#so when he cuts it its the same length as his fathers

[fishyfletch]

u guys aren't ready for my telemachus design

[kquil]

DIVORCING ORION BLACK | CHAPTER SIX

06 : POTIONEER

CHPT. SUM. : Orion is furious at Sirius' sorting and demands he be resorted bringing you and Regulus with him to Hogwarts where you catch a glimpse of Remus and finally remember who Damcoles Belby is. 

LENGTH : 13.1k

TAGS : domestic fluff ; mother-son moment between Sirius and reader ; Regulus is a precious baby ; Orion is a dickhead and a big baby ; fluff ; angst ; hurt/comfort ; Marauders becoming friends ; Damocles and Ruth are couple goals ; reader gets revenge for our baby.

TRIGGER WARNINGS : child abuse ; claustraphobia 

← PREV. 05 : SIRIUS: FIRST DAY | SERIES M.LIST

3rd September 1971

The day before had gone relatively well. Sirius and the other first years in his classes were still fascinated by the castle and its magic so the tour and introductory first lessons in the afternoon went smoothly. The first years were adjusting well. 

Today will be Sirius’ first full day of lessons and, although it’s daunting, his demeanour is exuberant. Knowing that he will be sharing classes with his new group of friends made him all the more excited. The previous night was spent mostly chatting with his dorm mates, being in bed by 10 pm but not sleeping until past midnight. It meant that he was down for breakfast later than what was ideal and to avoid worrying about rushing back to get ready in his dorm, Sirius made sure to get dressed and brought his book bag to breakfast. This was entirely Remus’ idea, which the boys were incredibly thankful to him for suggesting. The soft-spoken brunette was beginning to build a reputation for having a head full of sensible ideas, making up for what the rest of the group lacked. 

Sirius was just about to finish his plateful and reach for a serving of freshly cut fruit when a shadow appeared over him. It was Argus Filch, the caretaker of Hogwarts.  

“Can I help you?” Sirius asks, managing to quell his alarm and brace himself for what may come. Surely he wasn’t in trouble for anything already — there couldn’t possibly be anything he could be guilty of. James, Peter, and Remus looked up in curiosity, also having the same unanswered questions on their faces, silently seeking some sort of response to calm their startled nerves. 

“You’re needed at the Headmaster’s office,” Filch announces, his eyes gleaming with amusement at the sight of the group’s unanimous surprise and dread, although his expression remains largely dull and unimpressed. 

“…just me?” Sirius dreaded to ask. 

“Just you,”

“Why?” Sirius’ demand visibly irritates Filch but he answers nonetheless, happy to have done so when he’s rewarded with Sirius’ pale and ghostly expression — an explicit look of horror.

“Your father is here,” the edges of Filch’s lips seem to twitch but ultimately remain in a straight line, neither smirking nor frowning, “shouldn’t keep ‘im waitin’ now,” James was immediately vocal in his protests. He could tell that Sirius was petrified at the thought of his father and immediately assembled the pieces Sirius was willing to divulge the night before on his home life — his mother was supportive but his father was not. James’ bold protectiveness over Sirius was heartwarming, he never had anybody stand up for him against his father much like this. Primarily because not many were a witness to it and Sirius would like to keep it that way as much as possible. His mother protects him now but this was only recently. Before that, Sirius made sure to keep Regulus out of trouble, vowing to protect his little brother and avoid trouble for his sake alone. James’ display was refreshing and touched his heart. And it was what gave Sirius the strength to willingly go with Filch. 

Despite the bubbling dread in his stomach, Sirius keeps his chin high as he’s escorted to Dumbledore’s office. Although fearful at first, the prospect of facing his father at Hogwarts made Sirius more angry than anything else. Yes, he was shocked and, in that shock, terrified,  but for his father to behave so impudently by visiting Hogwarts was highly hypocritical when the man always demeaned Sirius and punished him whenever he behaved or spoke in a disorderly way. Their encounter was surely going to be an explosive one. 

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Orion was losing his patience. It wasn’t like him to act so brazenly but the current oddness of his wife had been provoking his displeasure. He’s been feeling the unpleasant bubbling for an entire month and endured it all. So it shouldn’t be a surprise that Sirius’ Gryffindor sorting finally made him blow up and throw about the house’s interior in a blind rage. Atop that, Orion had been even more disgraced but in his own home this time; his wife had ordered their filthy, useless house elf to move all her belongings into a spare bedroom. 

They no longer shared a bed. 

Imagine his surprise when, the following morning, he was greeted by his wife and son at the fireplace, ready to floo to Hogsmeade and journey to Hogwarts. 

“Regulus and I will be having breakfast at the Three Broomsticks,” you announced firmly, reminding him of the early hour. He had the open invitation to join you both but Orion refused, demanding that the matter with Sirius was urgent and that there wasn’t any need for breakfast. But he should have listened to his wife. When he charged up to Hogwarts ahead and was greeted by Dumbledore, the wistful headmaster had him wait around until he was finished with his breakfast before Sirius was finally called for, requesting that the Squib caretaker do the retrieving. Now, Orion sat in the office with an empty stomach and only his anger fuelling him. 

“I hope that your boy has had the time to eat his breakfast as well,” Orion looks at the headmaster, stopping his impatient foot tapping when he notices the mysterious gleam in the elderly wizard’s eyes, “we wouldn’t want him going to class with an empty stomach,” 

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Orion was an idiot. You had an idiot for a husband. The thought made you roll your eyes and scoff irritably. Men were so pigheaded sometimes, do they even realise how annoying they can be? 

Observing Regulus as he wiped the crumbs off his mouth with a napkin was all you needed to ease your mounting irritation, however. Your sons won’t grow up unpleasantly like that; you know that your boys will be true gentlemen, naturally, with their own personal idiosyncrasies but, unlike your foolish husband, they’ll be chivalrous, well-mannered and receptive, you’ll see to that personally. Orion won’t have any influence over them. This is your new life’s mission now. 

“I’m all done now, Mother,” Regulus announces with a somewhat sheepish smile as you grin with amusement against the lip of your teacup. He knows he didn’t pay the best attention to his etiquette when devouring his plate of breakfast at The Three Broomsticks but you don’t seem to mind so maybe he’ll get away with it… Little did he know that you found him incredibly adorable and enjoyed the way he appeared more like a child his age for once. 

“That’s good, dear,” your calm demeanour and slow actions makes slight panic flash in Regulus’ eyes. He’s concerned at the lack of action, the passing of time and the idea that he won’t be there when his father and brother meet, “we will keep our promise, Regulus, I assure you,” his endearing worry is met with your kind smile, “I’m sure Sirius is enjoying his breakfast right now too,” the growing smirk on your lips begins to reflect on your youngest, who immediately catches onto your cheekiness. 

“I-I suppose father will be going without any breakfast then…” Regulus comments, taking a sip of his apple juice. 

“Darling, who are we to get in the way of your father’s demands? He was ever so insistent,” an amused giggle passes between the two of you and Regulus is finally able to relax a bit. He makes a mental note to write about your uncharacteristic mischief to Sirius in an upcoming letter. He had been meaning to write a letter congratulating Sirius on his sorting but thought it better to voice in person instead after you invited him to Hogwarts under Orion’s furious insistence.

You took some minutes to enjoy the rest of your breakfast before announcing your departure. 

“Come again soon, Mrs Black! Both you and your son are always welcome,” Madam Rosmerta shouts warmly as she waves you and Regulus off with the beer mug she had been polishing. 

“Of course, Madam Rosmerta. Until then, take care!” you call back, smiling happily at the woman. 

Unfortunately, you didn’t account for arriving at Hogwarts castle without a guide ready to escort you from the grand entrance to the Headmaster’s office. It was pure luck that you were spotted by one of your favourite characters and immediately taken to your destination. 

“The headmaster speculated you’d be arriving here,” McGonagall spoke stiffly but warmly in her distinctive Scottish intonation. Following a brief introduction of all parties, she finally begins to lead you and Regulus to the Headmaster’s office. She looked much younger than she did in the films, yet to be worn down by the mischief the marauders cause only to be succeeded by the Weasley twins, coming to wreak the same havoc and closely followed by the golden trio. It was nice to see her modelling such a reliable and tenacious character before Dumbledore manipulates her into becoming hesitant and unreliable, inconstant with her trustworthiness amongst the students. This prestigious school deserved a headmaster who cared for their pupils equally, unswayed by bias – someone fair and trustworthy, not just powerful. In your eyes, that was McGonagall. And you were going to put her in that position yourself. 

“I appreciate that, and I appreciate you coming to collect us,” you voice politely, offering a smile that she appeared taken aback by. She’s been influenced by the rumours as well. Walburga’s magisterial ways and elitism precede her. It was annoying. But, you’ll admit that it’s amusing to see the surprise on people’s faces when you distinguish all those claims personally. Not only are you making a new name for yourself but you also have the satisfaction of tarnishing the bitch in your head’s reputation. That was more fulfilling than anything.     

“It is only the correct thing to do,” 

“Are things always that black and white?” Minerva doesn’t know how to answer your sudden, cryptic comment and you have the slight mind to apologise for your loose lips. Not only was the deputy headmistress caught off guard by the question but she was dumbstruck by the question coming from you, the woman who openly expresses her abhor of muggle borns and blood ‘traitors’ — you and your bloodline were the most ‘black-and-white’ people in wizarding society. To say that McGonagall was speechless was an understatement. To her relief, you breeze past the comment entirely, “I apologise for my husband’s brash behaviour, it’s truly insufferable how audacious he is, sometimes,”  

Clearing her throat, McGonagall goes for the professional response, although she was highly tempted to agree with you, “all parents have a right to have a say in their children’s education,” 

“This goes beyond mere education, professor,” you look into her eyes and are met with agreement, “Surely, you can agree that the matter is useless kicking up such a fuss over and that my husband is entirely wrong. In this matter, I am right in saying he is being an idiot by publicly throwing a tantrum,” you tut in displeasure, “The humiliation of it all is almost unbearable,” at your side, you hear Regulus choke on his laughter and crack a smile, giving his small hand a light squeeze. Finally, McGonagall allows a smirk to stretch across her lips but before she can make any comment of agreement, you’ve already reached the gargoyle entrance to the Headmaster’s office.  

“The password is ‘Pear Drops’,” With a wave of her hand, the gargoyles reveal a spiralling staircase to the Headmaster’s office, “good luck,” she nods at you and you watch as her expression softens ever so slightly to face Regulus and bid him a soft goodbye, “hopefully, our next meeting will be a more pleasant one, down by the great hall on your first year,” Regulus smiles and nods, waving her goodbye. She offers a smile to both of you and turns with a swift swish of her thick, draping robes. McGonagall never expected you to be so warm and pleasant —it’s easy to misjudge the character of a person simply from third-party accounts and retellings. She’ll have to rethink her own prejudices and biases moving forward.  

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Sirius hadn’t arrived yet. As soon as you sat down, Orion was already gritting his teeth, the squareness of his jaw making his frustrations obvious. 

“I told you so,” you voice blankly and with an unamused face to match. Orion didn’t say a word — he couldn’t. He was already facing the consequences of his impatience as his stomach tried to eat itself from hunger. Dumbledore raises a questioning brow at the interaction but doesn’t say anything. Instead, the headmaster turns to Regulus with a kind smile and offers him the latest muggle sweet he’s grown a recent taste for, the password to his office, Pear Drops. 

“Try some, my boy, I promise they’re a delight,” Regulus looks to you, silently asking for permission. 

You smile softly and nod, “Go right ahead dear but you’ve had a rather hearty breakfast, why don’t you save it for a special treat later on?” Regulus nods and reaches for a small handful of the sweets to pocket in the meantime, however, his small, pale hand is smacked away by Orion who hisses angrily through clenched teeth. 

“No son of mine dabbles in any muggle sweets — it’s unbecoming, Regulus!” 

It was thankful that Orion was already clenching his teeth when you slapped him across the face or else he would have bitten straight through his tongue at the force of your firm hand. 

“Touch my son again, and you’ll be falling from the tower without your wand, Orion,” you threaten through clenched teeth of your own as the man stares at you in wide-eyed shock, his expression reflected onto the Headmaster. 

The reddening hand mark on your husband’s pale cheek isn’t nearly enough to contain your rage. Your shoulders and hands shake from the barely contained wrath bubbling in your veins, you don’t even register how your palm was stinging from the slap as well. Rather than divorcing the stinking pile of shit you have for a husband, you’ll end up murdering him instead. Regulus cuddling up to your side was the only thing able to extinguish the violent rage shooting through your bloodstream but seeing the reddening of his small hand from Orion was quickly reigniting the fire within you. 

“You can’t just—” You don’t know what shameless words he planned on stitching together as a poor explanation of his actions but you were having none of it.

“Shut your mouth!” you hiss once more, eyes narrowing at him, “I said he could have some so he’s having some! How dare you publicly cause a commotion like this over Sirius’ sorting andhave the cheek to harm Regulus on top of that! And over muggle sweets?! Have some decorum, Orion! How embarrassing!” Orion appears to shrink in his seat as you lean over more and more with each word. You didn’t see it but Regulus no longer had tears lining the seams of his precious, silver eyes, instead, they were filled with glittering admiration and love at the sight of you defending him. If only Sirius could see their mother like this, he would no longer have any cause for worry about being away at Hogwarts while he stays home. 

“Ahem!” All heads turn to the entrance where Sirius stares on at the scene, wide-eyed and with a delinquent smirk tugging at the edges of his lips. It isn’t until his eyes meet his father’s infuriated ones that Sirius finds the will to conceal his satisfaction. What he had just witnessed was admirable and a laugh desperately tried to push past his lips but he resisted; he was still on the chopping block for his father to rip apart. Although, knowing that you’re also here, eases Sirius’ worries.  

“Sirius,” you breathe with a smile, your expression immediately warming up at the sight of your firstborn. It hasn’t even been a full three days since you’ve last seen him but the effects of missing him were substantial enough that you were able to easily decompress from your heated exchange with Orion. 

“Get over here, boy,” Orion seethes through clenched teeth, his attention averted. Knowing that his son stood before him as a proud Gryffindor and without an ounce of regret for the shame he has befallen their family makes the patriarch clench his fist so hard that his knuckles turn a paper-white. Sirius doesn’t move, he doesn’t even spare him a glance and when Orion follows his son’s gaze, he’s surprised to note that his gaze is fixed on his mother. 

“Feel free to take any available seat,” Dumbledore offers kindly, observing the scene with a curious glint in his eyes. 

“Please come and sit with your brother and me, dear,” you barely finish your words before Sirius moves across the Headmaster’s office to sit beside Regulus, who has promptly pulled away from you to admire his brother. 

“Thank you for arriving so promptly, Sirius,” Dumbledore begins, eyeing the substantial gap between the two parents before settling his twinkling gaze over the first year, “I hope your breakfast wasn’t interrupted too terribly by the sudden meeting,”

Sirius offers polite understanding over the disruption to his morning despite it only being the third day of school. At the sight of Sirius’ clenching and unclenching fists, you can tell that seeing his father was an annoyance, however, you’re proud of his ability to school his expression. He’s already grown up so much…

Giving a slow nod, Dumbledore directs everyone’s attention to Orion, who was barely holding himself together at the unnecessary —in his eyes only — exchange of pleasantries, “Your father has some troubles over your sorting,”

Sirius pays his father no mind as the pathetic man slams his hardened fist against Dumbledore’s wooden desk, “I DEMAND THAT THE SORTING BE REDONE! THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE!” the frightening volume of your reprehensible husband’s words makes Regulus’ shoulders shake but you and Sirius were there for him. Flanked on either side of the youngest, you were able to bring Regulus into your side for a comforting sideways embrace while Sirius reached over to console his brother by threading their fingers together and clasping his hand tightly. Regulus immediately begins to calm down and smiles to himself at the warm feeling of protection surrounding him. 

“…It cannot be done, Mr Black,” Dumbledore states matter-of-factly in a serene voice that bodes no fear for the wrath of your husband. 

“EXCUSE ME?! CLEARLY THIS WAS A MISTAKE—”

“The sorting hat makes no mistakes,” Dumbledore was so firm in his statement, that Orion was left stammering with disbelief. It makes you smirk with a sort of evil satisfaction. What will he say next? 

“That’s impossible! For that tattered old thing to have made no mistakes whatsoever?!” Orion finally has the decency to lower his voice though, not by much. 

“You are free to doubt the sorting hat as you wish Mr Black but it is indisputable and Sirius will not be resorted,”

“Of course not!” you pipe up, pinning your husband with a harsh glare, “For the sake of your own ego and pride, Orion, how could you demand such a thing? This whole fiasco is far more embarrassing than our son being sorted into the house of bravery and courage. Get over yourself. Our son will miss his lesson at this rate. I apologise, headmaster, for my husband’s shameful behaviour, I assure you that my son will behave far more gracefully,” turning away from your staggering husband and the amused headmaster, you look at Sirius with pride. Leaning over Regulus to press a kiss onto his older brother’s forehead he’s able to hear your tender whisper of pride, “I’m so proud of you, darling,”

You leave a humiliated, red-faced Orion to argue with Dumbledore, who handles the overgrown baby’s temper tantrum with grace. It was much appreciated and you were willing to applaud the old wizard if it weren’t for your existing hatred and secret plot to rid him of his position as headmaster. You’ve led Sirius and Regulus to stand quite a distance away from the two so that you could share a private moment, the attention mainly pointed towards your grinning firstborn. 

“Have you received the gift I sent you?” you ask in a whisper as you hold Sirius in a loving embrace, his arms wrap around your shoulders and he presses his nose into your loose hair — you smell like a mixture of milky vanilla, calming lavender, fruity current and flowery jasmine, it’s not like any fragrance he’s ever smelled on you but he’s grown to find comfort in it. He nods and you silently ask for the pin’s whereabouts. 

Sirius reaches into the breast pocket of his school robes, now embellished with the colours of Gryffindor, daring red and enchanting gold. He brings up his fist and unfurls his fingers to reveal the unworn pin. From the side, Regulus gasps at the beauty of such a small and intricate accessory. Smiling, you read off the personal message you engraved on the back before fastening the pin onto his grey cardigan, “A shield to protect my brave, daring and noble son,” you lean back and give him a once over. Sirius can see the visible lining of tears that gather at the edges of your waterline and his breath stills — it was one thing to read of your happiness and pride for his accomplishment at being sorted into Gryffindor but it was another thing entirely to hear the words from you firsthand and to watch as happy tears blur your vision. Sirius has never seen his mother be so happy and proud that she begins to tear up, Regulus hasn’t either and both stare at you in wonderment. Sirius feels as though he would begin to cry himself but refrains from doing so when Regulus looks at him with a bright grin and glimmering eyes of admiration. Regulus was proud and happy for him too…  

Reaching forward, you pat down the lapels of Sirius’ robes, “goodness, you look so handsome in your school robes,” you share a breathless laugh with your bashful, first-year son before bringing him into another embrace. This one feels tighter, “are you truly my son? I can’t believe it!”

“Of course, I’m your son,” Sirius pouts into your shoulder, trying to counteract his glowing grin, somehow, but it’s no use; the urge to smile from the acceptance and the happiness was too overpowering. 

“This feels like a dream…” you whisper into the air and Sirius is brought back to the time he witnessed the affectionate exchange between his mother and younger brother at the home library doorway. He remembers feeling his heart ache and clench before finally shattering into painfully sharp pieces, engulfed by spite and jealousy. But now… you were saying the same words to him…

“…a dream come true?” Sirius asks so softly and with much insecurity, you can’t help but squeeze him tighter. 

“Yes!” you’re giddy with happiness and it’s infectious, even onto Regulus who was momentarily saddened at his older brother’s innocent wants and endurance, silently suffering from that fateful day at the Library, where everything had changed. While Regulus was floating on air from the merriment, his confident, protective and loving older brother was dealt a painful blow right to the heart. He wants to reach out and hug him tight and apologise for not noticing sooner.

“A dream come true, it’s just that.” you laugh again, “I still can’t believe it — you’re my son,” Sirius smiles as you cup his cherubic face with your gentle, loving hands. He’s stuck between jumping for joy and doing a happy dance but settles for shyly avoiding your gaze and smiling down at your wrists, where he witnesses your thumbs lovingly caressing his cheekbones in his periphery. 

“I’m your son…”

“You’re my son…” you kiss his cheek and pull away. Regulus had been inching closer and closer throughout your interaction and you could practically taste his eagerness in the air, wanting to pull his older brother into a warm embrace, himself.

Happily, you allow the two to share a moment and they don’t waste any time holding one another tightly. “I can’t believe you’re a Gryffindor, Siri! Your pin looks so beautiful. Mother did a really good job with it. I wonder where she got it made and how… I hope I get one too…” Sirius, knowing the elation the pin had given him when he had first received it and even more when he read the personalised message engraved on the back, didn’t want to deprive his brother of the same feeling, not a single bit. Looking over at you, he meets your eyes and is immediately assured by the smile dancing on your lips. 

“Of course, you’ll get a pin too, baby,” you seal the promise by pressing a kiss to the back of Regulus’ head, who spins around to face you so quickly, you fear he might have gotten whiplash but the smile on his face was enough assurance. 

“Really, Mother?”

“Really really,”

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Sirius returns to the great hall with enough time to spare. His Gryffindor pin is proudly displayed on the chest of his cardigan as he finishes breakfast with his group of friends. Upon his return, they ask him the obvious questions. 

“Is everything okay?

“What happened?”

“Are you alright?” 

“What was the meeting about?” 

Sirius could hardly answer anything from the flurry of overlapping voices and questions he was being bombarded with, other students were even beginning to look at him with curiosity after witnessing his departure with Filch. However, something in the distance catches his attention. The boys follow Sirius’s distracted gaze as soon as he turns away, not having answered a single query. At the open entrance of the great hall, they witness Orion’s scowling face pass swiftly, barely casting a glance at Sirius. He can’t believe his father is being so childish but it was satisfying to watch and listen to his mother treat him like a child too — a child who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Behind him, Regulus appears at your side, walking at a more leisurely pace. You and his little brother take a moment to lock eyes with him from the great hall entrance. Both of you smile and give him a small wave, leaving unhurriedly when he returns the gesture. But not before you blow him a kiss with a devious smile on your lips. 

Despite the tender moment you shared in Dumbledore’s office, of course, you would still want to embarrass him in front of his friends! Sirius wasn’t mad though — it was quite reassuring to see a mischievous side to his mother.

“Th-that’s your mum?” Peter squeaks nervously. He’s heard of the ancient and noble Black family before. And he’s heard a lot about the notoriously disdainful patriarch and matriarch, Orion and Walburga Black so your uncharacteristic actions make him flounder, “I-I didn’t know your mother was capable of smiling like that…” 

“Me neither,” Sirius replies with a grin, but I’m glad I know now. 

“She’s pretty,” James comments, almost gushing as Remus nods along demurely, blushing down into his morning tea. 

“Why did she look at me like that?…” Remus whispers against the lip of his teacup. 

“What was that?” Sirius asks with a curious tilt of his head. He didn’t quite manage to catch what Remus had said but his muttering was enough to pique his interest. In his embarrassment and distracted thoughts from when you had blown him a kiss, Sirius failed to notice the way your gaze lingered on Remus, who noticed an unknown glint come to life in your eyes. “Remus?”

“—N-nothing! It was nothing… nevermind,”

4th September 1971

You can’t get over how adorable the marauders look as first years. They might as well be little babies, their cheeks still possess some youthful plumpness and they look ready to grow into their school robes with much more fullness. However, as adorable as you found them to be, you have much more important and urgent matters that need tending to. You can’t believe how you’d forgotten such an important detail until now but seeing Remus was what you needed for the pieces to finally fit together. 

Damocles Belby. Inventor of the Wolfsbane potion in the 1990s. You aren’t sure about the exact year but it definitely wasn’t invented while Remus was in Hogwarts. That was why you were drawn to his quaint potions shop and why his name has been lingering in the back of your mind since that day. 

Regulus didn’t have any classes with Peony today as it was Saturday and you weren’t entirely comfortable with leaving him alone as Orion was out on business. You didn’t hear of his departure personally, he had Kreacher come and notify you in his stead. He’s still being an overgrown baby about what happened in Hogwarts. 

Dumbledore continued to refuse on the matter of Sirius’ re-sorting and firmly refused all attempts of bribery on your husband’s part. It was an unreasonable request and you were all sent out soon after so that Sirius could finish his breakfast and attend his lessons on time. Admittedly, it was better to receive the news from Kreacher rather than Orion. Despite the action being petty and out of anger, you were more than happy with the arrangement and you’ll be sure to return the gesture – whenever you want to relay a message to him, you’ll ask Kreacher for his assistance too. 

Your droopy house elf sees the mischief in your eyes and immediately notices the lack of offence to Orion’s backhanded pettiness when he hiccuped through the message he was sent to deliver. His mistress has changed so much… though he cannot argue that most of the change was pleasant. 

“I hope you’ll forgive me for arranging an outing so suddenly like this,” you sheepishly apologise, helping Regulus with his suspenders before he pulls his cardigan over his neatly pressed shirt. 

“It’s okay, Mother,” he flashes you a precious grin, “I enjoy spending time with you like this,”

It was hard to resist his sweet words and you’re immediately pulling him into an embrace, pressing light kisses onto his face. Regulus flushes a bright pink when you squeal about how ‘sweet’ and ‘precious’ and ‘charming’ he was. You’ve become so much more affectionate and, even though it’s not an unpleasant change, Regulus still finds it hard to adapt to. However, he can’t say he wants to forget or take for granted the feeling of elation and warmth that floods his chest whenever you act lovingly — he’s always dreamed of receiving affection from his mother like this. 

“Please never grow up my darling,” you sigh, already knowing the truth as you lead him to the fireplace where you’ll floo to Diagon Alley together, “but I suppose you’ll always be my little boy, so growing up won’t be too bad,” Regulus doesn’t openly admit that he wouldn’t mind being the way he is forever so long as you continue being such a wonderful mother. 

“Where will we be going, Mother?” Regulus looks up at you with curious eyes upon exiting the fireplace soot-free. He’s already reaching for your hand so you don’t lose each other in the crowds. 

“We’ll be visiting Mr Belby,” you smile fondly at the grin Regulus flashes you. He surely remembers the lovely couple owning the potion shop from when you went first-year shopping for Sirius. 

“I know where that is,” he pipes up when you look around curiously, trying to map out your journey. 

“Oh? Then do you mind leading me the way there, darling?”

“Of course, Mother, this way,” he steps forward and begins leading you along the cobblestone paths. Belby’s Potions and Ingredients was quite reserved compared to the other shops, which made it hard to distinguish, especially when it’s the weekend and more people are out and about.

“You’re so clever, thank you, darling,” you press a kiss onto the crown of Regulus’ head when he leads you beneath the hanging sign of the shop. 

Regulus grins and his chest puffs out ever so slightly, “you’re welcome, Mother,”

Observing the shop in front of you, your brows furrow with worry, “why does it look closed?” despite the observation, you knock on the door while squinting through the empty shop windows. Their sign states they’re open from Monday to Friday between the hours of 8 am and 5 pm. “They should still be open, it’s only 11 o’clock in the morning…” you knock again with more insistence and shout through the door, worried for the couple. Regulus observes your panic with anxious eyes and begins to feel the distress melting into his thoughts and feelings. The Belby couple were lovely, they were good people that no misfortune should ever try to pollute so he dreads to think they’re in any trouble. Your knocks sound as if you were determined to break their door down just to get inside, you were tempted to cast ‘alohamora’ but there would be no use for that, you’ll be arrested for trying to commit ‘breaking and entering’ in broad daylight.  

It wasn’t until Damocles himself seemingly appeared out of nowhere, looking dishevelled and sleep-deprived that you finally stopped knocking, “Madam Black,” Damocles acknowledges as soon as he opens the door to you and Regulus, “I’m afraid we’re closed for today,” to emphasise his point, he presses the closed sign onto the window of his shop’s door.

“Mr Belby, I apologise for being so demanding but this is urgent,” you try to argue, feeling the distant press of Regulus against your legs, his arms circling your waist for comfort. He doesn’t know what’s happening but to see his mother and the kind Mr Belby interact in such a state of distress made him nervous. This was so opposite to their first interaction at the shop. 

“I-I’m afraid I have far more urgent matters to attend to as of this moment,” he reasons breathlessly, trying to close the door shut but you’re determined. Your mind has been set — not only were you going to help Sirius and Regulus but you were going to be there for Remus too. 

“I insist that what I have to say to you is very important as well!”

Damocles incessantly shakes his head, his lips pressed into a thin line as his knuckles turn white from how hard he’s gripping his shop’s door handle, “my dearest Ruth is my top priority right now and she’s terribly sick at the moment, please — I’m sure this can wait!” with that, he slams the door shut, causing you and Regulus to flinch at the harsh sound. You didn’t want to hold off on the situation but you know when a line is drawn and Damocles’ insistent refusal of your entry was more than enough to tell you to back away. 

His behaviour was rather odd, however. When you first met the man and his wife, they were beyond lovely. Both were incredibly welcoming and warm, looking down at Regulus, you see the confusion in his clear, steel-grey eyes also. 

“Let's try again on Monday, darling,” Regulus nods at your suggestion. His small brows were furrowed with concern and he seemed hesitant to look away from you despite the smile of reassurance you give him. It warmed your heart seeing how troubled he was over your predicament with Mr Belby; you couldn’t resist kissing away the wrinkle between his brows, “don’t worry, my dear, patience is key when it comes to things like this,” 

Giving one last lingering glance at Belby’s Potions and Ingredients, you redirect Regulus to Gringotts. It rose higher than any of the other buildings in Diagon Alley so it was relatively easy to spot and head towards. Before heading home for the day, you had one more errand to take care of. 

˖  ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔݁ ˖

Filgus was easy to spot, he was the goblin you immediately walked to upon entering the opulent establishment. His sharp, angular features help hold up a monocle over his right eye as a gold chain trails down to the breast pocket of his smart, black suit, though he wears no tie. His healthy head of silver hair is pushed back and tied into a small ponytail at the base of his neck. He looks much younger than his colleagues from the largely less wrinkled visage of his countenance, it was no wonder that entertained your previous request. 

“Madam Black,” Filgus smiles at you, content with your polite, formal greeting. He smiles at Regulus too, who mirrors the goblin greeting at your side, “How may I help you?” he smirks beneath his long and pointed nose. Past the reflections of his monocle, you catch a faint gleam in his eyes, though you can’t comprehend exactly what emotion stands behind it. Was it excitement? Curiosity? Something else entirely, perhaps… “Will you be requesting another commission for our services?” you smile, finally understanding the look in his black, black eyes. 

“Although I highly commend your metalsmith expertise, I am here for a different affair,“ your words pique Regulus’ interest and he begins to speculate whether you had the goblins make Sirius’ Gryffindor pin – it would be an incredible feat if you did, "I only hope to open two new vaults today,” your request eases Filgus’ posture and his action to lean back make you realise the full extent of his previous excitement. It almost makes you want to apologise for not meeting his expectations. 

The first time you had come to him for a commission request, he had been surprised and you suppose he had been able to conceal his delight well but now his disappointment was more obvious. It made you want to giggle but you didn’t want to accidentally offend him or any of the other goblins nearby so you kept your amusement to yourself. 

“That’s simple enough,”

“I want both vaults to have the same precautions and safeguards as the Black family vaults,” his quill stops momentarily as he makes a point of raising a brow at your specifications. A beat passes and he finishes off what he was writing. 

“Who will these vaults be for?”

“They will be for my sons. One for Sirius Orion Black the third,” you reach over to wrap your arm around Regulus’ small shoulders, “and the other for Regulus Arcturus Black,” 

“Unusual,” Filgus comments under his breath but makes his notes regardless of the uncommon application from the Black family matriarch herself. This was not tradition for ancient, noble wizarding families to create a separate vault entirely when they all simply shared one vault. The only reason for something like this to happen would be when someone was disowned by their family and are forced to start from a completely empty vault. Filgus looks up from the parchment he was writing on, only to meet eyes with Regulus who looks white as a ghost and frozen with fear. The sight makes the goblin chuckle under his breath and shakes his head subtly. Even if he wanted to, he had no words of comfort to offer the young wizard. 

“I want the vaults for my sons to be entirely separate from the Black family vaults — nowhere near it,”

“Consider it done. The keys and paperwork will be delivered to you soon enough,”

“Thank you very much, Filgus,” you nod with a smile, “and I assure you that I will be back to request another commission soon enough,” he smirks beneath his pointed nose and his black eyes seem to light up despite their soulless darkness. He says nothing more as you lead Regulus out of Gringotts for the journey home.  

Beside you, Regulus is filled with dread to the point that he feels sick. Getting a separate vault means only one thing and the realisation makes his eyes sting with globulous tears. Looking up at you, his mind flashes with all the happy memories you’ve shared with him and Sirius the past month or so — was that all just a lie? Were you such a good actor that you managed to babble that prideful speech to Sirius at Hogwarts on the spot? Did you always mean to disown them? But then why did you put so much effort into bonding with them like this? It’s too cruel…

“Darling!” you panic at the river of tears running down Regulus’ flushed cheeks. Stepping out of Gringotts, you were just about to ask Regulus if he’d fancy stopping by a sweet shop to bring something yummy home to indulge in and maybe get something for Kreacher too, only to be met by the pitiful image of your youngest sobbing and clinging onto the draping silhouette of your dress skirt. You sweep him up into your arms and move to a bench placed in a, somewhat, secluded location so that you can have a modicum of privacy. “Oh, sweetheart…” you coo and gently brush back his hair with your fingers, “please tell me what’s the matter so that I can help you feel better…” he mutters something incoherent under his breath and in between his hiccups but you ask him to repeat it as you couldn’t hear the first time.  

“Y-you’re going to disown me and Sirius…“ he sobs before throwing himself at your lap and crying into your skirt, “Please don’t disown us, we’ll be good, I promise!” you couldn’t take hearing his tearful cries any longer and you scoop him up again so you could hug him tightly as he wraps his arms over your shoulders to sob into your neck, his legs wrapping around your waist. 

‘Openly crying in public?! HOW DISGRACEFUL! LOOK AT WHAT YOU’VE DONE TO MY SONS YOU WRETCHED THING!’ Walburga screeches in your head but you’re quick to hush her up, completely ignoring her piggish squealing to focus on comforting Regulus. ‘THEY COULD HAVE BEEN TRAINED AND DISCIPLINED INTO HONOURABLE SONS BEFORE YOUR INFLUENCE BUT NOW IT’S COMPLETELY HOPELESS!’ She can rant and squeal and screech as much as she wants, you’re not responding to a single thing. Regulus was much more important right now. 

You sit there with him, softly shushing his sobs and patting his back comfortingly as he cries and cries until his eyes run dry. In his panic and distress, Regulus wasn’t in the right headspace to listen to any consoling words you had to say so you waited. It wasn’t until the neckline of your black dress was made damp with Regulus’ tears that you finally whispered your consolation, he had managed to quiet down to small hiccups and shy sniffles. 

“There is no way on earth that I would ever ever disown you or Sirius, let alone both of you,” you press a kiss to Regulus’ temple, blinking back your tears at the intense display of sadness from your usually mild-mannered son. 

“B-but,” Regulus protests, pulling away to look at you with wide, swollen eyes, “you’ve created a separate vault for me and Sirius, that can only mean one thing…” he explains, making you realise your careless actions. 

“Oh darling, I’m not disowning you at all…” you wipe your thumbs beneath his eyes, offering a sad, apologetic smile for having conveyed such confusing intentions, “I only wanted to make sure you and your brother had something to put your belongings in and have a place for your savings that nobody else can touch,” he tilts his head curiously at you, “it’s to set you and your brother up well for the future. These vaults are for your and your brother’s possessions only, nobody else’s. For now, I’ll have your keys and help you save up some galleons until you’re old enough. I know that we’re a very rich family but there’s no harm in having your own vaults so that you and your brother can start adulthood on a good foundation,”

“…th-that’s all?”

“That’s all,” you nuzzle his nose with your own and kiss his forehead, making him giggle — such a beautiful sound. 

He throws his arms over your shoulders and gives you a tight squeeze, “Thank you, Mother,” you can hear the relief dripping from his voice and it makes your heart clench. 

“I’m sorry for the misunderstanding, darling,” 

“It’s okay…” he whispers shyly, not wanting to pull away so you could witness the flush of embarrassment dusting his cheeks. 

“Next time you’re worried about something, please talk to me, okay? I don’t want you to worry needlessly,”

Regulus nods and pulls away to grin brightly at you, “Okay!” you bought him a lot of sweets at the shops after that. 

11th September 1971 

You visited Belby’s Potions and Ingredients every day for the next week and it was always closed. After some time, you take the trips without Regulus, opting for going by yourself while he’s being tutored by Peony. Usually, you’d make your way home after realising there would be no signs of the couple appearing any time soon. There wasn’t a single light on behind the shop’s windows. Its interior was motionless, like a space suspended in time — nothing was out of place, it was merely still… and it stayed like that for an entire week.

An unhealthy amount of concern was beginning to build up in the pit of your stomach for the couple — perhaps Ruth’s illness the previous week was truly debilitating and when you remember your insensitivity, dominated by desperation, your chest constricts with shame atop the mounting anxiety. After your visit with Regulus, you had purchased a moon calendar and discovered that Remus would be experiencing his first transformation the following night and you suppose that realisation didn’t help your anxiety over the issue. He was going to be experiencing his first transformation so quickly, he barely would have settled into Hogwarts. For that sweet, kind and anxious boy, you were willing to do anything atop all the things you were already planning to do for Sirius and Regulus. 

Belby’s Potions and Ingredients was just ahead now, the muscle memory of the journey there easily guiding your feet and allowing your mind to wonder about the young lycanthrope attending Hogwarts with your firstborn. You were anticipating another uneventful but worrisome visit, however, the sight of an ‘open’ sign hanging on the door made your heart stop. For a moment, you paused, frozen in place and took the time to digest what you were seeing in front of you. You have to confirm that it wasn’t a dream or an illusion that your mind conjured up in its noxious mixture of fret and despair. 

No, this was real! 

Pushing open the door, you rush inside and immediately call out to the potioneer, “Mr Belby! Mr Belby!” you meet the bearded man at his designated station behind the front counter. Beneath his eyes are the faintest trace of dark circles but he manages to smile at your bright demeanour. 

“Good morning, Madam Black,” he greets, somewhat, cheerfully, “how may I help you today?”

With warmth in your eyes, you redirect his statement, “Actually, I was hoping to help you today…” as eager as you were to offer your aide and investment in the brilliant potioneer’s talents, his appearance was a sharp contrast to your first meeting that you were swamped with worry. Damocles gives an inquisitive look at your statement and prompts you for an explanation but it falls on deaf ears when you remember his words the previous week. “How is Ruth?” guilt tugs at your heartstrings and the emotion easily shows on your features, “Is she feeling better?”

Happy to divert from your earlier words in favour of his wife, Damocles smiles rather grimly and nods, “She has quite the weak constitution, especially after an episode,” he’s careful with his words and expertly continues despite his true emotions pleading to take control of his expressions. At times there’s an odd quirk in his smile or a misplaced dullness in his eyes — gone was the man you greeted at your first encounter. He looked poorly. Dishevelled and weighed down by something heavy. Someone so kind, loving and passionate about his work didn’t deserve such troubles. 

“And it’s lasted an entire week?” you’re saddened by his confirming nod and hum, “Is she here? At the shop?” you don’t wait until he confirms nor denies; you’re already stepping towards an isolated but well-loved corner of the quaint shop. 

“Madam Black…” a weak, melodious voice greets you. Approaching Ruth in her rocking chair, you offer a kind smile, happy to see her in, somewhat, good health. “I apologise that my illness has deprived the business of my husband,” she is humbly sheepish and her radiant countenance almost distracts you from her trembling hands. It isn’t a secret how devitalised she is but to still attempt her embroidery in her eroded state makes your chest tighten.

“I’m just happy you’re doing better,” you try to forget the careless words you had desperately shouted the week previous. It wasn’t your intention to be so insensitive and you wouldn’t dare wish any ill-will towards Ruth. The Belby couple are incredibly pleasant people and a treasure to have for company. You suppose that your eagerness to help Remus with his lycanthropy was too strong to resist – not only can you help Sirius and Regulus, but you can help many more of your beloved characters too. 

“Thank you, Madam Black,” Ruth has the loveliest smile, it breaks your heart to know that she’s suffering from such a debilitating, chronic illness. 

“I can’t imagine being as lovely as you despite needing a week to recover from an episode—” You pause and look upon Ruth with searching eyes. Aside from her face, she is covered head-to-toe in clothing. Leaning on the wall was a simple cane within her reach. And, if you weren’t mistaken, exactly a week before today, was a full moon…

“Ruth, my dear, your potion,” Damocles gently reminds, pulling out a phial of the iconic magenta healing potion. You recognise it immediately. It’s the same healing potion you’ve been forced to endure because of the degenerate bitch stuck in your head causing you to faint multiple times. 

“Darling, you’re a wonderful potioneer but I’d rather not consume another healing potion right now. I’ll be sick, otherwise,” Ruth politely declines. Her attentive husband directly goes to protest but you’re quick to interfere. 

“Mr Belby, when did you say Ruth had her episode?” 

“Last week,” he answers nonchalantly, still entirely focused on his wife, who continues to resist his resolute demands of needing to drink the potion. 

“That was a full moon…” the couple pause and a stillness consumes the space. It’s as if you’re suddenly in a vacuum, where time doesn’t exist and everything is at a standstill. “Is Ruth suffering from Lycanthropy?” you take care to keep any form of judgement out of your voice, your tone is neutral, your volume levelled and there isn’t a trace of disdain in your eyes. To avoid causing a huge stir, you try to keep neutral but a warm sadness and soft compassion manages to sneak onto your countenance. 

“Ruth’s illness is not your concern, Madam Black,” Damocles’ voice is strong, commanding and protective. His firm stance as he partially stands in the way of his wife demands that you pull back and stay at a distance. 

“Are you trying to find a cure?” you ask, completely impartial now and, almost, chillingly stoic. Damocles doesn’t answer. You glimpse their connected hands, their grip on each other is as strong as a tightly wound knot; it would be a struggle to pry them apart. “If you are, there isn’t a cure—” 

“I WON’T STAND FOR ANY VERBALLY DEMEANING REMARKS AGAINST MY WIFE! GET OUT! YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE!”

“I haven’t said anything of the sort to Ruth…” you smile kindly at the potioneer and reach out your hand, “I want to help you,”

“HYPOCRITE!” his loud volume makes you immediately retract your hand. From her seat, Ruth places a gentle hand on her husband’s forearm, a silent plea to give you a chance. Damocles doesn’t fully yield his anger but, in respect of his wife, lowers his voice slightly, "You just denied that a cure could be made!” he can’t trust you. You are a Black, the matriarch, in fact — your entire family despise dark creatures, even those that were afflicted without their consent, much like his dearest. He won’t let you lay a finger on his wife. 

“I said that only because that goal is too ambitious for the moment.” your comment makes Damocles pause, shocked but thoughtful, “I can’t encourage you to make a cure right away but I will support you in the endeavour to create a potion that will relieve the symptoms of Lycanthropy,”

“Support, how?” 

“Funding?” you suggest, “I can help you get expensive ingredients. Or maybe I can help you with research? Or I can keep Ruth company while you focus on your work entirely? I can do all of that and more if you will only let me,” 

The couple look at each other with curious eyes that also fill with fear and hope. 

“…what do you hope to gain from this?” Damocles needed to know. He just couldn’t fathom that someone of such high standing in the wizarding world, who was infamous for her intolerance of dark creatures, muggles, half-bloods and everything that didn’t reflect her skewedimage of ‘pure’ was in favour of helping him, the husband to a lycanthrope.

“I have no ulterior motives… I only wish to turn over a new leaf and help those that I can,” 

“I don’t believe you,” Damocles looks at you with suspicious eyes, narrowed and sharp. He is a contrasting image to the kind and warm man you first met at the counter on Sirius’ Hogwarts shopping day. 

“Then believe that I also have someone…” you look at Ruth, meeting her gentle eyes with a soft stare, “Believe that I have someone I deeply care about and wish to help with their Lycanthropy too,” you’re unable to break eye contact with Ruth; she can comprehend the deep sorrow in your eyes along with a determination that cannot be rivalled. It connects with her deep down, making her heart ache with feelings of desperation and painful hope.  

Damocles is torn. Ever since meeting his current wife, he has wanted nothing more than to use his expertise in potions to help her condition. It was an ambition he had been doing alone largely due to the prejudicial opinions surrounding Lycanthropy. It’s been years and his progress has barely been noticeable. All he’s been able to achieve are potions that barely have an effect. His recent potion was the most progress he’s ever made, where he was able to reduce her anxieties during the transformation. It was only thanks to the powdered moonstone he had managed to get a hold of. If he can have easy access to such valuable ingredients, his progression on the potion will be exponential. But he resists. He’s getting carried away by the excitement of possibilities, not only will he be helping his wife but he will have the opportunity to work with high-quality, precious ingredients again. He was a potioneer, not a businessman so his shop is barely keeping him and his wife afloat, their heads barely above the water of bills and necessities.

Ruth looks at her husband’s thoughtful countenance. She feels such guilt for burdening him with her condition but she doesn’t regret marrying him and promising to share the rest of her life with the kind man. Damocles makes the effort to always support her and assure her that he loves her regardless of her condition and affiliated insecurities. He loves her for her smile, her beautiful eyes, her delicious cooking, her kind heart, her precious love of books, her talent for embroidery, her loving words and the fact that he feels whole with her. The moment he said his vows and uttered the words ‘I do’, he had pledged to take care of her wholeheartedly and he intends to keep that promise, in the same fashion she does.    

“Sweetheart…” Ruth pleads with her eyes, staring up at her husband as tears well up in their eyes. They don’t know your full intentions but they’re willing to do whatever it takes. 

‘I want to take care of her,’

‘I want to be good to him’

“…alright, it’s a deal,”

You leave the store with the promise of visiting the Belby couple again soon, where you plan on catching up with Damocles’ progress and discuss future endeavours with the confidential project. The buzz and thrill pulse through your arterial system like an effusive river, unable to stop and eager to run its course all the way to its estuary but you don’t have one so the rush will have to calm on its own. 

This was a step forward in helping Remus and Ruth as well as many more werewolves across the country. The week you were shut out of the shop because of Damocles’ absence, you’ve been relentlessly planning your future tactics. It’s led to further elaborations on your other plans as well as the inclusion of other entirely new plots. You not only have the power and insight to help your darling sons but a myriad of other characters as well. There wasn’t going to be a chance of you doing one without the other now. Everything is interconnected in this universe; if you help Remus, you’ll also be helping Sirius and Regulus. Everything connects to your beautiful sons — you weren’t going to neglect a single path forward. It’s ambitious but when has a challenge ever stopped you from moving forward somehow? Never. 

Entering 12 Grimmauld Place, you were met with an eerie quietness. Searching for the time on the grandfather clock down the hall, you realise that Regulus would have finished his lesson a little while ago, nearing half an hour. The realisation jumpstarts your nerves and you’re rushing up the stairs to greet him at the Library; that’s where he usually goes to consolidate his lesson notes. You can vividly imagine him bent over a desk, carefully skimming over inky parchment as a plate of snacks and a cup of tea sit within arms reach of him, courtesy of Kreacher. When you peek into the Library, however, there isn’t a trace of Regulus anywhere. Where could he be? Regulus is fond of his routines and doesn’t normally stray from them, especially when it comes to his workflow study habits. 

Why do I have a bad feeling?... You think to yourself, placing a trembling hand over your thundering heart. The silence around you is deafening now and you have to hold back on rampaging through the house. Orion is home… In situations like this, you must stay calm. If Orion has done something to Regulus, it’ll be best if he doesn’t know you’ve come home yet. 

“Mistress! Mistress!” Kreacher appears out of thin air, tugging anxiously at his ears with eyes as wide as saucers. The panic in his watery gaze sets your own heart racing with apprehension. You already know what may be happening.

“Where is Regulus?”

“The vault, Mistress! The vault!”

You’ve never been in the very upper levels of the house before. It never felt worthy of exploration when you wanted to focus on your boys and the plans you’re slowly beginning to implement for them and the universe. 

The uppermost floor of the house was an attic space that had the far end shut off as a separate room. This area must be due to some space-warping magic because the roof was flat from the outside but the ceiling of this large room had the typical triangular roof shape. Boxes and other miscellaneous items litter about the, otherwise, sparse area, providing plenty of nooks and crannies for spiders and other creepy-crawlies to make a home in. Kreacher stays by the skirt of your dress, trembling from restlessness as you lean further into the room. He informed you that Regulus was forcibly dragged up here by Orion as soon as he saw off Peony at the fireplace. Orion had been peacefully reading The Daily Prophet in an armchair in the corner of the living room. Regulus was jumped by his own father. The old dirtbag must still be incensed by Sirius’ sorting ceremony and what had occurred at the Headmaster’s office. 

Narrowing your gaze, you focus on Orion, who leans against the locked door of the attic’s separate room. The iron wall that sectioned it off blended into the metal door that was firmly shut. From within that small, hollow, metal room came desperate banging, presumably from Regulus hitting the walls with his closed fists. The thought makes your hand clench around your wand tightly. This pathetic bastard has a death wish…

“If your brother had been sorted into Slytherin this wouldn’t be happening Regulus! How big of a disappointment the both of you are!”

“Father! I’m sorry!” Regulus’ pleading comes out muffled through the metal walls and door, you can barely hear him. It makes you want to hollow out your chest with the way your heart is relentlessly clenching down on itself.

“When you turn eleven and enter Hogwarts, you better be sorted into Slytherin OR ELSE YOU WILL BE IN FOR A WORLD OF PAIN! DO YOU HEAR ME?!”

“…n-no father…” 

“WHAT WAS THAT?!!! REGULUS?!!!” Orion’s angry shout was met with silence and he punches the mental door in anger, the force making the structure shake, “ANSWER ME, BOY!”

“Flippendo!”you utter angrily under your breath with your wand raised at Orion’s turned back. The spell sends him flying forward with a startled scream. His head hits the metal door and he’s immediately knocked unconscious. You don’t wait a second further to rush forward and unlock the metal door. It takes a great amount of effort to pull open with its heftiness but maternal instincts make it as simple as opening any normal door. 

“Mother!” Regulus cries at the sight of you from where he’s seated directly behind the door. The enclosed space was incredibly dark, there wasn’t a window anywhere. With the light filtering in past your silhouette, you looked like an angel sent to rescue him. 

“Let's get you out of this horrid room, darling,” it’s hard to relax or temper your anger when you’re looking upon your trembling son who should only ever be smiling. You don’t want him spending a second longer in this horrible attic so you quickly lift him into your arms and rush him down to his room as he cries freely from relief. 

You weren’t in a hurry to get Regulus settled beneath his blankets and tucked in; having him in your arms was a firm reassurance that he’s with you, safe and sound so you’re reluctant to let him go. Nevertheless, you get him settle him down and sit at his bedside before flicking your wand up. The gesture draws back the curtains to their furthest limits and opens up the windows to allow in some fresh air. 

“You’re okay, darling. Mother’s here now…” you whisper, gently petting his forehead and combing back his inky curls. Beneath the covers, Regulus can’t seem to stop himself from shaking but enjoys the sunlight pouring in through the windows and the cooling breeze that caresses his pale, tear-streaked cheeks. He hasn’t said a single word and neither have you. His gaze remains transfixed on the open window where the blue skies are decorated with floating clouds. You watch as his anxious expression gradually loosens, unfurling into one without emotion. “My love?…” the tension in Regulus’ small shoulders and tight limbs melts away when your voice finally breaks through the ringing in his ears. “I’m so sorry…I didn’t mean to leave you home alone…”

His eyes flicker up to hold your gaze. He watches as tears gather at your waterline before spilling over in a cascade of glittering diamonds, created under the mounted pressure that was your love and panic for him and his wellbeing.

“Mother is so incredibly sorry,” you cradle his small hand in your own before pressing his palm against your tearful cheek. “Please forgive me, I promise I won’t let this happen ever again,”

You had nothing to be sorry for. It wasn’t your fault. Regulus was frightened and shaken up by his father’s aggressive and malicious expression of contempt, you had done nothing. Regulus would willingly go through that all over again if it meant his father didn’t get to touch Sirius. For the longest time, Sirius had been his only protector and now he has you too. He can bear anything if it means keeping his older brother safe the same way he kept Regulus safe before you came to protect both of them. For the longest time, it felt as if they were the only two people who truly understood each other — it still largely feels that way — and that they were the only ones who knew how to protect each other properly. But that wasn’t the case anymore because they have you now. Beautiful, amazing, motherly you. 

Oftentimes, Regulus would remember the day you had such a drastic personality change. It started normal despite the odd behaviour you had been partaking in leading up to that moment, spending more time in the private quarters meant only for the ladies of the Black family. It had been happening for weeks and the behaviour was odd but since it’s led to such a change of heart in you, the two brothers didn’t question it. 

Here you are now, apologising for his father’s abuse and tearfully pleading for his forgiveness. Regulus never would have imagined witnessing the beautiful image of his mother expressing such sincere sorrow and guilt over his ailing form. The youngest Black thinks he could be dreaming, still back in that claustrophobic attic vault and conjuring up a hallucination to save himself from the mental turmoil the small space puts him through. Sirius had nothing to worry about when he left for Hogwarts because, no matter what, you’ll be there for him and Regulus, even if it means going against Orion. 

“It’s okay, Mother,” Regulus softly smiles up at you, his brows furrowing slightly when his words make your tears pour out in more globulous amounts. 

“This won’t happen again, I swear it,” you press a kiss against his small palm. 

“I know,” the trust and belief Regulus has in you shines through in the glimmer of his eyes, catching the sunlight pouring in from his windows. With your heart stuttering in your chest, you pause before opening your arms and leaning forward to embrace his form through the blankets. “NO!”with a loud shout, Regulus pushes you away and presses his eyes tightly closed.

When Regulus opens his eyes again, you’re frozen in place with wide, shocked eyes. You don’t know what to do. In your chest, your heart breaks at the notion that Regulus doesn’t want to be touched by you but there’s a side of you that reassures his reaction is natural considering what he had just gone through. The conflicting emotions freeze up your limbs and leave you motionless, vulnerable to be swayed onto either side.

Realisation dawns on the youngest Black brother and a frightened gasp escapes him before he’s apologising profusely. Tears reappear at his waterline and threaten to spill over at the thought of pushing you away when all you wanted to do was comfort him. He needs to explain! He has to explain! 

Please don’t hate me! Please don’t hate me! Pleasedon’thateme!

“I’m sorry, Mother!” Regulus reaches for your hand and squeezes it in between his own, “I-I don’t feel comfortable in tight spaces, I don’t want to be h-hugged right now,” you have reminded him and Sirius multiple times that they have the right to communicate their emotions, wants and needs. The important thing you always emphasised was that you would never be angry at them for doing that – Regulus is holding you to your word but waits with bated breath for your response.  

His words were all the confirmation you needed to relax. Of course, that was what he was worried about most. How stupid and selfish of you to make this situation about yourself when Regulus had gone through something so traumatising. 

“Don’t worry, my love, I should have been more considerate of you,” you carefully shush him and wipe away his silent tears, resisting the urge to lean in and take up more of his personal space, “please don’t cry, you have nothing to be sorry for…if you don’t feel comfortable with anything please tell me right away. I promise I won’t get angry or take offence,” you look into his eyes earnestly, reiterating the words you always reminded him and his brother of. It makes Regulus smile softly; you kept your word, “I only want you to be comfortable and happy, always, okay?”

Regulus calms down and nods affirmatively, his smile growing. You agree to hold his hand in silence while he falls asleep and relish being allowed to stay close despite what happened to him earlier. His hand is small but his grip is strong, he doesn’t seem to want to let go of your hand, even in his sleep. You will protect him forever and always. 

While Regulus rests peacefully in his room, you carefully slip away from his hold to make dinner. His favourite. So is dessert. He’ll be eating all of his favourites for the next week and he’s getting spoiled rotten. As usual, Kreacher accompanies you and ambles about the kitchen under your precise instructions, however, you have a special task for him tonight. 

“Is Orion still unconscious in the attic, Kreacher?” you ask monotonously. 

“Y-yes mistress,“

“Good,” you chirp cheerfully, “Please move him to the bottom of the third staircase,” Kreacher gives you a curious look but doesn’t question your intentions. 

“And then, mistress?”

“Leave him there,” in a blink, Kreacher had disappeared to do your bidding. The house elf doesn’t know what you have planned for the patriarch but knows it would be to avenge the young master. That was enough for Kreacher. 

When Kreacher rejoins you in the kitchen to finish preparing Regulus’ dinner, you proceed to tell him that he move Orion to bed as soon as he wakes up. But only when he wakes up. 

“Whatever the mistress says,” Kreacher nods. 

When you bring up the trays for Regulus, he’s still peacefully asleep in bed so you place his food at his bedside and ask Kreacher to keep the meal warm by putting a spell on the plates like he often does with yours and the boys’ tea. It’s then that the wrinkly elf perks up and alerts you that Orion has awoken. Nodding briefly at him, he disappears with a snap of his fingers and you immediately know he’s gone to do as you’ve asked earlier on. While he does that, you fetch Orion’s dinner as well, which is simple tomato soup with garlic bread — it’s more than he deserves. 

As soon as you enter the room with the food tray, you hear Orion muttering to himself bitterly as he sits up in bed, “Useless house elf, leaving me at the bottom of the stairs,”

“I told Kreacher to leave you there,” you explain gently as you approach his bedside. 

“WHAT?!”

“Calm down, Orion, you’ll only hurt yourself more if you act so excited after just waking up,” as if on cue, Orion groans and falls back with a hand pressed against his temple, “See? Here, I’ve made dinner to help you feel better, eat it at your own pace,” it hurts you to smile at him after what he’s done to your sweet, precious Regulus but you have to be patient. You’ll bring the axe down on his neck soon. You can’t believe you were willing to settle for divorce alone but that’s not enough for someone like him. Now, you have something much more fitting in mind.

“Why did you tell Kreacher to leave me there?” Orion doesn’t take the food right away, only giving it a brief side-ways glance before trying to figure out what happened. 

“It was for your safety. It looked like you hit your head and that’s a very sensitive place, I was worried that if he moved you, he’d end up carelessly hurting you even more and we don’t want that…”

With a huff, he deems your explanation decent enough and finally sits up again, reaching for his food. You smile even more, eagerly anticipating his replenishment on your home-cooked meal when he stops to ask something, “Did you have something to do with this?…” He gestures to his temple subtly, referring to his injury. 

“Of course, I did,” you answer simply, ignoring the blend of shock and fury that consumes his expression, “I made sure your meal was very nutritious so you can heal properly,”

“That’s not what I—… never mind,” Orion sighs in defeat and slowly begins to eat in bed. He gives an occasional groan of protest, reaching up and making it obvious how uncomfortable his temple is, silently asking for additional attention and care. He’s not getting any of that from you. Rather, you quite enjoy his uncomfortable musings. You won’t take initiative, instead, you’ll wait until he explicitly asks for a healing potion before finally giving him one. You’ll ensure that Kreacher is informed of this too. He’s a mere house elf, after all, your stupid husband can’t expect Kreacher to make any helpful suggestions. 

“Make sure to eat everything, it’s to help with your health, okay?” you leave him to finish off his meal alone, smiling all the way to Regulus’ room. 

‘YOU PUT SOMETHING IN MY HUSBAND’S FOOD! I SAW IT!’ Walburga screeches in your head. For once, it comes out as music to your ears. The laxatives were from a muggle store so she has no clue what you’ve done.

‘Now, now Walburga,’ you inwardly voice in a patient and gentle tone, ‘Orion was very naughty doing that to Regulus while I was away. So kindly SHUT THE FUCK UP AND ENJOY THE SHOW YOU FOUL, EMACIATED, UGLY BITCH!’ that shuts her up nicely just as you’re about to enter Regulus’ bedroom again, smirking to yourself at Orion’s imminent doom.  

‘Enjoy the explosive diarrhoea you disgusting prick,' 

You also manage to bring up a second helping of food so you can eat together with Regulus when he finally wakes and has the appetite for dinner. In the meantime, you brought your notebook of plans to continue your scheming at Regulus’ desk. You had spent some time admiring his layout and the way he organises his stationery. He has quite a mature system in place for someone so young but it was something you admired — you can tell how incredibly bright his future is going to be just from seeing how he sets up his workplace. Truthfully, the set-up helped motivate you more, you want to preserve your youngest son’s hopes, dreams, happiness and everything about him so that he can live a fulfilled life — not even his desk will be touched by those with malicious intent or anyone that wanted to drag him down. 

Your specific plans for tonight focus solely on the wolfsbane potion and trying to remember everything about it in your universe. From the corner of your eye, you have the perfect image of Regulus peacefully sleeping in bed, tucked up and cosy. There isn’t a single sign of terror to agitate his precious features, rather, he looks completely at peace. This is how he should always look. The image encourages you to push forward, trying to remember any bit of helpful information from your previous life as a Harry Potter fan. Even if the clue may seem unhelpful or completely made up, you write it down regardless. 

‘All this and for what?!’ the nagging voice in the back of your head makes another appearance but you simply roll your eyes. If you give her more attention than she deserves, you’ll only spur her on more, ‘not only is my son part of that foolish house but you’re making such efforts for disgusting half-breeds! Ridiculous! Have you no shame?!’she screeches unpleasantly to the point of making your inner ears ache. However, it was at that moment that a thought occurred to you. It’s strange…very strange. Orion made his displeasure of Sirius’ sorting known the instant he heard the news but Walburga only voices her dissatisfaction now. 

‘When I think about it… you didn’t freak out half as much as Orion when letters gossiping of Sirius’ sorting came. I was fully predicting a meltdown that would put me in a coma for a day or two,’ you internally voice, passing it off as an innocuous comment in the hopes that it leaves her naive to your true intentions. 

‘Your sickening plans for that pin were too much of a distraction!’Walburga excuses as you keep quiet. If you interrupt her ramblings, you won’t be able to pick up on the reasoning behind her actions. It’s best to let her get ahead of herself, the fool, ‘Typical for a soft-hearted, feeble muggle like you! Celebrating such a dishonourable sorting ceremony result! It’s simply humiliating! Rather than that revolting pin, I sent that no good son of mine a howler the day after his sorting. Useless child! He’s no Black, he’s a no-good, mud-blood-loving, blood-traitor who likes to engage with half-breeds and is an utter disgrace to his family! Associating himself with that ‘light’ Potter family, engaging with filthy mudbloods and blood traitors — dirty! The lot of them! Regulus is my only good child, if only he hadn’t gotten himself killed trying to leave the organisation, he would have been my perfect son!’

‘H— How do you know that?…and how do you know about his ‘half-breed’ friend you vile piece of shit?’ as always, her disgusting attitude makes your blood boil on Remus’ and Ruth’s behalf. How dare she act so high and mighty when she’s the most unpleasant person to ever exist? She doesn’t answer your question, instead, she becomes eerily quiet once more. Scoffing at her cowardly departure from the conversation, you make an urgent annotation in your notebook. Hopefully, this will lead to some answers. 

‘Investigate the first room you woke up in’

SERIES M.LIST | NEXT. 07 : INVESTIGATIONS →

A/N : This was longer than I intended but a lot has happened so I hope you enjoy the read regardless. I'm sorry for what happened to our baby but we'll be there for him as you were able to see. No way are we letting that slide nor are we going to let that happen any longer. 

Thank you again to all the darlings who always show their love and support of this series, even though I adore writing it and planning future chapters, it's also really time-consuming and exhausting to keep up at points so it really means a lot when I see that you darlings enjoy the read and look forward to series updates. 

please like, comment and reblog to show your support, i'd really appreciate it! property of kquil ; all written content is mine and no one else's unless stated otherwise ; do not steal, plagiarise, modify or translate to other sites

[the-apocrypha]

Cottagecore Series DVD Bonus Features

By popular request: the deleted scenes of how Dream and Hob ended up confessing their respective Big Secrets to one another. Below the cut are a series of conversations that take place a few days after Dream announces his pregnancy with Orpheus, and they are incredibly angsty. They also heavily feature abortion as a conversation topic. These were originally written to intercut with at least two miracles but didn't end up working out due to tone issues, and also don't really work as a standalone fic, so. If you're interested--enjoy!

The possibility of a child—their child, their own, of them—had occasionally crossed Hob’s mind, in the same way that other fantastical things like dragons and public libraries did. Fleeting. Unformed. Simple, wonderful little daydreams. 

The reality of it was both impossibly more exciting and terrifying than he could have ever imagined. 

Hob thought of a beautiful child with tiny pointed ears and glowing amber eyes. He thought of a babe born to the world still and pale, never to draw a single breath of life. He thought of all the stories his mother used to tell him, the skipping games and the toy swords and songs that lived inside of him, waiting to be passed down to someone small and new. He thought of a fae child, enamored of the forest and magic and books of learning, with little use for its mortal father. 

Once, when Hob was young, his mother had been called to help an ewe who had been laboring for the better part of the day. Twin lambs, both trying to emerge at the same time.

They’d had mutton for dinner, that night. And for many nights after that. 

Hob could not stop thinking about it. About everything.

What if the child came out completely human. 

What if the child came out completely fae. 

“You told me once,” Hob said, the words leaving his mouth even as lead weights sank pits into his stomach, even as his heart said don’t ask this don’t ask this don’t do it, but he had to, he had to know. “You told me once. That it took you a very long time to grow up.” 

Dream paused. “Yes,” he said, at length. “But time in the realm of the fae is not so… linear as it is here. It is—it was subject to neither law nor order. Time was fickle. Changeable.” 

“You said that it was almost a hundred years.” 

“That was… a guess,” Dream said. 

Hob stared. 

“It was unusual,” Dream added. He did not meet Hob’s eyes. “It. It was a choice I made. The rest of my siblings came of age much faster than I.” 

“How fast?” Hob asked, heart in his throat. 

Dream swallowed. 

“How fast?” 

“The child is half mortal, Hob it should not—it will not age as a fae child would. It cannot, it—it will not have the same power, the same gifts, and moreover, the laws of this universe would not allow—” 

“Oh, you know that, do you?” Hob asked, eyebrows raised. “Like you knew that a mortal man couldn’t get you pregnant in the first place?” 

Dream flinched. 

Hob sighed, and scrubbed at his face. “I’m just. I’m just thinking. We don’t know what we’re going to get, eight months from now—” If they were going to get anything at all. “—and we’ve got zero precedent to go off of, here. It. It could be anything. It could grow like a human and take sixteen years and be done. But, it could also…” 

“It will not,” Dream said, but there was a traitorous wobble in his voice.

“It could,” Hob insisted. “It could, Dream, and we just. I just want to be prepared for that. I want you to be prepared for that.” 

Dream stared, like the whole world was crashing down around him. As if he had not considered this at all. “No.” 

“Yes.” 

“Hob—” 

“But, listen—listen, it’ll be okay,” Hob said hurriedly, and took Dream’s hands into his own. Put on the bravest face he could muster. “Whatever happens, it’ll be okay. I promise. I’ll be with you every step of the way, for. For as long as I can be. Even if it means being stuck in the terrible twos for an entire decade. You just might have to do the teenage years on your own, that’s all. And. You know. The thousand years that come after that.” 

Dream closed his eyes. 

Hob tried desperately to rally. “And, hey! The good news is, at least I won’t be around to give any dodgy sex talks when it comes time for that, since I obviously—” 

“Hob,” Dream said. 

“Though clearly pregnancy prevention isn’t your strong suit either,” Hob allowed. 

“Hob.” 

Dream’s eyes were open again, and they were full of tears. 

“Hob,” Dream said again, and it caught in his throat. “Hob, I—I am not going to live for another thousand years.” 

Hob frowned. “But—”

“I made,” Dream said, and with the next blink the tears spilled over, “a bargain.” 

The reason that Hob had kept it a secret for so long (was because he was a coward) was because, in his opinion, there had been no good that would come of the truth. 

Dream had assumed that the people of Eskham had turned against Hob for being a hedgewitch. He’d assumed in turn that mortals were prejudiced against any being with magic, which was a category that happened to include the fae but more importantly included Hob, who did not have the ability to summon tornadoes or fell ancient oaks. Dream still sweetly seethed about the injustices Hob’s own people had done upon him. He had yet to even once seem concerned for his own safety. 

This was fair. 

Dream had, after all, taken out an entire village of mortals in one wrothful fell swoop. 

Now, Dream had confessed what had happened in the aftermath of that massacre—what he had so readily sacrificed, to save Hob’s life—and it had been devastating in its own right. It had left Hob awake at night, imagining what it would be like to grow older and older and older, while his child did not. 

But it had also pulled on the string that unraveled whatever remained of their tapestried joy at the possibility of impending parenthood. The happiness was gone. The happiness should never have existed in the first place, because the ache of its absence was far worse than to have never known it at all. Hob could not believe he ever felt such simple, mindless elation at what had quickly become a question to which every answer was more horrifying than the last. 

Hob thought of a babe with perfectly pointed ears, stolen away in the night, drowned in the river. 

Hob thought of a child with huge, phosphorescent eyes, tied to a stake above a pile of dried tinder. Screaming.

Hob thought of black-nailed teenager who had had forty-odd years of childhood with its parents before they succumbed to old age, and left their child alone in a world it did not belong in. Orphaned. Ostracized. Hunted. 

It filled Hob’s stomach and left him unable to eat. It pressed down on his chest at night, and he could not sleep. 

And he knew what he needed to do. 

At the same table where Dream had confessed not three days ago, Hob sat himself heavily on the bench. 

Dream stared back wanly. He’d spent most of the morning vomiting copiously, which perhaps made this timing even worse, but Hob knew if he did not say it now he might never say it at all. 

“Dream,” Hob said carefully. The words stuck in his throat like glass, and they tore him open one by one as he forced them out. “There’s. The other day, when you told me about the bargain you made. I—there’s something that I should. Something I should have told you, before—something. Something.” He swallowed. “Something I. Something.” His nails dug into his palms. His heart was pounding in his ears. “Something—” 

“Hob.” 

Dream’s hand splayed across his chest is like ice on fire. Hob sucked in a breath, and relished the burn. 

He seized Dream’s hand in his own. Looked Dream in the eyes. Prepared to pull this one last thread of sanity for the person he loved more than anything in this world. 

“Something,” Hob said unevenly, holding onto Dream like a lifeline, “that I should have told you a long time ago. About. About Eskham.” 

Dream tilted his head, brows drawing together. “Eskham?” 

Hob nodded. 

“What about it?” Dream asked. 

He had no idea. He had no clue. 

“That day,” Hob said, and he was gripping Dream’s hand hard as if he could prevent the inevitable withdrawal. “When they came for me.” 

And Dream nodded. He reached out with his other hand to rest it on Hob’s forearm—a gesture meant as supportive that only served to make Hob’s stomach drop to new depths. 

But this was not about him. This was not even about Dream. It was about their child, carried one day into a town square with pitchforks at its throat and devil spawn in its ears. It was about deserved truths. 

“That day,” Hob said again. He swallowed against a dry tongue. Against the heart that was trying to escape through his throat. “That day. The mob. They weren’t looking for me.”

Dream stared. 

Hob’s heart was pounding so hard he thought he might be sick. 

He watched, as Dream’s face went from confusion, to realization, to—

Bloodless. 

Grey. Dead eyes and parted lips. Staring, but not seeing. 

“I—defended you,” Hob made himself say. “I wouldn’t tell them. Where you were. I told them that I loved you, that you were just as natural as any other creature in this realm and that I would rather die before I let any of them hurt you, and—” 

Dream yanked his hands back. 

Hob tried to hold on, but he wasn’t quick enough. Not strong enough. 

“You,” Dream whispered. 

“I don’t regret it,” Hob said frantically, almost angrily. He was losing control, the tidal wave of panic and horror sweeping him out to a roiling sea he could not swim in, and he barely knew which words would leave his mouth when he opened it again. “I haven’t regretted it for a single second, Dream, not once, not ever, I’d have burned on that stake a thousand times over before I let them touch you, I’d—” 

And Dream bolted. 

Hob leapt to his feet to follow—but his calf muscle seized, and he careened to the side and just barely managed to grab the table at the last second. Stood there, panting, gripping the table as his calf cramped hard enough to render the entire leg useless. Staring at the empty doorway. 

He deserved this, he supposed. 

It didn’t make it hurt any less. 

The summer air was thick and sweet beneath the canopy of the forest. The trees mostly blocked the breeze, but so also the warmth of the sun, which made it about as pleasant as any place was during the midday heat. They were sat at the base of an ancient yew tree that Dream favored, not far from the cottage, and had been for some time. Ravens chattered and rustled softly overhead. A large halo of bird shit was slowly accumulating around them. 

Dream inhaled as if to speak, for the third time in about as many minutes. This time, though, the words came. 

“I do not want. Our child. To be hunted.” 

Hob closed his eyes. “I know.” 

“We do not know what powers it will be born to. What features it will be born to.” 

Unspoken—the slimmest chance, the highest hope, that it would somehow be born wholly mortal. 

A mortal body. A mortal magic. A mortal lifespan. 

“We’ll do whatever we have to, to protect them. Whatever it takes. You know we will,” Hob said, and even as anxiety turned his stomach over, rage flared through him hot and fast. “Anyone that tries to lay a finger on our child, I’ll—I’ll kill ‘em. I would. Anyone. Everyone. And if they think I’m terrifying just wait until they meet the thirty-foot forest nightmare right behind me that can summon hail and rent the earth.” 

Dream swallowed. “Hail and earth. Did not save you.” 

Hob tightened his grip around Dream’s waist. “Yes it did.” 

“You—” 

“Yes it bloody well did. You saved my life that day, you fought, and if you hadn’t been there I—” 

“If I had not been there,” Dream interrupted darkly. He barked one harsh, bitter laugh. “If I had never inflicted myself upon you in the first place, then no mob would have ever come for you at all. You would be—” 

“Lonely,” Hob said. He tried desperately to keep the frustration from rising. “I told you. I would have been lonely, and bored, Dream, and I would have died in that house feeling as if I’d never truly lived at all. You are the best thing to ever happen to me.” 

“I nearly killed you,” Dream said. 

“You saved—”

“And now,” Dream continued, staring into the depths of the forest, “I have attempted to thrust a child upon you, without your consent. I have tried to sentence you to spending the rest of your meager years consumed in the care of a creature that will only suffer as a result of my own hubris—my own selfishness—and it will resent us. It will hate us. It will hate me, and it will be right to do so for—” 

“Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey,” Hob said, scrambling around in front of Dream, and cupping his face. 

Dream stared determinedly to the side, with eyes that were red-rimmed and shiny. His breaths came uneven and jagged. 

“You and I both know that you didn’t get pregnant on purpose,” Hob said fiercely. “You didn’t know better. I didn’t know better. Right?” 

“Hob—” 

“This isn’t something that you’ve done to me. To us. Neither one of us is to blame here. Not one little bit. And it wouldn’t matter anyway if it was, because whatever happens, you know that we’re in this together. We’re going to do what we always do, and make it work. Figure it out. Pregnancy, childbirth, parenthood, all of it. Together. Yeah?” 

Dream set his jaw, and at last met Hob’s eyes. Slowly, he reached up, and pulled Hob’s hands away from his face. 

“You argue. That we are absolved of any guilt, for what strife our child may face in life. Because we held no intention of conception, in our couplings,” Dream said. 

“...Yes?” Hob said, eyebrows raising. “I don’t think we can be blamed for bringing a child into the world when we didn’t know it was possible in the first place.” 

“Incorrect,” Dream disagreed. 

Hob opened his mouth, but Dream continued too quickly. 

“Ignorance acquits us from blame in the conception of this child, yes.” Dream’s hand moved, in the periphery of Hob’s vision, delving into the folds of his robe. “But we are not without agency, in these early months of pregnancy.” 

Dread swung sudden and hard into Hob’s chest, like a fist. 

“...What do you mean?” 

Dream held out his hand between them, and uncurled his fingers. A cluster of flowers rested there. 

Tansy. 

“It sings to me of… release,” Dream said. His thumb brushed over golden petals like spikes. “Of choice. Liberty. Of the harmonization of poison and medicine, as one.”

Hob took in a deep breath, because he was, for the first time in days, hopeful. 

Hob was also terrified. 

Hob was sick, sick, sick, sick. 

“I believe,” Dream whispered, eyes boring in Hob’s, “that it would be enough. To—take care of it.” 

There was a cup of water on the table, steaming and yellow with tansy. 

Choice, Dream said it sang. Release. Liberty. The harmonization of poison and medicine, as one. 

But to Hob, it was silent as a grave. 

Dream was holding the cup so tightly his knuckles had gone white. The steam had long disappeared from the cup, leaving only a stagnant yellow tonic. Hob had offered to leave the cottage twice and allow Dream some privacy, and on the second time Dream had grabbed his hand, hard, and he hadn’t let go since. 

Hob’s fingers ached where they were threaded through Dream’s, but he did not complain. 

He sat in silence, and watched Dream raise the cup to his mouth. 

Watched him inhale. 

Watched him close his eyes. 

Watched him press the rim of the cup to his lips. 

Watched as Dream froze, and was perfectly still for an eternity save for the tremble of the cup in his grasp—

And the cup slammed down onto the table, sloshing poison everywhere, and Dream gasped, “I cannot. I cannot, forgive me, Hob, I—” 

Hob grabbed him and pulled him in hard. “It’s okay—” 

“—I cannot do it, I cannot—” 

“—you don’t have to—” 

“I should,” Dream snarled, gripping the fabric of Hob’s tunic and pushing back. There were tears streaming down his face. “I should end it, I should be rid of it. It is. It is the only humane option, the only option that guarantees that—that—” 

“I know, love,” Hob said miserably, his own throat going tight and hot. “I know that. But—” 

“Hob,” Dream choked out. He tried to inhale, but could not. “Hob, I can—hear it.” 

Hob’s heart skipped a beat, and his mouth went numb. “Y-you—” 

“I can—” Dream slapped his hands over his mouth. He stared at Hob in horror. 

Dream, who could hear the songs of river stones and the herbs in the garden. Who communed with foxes and ancient oak trees alike. Who had come to Hob with news of this pregnancy but without explanation as to how he knew. 

“You can hear it,” Hob repeated blankly. 

“I should not have told you,” Dream said, shaking his head. His eyes were blank and unseeing and wet with tears. “I. I should not have told you, I told myself I would not, I—it should not matter. It does not matter.” 

“What does it sound like?” Hob asked. 

Dream looked up at him. His mouth opened, but no words came out. 

“Dream, what does it sound like?” 

He shouldn’t ask. 

He couldn’t not know. 

“Like. A songbird,” Dream whispered. 

A songbird. 

“The most beautiful—” Dream choked on a sob. “The most beautiful songbird, Hob, the most wonderful songbird in the world.” 

And Hob. Hob, quite abruptly, could not imagine a world where he did not one day get to hear that song. He could not imagine a world in which he did not get to hold their child in his arms this winter and instantly fall in love with whatever features the world had seen fit to give them, mortal or fae or some splendid combination of both. 

He could not imagine what it would be like, for Dream to sit at this table and drink down poison and then listen to the song of their child go silent. 

Dream sobbed in his arms. He begged for forgiveness—from Hob. Their future child. The universe. I have failed, he said, over and over again. Selfish, and weak, and worthless, he named himself, and he would not be consoled with any combination or repetition of words Hob had to offer. 

But still, the tansy sat untouched. 

Eventually, it went out the window. 

And the songbird lived another day.

[confused-cakepop]

So lately I've been seeing a lot of fanart of lloyd with long hair and the more I think about it the better it is!?

Something that's been repeatedly established about lloyd is the similarities he's had to his father and while its mainly focused on personality it's clear they look alike as well. I mean garmadon and lloyd have the same haircut and it's a hair cut lloyd has for a good chunk of the show making him look really similar to young garmadon because of it. It has also been established that lloyd hates the idea of being like his dad and even gets terrified when he sees his oni form in his reflection because of that fear, which connects it back into his appearance.

This leads me to believe that he'd want to look completely different so he wouldn't have to see his worst fear every time he looks in the mirror. Growing out his hair is an Easy way to do that and it can tie back to his days at darkleys where he presumably got his hair cut the same way every time and didn't have much of a choice considering all the boys got either the same or a very similar haircut.

Lloyd growing it out long goes against both his past at darkleys and his resemblance to his father. This also makes him look more like his mother as a result and while a lot of people hate misako in this Fandom I think the relationship between her and lloyd has a lot of potential and connecting lloyd to his mother's side of the family is something I really wanted to see.

Like imagine misako braiding lloyds hair for him just like the way her mother taught her how too. They quietly talk and catch up with eachother about misako's latest exploration or lloyds new training regimen. It ends up becoming a routine for them every time they get reunited. Because hair holds memories and they want to hold the ones they make together close.

He'll even look more like the FSM!!

Anyways long rant but long-haired lloyd supremacy. Rather it's shoulder length and well kept or absurdly long like jinx's hair from arcane is it will always be famous in my heart.

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Sister Act - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Silco recalls Jinx's nail journey...

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Gently, Silco cradles her good hand in both his own. The fingers are an artist's—fine and delicately jointed, with a hint of calluses.  He thinks of the vast casts of characters that'd leap routinely from those slender digits: disembodied heads doodled on his ledgers; an entire circus troupe sketched across the length of a map; a labyrinthine cityscape scrawled at the corners of his napkin.

And of course, her weapons.

Those deft fingers that fashioned death from the most prosaic materials. Revolvers lovingly polished to a high shine, their bullets gleaming like rows of pearl teeth.  The tiniest detonator, tucked inside a ballpoint pen, that could bring an entire tunnel down around their ears. Grenades, smoke bombs, incendiaries—spotless save for her clever, clever fingerprints all over them.

Perfection and ruination; entropy and order. It was all the same to her. All simply a matter of scale.

Heaven and hell, rolled into a single girlish package.

Her fingers are cold in Silco's. He rubs them together, his breath a warm mist over the fragile digits.

The cuticles are split; the nail polish is peeling. Yet another detail that'll upset her when she wakes. She'd always taken such care with her hands. A natural teenage sensitivity that was endearing even at its most finicky. She'd reveled in the grease and grime of her workshop. But her skin, her hair, her nails, she'd kept scrupulously clean.

It hadn't begun that way. In the beginning, she'd been a grubby armful of girl, with black-rimmed crescents for fingernails, and the worst case of nits he'd ever seen. Sevika used to make a game of plucking the little bastards out and pinning them to her grease-stained overalls, one by one. Silco's teeth-gritted endeavors with soap and scissors—and the fiasco at the salon—are well-known.

Then there was her nail-biting habit.

So often he'd admonished, reprimanded, blown his stack—'Nervous tics are the telltale of a weak mind, child'—to no avail. She'd carried on shredding her fingertips until they bled.

Finally Silco hit upon the perfect solution:

Getting them painted.

She'd been dubious at first. The nail polish fumes made her face pucker like a dried prune. Her incorrigible wiggling—the girl was more worm than human—resulted in disaster upon disaster of gloopy, half-dried coatings. As did the inevitable accidents: a careless wave and a smear of candy pink would stain a silk cravat beyond repair, or a swipe of impudent little mitts would leave a baby-blue streak across a newly-purchased settee.

Silco, who'd never painted so much as a fence in his life, had his work cut out for him.

But he'd never regretted a moment of it.

Under his careful handiwork, the grubby nubs transformed, day by day, into the daintiest delights. She ceased gnawing and fretting; she began to cherish the lacquer, the way she did anything shiny. For Silco, there was a strange tenderness in watching her preen. The way she'd flutter her fingers, posing and pantomiming, as if she were stealing his signature flourish and making it her own.  There was pride, too, in knowing that it was she, all unawares, who'd taught him a newfound patience, and brought a rare grace to his cutthroat's hands.

Remade them into a father's.

And when the paint would inevitably chip or peel, she'd come running.

"Silly! Heeeelp!"

The Eye of Zaun—scourge of the Undercity—reduced to a manicurist.

It never failed to summon a smile.

She'd adored the color palettes: the glittering gold, the fiery red, the neon green. She'd desired every hue of the rainbow, and Silco had obliged her, as he'd always did. Her favorite, of course, was blue and pink: a shade the Undercity cosmeticians called 'Sister Act'. One half, a pastel, pearlescent blue. The other, a bright, electric pink. The colors were always carefully divided, like a barber's stripes. 

As the years passed, her palette evolved. There were the gothic blacks and dramatic purples; shimmering metallics and hypnotic gradients. At one point, there was a craze of studded rhinestones and stick-on sequins. And, as she matured, her love affair with the decal: a tiny, perfect, painstakingly illustrated scene on each finger. The most elaborate one took her nearly three hours to complete: a delicate watercolor sunset, complete with fluffy clouds and a flock of tiny seagulls, all painted across a background of turquoise sea.

But her true passion remained the Sister Act.

Gently, Silco squeezes her little hand in his own.

How fast the years go. How short their time together feels. How many years since those little starfishing hands clung to his neck, as his blue menace demanded a piggyback ride? As she skinned her knees and bruised her elbows; as she stumbled and screwed up and found her feet again? As her voice, a tiny piping thing, changed to a scratchy soprano; as her body, a wiry little twig, grew supple and soft and killingly sleek. As she grew out of his arms, and out of his reach.

Gods, he should've held her more.

He should've never let her go.

[pix-writes]

Uhhhh Stan adopting a teenage runaway who came from an abusive home. (He sees a lot of his past self when he was homeless in them and vows to save them from the life he had)

This is kind of adjacent to an idea for a fic I've already had! But I couldn't resist doing a little bit about this scenario! <3

Stan has already basically adopted Wendy and Soos already, even without fully meaning to with Soos he sees that he needs a father figure in his life and sort-of does the best he can to be that. With Wendy, its different too because it's basically canon that he just lets her get away with stuff because he knows she needs somewhere away from home to relax (even tho he could definitely get another employee who doesn't bunk off so much). Will he admit that's what he's doing though? Of course not!

Despite his exterior/persona, though, Stanley Pines is a kind man who wants to help people who most need it - like you say, he's been in that position enough times himself. I'm sure there's been the occaisonal person who's helped him out in the past, even if they never stuck around. Well, now he's Mr Mystery, he can sort-of be that person for others, not just because he's more stable, but also because he desperatly wants connection, especially after losing his brother in the portal (though that's also a reason to keep everyone at arms length to an extent, so they can never find out about his double life).

Runaway teen & Stan pines (under cut):

I can imagine you ran away from home and come across Gravity Falls, perhaps you had even seen the ads for tourist stops in this area, or maybe you just found the most random small town on your travels and decided to stop there - your travels are erratic so that no one can follow you or suspect you of being a runaway. Not that you really expect your parents to be concerned, at least not for long. That's why you had to get away and stay gone, you had reached your breaking point for what you could handle.

It starts to rain, you go to the local diner but your travel money is fast becoming less and less... you only order coffee, nursing it there for as long as possible, but when business starts to pick up you realise just how small of a town it is, everyone seems to know nearly everybody around here! You've already gotten a few curious glances or greetings put your way and you decide to leave.

Wandering around, you end up on the outskirts of town, there's a fair few campsites around, now lying half empty since its off-season right now, maybe you coud stay on the edge of the forest somewhere? Pinch some tent equipment from somewhere or from someone who doesn't need it? You already had a sleeping bag, water bottle, a torch. You just needed something to keep more of the rain off of you!

That's when you wander into an opening within the forest, notice the wooden signs nailed to the trees. You see a small group of tourists being spoken to by some guy, his voice carrying across the place, gravelly and jovial, and in your surprise you just stare dumbfounded - this place isn't closed? The group is moving and you take in your surroundings and you're so cold and wet and hungry, you're not really thinking ahead when go in, pulling your hoodie down over your face and sneaking in beind the throng of people, unnoticed.

But it turns out that you had been noticed, after the bizarre tour of this overpriced tourist trap, you lurk behind, the rain hasn't let up outside and you're wondering when the place might close, now that the tourists had filtered out the place was pretty dead, which is when a large hand lands on your shoulder making you jump out of your skin and your eyes land on the proprietor.

"Hey! You gonna at least buy anything, kid?"

You apologise and stutter, feeling like you want to bolt but totally caught at the same time. Stan immediately picks up on the fact that you're so twitchy, even for a teen. He eases up on you, switching to a friendlier tone. Wendy asks you where you're staying, curiosity getting the better of her usually nonchalant demeanour. You tell them you just got lost from the campsite and Stan isn't buying it one bit but Wendy has given you the directions and you're out of the door. The interaction doesn't sit right with him. He knows exactly where you're hiding out by the time you've stayed there overnight. Having discovered the pop up tent you 'found' set up in the woods not far away.

He decides to keep an eye on you, he's worried being direct will make startle you, like a deer in headlights, at the diner he doesn't acknowledge you at first just pushes a plate of food subtly towards you, for you to swipe. After that he manages to make small talk, hes still wondering how he can help you, what excuse he can make so it seems like he's offering you something and it be believable instead of suspicious.

Maybe he complains there's no one around to do the stock take now that summer is well and truly over, you perk up, saying you'd like some extra pocket money. You come right on time and the owner of the Mystery Shack introduces himself properly, shows you what you need to do. You take your time, living rough has made you exhausted mentally/physically, and because... you've begun to like the place as kooky as it is. And wouldn't you know it, Mr Pines has made more food than he expected and wouldn't you like some? You come back the next day and its pretty much the same, though you are starting to pick up on where Stan is subtly gaining information on you. He both curses and admires how whip-smart you are, reminds him of himself a lot further into being homeless than you are (reminds him of someone else too...), he worries that night of whether you'll have run off, if you'd get into trouble somewhere else, but you return the following afternoon. This time, Stan levels with you -

"Look kid, I don't know what's going on at home and trust me when I say I get it - but whatever's going on, it's probably not worth staying out in the woods, epseically 'round here, it's dangerous!" He reassures you he's not going to call anyone, though, just asks you to reconsider, think about how much trouble you might get into, if you don't turn up to school how you're going to explain yourself, how are you going to get a job? You swipe frustrated tears from your eyes and thank him for being concerned, though its hollow. How can you return home now? All you're going to get is more abuse, you can only think of how angry they'll all be if you did!

You end up wandering to some other town, using the money Stan gave you to get a bus and find a place to stay, having seen a load of jobs you could apply for. Turns out though, that some of your family had been looking for you and tracked your phone, you end up in a fight with them, receiving a hard slap to the face before running away once more! You pack up your things and head straight to the first place you think of.

Once you get there, its dark, you hesitate before knocking but you've came all this way. When Stan opens the door all of the shock and adrenaline has seemed to have worn off and you see the mix of sadness, surprise and anger on his face at the clear mark on your face from the fight.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know where else to go." Is all you can get out before bursting into tears. He let's you stay, you've been out in the cold and so stressed over this time that when you come in you're shivering, you end up running a nasty fever. You're so exhausted there's nothing left but to accept your fate and Stan feels he must help you. He piles on the blankets and gives you hot drinks and plain food till the fever runs its course.

He still has a bit of trouble with authorities/some family members looking for you in the area, you traded your old phone in for another and Stan was eventually able to brush them off your trail. He couldn't help it, he liked the kid in the small amount of time he knew them and it was clear that you had danger waiting for you at home. You had told him a little after the first night you had stayed at the shack, words tumbling out of your mouth about your trauma, how you couldn't stand your family. His heart sank as he remembered his own life as a young man, a kid technically, homeless and making ends meet and was determined you wouldn't have the same fate. Yet he had to know you were sure.

"You really want to stay here - in this boring ol' town? At the shack?" You were determined you would, as long as he was okay with that, you vowed to work hard, sweep the floors, keep an eye on the gift shop when Wendy couldn't, anything to be useful. But, you didn't want him to get into trouble. Too little too late for that, he thought to himself.

"But, really do ya want to see this ugly mug every day?" He said gesturing to his face. That brought a slight smile to your face, in fact you ended up giggling and he knew he wouldn't be able to get rid of you now (like he ever would've entertained it).

He sighed. "So, do you trust me? Cause I need some kind of story if ya gonna stay here, kiddo."

He needed a lot more than that of course, he ended up getting you a fake ID and if anyone asked, you were family, here to stay for a while. When people asked anything more than that he got cagey, but he liked thinking of you being a Pines, another part of the family. Part of him felt guilty for doing it too, faking that you had the same last name, he still thought you might not want to stick around, you weren't blood family to him, you had no ties to him, but he wanted family so badly, was it so bad to pretend that you were?

He made sure you got to school, he even started to pack you lunches every day, he wasn't so bothered about homework, saying he didn't think much of school when he went anyway, you both had something more important than that (street smarts!), but when you were struggling with your math homework you were surprised that he semmed to know an awful lot, but then again you probably shouldn't be surprised, he did own a business after all. Whilst there wasn't a lot to do around the Mystery Shack all year round, you still found yourself picking up around the house part of the Shack, doing the laundry, washing the dishes, normal chore stuff - isn't that what teens were supposed to do? Stan was surprised to see a teen do chores unprompted and you were nervous that you'd done something wrong, because why else would he be questioning you? He recovered quickly though and just grumbled out something about 'finally, someone who knows how to pick up after themselves/work' but from the expression on his face, you are relieved to know that he is joking with you and he isn't mad. You're picking up on his quirks.

The months roll by and you started to feel safer, the shack became more familiar, you were less frightened and jumpy, people in town were more friendly, familiar faces and if people knew that you weren't actually related, that you were a runaway, they didn't say anything at all. You were starting to be referred to as 'Stan's kid'. No one had said so in front of Stan so far as you knew, it made you feel some residual guilt, even after all that you're family had done, were you really not a burden to Stan? Was it wrong to see him like a parent? What would you do if he no longer wanted you around? But as much as you were scared of being rejected, a situation came up at the Shack at the beginning of your first summer in the falls. A gathering was forming for a tour and some tourist had asked something or assumed he was your parent, something like that. Unbeknownst to you Stan had heard and he freezed, unconsciously waiting on your response.

"Oh, you'll wanna ask my dad, he's the one over there in the fez?" It just slipped out, you should've said Mr Mystery at work, but you couldn't help the feeling in your chest that it was right. Ever since then you had been tentatively saying it (you eventually start to notice how when you knew Stan had heard it he seemed a little emotional) and Stan now proudly referred to you as 'his kid'. You may or may not call him 'dad' to his face, maybe you'll still just call him 'Stan' but it seems like now you officially have a family!

[askinkiskarma]

hi, could you do the biggest neteyam kinks please.

Love your write <3

i got about 5 of these requests so I'll just do one haahahah. i love how much people loved my dilf!jake's biggest kinks, i might have to do a part 2 for that soon! but let's see neteyam's. now, this might be a wildly unpopular opinion, but i actually don't think neteyam would be super kinky in bed (just me??). but there are a couple things that are cannon in my head about him:

wc: 850 words

na'vi compendium: yawne - love

smut under the cut, minors dni 🔞

switch kink/pleasure dom kink

neteyam will never be able to beat the switch allegations in my book. i think initially, when he's first starting out, he's be quite submissive, putty under your touch. "am i making you feel good, teyam?" you'd say, sinking slowly on his length, watching as, with every inch, he becomes more and more unravelled, eyes shut tightly, mouth agape, small whimpers escaping his lips as you begin grinding on him, overcome with the sensation overload from being stretched almost to the point of pain, so full of him you can't see straight anymore. riding him lets you see him, in all his glory, the sheen of his azure skin as a light layer of sweat coats it, the way his canines dig into his lower lip to stop himself from moaning at how good your walls feel taking him all in, moulding to the shape of his thick cock. you can't help yourself, as you swipe your tongue over where he drew blood, before closing your lips over his in a intricate dance you could never get enough of. "don't hide from me, teyam. i want to hear you, let me hear how good i make you feel." this little routine of yours didn't last long, until one day, you found yourself in the same position, enjoying your view, before you felt his core contracting and his arms encircling you and all of a sudden you're on your back, him still deep in you, and your little pained yelp was only met with a small chuckle and tongue lapping at your neck and jaw, leaving love bites everywhere in its wake. "i think it's time for you to be the one squirming for a change, hmm, yawne?" from that day on, the man will treat your body like an uncharted map filled with treasures that he's incredibly eager to uncover. he won't stop until he knows every erogenous spot and exactly when, and how, and where to touch, to lick, to bite, to suck - he wants nothing more than to see you come undone beneath him until you're crying from how overstimulated you are. nothing gets him off more than seeing you cum. "teyam, p-please, no more. i can't, argh, fuck!" his face is covered in your slick and cum as he's lapping at your folds once more, curling his fingers in you, stroking your walls in the spot he knows will get you to submit and allow him to do what he does best. "just one more, yawne. i need to make sure my baby's having a good time."

praise kink

"always doing so well for me, love." neteyam loves praising you. as someone who's constantly fought for his father's approval growing up, he knows how far being told you're doing well can go. "you feel fucking amazing, baby." he will shower you in praises as he's thrusting in you with enough force to knock the air out of your lungs, legs propped on his shoulders, dirty little whimpers and the sound of skin of skin the only thing that can be heard in your marui. "taking me so well, yawne." in a similar vein, neteyam loves being praised. nothing gets him to the brink of orgasm faster than when he can tell you're having a good time, then when he can tell he's making your eyes roll in the back of your head in unadulterated pleasure. "f-fuck, teyam! that feels so good! don't st-stop, please!" he feels himself twitch inside you at your words, and when your screams fill his ears with the third orgasm he's managed to coax out of you, he knows he's close, ready to fill you up. "i need you to come in me, teyam, please!" "yeah? can't wait for you to make me a dad, yawne. you're gonna be the most beautiful mum ever. make me the happiest man on the planet, i swear." the thought of you, plump and glowing, carrying his child, pushes him over the edge and he comes, thick spurts of warm cum coating your pretty walls, just the way he likes it. he smiles softly as the high subsides, the euphoria of having you by his side, of being able to do this with you everyday of his life so overpowering it almost hurts, and he takes his time trailing soft kisses in the crook of your neck."tell me how good i make you feel again, yawne." he can be such a brat i love him so much you honour

bonus: aftercare

not a kink, but this man is the blueprint when it comes to aftercare. he'd take care of you like it was his only job, from cradling your body in his arms, cooing gently and kissing your tears away, to taking his time cleaning you with a soft damp cloth, so you don't have to even get up, to whispering unending love letters on your skin in light touches and tender kisses, in words of i love you and you're everything to me and forever.

why did this turn fluffy at the end what is this who am i???

taglist: @fanboyluvr @yagirlheree @teyamsbitch

[r0-boat]

Larry with pregnant! S/o

Larry being cute over his pregnant significant other

Sfw cut for length

Cw: pregnancy, domestic

It is no secret that Larry is a busy person. He takes his job as not only an accountant but a gym leader and an elite four member very seriously and somehow still has time for all three and to have a pretty average romantic life.

His life was just about to get busier when you announced your pregnancy to him. Those onyx eyes widened in surprise as his lips parted, the most emotion you've seen from him since the two of you got together. Covering his mouth with his hand, you could see his cheeks and his ears Flushing as those onyx eyes of his sparkled with Glee. Felt the butterflies in his stomach, the same butterflies he had felt when he first fell for you.

Surprised to no one he still came into work for a while but a shock to everyone he started coming to work not on time 9:00 on the dot no this time he would come early,. In Larry's brain he wanted to be an excellent husband and father of your child and provide for the both of you, he didn't expect you to work in fact he himself would slightly discourage you from working, but he would remind you that it is your choice.

You noticed ever since the reveal of your pregnancy; your lover had become a little extra protective over you. Occasionally he would fret about sharp objects, furniture, and Pokemon, your safety when you are home alone. He called or texted to check in almost every hour when he was in the bathroom on break or between battles when he waited eagerly for the next Challenger.

When his coworkers asked about Larry coming in early, he dropped the news of your pregnancy months after you had told him(Larry is bad at telling people things). Hassle, with great interest, asks how far you are, and when Larry answers, Geeta, with a confused look on her face, responded, "What are you doing here then?" And thus his boss & his coworkers all collectively convinced him to finally use his vacation hours and go home✨

Here he was paid vacation, and all this free time. You are happy that partner and honestly a little surprised that Larry decided to stay home with you you knew how busy he was and didn't want to get in the way of his work.

Ever since Larry started to stay home, you begin to notice more things how his hand would idly start to drift towards your pregnant stomach. Your Larry before was never one for physical affection, but now, it seems He couldn't keep his hands off you.

Larry's fretting has gotten worse; now, suddenly, you're not allowed to do any more physical labor anymore. The guy even started cooking/bringing home food. Anytime he saw you doing something anything, he would say, "Here, let me help." and suddenly, he's doing the entire thing by himself while you're just standing there. You always hear him ask you if you need anything.

Larry was not used to having so much free time, so much so that he still kept himself busy attending to you; now that Larry was home, suddenly, you are no longer allowed to move from your bedroom. At the same time, Larry promised that he'd have a whole room remodeled into a nursery for the baby. It was lovely of him to think about your aching body, but you really wanted to help because this was your baby too.

Larry was a pretty average cook, but he always tried to make or get anything you craved.

His Staraptor would always try to settle atop your stomach as if you were its nest; you think it's the cutest thing, but Larry worried that his partner's sharp claws piercing your stomach would remove his bird Pokemon from you.

[mothercetrion]

I had a really angsty idea regarding certain aspects of Johnny's relationship with his father. under the cut for length and sensitive topics.

(CW for mentions of (physical) child abuse)

—

when Johnny is around eleven, he breaks some kind of one-of-a-kind thing in his dad's house when he is over there. he tries to cover it up, but his dad finds out when Jimmy (older brother) rats him out. Johnny tries to explain that it was an accident but is ignored, and his dad is angry at the inconvenience that Johnny has created and punishes him accordingly. it's one of the most notable instances of Johnny's dad being physically abusive to the point of him being frightened of him (and the fear of him remains, only getting worse as Johnny gets older). for months after, each time his dad lifts his hand, he flinches. he doesn't look his dad in the eye anymore so he doesn't look like he's intimidating (but he looks him in the eye when he's being yelled at; lack of eye contact means he's being disrespectful and just makes it worse). he memorizes the sound of his footsteps—and whether or not he's angry depending on those footsteps—to know if he needs to pretend to be asleep or hide from him.

when Johnny is 15, he accidentally breaks a plate when he's getting dinner. the plate shatters, and Johnny finds that breaking things period immediately causes a physical reaction. his stomach drops, he gets nauseous, and he gets incredibly tense, just waiting for his dad to get angry. it doesn't take long, and Johnny is punished accordingly and sent to his room without dinner that night. he cries himself to sleep and does so for many nights after when he dreams about his dad's reaction.

when Johnny is an adult, living alone in college, he breaks a plate again. his own plate, in his own home, and he still panics. he has a panic attack in his own kitchen and scrambles to clean it up, even though he's alone and his dad has been dead for a year. nothing's going to happen, and he still panics and hurries to get it up all the same.

when he and Kenshi are dating, maybe only for a few months, they plan a date night at Johnny's place. Johnny reaches up to get a glass down and it slips out of his hand, and it breaks into several large pieces at his feet. Kenshi is in the kitchen with him, and imagine his shock when Johnny physically flinches and falls to his knees to get it up. Johnny almost immediately starts panicking, his breaths rapid and shallow, and he is trembling from head to toe. he won't look at Kenshi, even when he asks him what's wrong, and he's focused on cleaning it up because Kenshi's going to be mad and he's going to yell at him and how could he have broken the glass like this and he's such a shitty boyfriend-

Kenshi kneels on the floor and tries talking to him more to find out what's going on because he is extremely worried. it's entirely out of character for Johnny to be so frazzled about anything, and he is clearly freaking out and in another world entirely. Johnny suddenly picks up a piece of glass and cuts his outer palm on accident. he doesn't react, and he doesn't slow down, even when it's clear that it's a bad cut. Kenshi's instincts take over, and he grabs Johnny's hand. Johnny physically jolts at the sensation and its lack of violence. "Johnny, you're hurt, stop. let me see," and Kenshi is so gentle and not at all angry that it immediately shatters the defense he has put up for himself—if he stops reacting to things, they can't bother him, he's fine, he isn't scared, he's not upset, he's fine, he's fine, he's fine—and Johnny immediately starts sobbing. within seconds, he's out of breath, and he's literally wailing. he covers his face with the hand not in Kenshi's, weakly trying to hide it from Kenshi, but it's clear all the same.

Kenshi is immediately confused because what the hell is going on? Johnny is panicking over a broken glass, and Kenshi unfortunately knows enough about Johnny's childhood (still very little, but enough all the same) to put the pieces together. he puts his other hand on Johnny and pulls him into a hug, and Johnny freaks out a little more before he fully leans into him. they sit on the floor for half an hour while Kenshi tries to bring Johnny back to reality, assuring him that he's safe, he's with Kenshi, they're at home, it's okay, he hasn't done anything wrong. Johnny apologizes under his breath over and over and over again, it's all he can do right then, it's all he's known. over apologizing when you aren't sure what you actually did wrong.

Johnny eventually stops panicking, and Kenshi just holds him a bit longer. his heart is still racing, and he's shaking from head to toe. but then Kenshi remembers that he's hurt, and he gently pushes him out of his hug and asks to see his hand. Johnny won't even look at him and shakes his head no. Kenshi says that he needs to see so he can help, assuring him again that he's not upset and just wants to make sure it's not that bad. Johnny doesn't say anything, so Kenshi takes his hand and looks at the cut. it's not enough for stitches but it'll have to be cleaned and covered regardless. Kenshi helps Johnny to his feet and guides him to the bathroom, and Johnny sits on the closed toilet while Kenshi kneels on the bathroom floor. he has to use Sento to see, and he gets the first aid kit and cleans the cut and covers it. Johnny occasionally flinches, and he's still shaking, and Kenshi comforts him with his free hand and an occasional vocal assurance. he's eventually taken care of in that regard, but he's still deeply frazzled and incredibly shaken.

Kenshi takes both of his hands, squeezes them as safely as he can. "breathe with me, Johnny," and they sit together and simply breathe for ten minutes or so. Johnny holds Kenshi's hands like a lifeline, and he shuts his eyes and slouches and focuses on his breathing. every now and then, a breath will hitch, and Kenshi kisses the tops of his hands and eventually moves their hands to Kenshi's chest so Johnny can feel his heartbeat. "you're safe. you're with me. you're doing great. breathe. breathe. breathe." Johnny is doing a lot better after that. however, he still hasn't said anything to Kenshi since everything started other than his apologies, and he's clearly mentally and physically exhausted. he needs to rest. "do you want to go lie down?" a nod. "alright, come on." Kenshi stands and pulls Johnny with him, and they walk together into the bedroom. Johnny sits on the edge of the bed, and Kenshi dismisses himself to let Johnny change (if he wants to, but he does not) and to get him a snack.

Kenshi goes into the kitchen and cleans up the broken glass. the mess truly wasn't that bad, and it took 45 seconds for him to get it disposed of. it makes the fact that Johnny panicked—and Kenshi's guess as to why—all the more gutting. Kenshi gets him a bottle of water, a bottle of blue Gatorade (his favorite), and a peanut butter Clif Bar. he goes back in the bedroom to see that Johnny hasn't moved an inch, and he's staring off at a wall. though not panicking, he's still in another world entirely.

Kenshi steps up and offers what's brought. Johnny looks down with his eyes, but his expression is still indifferent, and he doesn't move. Kenshi unscrews the lid of the water and holds it up to Johnny's mouth, and Johnny drinks. Kenshi offers the Gatorade then and then the Clif Bar. they spend ten minutes like that, Kenshi holding things up for him to have because he needs to eat and drink. at least a little. he finishes around half of the Clif Bar and most of the Gatorade, but he eventually turns his cheek in silent rejection.

Kenshi feels conflicted because he wants to find out what's going on and why he panicked. but he knows that he won't get an answer when Johnny is in a state like this, so he decides to let him rest and ask him when he's doing a bit better.

after that, Kenshi helps Johnny lie down and get comfortable, he covers him with the blanket and even lays with him. he's not tired, but he knows Johnny is and wants him to feel less alone. out of nowhere, Johnny apologizes again, and Kenshi asks why he would apologize, he's not done anything wrong. Johnny looks away and mumbles, "I ruined your night." that's all he says, and it's so telling all the same. Kenshi assures him again that he hasn't done anything wrong and certainly hasn't ruined anything. "I want you to be safe, Johnny, and comfortable. I would do this again and again if I needed," and then he adds, "and you can tell me anything by the way," as a silent invitation to talk about what's bothering him when he's ready. Johnny looks at him in shock for several seconds before he nods.

and that's that. Kenshi lays with him and eventually starts running a hand through his hair, brushing it out of his face and massaging his head. he worries about a headache from all that crying. Johnny lays there with his eyes closed and eventually relaxes enough to take a nap. Kenshi doesn't move an inch, just in case.

[deepsuns]

Sacrificial Lamb | 𝑶𝑵𝑬. 𝑯𝑶𝑼𝑺𝑬 𝑲𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑨.

❴ 𝑴𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻 ! ❵ ⸻ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❮ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 ❯ : FEYD-RAUTHA HARKONNEN // ORIGINAL FEMALE CHARACTER ❮ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 ❯ : BLOOD, GORE, VIOLENCE, SEXUAL CONTENT, RAPE, NON-CON, CONSENSUAL NON-CON, AGONIZINGLY SLOW BURN, IMPLIED INCEST, CANNIBALISM, DRUGS, ETC. ❮ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 & 𝐄𝐗𝐂𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐓 ❯ :

His need grew jealous, gnashing teeth, desiring to dig into soft skin, smooth thighs. It was a need that grew over the span of years, developing into a hungry monster that only she could soothe.

Feyd-Rautha did not want to be soothed.

&&.

House Kastara is slaughtered before its rebellion can flourish, leaving Ara floundering in its wake halfway across the universe. Time does not wait for grief, and reality sets in for Ara with a vengeance; set to serve Thora Rabban at the behest of her Bene Gesserit overseer, Ara attracts the attention of Feyd-Rautha, and none are prepared for how fiercely his possessiveness grows... or how patiently he is content to wait. ❮ 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐊 ❯

THE SECRET TO FLAYING a man alive was not in the physical act itself. Ara could count on the fingers rolling towards her silk-slippered feet as to how many times her father had proved that to her over the years. To rid a man of his skin, her father would tell her, was a simple, easy act that did little else but to peel one free of their humanity to expose the biology beneath. It did not matter how slowly blood-coated fingers slipped beneath bone and gristle to snap, break, and shatter; the outcome was the same. No, her father had emphasized a singular point in his gruesome lessons, one that he found more important than all the rest: to truly flay a man was to cut him from the inside, and expose the truth of him to daylight.

“A liar’s greatest fear, and a coward’s nightmare,” the Lord of House Kastara grunted over the crushing, dull crack of a man’s sternum caving beneath his palms. His victim—a spy that had scuttled about the sparse servants they had remaining—was already dead. He had been dead for some time, his green eyes glazed over, the light having winked out of the jeweled depths as if snatched by greedy hands. “Come, Ara. Bring the bucket so I do not make a mess of this.”

You are already making a mess, is what Ara had wanted to say in reply. You make a mess by torturing this man and breaking down his body as if he is nothing less than chattel.

“Yes, father,” Ara answered, instead, and her chubby, ten-year old fingers had clambered at the metal handle and brought the bucket to his side.

Orion Kastara, in the eyes of a fractured House mending its painful gaps with blood and grave wax, was not a cruel man. Neither was he a kind man, for his habits of violence were many, and he frequented the blade as much as he did the pen—a creature of nurture as much as he was nature. Ara had to wonder just how much of it was his nature, and how much could be attributed to how he had been born and raised and manipulated into a mold.

Cooling skin split open at the draw of a razor sharp knife. Long, rope-like lengths of intestines wiggled free, still warm and steaming the cold air, and with not so much as a twitch of the nose, Orion severed the ends from stomach to colon, tied them off, and scooped them into the bucket.

Ara had decided then: Nature.

On Kastaran—the sanctuary and home planet for House Kastaran, or Tupile, scattered across the universe, under the nose of Imperium rule—it was the concept of nature that seemed to overshadow any nurturing that was placed upon it. The plant life grew where, when, and as it pleased, with disregard to the seasons or weather; the storms were a mixture of humid monsoons and thick, cloying humidity without a droplet of rain in sight. It was a lush planet that played victim to the whims of the sixteen moons surrounding it in concentric orbit, forcibly stabilized with varying levels of success. Less so, after House Kastaran was broken down and the remnants bid to remain on their home planet.

In much the same manner, any efforts to breed out and quell certain biological aspects of the local animal life—even with intervening aid from outside groups—grew to be pointless. A buck who might have had two sets of antlers would grow one set, and then rapidly after shedding them, grow four sets; or a doe with four eyes may appear with eight upon the next sighting. Ara had watched one buck, closed up in a private enclosure, gradually grow to have twenty pairs of antlers before his skull caved in from the pressure.

She had named him Sassy, because he had liked to turn his nose up when she offered him cubes of dried sweet herbs.

Ara’s mind, even as young as she was, could not help but attribute Sassy’s death to her mother: Lady Ilysia of House Kastaran.

Looking at her mother evoked the same clench in her gut, the swooping pity that lodged in her heart and would never leave. The emotions were something she couldn’t understand at the time, an instinctive part of her that told her more than words could ever say, than anyone could ever possibly explain to her in cohesive terms.

Ilysia—because Ara had never been able to think of her, truly, as ‘Mother’—was a petite woman, perpetually clad in soft cottons or silks, never organza or stiff linen. Her hair might have been long and soft, once, but it was wiry and stripped of all shine, coiled up tight into a braid against her scalp and left to hang over one shoulder. Her skin was pale, paler than ice, the blue-green hue of her veins peering through the thin layers of skin and offering a glimpse of what lay beneath such a wretched rendition of a human form. Her face was sharp, her jaw rounded slightly at the edges, with a cleft chin that grew more pronounced. Her stomach was soft and pudgy and folded over the layers of silk she wore, her breasts heavy and sagging and barely kept proper in a brassiere.

It was her eyes, however, that always incited Ara’s deep seated pity and unease.

The Lady of House Kastara held no life in her obsidian gaze. There was no joy, love, excitement, or interest; even anger would have been a welcome sight, so long as she felt something. Her smiles would hold nothing but falseness, intended to smooth over her lack of permanence and nothing more. She ate in a mechanical way, as if she had forgotten how to chew, drink, and swallow, and did not enjoy the flavors or textures; she had three meals and sought nothing else outside of it.

When Ilysia spoke, her voice was raspy and deep. Damaged. She would only ever speak to Ara, these days, and never to the servants, or to her husband. Once upon a time, she had never spoken at all.

“I was Tleilaxu, once,” Ilysia had told Ara, on a day where she had been unusually chatty. She would speak in offhand sentences that sounded dream-like, her mind far, far from where it should have been. “I had many children before your father obtained me. But you were the only one I was permitted to keep. To hold.”

Ilysia told her many other things, all of them dark and ripping at Ara’s heartstrings mercilessly.

“My body was a specimen, but my mind was present. I knew their voices, the whir of machines as I was impregnated with child after child. Sometimes, not children at all.”

“The texture of ground oats and water reminds me of the slurry they would feed me through the pipes.” There had been a pause, a twirl of a spoon through her food. “I often wonder if that was what it was.”

She was mindlessly inconsiderate with how she spoke. She did not think at all, perhaps, outside of a seamless train of thought that never ended.

“I am happy you did not inherit my eyes,” was one of Ilysia’s more colorful statements, paired with a longing stare towards a chip in the wall. “Tleilaxu eyes are small and beady. Yours are large and beautiful, like a doe’s.”

If Ara’s favoritism towards the deer became more intense after that, her father had made no comment about it.

At her mother’s side during these conversations, ever the stalwart protector, was her uncle: Cetus Kastara I. The ‘spare’ of House Kastara, removed of all titles save for Lieutenant. Of all of the men that claimed nobility and honor, Ara considered Cetus as being a prime example of it. While her father bent and broke rules to suit his needs, Cetus would follow them to the letter and rarely ever broke them, if at all.

Dressed in sleek black armor, gray mesh, and a dark maroon cape pinned to both shoulders, he was intimidating in a more severe way than her father, Orion, his brother. He would blend in with the dark stone that made up the entirety of House Kastara’s manor home, what little that remained of it that had not been buffeted by time and weather. Humidity was awful for the ore used to build it.

Where her father would teach her how to disembowel a man without spilling a droplet of blood, Cetus would guide her on the best ways to suture a hole in a gown or a wound. He would cheekily tease,”Your pattern might be good, should you wish for your patient to bleed out on the battlefield. Again.”

Today was one such day. When she had washed blood from her hands, dumped the bucket of organs out for the animals to feast on—the deer were particularly carnivorous—and left her father to dispose of yet another spy, she went to Ilysia’s chambers. Her rooms were large and took up most of the guest wing, and Ara had never speculated on why her mother did not share chambers with her father. It was not as if Cetus shared barracks with the other soldiers of House Kastara.

Outside, through thick paneled windows, Ara could just rise onto her toes and peek out at the weather brewing. Dark clouds were rolling in, bringing rain and thunder and lightning, the third or fourth storm of the season. She could not keep count of the true number of them when they would pop up during the night and vanish before dawn. Her fingers gripping onto the stone briefly, she lowered herself back down onto her heels and continued down the hall.

Her mother’s chamber doors were marked with a sigil, overlaid with a small banner pinned between the handles that displayed the crest of House Kastara: a white doe, a star centered between long, slender ears, on a black field with fourteen gold moons hanging around its thin neck in mimicry of a noose. It was old work, the fabric threadbare and eaten away by moths that hid in the cracks and crevices of the manor, meshing with the rest of the banners hung throughout the halls.

Pushing open the doors, Ara’s eyes roved over a plush settee, an untouched plate of starchy vegetables, and eventually landed on Ilysia. The woman was standing at the window, staring out at the brewing weather as if it held the secrets to the universe. She wore a color that Ara had never seen before: a rich, deep mahogany lined with silver velvet and studded with jewels of the same color. At her side, forever faithful, was Cetus, shaking his head, wisps of fox-gray hair settling at his brow as he fixed Ilysia’s hair perhaps for the dozenth time that day.

“Your mother’s hair has a mind of its own,” Cetus grumbled, noticing Ara even as she shut the door quietly. His fingers twisted the lengths into a braid, twining a loop of leather at the end to secure it. “Four times she has pulled it free. I daresay it is a habit rather than deliberate.”

Ara glimpsed the side of her mother’s face. It was frighteningly blank.

“Perhaps it makes her feel better,” Ara suggested lightly. Her arms wrapped snugly around Ilysia’s soft waist, familiarity washing over her as her mother lifted her arm and settled it around her shoulders. Habit, as Cetus had said, rather than deliberate action. She was used to pulling affection from wherever she could draw from it most. “I twirl my hair when I get bored.”

Cetus let out a laugh that sounded more like an agonized chuff. “Perhaps, my lady. Perhaps.”

With a small hum, Ara withdrew from Ilysia. Her arm fell to her side, limp, and made no other indication that she had wished for Ara to remain.

Thunder rumbled overhead, booming into the manor itself. Ara was used to the sound, by now; the storms could be quick and violent, or slow and measured. She was satisfied that it would be the former rather than the latter. It meant the deer could be corralled back into place sooner and they would not have scattered so badly.

“Your father is in the dungeons, I wager?” The Lieutenant shifted, his weight falling to one knee as he knelt before Ara to converse with her. It was not a demeaning action; rather, Ara was too short for the significantly taller man to speak to her without seeming as if he was speaking down to her. “Another spy, on a planet that receives no ships.”

Ara’s brows furrowed. She knew what Cetus was insinuating: that her father found spies in the innocent, torturing them for his own interest and self-serving purposes. It was not a thought that she had not pondered herself. “… Yes.”

Armor clanking as he rose to his feet, her uncle looked as if he had aged ten years with that simple confirmation. “I see. I would speak with him about dragging you to those torture chambers—“

Softly, nearly drowned out by the thunder and rain, they barely heard it. Cetus stilled, his head turning slightly to the side as he angled his ear towards the slightly open window that Ilysia had left cracked for fresh air.

Again, this time louder: screaming.

Alarm flashed through Cetus’ eyes and rippled through his body so visibly that Ara saw his armor shake. With quick movements, he slammed the window shut and flicked the lock closed, but it could not hide what she could see outside, partially obscured by thunderclouds.

Lowering from the darkness, ships—dozens, more than her mind could comprehend—and on the ground, cutting through body after body with blades held flat to their forearms, were soldiers. Soldiers who wore white and gray, with reddish symbols painted onto their armor, flocking towards the manor and cutting swathes through Cetus’ unit—a pale river through a dark canyon.

Lighting crackled through the sky, illuminating the blood shed in their wake as the rain washed it down the hillside and mingled with the mud.

“Sardaukar,” Cetus breathed.

At the window, watching as a rapidly pulsating round ejected from one of the ships and flew towards the manor, Ara watched as Ilysia’s blank expression slowly warped into one of true emotion.

Fear.

❴ 𝑴𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻 ! ❵ ⸻ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚

[augustinewrites]

ayoo... mayhaps we get a moment when Kaeya finally realizes he's ready for kids??

i have been hoarding this ask for way too long and i know in my heart of hearts that kaeya would want to adopt a child

every saturday afternoon, on what’s meant to be your day off, you and kaeya teach a swordsmanship seminar. 

when kaeya had first been given the responsibility by the acting grand master, you’d only tagged along to watch. you handed out water and pretended not to swoon whenever the sun reached its peak and your husband undid a few more buttons of his shirt. 

you’d only started helping out after the incident where bennett had somehow cut mika’s finger off. the seminar had grown so popular that it was hard for him to keep track of all the attendees and all their limbs, apparently. not just amongst the knights and the members of the adventurer’s guild. 

“captain kaeya!” the kids shout, almost trampling over bennett as they rush over to their favourite knight. he greets each one of them by name, patting their heads and ruffling their hair as they gaze up at him, excited for today’s lesson.

he outfits each of them with a wooden training sword, making sure they’re all arms-length apart before beginning. like always, he starts with leading them in a battle cry. 

“knights use battle cries to rally their spirits and remind themselves what they’re fighting for before a battle,” he explains, pointing his sword up high, prompting the children to do the same. “what are you guys passionate about? what are we fighting for today?”

“for sticky honey roast!” a girl with twin pigtails cries out with a passion you think might rival jean’s.

“alright,” he laughs, flashing you a smile when you giggle from the sidelines. “today we learn to fight in the name of sticky honey roast.”

each stance and swing of his sword, the children copy. their footwork is a little wobbly and their sword swings a touch hesitant, but it’s nothing that kaeya can’t fix, squatting down to adjust their footing or their grip. he always seems to know what each child needs, offering gentle words of encouragement and always praising them for a job well done. 

the children look at him like he hung the moon and stars, and kaeya, of course, preens at their attention. they crowd him when they’re done with their lesson, when he rewards them with candies and little trinkets.

“thank you, papa!” the girl with the pigtails exclaims, throwing herself into his arms. the look on kaeya’s face is priceless. 

the sun is setting by the time he’s finished, his arm slung around your shoulder as you walk to angel’s share. 

you glance up at him, nothing the soft remnants of a smile still gracing his face. “you’re in a good mood.”

“of course i am. i have a good life,” he answers, pulling you closer. “and i had a good day, hanging out with those kids.” 

“you’re really good with them,” you nod. “they really love you.”

you’re not surprised, because kaeya is good with everyone. all of mondstadt adores the calvary captain. 

“after i walked them back to the orphanage the headmaster said—” he pauses, seeming uncharacteristically hesitant. “she said i’d be a good father someday.”

“you’d be a great dad,” you murmur, reaching up to pat his hand. 

“do you think about stuff like that? with me, i mean.” 

“no, with huffman,” you tease, causing him to scoff and turn away. you simply laugh, resting your head on his shoulder. “kaeya, of course i’ve thought about starting a family with you someday.”

he perks up a little, pausing mid-stride in front of the tavern. “why don’t we start now, then?” 

you gaze flicks toward the door. “is diluc’s future niece or nephew about to be conceived in the back room of his tavern?”

he rubs the back of his neck a little sheepishly. “i mean they could be…but - only if it’s alright with you - i’d actually like to go back to the orphanage. there are a lot of kids here who need parents. and when i think about what crep— about what my father did for me, i want to do that.” 

_____

on sundays, everyone gathers at the alberich household for dinner (where the main course is always a sticky honey roast, as per a special someone’s request.)

kaeya’s gaze is pulled in your direction when he hears you laugh, conversing with diluc as you weave twin plaits into your daughter’s hair. 

the little boy in his arms (with your eyes and his nose) is restless, eager to be let down to play. so kaeya sets him on the floor, pressing a kiss atop the crown of his head and making sure he’s steady before letting him toddle towards his sister. you coo when she pulls him into her lap, hugging him tightly. 

kaeya leans back in his chair, watching the scene before him unfold with a quiet smile on his face. he’s always felt a little split on the inside, unsure of his place in the world. 

but now he knows that it’s most certainly right here.

[pickledzack]

im curious abt ur rufuszack dynamic! how did they get together, how do they act together, etc?

GOD... I'm gonna apologize in advance for the wall of text I'm about to unleash. The TLDR of it is it's ship born purely out of my bf and I smushing blorbos together like barbie dolls tbh. We thought less of the "how" early on and moreso fell in love with the dynamic in general, resulting in us thinking of many AUs where they would meet. They are both such true polar opposites of each other on every front that I think it presents a funny dynamic. That dynamic being a silver spoon-fed nepotism baby who clings so desperately to the image that he has so carefully constructed and a blindly optimistic country boy who would want to tear it all down by challenging him at every front in an effort to understand why he is the way that he is. A true immovable object meets an unstoppable force type energy.

MORE under the cut if you're curious tehe-

Each AU we thought of hinged on the hilarity of Zack just flat out not knowing much about Rufus at all. And Rufus enjoying that anonymity way too much. To which we kind of realized its quite possible (mostly funny) that Zack probably wouldn't be able to pick Rufus out of a crowd even in canon. And if Zack did know anything about Rufus it would probably just simply be the knowledge that he's President Shinra's son. Everything about Rufus is probably still shrouded in mystery when Rufus is pretty much under house arrest during the events of Crisis Core, so we kind of just went with that. And thus came a kind of "Zack Lives but is saved by the Turks" AU where we could explore this concept properly in an environment where they're forced to be in proximity for a decent length of time. (I wont. Dive into that right now LOL)

What comes from a nepotism baby who has only ever had the opportunity to shape his identity around his place in a company founded by a man he comes to hate most? What happens to him when presented with an ex-SOLDIER whose life was totally uprooted by that same man? Rufus at least acknowledging at first that Zack is somebody whose entire life was at the mercy of that very same company and yet still somehow never lets that curb his optimism. Where as he, himself, has allowed his hatred of his father to dominate everything that he does. Even in Rufus' defiance, he ultimately still centers his father in his life in his pursuit to slight him. What happens when Zack presents him with an opportunity to be his own person? I think at the beginning, Rufus would try to put on a professional front, but ultimately Zack would worm his way in somehow in his own little Zack way. I think Rufus would enjoy that freedom way too much. And out of a developed care for Zack, would come to question his very core beliefs all together. But even after we do have Zack eventually find out who Rufus is, he doesn't care at all about his status as the President's son. He's disrespectful, he pisses him off on purpose, he teases him in the most petty ways, he doesn't honor Rufus' title at all which is a stark contrast to how literally everybody else in Rufus' life treats him. Even when Zack hates Rufus' guts and everything he represents, his means of doing so intrigues Rufus more than it probably should. Because of course Zack doesn't leave it to simply hating Rufus. Of course Zack would rub salt in the wound and try to annoy Rufus at every opportunity. But he would also want to know about Rufus and he'd want to ask him why. Not just that, but he wouldn't be satisfied until Rufus is able to convince him why he has to be the way he is. And even without necessarily forgiving Rufus for anything, Zack would still see the person underneath that so he can try to reach out to him.

Even through the spit and vinegar that Zack spews at him it is, in a way, a sort of kindness that Rufus has never been shown before. Because Zack, like with Genesis, Angeal, and even Sephiroth, could still never come to view either of them as monsters. Even when they were doing unspeakable things to the people he loves and the world around him. His methods of trying to help them was to reach in and speak to the person underneath all that. Even if it was ultimately kind of fruitless. I think its an effort that I believe could actually potentially shake Rufus' worldview. Um. So yea KGKSDF I feel a little crazy and I hope this wasn't too chaotic of a read but it's been a lot of fun to explore. Thanks for giving me that opportunity!

[sheeple]

Miracles don't exist | 26: Heavy heart, truthful words

Genre(s): Riddle!reader / Slytherin!reader / kinda slowburn / little happy moments Fandom(s): Harry Potter Pairing(s): Theodore Nott x Reader / Harry Potter x Riddle!reader Summary: Being the Dark Lord's daughter and raised under the strict supervision of the Malfoy's is no easy life. Especially if you start crushing on your father's arch-nemesis, Harry Potter. And that while being engaged to one of his follower’s sons. Warning(s): Non sexy choking [Masterlist] [Mini masterlist] [Playlist]

"What has you so anxious?"

You snap up from the book you're reading, your back resting against a tree in a courtyard. Hermione looks at you with raised eyebrows, as she points towards your bouncing feet. 

"It's nothing", you dismiss as you tuck your feet under yourself. "Too much sugar at breakfast."

The Gryffindor girl gives you a look, one you choose to ignore in favour of re-reading the same page for the nth time. You can't focus on the words. Your body is jittery with anticipation. 

Your foot doesn't stop twitching until you spot an owl flying in your direction. Sitting up straight, you take the letter from the owl's claws and thank the animal with a scratch on its head.

Unfolding the letter, you read the simple message in the familiar handwriting.

Classroom 24C 14:00

You check your watch. You've got ten minutes. 

With a quick snap of your book, you're on your feet. "I have to go. See you at dinner." You send a hastened smile before you practically run towards the classroom.

You try to catch your breath once you enter and lock the door of said classroom. The fireplace is lit, emitting a soft glow around the room. Your eyes survey the classroom, in search of someone. But it's empty. 

Suddenly, the flames turn a poisonous green and it makes you turn your head. You wait for a moment to see if someone's coming through. But as the flames stay calm it's clear it's you who has to enter through.

Closing your eyes, you step into the fireplace with a big inhale of air. You get pulled and squished from all sides until you come to an abrupt stop and roll out of the other fireplace. You huff and quickly jump on your feet, dusting your robes off.

You stand in the tea room of Grimmault Place. Sirius's not far removed from the fireplace, anxiously pacing back and forth with his hands on his hips. Remus Lupin sits on one of the sofas, a woman with bright pink hair next to him. Nymphadora Tonks

As soon as Sirius notices your arrival, he's on you in a second. He holds you at arms-length as he turns you around to all sides, checking up on you. "Are you alright? What's happened? You're not hurt, are you? You don't look hurt."

To be fair, you've sent a pretty cryptic letter. I need to talk to you, was the only thing you wrote.

His worry about you brings a warm but unfamiliar feeling to your belly. You lay a hand on one of his, giving him a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, I'm fine. It's not me that's it about."

You hesitate for a moment. Are you really doing this? If this reaches the Dark Lord it would mean your death, heir or not.

With slow movements, you take off your school robes so you're only in your blouse and skirt. You also take your wand out of your robe pockets and place it on the table where the three Order members can see it. "For my safety", you explain as they look at you weirdly.

Clasping your hands together, you take a deep breath. "Draco Malfoy has been ordered by the Dark Lord to kill Dumbledore. As punishment for his father's failed attempt to get the prophecy." You cut straight to the chase, seeing no need to mince your words.

Remus blinks rapidly, processing your words. "How... how do you know this information?"

"Because... I was there... when he branded Draco with the Dark Mark and gave him his mission." Tears well in your eyes, the agony in your cousin's eyes flashing through your mind.

The mood is tense between the four of you. You basically confessed to having seen Voldemort in real life. In close proximity.

"Why should we believe you? For all we know you could just fabricate this story to get attention." Remus raises from the couch, towering over you. You take a cautious step back as you swallow.

Sirius is quick to jump in your defence. "Now Moony, just slow down okay? Don't accuse her of something as it could be true."

"Draco cursed Katie Bell. He... he hexed her or something so she would take the package with the cursed necklace. To Dumbledore. There is also a Vanishing Cabinet in Hogwarts! I do not know where the other one is."

"Arthur Weasley was tipped off by Harry that there was a Vanishing Cabinet in Bourgin and Burke's. Maybe it's paired with the one in Hogwarts", Tonks intercepts Remus calmly, looking at you before back to Remus.

"Harry?"

Sirius hums. "He's been suspicious of Draco for a while now. But I wonder; is You Know Who so desperate to kill Dumbledore that he initiates a sixteen-year-old?"

You scoff humourlessly as you run a hand over your face. "Believe me, he also makes them take the Mark way younger."

Everybody stills and you know you've said too much. Sirius and you look at each other in shock. He slowly takes steps towards you until he's right in front of you. "What do you mean?"

Your bottom lip wobbles, tears threatening to spill out. You shake your head scared. He keeps staring at you until you break. "I didn't want to. He expected it of me and gave me no choice", your voice is unsteady as a single tear rolls over your cheek. "Don't hurt me, please." Your plea comes out in a whisper.

Sirius reaches out slowly to your left arm, pulling up your sleeve to reveal the bandages you have been wearing for almost two years now. You shake your head shakely, silently begging him to not do it. 

"Please don't, Sirius."

But he ignores you. He untwists the bandages from your arm until it falls on the ground, the Dark Mark visible for everyone to see.

In an instant, Remus is upon you. He wraps a hand around your throat and points his wand in your face, the tip pressing into your cheek. "Did you tip someone off? Hmm? Does someone know you are here?"

Whimpers escape your restricted throat, tears now freely flowing over your cheeks. "No! No! I promise! Nobody knows! Please!"

Remus growls. He actually growls. He presses his wand deeper into your cheek and restricts your airflow even more.

"Let her go, Remus!" Tonks intercepts, pointing her own wand at the ex-teacher. "She's a child. She couldn't have stopped it even if she wanted to."

Remus' hand disappears from your throat and you slide down, coughing wildly and gasping for air. You hug your knees, sobbing. "I didn't want to. I didn't want to hurt the muggle. And he killed him. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." You rock back and forth, the horrible memories flooding back to you.

You feel arms circle around you and you look up. Tonks gives you a slight smile before pulling you up on your feet and helping you to one of the couches.

Sirius appears before you with a glass of water and your wand in his hand. He holds both out to you. You hesitate for a moment, but only take the glass with water.

"When did it happen?" He drops to eye level, his eyes showing only concern.

You swallow a gulp of water, your face contorting painfully. "Summer break before fifth year." Your voice is raspy.

"Do you know why he chose you?"  

The answer lies like lead on your tongue. You're unable to move your lips. To give him a concrete answer. "Because... because I am the Heir of Slytherin."

You wait for it to sink in, your eyes trained on the ground, tracing the shapes of the Persian rug. 

Sirius starts to sputter out half sentences. Tonks pulls a weird face. "So that means You Know Who and my aunt..? Ugh. Gross." 

Her comment makes you scoff in humour. "He was good-looking when he was younger." You also pull a face as you realise you called your father hot. "Ugh indeed."

"No. No joking. This is not a joking matter! Who knows? Does Dumbledore know?" Remus butts in irritated.

You nod. "Yes, he knows. I told him in my second year. Only my family and the Death Eaters that have been around Malfoy Manor know if the Dark Lord being... my father. And Theodore Nott."

"Is he also one?"

You wildly shake your head. "No. And I never want him to be one. If I can, I'll try to prevent him. I don't want to curse him with this too..."

Glancing towards Sirius, you say, "Harry does not know. And I do not want him to know. Please don't tell him."

Sirius takes your hand, squeezing it. "This is your secret to tell, not mine."

You linger around Grimmault Place until you're calmed down. Sirius has given you some Wiggenweld to help you with your throat and you can barely feel it now.

As you stand before the fireplace, robes back on you and wand in your hand, you turn to Sirius. He lays his hands on your shoulders before giving you a bear hug. "You protected me and now I'll do everything in my power to protect you. I promise you."

You smile and give him one last squeeze. Tonks also hugs you, but it's more curt. "Next time we'll meet it should be to get to know each other, cousin." You give her a shy nod. Remus stands in the back and looks at you, not saying anything.

"I don't know when I'll be able to send any more letters, but I hope to see you soon." And with that, you disappear in the green flames and go back to Hogwarts.

Your heart is heavy but you're so glad that you finally told Sirius. 

Taglist (bold means I couldn’t tag you): @the0doreslover @lqndkxlmqma @st4rrry  @choppedpartymuffinwinner @ledtassoo @literallyobessed @lestat-whore​ @vanishingcherry @harrysnovia @pietrobae @ireallywannasleep127 @yeolsbubbles @fruityfrog505 @fluffybunnyu @theroyalmanatee @shinrjj @hegdus @kermits-bitch @m1kasawps @noah-uhhh-what @mypolicemanharryyy @fals3-g0d @decapitated-coffee @thatgirljas13 @slytherinambitious @mythicalamphitrite @mastermindmiko @timmytime17 @regsg18 @supernatural-lover

[reginalusus]

I don't know if this has been asked before but what are your headcanons for Harvey and two-face? Wholesome and not so wholesome 🔞 lol

Anything they have in common, for example are they both super organized/need things a certain way? Different love languages?

🩷

Oh, boy, do I...

By the way, I ramble a lot...

So this is gonna be long post.

It's just a thing with me. Only super-cool people relate. /j

I also tend to base *some* headcanons on what is already canon, or blend them in some way, so some of this might be old news.

Oh, and I'll put a cut before the suggestive ones just so people who don't want to see that sort of stuff can safely scroll by.

EDIT: The cut does not seem to be working because Tumblr hates me so, um, WARNING FOR SUGGESTIVE STUFF.

He's 6'5". His height has fluctuated in his appearances, but I much prefer when he's taller than Bruce, such as in Telltale and BTAS. BuT a DisTRIct AtTornEY dOesN't NeE- lalalalalala, I don't careeeeeee. I like the image of him being physically imposing, not just for villainous purposes, but also to juxtapose how much of a sweetheart he is, or was. There is also another reason.

He stims with his coin. Months back I talked in length about how I think Harvey might view his coin as a way to reclaim his abuse against his father, but I also see him using it as a comfort item, as sick as it may be (considering its past), and that the constant twirling and flipping is a way for him to stim.

He loves 50s/60s music. Namely the likes of Elvis Presley, Frank Sinatra, Sam Cooke, Lesley Gore, Dean Martin, Roy Orbinson...

He sings! I know this is kind of canon, but that MF can sing. His Harvey voice is smooth and articulate, very vintage, meanwhile Two-Face's is, of course, raspier and almost more of a rocker's voice.

Two-Face names his guns. I've drawn some of these before, but Harvey doesn't bother with such nonsense. Harvey views weapons as a last resort; their mere existence throws justice into question. Why can someone wield such a thing that sets the odds in their favour immediately? But Two-Face knows they get the job done quickly. They're like the broom of Gotham; a quick way to be rid of the scum. So he names them, for they are beloved, much like how legendary weapons have been named in the past for what they have slain.

He dissociates/has derealization episodes. Yes, he has DID, and dissociation is in the name, but during really intense symptoms, such as his depression, paranoia and personalities all practically screaming in his head, he ends up having a bad derealization episode, much like how you would see someone have after they suffer a panic attack. His coin helps ground him.

He has definitely done that fucking pottery scene from Ghost with Gilda while she's sculpting. You know the one.

He's an elegant shooter but a brutish fighter. Not only is he a God with guns, he's also precise and elegant. But with physical combat? Brutal, much like a street fighter. I suppose both Batman and Deathstroke's training gets muddled in some ways...

His henchmen give him gifts now and then. They just do, and he doesn't understand it. Silly stuff, like bi-coloured mugs or shirts. Perhaps to keep his short-temperedness at some sort of bay. Doesn't work half the time, however.

He takes depression naps. Because of course he does. Having mental health issues is also physically taxing. I imagine he sleeps a lot, but also struggles to sleep at the same time because everything is so damn loud in his head.

He's bisexual. Gotta love both. Harvey has a preference for women, Two-Face has a preference for men.

Fussy with his suits and clothes. In The Judas Coin, we see Harvey's kind of a suit-nerd. Enough said. That MF loves to look good. Harvey loves stuff that's timeless and classic, very reminiscent of 40s/50s mafia wear, while Two-Face loves gaudy, striking stuff. They have to compromise, hence the split suits in the first place.

He doesn't like himself very much but just puts up with it. He's a walking contradiction, a hypocrite to himself. He claims to uphold the law but also bastardizes it. Also, he avoids mirrors and reflections if possible (that was something that was mentioned in his older issues, but they never brought it back, I don't think). He's smashed a mirror before, or two, or three.

He's a hopeless romantic. I've talked a little about this before, but he crushes hard, falls harder, and ever since being widowed, he pines for validation but seldom receives such because of his reputation.

He's a vintage lighter collector. He's got those S.T. Duponts and those 1970 electric Ronson's, I just know it.

Harvey constantly makes courtroom puns. Nobody laughs except Gilda.

He's an embarrassing dancer. He loves singing older tunes, but when it comes to dancing, he loves those cheesy 80 tunes. Get him drunk enough and he'll kill the dancefloor... with second-hand embarrassment.

So, I also have a lot of thoughts about The Judge too, but they're very scattershot and I'd rather compile them at another time, plus this post doesn't need to be any longer than what it is, lmao.

I also have more HCs around what he'd be like with the Batkids and Bruce, but again, this post is already long.

Ok, suggestive stuff now, and I'm going to kick it off with a hot take:

Harvey and Two-Face are monogamous. A really popular HC I've seen for Harvey is that he loves having multiple partners - two partners, of course, for each side of him. Well... I DISAGREE. /lh Personally, I think he prefers the one. He likes to purely focus on that one person and treat them like they're the only person that exists, in hope they'll do the same for him. To make him feel like he's whole; that, for once, he's not split.

Two-Face is protective and jealous. If you're out with him and he sees someone eyeing you up, out come the knuckle dusters.

He's dominant. And rough. But he'll always ask what you want; do you want to be praised or degraded while he's using you?

The coin can be fun. Sometimes he gets extremely impassioned and heated, and he just doesn't know what to do with his partner next. Good thing he has an item that helps him decide. The ambiguity of which side will turn up can add to the excitement!

Scar worship makes him melt. It just does. He hates that side of him, but seeing someone stroke or caress his scars, telling him how handsome he looks, that's a sure-fire way to send him over the edge. He'll probably fall in love.

Harvey shows love through words and actions, Two-Face shows it through gifts. Harvey will reassure his partner through words and keeping those words upheld. Meanwhile, Two-Face will corrupt his partners with gifts.

Two-Face is a bit clingy. He'll text a lot, call a lot, ask where his partner is, how they are, if they're ok. Harvey is more relaxed.

Aftercare King. He knows how strong he is and how violent (for lack of a better word) he can be. So he'll always check in with his partner to make sure they're fine.

Harvey is vocal and sappy, Two-Face isn't. Not just during the act, but afterwards. Harvey will want to cuddle, he'll want to talk over a cigarette, he wants to get to know his partner on a deeper level. Two-Face generally needs some room first. He might be a bit cold, but he'll come around.

Again, I have more in this regard, but that's what AO3 is for!

Oh, also, I saw your ask about Gerard Butler and his doggo... I agree, hehe, maybe Harvey can walk Dick's dog at some point, lol.

[bohemian-nights]

No this fandom is actually insane

Do people think it’s ok to write “he was teaching her how to bathe”?????? I’m honestly scared to go read the post that they were talking about. The lengths that these people will go to just to prove that dettles never happened

Read at your own risk.

The person who wrote that is actually Black(or so they claim), but is willing to throw Black characters and Black fans under the bus and promote negative stereotypes about us for their mostly (racist) followers in defense of a racist characters desirability.

Sir/ma’am, if you are reading this, get some self respect. I’m actually embarrassed for you cause this shit is actually pathetic. You’re better than this.

Case in point they wrote this crap a while back with 100% sincerity:

(I should also note that I actually had a run in with them about a year and some change ago and they threatened to block me after I asked them if Corlys bathing with Rhaenyra would be normal father daughter figure bonding time so I blocked them first😊).

Like you don’t have to like Dettles, but when you are pushing harmful ideology and stereotypes (Black people are so stupid/dirty that we need the white mans help to civilize us) as a way to discredit them and make those who ship it look like angry Black women jealous of the poor helpless white woman and her stans, you’ve gone too far.

Let’s keep in mind that this poor helpless white woman was actively trying to kill a Black girl for a crime she claims she didn’t commit and that despite claiming that Nettles definitely didn’t sleep with Daemon her stans spazz out everytime you mention her name and actively want her cut from the show.

Or how about the fact that these same stans actively stalk and harass Dettles shippers whose only crime has been pointing out y’all’s bullshit.

Let’s keep in mind all of this shall we:

So who is actually jealous of who here? Who in this scenario wants racial revenge?* Who is the problem in this hellhole of a fandom?

Is it the people merely pointing out Nettles importance to the Dance and Daemon’s arc or the people who hurl racial insults and stereotypes? The people who want her erased from the narrative in its entirety cause she disrupts the status quo?

(The fact that someone would even fix their mouth to say that when Black people have been beaten, raped, enslaved, terrorized, tortured, disenfranchised, abused, subjected, and not even given common decency and respect for centuries by these people. If we wanted racial revenge it damn sure wouldn’t be off the back of a fucking fictional character).

The fact that they can’t see Nettles value and only see her as some irrelevant Black girl and reduce people liking her down to a gotcha/“woke” moment is fandom misogynoir in action.

They forget that she comes from nothing, claims a dragon, has a prince willing to give his life for her(six men or sixty remember that since y’all claim to be capable of reading🙃), survives the Dance and becomes a firewitch worshipped by a group of people, because they don’t want to acknowledge her importance.

It makes them uncomfortable to do so because she doesn’t look like them, but people like I’m not like those other Negros cover up for them so that when they are called out for it they can go see this n-I mean this Black person agrees with me.

Imagine being this butt hurt about a fictional character that you can’t even leave your racism or tap dancing at the door for five seconds.

Nettles doesn’t fit the mold, but that’s the point of her story.

They can recognize maester propaganda and scream about feminism when it comes to their white faves, but when it comes to the Black girl who is actively being stereotyped and maligned for her gender, race, and social standing in the source material they believe it no questions asked?

Again, what does it say about you that you are so willing to believe that a Black girl who was clever enough to claim a wild dragon doesn’t know how to bathe herself? What does it say about you that you think Daemon would never touch her with a ten foot pole just because she’s Black?

What does it say about you don’t want her on the show because of her race? What does it say about you that a fictional character who just so happens to be Black has you worked up into a tizzy.

Y’all claim to be for women(real or fictional), but in reality you only care about the women who look like you and shit on women you see as beneath you. Women who you think are a threat to the status quo. You’re no better than the men who oppress you.

[gaslightgatekeepgirlbosscombat]

Group F, Round 3, Poll 4:

Propaganda under the cut

Tsurumi Tokushirou

in two words: "it's love". I was already insane about this guy but this line. just wow. the context is a flashback in which Tsurumi has been away fighting in the Sino-Japanese war and is now telling his dojo master that even trained soldiers are typically reluctant to kill another person and many will only pretend to fire their weapons. he spent a long time considering how you convince them to overcome that before figuring it out. "the motivating force that can bring out the aggressiveness in your soldiers... it isn't hatred of the enemy troops, nor is it fear... it isn't even a difference in political ideals. [what is it then?] it's love". this man is *surrounded* by soldiers who will do anything for him and you slowly see through multiple flashbacks just how much he has been pulling strings for *years* to make them love him. this particular flashback involves two fourteen year olds fighting over his attention until one of them kills the other and tsurumi helps cover up the murder and tells the murderer how *of course you have always been my favourite*. that kid goes on to work under him and when tsurumi draws on his face as a punishment he gets the drawings tattooed on so they stay forever. in another case he orchestrates the kidnapping of a different 14yo son of a navy commander by "Russians" (his loyal subordinates) and then pulls off a dashing rescue, earning the livelong military support of the dad and a major crush from the son. this kid chooses to go to army route rather than follow his dad into the navy, specifically because of tsurumi who he also ends up working for. he can't speak comprehensibly to tsurumi and edits himself into photos of him. case 3: while a soldier is away at war he crush appears to commit suicide by drowning in the sea. upon finding out that his dad told her he wasn't coming back, he beats him to death and ends up on death row. I forget exactly what info is revealed when but a) the woman is alive and tsurumi helped her move to Tokyo and get married, b) tsurumi planted fake bones under tsukishima's father's house to frame him for her murder, c) this then allowed tsukishima to be freed from jail, as long as he agreed to work for tsurumi as a Russian translator (he doesn't speak Russian at the time), d) tsukishima doesn't know all of this initially but tsurumi sets things up so he overhears a convo that reveals some of it so that he can know exactly what lengths tsurumi went to and feel even more in his debt, e) tsukishima later realises that conversation was set up and its purpose but *even with that knowledge* and being probably the character most aware of Tsurumi's manipulations, the pull is too strong and he will follow him to the ends of the earth. literally his only goal in life now is to have front row seats to the Tsurumi Theatre, which btw involves chasing convicts around to obtain their skins, wiping out entire prison populations and invading parts of Russia. he sometimes blames his erratic actions on the brain damage caused by a mortar shell to the forehead but he was doing all the same things before that, just more quietly. he knows *exactly* what he's doing and has everything planned out in detail

that post by @temp-propaganda because no way I can fit that all in propaganda section

Goncharov

He spends the entire film lying to and manipulating as many people as possible to achieve his ultimate goal (Katya is an obvious example; her having enough of that is a driving force behind their breaking relationship), and also including himself (insisting that he doesn't like Andrey when they're basically about to kiss anytime they're on screen). Also Gaslight Gatekeep Goncharov amiright