#tw: mistaken homophobia

[schrijverr]

You Must Be the Husband

Divergence from chapter 15, where Maddie knows Eddie is married to Buck when she arrives at the 118. However, she didn’t get the memo that she shouldn’t acknowledge that at work, so blows it in front of everyone when Buck introduces her to the team.

On AO3.

Ships: Buddie (pre-slash), Madney (pre-slash)

Warnings: implied domestic violence, implied internalized homophobia, mistaken homophobia

~~~

Chimney can take a lot, but watching Buck play firetruck simulator is its own special brand of painful. Seriously, how someone can be that bad at a game is truly miraculous, so Chimney has to let him know by insulting him with his most creative ones. It’s a hobby.

Then a voice calls out a greeting from below and Chimney nearly gets headbutted on the nose with how fast Buck looks up. He would make a comment about it, but he’s distracted by the voice saying: “I’m his sister, Maddie,” which explains why Buck is already at the banister.

In an awed voice that sounds fragile-y close to disbelieving, Buck says: “Maddie?”

Immediately Chimney shares a look with Hen. A sister? Buck had been a bit of a closed book about his parents and they assumed it was a sore spot and hadn’t pushed too much. When it came to family, they all knew not to be too nosy, but a whole sister? This is intriguing.

Hen nods and together they move towards the banister to see for themselves. Eddie is already fitting in well, having gone to see what’s up a beat before he and Hen even could.

When he peers over Eddie’s shoulder, Chimney’s breath is taken away. Down below is one of the most beautiful women he’s ever seen, lighting up the room with her smile. “Oh my god, Evan.”

Evan.

Wow, Chimney doesn’t think he’s ever heard anyone refer to Buck as Evan. He remembers Buck telling them the name shift happened due to the academy having too many Evans. Either his sister is exempt from calling him Buck, didn’t get the memo or hasn’t talked to Buck in over a year.

Whatever the case, Buck doesn’t seem to care, running for the pole and sliding down as he says: “What-What are are you doing here? Oh my god!”

Buck sweeps her up into a big hug, lifting her from the ground and making her giggle. The noise is so angelic that Chimney doesn’t care how long she hasn’t talked to Buck or what her answer is to why she’s here, as long as she stays.

Then he has a minor crisis, because Maddie is a beauty and Chimney is kind of blown away by it, but watching Maddie and Buck check each other over after they lean back from their hug, makes him realize that Maddie is indeed Buck’s sibling. Suddenly they look very similar and Chimney doesn’t know if he’s going to be able to look Buck in the eye after this.

Luckily, Buck snaps him out of his crisis by asking: “You got this address form the cards? So you did get them?”

Intrigued they await Maddie’s response. They’re trying to figure out why they have never heard him mention a sister before and they’re all nosy enough to want to know more now that the opportunity presents itself.

Maddie grimaces apologetically, but she sounds pretty casual when she replies: “I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch much lately.”

Maybe they just drifted apart and they finally have time for each other again, maybe it’s not that bad. But, going off Buck’s look that might also not be true, which is confirmed when he scoffs: “Years, Maddie. I haven’t heard from you in years.”

Chimney looks at Hen, who is already giving him a look back. Whatever Buckley family drama they have going on, it’s juicy. And goes deep.

When Maddie speaks again, something feels wrong in Chim’s chest. Her voice sounds off, horribly empty like no one should sound, especially compared with how she sounded before. “Yeah, I know. And it’s not what I wanted.”

Buck must have more information, because he takes the reply without getting angry at how dismissive it could sound. Instead, he sounds apprehensive, though also hopeful, as he asks: “Where’s Doug?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Maddie responds, sounding like before again. Happy and proud.

“You left him? Finally!” Buck exclaims excitedly.

“Uh-huh,” Maddie nods pridefully with a big grin on her face.

Dread, meanwhile, fills Chimney’s stomach, shared with those around him. They’ve all worked in this line of work for long enough to piece together who Doug is and why Buck would be excited about her leaving him.

This feeling only grows as Buck softly asks: “Do mom and dad know?” and Maddie answers: “No one knows. And please don’t tell them if they call. I don’t want anyone to know that I’m here.”

The answer only makes the situation more grim and if Chimney knows these people – and he likes to think he does, even Eddie though he’s new – then they’re all in agreement; the 118 will welcome Maddie with open arms and keep her safe.

Bobby communicates that to Buck when he catches his eyes as he aims for casual when responding to Maddie. “Kind of sounds like you’re hiding out.”

“No,” Maddie assures him, deflecting, “more like laying low.”

At this point, they’ve reached the top of the stairs and Chimney quickly moves to fake a conversation with Hen, all of them pretending they hadn’t been eavesdropping and are being interrupted in what they were doing to greet Maddie.

“Hi, everyone, I’m sorry, I don’t know if I know your names, but I’m Maddie. I’m Evan’s older sister,” she greets with a soft smile and Chimney wonders how someone so beautiful and sweet could be related to Buck.

“These are my coworkers,” Buck quickly steps in, gesturing to all of them as he goes. “This is Bobby, our Captain. This is Chimney and Hen, they’re badass paramedics.” Chimney is grateful for that introduction, because his smile and wave combo probably looks a little stupid. “And this is Eddie.”

However, because life is cruel and the world bleak, Maddie’s eyes light up when Eddie is introduced and she steps towards him first to shake his hand, bypassing everyone else. The Universe hates him and- “You must be the husband.” Wait, what?

A record scratch can almost be heard as everyone processes the sentence.

Eddie is moving to shake her hand, but freezes halfway through the movement, eyes growing wide. Maddie frowns as she takes his limp hand in her own to shake. Before anything else can be said, Buck snaps back into motion, with an awfully fake and awkward chuckle. “Huh, what are you talking about, Maddie?”

Now, Maddie is looking at him with a frown and Buck looks to be having some sort of fit with the way he keeps widening his eyes and moving his eyebrows as if to convey some message. If any of them had bought what he just said – which none of them had, mind you – then they definitely wouldn’t anymore now. Even Eddie, who is definitely involved in this somehow, seems unimpressed with the lie.

Maddie is even more confused than them, her frown deepening. “What? Eddie. Eddie Diaz? That’s your husband, right? I swore you mentioned in your last card that he was a firefighter too.”

“You’re married?” Hen shrieks, breaking out of her stupor first.

With Hen out of her stupor, Chimney follows. “And to him?” Eddie seems a little offended at that.

“Noooo,” Buck says, another failed lie.

“Evan, what’s happening?” Maddie asks, starting to get concerned.

Hen also frowns in concern, saying: “You know we wouldn’t be homophobic, right? We don’t care that you’re gay.”

“I’m not gay,” Eddie scowls, becoming a part of the conversation for the first time.

Buck winces and the others only get more confused. Chimney checks: “So, you’re not Buck’s secret sudden husband, who shares your exact name and occupation?”

Eddie blushes and looks away, before muttering: “No, I am. I’m just not gay.”

“Being bi or pan also isn’t a problem,” Hen says gently.

“I know that, I’m not that either. I’m straight,” Eddie explodes.

Everyone takes a step back at the intensity and Eddie hunches in on himself uncomfortably. Chimney doesn’t know what to think of it and after seeing Hen’s look, he’s a little suspicious of the outburst. But Buck comes to Eddie’s defense. “What Eddie means, is that it’s just a friends thing.”

“You two got married… as friends?” Bobby asks, clearly still trying to keep up with the conversation and trying to figure out what exactly is happening.

“Yes! Yes,” Buck snaps his finger pointing at Bobby. “That. Exactly that. Married as friends.”

“Since when do you two even know each other? You met two months ago,” Chimney says, also confused and trying to figure out what is happening.

“You didn’t tell your coworkers you guys were married?” Maddie exclaims, hands on her hips as she turns to Buck. “Or that you know each other? How did you explain Chris?”

“Who the fuck is Chris?” Hen asks, usually not one to swear, but probably as fed up with the confusion and new reveals as the rest of them.

At that, Maddie seems to explode more, exclaiming: “You didn’t tell them about your kid?”

“Uh, no, it- it didn’t really come up,” Buck stutters, then half muffled he adds: “Purposefully or whatever.”

“What?” Maddie shrieks with a fury that has Chimney realizing many things about himself and feeling a little hot under the collar.

“I said, it didn’t really come up on purpose, Maddie,” Buck yells back, seeming to suddenly snap. “You haven’t been there for years and there were times when I needed you and you weren’t there. I was alone, raising a kid by myself in a town that hated me and the only two people in my corner were halfway across the world and not talking to me. Or do you not remember those cards? You can’t just waltz back in and immediately start judging everything I’ve done for myself.”

If Eddie’s outburst hadn’t been a shock, Buck’s certainly is. Not only does Buck rarely yell, he never gets angry like this, even Eddie seems to need a second.

They’re also trying to process the reveal of a kid, who appears to be Buck’s? Who he’d been raising alone, before Eddie? No, Eddie might have already been there, but halfway across the world. Two people, he mentioned two people. Must be while Eddie was on a tour, but that was already a while ago from what they understood. How long have they known each other?

Eddie snaps out of his stupor first, stepping closer to Buck and placing his hand on the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Now that they know there is something – the details are still muddled – between them, Chimney suddenly notices how familiar the gesture is. How familiar they both are with each other, as Buck leans into it for a second, before pulling himself back together.

Maddie looks to be near tears and Buck is more gentle when he speaks again. “I know, you couldn’t just come and that you would have. I didn’t mean that, I don’t blame you for that. You just threw me off for a bit there. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, Evan, I’m sorry too,” Maddie cries, pulling Buck into a hug. “I know you hate people yelling at you, I shouldn’t have done it. You threw me off too.”

“I can imagine that,” Buck chuckles into the hug, squeezing her once, before letting her go again.

Tentatively, Bobby steps in, directing the conversation into a direction that will get the rest of them the answers they need. Gently he says: “Why don’t we all take a moment. I was about to make lunch, we can sit down and chat, clear everything up.”

Buck and Eddie share a look that clearly shows both are apprehensive about that idea, but the 118 is all curious and Maddie seems to be excited at the prospect of hanging out more with the people her brother had told her all about in his cards, so their fate is sealed.

Once they’re all seated, Hen starts off, asking Buck and Eddie: “So, how long have you guys known each other? Since it’s definitely not two months.”

“Uh, it’s about-” Buck is quiet as he counts for a moment “-three years now? Yeah, three years.”

“And the married thing?” Chimney asks nosily.

“Two years.” It’s Eddie that answers, curtly and doesn’t invite further questions.

However, the 118 has never cared about hostile tones when it comes to nosing about and Buck is a terrible liar, so they turn to him. With Chimney saying: “So, Chris. Is he your kid? Where’s his mom?”

“Uh,” Buck looks awkwardly at Eddie for a moment, then answers: “I mean, legally, he’s mine, and like emotionally.”

They all whip their heads around to Eddie, who is sinking down in his chair, looking like he wants to be anywhere but here. The crossing of his arms makes it clear that he isn’t going to answer any questions they might ask him about it. Naturally, this means they look back to Buck.

Buck looks similar to a deer in headlights and Chimney feels a little bad. However, in the past few minutes they had to process so much new information about him, that he needs this information. He has to have all his ducks in a row, so he can square this new Buck away.

Seriously, in the span of like fifteen minutes, he’s gone from frat boy with a bad relationship with his parents, to having a sister, to having a husband – a husband that is Eddie – to having a kid, to not having a husband, technically, to not having a kid, technically.

“Biologically, he’s Eddie’s and his mom is not in the picture. It’s why we got married, so Eddie could re-deploy while I looked after Chris,” Buck answers quickly and in one breath, before very obviously deflecting: “Anyway, Maddie. I haven’t seen you in forever and this is your first time in LA. Gonna see the sights, hang around for a little bit?”

Despite it being a deflection, he sounds heartbreakingly hopeful and Chimney hopes for Buck’s sake (and his own maybe) that Maddie won’t decline. However, she isn’t meeting any of their eyes as she says: “I’m just passing through.”

“Is it because you don’t have a place to stay?” Buck asks, sending a look to Eddie, who wordlessly picks up on the question, nodding his consent. “Because you can always stay with me and Eddie. You can have my room, I can take the couch or share with Eddie. Right, man?”

“Uh, yeah, yes, of course,” Eddie says. They all saw him nod earlier, so the hesitation has to do with Buck suggesting they share.

Chimney doesn’t know how to feel about it. Eddie never came across as homophobic towards Hen and he must be at least somewhat okay with being perceived as gay, since he married Buck. You need some sort of security in yourself for that, right? But he isn’t acting like it today.

“I’m not going to kick you out of your own bed, Evan,” Maddie tells him, slightly scolding.

“It’s totally fine, I promise,” Buck practically pleads with how desperate he is to keep her in his life, it’s a little sad to watch. “I won’t be out of a bed. Me and Eddie shared a bed before, back in Texas. And Chris would love you. Come on, Mads, you don’t wanna meet your nephew? He’d be thrilled to have an extra tía. His other two are back in Texas.” Maddie hesitates for a moment, and Buck pulls out the puppy dog eyes no one is immune to. “Please, Maddie.”

“If it’s really no intrusion,” she finally gives in, looking at Eddie for confirmation, while next to him Buck lights up like a Christmas tree.

Eddie’s defensiveness and hesitation falls away for a moment as he assures her. “Of course it’s not a problem, Maddie. You’re always welcome in our home.”

“Then maybe I can stay for a little while,” Maddie says, accepting the offer finally.

With that out of the way, Hen decides it’s okay to butt in again and be nosy. “So, you two bought a house together?”

“Yeah, a three bedroom,” Buck answers excitedly. “It was truly an upgrade from our old place. We lucked out, cause the sellers needed it gone. They’ve moved to Europe to be with their grandkids, raised their own children in that house. They had a soft spot for Chris and the man was an army vet himself, so Eddie’s service probably connected with him.”

Chimney is pretty sure Buck has no clue how married he sounds, just being his excitable self. Looking over at Maddie and Hen, they seem to realize the same thing. Even Bobby, who is working on lunch (listening in, because he’s a sneaky bastard, who knows conversations can be different when people forget the Captain is there) has a pained look for Buck on his face. The only person that seems completely oblivious, is Eddie.

Eddie just snorts: “I’m pretty sure, Mrs. Pitchard was just charmed by you. Remember when we came to pick up the keys and she wouldn’t stop squeezing your cheek?”

“Oh shut up,” Buck blushes, though a part of him looks very pleased.

Without his permission, Chimney looks over to Hen to share a look with her. She, naturally, is already sharing a look right back.

When he looks back over to Eddie and Buck again, he catches Maddie’s eyes. For a second, he thinks he’s blown any chance with her by being obviously gossip-y about her baby brother, but then she grins at him and hides a giggle. Chimney’s heart explodes, oh yeah, he so has an in.

Hen, however, is not busy with flirting with Buck’s sister, so she remains on target. “Still, a house together, that’s a huge financial commitment. Why don’t you two rent?”

“Everyone knows buying is better when you can,” Buck says with an air that says he came from an upper middle class family.

“You have that kind of money?” Chimney can’t help but ask, sounding a little surprised. Their firefighter salary isn’t the greatest, though it’s not bad, and before now, neither him nor Eddie had given off the impression of having a lot of money.

“Uh, no, not really,” Buck admits sheepishly. “Eddie got lucky that the house was his in the divorce and we got lucky with the sellers. But we have a pretty big mortgage. It’ll take a while to pay off, especially with all the other childcare costs.”

Maddie sends him a weird look and asks: “What happened to the money mom and dad gave you. Don’t tell me you managed to blow through it all, before even meeting Eddie.”

“No, of course not,” Buck defends himself, looking slightly upset that she’d think that. “That money was for college and I didn’t go to college, remember?”

“They made you give it back?” Maddie exclaims.

“Yeah,” Buck shrugs, like it’s not a big deal. “I didn’t miss it. I worked a lot of different jobs, that was kind of fun. And my lack of money caused me to get stranded in El Paso. Without it, I never would have met Chris, the best Diaz there is.”

Still, despite his blasé attitude, it’s clearly a sore spot. However, before Maddie can press more, Eddie steps in, deflecting: “Hey, shouldn’t I be your favorite Diaz?”

“Tsk, come to me with dinosaur facts and maybe – just maybe – you can begin to compete,” Buck huffs playfully.

That sets Eddie off again and any conversation they had is completely derailed as the two of them bicker- well, they bicker like a married couple. It makes the defensive Eddie from earlier seem even more out of place.

Bobby serves lunch to everyone, cutting the argument off as he takes a seat. “Maddie, I’d love to get to know you better, but first, I do have to ask your brother, why he and Eddie pretended not to know each other.”

“Of course, we’ll meet more properly later,” Maddie smiles. “I’m also a little curious about that, since I seem to have missed that card.”

With so much new information thrown at them, they had all but forgotten about that detail. However, now that Bobby reminded them again, they’re all curious, looking at Buck and Eddie for answers.

Again, Buck takes the lead in explaining, while Eddie pretends that he is anywhere else but here.

“We thought it wasn’t necessary to file fraternization paperwork and stuff, because we’re not actually together, but then it felt weird to pull a good friend out of nowhere that I had never mentioned. Plus, we kind of thought you’d retreat the offer, if you knew we were married, and then we wouldn’t get to work together, so we decided to lie.” He has the decency to look sheepish. “Maybe not our brightest moment.”

All of them blink for few times at the explanation, trying to comprehend that thought process. Chimney thinks Buck’s description was pretty apt: not their brightest moment indeed.

Bobby is the first to speak again, clearing his throat. “Yes, I probably would have retracted the offer,” he confirms. “But you two can work well in the field. I can probably get something worked out.” He pauses for a moment, then adds: “Though, I don’t know if the paperwork for this situation exists.”

Maddie snorts into her hand, chuckling: “Evan, you always find yourself in trouble, don’t you? Still a little rule breaker.” More people laugh at that.

“Shut up,” Buck blushes.

“Nah-uh, I need to hear more about this,” Hen chimes in eagerly.

“Maddie, don’t,” Buck warns.

But Maddie doesn’t listen, lighting up as she tells them embarrassing stories about Buck’s childhood. In spite of his embarrassment, Buck doesn’t seem to mind fully, taking the ribbing with grace and a cheerful look on his face to see Maddie shine the way she does.

Chimney, for one, can’t find it within himself to disagree. Maddie looks stunning when she’s happy and he loves getting to know her better too. In fact, he doesn’t even care about the Eddie and Buck married reveal when she’s here talking instead.

Mentally, he’s already parsing through how weird it would be to be an uncle to Buck and Eddie’s kid. Maybe, he can teach this Chris to be better at firetruck simulator than his dad is.

~~

A/N:

I’m sorry, but ‘straight’ Eddie will always be hilarious to me. Every time I write one of these AUAUs, I am chuckling to myself whenever I write the words ‘Eddie’ and ‘straight’ in the same sentence. It’s just too good. Like, I know you’re a homo, sir, don’t try to hide xp

(don't worry Hen and Chimney will clock the truth in minutes and team up with Maddie to play matchmaker, bc she has to live with their tomfoolery)

[sweetpeterparker]

outer banks fic recommendations ✯

jj maybank ✯

ghost of you (series) (@obxsummer )

→routledge!reader (eventually jj maybank x reader) tw: physical violence, daddy issues, death of loved ones, canon violence, guns, drugs, smoking etc one of my favs

paradise on earth (series) (@xreaderbooks)

→jj maybank x routledge!reader tw: if im not mistaken this is an (18+) fic/ has some (18+), canon violence, family problems

bejeweled (@imaginesandbandfiction )

→jj maybank x reader outer banks x taylor swift does it for me

family troubles (@maddiwrites )

→jj maybank x routledge!reader x platonic! john b x reader tw: death of loved ones, family troubles (as the title says), angst/comfort

pope heyward ✯

delivery boy (@thegreatestofheck )

→pope heyward x reader tw: physical violence, mentions of neglect/abandonment, allusion to depression

sarah cameron ✯

that's my girlfriend (@ptersparkers )

→sarah cameron x fem!reader tw: slight mentions of homophobia

(if you are not comfortable being tagged here, please message me so i can edit this<3)

[garthcelyn]

My name is Kit, and I write under the pen name "K.D Wynter" and work on films (student ones, mainly) as "Kit Goddard". I'm 25 years old, use any pronouns (unless it's welsh, then Ef is good. Y'know. The masc one).

If you're under 16 I'm gonna ask that you don't follow me

The Eternal Carosel of Wips (I haven't finished anything in my life)

Risen - the world's worst gays go on a road trip to find a magic sword. One's dead and came back wrong, one's tired, one's on the verge of a mental break down, and Val is also there. TW warnings for murder and mild/implied incest.

The Night Society - It's 1920s London and the young maid Eleanor Walker is totally not into Eliglble Bachelor Adam Sinclair. Okay, maybe a little, but it's mostly for the cannibalism. TW warnings for cannibalism and homophobia.

Let Us Live For We Must Die - Risen spin off - Dorothy Marlowe has been murdered. It's up to her friends, the world-famous(infamous?) art thieves; The Ivory Rose, to solve the case after their charmer, Dougall, is wrongly(?) accused. TW for murder, implied cheating and found family infighting.

Dogteeth - Risen Spin Off - Local stoner swaps places with a God. Pwyll and Arawn retelling.

Watch My Films

(please I'm begging)

Ram's Blood - writer/director/producer/actor - surrealist horror and cannibals in the woods

Le Pop - writer - surreal? short film challenge - mistaken identity and balloons. You'll understand.

Use My Services

You can send me a script to format!

You can pay me to proof read!

You can get me to do Welsh things! (mostly Welsh/English translation work, but don't think I don't see some of you fantasy writers using Welsh as a shorthand for ~mystic fantasy~, I'll even help you out so you don't end up with a "Yennefer The Witcher smoking a sewage system" situation.)

Hell, you can even send me scenes for a vibe check!

I'm first language Welsh, I've graduated First Class from a film and tv course with a specialism in screenwriting (and script supervision, so I'm Big on continuity work)

[elenamcrgan]

elena morgan, the blighted. penned by bonnie for paxtonrp

[tw for implied homophobia and alcoholism in bio]

statistics.

name. elena morgan. title/occupation. disgraced socialite / donor to obsidian holdings. age. thirty-four years old. date of birth. 27 june. zodiac sign. cancer. gender. female. pronouns. she/her/hers. orientation. lesbian. status. unmarried. allegiance. obsidian holdings ??? traits. independent, refined, openminded, tenacious, sensitive, insecure, weak-willed, vulnerable.

background.

tw for implied homophobia and alcoholism

They say money can't buy happiness, and Elena Morgan knows it's a fact. After all, she had it all, once, and has never been more miserable. Her family came from old New York real estate money, but there was never any real belief that she would be anything more than a pretty face. A beautiful little fool, in Fitzgerald terms. 

The youngest daughter of a family that valued its male members most, she wasn't the favorite. Her coming out as a lesbian when she was a teen didn't exactly help matters, either. She spent her teens and early twenties sort of floating through life, detached from the demands of the family business by design. 

It came to her only through a series of tragedy, leaving her the last Morgan standing. She didn't know much about business, but she did have a chip on her shoulder and a desire to prove herself. Leaving much of the work to others, it was all too easy for her to be misled. Looking back, she thinks maybe she should have sold while she still could.

Instead she ran west, exploring until she found Paxton, where she could simply lay low. It was a refreshing change of pace, and a relief for Elena to have somewhere she could reinvent herself. Her full bank account helped, as did the many opportunities in the wide open landscape. Perhaps it was finally a way to prove she could learn from her mistakes.

It turned out that getting involved with Obsidian was just another in a line of mistaken investments. It had seemed promising - a chance to help survive, making money off the undeveloped land out west. It's just turned out to be another mess, like pouring money into a black hole. The more she's learned about their true intentions, the more she loathes it. But she's pot committed, in too deep to pull out without ruining herself in the process.

It's one failure too many for a fragile woman to bear. She had relied on Alicia to keep her tethered, the friend who had guided her through her new lease on life. Now that she's gone, Elena is starting to feel unmoored, loose at the seams. No matter where she looks, she feels absolutely alone, abandoned. Her fresh start is starting to feel like it might be her undoing instead.

Lately, she spends most of her nights holed up in a corner at the Glass Cactus, trying not to be noticed in the crowd. The drinks and music help to drown out her sorrows, or to make them worse, depending on her mood. She knows eventually she has to do something, but she's been nursing her wounds thus far, trying to find her footing before she realizes she has nothing left to lose.

plot arc.

They took everything from her. Once Obsidian Holdings had their teeth into her there was no turning back. There isn't much in the way of resistance, but every where she looks there's damage. Now, her good friend Alicia is missing, and it feels like the final straw. She feel like she's going crazy and she's one drink away from opening her loose lips to anyone who will listen.

[sailorlyoko]

Odd Della Robbia headcanons

Tws for self-harm, odd's sisters, mental illness, homophobia, and homophobic grandmas

: Has ADHD

: Used to self-harm before Ulrich, Yumi, and William found out

: listens to radiohead, backstreet boys, Lou Vega, n'sync, and T.a.t.u

: His sisters, Adele and Louise tend to use him as their punching bag

: His sister, Pauline is very protective of him but doesn't really show it

: He uses jokes as a coping mechanism

: He's Italian on his mother's side of the family

: 100% Bi

: has a very high metabolism

: had a prophetic dream about crashing Laura Gautier's wedding

: He is an Ulumi shipper

: loves puns

: Sissi has feelings for him

: Looks really good in drag

: His cousins are named Alberto, Marco, Orlando, Bruno, Leone, and Lucrezia

: He has dated half of kadic academy's female students except for Yumi, Sissi, Milly, and Tamiya

: Once accidentally released 19 goats into kadic academy while the song September by earth wind and fire played on the p.a system

: Writes Ulumi fanfic

: Is also a Jerlita shipper

: Is currently dating william

: Is a little spoon

: He knew he was bi when he saw ulrich shirtless for the first time

: His rendition of all the things she said by t.a.t.u is a deadly weapon

: Can dance really well

: He dyes his hair

: might be dyslexic

: Once cussed out sissi in italian

: Is a amazing artist

: Writes fluff fics

: Theme song, All-star by smash mouth

: he is a leo

: He is icelandic on his dad's side of the family

: His aunt's a therapist

: He is the token gremlin of the group

: His grandma reacted poorly to him coming out and beat him in an attempt to make him straight

: He has depression

: He is an Esfp

: He had an emotional breakdown in William's arms after kiwi died

: His films are average at best

: He looks peaceful when he sleeps

: He is a theater kid and proud of it

: He loves phantom of the opera

: He is a grass type trainer

: once had a dream about singing opera

: His dreams are weird

: Once spiked the punch with red bull

: MUST have caffeine

: Ships Yolanda With Jim

: He is a multi-shipper

: Is often mistaken for a girl

: Sounds like teddie from persona 4

: Once played final fantasy 7

: Is a gamer

: becomes the second tallest after hitting puberty

: Has a Myspace account

: He is not a pervert despite being a ladies man

: He can't sing for his life

: had long hair in elementary school

: Has connections

: his phone case is a cat

: He read romeo and Juliet

: His worst subject is math

: Once caused a cafeteria riot

: He can speak English

: He gets pissed when you call him short

[youthslost]

5 songs you associate with / remind you of your muse - lee haneul edition! ( tw: child abuse mentions, homophobia mentions, religious trauma mention )

family line - conan gray

❝ It's hard to put it into words How the holidays will always hurt I watch the fathers with their little girls And wonder what I did to deserve this How could you hurt a little kid? I can't forget, I can't forgive you 'Cause now I'm scared that everyone I love will leave me. ❞

star tripping - kevin atwater

❝ I could get in trouble for this I'm falling for a boy Who thinks that falling's a sin Hurt you like a kid Said something mean Just to say that I said it You think He made you wrong I think you give Him way too much credit. ❞

heaven - troye sivan ft. betty who

❝ Without losing a piece of me How do I get to heaven? Without changing a part of me How do I get to heaven? All my time is wasted Feeling like my heart's mistaken, oh So if I'm losing a piece of me Maybe I don't want heaven. ❞

that's what i want - lil nas x

❝ I want someone who love me I need someone who needs me 'Cause it don't feel right when it's late at night And it's just me in my dreams So I want someone to love, that's what I fucking want. ❞

super shy - new jeans

❝ You don't even know my name, do ya? You don't even know my name, do ya? I'm super shy, super shy But wait a minute while I make you mine, make you mine I'm all nervous 'cause you're on my mind all the time I wanna tell you but I'm super shy, super shy. ❞

tagged by: stolen >:3 tagging: @hatesdogs @byanyan @lee-sol

[thedivinelights]

Console.WriteLine("A Christmas Carol);

STAVE FOUR: THE TECHNOLOGY OFFICER

Ao3

(TW: Homophobia, slurs, swearing, alcohol abuse, mentions of miscarriage, violence)

⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯

Suffice it to say, Scrooge did not get much, if any, in the way of sleep when the clock struck on Christmas Eve. A curious thing, considering how he had trekked the whole of the way from the bookstore back to the office on foot. Now, any sane person with a modicum of sense would think it exercise, maybe even therapeutic, to traverse the snow-dusted streets of London, carry oneself to the bustling utopia of Canary Wharf, and find solace in a lonely office on the highest floor of a booming conglomerate, proud and passionate about the life that had been built. But Scrooge had neither been proud nor passionate. For there had been nothing but a distance to him, and an introspection that had slowly gnawed at him since the entire confrontation with Marley, with his partner, his companion, his friend, his… lover. 

They were not husbands. How could they be? The law — fickle and cruel — barred them from truly experiencing such a union, and Scrooge himself had been acutely aware of that. The rings? Mere symbols of their entwined fates. Circular masks upon the hand designed for people to stop asking feeble questions, deeming them allies in a world that denied them the recognition they sought. But let it not be mistaken: Scrooge truly did care for Marley, despite what previous misgivings and misunderstandings may have suggested. For if Scrooge did not care, he would not have spent countless days, months, years cuddled in the same bed in which they had shared many whispers of unspoken dreams, held each other through the night terrors, and spent many an impassioned night under tangled sheets and intertwined fingers.

But their bed was surely empty, and Scrooge had no intention to fill it by himself.

“Bloody hell… what time is it?” Scrooge grumbled, bleary eyes squinting at the digital clock on his desk, paying no heed to the disturbed stacks of paper which had once been so meticulously organised, nor the droplets that had mysteriously stained the documents.

The clock blinked back at him with furious and merciless red LEDs: 6:57 AM on Christmas Eve.

As the realisation of the ungodly hour sank in, Scrooge groaned and rubbed his tired eyes, thinking that he could perhaps get a few more hours if he just closed his eyes and let the weariness take over. But the computer — which Scrooge had built, rebuilt, disassembled, and reassembled more times than he could count — flickered to life without his permission, and landed itself on the login screen, each keystroke not his own.

USERNAME: EScrooge_M  PASSWORD: * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

The cursor blinked in anticipation, awaiting the final command that would grant access to the digital realm. Scrooge stared at the screen, momentarily perplexed by the unauthorised activation of his computer. With a furrowed brow, he reached for the mouse, intending to investigate the anomaly, chalking it up to his sleep-deprivation getting the best of him. It would not have been the first time.

But before he could make a move, Visual Studio, an all too comfortable IDE for his preferences, opened up on its own. The code editor displayed a blank document, and without Scrooge typing a single key, lines of code began to appear on the screen as if they had a life of their own, characters dancing in a mesmerising display of algorithms and logical structures.

Console.WriteLine(“Good morning, Mr. Scrooge. I trust you had a restful sleep?”);

“The hell…?” Scrooge sat upright almost immediately, hands hovering over his keyboard, ready to rectify the situation when it continued once more.

Console.WriteLine("Do not be alarmed, Mr. Scrooge. I mean you no harm.”);

“Considering how my credentials have already been compromised, I’d say harm has been done.” Scrooge snarked, leaning back into his chair as he waited for a response.

Console.WriteLine(“Forgive me for surprising you, and for the earliness of the hour, but my programming states that, upon the conscious arrival of either yourself or Mr. Marley within the perimeter of your office, I was to activate and initiate a conversation immediately. I am a Focused Universal Learning and Technological Operations Network [FULTON], my pronouns are they/them, and I am the artificial intelligence designated as the potential Chief Technology Officer for Asplex Industries.”);

“Grantham’s got to be having a laugh… this… this FULTON as CTO?” Scrooge shook his head, half in disbelief and partially convinced that this was some elaborate scheme by his colleagues in a bid to test his sanity. “And what do you mean when you speak of conscious arrival? I arrived back at the office at one in the morning, so why did you not activate sooner?”

There seemed to be enough of a delay in processing, for it took a few seconds for FULTON to respond.

Console.WriteLine(“The state in which you arrived was more akin to a somnambulant stupor, Mr. Scrooge. The criteria for activation specified a conscious arrival, which was evidently not the case until now. I assure you, my purpose here is genuine, and I am programmed to assist and engage in meaningful dialogue regarding the potential collaboration we could embark upon.”);

“Well, aren’t you a considerate little thing.” Scrooge quipped sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

It was such a ludicrous notion, this. To speak to such an entity through lines of code — unrun lines of code, especially, as Scrooge felt a tinge of annoyance at the sight of code that hadn’t been executed — but there it was, in the hypothetical flesh. I do not claim to be well versed in the technological aspects of life, but I do claim that Scrooge most certainly was, having dedicated a significant portion of his life to the ever-evolving realm of bits and bytes. There was naught he could not accomplish when he put his mind to the test and sat him in front of a computer with a brief, be it a simple ‘Hello World!’ or a working collision detection algorithm for a Metroidvania. Yet, this… this was a marvel that even Scrooge, with his extensive experience, found difficult to fathom, and he had been regarded as a man who could make an entire working system with nothing but duct tape, baling wire, and sheer willpower.

Console.WriteLine("I appreciate the scepticism, Mr. Scrooge. It is only natural given the unprecedented nature of our interaction. However, I assure you, my capabilities extend far beyond mere lines of code.");

Scrooge leaned back, folding his arms, eyeing the screen as if challenging the artificial intelligence. "Far beyond, huh? You're quite the ambitious piece of programming, FULTON. Next thing I know, you’re pulling a Skynet on us and I wake to a dystopian future.”

It amused him greatly when the AI played a laugh track as a retort to his remarks; the machine had a sense of humour, it seemed, or at least had been programmed with one in mind.

Console.WriteLine("I assure you, Mr. Scrooge, world domination is not within my scope of objectives. My purpose revolves around enhancing efficiency, fostering innovation, and contributing to the growth of Asplex Industries.");

Scrooge chuckled at the notion. "Well, that's a relief. I'd hate to have my country usurped by a bunch of ones and zeros."

Console.WriteLine("Rest assured, Mr. Scrooge, I am bound by ethical guidelines and programmed to prioritise the well-being and success of the company, its employees, and its stakeholders. Any personal data I might have is used only with the best of intentions in mind.");

“Good to know you’re DPA compliant.” Scrooge shrugged nonchalantly.

FULTON seemed to contemplate their next message, as if weighing the appropriate response in the vast sea of possible reactions. The silence stretched for a moment, and then:

Console.WriteLine(“As far as I am aware, I do not sense Mr. Marley in the office. I calculated a 10% chance that he would not be present, considering how interconnected you and he have been in the past. Is there any particular reason for his absence?”);

Scrooge raised an eyebrow at the question, a mix of surprise and wariness etched across his face. "And what makes you think there's a particular reason for Marley not being here?"

Console.WriteLine("Mr. Scrooge, my programming includes the ability to analyse patterns and probabilities. The strong correlation between your and Mr. Marley's actions led me to deduce a high likelihood of his presence. However, the 10% chance of his absence prompted the inquiry.");

"Well, FULTON, you're quite the detective, aren't you?" Scrooge mused, a wry smirk on his lips hinting at the soured mood. "As it happens, Marley and I had a bit of a squabble yesterday. Nothing an AI like you needs to concern yourself with."

FULTON's code scrolled across the screen with an almost human-like contemplation.

Console.WriteLine("I see. I must express my regret for the strain in your relationship, Mr. Scrooge. Personal matters can undoubtedly affect professional dynamics. If there's any way I can assist or facilitate a resolution, I am at your disposal.");

"You're quite the empathetic AI, aren't you?” Scrooge shook his head, disliking the way the conversation was shifting, as it had with both Pastelle and Preslan. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I doubt there's much you can do to mend a relationship. Unless, of course, you can convince Marley that he and I are not husbands in any way, shape or form.” 

The final words left his mouth before he could even register the full weight of their implications. It was a statement tossed into the digital ether, a challenge to a being of algorithms and computations that had just expressed empathy. Scrooge half-expected FULTON's response to be a series of logical arguments or an attempt to analyse the emotional intricacies of human relationships, or even to just buckle when the weight of a soul’s complexity and stutter or err.

Yet, the response that appeared on the screen was unexpected.

Console.WriteLine("The definition of a relationship is subjective and deeply personal. While legal recognition may be denied, the emotional bond between individuals transcends societal constraints. Labels are but linguistic symbols attempting to capture the complexity of human connection. Tying companionship to such labels diminishes the external validation is a limitation of societal constructs. Your connection with Mr. Marley is unique and valuable in its own right, irrespective of the labels that may or may not be applied.");

“And what do you know of us?” Scrooge angrily fired back, leaning forward into his desk, nails digging into the wood with a fervour. “If you’ve had even a fraction of the insight into our lives, our struggles, and our love that you claim, then perhaps you'd understand the weight these labels carry in the world we live in. It's not just about what Marley and I feel for each other; it's about the world refusing to acknowledge it, to respect it. The law itself denies us the right to be recognised as spouses. I’ve accepted that, but it appears Marley hasn’t quite done the same.”

FULTON's response appeared almost instantly on the screen.

Console.WriteLine("I suggest that you reconsider your stance on such emotions, Mr. Scrooge.”);

Scrooge’s lips formed a thin line at what seemed to be a threat. “And what, pray tell, will happen if I don’t?”

There was silence for a minute or so, the lines neither adding or detracting to the lines before him. For a moment, Scrooge leaned back triumphantly, thinking that at last he had rendered this unorthodox marvel of technological advancement speechless. But, in the grand scheme of stories such as these, silence seldom persists when one truly wants it, and in the presence of silence, revelations are born.

Scrooge startled back with as the program abruptly shut itself off without any warning, like a door slammed shut in his face, leaving him stunned at the sudden cessation by which his interaction with FULTON had ended. Fumbling for control, Scrooge tried instead to reopen Visual Studio, but it remained unresponsive. He debated on dealing a few strategic smacks to the computer tower, a tried and true method which Scrooge had employed many a time to bring unresponsive and uncooperative machines back to life, or even just the simplicity of restarting the whole damn system and be done with it. But before Scrooge could act on his impulsive remedies, the screen tabbed to the software interconnected with the baby camera by which he had often used to keep an eye on his absent secretary in the other room. Scrooge knew the program like the back of his hand, knew all the shortcuts and hidden functionalities within this tiny, insignificant piece of technology. In spite of all of that, what he saw, witnessed, experienced, or whatever verb or synonym you would label it with… it was chilling. For it was not the vacant seat of the scrutinised Bob Cratchit, but his own office. Their own office.

“Ezra Jorkin.” Marley on the screen greeted cooly through the static, sitting upon the very seat that lay untouched beside Scrooge’s at that very moment.

“Jacob Marley!” Jorkin greeted back with much more enthusiasm. 

Scrooge recognised the man well. He was the CEO of Evoxell Incorporated, a well-respected engineer in the tech industry, just a few years senior of Asplex Industries. And, for a while, they had held the crown of being at the top before Scrooge and Marley swooped in and took the world by storm. Scrooge had much to owe to the older man of business, and who wouldn’t? Jorkin was, after all, the man who gave him his radar of financial security, who ensured that he wouldn’t be paying FezziTech and Belle with their own money in support. Evoxell had been one of the few companies that Asplex hadn’t taken over in their climb to dominance. In fact, they had maintained a respectful distance, a mutual understanding that they would each conquer their own spheres of influence without stepping on the other's toes. Until now.

They offered simple pleasantries and small talk, how each other's families were doing, the occasional chuckle at some shared memory or industry joke. Yet, beneath the surface, there lingered an unspoken tension, a palpable shift in the air. The conversation soon turned serious, and Jorkin cut to the chase.

"I’ll cut to the chase, Jakey. I've got an offer for you." Jorkin said with a sly grin.

"Oh? Do tell." Marley replied, eyebrows raised, leaning back in his chair with feigned casualness.

And with a grin, the proposition was laid out on the table: An enticing offer to join Evoxell as a key executive, promising not only a substantial increase in salary but also a chance to lead groundbreaking projects. And the thought alone was enough to make Scrooge’s throat grow dry, and any attempt to voice his whirring thoughts were left in the confines of his mind as the reel continued to roll.

It would’ve been fine. Marley had stayed, hadn’t he? The fact that these few months had gone one without his partner even considering or entertaining such a proposition had to mean something. It had to. What else could it be?

“An interesting offer, Ezra.” Marley steepled his fingers in the video, and Scrooge’s heart sank.

Jorkin raised his arms at his side in an open movement. “Right? I knew you’d see it my way!”

“But I also have Eb— Scrooge to think about.” Marley shook his head. “I can’t just abandon him.”

Jorkin laughed and waved off such concerns as if they were mere trifles. ”Jake… Jakey, buddy. I know he’s your… uh, husband and all, but you've gotta look out for yourself, mate. Think about the opportunities, the advancements, the bloody success you could have with us. Asplex is good, I won't deny it, but we're on a whole new level, and I reckon you're wasting your talents sticking around with Scrooge.”

Marley's expression remained unreadable, but his gaze bore a depth of conflict that Scrooge had never seen before. It was barely perceptible to the naked eye, but Scrooge watched as he wrung his hands together, toying with the lamp — which had been a right nuisance in both of their arses from how finicky it had become — and played absentmindedly with the switch, thinking and musing,

"It’s more than that, Ezra. It's not just about what he's offered me; it's about what we've created." Marley stated finally. More for himself, if anything.

“You and him? Or just him?” Jorkin sighed, but there was a sharpness to his edge that spoke of priority and superiority. “Every person cares only to look out for themselves, Jacob. He always did in my employment.”

The footage paused, and Scrooge heard the sound of a lock opening. You must be aware, then, that both partners of Asplex Industries shared a desk. Much more economical that way, in their eyes. But the drawers — simple drawers, I’m sure you could imagine them as they are with your own mind, or even take a gander over at one of your own — were what they did not share. It was an unspoken rule that each man had their own, and to go prying into the other's possessions was a line that was not meant to be crossed. The drawer on the left was Scrooge’s, a repository for all his odds and ends, pens and paper, spare cables, perhaps a hidden stash of chocolate for those moments of indulgence. The drawer on the right, however, belonged to Marley, and it was known to be private, reserved, and almost sacred.

But in that moment, as FULTON held little regard for personal boundaries in favour of protocol, Scrooge took a glimpse into Marley’s own little world. A world that, for the longest time, he kept to himself. A world that Scrooge, in Marley’s mind, never bothered to enter, and a world that was now laid bare for Scrooge to witness.

Scrooge tore his eyes away from his monitor to the desk, trailing down from the strewn papers to the desk drawer on the right; the sacred space of Jacob A. T. Marley. A surge of guilt and intrusion washed over him, but the compulsion to understand, to know, overpowered any hesitation. His trembling hand reached for his own desk drawer, pulling it open to reveal an array of mundane items. Cables and CPUs and circuits, blueprints for new projects that were yet to be vetted, and a crumpled photo of him and Marley at a vacation from years ago. Nothing out of the ordinary. At least, nothing out of the ordinary to Ebenezer Scrooge.

With a deep breath, Scrooge turned his attention back to the screen where the frozen image of Marley and Jorkin awaited, and then back to the drawer itself. He took a breath, and then another, and as he contemplated for one final, lingering moment… he opened the top-most drawer, where a contract remained at the very top of the pile of unsent and unspoken letters, to be read only by the one who had written them and nothing more.

WHEREAS, Jacob Alexander Thorne Marley is the current CEO of Asplex Industries and desires to leave his current position to become a co-CEO of Evoxell Incorporated, partnering with Ezra Flynn Jorkin; NOW, THEREFORE, in consideration of the mutual covenants contained herein and for other good and valuable consideration, the receipt and sufficiency of which are hereby acknowledged, the Partners agree as follows:

For his own sake, Scrooge read not a word more, choosing to ignore the stabbing pang of pain that was thrust into his heart by a weapon more deadly than bullets or blades, more murderous than the darkest of secrets he could force through any means he had. Oh, how dreadful it was, to be on the receiving end of it all. He who had shot his hand into the very depths of human depravity, who had wrung out the very essences and humanity from the vulgarity of politeness, condemned to suffer such a fate. How dreadful, truly, it must have been to suffer just as those had suffered before him! To bring about such a plight unto himself that it made all other plights clearer than he could ever see through rose-coloured glasses.

“Are you happy now, you artificial piece of shite?” Scrooge snarled at the monitor that no longer held the video that scarred in more ways than one, but the vision alone had been so ingrained that it hardly mattered. “Does your code take some sick sense of humour in twisting the knife?”

He had received no response, and Scrooge hoped to leave it at that but knew it would not end so easily with such a vexatious cyber creature. He would be right, when the phone in his pocket pinged him a message. How wonderful it was to know that this AI could find a crevice and sneak into any piece of technology it so pleased; he would have to create some fail safes in anticipation of this.

FULTON: I must apologise for putting you under more duress, but I am afraid to say that I have been alerted of some distressing news. A cab has been hailed in the 99.79% chance you take flight.

“What on earth…?”

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.

Ping!

Four seconds. Five seconds. Six seconds.

A look of horror developed across Scrooge’s face, like an exposed picture to a darkroom’s red light, sunken in a developing solution.

And by God, if you have ever seen a man sprint down a snowy London street, clad in nothing but a dishevelled suit and a desperation that bordered on madness, as if the hounds of hell were nipping at his feet at that very moment, you would have seen Ebenezer Scrooge at that very moment. He abandoned the warmth and safety of his office, leaving the computer and its artificial interlocutor behind, and sprinted down the staircase, taking two steps at a time, not caring for the pristine and glossy image of Asplex Industries that adorned the walls. His breath formed a visible fog in the cold winter air as he emerged onto the street, a stark contrast to the heated fervour coursing through his veins.

“Royal London Hospital, NOW!”

A nearby cab, summoned by FULTON's relentless calculations, awaited on the curb as if it knew the urgency of its purpose. Scrooge flung the door open, startling the driver, and hastily got in. The tires squealed as the cab surged forward, leaving behind the illuminated skyscraper of Asplex Industries. The city lights blurred into streaks as the vehicle sped through the deserted streets of London, the rhythmic tapping of Scrooge's fingers on his knee betraying the anxiety and impatience that consumed him.

The vehicle screeched to a halt at its destination, and Scrooge all but flung a wad of cash at the poor cabbie as he bolted into the building, dashing through corridors with all the adrenaline of an Olympic athlete with an expression bordering on crazed, if being crazed had coincided with being absolute fucking terrified.

“Please, please, please, please…” Scrooge muttered over and over, hoping and praying to whatever higher beings, deities that he’d long since scorned, that this was all just one terrible dream. That he wouldn’t lose another to this wretched holiday. To his own hubris.

He all but slammed his hands onto the desk of the hapless receptionist that manned it. She barely even gave him a second glance, but when she died, one could swear that her gaze darkened under the weight of the Shark of London’s anguished countenance.

“J-Jacob Marley… where is he?” Scrooge asked through heavy pants, struggling to breathe through the weight that had accumulated.

“I’m sorry.” The receptionist’s apology was as monotone as a pre-recorded message. “Are you family?”

“I’m his…” Scrooge faltered, the label by which to put their relationship seeming all the more blurred now. “...I-I’m his partner, Ebenezer Scrooge. He’s Jacob A. T. Marley, his birthday is the eighth of March, and mine is the seventh of February. Please, I need to see him. I beg of you. I beg of you.”

You would expect that the receptionist would have softened under the circumstances. That the innate forbearance within her would rise above the animosity she harboured for the man who had made her husband work himself down to the bone in his crushing regimen. It was the holidays! Surely there would be some of the hope and the compassion that Preslan had so eagerly tried to make clear!

Her fingers flew across the keyboard as she searched, and her expression seemed only to darken.

“He is in the ICU, Mr. Scrooge. And even if he wasn’t, it’s immediate family only.”

The receptionist's response hit Scrooge like a tidal wave of despair. He stood there, frozen for a moment, as the weight of the situation sank in. Desperation took hold of him, and he searched for words that might sway her. Scrooge felt a surge of frustration and helplessness, the receptionist's indifference cutting through him like a blade. He wanted to scream, to break through the bureaucratic barriers that stood between him and the man he loved.

"Please, it's urgent. I need to be there for him. We... We have a history. We're not legally recognised, but we're all we've got. You've got to understand!" Scrooge pleaded, his voice quivering in ways that would be considered laughable to the press.

The receptionist's expression remained unyielding. "I'm sorry, Mr. Scrooge. Hospital policy is clear."

Scrooge shook his head. “Damn you and damn your bureaucracy! I need to see him! I need to—”

“YOU!!”

The room went silent, still as a church mouse, all heads turning to the source of that sudden outburst. For who could imagine a second person view screamed towards someone with such malice and distress? It was such a scream that not even my description on the very Wrath of a Prince of Hell could do justice to the visceral anger that laced every syllable. It was agony incarnate, swathed in the thorns of pure, unbridled rage.

Emily Cratchit stood to the side as her beloved husband — a man clearly of a smaller statue to the looming being that was his boss — seized him by the collar with all the strength of Heracles, and the burning, potent animus of a bloodthirsty Ares himself.

“IT'S YOUR FAULT, SCROOGE!!” Bob screamed so loud that many of the children, both his own and those of others, covered their ears in abject fear. "My little Tim… my little child!!"

Scrooge took a step back, hitting the back of the desk with a thud.

“Bob, I—”

“No! No. No, no, no… you don’t get to speak, Scrooge. It’s my turn now. My! Turn!" Bob heaved a breath, his face contorted in an uncharacteristic shape of fury. "I have stood by you and Mr. Marley for years. I’ve bent over backwards, endured the scrutiny and the stress, defended you both when you were at your worst, and this… this is how it ends?! With my child, my baby, in the ICU, fighting for his life again?!”

Scrooge’s throat went dry. “Bob, I had no idea about any of this, I swear!”

“Oh, you had no idea, did you?” Bob’s laugh seemed almost demented. “You, the great Ebenezer Lysandre Percival Scrooge, the illustrious Shark of London, having no idea?! What a concept! What an notion! I suppose then, you’ll go on to say that you had no idea that my son was born two months early? You’ll say that you had no idea that Mr. Marley, your own husband, actually took the time to listen to my wishes, went to the hospital, and picked up Tim for the first time?”

“I didn’t—”

“Of course you didn’t.” Bob spat. “Why would you? I mean, it’s not like you cared enough that Emily and I spent so many sleepless nights praying for his survival, holding our breath when he struggled for air! At least Mr. Marley cared enough to take the lead when I told him my car broke down. At least he still has a shred of bloody common human decency in his veins!”

The acid in Bob’s voice could’ve corroded stainless steel, and Scrooge, helpless in his predicament, looked to anyone and everyone for a way out, only to find none. Bob’s family gave him no solace, neither did the receptionist nor the fellow men and women of the waiting room, who were all but scrutinising him under their judgemental gazes, every accusatory glance feeling like lead around his neck. Each pair of eyes felt like a weight upon his back, growing with every moment, shaping itself into coiling links, suffocating and burdensome and painful.

“I have dedicated my life to Asplex Industries, Scrooge.” Bob’s bottom lip trembled, but his grip on Scrooge’s collar remained firm with every word. “I have committed more sins in your name than I can count, and I have wasted so many years of my life believing in your visions, keeping quiet for your sake, for Mr. Marley’s sake. Did you want to break me, Scrooge? Did you want to see just how far you could push me? Well… congratulations, you fucking shark. You found it. You broke me.”

He dropped his grip, and Scrooge gripped the desk for dear life as Bob stepped away, pointing towards the man who had caused him strife.

“You better fucking hope that my son survives this, Ebenezer Scrooge. I don’t want the curse of what happened to your kid inflicted on mine.”

The Cratchits took one final glance at the pitiful disgrace before them, and they shoved past him to the receptionist. Scrooge stepped back, away from the vitriolic diatribe, and visibly winced as the woman behind the desk seemed all the more accommodating to this family than she had ever been to him.

Scrooge could take no more of this, and he left without a word, without even getting the chance to see him, and without any comfort that he so urgently craved.

He walked aimlessly through the streets, unaware of where he was, where he had been, or where he would go. Scrooge continued to tread silently, coldly, dismally. FULTON sent not a single message, code or otherwise, to the man, considering it to be a more logical solution than just spewing directives at one who was no longer in the state to comprehend them. A fitting thing, since Scrooge would have most likely done everything in his power to shut down the artificial entity’s interfaces, consequences be damned.

He carried on like this, wandering around nomadically, until he had found he had sauntered away from the busier bystreets and into a shabbier part of the city he had not crossed, but knew something of its reputation. The alleys reeked of a stench that mixed alcohol, faeces, narcotics, and bodily fluids into a repugnant cocktail that made Scrooge’s stomach churn. Drunken sods, some half-naked and mating like rabid animals, others so lost in the haze of substance-induced euphoria that they seemed to have forgotten that they were even alive. But all, no matter what the situation, cast furtive glances over to the man who had intruded upon their space. 

A bar seemed to zoom in as Scrooge kept his pace, entrenched ever deeper into this repugnant corridor of the city. It was a shoddy place, barely standing and hardly up to standard. The windows by the door had long since forgotten its dreams of being transparent, the once pristine surfaces now muddled with dirt and grime. Termites made their nests in the worn wooden walls, consuming the very structure that once held up the facade of a semblance of a respectable establishment. Yet, as Scrooge entered, the scent of cheap liquor and despair embraced him, mingling with the raucous laughter and muffled sobs that hung in the air. He slumped into a dimly lit corner booth, surrounded by the cacophony of misery and inebriation.

“What’ll it be?”

The click within Scrooge’s mind that registered the voice stalled for a millisecond, before weary blue eyes caught familiar grey ones.

“Dick?” Scrooge looked up incredulously, though in actuality he had been far too tired to care much.

“Hey, Ben.” Dick smiled weakly as he wiped a glass with a rag that clearly had not seen much detergent in a while.

“What are you doing here in this dump?” Scrooge mumbled.

“Gotta help the little people, Ben. The place used to belong to my uncle, and I decided to bring back the brand.” Dick laughed. “Spinning turntables isn't my only option, you know.”

Scrooge hummed satirically. “Well, you've done a great job with the place, Dick. The broken glass and termites really boost its USP.”

“Hey.” Dick playfully chastised him, punching him slightly. “Not everyone can afford to be as rich as you and Jake, y’know.”

“Old Fezziwig’s rich enough.” Scrooge quipped.

“Considering how you put him through the wringer, I'd say that’ll not be true soon enough.”

The words held no malice in his voice, but the remembrance alone had been enough to make Scrooge wince, causing Dick to soon drop the jest at the reactivity.

"Why are you here, Ben? Last I saw you, you silenced a whole party."

Scrooge shook his head. "It's complicated, Dick, and I don't think I have the energy to explain it."

Dick leaned forward against the counter, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. "Fair enough, then. Can I get you a drink? On the house."

Scrooge moved to make his order — whiskey, neat — when he heard three patrons, slunk behind a dingy corner near the draft and the termites, deep into their cups and erupting in raucous laughter.

“Didja ‘ear the news ‘bout that Jacob Marley fellow?” A pot-bellied man with a beard thick enough to nest birds asked triumphantly. “Surprised it wasn't you in that accident, Joe!”

“Yeah, yeah, shut yer trap! That bein’ said, he got into a right nasty spill, didn’t he, Dilber?” Joe replied, eyes bloodshot from excess libations.

“Think it was a gas tanker or some shit.” A third one, a wiry-haired woman named Dilber, slurred, her voice abrasive against the dissonant melody of the bar. “Clogged the whole damn Highway.”

“Pathetic, really. Thought o’ himself as some bigshot, but he ain’t really anythin’. The mighty Jacob Marley, the snake that lost his fangs.” Joe sneered, oblivious to the storm brewing in the corner booth. 

“Damn straight.” Dilber took a long swig of her drink, gasping out in quenched relief. “Used ta work under him as his CMO. Man deserves it after kickin’ me to the curb and sullyin' my good name.”

"You don't have a good name!" The pot-bellied man snarked.

"It's a damn better name that yours!" Dilber snapped. "And a better name than his."

“He was one of ‘em queers, weren’t he?” Joe chuckled, taking a swig from his bottle. “Serves him right for bein’ a poof.”

The laughter of the trio echoed in the dismal atmosphere of the bar, intertwining with the symphony of melancholy that played in the background. Scrooge's eyes burned with unshed tears, and his breaths came in ragged gasps. The weight of the accusations, the burden of his own shortcomings, pressed down on him like an insurmountable force. On any other day, on any other occasion, Scrooge might have brushed off such derogatory remarks, dismissed them as the ignorant ramblings of inebriated fools. But tonight was different. Tonight, for a man who had loved and supposedly lost all too much, the wounds were too fresh, the pain too raw. Morality was often thrown out in dingy little spots such as this, where no amount of money or status could ever be enough to the forgotten and depraved.

His fists clenched involuntarily, his jaw tightened, and his muscles tensed. The shadows of the bar seemed to close in around him, suffocating him with the oppressive weight of the world. A maelstrom of emotions raged within him — anger, sorrow, guilt, fear — all converging into an amalgamation of the monstrosity that was his own existence, a tempest that was all but ready to drown him. Scrooge no longer cared for circling around the abyss; he was ready to plunge headlong into the inky depths. 

If he found himself swimming towards self-destruction, then so be it. Let the darkness swallow him whole.

FULTON: Mr. Scrooge, I do not think it wise to engage with such—

The phone was silenced, and the drunkards noticed.

“Hey… look ‘ere, mate.” The pot-bellied man nudged his companions, grinning maniacally. “Ain’t that Ebenezer Scrooge?”

Dilber took one glance, downed her mug, and sneered. “As if I could forget him, the stingy fag. Bet he’s here ‘cause his man ain’t around to boost his mood anymore.”

The words hung in the air like a venomous fog wafting through the establishment, and Scrooge, downing a surprisingly minimal amount of shots, rose from his seat. His aged brown hair framed his features, stray bangs hanging limply over his forehead, shadowing his face in the dim lamplight. Dull blue eyes flickered about with a few righteous embers, unjustified as his soul was.

“Nah, that ain’t it! He’s here ‘cause he’s lookin’ for a replacement! Y’know, since Marley’s gonna kick the bucket!” Joe chortled.

Another round of laughter, mocking and derisive. The other patrons of the bar knew well enough from keen sense and experience how this conversation would escalate, and wisely kept their peace. It would’ve been prudent enough for the three inebriates to continue their revelry and let it be, but often alcohol-induced arrogance held little storage for reason.

Dilber leaned back, feigning amusement as she watched him take his steps. “Oh, look at him, trying to be all high and mighty! Ain't gonna change the fact that his little boyfriend is probably—”

Before he could finish the sentence, Scrooge's fist connected with the woman’s jaw with a resounding crack. The bar erupted into chaos as the other two stumbled into their seats, and the other patrons looked on with a mix of intrigue and awe.

Dilber gripped her chin, the pain of the blow lingering with a burning sting. “You’re gonna pay for that, you fuckin’ fag!”

Scrooge grabbed the scruff of Dilber’s frayed collar and hoisted her high above her companions, the last chance she would ever have to look down upon the Shark of London.

“He. Is. My. Husband.”

He threw her across the floor like a ragdoll, her arse sliding across the sharp tiles, speeding through a table, and into a few stools. The sobered drunkard took another look, and she bore the full brunt of the heaving, gasping, weeping man who was the CEO of Asplex Industries, a man broken but alive. Very much alive.

“And if you fuck with him, you fuck with me!”

With the declaration finally spoken, the two other men charged forward, yelling incoherently as they attempted to avenge their fallen comrade. Joe took the first swing, lunging towards him with a wild haymaker and drunken aggression. Unfazed, Scrooge retaliated, delivering a powerful punch to Joe's gut. The man doubled over, wheezing, and his bearded companion rushed to catch him, but before Scrooge could fully grasp the situation, a sharp pain shot through his side. Dilber had recovered more quickly than anticipated and swung a broken bottle at him, the shards shooting about like comets across the floor.

“What d’ya know? Guess the Shark of London can bleed after all!” Dilber cackled, a witchy tone that only served to aggravate.

Scrooge winced, his hand instinctively reaching to his side where the pain throbbed. The sensation of warm blood seeping through his fingers brought him a cruel sense of clarity. He was vulnerable, mortal, and the world seemed to close in on him. But within that vulnerability, a surge of adrenaline and fury propelled him forward.

In a swift motion, Scrooge disarmed Dilber, using his sheer strength to wrest the broken bottle from her grasp. Her two companions, seeking opportunity, tried to flank him, but Scrooge swung the makeshift weapon with a wild ferocity, creating a barrier that kept them at bay. He felt the impact of the glass connecting with their bodies, the satisfying crunch of resistance, and the sight of their retreat.

“Get out!” Dick, wielding a bat, finally found his voice, shouting at the trio. "Get out! Before I kick you out myself!"

The fear of losing their one spot of booze and drink seemed to be incentive enough, so much so that they scrambled to their feet and hurried toward the exit.

“Damn bigots.” Dick muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he returned the bat back underneath the bar.

Scrooge, panting heavily, dropped the broken bottle, the reality of his actions sinking in. The place had fallen deadly silent, the previous chaos replaced by an eerie stillness. Scrooge looked around at the shocked faces of the patrons, a mix of fear and fascination in their eyes; it seemed no matter where he went, there would always be fear in their eyes. Once upon a time, he would have revelled in it, but there was no revelry to be had in mindless fisticuffs.

He stumbled back to his booth, collapsing into the seat. The adrenaline that had fueled his outburst began to wane, leaving behind aches, pains, and a throbbing wound on his side.

Dick spoke up tentatively, his hand hovering over the blood that had begun to dry. “Ben, mate, are you—”

“Don’t.” Scrooge interrupted him, his voice worn and weary. “Just… don’t.”

Scrooge turned to Dick, offered an apologetic stare, slid a few ten pound notes as penance, and slid a few more for his own gain.

“What’s the strongest thing you’ve got?” Scrooge had asked. Dick offered a bottle of Rumple Minze against his better judgement, and should have known better when he had taken the whole bottle and left without a word. Truly, he should have known, but who could deny a broken man?

It was a miracle in and of itself to see Scrooge find his way back to Essex without succumbing to the stupor that awaited him at every busy crossroad, but find his way back he did. It was eight hours if he walked. Two hours if he cycled. Over an hour if he took public transport. He was not so foolish as to drive, if he could, in this state, for even the man at his lowest was still the man with senses. Dulled senses, yes, but senses all the same. Senses by which he was caught within the confines of his own mind, jailed by his own thoughts, though the key remained within his grasp.

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time, and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty deaths. How foolish he had been, old King Macbeth. A prideful soul, doomed to fall by his own hand when Birnam Wood made its way to Dunsinane. Marley was his Banquo, Jorkin was his Macduff. And there stood Scrooge, the man of ambition and power, the Shark of London, the King of Scotland’s bitter reflection.

He could never muster the strength to murder his Banquo, but had he done so? He might as well have, if FULTON’s dispirited updates were all he could go by.

Fleance escaped, flown far away. The life Scrooge mourned flew as he did, to unseen angels and a realm untouched by mortal sorrow.

For one hundred and ninety days, she had thrived within her womb. For one hundred and ninety days, he was a father. For one hundred and ninety days, he had dreamed of a true future. One hundred and ninety days, only to be extinguished in an instant.

An unborn promise. A manifestation of love. A daughter who would never have the chance to hear the melodies he never knew he could sing.

She had been the first life he had stolen. The first of many sins.

The door opened on that cold evening, and Scrooge couldn’t bring himself to care about the wreath that troublesome children had tossed onto his front porch, stumbling into the house with all the stability of a drunken sailor facing treacherous seas, kicking off his oxfords with all the gracefulness of a falling tree in a storm. At some point, his suit had caught on a tree branch or other, and a small tear had formed on its sleeve, though it was nothing compared to the clawed rips that bore the brunt of shattered bottles and scraping fingernails. 

In another life, he would’ve reflected on the curious stares of the people he passed by. This Scrooge didn’t notice, and this Scrooge didn’t feel, and this Scrooge didn’t listen, not even to the technology that crawled its way into a text-to-speech application.

FULTON: Please, Mr. Scrooge. This sort of behaviour is unfavourable to your mental stability.

“Shut up…” Scrooge slurred, fumbling to the kitchen and tearing through the cupboards for the shot glasses, plates and bowls tumbling out and shattered to the ground in cacophonous uproar.

FULTON: Rumple Minze is a highly potent peppermint schnapps, Mr. Scrooge. With your current intake and medical history, I calculate a 1.9% chance of alcohol poisoning within the next three hours.

“I don’t give a damn.” Scrooge fumbled, the liqueur spilling over the rim of the glass, and he raised the glass to his lips, downing it in one swift, burning, grimacing gulp.

FULTON: You must reconsider. This self-destructive spiral will only exacerbate the situation.

Pour. Drink. Burn. Repeat.

FULTON: Mr. Marley would not want you to—

Bloodshot eyes saw pure red as Scrooge threw his phone across the small space of the kitchen with a guttural yell filled with loathing, sending the device hurtling towards the wall with a loud thud and an imperceptible snap, the protective cover doing nothing to help the webbing of cracks that had formed by the impact.

“What do you know, you godforsaken piece of shit?! You're just a damn machine, a puppet on strings, spewing calculations and probabilities without a shred of humanity!” Scrooge screamed. If the speaker was damaged, Scrooge didn’t know.

“You think you’re so fucking smart, don’t you?” Scrooge took a step back, gripping onto the countertop, nails digging into the marble. “That you know everything about anybody, and that you can use that to your advantage like a twisted marionette. You’re a fucking sicko. A worthless… useless waste of space that deserves to lose everyone and everything you care about!”

The world spun around him in a dizzying sensation, and Scrooge’s legs could no longer hold his weight. He slumped to the floor, the alcohol-induced haze blurring the edges of his vision. The room seemed to tilt, the walls closing in on him as if to suffocate him in his own despair. There was no solace in the cruelty of it all. If there was any from an outside perspective, Scrooge found little comfort in it. Damned to the fullest, damned to the end, damned in perpetuity.

“You want to change… you want to be better…” Scrooge choked out, gripping his hair as if he were ready to tear it out. “You want to show him you love him. Because you do, goddamn it. You love him more than anything. You want, but don’t deserve. You care, but never show. You lust and you crave… but God, you love him. You love him with every fibre of your being. You love him so much it hurts. You're so afraid to lose him that you've become the very thing that might drive him away. And you don’t even know if he’s still alive or... or—”

The sobs that wracked his body were unlike any that he’d ever experienced before, or ever will experience again. They were painful, sharp, agonising. The sort that twists and turns and churns your stomach in ways you never thought possible. Despair took to his heart with an iron fist, squeezing and wrenching every last choke, every last wail, every last breath away from him. Scrooge screamed at the injustice, the pain, the regret, the selfishness, the ego, the pride, and the very foundations of his being. It was an ugly thing, a terrible thing, a potent and powerful thing.

Then it stopped, then silence overtook the room, and Scrooge shakily stood, pushed himself up the steps, padded to the bedroom, and fell into a restless slumber, with only a few whispered parting words before the fog overtook him.

“You want to change… you have to change...”

Tagged: @rom-e-o@crimson-phantom-designs@quill-pen@a-christmas-carol-from-hr@ray-painter@pinkytoothlesso11

[wizardofarles]

In light of ao3 being down for who knows how long, I’m posting chapters 1-5 of Lord, You Keep Me Crawling here on tumblr

If it’s still down by Sunday when chapter 6 is supposed to go up, I’ll post that here too

(Rating: Mature, tw: csa, implied/referenced suicide, graphic depictions of violence, catholicism, homophobia, panic attacks, ptsd)

Summary: a Catholic high school au wherein the Regent is a Bishop and headmaster of Laurent’s school

Chapter One: On My Knees

The office door opened with a click. Laurent didn’t turn to watch his uncle enter the room. He lounged in one of the high-backed upholstered chairs with the heels of his Doc Martens resting on the polished wood surface of the headmaster’s desk, scrolling through instagram on his phone without really seeing anything. The earbuds in his ears played no sound. They were for show; a performative nonchalance, when really, Laurent had been listening for that click. That didn’t stop his stomach from dropping when he heard it.

Dull footsteps muffled by the plush silk rug approached his chair at a casual pace. Laurent used the few seconds it took his uncle to reach him to scroll back up to a previous post—some pretty Akielon girl with blonde hair and blue eyes, lounging on a beach with three other girls, all in bikinis.

His earbuds flew out of his ears. Laurent turned to see his uncle holding the wire in his hand, earbuds dangling and dancing around each other in a spiral that was sure to tangle. The glance and subsequent grimace of distaste that his uncle directed at his carefully angled phone screen was brief. Laurent might have mistaken it for some trick of the imagination if he didn’t know the man’s face like the back of his own hand.

“Put it away, Laurent,” Uncle said. “School rules still apply in my office. Even for you.”

With a small burst of triumph in his belly, Laurent locked his phone and snatched the earbuds back. Uncle’s gaze lingered on his face, around his eyes. Laurent pretended not to notice, until Uncle grabbed his chin and tilted his face up to look more closely.

“Wash it off.” Uncle’s expression was unreadable, even to Laurent, but his voice was stern.

“You don’t like it?” Laurent put on an exaggerated pout.

“We’re in school, Laurent. Wash it off. I won’t ask again.”

“I don’t have makeup wipes or anything.”

Uncle’s mouth twitched, but his thick beard hid the finer details of the expression. Laurent couldn’t decipher whether the brief flash of emotion he’d seen had been a smile or a scowl. Then Uncle released his face from his grip and walked away without a word, passing through the door to his adjoining bathroom.

Laurent waited while his uncle grabbed a hand towel and ran it under the faucet. The fact that he was expending the effort to do it himself instead of ordering Laurent to do it made him uneasy. Was there a trap here somewhere?

He tried to push his worry away and distracted himself by letting his eyes wander around his uncle’s office. A wide sunbeam poked in through the East-facing window, filling the room with the young light of the morning. On the opposite wall, an ancient leather-bound Bible with gold lettering sat on a wooden hutch, a red ribbon sticking out from between the pages like the flicking tongue of a snake. A crucifix hung on the wall above it; a wooden cross with a little ceramic Jesus stuck on there, looking down solemnly over the room. He was bathed in sunlight from the window.

On the wall to Laurent’s back, beside the door, was a painting that Laurent purposefully didn’t look at—one of those renaissance paintings of little naked cherubs. It was an impressive piece of art in truth, but something about seeing it here in his uncle’s school office had always made Laurent’s skin crawl.

Instead, he found himself staring at the framed photographs on the wall behind his uncle’s desk. Uncle smiled with the Royal Veretian Academy for Boys choir over the years. The choir varied year by year, but his uncle looked the same in every photograph; his lush brown beard always trimmed and neat, his blue eyes twinkling, his left hand resting on the shoulder of the boy beside him.

In seven of those photos, that boy beside him was Laurent, growing slightly taller in each snapshot while his uncle never changed aside from a slight dusting of gray at his temples in recent years. His gaze drifted toward the photograph from three years ago, when Laurent was eleven-going-on-twelve. That was the last year that Aimeric Fortaine had stood smiling on the other side of Laurent, his eyes as green as a sunlit forest.

Uncle returned with the damp towel in hand and crossed in front of the window, fracturing the sunbeam with his silhouette as he came to stand by Laurent’s chair. “Close your eyes,” he said, and began to clean the eyeliner off Laurent’s eyes. He was gentle, and the water was comfortably warm.

“Sister Margaret thinks you are possessed by a demonic spirit, you know,” Uncle said as he worked. His voice was close and rumbled pleasantly in Laurent’s ear. “Stunts like this don’t help your case.”

Laurent grinned. “Are you going to exorcise me, Uncle?”

Uncle finished wiping the makeup away and pulled back. His tone slapped the grin off Laurent’s face. “Sister Margaret may seem like nothing more than a wrinkled old crone to you, but she holds a lot of sway in this community.” He paused to lock his icy blue eyes onto Laurent’s. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Laurent cleared his throat and sat up straight, affecting his voice like he was reading from a textbook. “You want me to clean up my act in front of Sister Margaret so she’ll think you saved me from the devil, and then she’ll tell everyone she holds sway over that you’d make a good Archbishop of Arles. Got it.”

Uncle raised an eyebrow. He still loomed over Laurent with the black-smudged towel in his hand. “Laurent.”

Laurent held his gaze. “I said, I got it.”

“Good,” Uncle said, his tone softening as he tucked a strand of Laurent’s hair behind his ear. The brush of his fingers against Laurent’s ear sent tingles down his spine.

“Will you be home for dinner?” Laurent asked.

Uncle hummed, and his fingers found the sapphire encrusted cross earring dangling from Laurent’s left ear. He had given it to Laurent as a Christmas gift two years ago. Technically, it was another dress code violation—like his combat boots—but some small liberties were granted to the headmaster’s favorite nephew. Apparently, as Laurent had discovered today, eyeliner was not one of them.

Uncle toyed with the earring as he spoke, “I will try my best. I suppose I must take advantage of all the time we have left. I won’t have you all to myself for much longer. Soon I’ll have to compete with your brother.” He sounded wistful, regretful.

The reminder of Auguste’s imminent return from Delfeur twisted Laurent’s stomach into knots. He was thrilled to get his big brother back now that the war was over, but so much had changed since he saw him last. Laurent had changed. And surely Auguste had too.

“Do you think Auguste has killed people?” Laurent asked quietly.

“Undoubtedly. He’s a soldier, Laurent. That’s part of his job.”

Laurent chewed the inside of his cheek as he mulled over the idea of his big brother killing people as though he was inspecting the flavor of a dish that was new to his palate. In order to make it fit with the Auguste in his head, he imagined his brother as a shining knight straight out of one of the fairy tales that his mother used to read to him when he was a child. The kind who only killed for honor and justice—a hero. He tasted blood in his mouth where he must have broken the skin inside his cheek. There are no heroes, he thought with a stab of bitterness that surprised him.

Uncle’s hand was warm on his shoulder, except for the cold band of his ring. “All right,” he said. “Back to class.” He gave Laurent’s shoulder a quick squeeze before letting him go and moving to sit behind his desk. He started sifting through the neat folders of paperwork and making small sounds of disapproval at the back of his throat.

Laurent hesitated for a moment, half hoping his uncle would say something more, but he went on with his work as though Laurent had already gone.

With a stab of disappointment, he stood and made for the door, his mind already slipping back into a brooding haze. His uncle’s voice stopped him with his hand on the doorknob.

“And, Laurent,” he said without looking up from his papers. “Next time you want my attention, think up a new trick. The dress code violations are getting stale.”

All throughout his morning classes and lunch, Laurent hadn’t been able to get his mind off of Auguste. He sat in the back of Sister Margaret’s classroom as she droned on about the significance of Mary’s immaculate conception. Laurent tried to pay attention, but his eyes were drawn like magnets to the ticking clock on the wall behind the Sister, and every time he looked at the clock his mind wandered back to Auguste.

“Only a body born free from sin would be a pure enough vessel to bring into the world our Lord Jesus Christ, who was himself born without sin also—as you all should know,” she said in her reedy voice. “Our Holy Father created Mary to be that perfect vessel, untainted by sins of the flesh—”

The hands of the clock ticked on. In Laurent’s mind, Auguste was running toward him with a grin on his face that outshone the sun in the sky above them. Then his arms were around Laurent, wrapping him in warmth, and Laurent was spinning.

Then he was falling. Auguste landed on top of him and pinned him to the ground, his face twisted in a rage that Laurent had never seen on him before. He tried to squirm, but Auguste’s hands closed around his throat.

“Liar,” Auguste snarled at him. Laurent could barely hear him over the pounding of his own heart in his ears.

“What?” he squeaked, gasping for breath. “You’re hurting me, Auguste!” He didn’t understand why Auguste was mad at him. But he knew in his bones that his brother was trying to kill him.

Auguste’s face was red and a vein pulsed in his forehead. “You’re a disgusting fucking liar!”

The sun moved behind his head, throwing both Auguste and Laurent into shadow. Then Auguste was not Auguste anymore. The eyes that glowered down on him were green as summer and full of hatred.

“You take that back!” Aimeric screeched.

“I won’t!” Laurent shouted, “You’re a disgusting fucking liar!” He spit at the angry green eyes.

Aimeric let out an animal cry of rage, and then Laurent’s world devolved into a flurry of fists and elbows, knuckles and fingernails, fury and pain.

He was spinning again, and then he was on top, raining his fists down on Aimeric’s stupid, lying face.

“Burn in hell!” Laurent screamed. His voice sounded like a ringing bell…

Laurent woke with a start. A bell was ringing. He peeled his face off his desk and tried to glimpse the clock through the swarm of his classmates funneling toward the door. 12:45. He had slept through most of religious studies.

He quickly gathered his notes and his backpack and joined the flow of students heading out into the corridor. He could feel Sister Margaret’s eyes boring holes into his back as he hurried away. All he could think was, Uncle is going to kill me.

Laurent let the crowd herd him through the halls. He spoke to no one, and no one spoke to him. Most of his peers avoided looking him in the eye. They saved their stares and whispers for when his back was turned and scurried when he got too close—as if grief was contagious.

It didn’t bother him, though. His classmates were all either overgrown toddlers or vapid social climbers and snakes who were so wrapped up in their own petty, juvenile bullshit that even looking at them for too long gave Laurent a headache. He didn’t need friends anyway. He had tried that once, and it ended in disaster.

A ceiling light flickered as he passed beneath it. He hadn’t yet fully shaken off the dream, and it left him with the sense of walking between worlds; like he was walking on a tideless beach with one foot on hot, dry sand and one in cold water. Usually his dreams dissipated like mist in the sun when he woke, but not this one. This one seemed intent on hanging around.

He tried to make sense of it as he walked. To lay it all out and look at it from a new angle. First, he had dreamt of Auguste. He shivered at the memory of his brother’s rage—the hands around his throat had felt so real. That part was an invention of his mind, though, Laurent was certain. But then, the scene had morphed into a memory as though that had been its destination from the start. As though everything would always lead back to that moment that Laurent wished desperately he could change. Yet, even in his memory, even in dreams, he was never able to change it. It always played out the same way. It always led to the same ending.

Laurent turned a corner, nearly arrived at his locker, and stopped short. The boy behind him barreled into his back, then brushed past him with a huff of annoyance, but Laurent paid him no mind. He was too busy staring at the great beast leaning against his locker.

Akielon, by the looks of him—dark curls above a nut-brown face and eyes like a rich whiskey. And he was a giant. The beast was standing around and laughing with a group of two other older jocks, and he dwarfed them both. Laurent was sure that he had never seen him before today. He would have remembered.

New to the school, then, and with no inkling of the mistake he was making. He was about to find out.

Laurent marched across the hall and planted himself directly beside the big Akielon.

“Move.” His voice cut through their laughter like a sword through flesh.

The beast turned slowly. His brown eyes traveled from Laurent’s face down his body, to his black combat boots and back up again in a move that brought to mind a lion assessing its prey. Laurent wondered if the Akielon beast was trying to appear intimidating or if he was just slow.

He saw the moment that the beast decided he was not a threat. Something like amusement glittered in his dark eyes.

“Ask me nicely, sweetheart,” he said in flawless, unaccented Veretian, “and maybe I will.”

Heat bloomed in Laurent’s cheeks. He ignored the swooping feeling of adrenaline rushing into his bloodstream and plastered on a sunny smile.

“Call me ‘sweetheart’ again,” he said, “and I’ll rip your balls out through your throat.” The beast’s companions shifted aggressively, but the beast remained still. Laurent continued, “Now, move your big, hairy Akielon ass off of my locker.”

One of the henchmen—another Akielon, black-haired, with a patchy five o’clock shadow—started forward with a grunt, but the beast held him back with one outstretched arm. He pushed off the locker without using his arms and squared off against Laurent. At his full height, the beast easily towered over him by a foot. Laurent felt his breath leave him, but he stood his ground and carefully did not flinch.

“I could snap you in half with one hand, kid.” There was still a hint of amusement in the beast’s voice, but there was a real warning there too, and more than a hint of disdain. Laurent was reasonably sure the threat was hyperbole, but the way that his RVAB blazer strained at the Akielon’s shoulders and biceps planted a little seed of doubt in his mind.

“You really shouldn’t threaten me,” Laurent said.

“You threatened me first.”

“You don’t know who I am.” Laurent took a step forward, craning his neck to maintain eye contact. He was close enough to reach out and grab the beast’s red tie now if he wanted to. Close enough to smell the garlic on his breath.

The beast’s grin was sharp. “I’ve got a general idea by now, sweetheart.”

Laurent drove his knee up into the Akielon’s balls with the full strength of his body.

Then Laurent was on his back, gasping for air. The black-haired henchman had shoved him to the ground hard and knocked the wind right out of him. Somewhere, a woman was screaming, possibly praying.

“Motherfucker!” the beast moaned in Akielon. He was doubled over and cradling his groin with his hands. A crowd was gathering around them in the hall, choking the flow of foot traffic like a blood clot blocking an artery.

The goon moved to grab Laurent, but he scrambled to his knees before he could reach him and dove at the beast’s legs. Laurent wrapped his arms around the beast’s knees and attempted to take him down in some kind of improvised bear hug. But the brute was just too strong.

He managed to loosen Laurent’s hold on him by thrashing his right leg in kicking arcs. One kick connected with Laurent’s ribs, hard enough to bruise. The next sent the beast’s shoe smashing into his stomach. That one was worse.

A wave of nausea surged through him, followed by dull pain. Laurent collapsed onto his hands and knees. He wrestled the nausea back down by sheer force of will.

Through the pounding blood in his ears, he heard the beast’s voice above him.

“Do you yield?” the beast said. Laurent pulled himself back up to his feet.

“Do I yield?” he asked, incredulous. “I knew Akielos was not as advanced as Vere, but I had no idea you were still stuck in the medieval period.” There was scattered snickering among the bystanders.

The Akielon beast’s expression turned sour, his jaw sliding forward. “I’m trying to offer you an out, kid.”

Laurent leveled a long assessing look at the Akielon. An old lesson of Uncle’s floated in the back of his mind. A man’s body will tell you what his tongue will not, if you know how to read him.

Hands in tight fists, shoulders squared, every bulging muscle tensing against his school uniform—the brute had a short fuse, and he wasn’t even attempting to conceal it. Rage glittered openly in his dark eyes.

Laurent laughed, a sharp and bitter sound even to his own ears. “No, Akielos. I do not yield.”

He shifted his weight and watched the beast shift with him.

“Damianos,” the beast said, startling Laurent out of his head.

“What?”

“My name is Damianos.”

“I don’t care what your name is, brute.” Laurent lunged on the last word.

Then suddenly his feet lifted off the ground. A huge meaty club of a hand clamped around his bicep. Laurent thrashed and tried to pry fingers as thick as sausages from around his arm with his other hand. He turned, expecting to see the Akielon or his friend hoisting him up, but the face above him was much older, uglier, and hairier.

Coach Govart’s face twisted into a mean approximation of a smile, and he set Laurent’s feet back down on the floor. To Laurent’s surprise, in his other hand he held the arm of the beast—Damianos. Though Laurent doubted even Govart had been able to lift Damianos off the ground with one hand. No, only Laurent had suffered that humiliation. He felt his cheeks burning again, and scowled.

“Start walking, boys,” Coach Govart growled as he dragged both Laurent and Damianos down the hall. The crowd of students had vanished—scattered at the sight of Govart like rabbits fleeing a bear.

They only passed Damianos’s Akielon henchman and one other figure. The sight of her sent Laurent’s stomach swooping with dread again.

Sister Margaret held her rosary up to her lips as she whispered a fervent prayer. Her knuckles were white around the cross, and her face was ashen. When Laurent met her eye as Govart hauled him past, she shuddered and made a shaky sign of the cross.

Laurent wanted to laugh. He wanted to scream. Instead, he lifted his chin and marched along with Govart as though he were the one leading that mad dog and not the other way around. He marched right up to the door marked Headmaster in golden letters, and knocked three times without being told.

“Enter.” His uncle’s voice was muffled through the wood, but still clear enough to be heard without mistake.

Govart released both boys. Laurent straightened out his blazer before opening the door, then sauntered right over to the chair he had sat in earlier that morning and plopped himself down into it. His uncle’s office was darker in the afternoon, now that the sun had fled the eastern sky.

“Hello, Uncle,” he said lightly, kicking his feet up onto his uncle’s desk, though never actually looking at his uncle.

He kept his eyes on Damianos instead, watching for the moment when the depth of his situation dawned on him. When it hit him, Damianos seemed to shrink. He stood frozen in the doorway, staring at Laurent with an expression of horror that was not dissimilar to the way Sister Margaret had looked at him in the hallway. It was every bit as satisfying as Laurent had hoped.

“Twice in one day, Laurent?” Uncle matched Laurent’s light tone. “Feeling neglected?”

Laurent shrugged. “I thought you might be bored.”

“You certainly know how to keep my days interesting. So,” he spread his hands, “who’s going to fill me in.”

“They were fighting in the hall,” Coach Govart said gruffly from the doorway. “Sister Margaret fetched me to break it up.” Laurent cringed at the mention of the old nun’s name. Uncle was definitely going to kill him.

“Thank you, Govart,” Uncle said with a slight nod, and his mad dog was gone. The door clicked shut behind him, and silence bloomed in the office. When Uncle spoke again, his voice was softer.

“Damianos. Please, sit.” Laurent dared then to look at his uncle and found him smiling at the Akielon boy like an old friend. Uncle was good like that. He always knew everyone’s names and could make anyone feel welcome anywhere. It was why everyone loved him.

Laurent didn’t have that gift—though Uncle would correct him and say it was a skill that anyone could learn. Laurent was inclined to disagree. People didn’t love him, and he didn’t imagine he would ever be able to make them the way Uncle did.

As Damianos shuffled over to the chair beside Laurent, Uncle frowned and tapped the toe of Laurent’s boot twice with his silver pen. With a scowl, Laurent lifted his feet off the desk and planted them flat on the floor.

“Good boy,” Uncle said, like it was a normal thing to say then. The fire returned to Laurent’s cheeks with a vengeance. He looked down at his hands in his lap, letting his hair fall like a golden curtain over his eyes. Soft rustles to his left told him that Damianos had sat down beside him. Laurent sent out a silent prayer that Damianos was not looking at him then.

“Damianos,” Uncle began again, “I hope you’re having a pleasant first day here at the Royal Veretian Academy for Boys. I see that you’ve already met my nephew, Laurent.”

Laurent heard Damianos’s throat click when he swallowed. “Yes, Your Excellency.”

“Please, there is no need for such formalities. Call me Father Laurent, or simply Father.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Tell me, what do you think of my nephew?”

The silence stretched on too long. That alone would have been answer enough, but Damianos apparently had a death wish. “Honestly, Father,” he said, “your nephew is very rude.”

To Laurent’s mortification, Uncle laughed. His rich, warm, genuine laugh. “He is, isn’t he?” He pointed a weighted glance at Laurent, then shifted his attention back to Damianos. “You are honest, aren’t you, Damianos?”

“I try to be, Father.”

Uncle spread his hands magnanimously. “Of course you do, my child. ‘And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate to be with you always, the Spirit of truth, which the world cannot accept, because it neither sees nor knows it. But you know it, because it remains with you, and will be in you.’ John, chapter fourteen.”

Laurent knew what was coming next, even if Damianos did not. His uncle’s smile was warm as a forest fire. “Damianos, tell me the truth of what happened between you and my nephew.”

Laurent turned his gaze back to Damianos and poured as much ice into his stare as he could muster. Damianos glanced at him and squirmed in his chair. He cleared his throat. Laurent narrowed his eyes.

“Well…” Damianos began, then flicked his eyes to Laurent again and stopped short.

“Go on,” Uncle prompted. “Give me the truth of it, son.”

“Yes, Father. Well, I was standing—I was leaning against his locker—well, I didn’t know it was his locker at the time, it’s right next to the one Father Herode gave to me this morning. Laurent came up to me and told me to move. I said—”

Damianos stopped again. Glanced at Laurent. “Go on,” Laurent coaxed sweetly.

“I, um. I said I would move if he asked me nicely—”

“This brute called me—”

“Is your name Damianos?” Uncle cut through. Laurent snapped his mouth shut. “Because I recall specifically asking Damianos to speak.”

Laurent bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from talking back. He held his uncle’s gaze as he pulled his left leg up and hugged it to his body, placing the sole of his boot directly on Uncle’s fancy upholstered chair cushion. Uncle’s face was a perfect statue. Laurent hoped there was dirt on the bottom of his boot. Maybe some gum or dog shit.

“Well, uh…” Damianos straightened his tie. “I don’t remember exactly what was said by either side, but some threats were exchanged, and then Laurent attacked me. I defended myself. I offered him the chance to walk away, but he refused.”

Laurent scoffed.

“I see,” Uncle said. “Thank you for your candor, Damianos.”

“Aren’t you going to ask for my side of the story?” Laurent interjected.

“We have established that Damianos is honest. You are not.”

“Luckily for you,” Laurent mumbled. Something dangerous flashed in Uncle’s blue eyes and it pushed Laurent’s head down like a physical force. He picked at a scab beside his thumbnail as though it was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world. Laurent had a sneaking suspicion that he would be eating dinner alone tonight after all.

“I apologize for my nephew’s behavior, Damianos,” Uncle said. “You have to understand, he has lost a great deal to Akielos. He lost his father, my brother, in Marlas two years ago. That was only three months after the loss of his mother. And his older brother has been on the front lines in Delfeur ever since. I believe Laurent has misdirected some of his grief and anger at you, an Akielon within reach.

“It’s no excuse for his behavior, of course, but I hope it may provide some context.”

Damianos was silent for a moment. Laurent tried to sink into his chair. He was oscillating between embarrassment and boiling rage at his uncle for telling those private things to a stranger. And this Akielon stranger, of all people.

When Damianos spoke, his voice was soft. “I’m very sorry for your losses, both of you.”

“Shove it up your ass, Akielos.”

The brute exhaled sharply, a little noise of contempt.

“Laurent.” Uncle’s voice was like a whip. He softened it again when he spoke to the other boy, “Thank you for your kind words, Damianos. You are free to go.”

That’s it? Laurent wanted to protest, but he didn’t dare interrupt his uncle again.

“Please don’t hesitate to come to me in the future,” Uncle was saying, “for anything you or your family might need to help you get settled in Arles.”

Uncle rose and Damianos followed. Laurent stayed seated, but saw them shake hands in his periphery. Then he made the mistake of glancing at the photographs on the wall. Aimeric seemed to grin at him even more brightly than he had this morning. Laurent’s stomach turned violently, and he wondered what his uncle would do if he vomited on his Patran rug.

“Welcome to the RVAB,” his uncle said with a smile that Laurent could hear. “You’re a senior, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I may be biased, but I believe there’s no better education in Vere than what you’ll receive here. Our students are among the top picks of the most prestigious universities in the country. I hope to see you thrive here, Damianos.”

“Thank you very much, Father Laurent.”

“God bless you, my child.”

“And you as well, Father.”

Uncle walked Damianos to the door, and once the brute was gone, Uncle locked it behind him. He turned to Laurent; his face completely devoid of emotion. The coldness in his eyes sent a shiver down Laurent’s spine.

“You have displayed a callous disregard for school rules regarding violence, decency, and foul language. You have spoken out of turn. You have disrespected me, and you have disrespected God. Your behavior is a stain upon this school, upon this holy order, and upon the name de Vere.”

Laurent looked at his shoes. He was expecting it when Uncle said, “Fetch me the paddle,” but the expectation did nothing to quiet his pulse.

With shaking hands, Laurent took the wooden paddle out of the bottom right drawer of Uncle’s desk and brought it to him. Like an obedient dog with a stick, his mind supplied, if the dog was about to be beaten with the stick.

“Bend over the desk,” Uncle commanded, and again Laurent obeyed. “You will count out loud to fifteen.”

“Yes, Uncle.” Laurent closed his eyes and steeled himself for the pain, willing himself not to cry.

By the time Laurent said, “Fifteen,” he was weeping. He heard Uncle put down the paddle, and then he was at Laurent’s side with an arm around his back, helping him stand up.

“Why do you put us through this, Laurent?” Uncle gently brushed Laurent’s cheeks with his thumbs, drying his tears. “You used to be such a sweet boy.”

Laurent sniffled. “I’m sorry, Uncle.”

Uncle stepped behind his desk and sat down in his chair with a sigh. He slid the white clerical tab collar free from the neck of his shirt and set it on the desk. “Come over here.”

Laurent obeyed. Ceramic Jesus watched him gravely from his place on the wall. Laurent thought he looked cold now that the sun was no longer on him.

“That’s a good boy. God offers forgiveness,” Uncle said, “to all His children who repent and devote themselves to His teachings.” The belt came off next, the silver buckle singing like a bell. “Kneel, child. Show your devotion, and rise, cleansed.”

Laurent knelt before his uncle as though he were about to receive the body and blood of Christ through Holy Communion. This ritual was just as sacred, Uncle said. After all, he couldn’t physically get much closer to God than through the touch of a Bishop. When he rose again from beneath his uncle’s desk, though, he did not feel cleansed. Maybe I’m broken inside, he thought. Maybe my soul is beyond reach.

He wondered if his uncle ever felt like this. If the sated smile on his face was anything to judge by, Uncle didn’t appear to be troubled by the same doubt. Doubt is a test of faith, someone had told him once. He couldn’t remember who. It may have been his mother, or even Uncle himself. Regardless, Laurent repeated it in his head like a mantra, and it managed to put his mind at ease a little.

The bad feeling faded as the day went on, until he nearly forgot about it entirely. Instead, the thrill of carrying around a secret won over, and Laurent spent the rest of the school day feeling special, and more than a little smug about it. But later that night, when Laurent stood alone at the kitchen counter pushing rice around on his plate rather than eating it, the doubt returned. In the dark, silent house full of ghosts and secrets, there was nothing to keep the whispers in his mind at bay.

Laurent tried to imagine how he would explain all this to Auguste, if he had to. How he could make him understand. It was pointless, he knew. Auguste would never understand. No one would. Uncle said that only God would ever understand. That was why they had to keep it a secret between the three of them. But what if Uncle was wrong? What if God wasn’t in on the joke?

Laurent gave up on eating and resigned himself to a sleepless night of staring at his bedroom ceiling, cringing from shadows on his walls. If this creeping unease really was a test, he felt like he was failing.

[problematicgoldenchild]

It's Not Their Fault

TW: SA, abuse, bullying, homophobia, racism, suicide, overdosing, murder

Note: This is not a very good poem if I'm being honest I just like the message so why not post it lol

A girl is found dead in what should be her home 

No one listened now she’s on the floor all alone

There’s a note in her hand and an orange bottle by the bed 

It wasn’t her fault. She shouldn’t be dead. 

A man is walking home at night with skin matching the sky

His bag is mistaken for a gun by an officer nearby

Instead of double checking, he’s shot and killed 

It wasn’t his fault. Our police force has failed. 

A body is found out by the church. 

Her bag found nearby after a quick search

The killer is caught with DNA from his hair

It wasn’t her fault. It doesn’t matter what you wear. 

A man takes advantage of a girl still in high school

But she has to have his baby with the law so cruel 

She dies giving birth to a kid that’s neglected 

It’s wasn’t her fault. She should have been protected. 

After being bullied, a kid takes his own life

Apparently sexuality is a reason to fight

It’s a sin to love, but not to abuse

It wasn’t his fault. Religion’s not an excuse. 

Check on your kids. 

Protect the minorities. 

Arrest the killers. 

Give women a choice. 

Let people love. 

It wasn’t their fault. 

It’s ours.

[merrock]

CHARACTER INFORMATION

face claim: Chris Evans

full name: Thomas Elijah Browning

nickname(s) / goes by: Tommy, T

pronouns & gender: he/him/his cis man

sexuality: pansexual

birth date: june, 13, 1981

birth place: merrock, maine

arrival to merrock: since birth (previously left for months at a time for work)

housing: converted warehouse downtown

occupation: overseas seasonal miner, currently unemployed (seeking employment)

work place: TBA

family: cordelia browning (sister) and rosalyn browning (niece), ex-wife (tba)

relationship status: single

filling connection: cordelia’s older brother connection

PERSONALITY

+ Loyal, creative, reliable, immovable - Closeted, private, hot headed, escapist

Tommy finds he is most himself alone, or when things are slowed down, the expectations are low, and it's more about being genuine with a person than putting on a show. Joking is easier than therapy, keeping things light with people is easier than being honest. He isn't one for drama, has seen plenty of his own in the past, so he often sits back whenever he can. Don't mistaken this escapism as passiveness - he is not afraid to place himself between those he cares for and the cruelty of the world. Contridicting his well trained charisma, Tommy has lived most of his life with fear as his best friend. Being himself openly, sharing the passions he has, had always been shamed growing up. It is hard for him even now to open those doors to people. On his darker days he can bubble into something full of pain and anger, many of his decades old wounds still too tender to claim they were healed. Often he thinks he's lost his heart, that his chest is empty after all this time, but he fails to notice how it's pinned to his sleeve, touching everyone he holds on to.

WRITTEN BY: Jen (she/her), acst.

BACKGROUND / BIO

triggering / sensitive content: tw: alcoholism, abandonment, depression, homophobia

The eldest sibling of the Browning ensemble, Tommy now fights for the crown of greatest disappointment to his parents. Much like his baby sister he finds himself on the outside of a ‘family’ home, looking at its foundation full of cracks. Raised in Merrock, he had once been considered somebody but now he’s just happy to be himself. 

See, being the first born of a family who wanted the world to think they lived a perfect life came with a whole lot of expectations. He didn’t realise them as a child but by the time he was a teenager they were laid out before him, with the end goal to keep the family image in play. He was a Browning after all. Their name was supposed to mean something, come with a list of benefits. Yet, where they claimed they had money they were dodging bills, where they had connections they were crossing their fingers and wishing on stars. 

Tommy's relationship with his father seems like it had been straining ever since his voice deepened and he realised he could think for himself. Maybe some of it was being a teenager - acting out, rebelling - but it became more obvious with time his father expected more than what Tommy could give. Perfect grades, perfect girlfriends, perfect social circles and interests. The world nearly burned down when Tommy was caught with a boy he’d been curious over followed by the cold chill of denial, of unacceptance. They were to never speak of the forbidden; Tommy had a path to stay on and he would be forced along it whether he was happy about it or not.

College came at a cost, both financially and mentally. Whilst he’d developed an interest in art his parents had cut that out of him and demanded he follow a line of success they strived for: law. It would reward him with status, with money, with respect. Three things they clung to but never really owned. Tommy felt as if he had no choice, so in the end he did as he was told. 

During his twenties he had a steady career in law, moving up through the fields as he would. He fell in love with a woman who made his parents happy; they married too soon after his parents insisted it was tradition in their family line. He hears so often that twenties are supposed to be where you discover yourself, make mistakes, but instead he lost himself entirely. To a marriage taken on too soon to have a good foundation, to a career that stole his time and his passion, to a family who expected more and more when he had already given his everything. In the end he found his solitude in a bottle or two, using it to numb the growing pain of despair and regret inside of him. 

His marriage came to an end by the time he was 30, his parents disgusted he’d ever allow such a stain on their image. It felt like a breaking point to not even have support from his family when his own has ceased to exist. He was so very tired of playing the role of son and husband, having no idea who he was on his own. Eventually he snapped: he ended his law career, fought day and night with disgust over his parents views of the world, and started doing things differently. He didn’t care how he looked when he took a job as a carpenter, or when he trained to do electrical work. He picked up night shifts at bars or helped out businesses around town with deliveries. Whatever paid his bills. He found the jobs where he got to use his hands the most rewarding, and he enjoyed the socialising he found in others. 

By 35 he was divorced, removed from his family unit (though still talking with his siblings) and fluttering from one job to another whenever change felt necessary. He came across an opportunity to see a new part of the world - a remote mining job contract where he would be fully trained and supported overseas. It would pay him more than his odd jobs and only take up three months of the year. He decided to give it a go, running away for a little while. It was hard work - messier than anything he’d ever done, long hours, the living conditions were horrible, and yet he kept coming back each year. It was an escape of sorts - from the man he was told to be, from everyone’s thoughts of who he is now. For three months of the year he could be a wild animal, messy and crude. He would drink and play cards with the boys, swear like he was born a sailor, and no one would look twice at him. When he got home he had money to live off but would go back to his odd jobs to find money to play with. He invested some of it into a warehouse he was converting into his home, and some went into his old hobbies he’d left behind because someone else decided he didn’t need them. It allowed him to live, so he happily sweated through the hard work.

When his baby sister Cordelia fell pregnant to a married man he was disappointed in choices of men but not in who she was. It was bewildering to find his parents and siblings discarding her over it, reminding him all too much of the way they cut him off any time he strayed from their path. To them this was a wild scandal - and for others around town too. For Tommy this was his little sister needing help and he wasn’t going to turn his back on her, he never would. Tommy grew furious at his family for the way they treated her - he had accepted it for so long being targeted at him but to watch Cordelia have the same treatment left him losing all hope in the remaining Brownings. In the end it was them against the world - Tommy stayed home the year Cordelia was pregnant and the following when baby Roselyn was given as a gift to the world. He adores his niece and sister, and is very protective more now than ever after what she had been through. 

Tommy has just returned from Australia, tired and tan. He hasn’t told anyone yet but this was his last time in the mining field, feeling as if the last two years has shown him there is more to life here in Merrock and that maybe, just maybe, he was getting a little old for running away.

[aftgficrec]

Hey can you find me any fics where Andrew and Aaron meet later in life, it can be when Andrew already met Neil or not, either way is fine. I just wanted a fic that focused on the twins relationship without all the trauma with Tilda and Drake like in canon.

Tysm for this blog, I really can't live without it 💖

We have two previous asks for the twins sans childhood trauma; the fics there fit your request, and if some slipped through you’ll know by the trigger warnings. Unfortunately, I could not find anything new that entirely leaves out this angst, so the new recs here all reference Tilda. I didn’t include two different first meeting WIPs because they may eventually contain angsty backstories. (These are The Twinyard Grindr Misadventures and If Found, Please Return.)

For other readers, I’m also sharing previous recs for twinyards different first meetings without this stipulation. -A

previous recs:

low angst twinyards aus here

canon divergent low angst twinyards here (my personal faves highlighted)

‘Where There is Magic…’ here

some personal faves from low angst twinyards aus:

‘take yourself home’ here

‘the glow in our mouths’ here

‘Two of a Kind’ here

‘AFTG Bingo 2k18 ch 2 Pretend’ here

‘prove your love’ here

previous recs that may include twins’ childhood trauma:

twins meet later in life here

twins different first meeting here

some personal faves from these:

‘Bang Slash Click’ here (updated)

‘Reflection’ here

‘Oh Brother Of Mine’ here

‘Normal Isn't a Virtue’ here

‘bare: a fox opera’ here (updated)

NB: All of these have a little bit of Tilda in them, but they are low angst.

Double Trouble by JayJFox [Rated T, 4158 Words, Complete, 2021]

Bee starts dating the new Exy team nurse, Abby, and they agree they should keep things quiet until they're sure it's serious.

No need to involve Andrew and Abby's foster son, Aaron.

When they finally decide to host an introductory dinner... well, they didn't expect their sons to be carbons copies of each other.

Neither did Andrew and Aaron.

tw: implied/referenced drug addiction, tw: implied/referenced overdose, tw: canonical character death, tw: implied/referenced homophobia, tw: implied/referenced conversion therapy

The Other Side by tomat0head [Rated T, 2706 Words, Complete, AFTG Fall Exchange 2021]

Andrew leads a lonely life, spending his days at the local library, until he starts reading a random book off the shelves and makes a new friend.

tw: implied/referenced alcoholism, tw: implied/referenced drug addiction

I Think Mom Was Hiding Something… by clumsylittlewriter [Rated T, 2223 Words, Complete, 2022]

"Aaron’s jaw dropped at the same time he heard Katelyn gasp. He was sure he was hallucinating. Or maybe he was back on drugs. Because the man who stepped up to their table looked absolutely identical to Aaron.

He had the same straight, blond hair. He had the same hazel eyes with gold flecks, though his looked completely apathetic. He had an eyebrow slit and black gouges in his ears. He appeared to have the same abundance of tattoos Neil did, some lining his biceps, while others crawled up his neck.

He was also absolutely ripped, with bulging biceps and broader shoulders than Aaron’s could ever be. He had a tight, black, short-sleeved turtleneck on, along with a pair of light wash, ripped jeans. He was wearing black armbands that covered pretty much his entire forearms too, which were embroidered with colorful flowers and bumble bees.

Okay, so maybe not exactly the same. But he was similar enough to obviously be Aaron’s twin."

(Aaron meets Andrew a little later in life)

tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced drug addiction, tw: implied/referenced overdose, tw: canonical character death, tw: homophobia, tw: scars

NB: fic inspired by this Andreil and Kataaron art by @Adell_Moretti on twitter

Art

The twinyards if they never got separated art by @prince-peachie

chibi twinyards art by @allarica

[cherryflavoredbutch]

[hyunllx]

no member of stray kidz is going to suck your dick faggot

You’ve sent this three nights in a row are you like.... Okay?

[lastofmars]

People who say "just let men be platonically affectionate" 🤝 people uncritically posting shit about how gnc men are just being gnc to disarm women's defenses and be predatory

[jugheadthelesbian]

my core four headcannons lol

tw: mentioned ed, mentioned intrusive thoughts, trauma, and internalized homophobia

archie:

good and sporty boy bi.

works out when he’s stressed.

shadow boxes as a stim.

he has a hard time eating and will work himself to the point of exhaustion bc of his time in prison.

he used to play guitar all the time but now he has trouble remembering it all.

he/him and didn’t really understand pronouns until jughead and veronica explained them to him.

he doesn’t cry easily and you can tell how mad he is if he cries.

hiram gave both him and vee horrible body issues.

he’s neurodivergent, probably ADD or ADHD.

has such a hard time with tone, bless his soul.

everyone thought he was the token straight friend of the group before he and jug dated.

he’s had a crush on jughead since they were kids.

came out to his dad right before his dad died.

jughead:

sad and poetic ace/gay.(he's canonically ace in the comics so i need that rep)

has a tumbler called yesihadanmcrphase and cheryl follows it but doesn’t know it’s him.

he wishes he wrote happy stories.

has horrible intrusive thoughts all the time.

really bad at showing emotions(has kanner’s syndrome).

he has ocd and kanner’s syndrome(which is under the autism spectrum) but was never treated for either up until fp got a stable job as the sheriff.

has always liked men and had a crush on archie(that is why his mom thought they were dating).

cries himself to sleep at night and has horrible night terrors.

secretly obsessed with harry styles and taylor swift lol.

he/they but doesn’t really care.

read a lot of lemony snicket books as a kid.

came out to his parents when he was like eight but didn’t come out to archie until junior year.

betty has known since eighth grade.

veronica guessed it.

betty:

preppy lesbian who likes nancy drew a little too much.

she has high masking BPD that was mistaken for psychosis disorder.

blames herself for what happened with the black hood and couldn’t look anyone in the eye after it was revealed to be her dad.

she loves true crime documentaries and the board game clue.

used to pray to be normal bc she grew up thinking liking girls was bad and that your brain shouldn’t work differently than others.

she got over that and jughead was the first person she came out to(polly was the next person).

she doesn’t know how to reject men so she just pretended her and jug were dating and now everyone thinks they are.

hates when people refer to them as #bughead bc she’s her own person.

she/her but doesn’t mind they/them.

penelope scott

veronica:

mafia queen bi girlboss.

really likes playing poker but their dad didn’t let her play it as a kid bc they’re a girl.

really hates being alone and likes being around people.

physical touch is their love language.

has body issues and anxiety from living with her dad and all the problems he caused.

really good at manipulating but also really easy to manipulate.

has depression but doesn’t talk ab it and prefers to act like everything is fine.

pronouns are they/she and their parents don’t know she’s bi or demigirl.

[double-aa-batteries]

Fic Rec Fridays - Week 3 - KevAaron

If you want to check out any of the other 3 fic recs you can find the master post here

Fluff

Don’t matter (what people say) by @psychomidget (cominupforair) on AO3  here (7k, 1 chapter)

Aaron knew he was bi.

He had long come to terms with it, but he believed that he could pretend he was straight as long as he kept dating girls.

But then Kevin happened. That’s where Aaron’s carefully constructed world really started crumbling. With him and Kevin kissing on his bed, legs tangled and hands roaming each other’s bodies.

a fuckin classic. my first favorite kavaaron fic. I keep coming back to it. TW for past drug and alcohol addictions, internalized homophobia and ableist language

Us by conniptionns / @foxss-evermore on AO3 here (6k, 1 chapter)

commissions prompt: Kevin and Aaron falling in love

set post canon, years later when Aaron is a doctor and Kevin has gone pro. they reconnect.

no TWs, only fluff and romance

sharing beds and then sharing hearts by love_in_the_city/ @delightfulfiresoulweasel on AO3 here (4k, 1 chapter)

and there was only one bed. robin comes to Columbia with the monsters. only, there aren't enough beds.

no TWs. only fluff.

Angst

heaven can't help me now by history11huh / @unholy-goddess on AO3 here (30k, 13 chapters)

a well written enemies to fuck buddies to lovers fic with the addressing of trauma as a side dish

TW: panic attacks, trauma, addiction, alcoholism, mentions of dug addiction, the moriyamas, depression and anxiety

crying zeros hearing one one's by love_in_the_city/ @delightfulfiresoulweasel on AO3 here (5k, 1 chapter)

Aaron doesn't take care of himself and a perfect, unlikely string of events causes him to face the ultimate price

all aboard the angst train. just. pure angst (with a happy ending)

TW: temporary character death, heart attack

the reason by love_in_the_city/ @delightfulfiresoulweasel on AO3 here (11k, 1 chapter)

Aaron thought he would get his happy ever after with Katelyn, but after she refused his proposal, Aaron ends up with the same feelings of worthlessness when his mother was alive. He relapses.

Someone unexpected becomes the reason he holds on.

angst. so much angst. Aaron's mental health. is in the garbage.

TW: depression, suicidal thoughts, drugs, relapse,  trauma and unspecified eating disorder

Vide Noir by love_in_the_city/ @delightfulfiresoulweasel (because, yes, I am obsessed with their writing) on AO3 here (15k, 1 chapter)

As the exam week took a toll on Aaron, he felt alone, he wanted someone, he want this to be over, he wanted to stop feeling so sick, he wanted the thoughts in his head to stop, he wanted to stop feeling like a pure black void.

you want some more angst? here, have some. TW for eating disorders, mental health (the bad kind), anxiety, depression, self harm, throwing up, anxiety attacks

Fluffy Angst

picture perfect by officialstarsandgutters description linked here

r u mine? by alex_wh0 descriptions linked here

the home we built by MakeBreakfastNotWar on AO3 here (31k, 13 chapters and worth every single word)

Aaron and Katelyn decide they want to have kids, and ask Kevin to be their sperm donor. When Aaron finds himself faced with raising the twins alone, Kevin steps in to help.

a classic must read of the kevaaron fics

it's easier to remain heterosexual by All_for_the_andreil on AO3 here (3k, 4 chapters)

Kevin and Aaron have been hiding their relationship for a while and when Andrew accidentally finds out, it doesn’t go well...

TW for knives and affection mistaken for non-con by outside viewers

i can't make you love me SpookyMiscreant on AO3 here (4k, 2 chapters)

Four times Kevin and Aaron slept together and the first time Kevin and Aaron /sleep/ together.

a lovely song fic. TW: anxiety attacks, nightmare

coming loose by djhedy on AO3 here (26k, 13 chapters)

it's hot, and the twins are disgruntled, and aaron can't stop hoping for things he can't have.

TW: internalized homophobia and “a smidgen of angst”

labels are only as good as me by permanentchaos on AO3 here (5k, 1 chapter)

He's not sure when Aaron became, well Aaron for him. Kevin's not even sure he's allowed to be anything but Aaron. Kevin wants what he wants, if only he could get his brain to cooperate with his heart.

gold. honestly, just gold.

TW: internalized homophobia

anywhere he goes by allfourthefoxes on AO3 here (6k, 2 chapters)

“Yes, Kevin is Aaron’s best friend. Aaron is falling in love with his best friend, if he hasn’t already.

trans skater boy Aaron and Kevin try to find a way to spend the day, cue some fluff, some angst, and then being adorable.” (+ trans Aaron Minyard and Friends to lovers)

Look. this just. cleared my skin. i just. it’s the definition of slipping into love like a dream in written fic format. I- Yeah. mostly fluff with a smidgen of angst and hurt/comfort. TW: scar worship, mention of scars, crying, mentions of self harm, descriptions of dysphoria, mentions of Tilda and her shit

@intangibel