#it’s just a guarantee in that exact day

[kquil]

DIVORCING ORION BLACK | CHAPTER EIGHT

08 : PASTRIES

CHPT. SUM. : Alpahard comes for a visit and you help the Belbys run their shop while Damocles focuses on the wolfsbane potion. Everything appears to be going as planned.

LENGTH : 9.7k

TAGS : OG Walburga is a scheming bitch ; Orion is an absent and neglectful father ; Alphard is a good uncle who loves his nephews ; Reader just girl bossing it ; Ruth and Damocles are couple goals ; Reggie finally being happy and very baby

CONTENT WARNING : talks of divorce

A/N : I'm posting this now to give it a week before I post the 9th chapter on February 1st -- you'll have to excuse me if I'm a little late on that update though because I'm currently out of commission from the most horrible cold/flu I've ever had (╥﹏╥) -- please send your thoughts and prayers because I haven't had a peaceful night's sleep the last two days and I swear this impromptu post is also a part of the delirium I'm experiencing

← PREV. 07 : INVESTIGATIONS | SERIES M.LIST

14th September 1971 | 12 Grimmauld Place

Walburga throws a fit, trapped in the abyss of your mind. She’s furious, seething from your menacing intrusions upon her life and secrets. It was frustrating and annoying beyond belief! The intricate web she had just begun to create was unravelling before her very eyes, and she could do nothing but watch! She had meant to secure a different future with her forming web; impervious to the imminent cycle of life she had witnessed that fateful day months ago. She had made one fatal mistake in all of her meticulous planning and preparation, labouring over an ancient ritual that would guarantee full obedience from her two boys. And, rather than force her mind and ideals over the thoughts and actions of her two sons before their fates began to set permanently, she was being made to fall under the thoughts and actions of another individual, you.

Being forced to watch you take over her shoes has been Walburga’s own personal hell. It’s far more painful knowing that she has no say over what you do. She’s limited to only watching, watching and agonising over her perfect plans being torn to shreds. The love and kindness you were showing her sons was unbecoming, going completely against her values on the way a mother should parent. It’s clear that you know nothing about how to raise two young boys born into the most ancient and noble house.

Walburga’s resentment grows and grows by the day. As a prisoner forced to share her identity and existence with someone who goes against her beliefs, it is unbelievably torturous. She screams ‘NO!’ and ‘STOP!’ at every offending action you take, all of which seem to be the exact opposite of her true self. Openly showing affection? Her sons will only grow clingy and burdensome. Being open to conversations? Growing boys should only speak when spoken to and not dare question the things being told to them for their own good. Cooking without magic? (Cooking at all!) There’s a house elf to fulfil that role. Thinking about your foreign behaviour has anger quickly bubbling up from her stomach. You’re so foolish!

But there was hope…

After every major fainting spell Walburga has induced, your unconscious body has left your thoughts and mind completely silent and open to her reclaim. Dwelling in the dark depths when all is silent, Walburga can feel a ticklish sensation from afar. And it only grows ever palpable after every major blackout. A wicked smirk touches her lips as she reaches forward and feels the wisps of connection between the floating space she was suspended in and the tangibility of the physical world.

One powerful, familiar thought moves her fingers a centimetre. It was small but a big step forward. The solid material she registers at the edges of her nerves -–the feeling of bedsheets atop a solid mattress— was alien in its distance and bizarre for its unfamiliar yet known sensation. It was like returning to something and your brain had yet to recognise the perception as one that was formally commonplace.

However, just as Walburga was wrapping her mind around that singular, grounding feeling, it was suddenly ripped away. Once again, she was surrounded by an empty coldness, suspended in an unfeeling space. Despite the frustration that quickly mounted inside her, it was accompanied by a resolve that plastered itself solidly in her chest, a determination to bide her time and remain patient. She will wreck terror and havoc when times are right and after she’s deteriorated your hold, she’ll regain full control once more.

It will only be a matter of time…

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

You wake up to a familiar scene and sigh sadly. The ringing in your head is a powerful one, an annoyance that makes the sun rays falling through the gaps of the curtains feel like a knife to your eyes. Reaching for your wand, a silent swish fills the gaps, shutting away the sun and reducing the sting in your eyes to something you can easily blink away. The curtains act like a filter for the light outside, partially bringing a soft, green radiance into the room.

At the sight of your youngest curled up against you once again, you lean down and affectionately kiss his crown, “I’m sorry, little love,” although you kept your voice to a quiet whisper, it’s enough to raise Regulus from the warm abyss of slumber. Your little prince sits up and rubs his eyes as you admire his adorable image.

“Good morning, my darling,” you comb his hair back from his tired eyes and lean close with a lowered, soft voice; an intimate moment between mother and son, “did I worry you again?” Regulus nods silently and launches himself into your arms as you apologise over and over.

The night before, Kreacher had been open about another blackout you’d experienced. And, although Regulus was grateful, he was anxious all night long. It never fails to make his heart jump to his throat. He remembers your still—far too still—body laying in bed, in a room entirely separate from his father’s. You look at peace but it wasn’t a comfort; you didn’t appear to simply be asleep, rather, you looked more deathly… he dreads to even think back on such thoughts. He’s only comforted by the sound of your steady heartbeat and soft breaths so he wastes no time in reaching for his blanket and sleeping beside you, close enough to hear the rhythm of your heart and the melody of your breathing.

“A-are you feeling sick?” that wasn’t the real question he wanted to ask, you can see the truth in his pleading, sweet eyes. Are you afflicted by some sort of incurable disease that cannot be stopped?

Regulus closes his eyes to savour the kiss you press into his forehead, “I’m perfectly healthy, my little love. Please don’t worry too much,” you pull away to cup his face tenderly in your hands and thumb over the softness of his cheeks.

“You promise?”

“I promise,” you nuzzle his nose with your own and the tense, fretful atmosphere is washed away by your shared giggles.

Kreacher soon appears with a tray of breakfast and another phial of magenta liquid. You eye the offending potion for a hard second but before you can groan, Kreacher is already lecturing you.

“Mistress must drink! Must must must!” he insists with beseeching eyes, urging the phial into your hands.

“Let me, at least, have some breakfast first, Kreacher,” you try to set aside the phial and reach for the breakfast tray instead while Regulus suppresses a laugh at the scene. He couldn’t believe his mother felt the same way about healing potions as wizarding children and newly appointed witches and wizards did. It was amusing to see a reflection of childishness in his mother, who had always been so cold and unfeeling.

“No!” Kreacher pulls the breakfast tray away from you, insistent on having you drink the potion before any food, “Potion first, Mistress!”

“FILTHY ELF! DISOBEYING COMMANDS! I TAUGHT HIM BETTER THAN THIS– LOOK AT WHAT YOU’VE DONE TO MY SERVANT!” Walburga’s shriek makes you wince, and Kreacher takes it as the sign to draw back and apologise for his loudness while Regulus balances comforting you and the spiralling house elf.

“Kreacher is deeply sorry, Mistress…” Kreacher suppresses his guilty thoughts in favour of his mistress’ well-being. Going into another one of his many anxious episodes won’t be helpful to you. “Please drink,” he cups his hands around your own to fold over the phial once more. His large, watery eyes, silently plead for you and lift in relief when you finally agree and down its disgusting contents.

“Thank you, Kreacher,” you smile at the elf who finally sets the breakfast tray on your lap above the covers.

“Mistress is w-w-welcome…” he stretches out the syllables of the unfamiliar word, appearing unsure over its usage but his tense shoulders immediately sag in relief as soon as he sees yours and Regulus’ kind smiles. You had been urging him to use the word for quite some time and are happy to see that he was finally confident enough to begin trying it. Hopefully, after this first try, he’ll be more confident in using it in the future. Sending you a thankful smile, Kreacher handles the empty phial and disappears after wishing you and his young master Regulus a good morning.

“Kreacher looks happy,” Regulus comments absentmindedly before taking a bite of toast. Once again, the two of you are sharing breakfast in bed and you lovingly wipe away stray crumbs from the corners of his smiling lips, “I like him even more when he’s like this!”

Melting from his sweet words and the brightness in his eyes, you nod in agreement, “Me too,”

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Finally out of bed and roaming the house, you notice Orion’s missing jacket from the hallway coat rack and call for Kreacher.

“Master Orion asked for his healing potion, Mistress,” Kreacher shuffles his feet and wrings the hem of his shabby clothing between his hands. It appears that he too is uncomfortable with Orion’s reappearance, although, you suppose your husband had suffered long enough. Calculating the time in your head, you resist the urge to sigh sadly. Three days. The poor fool. You hoped he would have lasted longer than that but you suppose it was fun to see him suffer while it lasted. It was karma working its best under the hand of a spiteful wife.

“I see…” you patiently search for the house elf’s eyes before asking the important question, ”Did he say ‘please’?”

After a pause, Kreacher finally nods, “Eventually, yes, Mistress,” Kreacher looks unsure, probably remembering the tense exchange he had with the patriarch, however, it’s soon swept away by your smile and gentle pat against his bald and wrinkled head.

“Well done, Kreacher,” the house elf’s ears wiggle in glee and you see a shy smile creeping up from under his long nose.

18th September 1971 | Muggle London

“You’re excited,” you giggle at the sight of your youngest practically skipping along beside you.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen Uncle Alphard. Sirius and I always love it when he comes over,” you smile at his response, happy to know that there was an adult figure he and Sirius felt safe around; Walburga and Orion were definitely not a safe place for themdespite being their parents. “I’m happy you two aren’t fighting anymore,” although Regulus beams up at you, you couldn’t muster an equally bright smile in return. What did that mean? You were positive that Alphard only got into a serious fight with Walburga when he supported Sirius running away at 16. Perhaps this was a lead-up to that?

“Me too, dear…” For the moment, you keep your questions to yourself. The books and movies kept the relationship between the Black family rather vague so you’ll pick up the clues along the way. For now, it’s better to focus on your darling son and the precious memories you’ll make despite the modest outing to the French bakery. “What do you think we should have for afternoon tea with your uncle? Hm? I’m thinking of English breakfast,”

“That sounds great, mother!”

“And for snacks? What would you like to have on the menu?”

“Butter scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam,”

“Of course, a classic. Anything else?”

“Chouquettes, Macarons, Eclairs, Madeleines, Mille Feuille, Profiteroles!” all French baked goods.

“Goodness,” you exaggerate your reaction and smile at the light giggles it draws from Regulus, “All of our teeth will be falling out by the end. How about we include some finger sandwiches too? We can buy fresh bread and assemble them at home,”

“No crusts?” Regulus asks without hesitation and your heart warms; you love knowing he feels safe and secure enough with you to speak freely.

“It’s the only time crusts are not allowed,” you wink and silently awe at how his beaming smile seems to get even wider. Many depictions of Regulus made him a stoic and cold character but seeing his bright disposition and childish mannerisms was a delight. You prefer him like this. And you want to keep him this way forever, such a motherly sentiment. All you have to do is make sure he doesn't feel forced to abide by the toxic pureblood family rules and beliefs. Instead, you will gently nurture his interests, gently guide him whenever he feels lost and make sure he always feels supported. And you will do the same for Sirius.

Happy and content, the two of you walk into a lovely French bakery with high spirits. The warm atmosphere and welcoming fragrance of freshly baked goods leave you both enraptured and salivating at the mouth – it was hard to resist not getting a bit of everything. Together, you pick out the best-looking pastries to box up before selecting a loaf to be pre-cut and packaged for your convenience. The bakery staff were very helpful and were more than happy to oblige with every request. They also lovingly cooed over Regulus, who partially hid behind your long skirt, though this only seemed to make them all the more awed by him. His softly spoken gratitude was what had pushed them over the edge, and you could only laugh as they offered an extra macaron for him. Regulus was a very sweet boy and looked very much like a prince, so you didn’t blame them for their swooning.

“They liked me, Mother,” Regulus shyly addresses as you make your way home. He holds the wrapped-up, pre-cut loaf under one arm as his other holds onto your spare. As a gentleman, he insisted on carrying both the boxed pastries and loaf but you argued against it, insisting on wanting to hold his hand; the equally shared burden was your compromise. You think it was the best option, really — the best of both worlds.

“As they should, my baby has all the irresistible charms,” your open praise makes him shy into the folds of your skirt once more and you suppress an adoring coo.

“You really think so, Mother?”

“I know so, little love. I’m confident in this for your brother too,” you fake an exasperated sigh, “I’m going to have my hands full in the future. You two are going to be such heartbreakers, I’ll have girls constantly knocking on my door with tears in their eyes,”

Regulus giggles as he looks up from your waist, eyes sparkling from your playful antics, “I won’t do that to you Mother, I promise,”

“But it’s not about intention, you see,” you eye him with a kind smile, “when someone falls in love, they fall in love, there’s no saying ‘no’ to it. And with two very handsome, exceptional sons, well…” you let his thoughts silently complete the rest of your sentence and resist reacting to the adorable pout that forms on his lips.

“I’m very sorry, in advance, Mother,” his sincerity draws out a laugh but you’re filled with pride, regardless. Honesty is a great trait to have.

“That’s very sweet of you, thank you, darling,”

In anticipation of Alphard’s arrival, you and Regulus help Kreacher make finger sandwiches and brew the tea. The closer the time ticks to two in the afternoon, you ask Regulus to help you prep the tiered dish rack while Kreacher dresses the teapot with a tea cosy. By the time Alphard arrives via floo network, the reception room is already well prepared, clean and proudly displaying a delicious tea spread.

“Uncle Alphard!” Regulus cheers and launches himself at the square-jawed man who steps out of the green blaze, exiting your fireplace. He is smartly dressed in a black three-piece suit and polished oxford shoes. His hair is gelled back in a flattering style of frame for his handsome face — straight nose, shapely lips, piercing eyes and level brows. It makes you wonder if he was dressed in his work attire or not. Tea should be a comfortable occasion, especially when hosted by family, for family. What did he even work as?... You hardly know anything about the man, so you have to keep yourself alert to any potential hiccups you may accidentally let slip. You’re supposed to be his elder sister, after all, you should know more about him than his name.

“Good afternoon, Regulus,” Alphard grins at his nephew after visibly shaking off his shock. Never before had he seen his youngest nephew so high-spirited. Their greetings were also usually much more formal than this, distant and dispassionate. This type of behaviour was strongly discouraged by his sister, so the sudden change was rather suspicious. Alphard, however, wanted to believe in Regulus’ sincerity for the sake of such a sweet boy. He instinctively looks around for Sirius but remembers all too quickly that the eleven-year-old was in Hogwarts for his first year, hence the primary topic of his arrival.

“Welcome, younger brother,” you smile warmly at him, ignoring the look of surprise that he doesn’t attempt to cover up. At least he manages to dip his head in a hesitant nod of acknowledgement, “Let's head to the reception then shall we? Orion won’t be joining us, I’m afraid,” you don’t see it but Alphard releases a muted sigh of relief, easily veiling his real emotions by smiling warmly at Regulus, who walks close beside him.

All furniture that occupies the reception room stylistically matches one another. They’re all made of dark walnut wood, embellished with elegant silver accents and dark green leather. The central table has a dark leather sofa on one side and two grandfather chairs with swirling arms on the other. There’s a decorative fireplace on one side of the room with a drab oil painting hanging above the mantle and the only light source is from the open window, occupying the far right wall upon entering.

“Can I sit next to Uncle, Mother?” Regulus politely asks, not wanting to separate from his uncle but also not wanting to make you feel excluded.

“You can sit wherever you wish, little love,” you smile softly, sitting in an armchair and watching as Regulus eagerly pulls Alphard to sit on the sofa with him. Your youngest is already chatting his uncle’s ear off about the snacks featured on the tiered dish rack. This then led him to talk about your morning visit to the bakery, where he had charmed the staff to offer an extra macaron.

They ‘really liked him’ and now his ‘mother is very worried’, why? Because he’ll ‘become a heartbreaker one day’. Alphard listened intently, still shocked but eager to listen to his nephew who he had never seen so bright and secure. Every few seconds, however, Alphard would look towards you for signs of any rising anger or frustration, compounding into an explosive outburst. He was familiar with that. He was familiar with your disapproval. However, there wasn’t a single trace of any negative emotion on your countenance. Rather, your eyes were full of affection and warmth, directed at Regulus while sipping your tea, silently listening to their exchange. Never before had he seen his eldest sister look so… content.

Pausing for breath, Regulus finally remembers the occasion and flushes adorably. His face is much rounder, healthier looking, Alphard notices and is shocked when you allow him to have a small plate to pile on his share of the delicious selection of goodies on the tiered dish. The majority of which were rather sweet to taste. He didn’t know his sister to be one who encouraged the regular consumption of sugar because you would only allow it for special occasions such as Yule and birthdays. Not wanting to startle his nephew, however, Alphard bites his tongue and distracts his racing thoughts by pouring his tea.

“Milk and sugar?” Alphard asks, bewildered at the options freely offered on the coffee table. You had long forbidden milk and sugar to be part of afternoon tea after finding how his tastes had affected your two sons’ preferences.

“Of course,” you voice as if he had been crazy to question you, “everyone is free to make their tea however they wish,”

Alphard follows Regulus’ lead and freely makes his tea… just the way he likes it. With lots of sugar and lots of milk. If you were going to test him, he was going to test you right back and readily anticipate your outward, shrieking protests. However, there were no shrill screeches or ear-splitting lectures over how muted, milky and sugary he liked to have his tea. Rather, Alphard, heard you giggle. His older sister. Giggling? The world must be coming to a terrifying end! Slack-jawed he looks up and stares wide-eyed at your cheerful smile.

“I see you and Regulus have similar preferences in tea,” Alphard shares a sheepish look with his nephew, “How refreshing. It makes me wonder how good it must taste for the both of you to enjoy tea the way you do,” another giggle.

Regulus happily offers his cup, “You can try some of mine if you want, Mother,” Smiling at his nephew’s kindness, Alphard is even more awed by your drastic change in behaviour.

“That’s very sweet of you, little love, thank you. But, how’s about I finish my cup first and I’ll see about having a sip of yours if you have any left?”

“Alright!”

The happy atmosphere wasn’t something Alphard was used to, especially not from his older sister. However, he was grateful for his nephew’s happy disposition. His sister’s strict education and harsh manner of child-rearing left plenty of room for worry but, no matter what seems to have changed, provided that his nephews stay happy and safe, Alphard would happily keep his many questions to himself. Perhaps this was maternal instincts finally taking over. He dare not interrupt by drawing attention to it.

When there’s a lull in the conversation and everyone takes a sip of their tea or a bite of their selected treat, you begin to investigate the relationship between the original Walburga and Alphard. You weren’t impervious to Alphard’s shocked expressions in your periphery; admittedly, it was admirable of him not to make a scene out of his staggering surprise at your ‘odd’ behaviour. It’s fair for him to believe you’re still his original, bigoted sister. You can only speculate that he wasn’t drawing attention for Regulus’ sake and you admire him for that.

“Alphard,” he hums in acknowledgement, setting down his cup and reaching for a madeleine, “how is your work?” your question makes him visibly freeze up but the moment he realises Regulus is watching, he smoothly eases back into normal, less robotic motions.

“It’s been well,” you can tell he wants to leave it at that, satisfied to leave the topic there. However, you were not and kept silent, quietly pushing him into answering further, “...the office has been operating normally. My client is dealing with a relatively common case of discrimination based on pregnancy at the workplace,” he’s a solicitor then. And practising mostly in employment law, it seems. “And before you say anything about women needing to better plan their pregnancies and how a woman needs to be at home with her husband rather than working, I want to remind you of the company,” his voice is firm and he’s plainly referring to Regulus being present, therefore dubbing the subject matter sensitive. However, his insinuations on the original Walburga’s dogmatist beliefs make you visibly disgusted and it pulls on his interest. Never had he seen his sister look so abhorrent to the views he knew she supported.

“I wasn’t going to say anything of the sort. I appreciate that you’re doing good work for the people who need it—”

“Even for a half Veela?”

“Everyone deserves to be fairly represented in a court of law, dear brother. And please don’t interrupt me again, Regulus should find quality, male influence in his uncle, please demonstrate the appropriate, good manners for him,” Alphard is surprised by your sharp eyes and firm demand. You had always been demanding but never to this degree, never to such a reasonable degree, and never without raising your voice. Yet, your voice has remained level, only adjusting for firmness.

How odd… Alphard doesn’t know whether to laugh mockingly at your hypocrisy or dare to feel hope for the positive change he’s beginning to see in his sister.

“...I apologise,” Alphard nods to you before turning to Regulus, “I didn’t set a good example Reg, I’m sorry,”

“It’s okay Uncle,” Regulus beams up at him, happy to be referred to by the affectionate nickname his uncle hadn’t been able to call him in many months.

“Why not ‘Reggie’?”

“I’m sorry?” Alphard looks genuinely perplexed by the change in behaviour. You had always strongly reprimanded him for daring to call your sons by any affectionate nicknames as you wanted your boys to stay faithful to their full birth name — it was a source of pride, after all. To be named after the stars and be in the most ancient and noble house, their names were sacred and it was a mockery to shorten despite it being done with affection. But now you were supporting it?

“‘Reggie’ is a cuter nickname,”

“Reg is good— cute enough, it’s short and sweet,”

“But Reggie is cuter than Reg,”

“Both are cute,”

“...Reggie is cuter, though,”

“Let’s agree to disagree. I will keep calling him Reg and you call him Reggie,” the boy in question was a healthy shade of red now. For a lighthearted argument to centre around him like this wasn’t what he anticipated happening but he was happy to see his mother and uncle getting along harmoniously. Not once have they raised their voices or forced the other to leave the room in a huff. This was nice… Sirius would have really liked this. Maybe Regulus should send another letter, even if his brother has yet to reply to his previous one.

“What nickname do you call Sirius?” you ask, voice soft and eager to continue the topic of your sons. This was another new side Alphard was seeing to you, his usually cold and unfeeling sister had never been one to perpetuate gossip surrounding her sons, and yet, now you were so eager to— and on a topic that is so innocuous and unproductive. But it was a good change, one that he’s sure will be a good influence on his beloved nephews.

“Siri,”

“That’s perfect,” you smile into the lip of your teacup and sip, “we can agree on that front,” Alphard actually manages to chuckle and nod along. He had prepared himself for a harsh and loud argument, not this but he dare not complain; this was a very pleasant surprise. He even dares to feel confident in re-addressing a long taboo topic.

“...You feel I do good work as an employment lawyer?” he begins, hesitant, his hands beginning to shake. The suddenly nervous man opts to set his cup down and wipe the sweat from his hands along his trouser-covered thighs.

“Of course,” you wonder where the conversation is going.

“And what of my extracurriculars too?” he avoids your eyes and your mind flashes with a memory of a young Alphard nervously standing before his elder sister, his small hands curled into fists on his knee-length shorts. This man is your younger brother now. However, you can’t help but think that Walburga cared deeply for him despite their strained relationship, judging from the fond memory that had flashed behind your blinking eyelids. In the depths of your mind, you imagine she still likens him to his much younger, toddler self, an endearing but common trait in an older sister.

“Extracurriculars?”

“My voluntary work with the less fortunate, typically with other magical beings,”

You frown when you finally realise what had caused the strain between brother and sister. Walburga had belittled and strongly protested against a man who only did good. A man of justice. This was the man who favoured Sirius in the original timeline because they shared the same sense of justice and the need to rebel against their bigoted family.

“I’m sorry Alphard,” you look into his eyes with such sincerity that Alphard feels as though he could cry. He had grown up admiring his sister but the instant he had begun to think for himself and see the unfairness of her skewed views, he swears he had felt his first ever heartbreak. His sister, who he had loved and admired so much, who he thought of as an amazing person was not who he thought she was and the revelation was earth-shattering. It broke his heart all the more when he saw his younger brother Cygnus follow in her footsteps. “I’m sorry for all the past unsavoury comments I said to you about your profession, and on what you have chosen to do with your life and beliefs. I was wrong, the way I thought of the world was wrong. I’m truly sorry for who I was before. And I want to assure you that I am no longer that person. I think what you’re doing is truly wonderful and this world needs more people like you in it. My boys need a good uncle like you to help raise them with good values and sense for the world,”

Alphard looks at Regulus, eyes wide with shock, his mind reeling and needing something to ground him, to confirm that the shock he was feeling was reasonable, but to hope for the best and to trust in his sister’s words again was feeling too much at that moment. All he needed was Regulus’ reassuring smile, and that was exactly what his young nephew faced him with, as if to say ‘It’s alright uncle, you can rest assured now,’.

“Why….” Alphard slowly turns his attention back to you, “why did you change your mind?”

You smile to yourself, “For my sons, of course. They deserve the world, the least I can do is be a good mother to them,

“You’re the best mother in the world!” Regulus protests as your eyes humbly close.

“Let’s not lie to ourselves and completely forget what has happened. I have hurt many people with the way I used to act, for believing in the things I used to believe. What’s worse is that I have hurt those most dear to me and those who I should have taken better care of… I’m very sorry Alphard, I don’t think I’ll be able to express how truly apologetic I am. It wasn’t right of me to hurt you that way,”

Blinking back tears, Alphard musters a crooked smile, his voice slightly shaky but his heart light and chest warm, “Apology accepted, dear sister,”

“You said you wanted to talk about something important, little brother?” you wanted to move on from the topic, but Alphard no longer knew if he had the right to express his worry. After witnessing your change in demeanour first-hand, the weight on his shoulders was finally lifted, and his chest didn’t feel so heavy.

“...after the sorting ceremony, I was worried about Sirius and Regulus – they are my nephews, after all. I wasn’t confident in their safe treatment at home,” Regulus looks to his uncle with an appreciative smile, earning an affectionate ruffle of his hair.

Smiling softly, you take his implicit criticism with grace. It wasn’t even your doing but you move forward with it anyway, “thank you for worrying about them but, as I said, I am a changed woman,”

Alphard smiles into his teacup and hums in contentment, “I can see that… I’m glad – you’re also no longer against my profession and my extracurriculars. The moment you accepted my request to come over for tea, I was somewhat relieved but getting to see your change myself was even more of a relief,”

“I’m sorry again, for the past. I don’t know what on earth was the matter with me,” your slight jab at the original Walburga has the witch throwing a muted tantrum in the back of your mind. It’s quite hard to resist smiling wickedly at how easy it is to rile her up.

“No matter…the past is in the past,” Regulus nods and readily agrees.

“I’m really happy Sirius got into Gryffindor. In his letters, he says how happy and at home he feels there,” Regulus’ eyes shine with such pride, it was easy to smile with him. Alphard is comforted by the thought of his eldest nephew having a good start away from home and, atop that, being supported by his mother and brother. He holds no hope for Orion however, many of those in the family have heard of his inappropriate behaviour at Hogwarts. It was unbecoming from the patriarch of the most ancient and noble house. That was why many assumed why he had not made any public appearances at the Wizengamot for a few days, using sickness as an excuse in his letters to the office.

“Which Hogwarts house would you like to join, Reg?” Alphard asks, curious. Judging from your displays of changed temperament and child-rearing, he assumes and hopes his youngest nephew no longer admires the idea of going to Slytherin as he’s known his sister and Orion to have ceaselessly enforced onto the two.

Growing shy, Regulus looks to his lap and picks at his fingernails nervously, “I don’t know… as long as I’m happy and feel at home, that’s all that matters, right, Mother?” Regulus looks to you for assurance and smiles when you nod with fondness in your eyes. A slight tension leaves Regulus’ small shoulders immediately and he settles back into the sofa with a silent sigh of repose, Alphard following closely behind his nephew. What a relief.

The interactions and conversations with you have been quite a shock but in the most pleasant sense. Alphard no longer felt his fingers tensing at the thought of writing a letter to his eldest nephew. They had already exchanged some letters and Alphard was concerned that the assurance within Sirius’ written words was nothing but something to cover up the tensions at home from his sorting ceremony. What a relief to know that it was all true. Sirius did feel happy, he did feel supported and he did miss home. If Alphard’s own mother acted the way you did, with soft affection, fond eyes and a warm touch, he would miss home too.

Light conversation and the peaceful atmosphere continued until Regulus had to do his scheduled piano practice. Regulus politely excused himself while Alphard stared in wide-eyed confusion and awe as another miracle played out before him: you showing open affection for your son by kissing his forehead in front of company before he promptly left for his piano. A silence draws out as you wait for the distant sounds of piano playing to continue your conversation. This time, however, you aim to finally put your central plan into action, one that you were finally seeing the answers to when Alphard revealed his profession.

“What do you specialise in as a solicitor again?” you begin.

“Employment law, sometimes corporate and civil law too,” Alphard states nonchalantly, closely examining your face, his heart beating faster at the implications of your lack of a strong reaction. He supported the change in you but you can tell that he has yet to fully believe in the dream world that was playing out before him.

At the sudden look of worry on your features, Alphard leans forward with concern, “What’s wrong?"

Sighing heavily, you set down your teacup and lean back, "Do you know anyone working in Family law?”

“Naturally…” he answers, his silence carrying a question as he stares at you with a raised brow.

“I want a marital separation from Orion… and I want to take the kids – it’s not safe for them here with him around,”

Alphard nods and immediately begins to hatch a plan. It was a natural mode of work he had refined throughout his years as a solicitor, “I don’t blame you for wanting to leave…and I think I may know of someone who you can talk to. They’re a half-blood specialising in family law, who actively pushes for similar laws being passed for muggles to be transitioned into the wizarding world,”

That sounded like the perfect lawyer for you, “I would really appreciate that Al, thank you,” you say the nickname without thinking and are ready to rush out an apology but stop in surprise when you see the warm smile on Alphard’s face.

“You haven’t called me Al in years… you must really want to leave your husband,” he teases, trying to distract from his choked-up voice and tear-filled eyes. You laugh airily and nod as he joins, the happy atmosphere contagious between you. This was the type of relationship Alphard had always wanted with his sister. It was a shame that it only came about now when you’re actively experiencing rough times at home with Orion.

Before leaving, Alphard goes to Regulus, momentarily interrupting his piano practice to say goodbye. His youngest nephew insists on escorting him to the fireplace with you to properly wave him off and he doesn’t protest. That was the first time Regulus had ever seen his mother and uncle wave goodbye happily, sharing a warm smile and promising to see each other again soon.

This would definitely be worth writing another letter to Sirius.

6th October 1971 | Belby’s Potions and Ingredients

“Thank you again for helping out my husband and me,” Ruth smiles softly at you, setting aside her embroidery momentarily, not wanting to draw too much attention to her weak, shaking hands.

“It’s not a problem at all,” you look over to where Regulus’ legs were sticking out from where he sat examining some bottled potions, unable to help your smile as you and Ruth sat behind the counter together, “I’m only sorry I couldn’t come sooner. I’m afraid I can’t trust Regulus to be home alone even with his tutor Peony as a deterrent,” Ruth’s brows furrow at the implication of your words and reaches for your hand as a silent comfort. It isn’t the right time to pry into your home life, Regulus was such a happy child and she knows it’s all because of you; you’re doing your best to protect him as a mother should and that was good enough to you it seemed. In the meantime, she’s satisfied with offering a quiet consolation.

“You’re doing more than enough,” the two of you share a small, knowing smile and you thank the gods for Ruth’s kind and gentle disposition. It’s been rather lonely despite you having the best sons to look after. You’ve often found yourself aching for a friendship and you’re confident you’ve found one in Ruth.

“Thank you, Ruth,”The shop bell rings as a customer strolls in and greets you at the counter, “Good afternoon, do you happen to have any dried nettles?” you greet the man kindly and readily offer your help.

“You can find them in the second aisle down and can have your pick between whole leaves or the powdered sort,” you helpfully offer your guidance while Ruth returns to her embroidery.

The man thinks to himself for a moment, “Which would be more effective for umm…curing boils?” he looks rather bashful at the confession but you provide no judgment. Thinking for a moment and giving Damocles’ simplified shop notes a look through, you finally give the anxious man his answer.

“Both are equally effective. Only the crushed nettles mean for a quicker brewing time as they will turn the potion green much quicker,” the man nods along to your suggestions, eyes slightly shifty, probably eager to brew his boil curing potion at home, “Or you can purchase the potion itself, and save yourself the trouble,” a relieved laugh escapes the man.

“I’ll go for that then!”

“You’ll find the potion on the back wall, it should be blue,” he nods eagerly and thanks you before rushing to the back wall of the shop.

“Goodness, you’re a natural potions shopkeeper,” Ruth giggles beside you, her eyes tired but full of life.

“Why thank you, madam,” you bow at the waist exaggeratedly and grin, “I’ve actually been reading up on some potion books so that I can be of some help for Damocles,” Ruth tucks her chin in and bashfully avoids your eyes.

“It’s so very kind of you to help someone like me,”

“None of that,” you tut and hold her hand in the same comforting way she had held yours mere moments ago, “You are not allowed to refer to yourself in such a way, you hear?” Ruth is hesitant but nods anyway. You guess it’s her attempt at not causing a fuss but you’ll accept it.

The man returns with the boil curing potion at hand and the purchase is done smoothly. You have to hand it to the glamour you placed on yourself; without it, you’re sure many customers would leave without so much as taking more than two steps in the door — you wouldn’t have been any help to the Belbys at all. Wanting to protect Regulus’ identity as well, you’ve also fixed him with a glamour too and ensured you still look like mother and son.

“I see that you’re looking rather well despite it being only one day after the full moon,” you comment, brightening Ruth’s expression with a smile.

“Damocles is incredible!” her eyes sparkle as she talks proudly of her husband’s achievements, “The recent changes he’s made to the potion have made it so that I don’t feel as anxious during my time under so I don’t feel as mentally exhausted atop being physically drained. I think he said something about a stone. A wishing stone?”

You hum and nod in understanding, “the moonstone then,” she confirms with a soft gasp of remembrance, “That’s wonderful news, Damocles must be really happy,”

“Yes, but he is not yet satisfied…” she huffs and scowls, however, her delicate features don’t make the emotion appear quite as menacing on her face; she makes it look rather sweet actually, “I swear that man adores being sleep deprived and overworked. It’s worrying…”

“Maybe that’s his real aim,” you wink at her perplexed appearance, “I’m sure it’s healing to the soul for a man to experience his beautiful wife’s sincere worries for his well being,”

Ruth blushes a deep red and looks away, but you still manage to see the smile playing on her lips, “oh you!” The two of you giggle together as Regulus comes bounding over with a grin on his face, holding up a small sprig of dried lavender that’s tied together at the stems with a rough string.

“Mother, this smells lovely, you should smell it too,” he holds up the lavender and watches eagerly as you lean on the counter to smell it.

“You’re right, it smells very soothing,”

“I want our house to smell like it,”

“Oh? That’s easily done,” you turn to Ruth with a smile, “would it be okay to purchase your entire stock?”

Ruth’s jaw drops, “You want our entire stock? B-But that’s so costly!” if Ruth’s jaw could have dropped any lower, it would have dropped to the floor when you merely shrugged your shoulders. As if buying an entire stock of one ingredient didn’t put a dent on your finances.

“We have a rather big house and Reggie wants our whole house to smell like lavender, so we need everything you have,”

Regulus smiles as you both turn to him, “It really is a very nice smell,” Ruth can’t say no to you both and smiles gratefully. She knows your hidden motive. You were already helping the couple so much but you couldn’t just stop there, you also had to purchase from them too.

“May I, at least, offer a family friend discount?” Ruth barters and watches as you turn to Regulus to ask for his opinion.

“Should we accept, Reggie?” you tilt your head thoughtfully, “Should we accept paying less for this hard-working couple’s labour?” Regulus shakes his head ‘no’.

“That wouldn’t be fair Mother, nor polite,”

“Spoken like a true gentleman,” Regulus beams up at you and Ruth awes at the young boy’s innocence, “How is my son so well mannered?” it was supposed to be a teasing remark but Regulus, accustomed to your teasing now, is quick to reciprocate with his own.

“It's because I have you, Mother!”

“Oh!” you heat up at the cheeks, “I think I’ve taught you some bad habits, Reggie,” Regulus doesn’t deny the statement and laughs with Ruth at your flustered expression.

Once Damocles finally decides to take a break from brewing in the back room and analysing his previous notes, he sits beside Ruth and leans his head against her shoulder. But not before softly kissing her cheek. It was a timely break as no customers came to purchase anything and there was a quiet lull in the shop’s activities. Wanting to give the couple some privacy, you take the time to go on a small mission with Regulus, similar to the bakery run you did for his uncle Alphard. This time, however, those baked goodies will be for Ruth and Damocles. They both deserve some good tea and snacks. You try not to take too long and opt for only a small collection of pastries, some sweet and some savoury as you don’t know their preferences.

“I hear you’re purchasing our entire stock of lavender without our prestigious family-friend discount,” Damocles presses as soon as you and Regulus return, avoiding the temptation of the pastries you had brought back.

“The lavender smells really nice,” Regulus explains, “and I thought it would be good for the house to smell like it,”

“Precisely, Damocles,” you grin when you see the potioneer’s eyes soften at your youngest’s beaming smile. “I only want to fulfil my Reggie’s wishes. And I also agree that the lavender smells lovely,”

“A-at least let us offer the discounted price,“ he’s almost pleading.

“Nonsense,” you huff and cross your arms with slightly narrowed eyes, though not too threatening, “are you saying I can’t afford to pay full price?”

“O-of course not, Lady—”

“Then I’m paying full price and that's final.”

Damocles falls back into the chair you had once occupied as Ruth comfortingly rubs his shoulder, “I told you it was no use arguing, dear,”

“I suppose not…” Damocles looks at you with searching eyes before huffing a laugh and shaking his head. “Alright then, since you’re so insistent,”

“Wonderful! Now, you two need to eat, I’ll brew some tea in the back. Do you like French Earl Grey?” you ask, moving to the backdoor as Damocles lifts Regulus onto the counter.

“We don’t have french earl grey?”

“I bought you some while I was out,” the couple shake their heads in disbelief once more before Regulus pulls away their attention by running through the collection of goodies you’d both purchased. The French early grey you had brewed was a new taste to the couple, but it wasn’t an unpleasant one.

“Is that rose?” Ruth asks with wondrous eyes as Damocles smiles beside her, lovingly admiring her sweet expression.

“Yes, french early grey adds rose petals to the blend. Do you like it?”

“Very much,” Ruth beams and takes another long, savouring sip while Damocles leans over and whispers that it’s one of her favourite essences to have in anything palatable.

“And she loves Turkish delight,”

You can tell that Damocles didn’t want to take a break for too long, his eyes often drifting to his backroom door and his fingers twitching uneasily on his lap. If it weren’t for Ruth, you don’t think he would have allowed himself to finish his tea or his pastry. But thanks to his loving wife, he was willing to reach for a second and third pastry. The entire time, Damocles was drawn all the more to her, often checking her likeness for the pastries she wanted to try in the small spread, even offering her several bites of his own. He also worried often for her health and well being, always being the first to jump in making her feel more comfortable, either by fetching a blanket to keep her fragile frame warm or pillows to keep her posture upright. They’re truly a match made in heaven, you’ve never seen a more compatible pair. And you’re happy Regulus was a witness to it all. Seeing their close bond and equally loving dynamic would help enforce in his mind what healthy relationships look like.

“When you finish your break and before you return to brewing, may I have a word in private with you, Damocles?” you ask, partway through your pleasant tea break.

“Of course,”

As you step aside with Damocles, he’s already launching into an oration of gratitude. There’s clear appreciation in his eyes and stance as well as his words. “I’ve been able to get a hold of ingredients I couldn’t even dream of working with. I can’t even begin to express how life-changing your help is to both me and Ruth, thank you. I actually have some hope that I can manage to pull this off,” he laughs to himself humbly, in disbelief of his own words.

“I have full faith in you, Damocles. I know you can do it, the boundless love you have for your wife will ensure that you succeed,” he blushes slightly at your words but doesn’t deny anything.

“I haven’t been able to send you the updated reports yet, would you like to take the duplicate notes from my lab?”

“I’d appreciate that but I have something I want to talk to you about first,” Damocles nods, reminded of your earlier request and the reasoning behind it, “I just wanted to ask what you plan on doing after you’re successful with the potion,”

His voice goes quiet but his smile is beaming, “You really have that much faith in me?”

“Yes, I do,” your voice is stern as the potioneer’s eyes grow slightly distant, looking over your shoulder where Ruth is happily chatting with Regulus, who remains seated atop the counter still in his glamours, “You’re the only other person who’s believed in me so strongly other than my wife– not even my own family…”

You pat his shoulder comfortingly, “You’re an incredible potioneer and you adore your wife, I know you’ll go through the ends of the earth for her alone, you can make this potion work for her,”

Damocles nods with a grateful smile and finally answers your earlier question, “In all honesty, I haven’t given it much thought… the natural direction I’d go with the potion would be to present my findings to the ministry so that it may be mass-produced and given to werewolves in need of it,”

You’re shaking your head in disagreement before he could even finish his thoughts, “I strongly argue against that,” your words strike confusion in the potioneer. He’s sure his findings would prove helpful to many werewolves and you can see the belief in his eyes but do your best to convince him otherwise. It’s important that he knows where you stand in all this so that you bring him to the same level and see eye to eye on the matter.

“Do you know about the werewolf code of conduct?”

“Yes, of course,”

“It requires registering as a werewolf to the ministry and vowing to never bite any innocents and locking yourself away during every transformation,” you begin to explain, gauging where his knowledge stands.

“I know that,”

“And do you know anyone who happily registered as a werewolf to the ministry?” Damocles can’t answer confidently, rather, he stays silent. “Did Ruth register? Would you like her to?”

“…N-no…” Damocles hated that he couldn’t trust in the ministry but they‘ve proven nothing when it comes to the protection and fair treatment of other magical creatures, especially werewolves.

“I know the plan I want to carry out will only further perpetuate the stigma against werewolves and lycanthropy but the ministry has already proven that they cannot be trusted or relied upon in the matters of lycanthropes. I am, at least, confident in providing some help, do you trust me?”

“I trust you,” his voice doesn’t waver and you smile.

“You’ll be sacrificing a great reward, I’m afraid,”

“How so?”

“Surely discovering a treatment for lycanthropy will grant you an Order of Merlin as a reward…”

“I don’t care, so long as my wife is safe and happy and as long as we can actually help people like her, I’m willing to follow your plan,” as before, his voice doesn’t waver and you’re confident in his words. He’s a good man.

“Then it shall be!” you share a firm handshake. If only Harry had met an adult as capable and reliable as Damocles… you’re sure he wouldn’t require such dependence in the future, however, not in the future you’ll be creating, at least. And you’ll make sure of the same for his parents and all their friends —- all characters you love and wish only the best for. And it’ll all start with your two beautiful sons.

9th October 1971 | 12 Grimmauld Place

Tucked away in your home office, you look over the notes you’ve made on your current plans, avoiding the pages you’ve filled with notes on the secret parlour only for the Black family ladies’ use. You know it’s something you’ll need to confront very soon, in the meantime, however, you were perfectly occupied by current projects you were hard at work on.

Damocles sent you the report he duplicated from his most recent findings and Ruth’s improved condition following the full moon. Not only was he a loving and dedicated man with a passion for potion making, but he was also brilliant in his report writing. He kept his notes concise and easy to read by providing clear categories of the specific things he wanted to track. From your side of the research, reading up on potions from the Black family library, you had written him a letter back with suggestions on how to make the potion more potent. One such suggestion was his use of the Mandragora, Mandrakes. Rather than mandrake leaves, you encouraged him to use the body of a mandrake instead. It’s a little pricier than just the leaves, but it was nothing you couldn’t afford. The dragon blood was something you were having trouble with, however. It wasn’t cheap, and, having to look ahead at the wolfsbane potion’s mass production, dragon’s blood would be an annoying ingredient to include financially. So you promised to look for alternatives that might be able to give the same effect. You were even willing to look into ‘muggle’ books for a potential alternative.

After securing Damocles’ opinion following the future success of his wolfsbane potion and having some back and forth with Alphard on the family lawyer, he had been easing into setting up a meeting with you; you’ve started looking at properties all over the UK. You have a good idea of what you want to look for. However, the primary, most important criteria for these properties to have were that they don’t belong to the Black family. And so, you neglect the wizarding properties completely and look into muggle properties instead. The price wouldn’t matter, although you wanted to secure a separate line of income first so that Orion remains unsuspecting of your efforts to escape him; you don’t want any additional tensions happening at home, especially with Regulus still here. As soon as Regulus begins to attend Hogwarts, however, you’ll finally put things into action. Until then, you have a little under a year, which you hope will be good enough.

A squeaky pop shifts the air to your right, and Kreacher appears with a tray of tea and biscuits, “Mistress’ tea is ready,” he presents with a smile, wordlessly making the arrangement float up and make a home for itself atop an unoccupied portion of your desk. Smiling at the house elf, you nod in thanks and express your gratitude. Wanting to appease you further, he gestures to his big ears and informs you of an owl that sounds to be arriving very soon. With a nod and a soft word of gratitude, you walk to your window and open it up in anticipation of the delivery.

Sirius’ owl was the first to arrive and you figure it’s a response to one of Regulus’ many letters. Seeing your eldest son’s familiar handwriting addressing the letter to his little brother makes you smile, and urges you to write him one soon as well. Thanking the sweet barn owl, you offer her a perch and kindly ask Kreacher to fetch it some feed as a reward. The second owl that arrives is much smaller and carries a package as well as a letter. The parcel is only small and its wrappings are a buff brown, held together with some twine. The letter is addressed to you and you have a pretty good idea of what it may be.

You give the letter a quick read-through and smile with a nod before opening the small package to reveal a golden band. Its inner face is engraved with runes, and it easily fits onto your pointer finger. Before returning to your desk, you give the small owl a bowl of feed as a reward, too. Seated back at your desk, you pour yourself some tea and take a generous drink with the ring still on your pointer finger.

“Mmmm~” you hum in satisfaction, “tastes like strawberries,” It’s been a few weeks and those two have already made such amazing progress. You expect nothing less from the same two people who were able to enchant Sirius’ protection pin. Unfortunately, you weren’t able to rope in the goblins to craft this ring. It’s only a simple design because it’s the prototype but you plan on making a more decorative line of these to sell. For now, you have yet to test it against an actual potion but you dread to think about waiting for another blackout to do so. With a thoughtful hum, you return to your office and place the letter at the centre of your desk, planning to write a response later on. For now, you’ll deliver Sirius’ letter to Regulus —you’re sure he and Peony won’t mind the interruption and that he’ll be happy to receive Sirius’ response.

NAVI. | SERIES M.LIST | NEXT. 09 : ... →

A/N : I'm so sorry, my darlings, for taking so long to update this series (ó﹏ò。) I know I promised monthly updates but with Christmas and then New Year straight after, I was pretty occupied (⸝⸝๑﹏๑⸝⸝) Nevertheless, I hope you lovelies enjoyed this chapter!ヾ(。✪ω✪。)ｼ I promise there will be more of Sirius in the next chapter since we hardly had any of our baby in this one 

[princess-adronitis]

…

[girlivealwaysbean]

dni.

[snaggletoothedbastard]

this girl i go to school with: everyone at drama club was too loud and [my best friend] made a childish joke to me and i'm still mad about it >:(

also her: *verbally abuses all of our classmates for the LOLs*

[cookinguptales]

So I’ve been enjoying the Disney vs. DeSantis memes as much as anyone, but like. I do feel like a lot of people who had normal childhoods are missing some context to all this.

I was raised in the Bible Belt in a fairly fundie environment. My parents were reasonably cool about some things, compared to the rest of my family, but they certainly had their issues. But they did let me watch Disney movies, which turned out to be a point of major contention between them and my other relatives.

See, I think some people think this weird fight between Disney and fundies is new. It is very not new. I know that Disney’s attempts at inclusion in their media have been the source of a lot of mockery, but what a lot of people don’t understand is that as far as actual company policy goes, Disney has actually been an industry leader for queer rights. They’ve had policies assuring equal healthcare and partner benefits for queer employees since the early 90s.

I’m not sure how many people reading this right now remember the early 90s, but that was very much not industry standard. It was a big deal when Disney announced that non-married queer partners would be getting the same benefits as the married heterosexual ones.

Like — it went further than just saying that any unmarried partners would be eligible for spousal benefits. It straight-up said that non-same-sex partners would still need to be married to receive spousal benefits, but because same-sex partners couldn’t do that, proof that they lived together as an established couple would be enough.

In other words, it put long-term same-sex partners on a higher level than opposite-sex partners who just weren’t married yet. It put them on the exact same level as heterosexual married partners.

They weren’t the first company ever to do this, but they were super early. And they were certainly the first mainstream “family-friendly” company to do it.

Conservatives lost their damn minds.

Protests, boycotts, sermons, the whole nine yards. I can’t tell you how many books about the evils of Disney my grandmother tried to get my parents to read when I was a kid.

When we later moved to Florida, I realized just how many queer people work at Disney — because historically speaking, it’s been a company that has guaranteed them safety, non-discrimination, and equal rights. That’s when I became aware of their unofficial “Gay Days” and how Christians would show up from all over the country to protest them every year. Apparently my grandmother had been upset about these days for years, but my parents had just kind of ignored her.

Out of curiosity, I ended up reading one of the books my grandmother kept leaving at our house. And friends — it’s amazing how similar that (terrible, poorly written) rhetoric was to what people are saying these days. Disney hires gay pedophiles who want to abuse your children. Disney is trying to normalize Satanism in our beautiful, Christian America. 

Just tons of conspiracy theories in there that ranged from “a few bad things happened that weren’t actually Disney’s fault, but they did happen” to “Pocahontas is an evil movie, not because it distorts history and misrepresents indigenous life, but because it might teach children respect for nature. Which, as we all know, would cause them all to become Wiccans who believe in climate change.”

Like — please, take it from someone who knows. This weird fight between fundies and Disney is not new. This is not Disney’s first (gay) rodeo. These people have always believed that Disney is full of evil gays who are trying to groom and sexually abuse children.

The main difference now is that these beliefs are becoming mainstream. It’s not just conservative pastors who are talking about this. It’s not just church groups showing up to boycott Gay Day. Disney is starting to (reluctantly) say the quiet part out loud, and so are the Republicans. Disney is publicly supporting queer rights and announcing company-supported queer events and the Republican Party is publicly calling them pedophiles and enacting politically driven revenge.

This is important, because while this fight has always been important in the history of queer rights, it is now being magnified. The precedent that a fight like this could set is staggering. For better or for worse, we live in a corporation-driven country. I don’t like it any more than you do, and I’m not about to defend most of Disney’s business practices. But we do live in a nation where rights are largely tied to corporate approval, and the fact that we might be entering an age where even the most powerful corporations in the country are being banned from speaking out in favor of rights for marginalized people… that’s genuinely scary.

Like… I’ll just ask you this. Where do you think we’d be now, in 2023, if Disney had been prevented from promising its employees equal benefits in 1994? That was almost thirty years ago, and look how far things have come. When I looked up news articles for this post from that era, even then journalists, activists, and fundie church leaders were all talking about how a company of Disney’s prominence throwing their weight behind this movement could lead to the normalization of equal protections in this country.

The idea of it scared and thrilled people in equal parts even then. It still scares and thrills them now.

I keep seeing people say “I need them both to lose!” and I get it, I do. Disney has for sure done a lot of shit over the years. But I am begging you as a queer exvangelical to understand that no. You need Disney to win. You need Disney to wipe the fucking floor with these people.

Right now, this isn’t just a fight between a giant corporation and Ron DeSantis. This is a fight about the right of corporations to support marginalized groups. It’s a fight that ensures that companies like Disney still can offer benefits that a discriminatory government does not provide. It ensures that businesses much smaller than Disney can support activism.

Hell, it ensures that you can support activism.

The fight between weird Christian conspiracy theorists and Disney is not new, because the fight to prevent any tiny victory for marginalized groups is not new. The fight against the normalization of othered groups is not new.

That’s what they’re most afraid of. That each incremental victory will start to make marginalized groups feel safer, that each incremental victory will start to turn the tide of public opinion, that each incremental victory will eventually lead to sweeping law reform.

They’re afraid that they won’t be able to legally discriminate against us anymore.

So guys! Please. This fight, while hilarious, is also so fucking important. I am begging you to understand how old this fight is. These people always play the long game. They did it with Roe and they’re doing it with Disney.

We have! To keep! Pushing back!

[max1461]

Everybody does the exact same stupid shit. That white nationalist anon I was getting a while ago would send me story after story of some random black guy or immigrant committing a violent crime against a white person. Well, yeah, people are violent, you're gonna find those if you go looking for them. And there's a lot of racial animosity in the world, so you'll even find racially charged ones if you go looking! No shit, Sherlock. We could play this game all day. You find me a news story of a black guy killing a white guy, I find you a news story of white guy killing a black guy. This does no one any good.

TERFs are identical. News story after news story of a trans woman raping somebody. Yeah, the world is an awful place and people rape each other. I can find you a news story of a cis woman raping a teenage boy and getting three months in jail. I can find you a news story of a cis mom killing her disabled kid cause they're too much work. But I don't want to. The world sucks shit, why gorge yourself on the tragedy?

Zionists come up with news story after news story of pro-Palestinian/BDS/whatever protestors being antisemitic. Yep. A lot of people out there hate Jews. And there has been a genuine rise in antisemitism since the Oct. 7th attack, and that's awful. There are no excuses for that. Do you know what else has happened since then? The Israeli military has slaughtered tens of thousands of Palestinians, including huge numbers of innocent civilians—men, women and children.

People are often terrible to each other. Welcome to Earth. If you go looking for bad actors in a big enough group, you are guaranteed to find them. How about this. What about all the black people who didn't kill a white little girl? What about the black little girls? What about their hopes and dreams? What about their chance at life? What about all the trans women who didn't rape anybody in a bathroom? What if they just want to go about their lives, without constant public scrutiny of what genitals they have (as a cis woman, can you empathize with that? Constant public scrutiny of what you're doing with your genitals?). What about the 30,000 Palestinians who have been killed, and the 70,000 who have been displaced from their homes?

Fear has made you a monster. Fear has driven you to demand slaughter and oppression of innocent people because they look like guilty people you read about on the news, and since they look the same to you, you feel fearful—how can you tell whether these are the innocent ones or the guilty ones? Best to oppress and slaughter them preemptively just to be safe. I am here to tell you that this twisted logic of self-defense does not hold. I do not care if you feel safe—I do not care if you are safe—if the cost of your safety is innocent life. The world is a risky place. I am not going to deny that. Horrible things could happen to any of us. If we go around preemptively attacking other over it, we do not make it a bit better. And, needless to say, danger comes from everywhere, from every group of human beings, and oppressing the people who make you nervous will not, in fact, deliver you from danger. It just makes you a monster.

[dollfacefantasy]

ONLY BAD PUPPIES ♡

pairing: logan howlett x fem!reader

summary: when you get needy, you act up. lucky for you, logan understands that means you just need a firm hand to get you back in line.

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, masturbation, pillow humping, pet play, light anal play (plug), daddy kink, praise/degradation, brat taming

wc: 1.9k

kinktober slot: day 23 - pet play

Of course, he'd do something like this. You should've known your punishment wouldn't be so simple. He wouldn't just make you touch yourself in front of him while he watched. That wasn't Logan's style as it pertained to taming you when you acted up. When you bratted out like you had earlier, he took it upon himself to truly humble you.

Today had been a busy day for both of you, but you'd been having a rough week. You felt extra needy for him as of late. The exact cause behind those feelings remained a mystery, but regardless of the specifics, you knew that the long list of tasks you performed over the last several hours did not make you happy.

All you wanted to do today was curl up with your boyfriend. You longed to sit in his lap while the tv played in the background, to have his hand stroking over your head and down your back, to feel him brush his thumb over your lips as he told you what a good girl you'd been.

But you didn't go about getting that attention the best way. In hindsight, you could admit that. It probably wasn't the best idea to tease him. Multiple times you rubbed the softest parts of your body against him and looked up at him with puppy eyes while innuendo spilled from your lips. You'd made a point to be huffy when he rebuffed you to finish up his work around the mansion. You tried giving him the cold shoulder to no effect which made you whiny.

And that was the one thing that guaranteed you a punishment. Because only bad puppies whine.

Right as the high-pitched words about him being so mean to you fell upon his ears, he suddenly finished up with whatever he was doing much quicker.

His hand curved around the back of your neck, guiding you up to your bedroom.

"You think you're cute, huh?" he asks under his breath, "Think you can get what you want by stamping your feet and throwing a tantrum?"

"I didn't-" you try to deny. But Logan doesn't take excuses either.

"You did. You think I don't know you? That I can't see the gears turning in your little head?"

The door to your room flings open with the force of his hand. He shuts it behind you firmly and leads you to the bed, sitting you down.

Already, your head hangs in shame, like a guilty pet who knows they're moments away from being scolded. He clicks his tongue at you in disapproval.

"What happened to all that attitude?" he taunts, yanking you by the hair to make you look up again, "C'mon. Let me have it. I was so mean to you today, wasn't I?"

Your lip sticks out into a pout. "I didn't mean it…" you try to justify.

"But you had no problem saying it before. So let me hear it again," he goads.

You whine and try to plead with your eyes to know avail. "I just wanted you to spend time with me," you say, guilt making your words much less convincing. You knew you'd been bothering him and that you could have waited. You just didn't want to.

"Spend time with you? Is that what you call it?" he says with a raised brow, "Be honest. You were getting fussy because you wanted me to 'spend time' bouncing you on my cock."

Heat creeps up from your belly, through your chest, and into your neck and cheeks. You can't answer because you know that he's right.

He chuckles, his hand rubbing down your scalp to massage the nape of your neck. "Mhm. You don't have to hide it, baby," he says. Dropping his hand away from your head, he walks over to the other side of the room to grab a few things you'd be needing soon. "I know how you are. You just can't help it. My puppy can't function if daddy doesn't give her attention for a few hours."

When he invokes his title and your own, the humiliation brewing in your belly feels more severe. You now know exactly what he's grabbing. As soon as he turns around to return to you, your suspicion is proven correct.

His hands hold the exact items you expected. One palm holds your collar while the other cradles the fake ears and tail. Your chest aches at the sight of them. They felt so good most times, but when you'd been bad, they became the ultimate tools to put you in your place.

He can see your reaction, and if the grin on his face is any indication, he loves it.

"What's wrong, pup? Thought you wanted to play," he says.

You don't have any coherent response to that. In no time, he strips you down and buckles the sleek band around your neck. The simple tag that reads 'puppy' dangles at the front. Next, the ears slide into place on your head. They were a nice set, pointing proudly upright. Last comes the tail. You don't get any real lube for it. That's a treat for good girls. All you get is his spit spread over the bulb before it prods at your puckered entrance. It slips in with relative ease, only drawing a tiny whimper from you as you adjust.

He stands back to admire his work. You kneel on the mattress, looking at him with the same guilt from earlier. Anticipation chews up your spine as you wait to hear your sentence. In the past, he'd made you get off on his boot. Another time, he leashed you to the bed while fucking you rough. Once he made you crawl around with a vibrator in. You could only shudder now as you imagine what lies ahead.

But it doesn't seem to be anything so drastic based on his words.

"You wanted to cum so bad all day today, puppy, so I'm gonna let you. You're just gonna have to be a big girl and do it yourself," he says, heading to the chair several feet from the bed.

He sits down and settles in, eyes staying on you the whole time. It's weird. The idea of starting to touch yourself while someone else just sits there. Doing it was one thing, but beginning feels separate to you.

Either way, your hand ventures between your thighs to rub at your folds. But before it can really get into it, he stops you.

Now you find out what the real punishment is.

"Ah ah ah, sweetheart. Puppies don't get to use their hands," he chides, that fucking smirk plastered across his face

You blink at the statement. It replays in your head again. His expression only grows more smug as you gawk at him, heat creeping up from your belly into your chest and neck.

"But… how?" you ask, as if you didn't already know, "What do you want me to do?"

"You're smarter than that. Use that little brain," he teases.

You take your bottom lip between your teeth, air puffing out from your mouth. The solution is right in front of you - or rather, behind you, resting against the headboard at the top of your bed.

Slowly, you turn around and reach for his pillow. You bring it around your body and crawl on top of it. The smoothness of the linen is cool against your cunt. It feels wrong there, like it won't provide enough friction to make you cum.

You give the puppy eyes one more try on him, but they yield no success.

"Get to it, pup. Let's see you take care of yourself for a change," he says.

And that's that. Arguing any further would be pointless and only get you in more trouble.

You lower yourself a bit more, making sure you're flush against the cushion. It puffs up from the pressure of your legs on either side. Then you start. You begin to drag your cunt back and forth, rocking your hips in small strokes.

It doesn't do much at first except make your head foggy with shame. Humping a pillow is a much more intensive process than just using your fingers. All of you moves with each thrust of your pelvis. Your breasts bounce with your momentum. The tail sticking out of your ass shakes and catches on your leg. Even the tag on your collar bobbles around.

"Atta girl," Logan praises from the sidelines, "You're gonna learn how to do this, so you don't have to bother daddy when he's trying to work."

You nod before your head falls back. Despite this method of self-pleasure not feeling that great at first, you were finding out it was a slow burn. The more you rutted on the plush surface between your legs, the greater the intensity of the sparks of ecstasy between your thighs.

He can feel himself starting to stiffen in his jeans. Everything about you was so needy and pathetic right now. It drives him crazy. His hand slides over his lap to palm his semi-hard bulge. From the sharp jerks of your hips to the shaky whimpers coming out of your mouth, everything about you calls to every cell in his body.

Like always, you don't last long. Puppies are never good at being patient. As soon as you find a rhythm you like, it only takes a couple minutes for you to work yourself to the edge. Your eyes go glossy, breaths morphing into harsh pants. Your tongue practically lolls out of your mouth. And then, once you realize how close you are, come the pleas.

"D-daddy," you choke out around other sounds of carnality, "Please, can I cum? Please please please please."

You were a natural when it came to begging. But you were bad, so he doesn't let you off easy tonight. He doesn't answer your calls for him and continues to watch. Being ignored is worse than a no to you, and he knows this.

"Please. I need it- I- I can't wait," you cry, "Pretty please, daddy."

"You think you've earned it?" he asks.

"Uh huh, I did. I earned it," you repeat, slurring your words a little.

He pauses for a moment, making you wait before he gives his permission. "Alright. Go ahead then. It's the only one you're getting tonight."

You try to force the words 'thank you' out, but instead, you can only moan as release crashes into you. Your hips buck wildly on the pillow. Arousal gushes from you and darkens the already existing wet patch. Your chest heaves with all the feelings rushing through you, your back arching before you topple forward.

Even with your face smooshed against the blankets, your hips still twitch in the afterglow. You ride out the little remaining bursts on his pillow. When you finally get yourself to sit up, eyes droopy and mind hazy.

He's in front of you now. His cock is out, his hand stroking it slowly.

"You did good, puppy. You were a very good girl," he praises.

You bask in it for a moment before your eyes fall down to his hard shaft in front of you. He smiles, knowing you could never resist a chance to have his dick.

"That's right. You were good, so now you get a treat. Daddy knows how much his puppy likes to lick."

[wendynerdwrites]

I just. Cannot. Get over. The Archon.

When other protagonists made big leadership decisions in game, it was justified and made sense and you had to work for it and it didn't always go as you wished

DAO: The Warden is not even really making THE choice in Orzammar. Their support of Bhelen or Harrowmont is not anyone going "You pick the king", you are a supporter and ultimately a tool. The Warden is the instrument in the plans of whomever the player chooses. Ultimately, it is still the Assembly who chooses in universe. In reality, it's the player who picks the king, not the Warden. On top of that, you are there and contributing out of need that makes sense in universe. Your candidate needs someone to go down into the Deep Roads and your party are literally the only ones to do it because you're made for it. It has nothing to do with your political power or importance. You are a means to an end for whomever the PLAYER picks.

Then the Landsmeet, where, in order to get your pick, you need to a) Do a variety of favors and side missions b) make huge compromises often at a loss to a character's happiness c) literally require the backing of the second most important nobleman in the realm ALONG WITH a number of other lords to get your way, d) provide actual proof of multiple crimes committed by your opponents. And even then you still have to fight a duel.

DA2: By this point, Hawke has been Champion for years. Hawke has connections with a ton of power players in Kirkwall built over a literal decade and literally saved the city. And even then, you're only put in the position of making decisions for Kirkwall's future because almost everyone else is dead/insane/giving up/crashing out.

DAI: Orlais: yes, you do get to pick the Emperor..but let's go over how it got that point shall we? You are literally a religious icon who has ended at least one major fucking war at this point. AT A MINIMUM tou command either the entire population of circle mages OR the entire renegade Templar Order. You seemingly died and came back from the dead. You have a giant fucking impregnable fortress on the FERELDEN/Orlesian border and at least one other major holdfast in FERELDEN, along with your forces being dispersed throughout southern Thedas. While all the other major institutions in Orlais including the royal family, the Chantry, and the various martial orders like the Seekers and Templars were all too busy bitch fighting with one another while the Inquisition was the only organization steadfastly addressing the actual threats in Thedas and are seen as literally Chosen by God thanks to Inky having the Mark. You are the unanimously chosen leader of the fastest rising paramilitary organization in Thedas. And that's the MINIMUM of your influence starting WEaWH. And you still have to get the court to like you and solve mysteries.

It's just as likely that in addition to all that listed above, you ALSO just won a huge military victory at Adamant and possibly grandfathered the Wardens among your forces as well and have at least one or even two other huge castles in Orlais.

You are famous everywhere. You faced down an archdemon. You are a religious icon. So yeah, IF you secure enough goodwill with the court of Orlais AND blackmail everyone who matters, then yes, you pick the emperor.

Almost exact same scenario with the Divine, except in that case, depending on the choices you make, there's no guarantee of your chosen candidate ending up on the sunburst throne.

All of these big state decisions are built up via the storylines in the game, the setting, have tons of mitigating circumstances, and come when your character has either forged major alliances and/or built up major political clout in their own right. And even then they have to accomplish a shit load of bullshit to get to that decision.

DATV: Hey Random Guy, which one of us should be Archon? You choose since you slayed a single dragon. Sure, you're just some schmuck with no institutional power, allies among heads of state, military, or actual public clout, but go ahead and just choose who you want with no actual requirements for being able to do so. No, we're not going to ask you to gather evidence of crimes or blackmail material. No, you don't need to rise to nobility or go on a massive quest to do something only you can do. No, you don't have to make any choices that might affect you negatively. Just pick between the two of us, we're both good and your choice will come with no conflict since we will both just support whatever you pick, random asshole we just met who is actually technically responsible for our city being attacked. Fuck earning anything. Fuck sacrifices. Fuck compromise. Fuck your major decisions being earned via actual decisions you've made throughout the game and work you put in. Fuck uncertainty. Fuck playing actual politics to any extent whatsoever. Fuck anyone actually knowing who you are. You just slayed the boss, so as a prize you get to decide who the leader of the second most powerful country in Thedas will be because you're the protagonist of this game.

[unusualtfs]

The Roommate Compatibility Program

this is my first time posting something like this to tumblr, hope it's an enjoyable read !

Arthur and Jimmy may have had the same last name, but that was the only thing they had in common.

Arthur Lee was, by all accounts, a nerd. When the Asian math major wasn’t dutifully taking notes on complex equations at his lectures or studying in silence at the library, he could usually be found holed up in his dorm, gaming until the wee hours of the morning. His only extracurricular activity to speak of was his weekly participation in the Chinese Student Union, if by “participation” one meant “sitting in the back of the room and not speaking to anyone.” His naturally pale skin was made even more so by a lack of sunlight, and his messy black hair resisted any attempt at styling. Short, shrimpy, and gay, he had clearly never seen the inside of a gym. In short, he was the exact opposite of his roommate.

Jimmy Lee was everything Arthur was not. Tall where Arthur was short, buff where Arthur was skinny, popular where Arthur was friendless. The straight white jock spent his days living out the all-American college fantasy — playing sports, pumping iron, and partying all night long. Of course, that hardly left any time for Jimmy to work toward his comms degree — but that hardly mattered, because everyone knew he was as dumb as a bag of rocks. His brutish Neanderthal features, extensive body hair, and blond buzz cut only added to that impression.

Maybe it would have been unrealistic to expect Arthur and Jimmy to be friends, but certainly no one could have anticipated the sheer antipathy that defined their roommate relationship. Arthur’s reasons for hating Jimmy were predictable — he was dumb, loud, and obnoxious; he left dirty clothes and sweaty exercise gear everywhere; and he stank up the dorm with his alpha musk. Jimmy equally couldn’t stand his prissy, prudish roommate. Arthur nagged him constantly, and he shot down all his invitations to work out or go out. Not to mention, he forbade Jimmy from getting laid while he was in the room, which was all the time. Nothing said unsexy like the presence of a judgmental Asian nerd hunched over his gaming PC at two in the morning.

Needless to say, it was not an ideal situation for anyone. So when a flier for the Roommate Compatibility Program was slipped under their door one evening, their interest was piqued.

Having issues with your roommate(s)? The Roommate Compatibility Program is here to help! Our trained experts use scientifically proven methods to ensure you and your roommate have a lifelong bond. 100% success rate, guaranteed!

In a rare moment of agreement for them, they decided they had nothing to lose.

That was how they found themselves entertaining a stranger in their dorm the next day. The man, who had introduced himself as “Mr. Thompson-Filipowski, from the RCP — but you can call me Mr. T.F. for short” had shown up out of the blue, giving them no time to prepare. So now they sat in their respective beds, answering Mr. T.F.’s questions as he appraised their living space thoughtfully. He wore a loud blue suit and had in hand a clipboard that he occasionally used to jot down notes, but otherwise he had no distinguishing features to speak of. Everything else about him, from his build to his skin tone to his hairstyle, was somehow impossible to pin down. He must have just had one of those faces.

“Thank you, boys,” he said after he was done interrogating them about their (lack of a) relationship. “I just have one more question for each of you before we can officially get started.” He turned to Jimmy first. “Jimmy, what would your ideal roommate be like?”

Jimmy had to think for quite a bit at that question. Finally, he responded in his vapid baritone: “Uh, I dunno… I guess he would just, like, be my bro.”

Mr. T.F. nodded, scribbling something on his clipboard. “Okay, excellent.” He turned to the Asian nerd next. “And Arthur, what about you?”

“My ideal roommate would be someone who’s, well, similar to me,” Arthur said, wincing at how his voice still cracked at every word. “Someone who shares my interests, and who I can spend time with, and… yeah.”

Mr. T.F. returned to his clipboard. “Right,” he said. “So, to summarize — Jimmy, you want your roommate to be your bro. And Arthur, you want your roommate to be similar to you. Is that correct?” There was a strange weight to his words, exuding the sense that something significant was carried within them, but Jimmy didn’t register this and Arthur thought it irrational, so both roommates ignored it. They nodded.

“Excellent!” Mr. T.F. said, the ominous presence now gone from his voice. “Okay, so often what we’ve found at the RCP is that roommate incompatibility is often a case of misapplied expectations. Often, our roommates do meet our expectations, you just need to keep an open mind about it. I’d wager you boys have much more in common than you think.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and Jimmy audibly scoffed at that, but they both kept listening anyway.

“For instance, looking around your dorm room, I can tell that both of you have a pretty similar fashion sense, wouldn’t you say?”

Arthur wanted to protest that all of the clothes strewn about belonged to Jimmy, not him, but the more he looked, the more he realized that wasn’t entirely true. That jersey on the floor definitely belonged to him, as did the baseball cap hanging from his bed and the sweaty white socks next to his desk. In fact, now that he thought about it, roughly half of the clothing he could see actually was his. Huh, he supposed he did dress similarly to Jimmy, then…

“I guess so,” Jimmy said as Arthur was distracted. “It’s hard to remember whose is whose sometimes because we dress the same and wear the same size, huhuh.”

As Jimmy spoke, his words became reality. He didn’t notice, but he shrunk down a few inches from his previously monstrous height until he was just under six feet — still respectable, but no longer anything more. Meanwhile, Arthur rose dramatically to meet him, until they stood at the exact same height. Since the two were equally small and shared the same taste in schlubby, sporty clothes, they essentially owned one wardrobe between them, borrowing and swapping constantly — although what looked tight and well-fitted on the muscular Ajimmy was loose and baggy on the lanky Jarthur. Curiously, the shirt Jarthur currently wore was the one item of clothing he wore that didn’t update itself to match his new reality; as such, it was now uncomfortably small on him.

Mr. T.F. continued, “And judging by the sports gear and gaming equipment in here, it looks like you also have similar interests, isn’t that right? Have you ever tried bonding over that?”

Again, it seemed Mr. T.F. was mistaken. Yes, their room indicated their respective interests in fitness and video games, but those interests were far from shared. Jarthur wanted to correct him, but then he had to reconsider. While he wasn’t into sports like Ajimmy, he certainly knew his way around them. He got as hyped as any other guy watching the Super Bowl, and he had fun whenever he was invited to play a quick game of basketball or soccer.

Meanwhile, Ajimmy was trying not to laugh at the implication that he liked video games. What did Mr. T.F. take him for, some nerd like Jarthur? But now that he thought about it… he did have fond memories of owning his bros with his mad gaming skills. He didn’t really want to call himself a gamer — he wasn’t into any of that anime or Nintendo kiddie shit. But Madden, CoD? Yeah, he fucked with those.

Imperceptibly, the dorm room shifted to match the roommates’ changing interests. Posters of popular players duplicated themselves from Ajimmy’s side of the room and pinned themselves into the wall above Jarthur’s bed. At the same time, the gaming computer vanished from Jarthur’s desk, swiftly replaced by a small TV between their beds. Well-used controllers popped into existence, one for each of them. The roommates themselves weren’t spared from the wave of changes, either. The tan leached out of Asjimm��s skin until he was quite pale, although not unhealthily so. Meanwhile, muscles made themselves known for the first time all across Joethur’s body. He was still lanky, but there was a definite sculptedness to his body that had never been there before, demonstrating his newfound appreciation of physical activity and straining his shirt even further.

“Yeah, all the time,” Joethur responded to Mr. T.F.’s questions. “I can destroy Asjimm at basketball in real life and in 2K,” he bragged.

“As if!” Asjimm retorted good-naturedly. “Next time, I’m kicking your ass, nerd!”

Joethur laughed. He may have had some problems with his roommate, but their shared competitiveness was not one of them.

“Ah, that’s lovely to hear,” Mr. T.F. said, checking a box on his clipboard. “The best way to become closer is to spend time together, after all. But that should be easy for you two — I’d imagine your class schedules are quite similar, since you’re in the same major.”

What was Mr. T.F. talking about? Joethur had never taken a comms class in his life, and Asjimm would certainly never be caught dead in a math classroom. But then Joethur went over his class schedule in his head again, and he realized that he did share most of his classes with his roommate. There was Accounting 101 on Mondays and Wednesdays, and Entrepreneurship every Thursday morning… In fact, aside from Joethur’s one math class and Asjimm’s lone comms class, their schedules were identical! But how could that be the case…?

“Well, I mean, yeah, I guess we do,” Asjimm said. His face twisted into a cocky smirk. “But just between you and me, it’s not like we bother to show up to class most of the time, right Joethyr?”

Everything suddenly snapped into place for Joethyr. Ausjim was right, of course — being a business major required confidence, charisma, and leadership skills more than anything else, and both Joethyr and Ausjim had that in spades. It certainly didn’t require studying or smarts, which was fortunate for Joethyr, as his brain was rapidly shrinking to match his meatheaded roommate’s. In fact, it was even smaller than Ausjim’s — he had scored highly enough in high school math that he was able to take an elective comms class for an easy A this semester, while Joethyr was being forced to struggle through calculus for a second time.

Records across campus rapidly rewrote themselves to reflect this new reality. Ausjim’s grades rose slightly, even as Joethyr’s GPA dropped from a 4.0 to a 2.0 — but whatever, C’s got degrees. In turn, the two roommates underwent their own changes. Joethyr’s unkempt hair retreated into his skull, leaving behind a slick fade. Moreover, the spark of intelligence retreated from his eyes, leaving them dark and hard. Ausjim’s hair experienced the opposite change, growing out into an impeccably groomed quiff that perfectly framed his face, neutralizing his unattractive Neanderthal features. His body hair also faded into nothingness, leaving him totally clean-shaven. The business classes he was taking had taught him the importance of presentation, after all.

“Yeah, bruh,” Joethyr agreed, now speaking in the same vacant timbre as Ausjim.

“Well, how do you boys spend your time then?” Mr. T.F. prompted. He was nearly at the bottom of his checklist — this far into the process, he didn’t even need to guide the roommates’ transformation. Their new personalities had largely subsumed who they used to be, and would be happy to fill the remaining gaps by themselves.

“Isn’t it obvious, bruh?” Ausjim said. “The gym — duh! Gotta get those gains!”

At his roommate’s proclamation, Joethy underwent a startling change. At last, his muscles ballooned all across his body until they were identical in size to Ausjim’s. No longer did he have to settle for merely toned — he was well and truly ripped. So dramatic was the change that his shirt was instantly torn apart, revealing his glorious pecs and washboard abs for the world to see. The Asian hunk subconsciously flexed as he thought about his answer to Mr. T.F.’s question, realizing something funny in the process.

“Hell, we probably even spend more time at the Chinese Student Union than class, right bruh?” Joethy nudged his equally jockish roommate.

The word “Chinese” resonated in Ausjin’s mind as he experienced sudden changes of his own. His lush hair was quickly thickening and inexorably staining itself midnight black. And as for the rest of his body, his lack of hair down there became much easier to maintain, as he naturally had less of it. Meanwhile, his facial features were shifting all at once — brow softening, nose broadening, eyes narrowing, lips plumpening. Eventually, they settled on what the rest of his body had already become — a carbon copy of his roommate.

“Yeah, bro, totally…”

At the word “bro,” the roommates’ final changes began. The physical refinements were over, but there was still work to do mentally. Ausjin’s brain was purged of the faces of his former family, their white features morphing into far more familiar Asian ones. Fond memories shifted as his mother’s famous meatloaf became her authentic dumpling recipe, and the destination of his childhood summer vacations was corrected from Europe to China. Through it all, he remained the dumb, popular jock he had always been. That was also true of Joethy, who could no longer remember being a lame, skinny nerd. Nights spent studying were replaced with nights spent partying, and members of an extensive social circle easily entered the parts of his brain that had never experienced true friendship. His memories of his family remained the same, however — with one key addition. The newcomer’s face was blurry, but the more that he focused on it, the more familiar it seemed. Almost like… his own face…? Or was it Ausjin’s face? That seemed closer, but… 

By Joethy’s side, Ausjin found his memories haunted by an identical face. The two jocks sat there in dumbfounded silence, both trying to recall who it was that featured so prominently in their memories. What was his name? Not Joethy or Ausjin, but rather… rather…

“Joey! Austin!”

Joey and Austin Lee snapped back to attention, refocusing on their strange guest.

Mr. T.F. chuckled, putting his clipboard away. “You boys zoned out there for a sec! It’s okay, I’ll get out of your hair soon. I just have one last question for you — are you getting along as roommates?”

“Well, of course we’re getting along, bruh!” Austin exclaimed.

“We’re basically the same person already!” Joey finished his twin’s sentence with a pure, dull guffaw.

Because it was true. Joey and Austin Lee were clearly cut from the same cloth: The identical twin Asian jocks were both brainless, buff, bisexual business-major bros. The only appreciable difference between the twins was their hairstyles. Austin fancied himself a pretty boy, spending hours by the mirror meticulously maintaining his gelled hair. Joey, meanwhile, rocked a utilitarian crew cut, confident enough to put his angelic face on full display. But other than that, they were totally inseparable — everything they did, from working out to gaming to partying, they did together. (Rumor had it that they even fucked together, only bringing a lucky girl or guy home when he or she was willing to share.)

“Great to hear that! Thanks for participating in our Roommate Compatibility Survey, you two — although I don’t know what results we were expecting from twins like you… Anyway, have a great one!” As Mr. T.F. exited the room, he allowed himself one last glance back at the Lee twins as they mindlessly bantered. Both of them had certainly gotten their wishes. Joey was exactly like Austin, and Austin was exactly like Joey, and they were certainly each other’s bros — in both senses of the word. Another success for the Roommate Compatibility Program.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind Mr. T.F., the Lee twins promptly forgot he had ever existed, returning to their existences as paragons of young Asian American masculinity.

“So, what’s the plan for today, bro?” Austin said. “Hit the gym, then hit the streets?”

Joey smirked, admiring himself and his twin in the mirror. “You know me so well, bro!”

[obscurevideogames]

Tumblr’s Core Prodct Stratgy

Here at Tumblr, we’ve been working hard on trying to keep our sinking ship afloat for as long as possible. This means desperately trying to copy every new fly-by-night social media app that some multi-billionaire sh*t out during their daily Peloton routine. What follows is the strategy we're using to accomplish the goal of user growth. If you find the things we say here worrisome, please understand that is our exact intention. You've outgrown our target demographic. Don't let the door hit you on the way out.

The Diagnosis

It's lookin' pretty bad y'all!

After somehow losing hundreds of thousands of users during the great pr0n purge of 2018, we started to wonder if anything could be done to get back to where we were. We even brought in a management consultant who charged us a ridiculous amount of money. It would make you sick if you knew how much, but we got a few nice meals out of it at least. Anyhow, we handed this guy the app, and HE HAD NO IDEA HOW TO USE IT! It was f*cking hilarious! But suddenly it all clicked -- our users are a bunch of stupid idiots who can't even do basic arithmetic. I mean, they spend all day looking at their phones, so what do you expect?

Tumblr’s best feature is its unique content and vibrant communities. But who cares, right? We're just as happy getting traffic from people sh*t-posting memes, vague-booking, giving out-of-context hot takes to news events, and spewing whatever random thought is in their head at the moment. Plus that stuff doesn't p*ss off Apple.

To keep this thing going we need new people. And by "people" we mean teenagers, like we used to have back in the good ol' days. Unfortunately we're all in our 40s now, so we have no idea what they want. But teenagers are so cool! Imagine if they talked to us like we're one of them? We're getting hard just thinking about it.

Our Guidng Principls

To make Tumblr cool again, we must address these huge glaring issues.

People can look at a blog without logging in. How is that fair to all the poor schlubs who had to fill out forms to get an account? Also we haven't figured out a way to force ads onto the personalized pages yet. But we swear that's not the main reason.

People can see content they are looking for or linked to. People can keep up with blogs they follow. But the problem with this is, people don't know what they want. We know what they want! We're smart. We wrote this damn site, remember?

Promote posts that incite pointless conversations. Posts that are guaranteed to bait every troll into responding. Isn't that why all your Magat relatives love Facebook so much? We can do that!

P*ss off your content creators in every way possible (see #2).

Create algorithms that throw an unending barrage of irrelevant content in your face. Have you seen Instagram lately? We could do that so easy!!!

The app is slow. The website is slow. Obviously this is because of GIFs. Facebook and Instagram don't allow them, so why should we?

Conclusion

Our mission changes on a day-to-day basis. Right now we're super jealous of all the attention that new Threads thing is getting. We're still not sure what it is, but we're gonna download it after work.

[pomefioredove]

Hey Dove~

I was reading through the different headcannons and the mute reader really caught my attention. Could you possibly do the Vice Wardens (including Ruggie cuz he's basically second in command anyway) with Yuu that has a speech impediment? Basically they stutter/stumble on words, get them mixed up, pronounces them wrong, and maybe forgets certain words. And obviously with new arcana and magical words (and the weird ahh names some of these characters have) they can get pretty frusterated or embarressed.

You always have such good headcannons!! Feel free to throw in any other characters that you like to the mix as well!!

OH this hits close to home too. I stutter and mispronounce things when I do speak, so I'm using that for reference

twst x mute reader

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ reader with a speech impediment

summary: as described type of post: headcanons characters: trey, ruggie, jade, jamil, rook, lilia additional info: romantic or platonic, reader is gender neutral, reader is not specified to be yuu

see, I don't think Trey would say anything about it

he's not one to criticize strangeness

that would be rude, first of all

second of all, there's no such thing as "normal" at NRC

(even so, some people may point it out, but he's not one of them)

he doesn't have any trouble understanding you, either

he grew up with younger siblings who pronounced owl as "awa" and kitty as "shishi" until they were six

he's certainly patient

and he knows how to use context

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

honestly? Ruggie didn't even... notice?

for a while, he just thought you talked fast

he knows how it goes; you get excited or nervous or whatever, and you end up stumbling all over yourself

no biggie

then one day you come up to him all sad and teary, apologizing for a speech impediment he didn't even know you had, and he's like...

...oh! no!

of course he's not annoyed!

Ruggie's an adaptive guy, after all. when he wants something, he'll bend backwards for it

you think a little stuttering is gonna stop him from being friends with you?

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

much like Trey, Jade doesn't say anything

he just watches you talk

and smiles

like this -> :)

it's not that he's particularly concerned about being rude, he's just...

observing

humans are such fascinating creatures, he thinks

he learns all of your quirks just by listening to you

which words you have trouble with, which ones you mix up and forget, which consonants you stumble over...

he teaches himself your language

and he becomes a sort of translator for you

any time someone is rude to you, he'll come out of nowhere and tell them everything you said in the exact order you said it

weird, but nice

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

to put it plainly, Jamil has bigger problems

whether or not he can understand you doesn't really matter to him

it's not his job to worry over you

then, you come to him asking for help, and...

...well, he's flattered

he can't deny he likes that you come to him for guidance before anyone else

because of this, (and because he had to learn how to control his own tongue when he was little), he takes pity on you

whether your goal is to work on your speech, or to simply feel less anxiety about it, he's there

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

is it cliche to say that Rook already knows exactly what you're thinking?

perhaps, but it's true

he's mastered the art of observation

he can read your thoughts in your expression, your body language, even the slightest twitch in your lips gives you away

he just knows

you don't have to be a good speaker, or a speaker at all, to communicate with Rook

(and he can do all the talking for you if you'd like, he'd probably enjoy that)

and, of course, he is of the opinion that there is beauty in everything

you don't need to be perfectly clear and concise for him to like you

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

now, I can't guarantee that Lilia won't tease a little

only in good fun, of course

and only if you respond in kind

but he does find it rather cute when you mispronounce something, or mix up your words

he won't correct you or interrupt you, either

he'll step in to help if you're really struggling, of course, but he thinks of you as capable

he does remind you to take breathers when you're getting too anxious about it, though

he cares <3

[whumptober]

Event Rules and Info

Please read this post before you send an ask!

WHUMPTOBER is a month-long, prompt-based creation challenge (think: Inktober, but whumpier). There are 31 official themes this year - one for each day of the month - which can be used, skipped, or combined in any way you’d like. They are meant to serve as inspiration without being taken literally (e.g. you don’t have to include the exact wording of prompts into your work). Feel free to run rampant on interpretation. For example, if the prompt is “flame", you could create something with reference to a candle/campfire, your character could have suffered a burn, or the flame could be a reference to an ‘old flame’ - an old relationship. It’s truly down to you!

In total, there are 4 prompts for each day. These are optional suggestions and can be used in conjunction with the theme, or as options/alternatives.  We want to give everyone as much creative freedom as possible, as well as increase event accessibility for folks with triggers and squicks. There is also a list of 15 alternative prompts that can be subbed in for any day, again to give participants as much creative freedom as possible.

Creators can PRODUCE work in any media they choose, including but not limited to: writing, visual artwork, photo/video/audio edits, paper crafts and elaborate recommendation lists (not just a list of links). Creators can PARTICIPATE as much or as little as they want (i.e. you don’t have to do ALL the prompts if you don’t want to) and prompts can be used in any order. They are also free to use even after the event ends.

When uploading Whumptober content to your blog, be sure to tag it with:

#whumptober2024 …..(the event tag)

#no.1, #no.2, #no.3, …..(theme number)

#bruises, #stabbing, …..(the theme or specific prompt you chose)

#altprompt …..(if you use an altprompt, tag the post with the number of the prompt you replace)

#fandom or #OC, …..(ironman, original content, oc, etc.)

#medium …..(gifs, fic, podcast, art, etc.)

#teeth, #etc …..(trigger warnings & any additional tags. Keep in mind not to add “tw” in front but only use the word/trigger itself)

#nsfwhump …..(only for nsfw content)

#your own tags go here

PLEASE BE DILIGENT WITH YOUR TAGGING. Only properly tagged posts are considered for archiving on the official @whumptober-archive blog. They must be tagged in the order above. An elaborate post about our tagging system can be found [here]

Unfortunately, due to the sheer number of participants in recent years, we cannot guarantee your work will be archived. A random selection of properly tagged posts from all genres will be reblogged each day.

Whumpers who produce content for 31 total theme days are considered event completionists and will be tagged in a masterpost at the end of the month. A form will be published at the beginning of November asking you to tell us if you completed. This is based on trust and we will not check this.

Questions not addressed in one of our many event info posts can be directed to this blog. We will not answer any questions that have been answered in the FAQs or rules already.

Thanks for reading, and happy whumping!

[strawbeerossi]

Mine

Pairing: Fem!Reader x Spencer Reid

Description: Whenever the police chief gets a little too friendly with you, you find yourself having a very strict conversation with Spencer at the hotel.

Content/Warnings: Jealous!Spencer, unprotected sex, squirting

Word Count: 1.6K

Kinktober Day Twenty Eight: Squirting

Navigation || Kinktober Masterlist || AO3

Spencer felt his eye twitching as he noticed the newest chief of police was all over you. There was a child abduction case in Nashville, Tennessee that the BAU had offered their resources to. It was standard, children going missing and parents getting weird texts the longer their children were kept captive. You were spending a lot of time at the precinct with him due to you being the designated member alongside JJ to interview the families and surviving child victims who were let go.

“So agent. I got a few questions on your profiling abilities.” The man stated as he was leaning against the desk he was closest to, your gaze lifting from the case file the team had been building up over the past few days. “Okay, lay them on me.” You were just being friendly, not being the best at sensing when men were hitting on you or outright flirting. It was both a blessing and a curse. “Is it true that kids in abusive homes are guaranteed to be murderers?”

The question was quick but you were faster to answer. “No! Not in all cases. Stressors and triggers from childhood can play a big part in the psychological damage of a serial killer but there are people who came from relatively good homes who have murdered others in cold blood. There’s no exact genetic makeup or reason yet, but one day I’m sure it’ll all be answered in depth.”

The rest of the day went like that. He’d ask a question and you’d happily answer, although he was essentially eyefucking you while you were too enthralled in an explanation to pay close enough attention. Hotch had eventually instructed the team to go to their hotel for the night, the team needed rest after being awake for nearly twenty four hours without so much as a break.

The SUV ride back was dead silent, mostly because of exhaustion setting in. However, you could sense tension in your boyfriend as you rested your head lightly against his shoulder.

He’d been abnormally quiet at the precinct, barely even looking in your direction when you came near him. You figured it was exhaustion. Not only were you up for long hours but cases involving children were some of the most draining things you’d ever have to go through. After arriving at the hotel and everyone disbanding to get to their rooms, you were unlocking the door and getting your shoes off while Spencer quietly walked deeper into the room.

“Did you want to take a shower first, babe?” You asked, offering a smile.

It faltered though whenever your boyfriend was facing you, fury in his eyes. “Are we not gonna talk about how chief Lorn is shamelessly flirting with you? It’s like you're eating it up! I mean come on, babe. Why would you ever assume he would care about profiling related things?” His tone was steady, yet anger bubbling over the surface. You looked confused, an eyebrow raised. “Flirting? Spencer, he’s asking questions. I think you’re just tired and taking your emotions out on me.”

Very good guess and probably true, however Spencer wouldn’t admit that. “No. I’m not taking out my emotions on you for no reason. You think I don’t see you batting your eyelashes or laughing at anything this guy says? You don’t know how angry it makes me to know how blind you are to these signals.” Blunt. The words had your mouth agape in shock. “I’m not flirting with the damn police chief! Jesus, Spencer.”

“I don’t believe you. You look like you are eating up all the attention. You know, I bet he wouldn’t even treat you the way I do. Do you think he’d spend every waking moment dedicating his life to you? Huh? Do you think he could love you like I do?” His footsteps were quick and his path decided to back you up against the wall. “Cause I know for sure that he can’t make you cum like I do.” His honey colored eyes were blown out with lust, his hands immediately moving to grip your hips tight. “Spencer!” You squeaked, your pussy clenching desperately around nothing as you could feel the heat of arousal coursing through your veins. Spencer hardly ever got jealous like this, however you liked this side of him. He was rough and could be a little mean, which really did get the job done. “Tell me I’m lying.” His eyes narrowed, hand under your chin making you stare up at him.

“I-I wasn’t flirting with anyone! I was just being friendly.” Your voice was barely above a whisper while Spencer sighed and dropped his hand from your chin. “Go get on the bed.” He murmured, already working on getting his tie off. You knew what you were in for. Spencer didn’t act like this much but you knew that special incidents would pull this rather uncharacteristic side out of him. You’d done what you were used to, already stripping yourself down as you were crawling onto the hotel bed while preparing yourself for whatever was coming.

You knew that he wasn’t going to give you the princess treatment like usual, instead Spencer was getting right to business as he was reaching in his bag to pull out a condom from the side pocket and using his teeth to tear it open. After rolling on the rubber, he was heading over to the edge of the bed to grasp your ankle, tugging your body down the mattress. His gaze was focused on your pussy, a low hum leaving his lips. “Look at how wet you are.” His fingers were teasingly running through your slick folds to collect your sweet arousal, holding a hand up to show off the glistening digits. “Now, I wonder who did that..” He playfully pondered while giving his cock a few lazy tugs.

As he was situated between your legs, Spencer was grasping his shaft and smacking it against your pussy before moving to run his tip through your folds to further tease you, your hand gently reaching for his hip. “Fuck, Spencer. Please.” You whined.

That was all he needed to hear, his large hands wrapping your legs around his waist as he readied himself, his right hand on his cock while the left squeezed your hip. As the thick tip was breaching your soaked cunt, the male was shushing your whines. “We haven’t even gotten started yet. Tonight, I’m gonna show you just how much you don’t need some idiotic police chief and learn how to appreciate what you do have.” Jealousy wasn’t something Spencer was proud of but the emotion was prominently on display and he wasn’t gonna hide it.

His hips were slamming against yours without warning, a loud gasp falling from your lips as your head was falling back against the mattress. “Fuck!” You cursed, feeling the burn of his cock stretching out your desperate and leaking pussy from being shoved deep into your warmth. “You think he’d have you acting like this? Look at how desperate you are and I’ve barely touched you.” His voice was low as both hands roughly gripped your hips. Spencer was normally more of the soft and sweet side, however in these sorts of moods, he was different than anyone who really knew him could imagine.

His thrusts were relentless, your pussy sinfully squelching from each rough snap of his hips, your arousal adding a shine to his cock. “Is this what you wanted? To be fucked like a cheap whore?” The vulgarity alone was making your stomach do flips. This was the man who was bashful with saying the word bitch, yet here he was, cursing and calling you a whore. You wouldn’t complain at all, mainly because you couldn’t.

With his onslaught of assaulting your cunt, you were letting out a series of moans, shaky whines, and pleas for him not to stop. Your skin was flushed, nails digging into your partner’s shoulders as you were in pure bliss. “Look at you. You like it when I abuse your cunt, don’t you? Want to be used like the whore you are? Fuck,” He huffed out, lips smashing against yours as he wasted no time practically shoving his tongue in your mouth while slamming his cock into your pussy, slamming into the spot where you needed him most.

The feeling of your walls constricting and spasming around his cock was like a dream. Spencer was sensitive, so he loved feeling your gummy walls and being able to have them gripping at his shaft, your desperate pussy making an attempt to suck in more of his dick even though it just wasn’t possible.

You were seeing stars, a familiar heat brewing in the pit of your stomach. However, you weren’t able to speak, only being reduced to blubbering about being close, even so the words were slurred together and still hard read. Thankfully, Spencer knew exactly what you were trying to convey, a hand coming down between your sweaty bodies as he was quick to press his finger against your clit, the pressure on the bundle of nerves causing you to whine desperately.

However what happened next was something that even snapped Spencer out of his jealous haze.

He was in the midst of roughly fucking into you whenever your legs were shaking violently, your nails dragging down his back as your body arched from the bed while hitting your orgasm. Instead of making a creamy mess of his cock, there was a gush of arousal that painted his thighs, pelvis, your thighs, and the hotel bedsheets below you. Spencer was slowly coming to a stop while staring at you with wide eyes.

“You’ve never done that before!” He squeaked, his eyes casting down at the glistening of your arousal painting his skin. You were fucked out, your eyes glossed over as you opened your mouth to speak, however a moan falling out soon after.

“No, no. We are doing that again!”

[ckret2]

Chapter 54 of everybody being really eager to kill their prisoner human Bill Cipher for good: the gang's trying a new way to create fuel for the one weapon guaranteed to destroy Bill.

It goes so great.

As Ford drove to Northwest Manor, Dipper skimmed through the introduction to Flatworld, where Edward Bishop Bishop was pretending that his book had been dictated to him by a sentient square; but he couldn't focus on it. He sighed, shut the book, and stared out the passenger window at the passing trees.

"Something on your mind?" Ford asked.

"I'm thinking about the Axolotl's poem again. The one about Bill."

"Ah. Still trying to remember the rest?"

"Kinda. Mabel and I are working on it together," Dipper said. "But it's not that. I've just been wondering... what if the poem is... you know, part of a prophecy about Bill or something? Mabel remembered another line of the poem—'A different form, a different time.' What if the Axolotl was telling us why Bill's back as a human? Maybe we need him here—to, to use his powers to fight off a bigger threat or something. Do you think that's possible?" He held back another question: what happens if we kill him before then?

Ford frowned thoughtfully. "I've been thinking about the Axolotl as well," he said. "About the worlds I visited that called it a god of criminals, tyrants, and luck. That sounds to me like the exact kind of being that would be Bill's ally. And it's odd how resistant Bill was to telling us anything about the Axolotl, when it simply passed over town for a few seconds and then moved on. Why the secrecy? How does Bill think it benefits him for us not to know about it?" Ford shook his head. "I think you're on to something, Dipper—I think whatever the Axolotl told you is important. The question is: important for whom?"

Dipper's stomach turned. The Axolotl had radiated such kindness; it was hard for Dipper to believe it could be up to anything evil with Bill. But then—Dipper clutched at Flatworld with the damning biography on the back—but then, how many people had Bill himself fooled with the benevolent teacher act?

Dipper understood now why "Don't Trust Bill" had so quickly turned into "Trust No One." Even when you knew that there was only one real enemy—even when you knew that most people out there were still reasonably honest and friendly—you could never tell just how far Bill's shadow stretched. "I guess that's true. We can't really know."

"We can't know yet. But it is worth trying to figure out," Ford said. "I wish I could tell you where to start looking for answers. For now... we'll just have to consider anything possible."

Ford was right. But all the same, every time Dipper paranoidly asked himself What if Grunkle Ford is right, what if the Axolotl really is on Bill's side, a second, even more paranoid, even more worried voice asked, But what if he isn't?

####

When they arrived, Fiddleford was already in his lab, hard at work on the miniature particle accelerator they'd come to see him about.

"The paradox what was powering it started yowling" Fiddleford said. "So obviously it ain't a paradox no more."

Ford grimaced. "That does lay to rest whether the cat is alive or dead."

"Sure does," Fiddleford said, sighing. "So I let the cat outside and I'm rebuilding the whole contraption to run on a more robust paradox. I hope you've got better news for me, Stanford."

"We hope so too. I think Dipper might have the solution to our fuel generation problem."

They briefly explained Dipper's unfortunate puppet incident last summer—Fiddleford had to take a break in the middle to grab a cup of coffee, "To steady my nerves,"—its ongoing effects on his sleep, and the new developments of the last few days, culminating in Dipper learning how to project his soul out of his body—

—which, Ford now realized, he probably should have expected Fiddleford to take poorly.

"Sweet sasparilla!" Fiddleford kicked over his chair while jumping onto the nearest table. "You're dead?!"

"What?" Dipper said. "No, I—"

"You're like a ghost possessing a zombie!"

Dipper thought that over. "Whoa..."

But, even though Fiddleford thought the whole affair went against the rightful order of the world, he agreed that it was a sound idea and worth trying. "It's lucky that my tater tot and I hunted out all the ghosts in this place during our spring cleaning," he said, opening a cabinet. He retrieved what looked like a pair of vacuums redesigned to be worn like backpacks with an assortment of random electronics dangling from wires. He held up a set of goggles and headphones hanging off one of the vacuums. "I invented these doohickeys that'll let you see and hear ghosts! They'll let us keep in contact with Dipper while he's out of his body." He set the vacuums on a table near the miniature particle accelerator and said, "First, though—Stanford, I need you to help me rebuild this machine."

"Of course." Ford turned away from the vacuum he'd been inspecting to look at the miniature particle accelerator.

Dipper said, "Wait, there are other ghosts in this mansion?"

"Yep!"

"I hunted one at the Northwests' big party last year," Dipper said. "How many more ghosts are in here?"

"We've caught, oh... thirty or forty so far."

"Seriously? That's amazing." Dipper was already thinking about the amazing Ghost Harassers episode this place could have been. Maybe even a miniseries.

"Aw, it weren't that hard. If you leave the TV on, they like to flock around it to watch. All you've gotta do is hide in the corner until a whole big bunch of 'em are gathered 'round—and then ya get them!"

"Oh," Dipper said. "Huh. I just tricked one into getting trapped in a silver mirror."

"Well, that's right impressive too. I never woulda thunk of that," Fiddleford said. "Me and Tate have been sucking them into cooling pouches in these here vacuums and then sticking the pouches in a chest freezer down in the dungeon! Maybe I oughta line the freezer with silver."

"This place has a dungeon?" Dipper asked.

Before Fiddleford could respond, Ford asked, "Which parts are we replacing?" He was inspecting the miniature particle accelerator.

"All of them!"

Ford gave Fiddleford a surprised look. "All of them?"

"Yep! Every last one!"

"Is the design changing that much?"

"Nope! It's staying exactly the same!"

"Then... why can't we just use the same machine we already have?"

"We will be using the same machine!" Fiddleford smiled mischievously. "Or will we?"

"Ah! I see! The particle accelerator of Theseus," Ford said. "Very clever."

"And kinder on the local stray cats, I reckon."

Dipper offered his assistance, but the work involved too much welding and buzzsawing for him to try untrained, so he was directed to sit a safe distance away with the first aid kit. At least it gave him a chance to read some more. He had to shove aside a couple flashlights and the glue grenade to reach where the slim book had slid to the bottom of his backpack during their walk from the car.

He skimmed over some of the worldbuilding looking for the story before he realized the story was the wordbuilding and looped back. It was a lot bleaker than he expected, even after Mabel's warning. Rigid class system, oppressive government, all kinds of horrifying shape prejudices... Frustrating dream visits to the ignorant line people in the first dimension who didn't believe in the second dimension, and to the self-absorbed King Zero in the point-sized zeroth dimension who thought a whole universe was contained inside him... A just as frustrating visit from a sphere who simply couldn't explain the third dimension in a way the square protagonist could understand, which was even more annoying since the square had just seen how the first dimension couldn't comprehend the second for the same reasons, so why couldn't he accept the possibility of a third dimension he couldn't imagine? Dipper got that it was supposed to be a metaphor to help three-dimensional readers understand that not being able to visualize a fourth dimension didn't mean it was impossible; but still. Come on, man. Don't be stupid.

On the other hand, at least now Dipper had a framework to understand the concept of higher dimensions and probably a leg up on next year's geometry. Would high school geometry cover four-dimensional space?

After a couple of hours of work and a break for lunch, the miniature particle accelerator was rebuilt and ready for another attempt to generate fuel. Fiddleford pulled on one of his ghost vacuums like a backpack, put on the set of connected headphones and goggles, and settled his glasses on over the goggles. "Y'all ready?"

"Ready," Ford said. He was seated at the accelerator's monitors, holding the jug that would contain any NowUSeeitNowUDontium they generated, and wearing the other vacuum—with the goggles over his glasses, and he was a bit worried about how Fiddleford had positioned his.

"Ready," Dipper said, a tad less certainly. What if he couldn't do it today? What if he'd never actually been able to do it last night and the whole thing really had been a dream?

But Fiddleford flipped the accelerator's power on, stepped back, and said, "All right! Do your thing!"

"Okay." Dipper stared straight at the machine, and—eugh—thought about degloving his body from his soul, peeling out of his skin fingers first.

This was only the second time he'd left his body deliberately. He'd observed in the past that the mindscape was strangely gray and still compared to the real world—but he'd never realized just how stark and swift the change was, like all the color and warmth had been abruptly sucked from reality. He shivered.

Ford inhaled sharply. Fiddleford stumbled back against the nearest table and yelped, "Flipping flapjacks!"

"You can both still see me?" Dipper said. "Can you hear me, too?"

"Loud and clear," Ford said.

"Like the voices of the dead." Fiddleford shuddered. "Welp, let's get this over with. I don't like all this ghost business. It ain't natural."

Ford gave him an amused look. "Since when have you ever been concerned about what's 'natural'? Didn't the engineering club vote you 'most likely to build a robot that flies in the face of God'?"

"You hush! There's nothing unnatural about iron, electromagnetism, and flamethrowers."

Dipper studied his body's face, its eyes pointed blankly toward the particle accelerator. "Well, I'm looking at the experiment, but I'm definitely not thinking about it. I think that's half of the paradox?"

"That's right," Fiddleford said. "Now, you just—float yerself on over to the other side of the accelerator, and think about it without looking at it."

"Right." Dipper positioned himself directly across the accelerator from his body, shut his eyes, and tried to think experimental thoughts. He didn't know much about Dontium besides what Ford had written about it in Journal 3—that it was inert when you were looking at it and radioactive when you weren't—so, if the miniature particle accelerator generated any, would he get blasted with radiation? Or was his body staring at the accelerator enough to keep it inert? But no—it was supposed to fill up the jug Ford was holding, right? Ford was observing it. Dipper tried to imagine what must be happening inside the accelerator; how did it work, would particles spontaneously generate in the tubes? Maybe they circled around until they fell into the hose to the jug...

He heard Ford gasp. "Fiddleford, look at this— Don't listen to me Dipper, just keep—keep thinking whatever you were thinking!"

"Is it working?"

"It was! Don't let us distract you."

Dipper tried to ignore the sound of Fiddleford running over to Ford, and started humming to drown out their hushed conversation. That was good, right? It meant the experiment was working. Keep thinking about that—experiment. Experiment. Expeeeriment. ... He wondered if trying to do the experiment by putting himself and Tyrone on either side of the accelerator would have worked, or if it had to be Dipper's soul and his body—

"Hot diggety!" Fiddleford shouted. "We've reached critical mass!"

"What does that mean, is it bad?" Dipper opened one eye a crack, trying to squint enough that he couldn't see the particle accelerator. "Is it gonna explode?"

Ford explained, "It means we've generated enough Dontium that it can sustain its own existence. Now, even if you get distracted, what we've already generated will remain. It can only go up from here."

"Wow," Dipper said. "That only took, what, a couple of minutes?"

"Less than that! During our last attempt, we tried for hours without reaching critical mass," Ford said. "Your idea was right on the money. Excellent work, Dipper."

Dipper grinned. After all that anxiety, it was almost a letdown how easy it was, but the coolness factor made up for it. He could just imagine the conversations the first week of high school: What did I do over summer break? Oh, nothing much. Just synthesized a new element. To fuel a weapon custom-designed to kill an immortal chaos god. And did I mention I was a ghost at the time? It didn't quite top last summer's adventures, but...

Then something went wrong.

There was a noise halfway between the electric buzz of a tesla coil and the rip of Velcro being torn apart. A stench like burning hair filled the air. A line of shifting colorful light began worming its way out of the center of the particle accelerator and up into the air.

"Oh no. Ohhh no!" Fiddleford grabbed his head. "The micro-rips! The threadbare fabric of reality! Our experiment put too much of a strain on it! We tore straight through!" One foot bounced agitatedly, "Ohhh, I knew I shoulda run some calculations before substituting in Dipper for you and Stanley."

Dipper gasped as the line of light began to agonizingly stretch open wider. Reality began seeping over its edges and dripping through into the kaleidoscopic miasma beyond. It developed a second horizontal rip across its middle as reality stretched beyond endurance in multiple directions. "What—is that?" He was afraid he knew.

"A dimensional rift," Fiddleford said.

"The Nightmare Realm," said Ford.

The last frayed thread holding reality together snapped apart, and the rift tore open wide, fully exposing the Earth to the roaring roiling chaos beyond. 

They screamed.

"Hello?" A giant set of dentures with stubby arms and legs leaned through the rift. "Oh hey! Aren't you the guys that killed Bill?"

They screamed again.

"Is screaming how humans say hi?" the monster asked. "I'm Teeth. Aaah!" He turned toward Ford. "Hey! Fingers! Lookin' less electrocuted than the last time I saw you—"

Ford socked Teeth in the incisor, knocking him back through the rift. "Back, you! You and your 'friends' are not welcome in this dimension!"

"Ow. What the heck, man."

Fiddleford shouted, "Don't stop observing the Dontium!" He bounded across the room on all four to scoop up the milk jug and stare at it. 

Ford nearly toppled through the rift, and had to grab onto the miniature particle accelerator as the heaviest nearby object to anchor himself. The rift sucked on reality like a vacuum, and the longer it was open the more powerful it grew.

Over the roar of the rift, Dipper yelled "What do we do?!"

"We have to seal it! Before it sucks all of Gravity Falls into the Nightmare Realm!"

"How?!"

Last summer, the instant Bill had no longer been around to maintain the dimensional rift, it had also sucked reality into it, starting with everything that properly belonged in the Nightmare Realm; but then it had also quickly sealed itself back shut. On the other hand, this rift was just opening wider and wider. Maybe it wasn't like the rift Bill had used to enter Gravity Falls, then? Maybe it was structured more like the wormholes that had been left behind after Weirdmageddon—

"I've got it!" Ford picked up Dipper's body—trying not to shudder at how lifeless it felt—and unzipped his backpack. "Is the alien adhesive grenade still in here?"

"It should be! Let me see." Dipper floated over to peer into his backpack.

The rift was already strong enough to drag at Ford's clothing. The lightest objects in the room lifted into the air and were sucked through. Papers. Pencils. Coffee mugs. Dipper's soul.

He screamed. "GRUNKLE FORD!"

"Dipper!" Ford grabbed for Dipper's ankle, but his hand passed right through. Ford's blood ran cold as Dipper tumbled head over heels into the Nightmare Realm.

"Look at that," Teeth said, watching Dipper soar by. "Dinner delivery."

There was no difference between the mindscape and reality in the Nightmare Realm, if Ford followed Dipper  through he'd be able to get a grip on Dipper there. But how would he carry Dipper back to Earth without him melting through Ford's grasp the moment they were through the rift? Didn't matter, grab Dipper first, then figure it out—

Fiddleford shoved the jug of Dontium in Ford's hands as he ran past. "Watch over this!"

"What—!"

Fiddleford jumped into the Nightmare Realm, the end of a long extension cord tied around his waist. He stretched out the hose of his ghost vacuum and flipped a switch, and with a yelp Dipper's soul was sucked inside. Ford gasped in relief.

Trying to keep as much of his attention on the potentially-radioactive jug as possible, Ford reeled Fiddleford back in, shoved the jug in his hands, and dug into Dipper's backpack again until he found the alien adhesive grenade. He pulled the pin and chucked it through the rift. "Duck!"

He shielded Dipper's body and Fiddleford shielded the Dontium jug as the grenade exploded. Even so, the force of it blew aside everything within ten feet of the rift and sent both of them sprawling. When Ford glanced back over his shoulder, the adhesive had gummed up the opening of the rift like a popped glowing magenta bubblegum bubble; and as he watched, it sucked the opening shut. In a few seconds the air was still and quiet, and the only sign the rift had ever existed was an immense, jagged vertical line in the air around which the light refracted wrong.

Fiddleford gingerly got back to his knees, then pulled off his glasses and pushed up his goggles. One of the lenses had been crushed, and the glasses' frame was bent beyond repair.

Ford heaved a long, heavy sigh. "A bit too familiar, wasn't it?"

Fiddleford blinked at him. "Wasn't what?"

"The—reeling you in from the Nightmare Realm?" Ford said. At Fiddleford's blank look, Ford said, "The portal test?"

"Oh." Fiddleford scratched his head. "I... still don't remember it too clearly."

"Ah. Yes. Of course." Ford's stomach churned with guilt as he looked away from Fiddleford. Over thirty years late was too late to apologize, wasn't it? (Over the past year he'd wondered, again and again; and again and again he'd decided that it was.) "Thank you for saving—" He gasped, "Dipper!"

"Oh, right!" Fiddleford took off his vacuum, dropped it on the floor, and unzipped its bag. The ghosts of a Northwest in a buckskin coat and a confused-looking hippie escaped into the air. "Hey," Fiddleford barked. "You get back here!" He raised the vacuum's hose and flipped its switch. He caught the hippie, but as soon as she was sucked in she flew out the unzipped bag and off to freedom again. Fiddleford lowered the hose and shook a fist at the retreating spirits. "I'll get you ectoplasmic varmints, just you wait!"

Ford knelt on the floor and held the bag open wider. Dipper floated out, arms crossed tight and shivering. "So... so cold... and dark... and really, really dusty."

"Let's get you back where you belong."

Ford held up Dipper's body as he lay back down in it. He could see the moment color flooded back into Dipper's cheeks and his eyes focused again. Dipper groaned.

Ford said, "You're never doing that again."

"I am never doing that again," Dipper said.

"We can't do that again," Fiddleford said. "The fabric of reality in this town is too unstable to handle another paradoxical physics experiment that powerful! We'd rip open another rift to the Nightmare Realm!"

"And we just tossed away all of our remaining alien adhesive," Ford sighed. It left Gravity Falls vulnerable if any more rips formed. Sometime soon he'd have to go back to the alien crash site and see if there was any more adhesive he could scrounge up; but even if he did, they couldn't risk wasting more of it like this.

"But did we get what we needed?" Dipper asked.

Fiddleford held up the milk jug of Dontium and shook it. It had a strange shifting color, wavering between cyan and orange depending on the lighting. "Looks like we got about three-fourths of a gallon," Fiddleford said.

"It's only enough to fully power one shot," Ford said. "But... one shot is all it'll take to destroy Bill." His stomach flipped nervously as he said it. He'd been anxious every other time he'd prepared to kill Bill, but that had always been because he'd been preparing to battle for the fate of the universe with a godlike monster who could easily kill him or worse. For the first time, he was preparing to execute a defenseless prisoner, and he didn't know whether it would make the universe any safer.

For half the summer he'd hoped Bill was harmless. Now he wished he had proof that Bill wasn't, so that he could lay his conscience to rest.

Dipper looked as uncomfortable as Ford felt; but when he caught Ford's gaze, he hardened his expression and nodded. Ford nodded back.

"WOOHOO!" Fiddleford leaped his full height straight up, making Ford and Dipper start. "We done it! YAHOO!" He waved his hat around ecstatically, doing a little jig in place. "YIPPEE! HIP HIP HURRrr—hey, how come you fellers ain't celebrating?"

Ford didn't know how to explain without making Fiddleford worry he was at risk of falling under Bill's spell again. "We'll celebrate when he's dead."

####

"Who was at the door?" 8 Ball shouted. When he didn't get a response, he paused his game. "Teeth?"

Teeth waddled into the game room. His face was completely plastered shut with some kind of glowing purple glue.

Pyronica cracked up and Paci-Fire chuckled darkly. 8 Ball sighed, "What'd you get into, you idiot?"

Teeth waved his hands emphatically.

"All right, okay." 8 Ball stood and stretched. "Does anyone have the number of that lamp guy Bill used to hook up with?"

Half an hour later, having lured over Lava Lamp Guy with the false promise of ping pong pool and illicit liquids, they cornered him in a bathroom, with Zanthar sitting in the tub restraining him while Paci-Fire struggled to hold his face still.

"Please!" Lava Lamp Guy screamed. "Let me go! I'll do anything you want! My neurologist said I can't take much more of this!"

"Cease your complaints," Paci-Fire said, as 8 Ball took off Lava Lamp Guy's bowler. "You shall not dissuade us. We do this because we have no choice in the matter."

"Why not?!"

"Because none of us feel like making the trip to a dimension with a drugstore."

8 Ball stuck a soup ladle into the open top of Lava Lamp Guy's head and fished around until he got a scoop of the red goo floating around in the thinner orange liquid. Lava Lamp Guy howled in agony. Zanthar heaved a weary sigh.

8 Ball carried the ladle over to where Teeth was sitting on the toilet lid kicking his feet. "Here you go, bud."

Teeth clapped his hands, grabbed an oversized toothbrush, and held it out for 8 Ball to pour the goop on. He scrubbed his teeth until the goop dissolved the adhesive. "Whew!" He stretched his jaw a few times, then jumped to his feet. "Thanks! I was worried I was gonna miss karaoke night." He looked in the sink mirror to scrub off the remaining scraps of adhesive.

8 Ball put Lava Lamp Guy's hat back on. Lava Lamp Guy groaned, "I think I forgot my third husband."

"You've only been married twice," Hectorgon lied.

"Oh." Confused, Lava Lamp Guy said, "Alright."

Teeth muttered, "Blech, divorce memories." He grabbed a bottle of mouthwash to clear out the taste.

"So what happened?" Kryptos asked. He was hovering in the doorway beside Pyronica.

"I'unno. I think the Dimension 46ers were messing around with their portal or something? They opened up a portal here."

"What? Uh-uh," Pyronica said. "It had to be some other dimension. We just invaded them, why would they open the portal again?"

"No no, that sounds like humans to me," Kryptos said. "If one of them pushes a button and immediately dies, the guy standing next to him will go, 'I wonder if it does that every time.' I've seen them do it."

"It was definitely them, I saw that local contractor Bill recruited for the portal who went nuts. Fingers or whoever."

8 Ball groaned. "You mean the guy that invaded the Quadrangle and tried to kill everybody?"

"Yeah. That guy. He told me I wasn't welcome on Earth and chucked a glue bomb in my face. I was like, well alright, buddy, I'm not the one who opened up a portal in your house, you could have just stayed home instead of ruining my day," Teeth said. "I didn't really say that to him. I thought it."

"So now the humans are invading us." Pyronica threw her hands in the air. "Great! This is just terrific! Bill teaches them how to make their own portals, they follow us home, and now we're about to have a pest problem that knows how to use tools! How long is it until this whole place is crawling with humans?! I'm going househunting, how many rooms should I look for? 8 Ball?"

"I'm in."

"Teeth?"

Teeth sighed, but said, "Yeah. The neighborhood's going downhill. Especially if we're gonna have a pest problem."

"Big Z?"

Zanthar gave a thumbs up.

Pyronica looked at Paci-Fire. He averted his gaze. Pyronica said, "Paci?"

Sullenly, he said, "We should ask Keyhole's opinion as well."

She laughed in disbelief. Nobody cared about Keyhole's opinion, he went with whatever everyone else went with. Appealing to Keyhole was just a delaying tactic. "Fine, sure. We'll get Keyhole's opinion."

"I'm not going," Hectorgon said, crossing his arms.

Relieved, Kryptos said, "Yeah. Me neither."

"You don't have to," Pyronica snapped. "You two and Morph can wait for Bill to come back from the dead as long as you want. But the rest of us are leaving."

Kryptos tilted toward the hall, gesturing for Hectorgon to follow him away from the others. "How long do you think we can hold this place without the outerplanars?" The Quadrangle was all that remained of Bill's turf. Without Bill's energy boosting them, none of the shapes were particularly powerful. They'd always depended upon the other Henchmaniacs to guard Bill's stronghold, the heavy-hitters like Zanthar and Pyronica. Even Bill preferred to let them fight his battles when he could; Bill's energy was much vaster, but less renewable.

Hectorgon grimaced uncertainly. "We've gotta think of something fast."

####

Dipper stared at the jug in his lap, ensuring it didn't turn radioactive before they got home. Bill practically seemed to have a radar for Ford—and on top of that, could see through walls—but as far as he cared Dipper may as well have not even existed; so they'd decided that Ford would go in the main door to ensure Bill's attention was turned away while Dipper went through the gift shop and took the elevator down to Ford's study. Ford had told Dipper where to find a lead locker that would keep the Dontium contained until Ford could use it to refuel the Quantum Destabilizer; all he had to do was put it in and stare through the crack until he'd slammed the door shut.

And once they'd decided on that, the drive home had fallen deathly silent.

As the Mystery Shack appeared through the trees, Dipper asked, "We're doing the right thing, right?" His voice was quiet. "I hate him, but—we owe him our lives. And there's that prophecy..."

"Lives can't be owed," Ford said. "Yesterday he may have saved us, but tomorrow he would still destroy our world in a heartbeat. We can be grateful to be alive—but we can't let that stop us."

"So, we're doing the right thing?"

Ford was silent for much longer than Dipper would have liked. "I hope so."

####

(We're moving toward some important stuff!! Hope y'all enjoyed and I'm looking forward to hearing your thoughts on this week's chapter!)

[ssahotchnerr]

Hello! Can i request Dad!Aaron going shopping with his baby daughter at Disneyworld, pretty please? And like she keep running around to see everything so he has to pick her up? Please. Thank you!!!! 🫂💗

making memories

aaron and disney two of my fav things <3 cw; girl dad!aaron, fem!reader, fluff

the second the parade ended and aaron had set the littlest hotchner down onto the sidewalk, did she run into the nearest merchandise shop located directly behind.

you and aaron exchanged a quick look - a slightly alarmed, a slightly amused, and a slightly tired one. the two of you were struggling to keep with with the kids a tad, who's energy hadn't yet to falter, surprisingly. you all have been up since six to enter the park right at rope drop - no nap, minimal breaks throughout the day. it's been the most special, happy one, but an exhausted, heat-related meltdown was a guarantee at some point, the two of you were sure.

while you continued your action of helping jack reapply some sunscreen, the heat of the day blaring down harshly onto main street, aaron trekked after your daughter.

"you know better than to run off, sweetheart." aaron lectured gently as he caught up, thanking the stars above he did happen to be looking as she did. given, he had been keeping a close eye on her all day with the large, ever-growing crowd. keeping her in the stroller helped, you and aaron took turns carrying her from time to time, but you could never be too careful.

"look!" her little voice squeaked out excitedly, the brightest of smiles on her face as she gazed up at him. she pointed, her feet lifting in the tiniest of jumps. "minnie ears! can i pleaseee get one daddy?"

how could he possibly say no to her? and, when in disney world...

"okay." aaron grinned, already fond of the family pictures that were soon to come, "but, only if you pick out a pair for jack and mom too."

"and you!" she nodded frantically, already busying herself by pulling ears off the rack. "i want pink. and mommy likes princess belle, so we can get her the yellow ones. jackers..." she paused, her tiny eyebrows furrowing as she thought - looking like an exact replica of her father. "these! just plain black. i don't think he wants princess."

"i think you're right."

"what kind do you want?" her bright brown eyes found his, struggling a bit to hold onto the three pairs of ears in her small hands.

"how about..." aaron thought quickly, not too keen on wearing ears, per se. "would a baseball hat work? with a mickey on it?"

"okay." she agreed, a look of satisfaction forming on her face as she repeated after him, leading him to the hats. "with a mickey on it."

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

To Be Alive In Summer

PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Betrayal had never been in your cards, and you definitely didn't see yourself being the one responsible for the act. When having to go undercover, first comes the problem of staging your death.

WORDCOUNT: 8.3k

WARNINGS: Angst, betrayal, intense gore, violence, death, allusions to intimacy, weapons, vulgar language, recovery, torture, happy ending, etc.

A/N: The final request is finished, hope you enjoy it @l-inkage! Onto the AUs next.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You didn’t want to do it, but in this job, comfort was always an option and never a guarantee. It needed to be done. And that meant sacrifices had to be made to the dark altar of your contract with One-Four-One.

But this one just might break you in the process. 

“Are you sure that,” you pause and think over the instructions that Price had just given you—straight from the top of the line. “Are you sure that this is the best way, Sir?” 

The man’s lips are flat, eyes narrowed, he doesn’t like this either—especially if you don’t. John’s a Captain, he tallies out orders and expects people to listen without hesitation; doesn’t express his worry about their safety because that isn’t what this is about at the end of the day. It’s about keeping the good people outside of bases like these alive and breathing.

And right now that hinged on you being dead.

“Berto needs mercenaries,” Price grunts, “and any record of you needs to be wiped before we send you in.”

Vito Berto—head of a crime family that had been picking up traction in recent years, so much so that One-Four-One had to be put on it for covert reconnaissance before any more people ended up dead.

You would be sent in under the cover of an experienced mercenary; one among the ranks that Berto would need for a hostile takeover planned in three months on the Palace of Westminster in London. The House of Parliament. 

Vito was one cocky son of a bitch if he expected no one to get word of this.

Your job was to uncover the exact date, time, and the mission plan before getting out as quickly as possible. In order to do that, the soldier holding your name needed to be dead so nothing could be traced back to you, your task force, or your loved ones. 

And people needed to believe it.

“Can’t the records just be forged, Sir?” You ask, the meeting room dark and pulsing with the cold air from the vents. “What about Gaz and Soap?” Your throat closes for a moment and you speak slightly lower. “Simon?”

Price sighs and crosses his arms, fixing the stance of his feet.

“They’ll deal with it.” Inside of your pockets, your hands twitch. 

He won't. Not inwardly.  

“I…” your jaw clenched. 

Your relationship with Ghost was…strange. You’d both had your fun, of course, and you had a casual air about that sort of thing—it had happened, but nothing more could ever come of it. There was a modicum of soft care with you two; an acknowledgment of partnership in the field and out of it. 

You didn’t have to explain to people that Ghost was closer to you than others. You’d seen his face; that says enough. 

“It needs to look real,” Price explains, tilting his head down to you. “Not only for Laswell's state of mind but yours. I won’t be putting you in without giving you the best chance.” 

“You can’t tell them?”

“Negative. Security measure.” You frown, biting at your lip.

John closes his eyes and shakes his head. A second later a hand is set on your shoulder and the man leans in slightly to reassure you like a relative. You look up into your Captain’s gruff face, seeing the small amount of care he levels into his cerulean irises for you. 

He squeezes your flesh, watching hard.

“We need you for this, Trick.” The nickname was exactly why you were the only one who could do this. 

You were the first choice. No one was better at undercover work.

“How long would I be gone, Price?” Shifting out of the hold, you cross your arms and level him with a dead stare. “How long do they have to live with this lie?”

John grunts. “Less than three months, yeah? But all of it’s up to how long it takes to gather intel. Full black.” 

“Exfil point?” 

“Town five miles from Berto’s estate. Cafe with a red door near the bookstore. Woman inside’ll be your handler.” You turn away to glare at the far wall, hesitant even when you know you shouldn't be. This was your job. 

Brown eyes keep flashing behind your eyes—a skeletal mask that stares with stained glistening blood, blood you yourself feel reflected on your own visage. A shared damning of two people who would never see those great halls of the afterlife. Neither of you are good.

Simon had to understand. 

The Captain sees the shift in your expression.

“You in?” He asks you with a blank look. 

You take a deep breath, chest heavy and heart hurting. “I don’t like it,” your voice is low, monotone. “But, yeah, Sir, I’m in.”

“Good,” the man nods, hooking his thumbs into his belt. “It’ll happen in three days. Be ready.”

You watch him walk out of the room, patting you on the shoulder one last time before the door shuts behind him with a click of finality that pierces your lungs. You clear your throat and swallow down saliva, turning your face away as if ashamed. 

It’s the quiet that gets to you in that moment—the encompassing nothingness. So often you would have moments like these with Simon. Just sitting; not taking. But this silence was so different. 

This was betrayal. 

After you steady the slight tremor in your hands, you scoff and shake your head backing up a step before leaving the room; turning off the lights. 

You walk down the long hallway, feet heavy as your mind runs, and overhead the lights buzz like flies. Eyes stuck to the floor, your shoulders are hunched in with thought and your lids half-closed in a display of obvious inner turmoil. 

The shadow that waits for you, leaning against the wall, you walk past entirely—missing it and not hearing the confused call of your name behind you because of it.

“Trick!” Your hand comes up to itch at your chin, fingers pushing into your flesh. The aggressive Manchester accent slides off of you until large fingers curl into the back collar of your vest rig. 

You breathe in sharply, blinking in surprise as your feet get pulled back a step or two, pace halting as Ghost curls around your body, staring down at you. His brows are narrowed, that mask still on and the bottom fabric twisted in the obvious downward press of his lips.

“Bloody hell is wrong with you, then?” 

Sighing, you scowl and shake him off of you, moving back to allow yourself some air. Did he really have to show up now? Why was he even here, you had to ask yourself. Was he…waiting for you?

“Nothing,” you don’t look at him, speaking low. “Distracted, is all.” 

Ghost crosses his arms slowly, his brows flinching briefly as he makes a sound in the back of his throat. “Meeting go well?” 

“Fine.” He can tell something’s wrong; you know he can—he’s the best at interrogations for a reason. Ghost knows when someone is lying to him. 

You glance at his chest before you begin to open your mouth. 

What could telling him hurt? Just a hint. He’d get it—I know he would. Berto had the nickname ‘The Tanner,’ given to him by his men. When he found out anyone had double-crossed him, he’d take a large breaking knife and separate the thin layers of skin from his victims. Intel suggests he keeps them awake for all of it, stopping when they pass out only to start again when they wake back up. 

If there was any leak in this base…any at all…you wouldn’t be coming back. 

You wouldn’t be coming back to him. 

Simon’s thighs shift.

“Talk to me.” He always speaks like he doesn’t care about the answer, but you’d be a fool this far into your… relationship? To believe that he didn’t. You’d seen Simon panic over your injured body before—it told you enough. 

The easy moments and the side-eyed looks when he thought you didn’t notice or weren’t doing the same to him. 

Your fingers twitch, forcing a smirk that didn’t convince even you. Your heart was telling you to explain it to him, but your brain was firmly set behind iron doors; tongue held back by iron tongs. 

“Personal matters, Simon. Nothing you need to worry about, Big Guy.” He doesn’t look away from your eyes. Brows set in a line and that mask jeering at you; almost mocking. 

The Lieutenant doesn’t answer and your heart is visible from under your gear.

“J-just,” you stutter, face getting hot as you look away. “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you, it’s…” 

Trailing off, you rub at the back of your head in a self-soothing motion. 

Simon blinks slowly and you hear a large chest-rattling sigh. He shrugs in that way only he can—a fast jerk of shoulders that looks more like he’s trying to push off a bug than simply trying to move past what you’re saying to him. 

“Doesn’t make a difference,” it does. “Garrick and MacTavish are waitin’ down at the firing range. Best get down there ‘fore one comes looking like a kicked dog.” You can still feel him digging into you. Knives and the suspicion in his tone. 

You don’t want to do this to him. Not after all that you’ve gone through together. 

“Right.” Your feet are moving before he is, planted into the floor and pushing off through the small pinches of electricity in the nerves. Pushing out a hard laugh, you try to send him a light smile. “Did you tell them to be ready to get their arses beat?” 

Simon looks down at you as he walks beside your form in large steps; arms swinging. “Haven’t seen ‘em yet. Waiting for you.” 

If it were possible to shrivel up from guilt, you’d be nothing but bones.

“O-oh,” you huff, but it sounds like all of the air has been expelled from your lungs. “You didn’t have to do that, y’know.”

Simon grunts, accent grating as he stares ahead. “Wanted to.” 

“Good. That’s nice.” You feel like screaming. “Thank you.”

It’s nearly instantaneous how fast his eyes go dark with concern. “You sure that head of yours is on straight, Trick?”

You push open the doors outside and wonder if you even have the ability to answer him; out of everyone, you can’t lie to Simon.

“No,” your lips admit quietly, self-degrading in its own right. 

A hand grabs you by the wrist and before you can slip out, you’re being pulled back into the building and pushed into a side room. 

“Hey!” You shout, eyes flashing as the door is shut behind you. You’re released and the light is immediately turned on. “Simon, what the hell are you doing?” 

“Enough,” he levels, and your arms are clasped so you’re facing his chest, looking up into his serious and hard gaze. “Fuckin’ speak to me.” 

You’re surprised at how insistent he is about this. 

“I’m not telling you anything,” you speak through stutters and he growls in his throat. His hands are like motel lava even under his gloves and above your skin—burning like a brand.

“What happened in that meeting room, Trick?”

“It’s classified,” you say, harder than intended, spitting the words with a hint of desperation. If not for your own safety, then for his, but you know that if he keeps asking then you’ll tell him the truth. 

They were going to stage your death, and they won’t be making it pretty. 

“Fuck classified,” he leans in closer, curling over you. “You’re acting like someone’s bloody taking you hostage.”

“Simon! It’s not—”

“Cut the bullshit!” You growl and try to shove away from him, struggling with glaring eyes that go sharp with the onset of tears. “Somethings got you worried and I wanna know what it is.”

Simon wasn’t the greatest at articulation, but neither were you. 

You knew he was trying to tell you he was concerned. The man was holding you tight, but not hurting you; his face close and his shoulders wide. Along your face his eyes were darting, as if he could peel back your skin and make you explain what Price had told you. 

The Captain had given the Lieutenant a look as he’d seen him waiting for you but had said nothing. That alone had tipped Ghost off to something being wrong. 

But you weren’t having it.

Yanking out of Simon’s hands, you shake your head and put on your worst glare—meeting muddy brown and huffing. 

“Mind your own business, Riley. It’s for your own good.” The man blinks in mute shock, fingers in the air twitching before they fall to his sides.

You speed-walk out of the room before he can speak, lips slightly parted at your strange behavior. 

For his own good? What in the hell did that mean? 

Simon’s jaw clenches, a grunt in his chest as he aggressively rolls his wrist. He turns to follow after. The both of you don’t talk for the rest of the day.

—

Your body shakes along with the helo as it takes off, carrying you away from the scene of gunfire down below. In your earpiece, you hear the loud calls and yelling from your friends. Gaz is calling out to Price to give him permission to move up; the Captain too busy grappling Soap to the ground. 

Ghost is taking cover behind a wall, but he’s not quiet. 

“Trick’s in the damn building!” 

No, I’m not, you want to flick on the line and tell him. Over the three days before this operation you'd barely spoken—in fact, you’d been avoiding all of them fervently by the mass amount of guilt in your stomach. 

In the nights, you hadn’t even slept, and now you’re sure it’ll take even longer too.

Their forms become tinier, and you grasp the roof’s handle as the helo rises farther and farther. 

“Price!” Simon barks. “We have to get her—”

“There’s no time!” John responds, grunting and forcing Johnny down as he spits curses and tries to call your name over the comms. You flinch violently, looking away for a moment. “We’re surrounded!”

“I can get through!” Bullets wiz through the comms, and you can nearly imagine you are down there—trapped in the house down the way after being shot and injured by hosties. But you’d never been in that house. Never been alone down the way for recon. 

You’d been at the second exfil point. Price knew it. Laswell knew it. 

But Simon had not. 

“Negative, Ghost! Keep where you are, we can get to her later. We need to—” The building you were supposed to be in explodes in a fiery wreck; a great bloom cloud going into the air as the helo shakes from the after-blast. 

You have to turn your face away, shielding your eyes. The pilot calls to see if you’re alright, but you don’t answer. All you can hear is the screams.

“Trick!”

“Simon, get back into bloody cover!” 

“Fucking Hell! Trick, answer me!” It gets too much—the bareness of his panic for you. The panting breath; the running stomp of feet.

You rip the connection from the radio on your vest and place a hand over your mouth, breathing as if you had really been in an inferno like a piece of fodder. 

Simon had already been through so much in his life, and doing this to him as well as the task force was the definition of betrayal of the loyalty you’d cultivated.

Of the love.

Because you did love him—even if you’d never say it to each other. If he found out about what you did, which he would eventually, in one way or another, he’d hate you for the rest of his life. So perhaps you were mourning, as you stare below as the helicopter takes you higher and higher up. Farther away from him. You were mourning what you had, because you knew it would never be the same. 

Simon Riley would never trust you again, and all you had to blame was yourself. 

The tiny tears dribble out of you and fall all the way down to the ground, where the man still screams for you to answer him; John barks orders with a sheen of panic in his eyes from the bare-bones ferality of the Lieutenant. Brown eyes blazed and cities burned in his pupils. 

John had underestimated the bond that the two of you shared. 

And he just might pay the price for it.

—

Getting through selection was far easier than getting through SAS training, Vito Berto seemed to only want mercenaries that had the faintest hint of the ability to hold a smuggled weapon. It made sense because if the people he was planning to send in were well-trained, it would be easier to trace to him—ability equaled a higher level of intelligence. Planning. Resources. 

To fit in, you made sure to miss a few of your shots, even if it made your instinctual perfectionism rise. John would have torn you a new one if you’d missed this many during your selection all those years back. Probably would have asked how a Muppet like you had gotten this far with shite aim like that.

But Berto ate it up like Sunday dinner. Gave you the nickname Cross, actually. Like the crosshair of a scope.

It was safe to say you despised him. 

But the days grew longer and the nights short with all of your running around. You’d found out that your Captain’s timeline was incorrect—the attack wasn’t in three months, it was in two. And while Berto was cocky, he wasn’t reckless. 

He somehow knew there was a breach in the ranks; you could see it by how he looked over the squads in the underground bunker, all of you hidden under rock and stone like prisoners. The man would sneer, eyes filtering back and forth from the perch. 

Sometimes you had to stop yourself from simply taking the shot presented in front of you and deal with the consequences afterward.

Price had been clear: all of the people gathered here needed to be taken care of quickly and quietly—if you snapped, the rest would disappear like roaches. Alive and biding time.

During those two months, the thoughts of Simon wouldn’t leave you. 

Moments that seeped in behind closed eyelids after you’d slunk back into bed, the USBs full of vital intel stashed into the lining of your uniform in a small hidden pocket. His twitching smile and those deep scars along his face; the ones that would never go away. 

In those moments you wondered what it would be like if you had told him how much you cared for his quiet company or his dark humor. The way he would level a hand on the small of your back off duty at the bars as a way to silently shield you from the stares from patrons. 

You’d never be able to tell him now. 

Vito “The Tanner” Berto knew of a leak, and when you came back to the bunker after sending out the multiple USB sticks, the physical files, and the first-hand accounts of what was going on—eager for just a little more to make this betrayal worth it…he was waiting. 

You could only fight off so many others, no matter how subpar the training on their part, before sheer mass overtook ability. Like a house of cards with a bowling ball, you were shoved to the ground surrounded by multiple dead bodies of those you’d taken down with you—writhing and hissing as if a feral animal. 

Restraints were leveled with your wrists; your head pulled back so your nose faced the ceiling. You only stopped struggling when the chilled barrel of a pistol was set under your chin.

Breath stilling, it was hard to understand how, even then, all that was in the front of your mind was Simon. Simon and his brown eyes. Simon and his screams when that building went up in fire and smoke.

“Trick!”

You could still hear the exact pitch and rhythm like it was yesterday.

“Cross,” Berto mutters, gun heavy as it digs into your flesh. Men pant and grapple to keep you back as you sneer and jerk your arms. “I should have known it would be you.” 

“Well,” you growl, teeth bared, “obviously you didn’t.”

A slow smirk runs on his lips. 

“No, but I’ll have to rectify this. I can’t have you getting in the way.” You can only hope that the intel gets out before the end of the second month—if not, then all of this was for nothing. 

Why couldn’t you have left when you had the chance?

“Fucking Hell! Trick, answer me!”

He was why. 

Simon—the source of all of your problems and the only person who could fix them besides yourself. It’s a sick joke really. 

Vito grabs your chin and you huff out a swift breath, heart skipping beats as he burrows his digits tightly into your skin; hard enough to leave marks. He sighs and clicks his tongue and you have to keep back a whimper as his nails create crescents along your jaw. 

“You won’t tell me anything, will you, then?”

“Negative,” you spit, heated. 

He scoffs. “Of course.” 

Berto throws your head back as you try to snap out and bite at his hand, rabid, but the man’s already gone and the mercenaries behind you yank you back like a dog on a leash. Your knees slide along the floor and you rage trying to turn around before the others are forced to shove your face into the ground. There is a distinctive snapping in your nose bridge as the concrete comes up to meet you; the tears come instinctually after—unable to be stopped as you yell in pain. 

Blood floods your nostrils and mouth, making you cough as Vito’s voice echoes in your ringing ears. 

“Let me get my knives.” 

—

They had you chained in some damp back room, the corners riddled with mold spores and the air heavy with condensation. You were tied to the ceiling—feet dangling uselessly below you and the tips of your boots dragging across the floor with a quiet scrape and a creak of metal. 

Above you, on the hook, the chains were tied so ruthlessly that you’d lost circulation to your arms entirely, nothing but an electric buzzing far inside of your bones. Akin to the static of a TV screen in between connections. Your clothes had been shredded by blades—long sections of your flesh underneath, cut away. 

Blood stains most, if not all, of the floor. It drips from your nose; it falls like rain to pool at your feet in rippling crimson. 

Simon had been your partner during required interrogation training and he was far better at it than you. The man could go for hours through the mental strain that was leveled out by other soldiers on him; stoic and silent. It was the way his eyes would blank that told you he could live through far worse—that he already had. You’d had your fair share as well, but never before had you felt as hopeless as this. 

There was a slim chance that anyone would come for you here. Laswell and Price would carry the guilt of it, but you didn’t want them to. 

The blood slips over your lips, and the taste of copper makes you gag; spitting out saliva from your lips. 

It was half your choice, after all. 

You try to slip into a happy memory as the lights fade in and out, the footsteps and mutterings outside the door of little interest anymore.

ironic, that the man with the mask of a dead person brought you comfort when so little could. 

You never got to tell him how much you loved him. A thin smile comes across your lips. 

“Shouldn’t be out here this late,” the man utters as you lay out in the field, arms and legs splayed and twitching when the long grass brushes against them. “Past curfew.”

“Like you aren't out here with me?” You raise an eyebrow, looking up at the stars now that the large base lights have been dimmed. The air is cold, and the breeze makes you shudder through a chill. But you don’t wipe that smile from your lips. “Bit hypocritical, Simon.”

You hear a low grunt. 

“Out ‘ere because you weren’t answering your damn door.” A shadow slips to your side, and the man settles down with a huff on his lips. Simon retired his combat mask for a simple balaclava instead, and he sighed long as he settled his arm on the bent form of his right leg. 

You blink over at him, raising a brow. 

“Looking for me, Ghosty?” 

“Bloody hell, Trick.” You chuckle, shifting your arms to rest on your chest as you look back at the stars far above. 

“Oh, it’s alright, Big Guy.” The man shakes his head. “I won’t tell anyone you’re going soft for me.” 

“I’m not.”

“You definitely are.”

“Trick, I’m tellin’ you to—”

“Shh!” You wave a hand in his direction, silencing him and making him blink at you in deep annoyance and confusion. Ghost’s eyes were narrowed, the black of his face paint gone and smelling like standard issue body wash. 

He must have gotten out of the shower and come to see if you were still awake before making his way outside when you never answered the door. Funny how he knew where you would be.

“Fucking what, then?” He growls, shoulders wide.

You place a finger to your ear, shifting so you’re sitting up on one elbow and facing Simon. On your face, a wide smile lingers, but on his, the dark brows narrow with knowledge of a deceitful event incoming. “Listen.” 

A silence falls, Simon’s ears twitching for something in the long grass or across the field. Nothing. Nothing but the breeze and the way your face glowed as you watched him, eyes glinting with amusement. 

After a long minute or two, he looks at you with utter bewilderment. You lean in closer, poking a finger into his bicep.

“Can you hear it, Simon?” You’re one of the few he lets call him that, though never in public.

He glares. “No.”

You flutter your digits in the air, giggles trapped in your mouth. A whisper hits the Lieutenant’s ears. “Silence.”

“Bugger off,” he hisses as you reel back and belt out laughter, holding your sides and lightly curling into yourself. “You’re worse than Johnny. Jesus.”

“Aww, c’mon!” You let your laughter die down to chuckles, sanctity of night broken, but not so between the two individuals who look at each other with brimming affection none will name. 

“You’re the one that came to find me, remember?” Your tease makes Ghost roll his eyes, looking away across the open area with its wave-like grasses.

“You’re right, then, I did,” Simon grunts, his hand coming up to rub his neck. “Mistake on my part.”

“Jerk,” a soft slap is leveled to his arm and he chuckles deeply. “But you can’t fool me, Ghosty. I know you’ll always come lookin’ for me—I’m too important to you to lose.”

“Keep kiddin’ yourself, Trickster.” He doesn’t say how he would agree with the statement, it was true after all. “I won’t be dragged into your bloody messes.”

He wouldn’t leave you behind to drown in them, even if it was as simple as you sneaking out of your bunk to watch the stars. 

You’d both known each other too long for that.

You smile over at him as he sighs before slipping off his mask, itching at his stubble with hard fingers. The air settles. No comment about it entering in on the see-through waves—there didn’t need to be one. 

“Mhm,” you hum, beaming. “You keep thinking that, Big Guy.”

“Trick!” Your memory shifts, and you sit up immediately. You’d thought you’d just heard…

Eyes dart out over the field, jumping back and forth rapidly. You look to the side, but Simon is gone entirely.

“Simon?” Heart beating, you stand fully up and turn in a fast circle, confusion and fear infecting your mind.

“Trick!” Pain sparks in your body, and you hiss and grab at your clothes. You blink so fast that you half-believe the world is ending.

“S-Simon?!” What was happening? What was hurting so bad? Where did Simon go?

“Trick, fucking wake up!”

Your eyes snap open and you instantaneously feel the burning pain inside of your ribs. 

The ground is underneath you, hard and wet from your own blood as you yowl and cough, air entering your lungs in quick bursts. 

Hands encase your cheeks, shaking your head—keeping you present. 

A skeletal mask littered with droplets of human fluid stares down at you, and behind it, panicked brown eyes slash through your psyche in the small moment between agony and confusion. 

Simon?

“Holy hell.” It’s that same Manchester accent. The same scrape of vocal cords. “Alright, Sweetheart. Keep those eyes open—keep ‘em on me, yeah?” 

What was going on? You try to open your mouth to say something but all of it is lead. Were your ribs broken? How? And why was Simon’s bottom covering pushed up to his nose; his lips stained with blood? 

The man frantically goes to press into his radio.

“This is Bravo 0-7,” he breathes, and you whimper as your throat gets clogged with congealed saliva and blood. You cough violently, gagging, and Ghost quickly turns you on your side to help you expel it. His hand is hard on your shoulder. 

“I say again, this is Bravo 0-7!” Those browns never leave you, shocked and serious. “Price, I’ve got ‘er. It’s not good; had to revive but I don’t know how long she’s got.”

Revive? You’re spacing in and out, limp, and trying to breathe. 

Simon tears open his medical pouch and begins wrapping tourniquets—packing the wounds with gauze until you can get proper medical treatment on the helo back to base. 

“Bloody…” he trails, Price barking an order over the connection to bring you out; the firefight was moving to the East to give him an opening to sneak back out. “C’mon, Trick.”

Everything swims; you want to go back to that field—those stars. 

Simon was here? Truly? The thought was hard to understand in your state. 

“S-Sim—” Your voice gurgles, and you can’t feel your legs. You had to tell him. Tell him the good and the bad; all of it.

“Don’t talk,” he growls, moving you as your body seizes in a state of static shock. “I’m getting you out of ‘ere.” You’re lifted up in one grand movement, Simon grunting as he shifts you carefully into a bridal hold. “Then you’re going to explain this to me when you’re squared. Won’t take no for an answer.” 

You could feel the anger sizzling off of him even half-conscious. The mixing emotions that convulsed into a mess of adrenaline and desperation. Forcing your eyes to stay open, you blink up at him as he glances down at you at the same time, just before he exits the door he had broken down. 

The visible skin of his lips and chin tighten; going down with the twitch of with a serious frown. Something flutters behind his eyes as he stares before glancing away and clearing his throat. 

“Eyes on me, Trickster. Don’t you dare close ‘em.” You grimace as he begins jogging, heavy boots echoing along the empty corridor as the sounds of gunfire and pandemonium sound off from the other side of the bunker. 

It was hard to push back the black at the sides of your vision; already it was seeping back in. Ghost holds you tight, unwilling to even let you slip an inch from his grip as the lights above swirl, brightening and dimming. 

“Oi!” You’re jostled, and you snap back to it, tensing as your wounds flex and pull. Simon glares. “What’d I just say?”

Your weakly poisoned grimace makes his lips twitch up. 

“Good.” 

There’s the sudden flick of a safety being clicked off, and the Lieutenant halts in a jerking of feet and a ruffle of canvas.

“I’ve heard about a Ghost making his rounds, hm?” Berto stands at the end of the hall, pistol held in front of him. “I saw an apparition disappearing to find one of its own. No worries. She’ll be a ghost, too, soon enough. Perhaps I’ll have to put you both to rest together.” 

The voice makes you go panicked, remembering the tear of flesh and the sharp blades slicing your skin away, chunks that peeled, and the long stripes of flexible tendons. Your lungs fight for breath, your head weakly slapping into Simon’s neck after an attempt to move your body. Limbs shake and battle nerves; the fabric of your brain.

Your blood stains the man’s gear all the way down the front. It’s dripping to the floor, down his arms and off his elbows. You’re bathing him in it—a full-body baptism of betrayal. 

“Berto,” Ghost says, accent casual despite the gun leveled at him. The name is drawn out. “Apologies, but I’m taking back what’s mine.” He tilts his head. “Scratch that, I’m not apologizing for getting back on a Bastard like you, eh? Pity I can’t hang you up like a hog, I’m proper good with a blade too, but as you can see, I’m on a crunch.” 

Vito’s face goes confused, skin scrunching. “What—”

The bang of a bullet being discharged echoes down the way. The clatter of a great expulsion of air from lungs. Stumbling. Gargles. 

The slam of a body to the ground. 

Smoke spreads up from under the clutch of your knees, where Ghost holds the abyssal body of an M19 forward, his finger lightly on the trigger before he shifts it back in well-practiced discipline. 

“Slag,” he spits. 

Simon hikes you farther into him, lending over his available body heat as you shiver. He presses his face into the top of your head, sighing in relief before starting his pace again. The man’s lips brush your flesh as your lids flutter. 

“Still with me?” You whine into his neck, fingers twitching. “I know it hurts, Love. I know. Easy with it.” 

It didn’t just hurt, it burned. Buried like the nine layers of Hell. 

He keeps whispering to you, slinking around corners and stepping into shadows. By the time he makes it outside with you, the chill of the air on the bottom of his face he didn’t even bother to re-cover, you’re tapering on the edge of oblivion again. 

Teetering like a porcelain doll on the end of the high shelf. 

“Bravo 0-6, leaving the bunker now, I need that MedEvac prepped and ready to go,” Simon speaks quickly, not wasting a single instant. 

John’s voice wafts through. “Copy, 0-7. Helo is comin’ in, be ready it’s going to get hot!” 

“Affirm. Keep it frosty down ‘ere.” There’s a low chuckle and the swift wizz of bullets. 

“Get our Trickster back in one piece, Ghost.” Simon hears the buzzing of helicopter blades in the night, a slick form descending from the dark clouds not moments later. He turns away from the flurry of air, walking hurriedly backward so the air doesn’t aggravate you. 

“Trick,” Ghost calls to you above the noise, hearing the hurried feet of medics coming out to take you from him. Your face is scrunched and you burrow into him. “I’m handing you over!” 

You try to open your eyes enough to convey your unease at that. You have to tell him. You have to explain why you had to do it. The guilt is eating you; gnawing with red teeth and gripping with devil’s claws. You have to explain that you love him even if he hates you now. 

Medics grapple you away, and you are in pain, lips peeling back to gasp sharply, thrashing. 

No!

“Fuck,” Ghost growls, pulling you away from the men as they ask him what in the bloody hell he’s doing. He doesn’t even know—all he knows is that he’s pissed at you for what you did, but never in a million years did that mean he wanted to see you in pain. 

Simon can’t lie, when he was told you were alive, the universe had held its breath. A miracle. A ruse. But alive. Alive and trapped. 

“Stop it!” He yells, caging you into him. “I’m here! I’m right here, Trickster!” 

You’re already too gone for it, not recognizing the metal of the helo as you’re settled on your back, the loud slam of the door. Fingers pull and prob as you hiss and snap, suffocating. 

Ghost holds down your shoulders, his eyes right above yours—but you’re not looking. The helo takes off

“Bloody hell,” Simon yells. “Look at me!” 

You don’t know what compels you to do so, but your eyes open just the slightest bit wider. Brown melts into your pupils, taking you in and reminding you of chilled summer nights. Simon. You pant but stop struggling. 

The medics jump into action, ripping away the remains of your shirt and pants so they can get to the wounds; assess the damage done. 

“That’s it,” Simon sighs long, swallowing. “That’s a girl. There we go, Sunshine.” 

You blink, face peeled as everything swirls far more aggressively this time. 

“Listen to me, Trick. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere, you understand. You said I’d always find you, yeah?” Hands grab your cheeks. “Well, I fucking did, eh? I found you. We’re gonna fix you up, Sweetheart. It’ll all be gone by morning.” You stutter down a breath, ragged throat stretching.

“Let ‘em fix you up—”

“I love you.” 

It all fades to black, but all you remember is the sweep of horror that spreads behind the man’s eyes.

—

“You went back,” Price’s arms are crossed, and he stares at you as your fingers play with the sheets of the hospital bed. “Why?”

You sigh and rub at your face.

“Trick.”

“I felt like I needed to,” you give away, twitching your fingers out in an expression of nonchalantness. “I felt…” Your voice trailed off into a growl. “Bad.”

“Feelings aren’t a part of this, Trickster, you bloody know that,” John hisses, leaning his head closer as you glare silently. “If you’d left when you could, none of this would have fucking happened.” 

“I feel bad, Price!” You break, snapping. “I fucking know! But I-I thought if I just got a bit more intel, then this would have been worth it.” Taking a deep breath you shake your head and rub at your face, all of the bandages and stitches pulling tight. “It’s eating at me. I can’t…I can’t just act like what I lied about can be forgotten.” 

You shrug as the man listens silently, monitors beeping and the small buzz of the overhead lights. 

“Soap barely looks at me—Gaz gave me that fucking pity smile and it makes me want to scream.”

“They’ll get over it.” The Captain repeats what he said months prior firmly. “They know the Op was top priority, they’ll grow up and be back to fucking around in days.”

You scoff, muttering in a dejected tone. “He won’t.”

John is still, fixing his feet from under him as he rolls his nose and looks away slowly. 

Simon hadn’t come to visit once in the time you’d been here in the ward—four days. That fact alone makes you restless. You don’t remember what you said to him, if you said anything. But you knew that he wasn’t going to be going out of his way to be near you anymore. 

You’d taken a grenade to the relationship you’d built. Toy building blocks are scattered. 

“Simon’s…Simon,” Price ends on. You groan and itch at the IV in your hand. “He cares about you more than anyone, yeah? He just needs time. Wasn’t himself after the set-up.”

“I’ve been told,” Gaz had informed you about the Lieutenant's self-isolation after your ‘death’. The snappy orders—deathly glares. He’d gone back to the ruthless man he was in the field and instead of being directed at his enemies, it was directed at them.

Kyle explained how he’d argued with Price about how he could have gotten to you, before abruptly falling silent and stalking away as if a flip had been switched. Snake eyes and clenched fists. 

They’d heard him in the gym late at night, reaming on the punching bags. They didn’t think he slept more than three hours per day if the red lines in his eyes were anything to go by.

And then they were told that you were alive but captured, and he’d gotten worse.

You’d nearly started sobbing when the Sergeant had told you all of that.

“I betrayed his trust, Price,” you level. “I…I never wanted to do that to him. Ever. Not Simon.”

A shadow passes by the door just as the Captain grunts. “That’s the job.”

“That’s not the job I signed up for when I got into this. We don’t lie to our own.”

“‘We get dirty, the world—’” You cut him off.

“Yeah, yeah, ‘stays clean’.” Your eyes level with his. “I can do the dirty work, John, you know that. Infiltration and undercover work is what I’m good at.” The man nods slightly. “But if you ask me to betray One-Four-One’s trust again, I’m out.”

Blue eyes blink in shock, but you don’t let him speak.

“Find someone else to get fake blown up in a building. I can’t get his fucking screams out of my head.” John watches you silently, eyes narrowed. 

You meet that gaze head-on, not backing down from this.

The Captain shakes his head a minute later. “Bloody made for each other,” he mutters under his breath, grunting. Another shadow slips past going the opposite direction, probably a nurse.

Without another word John turns and exits the room, tossing a hand behind his head casually in a way to say goodbye.

You huff and roll your eyes, heat on your cheeks. 

The day wains, and you let the nurses come in to do their checkups and replace the IV. As the curtains are pulled back into place, supper sits heavy in your stomach. 

You wanted to see Simon. 

You knew it wouldn’t go well, and wouldn’t be the goody-goody outcome you prayed for…but you felt wrong without apologizing in person. It went against your morals, and already those were incredibly skewed. Maybe he’d yell, or even ignore you as if you weren’t there.

Simon wasn’t above not speaking to people he didn’t like.

You had to try.

When all was dark, you shuffled out of the hospital bed and fought the weakness of your legs. Shaking like a leaf, you walked around with only your tied gown, unapologetic of the slit down the back showing flashes of your bra and underwear. 

It wouldn’t be anything the Lieutenant hadn’t seen before.

Walking through the silence, you sigh and stand outside of his door; dread in your heart and seeping from the pulled stitches of your wounds. Your bare feet on the tile make you shiver. 

Lifting up a fist, you hesitate. 

Your hand hovers over the wood, sliding forward before you pull it back to you. Closing your eyes tight, you clench your jaw once and take a deep breath.

Knock-knock-knock. Knock-knock.

The sequence was your call sign. If you knocked like that, he would know it was you—whereas Simon's own was just a single slam of the side of his fist.

The only real problem now was that he wasn’t answering.

You stare dumbly at the barrier, blinking like a fool. It takes you longer than you’d like to admit to understand the realization that he wasn’t ignoring you—he just wasn’t in his room. 

Taking a step back, you rub the back of your neck in exasperation and hurry to the nearest exit.

“Of course,” you breathe. You know exactly where he is at a time like this.

The field holds a standing shadow, a ghost of issued fatigues with a thick jacket against the chill that leaves you shivering. Simon stares out over the training grounds with his hands in his pockets, balaclava pulled all the way down to hide him from you. 

You come to a slow halt behind him and stare. 

It’s not long before the man gunts, turning his head back from over his shoulder to look at you blankly. He knew you were there.

The eye contact stays for a long, long while—until you’re hypnotized in the shades of brown and amber and the large build that seems to broaden because of your appearance.

“I’m here to apologize.” You say it breathlessly. “I’m not asking you to hear me out, but I have to let you know I regret doing it. Price said that it was time-sensitive and I—”

Stopping yourself, you look away. It sounded too much like an excuse, you hissed to yourself. At the end of the day, it was still your acceptance that pushed the pawn forward. 

“I’m sorry, Simon,” you breathe. “I betrayed your trust.”

His eyes are piercing you, but you still can’t look at him. The man slightly turns your way. His voice was monotone and grunting out like a dog.

“You think I couldn’t handle it?” Your heart starts, and you’re shaking your head instantly.

“No.” You explain quickly—honestly. “It’s that…I didn’t want you to.” 

You hear his lips take in a quiet breath. Simon rolls his shoulders before looking away from you. Nothing could have prepared you for what came next.

“You said you loved me.” Your body freezes, jaw going slack as your face drops. You don’t speak, mute as if the air in your lungs has been stolen.

You had done…what?

All of your tricks couldn’t get you out of this one.

“I,” you force a fake laugh, hands beginning to shake. “I, what? No, I’m sure that’s not what I said. A-are you sure it wasn’t, like, an ‘I appreciate you’ or maybe a…a,” your voice catches. “A whole ‘I’m fond of you’ sort of thing…? Hm?”

Simon takes a step forward and you take one back. This was worse than torture, you decided. The pain in your pulling stitches and re-set nose was welcome here.

“Trick,” Ghost utters, and you stare hard at his neck, humming. “Stop talking.”

“Copy,” you whisper quickly, shoulders falling. 

He’s so close you can feel his body heat melting into you, and you want nothing more than to touch him. Simon’s hand comes up to your chin, and he angles it up as you stop breathing, lips parted.

“I heard you in the med ward talkin’ to Price. Was outside the door the ‘ole time.” The shadow. 

He tilts your head to the side to stare at the medical tape over the slashes in your skin. The scars won’t bother you—you had plenty of others to show as well. But Simon was…studying you. Assessing. 

His eyes blink slowly with those long pale lashes, and they slide up to you as he leans in close to your ear. Still, you stand comatose.

“You put me through a fucking heap ‘o hurt, Love.” You stare over his shoulder, not speaking, not moving. 

Simon leans back and lets go of your chin, brushing a finger over your nose and the puffy skin there.

“Never do that again.” It’s final, how he says it. But the layers of depth are plain to hear. Simon speaks low and even—gaze trapping yours like a curse. 

You know he won’t talk about the things you’ve heard. The aggression or the late-night gym trips. You’ve known him for years, and know his brain like the back of your hand.

Shivering, you nod once, content with not answering verbally to break the sanctity of the moment. Seeing Simon like this made you ease your fears. You clear your throat to push back the stuffiness.

“Thought you held grudges, Big Guy?” Nearly not heard, you mutter and pick at where the IV needle is supposed to be. 

A hand catches yours and stops you from making it bleed.

“Do,” Ghost grumbles, turning your hand over and moving his face closer until you feel his breath. “Just not with my Bird.” 

His balaclava is suddenly up to his nose, and those lips that had been covered in your blood previously situated themselves perfectly to yours. 

You gasp, arm outstretched beside you in shock. 

You’d kissed him before, but this felt different. More intimate. Simon’s arms slip around your waist, and you retaliate by locking your shaking arms behind his back, feeling the gentle passes of his lips. 

Mouth to mouth, you breathe each other in as if grasping for the other’s soul in desperation. A desperation that tells you how much the beast of a man around you was terrified of your death and the body he had to carry into the helo—of the lengths he would go to stave death from touching your tender flesh. 

No, only he was allowed to do that, and he was a reaper in his own right.

A small death that infected you at every breath puffing into your mouth, every whine and whimper he could draw like water to swallow down as ambrosia. Nectar of the Gods, and it was right there in his arms. Back. Alive. 

To be alive in the summer field of this old military base was to accept that death, and into it, hope that the few moments you had together truly made a difference. 

Simon would hold you there—and when that was done, wrap you in his jacket and carry your battered body back inside; watching your swollen lips and the wide eyes as they gaze back at him. 

Because he could hate you all he wanted for this, for the lies, for the way you made him care…but the both of you would still be alive to do so.

He guessed that was all that mattered.

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