers drop back to the starting position. And if I have it in security mode, after three attempts an alarm sounds. Another attempt, and the soldiers turn hostile."

“Ohhhh….” He looks positively fascinated, entranced even, and then seems to catch himself, flushing a bit and looking downwards. “Ah, pardon me, I, uh…shouldn’t be gawping about like a tot. Heh. Should be, ah…acting more my age.”

"Nonsense! I want you to be curious. An inquisitive mind is an active one. You can always ask about anything that catches your eye." With that, Phineas comes back around, pushing Richard through the front door and into the house proper. A soft click sounded when they passed the threshold, the front door closing and locking behind them. He helpfully muttered a soft "Pressure plate under the rug" to his curious assistant.

“Ah, right, sir. Of course, sir.” He nods twice, a bit stiffly, but seems to take the words to heart, eyes glancing up and head turning this way and that as he goes about surveying the room that they were now in, the chill of the air being all but chased away as the door slams shut behind them. “…Lovely home, you have here, sir.”

"Why thank you! It's all of my own design, to make room for my inventions and improvements." He looks quite pleased with himself over that fact, rolling Richard along down the hall and to a staircase. "Now, tomorrow I'm going to see about installing a lift here along the staircase, so you can get up and down without straining yourself, or when your legs give out and you're on wheels. Luckily, we do have bedrooms on the first floor as well, but I'd prefer to give you a larger one so you can maneuver better."

Back to rolling, and they make their way over to a back corner of the house, where Phineas gestures at two different doors across from each other. "For tonight, you'll get this room. The lavatory is directly across the hall here, there's extra linens under the bed in case you need extra blankets or pillows. And of course I'll fetch you a change of sheets to fix your bed up, so we can fuss over that momentarily."

Richard goes quiet as Phineas begins to lead him all around, taking in as much of the hallways and rooms as he can see, head turning from this way and that, his eyes sliding from wall to wall, taking in the size and vibrancy of everything. When they arrive at the room that he would be sleeping in for the night, he glances across from his room to the bathroom, nodding twice before he glances back up toward Phineas once more. “What will I be doing tomorrow exactly? I’m assuming that I’m going to be meeting the rest of your family at some point, right?”

Phineas nods, drumming his fingers on the handles of Richard's wheelchair. "Well of course! I was going to take you to the drawing room next, most of them are likely in there currently, winding down for the evening. Unless you're ready to sleep of course, I'm sure they'd understand if today has been overwhelming for you."

“Ah..” He goes quiet for a moment, biting his lip, but then moves to shake his head. “No, no. Best to meet them first and all. I wouldn’t want their first impression of me to be simply crashing upon a guest bed and falling asleep and not saying hello.”

Phineas comes around, kneeling down in front of Richard so he can look him in the eye and speak seriously. "Richard. I care about your comfort, and they will as well. Nobody in this house will judge you for needing rest. If you're tired, or think you can't handle meeting, oh... Thirteen new people back to back after an emotionally exhausting day and a heavy meal, we aren't going to think less of you. If you truly want to meet them, I'll take you, but I want your honesty, not what you think would please us."

Richard goes silent at that, his eyes going slightly wide, and for a moment, he doesn’t quite say anything. Then, finally, he lets out a soft sigh, nodding a touch. “..Right, apologies, sir. I guess I’ve just been…a bit high-strung.” He shifts a touch, linking his hands together. “I know you don’t mean to, but I feel like I’m walking on a bunch of bloody eggshells at the moment. Like…Like I make a wrong move and this could all just…slip out my damn fingers. I know it won’t, I know you mean well, but…Spent my whole life knowing that I’m…lesser, than this.” He lifts a hand to gesture to the manor surrounding them. “…That I’m not supposed to belong here. And I can’t shake off that feeling. Shake off that I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop. I know that’s not your fault, and when you say you want to help me, and you won’t cast me out, I know you mean it, but…The feeling doesn’t go away. It just feels like it’s going to happen regardless somehow.”

Nodding in thought, Phineas reaches out to take one of Richard's hands in both of his. He could find a solution, surely, he just had to consider the boy's feelings versus his needs. Maybe... "I understand. It's a lot, culture shock and all. I'll tell you what. On this matter at least, we can compromise. We'll get your room set up, and I'll introduce you to my wife. Just her, and that can help reassure you that you're welcome here. And then tomorrow you can meet the rest of the family, once you're rested. That'll give us, the adults, a chance to answer any immediate questions, and give them time to calm down from the excitement and approach you more level headedly. How about that?"

A pause of silence, before Richard moves to nod, a bit of tension draining from his shoulders. “That sounds…a lot better, sir. Thank you.”

"Good. You'll like her, I think. She's a force unto herself, but she's quite compassionate." With a little squeeze, he releases Richard's hand, rising up to push him into the bedroom. It was simple by a wealthy man's standards, a four poster bed with a nightstand, two dressers, a vanity with a stool, and a wardrobe all cozily fit in with a plush rug covering the polished wooden floors. All the furniture was made in pristine walnut, the bedding a rich red. Which Phineas was already intent to change, moving away from Richard to drag a chest full of fresh linens out from under the bed.

Richard looks over the room as he’s wheeled into it, looks over the furniture, the plush carpet, the walls, everything, staying silent as he watches Phineas work, though a soft smile drifts onto his face. He only breaks the silence with a soft chuckle, one that he moves to explain when he sees the older man glance toward him. “..Would you believe me if I said this room is actually larger than my old one? Larger bed too.”

Phineas pauses in his attempts to wrestle a pillow into a purple cover, raising an eyebrow at Richard's chuckling. And then the other at the explanation. This? This was larger than the room he'd spent most of four years in? "Really? This? Well, this is the second smallest bedroom in the house, not counting the nursery. But I hope that means you'll be comfortable here for the night, at least. I still want to get you into a larger one, I don't know the turn radius on your wheelchair, but I want to make sure you can maneuver and stretch as much as you like."

“I hate to break it to you, sir, but I’m afraid that with the kind of housing that most factory workers can afford, I was lucky to even get a room to myself at all and not just a single room that me and all my family would have to share.” His grin grows a bit bitter at that, and he soon lets it drop. “..Ah, apologies. W-What I’m trying to say is that, even with this room, I’m immensely grateful. Incredibly so. And I hope I can live up to your hopes for me.”

He chews on the corner of his lip, biting back any sort of derisive comment he could make about his family or former employer. He'd already spent enough time startling the boy with his anger. So instead Phineas sets the pillow aside and starts on the sheets, stripping the bed with quick yanks before setting to work tucking the new ones in place. It kept him focused on something other than Richard's face, that was good. "You don't need to apologize, dear boy. You've been through the wringer, that much is apparent. You'll do fine here, don't you worry. My wife is going to try and adopt you before the week is out, I'm afraid."

“Heh. Is..Is that so?” He bites back a bit of a chuckle at that, tilting his head. “Is that an exaggeration or is that a joke? Because I’m not sure how one can…adopt someone if their parents are still alive.”

"Essentially? By being wealthy enough to offer monetary compensation if it's a child, or by doing an adult adoption otherwise. Or by marriage into the family, I suppose? But she'd never push for that one, she nearly fought her own parents over trying to force her to marry back in the day." He shakes his head, giving the sheets one more smoothing before putting the down comforter back on. There, nice and cozy. "Come here, give the bed a sit and see how you like it."

“I see..” He goes quiet a bit, then as Phineas beckons over, he moves to wheel over, quickly moving to grab his cane and briefcase and set it down onto the nearby floor before pressing his palms down onto the comforter. With a practiced ease, he moves to push himself upward, twisting part way to properly set himself back down onto the bed, sitting there for a moment or two before he nods quietly. “Feels…very soft. Very cozy.”

"Good! Do you think you'll need more pillows? I don't know if you like having an extra to support your spine or between your legs, but there's a couple left in the chest if you want them." It occurs to him that Richard had probably never even had an extra pillow to do those things with, but he finds himself offering anyway, just in case the idea seemed tempting. And with spinal injuries, who knows, maybe the extra support would be good for him.

“That sounds nice, thank you.” He nods a touch. “Perhaps maybe one or two extra pillows, if you could get them out for me?”

Down he goes again, plucking up the other two pillows from the chest. He'd have to use the decorative covers for them, but that hardly seemed like a problem, at least they'd match with the sheets. A few extra fluffs, a bit of fussing about with the placement, and the bed was put to Phineas' satisfaction, and he steps back to take a look around the room. "Is there anything else you need, my boy?"

“..I don’t think so, sir. I should be alright for now, thank you.” He nods a touch, absent-mindlessly removing his hat to start slowly pulling out the bobby-pins that were keeping his hair trapped in a bun, strands of hair starting to fall down his head one by one, until those strands become clumps, until finally, all of his hair moves to fall back down onto his shoulders, down onto his back, making itself at least halfway down before finally ceasing, and though his hair looks a small bit more curly than normal, it looks shiny and soft, a sign that even someone as poor as him could work to keep his hair properly clean.

Phineas watched Richard let down his hair, waiting until all the pins were out before sitting on the bed next to him. Time for the old half hug, come here boy. "Are you ready? Do you want me to bring her over, or would you like to change first?"

“..No, I’m ready to meet her now. Thank you, though, for asking first.” He nods softly, moving to slowly lift a hand to Phineas’s shoulder to deliver a soft slight half-hug back.

Phineas nods, squeezing Richard more firmly to his side before releasing him and sliding off the bed. "Of course, Richard. I'll be back soon, just you wait." And off he went, stealing out the door and into the depths of the house to go find the lady of the estate. Which wasn't hard, after so many years he knew exactly where she'd be down to her favorite chair. It took only a look to draw her from her seat, and a hushed conversation to have her striding towards the temporary bedroom Richard had been set up in, Phineas trailing behind with a faintly amused expression. Not a moment's hesitation with her, even now.

Two quiet knocks at the door, and a woman's voice comes through. "Hello dear. Are you decent? May I come in?"

Richard feels himself straighten at the sound of the women’s voice, his heart skipping a beat as he moves to frantically check his suit, just to make sure nothing was undone from the fall earlier or there weren’t any stains from dinner, before he moves his head back up to stare toward the door. “Ah..Y-Yes, you may.”

A brief pause, and then the door opens enough for the lady of the house to make her appearance.

She was small and slight at only around five and a half feet, and had soft brown eyes paired with piles and piles of loosely curled reddish brown hair. And she was staring Richard down like she was analyzing the exact thread count of his suit. But the intense stare lasted only a moment before she beamed at him, padding across the room to offer both her hands. "You're Richard! I'm Madeline. Madeline Aria Villin. You've met my husband already. It's wonderful to meet you dear! My goodness aren't you just the faintest little scrap of a boy, have you been subsisting off of nothing but dust and prayers? We'll fix that quick enough. And those eyes of yours! Poor dear, you must be exhausted--Oop!"

Phineas had trailed behind his wife, stifling his laughter behind a fist, but finally showed mercy and planted a hand on top of her head to interrupt her fussing with the unspoken plea to give the boy a moment to breathe, Mads.

Richard couldn’t quite help but stare the second the woman, Madeline, instantly all but launched into a rant that seemed to leave her babbling a mile a minute, his eyes growing wider and wider with every passing second, like he was expecting her head to pop off from how much she was talking. He had never heard someone talk so quick before, and it was only when Phineas moves to place a hand on her head that finally caused her to stop, leaving Richard staring for a moment, jaw working up and down before he finally regains his voice. “..Ah. W-Well, Ma’am, I lived in a fishing town, so, wasn’t really enough we could afford. But, you don’t need to know that at the moment. He slowly moves to hold out a hand to her to shake. “It’s, uh…nice to meet you.”

She takes his offered hand in both of hers, squeezing it firmly. "A pleasure, my dear!" She flashes him a grin, all teeth and crinkled up eyes from smiling too wide. "You're welcome here. My husband explained your situation, in brief terms. And if you're half as clever as he made you sound, and a quarter as eager to try, you'll be just fine. We'll take care of you, I promise."

“..Thank you, Ma’am..” He looks a touch more relieved at that, his grin loosing some of it’s nervous edge, and he nods a bit. “It’s..wonderful to hear that. Really.”

She rubs the back of his hand in little soothing circles, letting her face relax into a smaller, but still warm smile. "Of course, sweetie. Are you comfortable? Did you bring a brush for your hair? Do you need anything from the kitchen? A cup of tea? I'm rubbish at making tea, but I can send Phinny to make some for you."

“Ah…I’m fine, for the moment, ma’am.” He can’t help but let his shoulders slump a touch at the feeling of her warm hands on his own, the comfort in such a feeling, and he realizes he had been holding tension in his spine that he hadn’t been meaning to. “..I did bring a comb, but the teeth are chipped. And I’m more of a fan of coffee, I’m afraid. But if you have any tea that can soothe aches and pains, I’ll be happy to take that for the night.” He seems to blink a touch at that, as if remembering something, and his eyes slide to his suitcase. “Oh, shoot. That reminds me. I have to take my medicine now…”

Both the Villins looked at the other, then back at Richard, eyes narrowing faintly. But Madeline was quick to perk back up, gesturing for Phineas to pick up the suitcase and put it on the bed next to the poor boy. "Your medicine, my dear? For your injury, I assume? Does it still give you trouble?"

“Ah, yes. It does. Quite often, really. Doctors told me that it’ll last for the rest of my life, and that I’ll need medicine. Helps with the aches and pains, gives me more energy to keep moving my legs and not drop as quickly, things like that. They told me I need to take it every day, around 12 AM and 12 PM sharp, and if I don’t, I need to wait for the withdrawal symptoms to stop before I take it again.” He moves to rifle through the suitcase before pulling out what looks like a large bottle, labeled with some sort of medical brand, with the title,“CURE FOR THE ROUGHEST OF INJURIES, TESTED AND PROVEN TO WORK FOR THE MOST VILE OF FACTORY INCIDENTS”, displayed in bright blue letters. “The doctors say the proper amount is about a china cup full…But I never had one so I’ve been taking it in doses of tablespoons…Probably not the best method..”

Phineas steps forward, leaning down to closely inspect the bottle with a faint scowl. "We have china cups if you need them, but do you have any idea what's in this stuff, my boy? What are the withdrawal symptoms?" He had his suspicions, but he wasn't about to jump to any conclusions just yet, it would be better to give poor Richard the chance to actually speak and explain, in case he had any clarification.

“Ah..” He freezes up a touch, as if not expecting such a question. “..Shakes, hot and cold flashes, heart palpitations, lack of sleep, sudden bouts of fatigue, sweating, fever, shortness of breath…And…I think nausea?”

Another glance is shared between the two, Phineas' scowl deepening before a hand pressed to his back seems to focus him. Not now. Not yet. The boy needs a doctor first, they can't meddle with this all willy nilly. "I see. I'm glad you have something to help, but those withdrawal symptoms sound...deeply unpleasant. Perhaps we should arrange for a new doctor while you're with us, and have them take a look to see if there's anything modern medicine can do." Modern expensive medicine, where the doctors know the patients can find someone better remains unsaid, but they're both thinking it.

“…Are you sure?” He looks concerned again, brow furrowing ever so slightly. “I..Wouldn’t that be expensive?”

Madeline pipes up, chuckling affectionately. "Sweetheart, we said we'd take care of you, remember? We aren't about to leave a job half done! You're staying with us, so you'll get the best London has to offer, just like any of our children would!"

“I..” He goes quiet for a moment, eyes glancing off to the side. “I just…don’t want to end up being a wasted effort.”

Oh, that was the WRONG thing to say if he wanted them to be any less concerned. Madeline scoots in with a little huff, hopping up onto the bed next to Richard to crush him in a hug. He is getting kissed right on the forehead, it's inevitable. "Sweetheart. You are not a wasted effort.”

Phineas moves more slowly, but settles in on Richard's other side to rub soothing circles between his shoulder blades. "She's right. We're taking care of you. That isn't something we're saying just to say. We want to help."

“…But why?” He leans a touch into the hug, still looking down toward the bottle he has clutched in his hands, his hands still wrapped around the neck of the glass. “I mean…All I did was show you a couple blueprints, sir. How do I know that I can ever hope to become what you want me to be? You want me to be an assistant, and I want to try, but…What happens if I can’t?”

Phineas scoots in closer, leaning in to press his side against Richard's as Madeline continues to fuss and dote on him with little kisses to his forehead and temple. Get ENCASED, boy. "That wont happen, but I'll tell you anyway. If you somehow manage to be so incompetent in the workshop that you can't even bolt two sheets of metal together or fit two gears into place despite having built your own wheelchair from scrap and creating a fully functional generation device, I keep you on to help draft blueprints. And if you can't create blueprints despite clearly having multiple right there in your suitcase, you'll help balance the books and keep track of the numbers. And if you can't even do that, despite all evidence indicating that you know how to read and write and do basic math, you'll help Madeline with the household. There's always a million letters coming and going, a thousand tasks to jot in the calendar, routines to keep track of... Suffice to say, there's a place for you here, Richard."

There was silence for a while, long and heavy, and finally Richard nods a touch, sniffling a bit, but no tears coming out from his cheeks. It was a very big possibility that he simply had no more tears left to cry at all. “…Th-..Thank you, sir. I..I’ll do my best..”

"Of course." Phineas offers him another little pat on the back, then slides off the bed to leave Madeline to her attempts to crush the poor boy. "I'm going to see what we have in the tea cabinet, I'll be back soon. If Mads gets too clingy, poke her.

The aforementioned Mads pauses in her fussing to stick her tongue out at Phineas, snorting loudly. "I am a DELIGHT, sir. Now shoo, I have to love on this poor boy before he shrivels up and falls through the cracks of the floorboards."

“Heh..I will…certainly keep that in mind, sir.” A small bit of a grin grows on his lips at that, and he idly leans in a bit harder into Madeline’s hug. “..I hope my arrival here isn’t too unexpected, ma’am.”

With Phineas shooed away, Madeline takes the opportunity to start running careful fingers through Richard's hair, tutting softly. "Nonsense, dear. Unexpected? Yes. Unwelcome? No. I'm glad you found your way here. You seem like a wonderful boy, no thanks to those lousy parents of yours. But you're here now, and if I have any say in the matter you'll be staying with us for a good long while. We have the resources to help you, and someday you'll help us just the same. I know you'll be great, sweetie. Phineas was very excited about your work, and he's hard to impress."

“…Hmm. Right. Of course. I’ll trust your word on it, ma’am, thank you.” He nods a touch, letting out a sigh. “..Thank you. Again. For everything.”

She hums, lightly scratching his scalp with her fingernails as she leans back against his pillows. Ooh, freshly fluffed, how decadent. "Of course, honey. You can always ask us any questions you want. If there's something you need, we can get it. You're wanted here." Mwah, another kiss for the top of his poor head.

Phineas returns a few minutes later, a cup of green tea held between his hands and offered out to Richard. "Green tea on its own isn't sweet, so I added some honey. Hopefully that should help it be more palatable. But if you just can't stomach it, that's alright."

By the time Phineas had come back with the tea, Richard was all but close to falling asleep already, eyes fluttering and body slowly growing more and more limp in Madeline’s arms, until the sound of Phineas’s voice causes him to jerk back to reality, and he moves to slowly sit back up again, flashing a small grin. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.” He slowly moves to take the tea in slightly shaky fingers, bringing it to his lips to take a sip, despite the fact said tea was steaming hot. He smacks his lips, nods again, then moves to start sipping the tea again.

Madeline released him with only a little grumbling, but sat back next to him as Phineas took his place on the bed. Parent sandwich, part two. One last kiss to his temple, and Madeline murmurs. "Finish your tea and we'll let you get some rest, sweetie. You look fit to collapse right on the spot."

Richard merely nods, softly continuing to sip his tea, slowly draining it down little by little. There was a slight creaking from the door, and his eyes dart up to find a couple of more eyes attempting to peek through the gap, but when he sees them they squeal and run away, and he feels himself flush, pulling his lips away from the cup to swallow his mouthful of tea. “..The kids, I take it?”

Madeline hops up, clicking her tongue sternly as her hands settle on her hips. Her voice rings out, loud and disapproving as only a mother could be. "I certainly hope not, if they expect to get whipped cream on their breakfast pancakes! Bad children do not get special treats!" She turns on her heel, cupping Richard's head in her hands and giving him a little peck right in the middle of his forehead. "I'll handle them, don't fret dearie. And you can have as much whipped cream as you want. There should be berries too!"

Phineas watched as Madeline exited the room with her face schooled into an unimpressed scowl, then turned his attention to Richard. "In all seriousness.. Will you be alright tonight? Do you need help with anything before I let you sleep?"

Richard, not quite expecting the forehead kiss, merely stares after Madeline for a moment, and then glances toward Phineas, moving to shake his head. “No, sir. I should be fine. I appreciate the concern, however. At this point…” He glances toward the bed. “..I think I just need to rest for the moment. I’ll be better in the morning.”

Phineas stands, placing his hand on Richard's shoulders one last time. "I'll see you in the morning, my boy. Get some rest. Your new life is waiting for you." And with one last look behind, he leaves the room to go help his wife deal with the rest of their family's questions.

Richard watches as the door closes behind him, slowly moves to drain the last of his tea from his cup, then gently places the cup down on the nearby bedside table. He digs out his sleeping clothes, changes into them as carefully as he can, and finally slides in under the covers. For a moment, all he can think of is the fact that, for once, in a very long time, his legs aren’t forced to prop up on the wooden frame of the bed to make room for the rest of him.

His eyes close, and he finds himself drifting off almost immediately.

[ddarker-dreams]

Affliction II. Yan Giorno x Reader [COMM]

warnings: general yan stuff, mentions of previous abusive relationships, isolation and self deprecation. word count: 3k. link to the previous part.

There aren’t many places left where you feel comfortable enough to be yourself. 

Not an identity that was painstakingly crafted for the sake of self preservation, but your genuine self. Here in the midst of Giorno’s grandiose flower gardens, you’re given the scant opportunity. Whether it be paranoia, or if it holds some ground in reality, there’s a possibility that guards are watching over you from afar. Lost in the thickets of nature, even if you’re being fenced in against your will, is preferable to the suffocating walls of the mansion. There isn’t a lot you’re willing to praise Giorno about, but his taste in flora is breathtaking. Palettes of complementing colors mesh together in a wide array of nature, stepping into it like entering a new world.

This particular section is your favorite. Azaleas are in full bloom around you, the sweet scent wafting to your nose. Stone garden benches, slightly aged by weather and covered in moss, make for a nice spot to collect yourself. This time of day, a sizable tree provides shade from the oppressive Neapolitan sun. Taking in a deep breath, you consider what to do for the reminder of the day. There isn’t much in the ways of entertainment, not in the sense you’d grown used to. No using the internet, or interacting with anyone that isn’t Giorno, aside from rare exceptions when you need food. Some of your hobbies are provided for, but the inspiration to partake in them when in captivity is dwindling at best, nonexistent at worst. 

You’ve had plenty of time to mope around the long, seemingly abandoned halls that make up your prison. After nights of incessant tears and sighing, you’ve made up your mind to make the most of the dreadful situation. Biding your time for a possibility of escape is all that can be done. Walking around the gardens almost felt like a form of reconnaissance at first, scoping the foreign territory in hopes of locating a weakness. Frustrating hour after hour would pass, no convenient cracks in the wall or fencing making itself known. Of course he wouldn’t make it that easy, not after all the apparent effort that went into kidnapping you.

The sun is beginning to set in the sky, the lengthier days of summer beginning a downwards trend as September soon approaches. You frown at the sight of clouds bathed in rays of golden light, knowing what unique horrors night time brings with it. During the day you get to be on your lonesome, making as much space between you and Giorno as possible. While there are some fortunate nights where he’s too engrossed with work matters to seek you out, Lady Luck hasn’t been on your side lately. He’s been woefully insistent on spending dinner with you, wanting to form a bond that you hold no interest in. You’d sooner seek out the company of a snail than Giorno Giovanna. 

When the crickets begin their anthems, the moon hanging high overhead, your freedom is restricted even more. The heavy weight of this realization pushes against your chest, a fresh wave of chills running through you. Anxiety is a finicky creature, making itself known at the worst times. Having a choke hold on you at its own leisure, preventing you from making any meaningful progress. It’s been somewhere around a few months now, you believe, since the encounter that changed your life for the worst. 

Shaking your low hanging head at the thought, you occupy yourself with the parchment sitting on your lap. It’s coarse against your skin, a much needed anchor to keep yourself from drifting away from this world. That’s right, you’ve come here for a reason. You’ve had this blank piece of paper, that has beckoned you to fill it for some time now. The problem being, the lack of proper equipment to use on it. Some pieces of charcoal that you found earlier after lunch sprang hope anew, the tool familiar in the best of ways. Holding with it fond memories, a desirable distraction from your bleak outlook on life. 

The guards that take care in shadowing you didn’t protest when you took it, so you assume it must be allowed. Bringing the dark instrument down to the parchment, you begin a rough sketch of an azalea plant in front of you. As you make the various shapes that define the flower, time almost seems to speed up around you. Before you register it, the sun has almost finished its descent into the sky, your hands fully covered in residue from handling the charcoal. Too absorbed in perfecting your work, you fail to notice approaching footsteps from behind. 

“--[First].” 

A surprised gasp leaves your lips at the unexpected greeting, your head whipping around to identify the source of the intrusive noise. Panic bubbles within at the sight of Giorno, who is taking a keen interest in what you are working on. From how at ease he looks, it’s difficult to gauge his thoughts. His visage never offers insight to his mind, always schooled and taciturn. He must be awaiting a response from you, but your mind is a state of panic. This activity isn’t something that’ll get you in trouble, is it? Subconsciously, you move the canvas to the side, your fingers wrapping around the edges uncomfortably. 

You need to say something, but the words die in your mouth before coming to life. Pushing through your storm of dread, you offer a response. “I… I’m sorry, if I wasn’t supposed to.”

Turquoise eyes regard you in kind, taking a seat next to you on the bench. He’s generous enough to leave a respectable gap, but is still too close for comfort. From how his lips are turned into a soft smile, you want nothing more than to believe you won’t be chastised for this innocent indulgence. Spending time in Giorno’s presence is akin to navigating through a minefield, never certain what step may end up being your last. All of the promises he offers feel unfounded, the sickly sweet assurances of never harming a hair on your head. Why should you believe him? He’s given you no reason to take his word as concrete, and you can’t see that ever changing.

You remember the scent of blood. The nauseating sound of bones crunching, how flesh sounds when thrown against a wall. How when approaching death, the eyes grew bloodshot, lips trembling as they took on a haunting shade of blue. It’s the stuff of nightmares, watching a life snuffed out right before you. Matteo, someone who had been your companion, was gone before you could even process it. The strain on your relationship with him is unforgettable, but having to see his body tossed aside by a ghostly force? Witnessing how limp his limbs were, the same arms that once sought refuge in long ago? 

You’ll never forget the devil Giorno is, no matter how much he paints himself as a saint. 

“I had no idea you were interested in art,” he chooses to ignore your previous comment, wanting to redirect onto more positive things. “You have a real talent for it. Had I known, I would’ve prepared a wider array of art supplies for you.” 

The compliment has the opposite effect as intended on your person. Instead of filling you with validation at the wholehearted praise, the words ooze down your skin like droplets of corrosive venom. A sudden disconnect between your creation is torn, and you can no longer stomach to look at it. How an object of beauty can turn into a reminder of your captor in a few measly seconds is a peculiar thing. When he leaves for work the next morning, you consider the possibility of destroying it all together. A last ditch effort to rid yourself of this revolting feeling that creeps down your spine. 

“Please, don’t trouble yourself.” 

There are multiple ways of interpreting your words, ranging from a dismissal of Giorno’s presence to humility. He spins it in his favor, as he’s showcased his brilliance in doing so. Your lack of straightforward animosity towards him serves to backfire every time. 

“It’d be no trouble. Truth be told, I’m lacking an in-depth knowledge of the arts. What kind of equipment would suit you best?” Giorno inquires with a tilt of his head, his eyes leaving the impression that he can see the full dimensions of your soul. Ignoring him isn’t going to be of benefit, so you provide the bare minimum to satisfy his quest. 

“It’s… more of a personal preference, what an artist chooses to use.” 

He’s not letting you off the hook just yet. “What do you prefer to use?” 

“The basics. Pencils, watercolors, the like. Nothing too fancy.”

Giorno looks fascinated at anything you offer him. Even if you only speak when spoken to, it’s a good place to start. Your muscles tense as he leans closer, to get a better look at the drawing of flowers. His eyes scan every stroke, seeing how it all culminates into a grander picture. You move your legs over, internally pleading that he’ll leave you alone soon. Speaking for him with any amount of time, no matter how small, is exhausting. 

“Azaleas, correct?” 

At this guess, you nod in confirmation. 

“Please, should you ever need a reference for flowers, let me know. I’d be more than happy to provide it for you.” 

The chance to refuse this offer is fleeting, curiosity taking over at how he reaches for a rock on the ground. Taking it into his hand, he puts it in full view. You blink at the uncanny series of events, wondering why Giorno is putting a simple rock on display. Any semblance of understanding is stolen from you, as the colors twist into a different assortment. The spherical shape shifts into a stem, the bud on top growing light pink petals. He watches with amusement at how you look at it closer, mouth agape.

“W-what?” It’s a weak whisper, betraying the full extent of your awe. How did he pull this off? It isn’t like a cheesy magic trick, where the rock would slide somewhere, only to be replaced by a flower. No, you witnessed the full life cycle of the flower. He chuckles lowly at your childlike wonder, preparing a palpable explanation. 

“It’s an ability of mine,” he elaborates, placing the newly former azalea on your lap. “I can make any living thing.” 

Is this a dream? To test the theory, you rub your eyes, uncaring of the smudges likely left against your skin. When your eyelids flutter open once more, you’re still in reality. Wanting to inspect the flower closer, you lift it up, close to your eyes. Studying every aspect of it, from how soft the petals are to the firmness of the stem. While not a professional botanist by any means, there’s no denying that this is a real flower. 

“Any living thing…” 

The words dance on your tongue, parroting his words back to him to make sense of it all. “Does that include animals?” 

“Naturally. Is there anything you’d like to see, [First]?” He tempts you with promises of spectacle, fully aware of how bewitching Gold Experience’s ability is. Numerous ideas flood through your mind, possibilities infinite. Thoughts ranging from your own favorite animals, to cute creatures that might improve your mood. While creating bouquets of any flower might be an intriguing prospect, you’re more drawn to seeing animals. The only animals you’ve had contact with in the longest time are occasional frogs that congregate near the running foundations at night. Everything else is reduced to sounds, from owls to cicadas. 

It’s when you see Giorno’s knowing smile that something deep inside you stirs. 

He’s basking in the lightheartedness you’re exuding. This… this ultimately doesn’t change a thing. Giorno is a terrible man, who has taken so much from you. The hedges surrounding you both suddenly feel suffocating, a merciless reminder of who it is you’re dealing with. Beauty pales in comparison to real freedom. Every day has been the same as the last, an infinite loop of going through the motions, destined to never make progress. All of this has been thrusted onto you by Giorno Giovanna, a man in relentless pursuit of your heart. 

None of this is right. Being near him is enough to too much to take.

You hold your tongue, eyebrows furrowing at Giorno bringing out all this conversation from you. It’s humiliating how all your efforts to deny him the desires of his flesh never work as intended, this one of the many times he’s bested you. Now that you’ve spotted his game, you clamp shut like a clam, intent on hiding the pearl of yourself from him. You’re intentional in looking away, the luxury of him maintaining eye contact with you a memory of the past. Sensing the barriers you’re putting up against him, Giorno stands, dusting off his expensive pants. He offers you a nod of acknowledgement, pivoting on his heel and calling out to you over his shoulder.

“I’ll leave you to it then.” 

Too absorbed in your self deprecating thoughts and misery, you offer up no response. Footsteps crunching against the vegetation on the ground fade away, your heart pounding violently against your chest. Something wet caresses your face, teardrops falling and smudging your art. Your sniffling grows in volume, becoming a full set of sobs. Hands shaking by your side, you hang your head low, biting your lower lip to the point of drawing blood. 

Feeling like a man possessed, you wildly rip away at the canvas that taunts you so. The sound of paper ripping pales in comparison to the natural ambiance of the summer night, and you pay it no mind. All you want is an outlet for this surge of emotion. Any guilt over littering the ground with remnants of your work dissipates when you remember how servants will scurry like insects to clean up after you. For extra measure, you pick up the former rock, glowering at it. Breaking the stem with your hands, you throw it as far as you can manage, not able to stand the sight of all it stands for. None of this even begins to remedy the abhorrence that clogs your heart for Giorno, but it’s a start.

Exhaustion seeps into every pore of your being, and you retire to your room. 

- - -

He notices a lot of things about you when you’re asleep.

There’s clear serenity on your countenance, far away from the world of unfortunate reality. Giorno catches every rise and fall of your chest, how delicate your breaths are, the way your long eyelashes flutter against the soft cheeks of your face. When you’re lifted from the depths of deep sleep with a dream, frustration overtakes you, eyelids twitching. He’s inquisitive on the nature of your dreams, that must take the form of nightmares. What is it that haunts you? There’s a twinge in his heart at the possibility of it being him. 

The first time you reached out to him in your sleep, he thought it a trick of the lights. A fine delicacy he doesn’t deserve to gratify himself with, as a reminder of his own sins. You’re too good to him when you’re like this, arms subconsciously reaching out for something to grasp on. A few times, you found a pillow, content with it in your arms. In moments like this one, your hands touch the bare flesh of Giorno’s chest, drawing yourself against him. He stays perfectly still, recognizing the humiliation you’d face should you wake. No, this is just fine with him, enough to satisfy a dormant hunger. 

He can’t help himself, ghosting his fingertips up and down your bare arms. Goosebumps dot your skin from the motions. It’s a selfish wish, that you’d always be like this around him. Giorno would be a fool to think of himself as anything but self-serving after all he’s taken from you. Your future, freedom, your life. What is possibly an attempt to justify some of the extreme measures arises, Giorno incapable of hiding the scowl of your former situation. Such a kindhearted person, diluted by scum of society, churns his stomach in repulsion. The original plan didn’t include offing your former partner, but righteous fury overtook him. It isn’t often Giorno’s composure can crack, but seeing you belittled was all it took.

All the damage inflicted on you left gaping wounds, too great for Giorno to heal. 

He witnessed how radiant you’re capable of being, how your face glowed the first time you met. It’s a fond memory now, a way to placate him. Anything less than honoring the memory of you treating his wounds is a disservice to your person, Giorno incapable of offering nothing but high praises for you. This highlight of humanity, a pinnacle of what people are like at their best, is what motivates his goals further. To see Italy become a better version of itself, eradicating the nefarious plots that fester in the shadows. 

You rub your head against his chest, murmuring incoherent words in your sleep. His heart leaps at the endearing sight, wishing he could stay like this with you for eternity. In the midst of his musings, his own Stand materializes into existence, unblinking eyes considering every curve and dip of your body. Gold Experience Requiem wishes you were capable of acknowledging it, having to be content with observing you from afar. It’s a double edged sword. There’s an opportunity to wrap phantom-like appendages around your waist, you only believe it to be a gust of wind. Touch starved as Giorno is, he’s willing to accept any scraps of your touch he has access to.

Tiny pieces are better than nothing. 

Tomorrow will bring troubles of its own, yet he can’t find it in himself to complain. Your scrutiny is wholly deserved, and all that he can offer in meager attempts to reconcile is effort. To be better for your sake, and his own.

[stories-me]

Potential Character for Mrs. Kelsey and Tumblr 1/7/2022: 

 Dr. Wondertainment, Paranormal Toymaker and/or Company: 

 Appearance (typical appearances of Dr. Wondertainment): (See above). 

Background: 

In all honesty, not much is actually KNOWN about Dr. Wondertainment. We’re pretty sure he’s a reality-warper whose limits of her powers are yet to be known. However, his history is somewhat “muddied” by her powers… perhaps even Dr. Wondertainment HIMSELF has forgotten who she truly is… assuming he actually still exists and/or is not dead (either of which apparently occurred from an incident apparently involving a mass murderer, the leader of a shadowy, international, extra-governmental paramilitary organization, at least one deity, and four bent paper clips)! 

Some say she’s the manifestation of the desires and wishes of every child, teen, and young-at-heart adult on the planet, some claim he was an ordinary man who somehow found a way to create anomalous toys and the like, some say she’s the descendant of the original Dr. Wondertainment, and there are even those who claim he’s an escapee from another anomalous place known simply as “The Factory”. 

Some claim that her factory (or whatever his headquarters is) offers tours every hour Tuesday through Friday. Folks who work there can’t exactly remember where it is, and often can’t remember what the headquarters is (An immense factory? A regular office building? A theme park?), but all agree that it’s the absolute BEST place they’ve ever worked! 

She is known for creating wonderful, “fun-tastic” objects and imbuing them with anomalous properties (such as snails that breathe fire, inflatable alien invaders, and a pony that can sing “Happy Birthday”), and, yes, sometimes those creations can be dangerous, at times, but the group known as the SCP Foundation has yet to find him and shut her down, so they focus on locking up the more dangerous creations when they find them. 

How he is like me: 

We both are good at creating all sorts of wondrous ideas (he’s known for creating toys, games, etc., and I’m known for creating fan fictions). We both want these things to entertain and possibly help others. In addition, she’s confused about who he herself is, at the end of the day, not to mention who he is SUPPOSED to be, especially due to her powerful reality-warping powers, which may have resulted in him forgetting who he was, originally. This is similar to how, in order to adapt to others, we have to develop different personality traits that don’t come naturally to us to fit in, such as having to deal with Autism in various ways (as Mrs. Kelsey has so expertly pointed out). 

[ashxketchum]

6, 9, 12, 25

Yayyy, thank you so much for the ask, and for picking 25 because I know exactly what I need to post 😆

6. which wip is your favourite?

Wow this is like Sophie’s Choice hehe, but for Digimon, Koisuru will always be a favourite, since that’s the one that pushed me to learn and improve my writing. (I just really hope I can save if from WIP hell some day!)

For Beyblade, there’s this one where Tyson and Hilary’s class is putting up a play for the school festival and they’re playing the leads. It’s from Tyson’s pov and has a lot of potential which is why I’m kinda afraid of ruining it and am writing it at a snail’s pace since last year.

And for Pokemon, there’s the Quidditch AU which will never see the light cuz it’s too much work for my one shot wired brain.

9. (if you write fanfiction) which fandom do you like to write for most?

Beyblade.

Even though I’ve written way more for Digimon, I definitely enjoy writing TyHil more than anything since there’s no definite Canon ending for either of them so I can twist their lives around as much as I want without ever feeling that I'm derailing way too much from their canon versions. (Digimon OTP trauma is something I will always carry with me lol)

12. do you write on paper, laptop, or your phone?

Laptop.

My first TyHil x Pokeshipping crossover fanfic was written on paper some 14 years ago and is lost to the void forever.

25. post an excerpt of one of your wips.

I'll post the TyHil one I mentioned earlier, since it will be a while till I get around to finishing it!

x

“Why are you still here?”

Tyson opened an eye and peeked at the source of the disturbance. Only one person in their school was brave enough to wake him from one of his infamous naps without fearing the consequences. The brunette was standing in their classroom’s doorway with a disapproving look on her face and her hands fixed on her hips. When she saw him wake, she started to make her towards his desk.

“Gee, Hilary why do you think?” Tyson muttered in reply, trying to stifle a yawn as he opened his eyes fully and stretched his arms over his head in order to rid his body of the slumber that he had been so peacefully encompassed in until a few minutes ago.

“You know we’re supposed to be preparing for the school festival right now. Together. As a class.” She was standing right next to his desk now, but even then the glare she sent his way did not seem to have any effect on him.

“I don’t think I’m a group activities sort of person.” Tyson said, locking eyes with her, a determined look on his face.

“Says the guy who almost cried a river when his teammates left him.” Hilary scoffed at him.

“I didn’t cry, and let me rephrase that, I’m not a group activities person at school.” Tyson retorted, ears a little bit red from the brunette’s accusation.

“Oh come on Tyson, this will be fun!” Hilary groaned defeatedly, she propped herself over the desk Tyson had been sleeping on until a few minutes ago, knowing very well that it will be a while before he is convinced. Tyson was then forced to straighten up and lean back in his chair or else his head would’ve collided with her hip, and any remaining feeling of drowsiness left his body as he did so. “Chief has been working really hard for this, you know.” The brunette added, tilting her head sideways, to meet his eyes.

“In other words, he’s driving you all crazy and you need me to rein him back in.”

Hilary held his gaze before narrowing her eyes in annoyance, “He is driving us crazy, but I’m more than equipped to handle him and he has really been working hard so as his friend you should be there to support him. Just like we are always there to support the team.” She looked at him pointedly, stressing on certain words loudly and making him wince as she did so. Tyson groaned, she knew him well enough to know that the ‘I’m always there for you’ trick always worked immediately on him.

“And what exactly are we doing this year? Another cafe? Do you really want me to be around food and other edible items?” Tyson challenged her, trying to display a somewhat proud look on his face, even though internally he knew he’d already lost the battle by showing interest.

“No. I would not be here forcing you out of this chair that you glue yourself to every morning if I knew that our ingredients would be in danger.” She scowled deeply at him before continuing, “Frankly I’m surprised you don’t know what our class is putting up despite sitting through the meetings in the past week.”

Tyson shrugged guiltlessly, “I’m just as good at zoning out as I am at spinning tops.”

Hilary rolled her eyes and shook her head at his statement, after forcing the scowl off from her face, she looked at him with a sober expression and replied, “We’re putting up a play. Chief wrote it himself, and he is directing it too.”

Tyson leaned back further in his chair as a look of utter surprise settled on his face at her words, “You’re letting Chief direct it?”

“Well of course,” stated Hilary matter-of-factly, “he wrote it so he should be allowed to be in command.”

Tyson feigned shock and disbelief as he responded in a high-pitched voice, “Hilary Tachibana is letting other people be in command? Are you okay Hils? Do we need to take you to the hospital for an examination?”

x