#the procedure wouldn’t exist without her

[stillgotscars]

finding out cobel invented the severance chip has me thinking about when helly looked her in the eye and told her “i’m gonna kill your company” in the season 1 finale… talk about foreshadowing

[probablyasocialecologist]

The methodology for the Cass review was established by a team from the University of York including Tilly Langdon, who has previously been involved in promoting Gender Exploratory Therapy – an approach which, despite its neutral-sounding name, discourages children from identifying as trans and has been likened to conversion therapy. Her approach included setting a very high bar for evidence to be considered in the review, ruling out 100 of the existing 103 studies into the use of puberty blockers and hormones to treat trans children. The reason given for excluding all these studies was that they did not incorporate a double blind approach – in other words, they did not involve giving puberty blockers to some patients and placebos to others. This might sound like a reasonable objection on the face of it – until one considers that puberty is a dramatic physical and psychological process, and people can easily tell when it’s happening to them, so a double blind simply wouldn’t work in practice. The Cass review called for more research and, again, few would disagree with this. The suggestion that treatment should be withheld in the process, however, is not neutral. It presupposes that the harm done by puberty blockers (demineralisation of bones, which is usually temporary in the short-term treatment recommended and is similar to what occurs in pregnancy) is more severe than the harm done to a trans child by going through the wrong sort of puberty. The latter is linked to high rates of self-harm and suicidal ideation, together with the need, in many cases, for extensive surgical procedures. Confusingly, the review states that children taking puberty blockers showed “no changes in gender dysphoria or body satisfaction”, which suggests that the author didn’t actually understand what puberty blockers do at all. They don’t make children feel better – they just delay a process that makes them feel worse. This is one of several oddities in a report that lacks internal consistency. It states that there is no established definition of social transition, for instance, and does not offer one, but goes on to talk about it as if there were. It also talks about autistic ‘girls’ identifying as trans in increasing numbers, treating this as mysterious and as cause for concern, despite acknowledging elsewhere that more and more girls are being diagnosed as autistic, so one would expect more diagnoses to be present within any subsection of the young female-assigned population.  Perhaps the most worrying of the review’s conclusions – which should concern people far beyond the trans community – is the suggestion that as far as NHS treatment is concerned, trans people should be treated as children until they are 25. The rational for this is that 25 is the age when (on average) the brain stops developing. As any neurologist will tell you, the brain is in fact never static, and within ten years or so of that age, it begins to shrink. Deciding who has the capacity to make decisions based on brain age could have unintended consequences for the likes of Cass (64).  That aside, what would setting the age of true adulthood at 25 mean for everybody else? If we couldn’t allow people to consent to medical treatment at 24, should we ask them to risk dying for us? If not, then at a stroke we could lose a quarter of our armed forces. Likewise, we would have to give serious thought to what to do about a third of parents who might not be considered competent to look after their newborn children.  And then there are issues like contraception. Right-wingers have long contended, on one pretext or another, that teenage girls shouldn’t have the right to take the pill without their parents’ consent. This is where the review’s suggestion starts to look less like a double standard and more like the thin end of a very nasty wedge.

[ambarraquel]

Okay, since Episode 3 is out, I want to share what’s been on my mind since Season 1. I don’t know if this is possible or logical, but it’s about Irving.

This might turn into a rant 🤣. But keep reading—I promise it makes sense in a LUMONesque way.

1. We know severance is mostly irreversible, and Rhegabi just confirmed how hard it is to send messages between the innie and outie.

2. So how does outie Irving recognize that elevator?

Thanks to Felicia, we now know it’s “The Exports Hall,” where Optics & Design used to handle shipments directly. But if Irving has never been there, how does he know about it? It makes no sense for him to just know.

And then there’s his connection with Burt—it feels so deep, almost like it transcends severance.

What if Irving has been at LUMON longer than he remembers? The severance procedure can selectively erase memories, and we already know about the past MDR Refinement Calamity that LUMON may have distorted to create the lore and keep the departments separated. The most important thing is that MDR is curiously the center of all that weird lore!

Now, the OTC escape plan/MDR Microdat Uprising of Irving Mark Dylan and Helly has become new lore with the whole claymation thing—which we know has been spread to other innies, at least to some extent, because of the new employees Mark briefly shared as coworkers. What if that alleged cannibalistic assault from the paintings actually happened?

Maybe the exports elevator area was so successful that they decided to utilize it in different forms—thus the cannibalistic revolt. LUMON could have devised a whole plan, making that revolt happen as they tried to crack the technology enough to create Mrs. Casey. (Or maybe the revolt was an accident that led them to the technology behind her.) So maybe that place beyond the hall exists because LUMON had to devise a place for trial and error? Maybe employees involved in the cannibalistic revolt were wiped and “reset” down there? Maybe LUMON was experimenting with early severed chips?

We know for sure that down there is where they keep Miss Casey in storage. If LUMON can erase memories with severance, it makes sense they could also erase people or keep them in a state of suspension. So if Irving has been there before, maybe something happened to him—maybe he was even kept there as punishment. Maybe that was an early Break Room. Whatever it was, it must have been such a strong memory that, even without fully understanding it, it pushed him to take LUMON down.

Which brings me back to Irving and the plausibility of his remembrance.

1) What if he was originally in Optics & Design and met Burt over and over again, kept falling in love, and they went to the Exports Hall for work early on? So he was familiar with it, but didn’t expect to be exported himself. Maybe one of his last, most emotional memories was that black hall, which is why he remembers it. Maybe LUMON erased them multiple times because they wouldn’t allow it—or maybe they even knew each other as outies and chose to have their memories wiped. Maybe that’s why Burt followed Irving in his car—because he actually knows his outie—but that seems more convoluted 🤣.

2) Another theory of mine is that maybe Irving was part of the original cannibalistic revolt of MDR. I’d love to believe he also met Burt at that time, and he somehow survived and chose to have his memories reset rather than be fired—because that would mean living in a world where Burt was also in it, even if he couldn’t remember him. And maybe Burt was also reset?

So, the only explanation that makes sense to me for outie Irving remembering that elevator is that he’s been there before, but his complete experience was erased—except for that one lingering image of the elevator.

(And yes, I know the much simpler explanation is that someone from a Let’s Take Down LUMON secret society could’ve shown him that picture, and he’s painting it over and over because he’s part of an effort to take LUMON down. But honestly, that’s too simple—it takes the fun out of it 🤣.)

[lightlycareless]

Just for tonight: Chapter II

Naoya Zen’in x Fem!Reader

Summary: Naoya and Y/N manage to find love even when their families are locked in a centuries-old feud.

What once starts as a chance encounter, soon turns into a quiet, yet passionate defiance of everything they were raised to uphold.

But as their affection deepens, so does the risk—and soon, they must ask themselves how far they're willing to go for love before it threatens the very existence of all they've known.

Warnings: naoya is an idiot. not in a modern setting. small proofreading.

Happy reading!!!

chapter I.

And from that day forward, you don’t see him again.

Or more like you don’t wish to see him again.

Sure, you had… quite an interesting evening by his side.

If you ignore his unwanted commentary, his lingering gaze onto other women even when in your presence, as well as his ignorance when it comes to social cues.

You try to convince yourself that the only reason you tolerated so much was because you had no more money to buy food for the day, possibly the week too if you recount your misused allowance…

Because there’s no way you’d actually admit that you were once intrigued by this… this skirt chaser you were absolutely jumped onto the next woman the moment you left the festival.

But why were you so distraught by the ill attention of this horrid man? Were you really that lonely?

…A bit. Considering all of your friends already got marriage proposals while you were still here, waiting to even be brought up in a conversation amongst eligible bachelors.

“You’ll find that’s much better, pumpkin! You don’t need the attention of men! There are many awful choices out there, it’s simply better pass undetected than to land in the hands of one of them”

Not all of them could be like the monsters your father described; for example, your sister… well, she managed to find a man that while occasionally infantile, and contrasting with her ideals, was incredibly committed to the causes he chose to oversee. Responsible and strong, good qualities for a husband, right?

One of your ladies-in-waiting, Sumire, was engaged with a man that lacked power, but was undoubtedly hardworking and promised to never make her suffer through droughts.

Your other lady-in-waiting, and closest confidant, Mariya (whom you have yet to apologize to for having used her name with a poor excuse of a man) was not discreet in her attraction for another fellow member of the staff, a charming and quite handsome man called Tatsuro whom luckily, reciprocated said affection. It wouldn’t take long before their engagement was announced, but certain procedures needed to be ironed out first.

Lastly, your parents. Your first example of true love. You have never seen such devotion for one another until they came along. It was a bit unfair (if not hypocritical) for your father to demand romantic yearning when that’s all you’ve ever seen.

As you can see, loved seemed to surround. But perhaps it didn’t exist for you.

«You have to be careful with those you meet. You can’t jump at every man that gives you a bit of attention. You’re lonely, but not desperate»

Though it feels more like the latter as of lately.

“Ah, whatever, I don’t have time to waste on that! I have to focus on getting something to eat…” you grumble, holding onto your stomach that has been calling for sustenance for the past few minutes, and that’s without considering your new companion, the small goldfish you’ve decided to call Taro, which at least had a better outcome compared to you thanks to the bag of food it came along with—courtesy of your… unusual companion.

“I think I have just enough for today, and tomorrow if I really stretch it.” Your father wouldn’t take long to send you more money, he’s always been punctual with the payments of your allowance.

… Which surprises you, considering he didn’t want you to leave at first.

If he really wanted you back, he couldn’t just… cut your income. That would’ve been one hell of a way to get you back.

“—but ultimately, if that will make you happy, then I will support you no matter what.”

The fury you held for your inconsiderate clan and their unreasonable ways heighten at the memory. Your father was too kind, too much for them. Why didn’t he agree to run away with you?

“I shouldn’t think about this.” You say, shaking your head. “It’ll ruin my stomach if I do.”

And so, removing those thoughts out of your mind, you make way towards the market, where you ought to find wide arrangement of ingredients to make yourself a delicious breakfast! Just what you deserve after those sour memories and interaction—something to brighten your day and inspire you, keep you moving into a better tomorrow.

Unless you were to bump into your tormentor.

“Ah, and here I wondered where I’d find your pretty face again.” Matsuo says, with that sly smirk you once admired, but now loathed. “Did you miss me? I sure did, more so since you just disappeared!”

He feigned offense, but you knew better. Claimed better.

“Oh, well, I recall differently. Weren’t you too enthralled by your new companion?”

“No, don’t tell me—you’re jealous?” The man so-called Matsuo teases, making your irritation ignite even further. “But we’ve only spent one evening together, princess. And you seemed so nonchalant throughout our time together…”

“Don’t call me that.” You frown, insulted by his familiarity. He barely even knows you, yet treats you such indecent way. And to make it all worse, he still has the audacity to proclaim you as impolite?! Just what is wrong with him?!

“You wound me. You really do.” He feigns hurt, clenching at his chest as if his heart truly ached. As if he couldn’t be any more annoying. “You know, you’re the only one I’ve bothered to search for after that evening, you should at least compensate me for that.”

“Don’t—don’t crowd me with the rest!” you gasp. “Has this really worked for you, Matsuo? Being this… crude with women? Do you really get lucky like this?”

“Matsuo?” He pauses for a brief second, before widening his eyes, as if suddenly remembering something. Remembering his lie. “Oh, right Matsuo.”

“Ah, so that isn’t your name?” you press, he chuckles.

“For someone that acts so insulted by my mere presence, you sure enjoy riling me up.” He smiles, you roll your eyes. “And I’d say yeah, it’s worked charms. You have no idea how many women I’ve been with.”

You scowl, disgusted in the way he refers to his personal life. To the women that had the disgrace of sharing a bed with him, like there were nothing more but numbers for him to brag about.

But yet again, such was the norm for most men.

“I could easily move on to someone else, you know? But I’m not going to, because in a way, I feel like I’m doing you a favor.”

“A favor?” you repeat. “How could you possibly be doing me a favor??”

“I can see it in your eyes—this is probably the most you’ve spoke with a man, alone, haven’t you? It’s so obvious by the way you look at me, how you squirm whenever I get close to you…”

Oh, you should’ve known.

From the moment he crossed your path, you should’ve known this is how it would end—with a man claiming to know much better than you. To understand life in ways you couldn’t even comprehend, and of course, demean you for it.

Because that’s how men like him are, and that’s how it’ll always be.

But why are you so distraught by it? Did you really expect anything different? That somehow Naoya would break the mold? Prove you wrong?

You were disappointed, over something that could only be expected.

No one was to blame but you.

“What’s with the face? At least try to appear interested.” He says with a frown, disliking for a while now how you always seemed to position yourself above him—like you were too good for him, when reality proved otherwise. At least in his mind.

“I simply don’t have anything to say.” You add, barely lifting your gaze from the ground, from… anywhere else but the pain of his presence.

“What, am I disappointing to you? Is that what you’re saying?” he retorts, you press your lips together.

“No. I’d hardly say that—you can’t disappoint me if I never expected anything from you to begin with.”

It’s a confession that catches him off guard. A kind of sincerity that normally would’ve spiraled him into anger—the prodigious man never fails in what he sets his mind to. There has not been a single challenge he hasn’t been able to overcome.

A woman to charm. A man to ridicule.

And yet… he’s unable to erase the curve of her scowl, the dimness of her eyes whenever looking at him, or the softness in her tone that far from denoting coyness… it’s exhaustion.

To have given up after being demonstrated that he was not more than what you thought him to be.

This interaction wasn’t intended for nothing more than a fling, and yet…

“I didn’t mean to disappoint you.”  He catches himself saying, unprovoked, uncharacteristically him. He doesn’t even know why, but it’s the only thing he can say in hopes of earning your approval.

Your favor.

“You didn’t.” you repeat. “As I said, I can’t be disappointed if I didn’t await anything at all.”

“…Mariya—”

But just as he attempts to reach out for you, just as he did the first time he met you, something stops him.

Perhaps it’s the guilt of his stupidities, the realization that you meant far more than he was willing to admit, however that may be.

He just met you, he shouldn’t be feeling this way, or so his mind exclaims.

But his heart reasons otherwise, claims that you were more than just a pretty face he had the fortune of stumbling upon that fateful day.

That there was something oddly familiar about you, like he’s seen you before—known you far more than just by your appearance, your name—like he was fated to meet you, from a past life, from a dream…

But now that he had the chance to prove said feelings, his impulses had to get the best of him and force him into the possibility of losing you forever.

He meant to do a lot of things that day.

But the one thing Naoya didn’t mean to do, was hurt you.

[brainddeadd]

I'd Wait

Warnings: general hospital things, exhaustion angst

Thought I'd try something different and write for a ship which I don't think I've ever done 😅

Read it on ao3

Samira stood at the nurses’ station, shoulders tense, jaw tight. Her white coat was smeared with coffee from an earlier spill, and her pager wouldn’t stop going off. She’d lost a patient that morning, fought with her attending over a treatment plan, and skipped lunch without realizing.

Jack noticed.

From across the corridor, he watched her for a moment, pen paused mid-chart. Her brow was furrowed, but her hands were steady���she was always steady. He approached slowly, not interrupting, just existing beside her.

“Hey,” he said, voice soft.

She didn’t look up. “Hi.”

Jack leaned on the counter beside her, close enough that their sleeves brushed. Quiet. Present. Not demanding anything from her.

After a long pause, she sighed, finally glancing at him. “It’s just—everything sucks today.”

“I noticed.” He didn’t say it with pity. Just truth.

That made her lips twitch—almost a smile.

Jack reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a chocolate protein bar. “Not a solution. But might help a little.”

Samira took it like it was gold. “God, thank you.”

They stood there for another beat, the chaos of the hospital moving around them like white noise.

Jack didn’t push. He just stayed.

And when she looked up at him again, this time their eyes held. Quiet comfort. A stolen glance. Something unspoken passing between them.

For the first time that day, Samira felt like she could breathe.

Jack didn’t change overnight. He didn’t start making grand gestures or declaring anything in on-call rooms. But Samira started to notice things.

It was the way he always seemed to have a spare coffee when she was dragging herself in for rounds. The way he quietly stepped in when she was getting overwhelmed during procedures—never undermining, just steady hands and steadier eyes.

When she forgot her phone in the residents’ lounge, he brought it to her without a word. When she had to work through her birthday, he somehow knew her favorite flavor of cupcake.

"How do you always know?" she asked, suspicious and a little tired.

He shrugged. "I pay attention."

Jack had always been... there. Background noise that became a heartbeat. She wasn’t sure when it changed—when she started to look for him in every room. When his laugh became her favorite sound in the ER.

One night, after a double shift, she sat on the hospital roof with him, legs stretched out beside his. The city below blinked and breathed like a living thing.

"I didn’t think anyone noticed how hard today was," she admitted.

"I did," he said simply, passing her the last bite of his sandwich without hesitation.

She looked at him then—really looked. And something in his expression made her chest ache. Gentle. Patient. Like he’d been holding something fragile in his hands for a long time and never once dropped it.

That’s when it clicked.

He was in love with her. Had been, quietly, completely, without expectation.

“Jack,” she said slowly.

“Hmm?”

She didn’t say it. Not yet. But her fingers brushed against his, and this time, she didn’t pull away.

He smiled, almost imperceptibly. Like he already knew. Like he’d just been waiting for her to catch up.

The city hummed below them, but up on the rooftop, it felt like everything had gone still.

Samira’s fingers brushed his again—intentional this time. A choice. Jack didn’t look down. Just looked at her like he always did. Like she was something rare and worth waiting for.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he beat her to it.

“Took you long enough, sweetheart.”

It wasn’t smug. Just soft. Teasing in the gentlest way, like he was offering her an out even now.

Her breath caught, guilt flickering in her chest. “Jack… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

He shook his head immediately. “No. Don’t do that.”

She blinked.

“I’d wait as long as it took,” he said, voice even and low, like it wasn’t something extraordinary. “You never owed me anything. I just—knew. And I was okay waiting for you to know too.”

Samira felt something sharp and quiet break open inside her.

“God, you’re ridiculous,” she whispered, eyes burning suddenly.

Jack smiled. “Only for you.”

She laughed, shaky and a little overwhelmed. Then she leaned in, just a little, forehead brushing his shoulder.

“I think I’m ready now,” she said quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t rush. Just shifted enough so his hand rested over hers, warm and grounding.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Then I’m right here.”

And he always had been.

[femoso-seben]

Task Force 141 X gn Reader

Working with a Legend

Pt. 1

TW: Violence and Death

You stare out the truck window your a random sniper rifle in your hands. You had no particular type of sniper gun you specialized in. You're a jack of all trades master of none, for being a master of one is a fool's job. You picked up your gun and looked it over. It was one of the latest models. New scope and everything. You smirk and set it down.

They’re always someone looking at you. One of them was always looking at you. They could not stop watching you waiting to see your skills up close. Soap, that one watched you like a hawk as another sniper he was giddy, on the other hand, Ghost simply existed behind you.

He kept you in his gaze everywhere you go he followed. It was cute, like a puppy he was an obedient thing. You kinda of wanted to see how far he’ll go.

The truck came to a stop and you all filed out. You take a deep breath and wait for Ghost. He demanded you to be on his team so he could keep an eye on you. It’s been a few months, and this was the second mission. The first one you and Gaz sat taking out the individuals and snipers.

You turn to Ghost and nod, you're not here to win their trust, you're paid to be here. You didn’t need to like them and they didn’t need to like you. As long as they keep paying you and the price is proportional to the mission you’ll stick around. You’re a person who only does things not for honor, or the right thing, but for the money.

Money rules the world and you like to dominate things.

Your mission collect a Nazi terrorist group leader alive. A former customer, but you never sign deals where you can’t kill them. Soap walked in front while Ghost brought up the rear. The walk was silent as you three creep up on the compound these Nazis live in. You turn to Ghost.

“What’s your plan?” You asked. You’re not being paid enough to create a plan or to care if a plan is good or not. You’re paid to be a simple grunt there is no need to be anything more.

“Soap take the lead we’ll back you up.” Ghost instructs, “You stay back and cover us.” You nod.

Now you remember why you left the military. All these procedures were time-consuming and very boring. You could have simply killed the man without this hassle, but they want this fool alive. How annoying, how tedious. You stare at the racist and look away what a sad little man following another sad little man.

You sat back, back turned to the interrogation. You’re not paid to enough to care, if under investigation— you saw nothing. You put on your headphones— you hear nothing. It’s not your business. You look down at the gun, it is nice but a little pompous. they were clearly trying to win her over.

You smirk and look out of the building seeing the dead body littering the ground. Kate’s playing a deadly game. She didn’t want to lose you, but she also didn’t want you to slip from their fingers again. The door opens and you see the task force walking out of the room. The man was nowhere in sight, probably dead.

You stand and follow after the group Ghost of course behind you staring holes in the back of your head. You look over your cold eyes catching his. His gaze was a little hard to read, it was certainly an untrusting gaze.

“I don’t even know why you're even here.” Ghost finally spoke up in the quiet truck. Everyone turns to you waiting for a response.

“Tell that to Kate, It’s America’s money.” You turn to him with a slight smirk.

“Did his words bug you?” Soap asked looking at you up and down.

“Hardly, he’s not my employer. Even if he was I wouldn’t care.” You hum with a yawn. “I won’t lie this is a waste of my time and talent.” You push her hair back and look at them.

“Of course, you would think that.” Gaz sneers.

“Sweetheart, money talks and I like money.” You say honestly.

“So you’re a mercenary for money?”

“You can say that.” You won’t lie you technically are a mercenary but you also had private militia contact. You are part of a group. But they don’t need to know that.

A few days passed and Ghost spent of course his days staring at you. Watching you, hunting you. You learn to ignore it, it did get under your skin but he could not let him know it did.

Laswell walked in.

“Laswell, how have you been?” She turns to you with a scowl. No one liked you— it didn’t matter.

“You have a mission by the US Government.” She states.

“What is it?” Price stands up walking over to see the case files.

“It’s only for L.” A sly smirk crosses your face and you take the file.

It was a hit on a Middle eastern Terrorist leader. You look over the details and memorize everything. “Done,” You hand back the file and begin to walk away considering your plan.

“Wait.” You look over.

“They’re part of this team, this is our mission.” Ghost spoke up. He didn’t want you out of his grip.

“fives a crowd.” Ghost shot you a glare.

“I agree.” Price spoke up.

“Fine, I’ll take Gaz and Soap.” Price and Ghost frown but they cannot argue with her.

“All right.”

“Let me back my things.” You stand up and walk out.

“Keep an eye on them.”

You three left the next day on a cargo plane. It is a few hours and you’ll stop by a base pick up the gun and stalk your prey. The two men stared at you most of the time. You told them very little of the mission. The cargo plane lands and the tree walks over to the next plane.

As they walk you catch them up to date on the mission. The person’s name, their role in the terrorist group, the impact of them, and how you plan on finding them. “Do you got that?” They nod and look at each other it was a thorough plan.

Weeks pass as the three of them gather information on the target silently. They took out footmen and slowly hunted the man down. You three tracked the person down to a few buildings, he traveled too.

“What’s that?”

“Poison.”

“Why do you have that?” Soap asks.

“Watch.” You walked up to a little girl and spoke to her in her native tongue. The little girl took the vile.

“What the hell was that?”

“I’m making this easier on us, they want this to look like an accident.” You state as both men follow after you. “Go to that alleyway and shoot it up.”

“What?”

“We’re going to simulate a small skirmish and he dies from a stray bullet. I’ll signal you to begin shooting he’ll walk onto his balcony and I’ll get him”

“What’s the poison for?”

“It’ll force him to go upstairs.” Soap’s eyes lit up and he nodded both men finally understood. They nod and walk into the alleyway making sure no one else is there.

You take your spot and wait. You see him walking up into his room, “Now,” You say in the comms. They lit up the alleyway. As you thought the man stumbles out. You took the shot. before pulling out a second gun just like the ones used by Gaz and Soap.

You shot the balcony up and to the alleyway. “Let’s go!” You shout and they run after you.

“Is this how most of your mission goes?” Gaz asks a little out of breath.

“No, but since I got two helpers I used it.” You state as you guys head back to your makeshift home base.

“I see why Laswell doesn’t want you out of her grips.” Soap states as you three pack up.

“What can I say, I am highly wanted.”

[lowlylux]

Silver Spoons (And Butterknives)

Chapter Eighteen | Fear of Trials

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 16k

Ship: Jegulily/Wolfstar

Description:

For a moment he wishes Sirius was there.

He closes his eyes, allowing him to accept it even as his lungs scream for him to continue fighting. He hurts..so much. It is overtaking him, drowning out the voices that continue to berate his mind. But he still cannot bring himself to fight back. His mind goes fuzzy, his consciousness beginning to lessen its hold on his body.

Yet, for a moment, he swears the pressure of the water leaves him.

He swears that he is gasping for air and actually obtaining it. And, the thing that makes him fully realize that this is his mind's last attempt to give him peace, is the mirage of his brother staring down at him, eyes widened in shock.

And just like that, Regulus finally loses consciousness.

Or...

A simple loophole ensures the survival of Regulus Black, and he is about to make it everyone's problem.

ao3 link

The chains rattle every time Regulus moves.

Sirius can’t stop staring at them.  They are these thick iron links threaded with runes.  Charmed to suppress magic.  Etched to contain as much as possible.  They loop around Regulus’ wrists and ankles.  Heavy as guilt.  Cruel with punishment.  But worse than the chains is the cage.  A dome of wrought black metal sits in the center of the courtroom like a monument to humiliation.  Spellwork hums along its bars—barriers of both steel and silence—ensuring that the boy within it can’t run.  That he wouldn’t want to speak.  That he can barely breathe without being reminded.

Not that Regulus is trying.

He sits hunched on the floor, a ghost of who he once was.  His skin is pale, parchment-thin and drawn tight over the sharp angles of his face.  There’s a gauntness to him that makes Sirius’ stomach twist.  It’s like someone hollowed him out from the inside.  His robes hang in filthy folds, torn at the sleeves.  One side of his head has been crudely shaved, the other still tangled with a few inches of newly-grown hair.  It is as if someone had started to strip him of his dignity and lost interest halfway through.

He doesn’t look up.  Not even when Mary Macdonald begins to speak.

Sirius sits frozen in the gallery.  He’s far away to reach him but too close to look away.  His chest aches with the weight of helplessness.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the Wizengamot…” Mary draws a slow and steady breath.  She stands before the jury like she was born to be there.  She’s small in stature, but fierce in presence.  Her wand is nowhere in sight but her words are sharper than any spell.  “We are not here today to debate whether Regulus Black once made a terrible mistake.”

She pauses.  Her gaze sweeps the rows of solemn witches and wizards robed in purple.  It is as if she is daring them to look away from her.  From him.  From the truth.

“He did,” she says simply.  “We are not here to excuse the choices that led him down the path to the Death Eaters.  He does not want your forgiveness.  What he wants is for you to hear the truth.”

Sirius feels like he’s drowning.

Regulus didn’t want to.  But they wouldn’t want to listen to the truth so Mary has to stretch it.  It is truly a horrid compromise.

The sight of his brother in that cage—in a cage—is a nightmare made real.  Something that should have never existed outside of Azkaban.  He swallows hard, but the nausea won’t go.  Regulus looks so small inside that prison, shackled like a criminal before people who were too afraid to fight when it counted.  It’s obscene.

Mary doesn’t waver.

“This trial, cloaked in law and procedure, is not just about a man,” she continues, voice rising like a stormfront, “it is about the story we tell ourselves as a society in the aftermath of war.  We want neat endings.  Clear villains.  A scapegoat we can place in chains and declare: ‘We are cleansed.’  But that is not justice.”

She turns toward the cage, her hand lifting in a single clear gesture.

“That is cowardice.”

Sirius’ heart stutters.  It’s not just her words—it’s the sheer force of her belief in them.  In Regulus.  When had anyone last looked at his brother like that?  Like he was worth saving?  James and Lily of course.  But they do that with everyone.  Sirius is fairly certain that if Snape showed up at their door it would take approximately two hours before he received a hot chocolate and an awkward nod from James.  Two weeks, James would enjoy conversation.  Two months, well…

But that is James and Lily.

The only other person that came close to that was Marlene and she…

Regulus deserved more time with her.

Mary steps closer to the cage, close enough that the aurors tense.  Their hands hover near their wands as if she is a threat.  But Mary is just a witch.

A Muggle-born witch, that’s the problem.

“Regulus Black risked his life to fight the very man you fear to name.  He destroyed several of Voldemort’s Horcruxes—yes, Horcruxes—at the cost of nearly dying.  He infiltrated the darkest corners of that regime and came back alive.  Haunted.  Broken.  But alive.  And still, even after his return, he saved lives.  Mine.  Yours.  Everyone’s.”

Sirius can’t stop shaking.

He wants to scream.  To leap over the rails.  To tear down the walls and grab Regulus by the shoulders and tell him it’s over.  That he’s safe.  That someone sees him.

Mary’s voice cuts through the stillness like a blade.  “You will hear testimony from a key witness to these events, whom I’m sure all will be surprised to see.  You will see evidence of his work to dismantle what remained of the Death Eaters from within.”

She steps back now.  Her voice is quieter, but no less commanding.  “Ask yourselves—why would a guilty man crawl back from death to warn the world of what he had uncovered?  Why would he sabotage the very cause he once served, knowing it would place a target on his back from both sides?  Why, if he were merely another zealot, is he standing here in rags and restraints instead of at Voldemort’s right hand?  Or if he were the next dark wizards as the media would love to claim, why is he here?  Why not destroy the Ministry while we fumble with the loss of Voldemort?”

Mary turns to face the Wizengamot fully, her voice unwavering.

“The truth is not clean.  It is complicated.  And Regulus Black is a complicated man.  But today, we do not ask you to bury him for the sin of ever being lost.  We ask you to see him for the courage it took to find his way back.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

Sirius stares at his brother through the bars of that wretched cage.  His throat is tight.  His eyes are burning.  His heart is breaking so much that he can almost hear it shatter on the floor.

Regulus doesn’t look up.

But Mary does not look away.

Crouch clears his throat.

The sound cuts through the air like a blade.  Too sharp.  Too steady.  He’s seated above the courtroom like a king presiding over a broken realm.  His spine is straight.  His expression is unmoved.  He casts a sweeping glance across the chamber before his voice echoes, crisp and unrelenting:

“Be that as it may,” he says, each word deliberate, “let us not be distracted by sentiment.  Let us not be lulled into sympathy by tales of regret spun too late.”

Sirius feels something cold creep into his chest.

He doesn’t look at Crouch—he can’t.  Not when the sight before him is already unbearable.  Regulus remains slumped on the stone floor of the holding cage, head bowed.  His face is shadowed by the fall of ruined, half-shaved hair.  Chains drape from his wrists and ankles, rattling faintly each time he breathes.  If he breathes.

Crouch’s voice cuts through again, smooth and detached.  “The question before us is simple: should a man who willingly took the Mark of the Dark Lord walk free among us now?”

Yes, Sirius thinks.  Of course he should.  What kind of twisted game is this?

But his throat feels locked.  He can barely move.  The weight of the courtroom presses down on him.  It crushes him, the ancient stone and heavy silence.  The dozens of robed figures above them.  Regulus in rags below.

Crouch stands now, making a slow, calculated sweep to face the jurors and spectators alike.  “Regulus Arcturus Black was not a child,” he states.  “He was not coerced.  He was seventeen years old when he joined the Death Eaters—an adult by all magical and Muggle standards.”

A flicker of movement from the floor—but no, Regulus still won’t look up.

“Old enough to vote,” Crouch says.  “To duel.  To kill.  Old enough to know the difference between right and wrong.  And he chose wrong.”

Sirius grinds his teeth.  His hands are clenched into fists in his lap.  His nails are biting crescents into his skin.  He can feel Mary’s posture stiffen without looking at her.  Her eyes are burning toward Crouch like twin curses.

But Crouch barrels on, voice rising with practiced certainty.  “We cannot excuse the crimes of war based on late-stage guilt.  Remorse after the fact does not erase the harm done.  It does not bring back the dead.  It does not undo the terror inflicted on innocent families while this man—this man—stood silent, wand in hand.”

In the corner of Sirius’ vision, a flash of gold catches the light.  Rita Skeeter is scribbling furiously, her Quick-Quotes Quill darting across the parchment like a vulture picking a carcass clean.

Fucking leech.

Regulus doesn’t move.  Doesn’t flinch.  He might as well be stone.

Crouch keeps speaking.  “Yes, he turned against the Dark Lord.  But only when he was affected.  Only when it became clear the cause was crumbling.”

The insinuation stabs at Sirius like a poisoned knife.  He wants to stand.  Wants to scream.  Wants to throw back every truth Crouch is twisting out of shape.  But he’s nailed to his seat by fear.  By grief.  By guilt.

“Are we to reward opportunism along with self-preservation,” Crouch demands, “and label it redemption?  Are we to open the gates for every Death Eater who claims they had a change of heart after the killing was done?”

Sirius swallows hard and it feels like swallowing glass.

The courtroom is quiet.  Too quiet.  No one has spoken in Regulus’ defense since Mary’s opening.  No one has looked at him except with suspicion or disdain.  Except Sirius.

Crouch draws himself up, his voice turning hard as steel.  “The law does not bend for the privileged.  It does not sway for pureblood names or tearful confessions.”

Sirius doesn’t need to be a genius to hear the subtext—he hears Black.  He hears you people in every syllable.  They need to make a statement to the people.  Don’t worry, they don’t let the old names get away with everything!  And Regulus is the easiest target.

“Regulus Black may claim he was misled.  He may claim he acted to stop Voldemort,” Crouch says, now gesturing toward the boy on the floor like he’s evidence in a crime scene.  Like he’s not a person.  “But the Dark Mark on his arm brands him not a savior, but a servant of terror.”

A beat of silence follows.  It’s heavy and final and suffocating.

“And I, for one,” Crouch concludes, “will not stand by while this court considers freeing yet another wolf in remorseful clothing.  We must be brave enough to say what the times demand justice, not sympathy.  Consequences, not excuses.  The war is over—but the impact is still being felt.”

The final word echoes, swallowed slowly by the stone walls.  And in the stillness that follows, Sirius can hear his own heart thundering in his ears.

He looks at Regulus.

Still slumped.  Still silent.

Still not looking up.

Sirius wants to scream.  Wants to reach through the magic-reinforced bars and shake him, demand he say something.  That he should fight back.  Be angry.  Be alive.  But Regulus just sits there like the verdict’s already been passed.  Like he’s already accepted it.

And that somehow is worse than anything Crouch could say.

Mary stands slowly from the seat she was forced to take while Crouch spoke.

She doesn’t rush.  Doesn’t raise her voice.  But there’s a current beneath her calm.  Like there is something electric in the stillness that follows Crouch’s speech.  Her hands are steady.  Her shoulders are drawn back.  Her gaze slices through the chamber like a drawn wand.

And Sirius watches her like a man reaching for air.  She’s the only one in this room not looking at Regulus like a cautionary tale.  The only one not flinching from the weight of the truth.

Her voice is even, but it rings out like the beginning of a duel.

“With due respect to Mr. Crouch—”

A pause.  A narrowing of her eyes.  Something sharper gleaming behind her composure.

“—The law must be many things.  It must be firm.  It must be fair.  But above all, it must be just.  And justice,” she says, her voice lifting ever so slightly, “does not begin and end with punishment.”

Sirius exhales slowly through his nose.  He can barely move.  Can barely breathe as Mary begins to turn the weight of the courtroom.  Not with force.  Not with anger.  But with something far more dangerous.  Truth.

“Justice requires that we look closely,” she continues.  “That we examine not only the actions, but the intent.  The context.  The consequences.  Justice requires discernment.”

A murmur stirs somewhere in the back rows.  A rustle of fabric.  The scrape of a chair leg.  Mary doesn’t flinch.

She raises a single hand.  Not for dramatics.  Not to silence anyone.  Just to guide attention.  To point the court not to herself, but to the hollow figure still shackled behind her.

“You say Regulus Black was seventeen and should have known better,” Mary says, quiet but razor-edged.  “I ask you—where was that certainty when he was born into a family that carved blood purity into his bones before he ever picked up a wand?  Where was the Ministry,” she says, her voice hardening, “when children like him were taught that love is weakness, that obedience is survival?”

Sirius’ heart twists.

The words scrape down his spine like broken glass.  She’s not just talking about Regulus—she’s talking about all of it.  The silence.  The cold.  The way their mother’s voice could level mountains and leave nothing behind but shame.  The way Regulus used to sit at the dinner table with his shoulders so straight and his eyes so hollow.

Mary steps forward now, her heels clicking softly against the stone floor.  She approaches the cage.

Regulus doesn’t move.

His hands are curled in his lap.  His head bowed.  His posture so still he could be a statue—but even stone isn’t this quiet.  Sirius stares at the crown of his brother’s head.  He was trying to will him to lift it.  Look up.  Just look up.  Just once.

“Yes,” Mary says gently, “he made a choice.  A terrible one.”

She doesn’t flinch from it.  Doesn’t pretend he was blameless.  But her voice carries something Sirius hadn’t realized he was starving for; compassion without delusion.  Fire without malice.

“But he also made another.”

She turns to the courtroom, gaze sharp now.  Almost defiant.

“When he learned what Voldemort had done.  When he saw the truth.  When he saw the horror, he chose to act.  He tried to dismantle the very foundation of the Dark Lord’s immortality.  He risked his life alone.  Without glory.  Without allies.  With no promise of redemption or reward.”

A flicker of something shifts in the room.  A twitch of discomfort.  A few furrowed brows . Good.  Let them squirm with it.  Let them try to explain away the fact that Regulus nearly died trying to undo what they were all too afraid to face.

Mary turns back toward the cage, her tone lower now.

“And unlike so many who now claim they were ‘under the Imperius,’ Regulus Black has never lied to this court.  He has never denied what he was.”

She doesn’t sugarcoat it.  Doesn’t flinch from the truth.  And yet—

“But he also never demanded our forgiveness,” she says softly.  “He came back to stop what he helped build.  And that matters.  Or at least—” Her voice cracks just slightly on the edge of her conviction.  “—it should.”

Sirius’ jaw clenches.  He can’t take his eyes off Regulus.  Still slumped, silent, and chained like some kind of ghost that never got the chance to rest.  A boy who walked into hell and came back, only to find himself there again.  On the floor.  In shackles.

Mary’s voice rises.

“Mr. Crouch would have you believe the only good Death Eater is a dead one.”

A chill cuts through the room.

“That thinking…that rigidity…is what let the rot grow in the first place,” she says.  “If you teach people that there is no way back.  That there is no path to atonement.  Then they will never stop running toward the dark.”

Sirius feels something in his chest collapse in on itself.

Because that was the lesson, wasn’t it?  Run or be erased.  Obey or be broken.  There was no third option.  Not in their house.  Not in that war.  Not for Regulus.  And not it seems even now.

Mary draws a breath.  Her final words drop into the silence like a spell.

“We say we want a better world.  We say the war is over.”

She looks directly at the members of the Wizengamot.

“Then prove it.  Let justice mean something more than vengeance in a robe.”

The silence that follows is total.

And all Sirius can hear is the clink of chains as Regulus shifts—barely.  It’s just a breath—but it’s something.  Maybe the first real movement in minutes.  He still won’t look up.

But Mary did.

And Sirius grips the edge of the bench, holding onto that sliver of hope like it’s the last wand in a war zone.

Crouch rises again, and Sirius feels his stomach coil.  The man doesn’t pace.  He prowls—like a barrister who believes the world will end if it doesn’t bend to his version of the truth.

The courtroom settles.

Crouch looks down.  Not at Regulus.  Not at Mary.  No, he addresses the room like it’s a lecture hall and they’re all inattentive students in need of moral clarity.

“Let us not romanticize a man who weaponized his proximity to redemption,” he begins, tone clipped and cruel in its control.  “Regulus Black did not simply make mistakes—he made calculated ones.”

Sirius can already feel it building.  That old, cold rage that sits just behind his ribs and waits to be triggered by this kind of rhetoric.  Calculated.  As if seventeen-year-olds sit around drafting strategies for moral collapse.  As if eighteen-year-olds plan to die.  As if nineteen-year-olds are meant to be in a cage, staring back at the people meant to protect them.

“He did not stumble into darkness,” Crouch continues.  “He walked there willingly, eyes wide open.  And later learned how to drape that walk in noble regrets.”

Sirius’ nails dig into the bench.

Regulus hasn’t moved.  Still folded into himself like something burnt out and left to cool.  Still chained like the war never ended.  And Crouch’s words wrap around him like ropes, tightening the more he stays silent.

“But here,” Crouch says, “is what Miss Macdonald won’t say.”

He turns then, eyes sharp with performative sorrow.  “Regulus Black did not claw himself out of ruin to save lives.  He came back to attach himself to the nearest source of safety.  And that source—”

He pauses in a way that is just long enough for dramatic effect.

“—was the Potters.”

Sirius goes still.

Something in him snaps taut.  The Potters.  James.  Lily in a way.  Euphemia.  Fleamont.  Now Harry.  He can feel the implication land in the room like a detonation.

“A family known for their compassion.  For their forgiveness.  For their naïve belief that anyone could change.”

Crouch lets that word naïve linger, like a stain.

“And for their trouble, what did they receive?”

Silence.

Crouch’s voice drops to something colder.

“Their home—burned to the ground.”

Sirius hears the gasp before he feels it in his own lungs.  For a moment, he’s not in the courtroom.  He’s back in the rubble.  Smoke in his throat.  Regulus’ voice hoarse with coughing.  James digging through scorched stone with his bare hands.  Himself happy that Effie and Monty were out before it happened.  James covered in ash.

Crouch doesn’t stop.

“Hundreds of years of magical heritage—obliterated.  Records.  Artifacts.  Protections built over generations…gone.  Not because the Potters were careless.  But because they gave shelter to a man with a target burned into his skin.  Because they gave him their trust.”

A pause.

“And he gave them ruin.”

Sirius doesn’t realize he’s shaking until he looks at his own hand.  He lets out a shaky breath, opening it and closing for a moment before putting it back on his knee.

“You call that courage?” Crouch demands, voice rising.

“You call that redemption?” he sneers.  “I call that manipulation.  I call it exploitation of good-hearted people who had more to lose than he ever did.”

Sirius wants to shout.  He wants to throw something.  Wants to tear apart the podium.  Wants drag Crouch down into the ruin he’s so eager to twist.  But all he can do is sit there, hands clenched, blood boiling, as the man goes on.

“And let me be perfectly clear,” Crouch says, gaze hard now.  “It does not matter if he didn’t light the match.  He brought the fire to their door.  He made them collateral in his private war of conscience.  And now you ask this court to pat him on the back for it?”

He turns his gaze toward the jurors.

“We must stop rewarding those who cause destruction simply because they later regret it.  A war was fought.  A war was won.  But if we lose our standard…if we forget who invited that war into our homes in the first place—”

Another pause.  A longer one.

“—then we’ve won nothing at all.”

The words echo like a gavel.  Sirius doesn’t look at the jurors. Doesn’t look at Crouch.  He looks only at Regulus.  Still hunched.  Still silent.  Still not looking up.

And for one terrible moment, Sirius can’t tell if it’s shame that keeps him down…or if he’s begun to believe Crouch is right.

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that comes after fire.  After someone’s hurled judgment like a curse and let the smoke settle where it lands.

And for a moment, Sirius thinks Regulus won’t move.  Thinks maybe he really is gone.  That he’s hollowed out beyond speech.  Beyond resistance.

But then—

A breath.

A shift.

When the Dementors entered, they had dropped the temperature significantly.  Even when they left, their presence was known.  And Regulus was wearing shackles specifically meant to stop a wizard from using magic.  But still, the temperature in the room changes.  Like something volatile has just remembered how to burn.

Regulus lifts his head.

Slowly.  Mechanically.  As if it costs him something.

His eyes are bloodshot.  Empty at first.  Then filling—heat crawling into them like light through cracks.  He stares at Crouch.  Not with composure or calculation, but raw disbelief.  His voice scrapes out low and stunned:

“What?”

It’s not loud.  But it’s sharp.  Too sharp to ignore.

Mary jolts, eyes wide.  She leans forward, whispering something Sirius barely catches from his spot—“Reg… no.”—but it’s too late.

Regulus is already rising, stumbling forward like something pulling itself out of wreckage.

“You think I manipulated them?” he says, low and shaking.  One hand is clutching the bars.  “That I saw the Potters and thought, ‘Yes, perfect—I’ll hide there. Ruin them. Leave ash in my wake.’”

He laughs.  It’s the ugliest sound Sirius has ever heard.  It’s short, breathless, and bitter. It lands hard in the silence.

“Do you even hear yourself?”

Sirius feels it like a slap.  Not because Regulus is angry.  But because he means it.  Because it’s all breaking loose now.  The calm.  The perfection.  The stillness.  The refusal to react.  It’s gone.  All of it stripped bare.

Regulus tries to stand straighter.  Fails.  His legs buckle and he clutches the bars harder.  His knuckles are white now.  His whole body is trembling like he’s holding back something feral.

“I showed up half-dead on my brother’s doorstep,” he rasps.  “I didn’t even know James would be there.  Kreacher thought Sirius was my hope for survival.  Not James.”

Sirius stiffens.

He remembers that night too clearly.  The smell of blood.  The shaking body on his floorboards.  Remus panicked.  The screaming.  The crying.  Regulus getting his skin cut into.

“But James took me in,” Regulus goes on.  “And Lily.  And Euphemia.  And Monty.  They didn’t even hesitate.  They brought me to Potter Manor.  Their home.  The one Fleamont and Euphemia built.  The one they’d lived in since before James could walk.”

His voice is fraying now.  It’s practically splitting down the middle.  His composure is unspooling with every word.

“They gave me everything.  A bed.  Safety.  A chance to undo what I’d done.”

Regulus swallows hard.  His chest is rising too fast.  His hands still grip the bars like they’re the only thing anchoring him to the world.

“They shared grief with me.  They let me mourn people who weren’t even mine to lose.  They treated me like—”

He chokes.

Sirius watches it catch in his throat.  A word too painful to speak.

Regulus exhales it anyway.

“—like family.”

And then, something shifts.  The grief doesn’t disappear.  It ignites.  What replaces it isn’t desperation or fear.

It’s fury.

Not the selfish kind.  Not the lashing-out kind.

The kind that comes from guilt so deep it turns to fire.

“And I warned them not to keep me there,” Regulus says, louder now.  “I told them I was a risk.  That I wasn’t good like them.  That Voldemort wouldn’t let me live, and anyone near me would burn.”

His voice breaks—but only for a moment.

“James said—”

His voice catches again.  Softer this time.

“—that I was stuck with them whether I liked it or not.”

Sirius presses a hand over his mouth.

There’s nothing he can say.  Nothing that wouldn’t shatter under the weight of what Regulus just gave them.  This whole room…no, this whole world just heard it.

It’s not a defense.

A memory.  A confession.  A grief that refuses to apologize for surviving.

“And you—”

The voice tears through the room.  Sudden and sharp.

Regulus is pointing now, hand jerking forward so hard the chains rattle against the bars.  He looks like he’s shaking from the inside out.  Like fury is all that’s keeping him upright.

“You dare stand there and say I brought the fire to their door?”  His teeth are clenched, the words bitten off like curses.  “That I used them?”

The room is dead silent.  No one dares move.

Sirius can’t move.

Regulus’ chest heaves and it’s like something’s breaking open beneath his skin.  Not just anger—pain.  There is so much of it.  So tightly packed that it can only come out in pieces.

“They knew the risks,” Regulus snarls.  “They chose to love me anyway.  And I would’ve died a hundred times over to protect that house…those people—”

His voice cracks.  A tremor runs through him.

He breathes in, shakily.  Again.  And when he speaks this time it’s lower.

Raw.

“You don’t understand,” he says, and it’s no longer for Crouch.  It’s for the room.  For anyone still listening.  “You don’t know what it means to find a home when you were raised in a cage.”

Sirius feels that like a punch to the ribs.

“You don’t understand what it means to lose it and know it’s your fault.  Even when it’s not.”  Regulus swallows hard.  “So don’t stand there and rewrite my grief into malice just because it fits your fucking agenda.”

That word echoes.  No one flinches.

They’re too stunned.

Regulus grips the bars again, head bowed.  He’s breathing hard now.  When he lifts it, his voice is quiet.  Steady in a terrifying way.

“I didn’t destroy Potter Manor,” he says.  “Voldemort did.”

Another pause.  His eyes scan the room.  They’re less defiant now.  More hollow.  Like he’s looking for someone—anyone—who’ll say they believe him.

“I was just the reason he looked.”

The guilt in that single sentence cleaves Sirius in half.

“I tracked down Horcruxes,” Regulus says, like he’s listing facts now, not memories.  “I hunted pieces of his soul before anyone even knew what they were.  I found the locket.  I took it.  I drank that potion myself.”

His voice dips.  It is rough as stone.

“It almost killed me.”

He stops.  Swallows again.  His throat moves like it hurts.

“And when I came back,” he says, barely above a whisper, “I didn’t run.  I didn’t hide.  I fought.  I kept going.  I helped destroy the rest of them.  I stood with the people I used to call enemies.”

A pause.

“I killed Voldemort.”

It lands with the weight of prophecy.  Or penance.

Regulus looks down.

His next words barely make it out.

“I almost died over and over again…trying to fix what I broke.”

Sirius doesn’t realize his hands are shaking until he looks down, hearing a strange noise.  His own breathing.

When Regulus finally lifts his head, his eyes are burning.  With grief.  With fury.  With the hollow ache of someone who gave everything and still fears it wasn’t enough.

“So tell me,” he says, his voice hoarse.

“Why isn’t that enough?”

“Mr. Black,” Crouch snaps, already stiff with indignation, “as you know, this court adheres to strict protocols regarding floor time.  You were not recognized.  I implore the magical stenographer to strike the entirety of that outburst from the record—”

Regulus doesn’t even hesitate.

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

The room jolts.  Even Sirius flinches.  Not because of the words—Regulus has spat worse in the past—but because of the tone.

There’s no fear in it.

There’s nothing left to lose.

“You can erase it from the record if it makes you feel better,” Regulus says, voice low and shaking with fury, “but you can’t erase the truth.  You can’t erase what I did.  Or what it cost me.  Or them.”

He grips the bars again. His knuckles are white.

“You’ve spent this whole trial pretending context doesn’t matter.  Pretending grief doesn’t matter.  Pretending that change is impossible.  But you don’t get to decide what people remember just because it makes your narrative cleaner.”

The words crack like thunder across the room.  No one breathes.

“Strike my words if you want.  Burn them.  But don’t think for one fucking second you get to rewrite them.”

And for once, Crouch is quiet.

Mary rises slowly once more, her voice like steel in velvet.

“I ask the court to recognize our character witness.”

Crouch doesn’t look at her.  He’s still staring at Regulus, jaw tight.

“This trial is going on for long enough.”

Mary doesn’t flinch.  She doesn’t blink.  “With the press present and this trial under full public scrutiny, I implore the Wizengamot to uphold the full legal process—including every minute Regulus Black is entitled to.”

She lets the words settle.  Then she adds, in a quieter but more lethal tone, “If we begin bending the law just to get home by dinner, then this body is no better than the criminals it tries.”

The silence that follows is not indecision—it’s calculation.  And then;

“Bring him in,” Crouch says tightly.

The doors open.

Mary lifts her chin.  “The defense calls Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore to the stand.”

And somehow, despite everything.  The weight.  The noise.  The war written into every corner of this room.  Dumbledore steps in as if it were any other day.

“Good afternoon,” he says, calm as ever.

Sirius doesn’t know whether to laugh or scream.  Because Dumbledore didn’t help Regulus.  He barely even tried.  And now he’s a character witness?

“Headmaster,” Mary says, steady and clear, “please state your name and position for the record.”

Dumbledore inclines his head.  His eyes are twinkling faintly beneath the half-moon spectacles—though not with mirth.  It’s more like memory.

“Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore,” he replies.  “Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—Supreme Mugwump, though I do find the title somewhat theatrical.”

A flicker of discomfort runs through the court.  Small awkward laughs.  That kind of self-deprecation doesn’t work on Crouch.  Sirius knows it.  Dumbledore knows it too.

Mary nods once.  “Did you know Regulus Black prior to the beginning of this war?”

“I did,” Dumbledore says, his voice gentling.  “Not well, I’m afraid.  But I knew him as a student.  Reserved.  Brilliant in runes and theory and excellent in Potions.  He has been one of the only students I have allowed to skip years in terms of instruction.  Truly, if he were to continue into the career of Potions Master, I’m sure Horace Slughorn and I would both give glowing letters of recommendation.  He was capable of seeing magic the way painters see color—instinctively.  He was, as most of you will recall, sorted into Slytherin House.  That in itself was never a disqualifier to me however.”

Sirius watches Regulus in his cage.  Be had since collapsed back onto the floor, the strain of it all too much.  He hasn’t looked up since his outburst.  Just sits there, wrists still bound in iron.  Jaw tight with effort.  Not to speak.  Not to hope.  But Sirius can tell that he is pissed that Dumbledore is here.

Mary asks, “Did you ever work with Mr. Black during the war?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore says, and the word lands with a hush.  “I did.”

Liar.  He left him to deal with it all himself.

He doesn’t embellish.  Doesn’t pause for effect.

“Regulus Black was working under my direction as early as the summer of 1979.  He reached out to me at great personal risk—shortly after Voldemort had taken and harmed his house-elf, Kreacher, which I believe is on the record.”

Perhaps that is true, but Dumbledore is merely stretching the truth.  It’s unfair to Regulus.  It diminishes his impact in the war.  It’s mind boggling that—

This is exact what he wants.

A rustle goes through the gallery.  Skeeter’s quill hasn’t stopped moving since he entered the room.

Dumbledore continues, voice calm but firm.  “He provided vital intelligence.  Helped create false leads to divert Death Eater attention.  And most importantly—he was the first and only person to identify and successfully retrieve one of Voldemort’s Horcruxes alone.”

A stunned stillness.  And then;

“With guidance from me,” Dumbledore says, “he was able to retrieve others as well.”

Crouch’s chair creaks violently.  “That’s hearsay,” he says, sharply.  “There’s no proof.”

Dumbledore doesn’t even blink.

“The proof is in the basin beneath Hogwarts,” he replies evenly.  “And in the fact that Voldemort is dead.  You are free to use my Pensieve if you do not believe me Mr. Crouch.”

His words drop like lead.

Sirius feels something shift.  Not in the room—but in Regulus.  Just barely.  Like a breath he didn’t mean to take.  He’s looking up now, barely unable to hold in the anger he surely feels due to the situation.

“Regulus Black nearly died to take that locket,” Dumbledore says.  “He didn’t do it for glory.  He didn’t do it for redemption.  He did it because he realized that following Voldemort had been a terrible, ruinous mistake.  And when he realized that, he didn’t run.”

He turns toward the jurors now, gaze sharp with memory.

“He turned and walked directly into the fire.”

Sirius doesn’t realize he’s leaning forward until his chest impacts the only thing stopping him from falling onto the floor.

“I do not claim he is blameless,” Dumbledore adds.  “But I tell you this now, before all gathered, and under oath: the war might not have ended without him.”

The silence that follows isn’t reverent.

It’s reckoning.

“Thank you, Headmaster,” Mary says, and Dumbledore nods once.  He steps away with the weight of history in his wake.

The room feels warmer.

Mary remains still for a moment.  Then steps forward.  Not grandly.  Not theatrically.  Just enough to let the air settle around her.

“Members of the Wizengamot,” she begins, her voice sure.  “You’ve heard the evidence.  You’ve heard the testimony.  You’ve heard Albus Dumbledore���one of the few people in this world whom even this body trusts to tell the truth, no matter how inconvenient it may be.”

She doesn’t raise her voice.  Doesn’t need to.

She takes a single pace across the floor.  No dramatic turn.  Just focus.

“You’ve also heard Mr. Crouch argue, again and again, that Regulus Black was old enough to know better.”

Her gaze skims the room.  Lands briefly, steadily, on Crouch.  Then it moves on.

“And maybe he was.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty.  It waits.

“But here’s the thing about war,” she says.  “It takes what you should have known and twists it until you can’t see straight.  It preys on children with last names like Black.  It tells them the only way to survive is to become the very thing we now put on trial.”

It lands in Sirius’s chest like a stone.  He glances at Regulus—but his brother’s face is unreadable.  Not blank.  Just locked.

Mary continues.  Calm.  Razor-sharp.

“And yet—he turned.  He fought.  He gave us Voldemort’s weakness.  He died, nearly, to fix what others taught him to believe.”

Her voice softens, but doesn’t waver.

“And the people who took him in—the Potters, whom Mr. Crouch claims were used—they don’t see a manipulator.  They see a man who changed. A man who chose to be better, again and again, even when it hurt.”

Sirius swallows.  Hard.

“I won’t stand here and claim Regulus Black was perfect,” Mary says.  “He wasn’t.”

She lets that hang.  Doesn’t rush to fill the silence.

“But if we’ve reached the point where a man can help kill a tyrant and still not be seen as redeemable,” she says.  It’s quiet but unshakable, “then we aren’t a justice system—we’re a graveyard with better branding.”

The courtroom doesn’t breathe.

Mary nods once.  A clean, finished motion.

“We rest our case.”

Crouch clears his throat, clipped and cold.  “We will now put the matter to vote.”

He doesn’t look at anyone when he says it.  Just stares straight ahead like the verdict’s already burned into his mind.  Regulus shakily stands up once more, staring at the jury.  He’s still shaking.  Still looks awful.

“All members of the Wizengamot present will raise their hand if they believe the accused—Regulus Arcturus Black—should face punishment for his former allegiance to Lord Voldemort.”

A silence falls so complete it hums.  One heartbeat.  Then two.

Crouch raises his hand.

The motion is deliberate.  Precise.  The kind of gesture that says he already know he’s right.

Next to him, a rustle too bright for the room—Dolores Umbridge with a pink cloak twitching like something self-satisfied and venomous.  Her hand lifts slowly.  Her smile is sugar and spite.  Pretty as poison.

And that’s it.

No one else moves.

Not a single hand.

Some members sit like carved statues.  Others lower their eyes.  Not in guilt, maybe, but in something close.  One old witch at the edge of the bench has already dropped her hand before it ever left her lap.  A young wizard near her shakes his head once, quiet, as if deciding something final.

The vote is clear.  Not just a win.  A reckoning.

Crouch speaks again.  His voice is sharp, but the force behind it is thin—like something fraying at the edge.

“Then by the authority of this court, the Wizengamot finds Regulus Arcturus Black—”

He stops.  Just for a breath.  Just long enough to betray the effort it costs him to say the words.

“—not guilty.”

The room doesn’t cheer.

There’s no explosion.  No triumph.

It just…exhales.

Like the walls themselves had been holding their breath.

Like someone released a tension spell no one realized had been cast.

Regulus doesn’t move.

Not at first.

Then—slowly—his shoulders lower.  Not in victory.  Not even in relief.

Something quieter.

Like surrender.  Like he’s still waiting to see if the floor falls out from under him.

Mary steps forward.  Her voice is soft and careful.  “You’re free, Reg.”

And that’s when he collapses.

Not dramatically.  Not loudly.  Just—folds in on himself, all at once.  Like the moment unspools and his body remembers that it wasn’t meant to stand this long.

Sirius is already moving.  Doesn’t remember getting to his feet.  Doesn’t remember jumping over the wall.  Doesn’t remember the yells of protest from Crouch.  Doesn’t care how fast he crosses the floor.  Just gets to the bars, gets a hand on Regulus’ arm through them, voice low and steady;

“I’ve got you.”  He whispers out.  “Someone get him out of this damned cage already!”

And for once, Regulus doesn’t flinch.

✧˚ · .

The Knight Bus smells like piss and wet socks, and Sirius can’t stop staring at Regulus.

He’s curled up across from him, his limbs drawn tight.  Like he’s still trying to protect something.  Not from Sirius—he doesn’t think—but from everything else.  The noise.  The light.  The movement.  The world.  Even with Sirius’ jacket draped over his frame, he’s still shaking.  Not shivering.  Shaking.  Like his body hasn’t quite realized it’s not in a cell anymore.

His hair’s been shaved down to an ugly degree—jail regulation, probably—and his skin looks grey under the flickering lamps.  Sirius tries not to look at the way his collarbones jut like they’re trying to pierce through.  The way his wrists look too thin to hold a wand.  There’s a cuff-shaped bruise on one of them.  Faded, but still there.

Sirius clutches the edge of the mattress he’s sitting on and forces his mouth shut before something ugly spills out.  He hasn’t figured out who to blame yet.

They hit a cobblestone street and the entire bus jolts.  Regulus gasps—quiet, but sharp—and folds in tighter.

“Hey,” Sirius says, his voice low.  “It’s alright.  Just the turn.”

Regulus doesn’t answer.  His gaze is fixed on the floor.  Wide-eyed.  Hollow.  Like he’s expecting it to open up and swallow him.

“We’re almost there,” Sirius tries again.  “Half an hour tops.  I made sure it’d drop us right at the gate.”

Still nothing.  Just that same eerie stillness.  The kind Sirius used to mistake for poise when they were kids.  Now he sees it for what it is: survival instinct.

He runs a hand through his hair.  “You can lie down, you know.  The bed won’t vanish.  It’s not Azkaban.”

Regulus flinches at the word.

Sirius instantly regrets it.  “Shit. Sorry.”

A long silence stretches between them.  Outside, lampposts whip by in smears of yellow light.  Rain spits against the glass like it’s trying to claw its way in.  Regulus finally shifts—just a little—and rasps, “I’m fine.”

He’s not.  But Sirius doesn’t call him on it.

Instead he says, “You look like death.”

Regulus exhales through his nose.  Not quite a laugh.  Not quite anything.  “Good.”

Sirius lets his head fall back against the wall.  “You’re a nightmare.”

“You’re the one who picked me up.”

“You collapsed halfway through the courtroom, Regulus. They had to carry you out.  You couldn’t even stand when I brought you in here.”

“I didn’t think I’d win,” Regulus says flatly.  Truthfully.

Sirius snaps his head back to look at him.

“I didn’t ask to be saved,” Regulus murmurs.  “I was ready for whatever they gave me.”

Sirius stares. “You think you deserved it.”

Regulus finally looks at him—really looks—and Sirius hates how familiar his expression is.  The old quiet defiance, frayed now and worn to the bone.  “I think I survived when better people didn’t.”

“Well,” Sirius mutters, “I don’t remember asking you to turn your death into a fucking apology.”

Regulus doesn’t respond.  His breathing is thin and shallow, his shoulders too narrow under the jacket.  Sirius remembers when he was twelve and always in pressed robes, memorizing his lines, keeping his mouth shut.  Now he looks like he’s been scraped out and stitched back together badly.

Sirius looks away first.  He can’t bear it.

“Do you think Lupin would be willing to help me with something?”

The words came out too quiet at first, nearly swallowed by the screech of the Knight Bus shifting violently around another corner.  Sirius grips the bed to keep his balance, his jaw tense.  The lamps overhead buzz like they are holding in a scream or two.  The floor shudders beneath every sharp swerve.

He turns back toward Regulus, squinting.  “With what?”

Regulus hands are wrapped tight around his elbows, eyes on the floor like it might open and swallow him whole.  The yellow light from the windows catch the edges of his face, making his expression look even more brittle than usual.

“I assume,” Regulus says carefully, like he is measuring each syllable, “he’s more knowledgeable on…pain.  I don’t know how to word that better.”

The bus lurches, and Sirius catches himself against a brass pole.  He furrows his brow.  “Pain?”

Regulus’ jaw twitches.  “My back,” he says after a moment.  “I don’t know what’s wrong with it.”

Sirius stares.  His stomach turns—not from the bus this time.  “They didn’t heal you when you were in there?”

Regulus shakes his head.  A stiff, miserable motion.  No defensiveness.  No explanation.  Just resignation.

Sirius’ pulse thuds in his ears.  For a moment he doesn’t say anything, just looks at him.  Really looks at him.  The hunched shoulders.  The way Regulus winces slightly every time the bus hits a bump.  Something cold and bright twists in his chest.

He forces his voice to stay level.  “Yeah,” he says, “I’ll talk to Remus about it.  He knows what to do for that sort of thing.  Ways to manage it.”

Regulus nods, small and slow.  His fingers are digging into his arms like he doesn’t know he is doing it.

Sirius looks away once more, jaw clenched.  He is trying to stop the heat rising in his throat.  There is a lot he wants to say, and none of it will come out right. 

The bus swerves again. They pass through something—maybe a lorry—and Regulus twitches.  His hand darts up to clutch at the mattress.  Sirius watches the way his fingers tremble.  Not from fear.  From damage.

“They’ve got a room ready.  Lily thought it would be best to give you an option since you might not want to share a bed,” Sirius says quietly.  “You’ll be safe.  You can sleep for a week straight if you want.”

Regulus doesn’t nod, but something in him eases.  It’s like the words find a place to land.  His eyelids droop, heavy.  He’s crashing hard.  Sirius knows the signs.

He leans forward, elbows on knees.  “You don’t have to talk about it tonight.  Or ever.  But just so we’re clear—I don’t think you owed anyone your death.  Not even yourself.”

Regulus blinks at him slowly, like the sentence takes time to sink in.  Then he closes his eyes.

They ride in silence for a while.  The storm outside picks up, but the inside of the bus feels still.  At least until Regulus starts murmuring.  Not words.  Just breathy fragments.  His fingers twitch against the mattress like he’s counting.

Sirius watches him and clenches his jaw.

It’s not a relief.  Not exactly.  Having Regulus back isn't a perfectly amazing thing.  It’s something stranger.  He doesn’t know how to hold it yet.  Doesn’t know if he wants to.  But when Regulus starts to tip sideways, Sirius moves without thinking—steadying him.  He tucks the jacket tighter, catching Regulus’ head before it hits the frame.  Covertly he pulls a small box out of the pocket of the jacket, not wanting it to get lost.

“You can sleep,” he murmurs.  “You’re out now.  You’re done.”

But Regulus doesn’t hear him.  Or maybe he does.  His body slumps, breath catching once before it evens out.

Sirius stays like that the rest of the ride, guarding the silence.

The rain thickens.  The windows blur until the outside world could be anything.  Countryside.  City.  Sea.  It doesn’t matter.  The Knight Bus charges forward through the dark, and Sirius stays where he is.  Hunched over his brother like he can keep him here just by watching.

Regulus is asleep now.  Or something close to it.  His breathing is shallow, mouth parted just slightly.  There’s a smear of dried blood under one nostril Sirius hadn’t noticed before.  It looks old.  But not old enough.

His hands are still curled and twitching every so often.  Like he’s casting in his dreams.  Or counting.  Or bracing.

Sirius shifts his weight, trying not to jar the mattress.  He pulls the edge of the jacket tighter around Regulus’ shoulders again.  Not because it helps though.  The jacket is too big and Regulus is too cold.  But it’s something to do.  Something to hold onto.

He hadn’t known what he was going to see when they opened those cell doors.  Azkaban eats people.  Everyone knows that.  You go in human.  You come out…if you come out…smaller.  Ragged.  Some version of yourself with the soft parts hollowed out.

But he hadn’t expected this.  Not from Regulus.  Not from the boy who used to walk like he owned the world.

He remembers seeing him at twelve, arguing in clipped Latin with Evan Rosier over wand form.  He remembers his hands steady during dueling practice.  How he never flinched.  Now he can barely sit upright on a moving bed.

Sirius swallows hard.

“Stupid little…,” he mutters, half under his breath.  “What were you thinking?”

Because Regulus had done something good.  Had destroyed something.  Had handed over what was left.  But he did it in silence until it could no longer be contained.  Could all of this have been avoided if Sirius knew from the beginning?

He could have died in that cell and no one would’ve even known why.

Sirius presses the heels of his hands into his eyes.  “You don’t get to do that again,” he mutters, too quiet for Regulus to hear.  “You don’t get to disappear.  I’m not doing this again.”

There’s a hiccup in Regulus’ breath.  Just for a second.  A whimper maybe.  Or a gasp.

Sirius jolts upright, eyes on his face.  “Hey. Reg.  You good?”

No answer.  Regulus doesn’t wake.  But his fingers clench tighter.  Nails against palm.  His whole body tenses.

Sirius leans forward, puts a hand on his shoulder.  Doesn’t squeeze.  He just rests it there, trying to be grounding.  Like Remus does when the nightmares are bad.

“You’re on the Knight Bus,” he says softly, like he’s explaining it to a child.  “It’s loud.  It smells.  Merlin it reeks in here.  And you’re not locked up anymore.  You’re going to be alright.”

Another breath.  Less tight this time.

Sirius exhales.  Lets his hand stay.

They should be getting close now.  The bus is climbing, heading into the hills where the roads get narrow and vanish into trees.  Potter Manor’s behind a whole mess of wards.  Sirius had to bribe the driver and slip him a rune just to make the stop.

He should be thinking about what comes next.  What James is going to say.  What Lily’s face will look like when she sees Regulus like this.  Whether Regulus will even make it through the front door before collapsing again.

But he can’t.  Not yet.

Not while Regulus is right here, trembling in a secondhand jacket.  With ribs that look like they’ll break if he breathes too hard.

Not while his little brother—his brother—lies sleeping beside him like a half-starved ghost.

The bus screeches suddenly as it veers off a gravel road.  Regulus twitches again, eyes fluttering.  And Sirius smooths the jacket down, repeating the words under his breath like a spell;

“You’re out.  You’re safe.  I’ve got you.”

For now it’s true.

The Knight Bus wheezes to a halt at the edge of the wards with the grace of a dying dragon.  The doors creak open, and Sirius lets out a breath that feels like it’s been stuck in his lungs for a month.

He stands first, then reaches for Regulus who’s already trying to push himself upright.

“Whoa—hey,” Sirius mutters, grabbing his elbow.  Regulus sways immediately, knees buckling.

“I’ve got it,” Regulus lies.

“Sure you do.”

Sirius wraps an arm around his waist before he can argue.  He expects Regulus to fight him—ten years ago, even ten months ago, he might’ve.  But now he just leans in quietly, weight heavy but real under Sirius’ hand.  His shoulder blade is sharp against Sirius’ palm.

They step down into the mist.  The air is cool and wet, and the gravel path crunches beneath them.  The rain had stopped, much to Sirius’ appreciation.  Ahead, Potter Manor looms out of the dark like something out of a storybook—tall windows glowing warm gold, the front door framed by climbing ivy, smoke curling from the chimney.  Too perfect.  Too whole.  Too new.

Regulus exhales softly.  “It’s bigger than I remember.”

“You didn’t get to see the plans when they were rebuilding?”

“Wanted to be surprised.”

There’s something new in his voice.  Something tentative and almost bright.  Sirius glances sideways.  Regulus’ lips are parted, eyes lifted.  He’s looking at the lights like they might be real stars.  There’s color in his face now, faint but rising.  Hope, maybe.

It hurts to see.

Sirius steadies him a little tighter.  He has to tell him.  There’s no avoiding it now.  If they bring Harry out before Regulus finds out, it will be much worse.  “You missed Harry’s birth.”

Regulus stops.

His weight shifts just slightly, and Sirius feels it immediately.  He’s still holding him up, but now Regulus is holding something in.

“I know,” he says after a beat.  “I figured.”

Sirius watches him.  “They waited as long as they could.”

“I wasn’t asking them to.”  Regulus lifts his chin.  Brittle.  Like he’s barely holding on but trying to desperately hide it.  “They don’t owe me anything.”

Sirius doesn’t call him on it.  Regulus was always good at hiding the bruise under the words.  But the light’s close enough now that Sirius can see the flicker in his eyes.  Not pain, exactly.  Not jealousy.  Just that same worn ache that never left the manor they were born in.

“They wanted you there.  Lily didn’t even paint those stars you wanted to because she wanted you there to do it,” Sirius says, softer now.  “He’s your family too.”

Regulus doesn’t answer.  Just presses forward, one shaky step after the next until they’re standing at the foot of the stairs.

Sirius knocks.  Three slow taps.  The kind that say don’t panic, we’re not dying, even though that’s what it feels like.

Inside, footsteps.  Fast ones.  A pause.  A latch turns.

The door swings open.

James stands there, wand in one hand.  A tea towel is  slung over his shoulder.  His eyes land on Sirius first, then drop to Regulus.

He goes completely still.

“Hi,” Regulus says, voice hoarse but steady.  “I’m—”

“—home,” James finishes.  Not a question.  Not a smile.  Just that one word, like it’s been waiting in his throat for months.

No one moves for a second.  Not even the wind.

Then Sirius slowly lets go of Regulus’ waist.  He wobbles, but doesn’t fall.

James is still staring.  “You look like shite.”

Regulus gives a tired half-smile.  “You don’t look much better and you weren’t in prison.”

And that—thank Merlin—is enough to break it.

James huffs a laugh, full of something too big to name.  He reaches forward in one fast motion, grabbing Regulus by the face and pulling him into a kiss that’s far too rough for how fragile he looks.  Sirius looks away—pointedly and dramatically—but not before he sees Regulus’ fingers clutch the front of James’ shirt like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.  He will complain about it later.

The front door swings wider.  Light spills out.  Somewhere inside, a voice calls out, “James, who is it—?”

Then Lily appears, and everything tilts again.

Lily reaches the doorway just as James pulls back.  She doesn’t say anything at first—just stares, like she’s trying to make sense of the man standing in front of her.  Then her face folds.  Not in horror or pity, but something close to grief.

“Oh, Regulus,” she breathes, already stepping forward.

Regulus stiffens like he expects to be hit.  Then Lily’s arms are around him—careful but firm, threading under his and pulling him close.  He stands frozen for a second before letting his head tip slightly onto her shoulder.

James shifts next to them, watching both of them like he’s memorizing it.  Then his hand comes up, brushing the back of Regulus’ neck.  It’s small.  Gentle.  Familiar.  And Sirius watches something in Regulus go very, very still.

“We’ve got you,” Lily whispers.  “You’re alright.”

“You’re home,” James says.

Regulus says nothing.

Sirius leans back against a pillar at the entrance, arms crossed.  He’s trying to look casual.  But he’s watching Regulus closely now—closer than before.  At first, it looked like relief.  The silence that overtook him.  Like maybe he was overwhelmed in a good way.

But then he notices how Regulus isn’t blinking.

His eyes are fixed on James’ hands—one still on his neck, the other now resting at his side.  Not looking at James’s face.  Not looking at Lily.  Not reacting to the words.

Just staring.

Sirius straightens.

Lily’s still talking—something soft about tea and blankets, and how Harry’s asleep upstairs, and how they didn’t know if he’d be back tonight or tomorrow, but they’re so glad he’s here.  James adds something about the fireplace being lit, and the room ready, and they can sit down or go to bed or—

Regulus doesn’t move.  He’s breathing, but it’s thin and slow.  Still staring at James’ hand like it’s the only real thing in the world.

Damn it.

Sirius pushes off the pillar and steps forward, cutting between James and Regulus in one clean motion.  His hand finds Regulus’ jaw—not rough.  But not light either.

“Oi,” he says, quiet but sharp.  “Reg.”

No response.

Sirius gently taps his cheek.  “Come on, you’re not in the courtroom anymore.”

That gets a flicker.  A blink.  Regulus’ gaze snaps upward, lands on Sirius’ face—and suddenly he’s back.  Pale, rattled, but present.

“Good,” Sirius mutters.  “There you are.”

James glances between them, alarm dawning on his face.  “What—?”

“He wasn’t hearing you,” Sirius says.  “Wasn’t seeing you either.  Might be too much right now.”

Lily curses under her breath.  “I should’ve thought about that.  I’m sorry—we didn’t realize—”

“It’s alright,” Regulus says automatically.  Voice flat.  Words rehearsed.

“No, it’s not,” James says quietly.  His hand hovers again but doesn’t land.

Regulus looks down.  At his own hands this time.  He clasps them together like they might start shaking again.  He’s still not quite there.  Sirius may have gotten him back out for a second, but it wasn’t enough.

Sirius sighs and rubs a hand through his hair.  “He needs to sit.  And eat something.  And probably sleep for a week.”

“I’m fine,” Regulus says again.

But this time, no one believes him.

Lily steps back just enough to give him space.  “Let’s get inside, yeah?  There’s soup on the stove.  Fire’s going.”

James doesn’t speak.  Just offers his hand again—open, palm up, like he’s asking permission.

Regulus looks at it.

He doesn’t respond.

James doesn’t close the distance quickly.  He steps forward like he’s approaching a frightened animal.  Slow.  Steady.  He keeps his hand outstretched, his expression soft around the edges.

“Reg,” he murmurs, quieter now.  “C’mere.”

Regulus doesn’t move, but his eyes flick toward the offered hand again.  There is something tight winding behind them.  His shoulders rise just slightly, like he’s bracing for weight.

James doesn’t wait.  He slips an arm around him carefully, guiding him in like he’s done it a hundred times.  His other hand settles at the back of Regulus’ neck again—fingertips brushing bare skin, just beneath the edge of his collar.

And Regulus lets him.  Slumps forward into James’ chest with the slack, boneless quality of someone who’s trying to be present but hasn’t quite made it.

James closes his eyes for a beat.

Sirius shifts uncomfortably to the side, arms crossed tighter now.  He watches James’ jaw flex once, a little muscle twitch under the corner of his cheekbone.

“You alright, James?” Sirius asks.

James doesn’t answer right away.  Just exhales through his nose and nods once.

“It’s fine,” he says even though his eyes flick to Lily like he needs her to confirm it.

Lily to her credit, just steps back.  She gives them the space.  Lets this be quiet.  Sirius is sure she wants to be right there, helping Regulus through all of this but it wouldn’t work.  So she waits.

James looks down at the top of Regulus’ head.  His fingers tighten slightly at his nape.

“Regulus?” he says softly.  Then again, “Reg?”

That does it.

Something in the sound of the nickname.  Less formal.  Less careful.  More real.  It pulls Regulus back.

His fingers twitch first.  Then his head shifts just enough that James can catch his eyes.  James tilts his chin up, gentle but insistent.  It forces him to meet his gaze.

“Hey,” James says, and his voice cracks on it.

Regulus blinks.  Once.  Then again, slower.

“…hey,” he whispers.

It’s not much.  Barely a breath.

But his gaze is steady now, focused on James’ face.  His lips twitch, a faint and crooked curve that almost looks like embarrassment.  He looks young, suddenly.  Worn out and undone but young, like the war hadn’t taken everything from them yet.

James presses his forehead briefly to Regulus’.  Just a touch.  No dramatics.  No noise.

Just the shape of something fragile rebuilding itself, one breath at a time.

Sirius looks away, jaw tight.

He should be glad.  He is glad.

But something in his chest won’t settle.

Not yet.

Sirius steps back, out of the warm spill of the doorway light and into the shadows of the porch.  He doesn’t say anything at first—just watches James holding Regulus, murmuring something too soft to catch.  Regulus is still hunched.  Still trembling faintly beneath the jacket Sirius gave him.  He’s upright now and responsive, but there’s a flickering distance behind his eyes that won’t quite leave.

Lily notices him watching.  Slips out after him with a look he recognizes.  One part worry, one part knowing he’s about to say something he can’t quite hold in.  They may have their differences.  They may both be incredibly outspoken in what they believe in.  But they know each other.

She speaks first.

“You’re not wrong.”

Sirius exhales, sharp and quiet.  “I wasn’t gonna say anything.”

“You don’t have to,” she says gently.  “I can see it all over your face.”

He crosses his arms, eyes still on his brother.  “He’s not—he’s not really here, Lily.  You saw it.  That wasn’t just being tired.”

“I know.”

“He was gone.  Staring at James like he was furniture.  Merlin, he only came back when James used a nickname.  And even that isn’t him fully.”

“I know,” she says again, and there’s no edge to it.  Just the calm that used to drive McGonagall mad.

Sirius swallows down the frustration clawing its way into his throat.  “He doesn’t get better just because Mary got him out of a Ministry holding cell and he gets dropped in front of a fireplace.  That’s not how this works.”

Lily nods slowly.  “I know.”

He finally looks at her.  “So what, then?”

“We take it slow,” she says.  “We give him warm meals and quiet days.  We talk when he wants to talk and let him stay quiet when he doesn’t.  We let him rest.  We get him help when he wants it.”

Sirius doesn’t answer.

“And we watch,” she continues, voice softer now.  “Just like you’re doing.  We watch him close, and we keep our wands nearby, and we let him remember he’s not alone.”

Sirius lets out a sharp breath.  “You always have to be the reasonable one, don’t you?”

She smiles.  It’s faint but real.  “One of us has to be.”

Before he can answer, the door creaks open again.

James steps into frame again, careful in the doorway.  He’s got Harry in his arms, wrapped in a blanket.  The baby is wide-eyed and half-awake from the noise.  He says something quietly to Regulus—Sirius doesn’t catch the words, but Regulus goes still again, blinking down at the bundle in James’ arms.

It’s too much.

Sirius backs down the step before he knows he’s doing it.

“I should go,” he mutters.

Lily turns toward him.  “Sirius—”

“I just—” He shakes his head.  “Let them have this.  He doesn’t need me pacing like a dog in the corner.”

Lily’s eyes soften.  “You are allowed to care about him.”

“Yeah.  I just don’t think he knows what to do with that.”

He nods toward Lily one last time, then goes to pull his jacket tighter only to realize Regulus still has it.  He shakes his head, deciding to abandon it.  He heads for the edge of the wards.  Apparition cracks in the air behind him a moment later—just loud enough to make Harry blink.

Back on the doorstep, Regulus doesn’t look up.  He’s staring at the baby, completely frozen still.

Lily lays a hand on his back.  “Come on Reg, let’s get you something to eat.”

He does get up.

Eventually.

. · ˚✧

“You weren’t at King’s Cross,” Sirius said as he stepped into the bedroom, the heavy door creaking just enough to announce him.  He frowned as his eyes adjusted to the dim light.  The curtains were drawn tightly shut, casting the room in a twilight gloom despite the afternoon sun outside.

Regulus sat at his desk, his back straight.  His quill was scratching steadily across parchment.  The quiet, orderly sound was at odds with the noise still ringing in Sirius’ ears from the train ride home.  Laughter.  Chatter.  Trunks slamming shut.  The blur of motion.  All of it gone the moment he’d flooed into the suffocating stillness of Grimmauld Place.

“No…I wasn’t,” Regulus replied without looking up.  His voice was flat and precise—too careful for a ten-year-old.

“Reg.”

“Hmm.”

Sirius stepped closer, his shoes making a soft thud against the worn rug.  He reached out and placed a hand over the parchment, stilling the quill mid-word.  The ink pooled slightly beneath Regulus’ halted stroke.  For a moment, neither of them moved.

Regulus finally lifted his head.

Sirius was startled—not by the familiar sharpness of his brother’s face, but by the purpling bruise blooming across one cheekbone.  It hadn’t been there at Christmas.  It hadn’t been there when they’d said goodbye on the platform.

“Reg, what—?”

“I walked into a wall,” Regulus said quickly.  Far too quickly to be believed.

Sirius narrowed his eyes.  “A wall?”

Regulus nodded once.  Deliberately.  As if the firmness of the gesture could make the lie more believable.  “A wall,” he repeated, eyes flicking away.  Not toward the floor, but toward the door.  Listening.  Measuring.  “I’ve gotten clumsy.  Nothing to worry about.”

There was no clutter in the room.  No childhood mess.  No strewn books or toys.  Just order.  Just silence.  The quill still trembled in Regulus’ fingers, a faint tremor at the tip that didn’t match his calm voice.

Sirius felt something twist in his chest.  It was a slow, aching knot of worry and something colder.  Older.  Something that didn’t belong in either of them.

He didn’t speak.  He just let his hand rest a little longer over the parchment as if that might be enough to hold Regulus in place.  As if it might stop whatever else had already happened.

“Is that why you weren’t at the station?” Sirius asked quietly, still standing by the desk.  His hand had fallen away from the parchment, but the space between them hadn’t softened.  It just changed shape.

Regulus didn’t answer at once.  His fingers moved to straighten the edge of the paper Sirius had touched.  He was smoothing it like a ritual.  Like it needed to be perfect.  He stared down at it.  He wasn’t reading.  Just not looking at his brother.  A refusal.

Then he shook his head, short and precise.  “No.”

Sirius frowned.  Frustration was prickling beneath his skin.  “Then why?”

There was a pause but it was longer this time.  Heavier.  More nuanced.  Regulus’s jaw twitched.  And when he finally answered, his voice was subdued.  “I…Mother isn’t very happy that you were sorted into Gryffindor.”

“That was months ago,” Sirius said, frowning deeper.  “September.”

“I know.”  Regulus nodded slowly, his gaze still fixed somewhere near Sirius’s collarbone.  “But she hasn’t…gotten over it.”

Of course she hadn’t.  Sirius exhaled through his nose, biting down the sharp retort that rose to his tongue.  It would be too loud here.  Too dangerous.

Regulus turned slightly in his chair, facing him more fully now.  His eyes were unreadable.  Tired, maybe.  Or simply practiced at being blank.  Being emotionless.  Being practically perfect in all ways that do not matter.

“They need me to be in Slytherin,” he said.  And though the words were spoken plainly, Sirius heard the weight they carried.  Not want.  Need.

Sirius stepped back.  He folded his arms.  His voice dropped low.  “Cutting me off won’t do that.”

Regulus tilted his head, and for the first time he smiled.  It’s not with amusement, but something faintly bitter.  Definitely old for ten.  “You’d be correct,” he said softly.  “Why do you think I’m talking to you?”

Sirius blinked, throat tight.  The question landed like a stone in still water.  It rippled out in ways he didn’t know how to name yet.

Regulus just looked at him, calm as ever.  A boy already learning how to balance on the knife’s edge between obedience and survival.  But he shouldn’t have to.  Sirius, while consistently harped on by his parents to an absurd degree, had leeway.  He was still the heir.  He wouldn’t have been the first eccentric Black heir to grace the family tree.

But Regulus?  Regulus needed to marry rich.  Regulus needed to find power.  Because while he would have family to support him, the money of the heir would never be his.  The power that came with it would never be within his grasp.

Walburga and Orion Black raised the two boys to address those differences and Sirius hated it.

“Don’t leave me with them…not again,” Regulus said, barely louder than a whisper.  His voice was tight and fraying at the edges.  He twitched, shoulders jerking slightly as though he expected to be struck for speaking.  “They forbade even Kreacher from talking to me.”

Sirius blinked, utterly stunned.  “What?”

“I mucked up a performance at one of their parties…” Regulus’ mouth twisted like he could still taste the shame of it.  “Didn’t play some of the notes the right way.  Didn’t bow at the right time.  It was a mess.”

Sirius stepped forward instinctively, something cold unfurling in his chest . “So they’ve been keeping you here?  Locking you in this bloody house like—”  He broke off.

Regulus nodded once, precise and careful.  His movements were always careful these days.

Sirius’ eyes flicked again to the bruise blooming across his brother’s cheek.  His stomach turned.  “Who did this, then?”

Regulus hesitated.  His mouth opened like he might lie, but then he just lifted one hand and shaped it into an O with his fingers.

Orion.

Sirius felt his heart stutter in his chest.  Not that it was surprising.  But hearing it confirmed—seeing Regulus spell it out like a secret in a house of ghosts—made it feel worse.  More real.

Regulus looked at him steadily, dark eyes too solemn for his age.  “Don’t leave me behind again.”

It was a direct hit.  Sirius sucked in a breath, guilt catching somewhere under his ribs.  He’d gone to Hogwarts and been free for the first time in his life—laughing, pranking, shouting in the corridors—and he hadn’t thought enough about what that freedom had cost his brother.

“You’re starting school in September,” Sirius said, his voice firm.  “You’re stuck with me.  I’m not going anywhere.”

Regulus searched his face like he was testing the words for cracks.  “What if I’m in Slytherin?”

“Then we’ll deal with it together,” Sirius said without missing a beat.  And he meant it.  He felt it settle like armor in his chest.  “House doesn’t matter.  Not to me.”

He grinned then and it was not for show.  It was to make Regulus feel something warm.  Something safe.  Then he dropped down onto the rug, legs crossed.  The floor was cold beneath him, but he didn’t care.

“Do you want to hear about my friends?” he asked, voice lighter now.

Regulus hesitated, then nodded.  Just once.  But it was enough.

So Sirius started talking, filling the space between them with stories of broomsticks and dormitory pranks.  Of James’ terrible handwriting and Remus’ clever spells and Peter’s laugh when he got nervous.  He talked and talked.  And slowly, slowly, Regulus leaned forward in his chair.  The lines in his shoulders eased.  His bruised face was lit by something that looked almost like hope.

✧˚ · .

The door to the flat creaks open, and Sirius steps inside.  The familiar scent of rosemary and garlic already curling through the air.  It’s warm here.  Dim.  Soft-lit.  Cozy in a way that still makes Sirius pause sometimes.  Like he’s not used to this being his.  Even though technically, it began as his and turned into theirs.  He ignores that part.  Because life without Remus would mean a life without light so any time spent in the flat before him was obsolete.

The wards hum behind him as they reseal.  He toes off his boots.  Slow and quiet.  And he heads toward the kitchen.

Remus is at the stove.  His back is turned.  His sleeves are rolled to the elbow.  He is stirring something in a heavy-bottomed pan.  The faint hiss of oil and the click of a wooden spoon are the only sounds.  He hasn’t said anything yet, but Sirius knows he heard him—Remus always knows.

Sirius steps forward.  Wraps his arms around him from behind.

Remus doesn’t startle. He just shifts slightly to the side to make room, letting Sirius press into him. The top of Sirius’ head tucks awkwardly against Remus’ shoulder.  After all, Remus is taller by just enough to be annoying.  And Sirius exhales slowly, tension bleeding out of his shoulders as he sinks in.

Remus stirs with one hand, the other resting over Sirius’ wrist.

“Hey, love,” he says softly.  “How’d it go?”

Sirius closes his eyes.

“Reg is home.”

There’s a pause.  The spoon stops moving.

Remus turns off the burner and sets the pan aside.  Then he reaches down and links their hands properly.  Grounding.

“That’s good,” he says carefully.  “He’s safe?”

Sirius nods against his shoulder.  “Yeah.  For now I think.”

Another pause.

“How’s he doing?”

Sirius huffs a sound that’s not quite a laugh.  “Like someone who spent half a year in prison and doesn’t remember how to live in his own skin.”

Remus presses a kiss to the top of his head.  “You got him back.  That counts for something.”

Sirius swallows.  “He didn’t even say thank you.  To Mary or to me.  She did all the heavy-lifting anyway.”

“Did you expect him to?”

“No,” Sirius admits.  “But it still pissed me off.”

Remus hums, no judgment in it.

They stand there like that for a while—just breathing in each other’s silence.  The smell of food cooling behind them.  The world is soft and distant for the first time all day.

Eventually, Remus turns in Sirius’ arms.  It is just enough to face him.  Their chests bump gently.  Sirius doesn’t let go.

“You hungry?” Remus murmurs, brushing a lock of hair out of Sirius’ face.

Sirius shrugs, gaze dipping to Remus’ collar.  “Not really.”

“You’re eating anyway,” Remus says, voice quiet but firm.  “You didn’t eat before the trial, did you?”

“Didn’t feel like it.”

Remus cups his cheek.  “Now?”

Sirius leans into the touch, eyes closing.  “Only if you sit next to me the whole time.”

A smile tugs at Remus’ mouth.  “I was planning to.”

They settle at the tiny table near the window—two bowls of pasta between them.  There is garlic bread too crispy on the edges, prompting a joke from Sirius about Vampires that is far too awful to think about after the fact.  A bottle of wine they forgot to open until halfway through sits on the table too. Remus eats neatly.  Slowly.  Sirius eats like he forgot what chewing is for, pausing only to refill Remus’ glass or sneak another glance across the table.

It’s peaceful.  Warm.

At one point, Remus nudges a piece of bread toward him and says, “You know, I was ready to hex someone today.  If that trial had gone the wrong way—”

“I know,” Sirius says.  “You always are.”

There’s affection in it, not mockery.  Remus rolls his eyes anyway.

Later, when the dishes are in the sink and the lights are dimmed low, Sirius drags Remus to the couch.  Pulls him down until they’re tangled together in a heap of limbs and blankets.  Remus ends up half on top of him.  His long legs are tucked awkwardly under him, his hand resting over Sirius’ heart.

“Shouldn’t be this tired,” Sirius mumbles, burying his face in Remus’ shirt.  “Didn’t even do anything but watch Mary yell at lawyers.”

“You did something big,” Remus says, thumb rubbing lazy circles into his side.  “You were there for him when it was ready for him to be home.”

Sirius doesn’t answer for a while.  Then—

“I didn’t know if he’d still want a home.”

Remus kisses his hair.

“He walked with you, yeah?” he says softly.  “That’s a start.”

And Sirius—who’s spent half the day holding in his worry like it might tear out of his chest—lets himself believe that.  Just for a little while.

He messes with Remus’ shirt, playing with the hem as if it would give him answers to existence itself.  Above him, Remus has gone quiet.  Not out of discomfort, but the kind of quiet that Sirius knows means content.  His long fingers cradle Sirius’ hair.  It curls around his fingers.  The room’s light hits his skin like candlelight, all golden and unreal.

Sirius looks up at him and thinks, Godric, I want to keep this.

Not the quiet.  Not even the peace.

Him.

He doesn’t say anything.  Of course he doesn’t.  He just watches the curve of Remus’ wrist as he takes new-found targets that just so happen to be the frizzier parts of Sirius’ hair.  Watches the way his mouth quirks up at something in the corner of his mind.  

Sirius leans forward, causing Remus to shift.  They’re sitting now.  A far more comfortable position for Remus, that much Sirius is sure of.  He props his chin in his hand and grins.   “You always make enough to feed a family of six.”

Remus raises an eyebrow.  “You’re not not a bottomless pit.”

“You calling me high maintenance?”

“I’m saying I’ve met starving wolves with more portion control.”

Sirius grins and kicks him lightly.  Remus laughs, grabbing his ankle so that he can stop any more attacks.  It’s the kind of laugh that is low and warm in his chest.  And Sirius feels it echo somewhere inside him, like a spell settling.

He summons the wine glasses to the couch, handing Remus one.  He picks up his glass,  but doesn’t drink it.  Just swirls it around and lets himself pretend, for one unguarded minute, that this could be forever.

The lack of anything physically between them meaning he can reach over and touch him whenever he wants.  And Remus vice-versa.  Remus’ soft sarcasm.  The worn-out flat with its creaky floorboards and crooked blinds.  The pasta.  The wine.  The wine-stained corner of Remus’ mouth.

He could do this every night.  He could come home to this for the rest of his life and not want anything else.

He wants to say it.  Not a proposal.  Not yet—but something like I could love you forever if you let me.  Because Sirius wants to make the proposal perfect.  Because that’s what Remus deserves.  But he’s never known how to say that sort of thing without making it sound like a joke.

So instead, he reaches across the couch and hooks his finger through Remus’.

And Remus looks up, startled for half a second—and then just smiles.  Quiet.  Soft.

“Alright there Padfoot?” he asks.

Sirius nods.

Yeah.  He is.

They don’t rush the evening. There’s no urgency.  No looming deadline.  Just the quiet hush of the flat and the clink of glasses after a meal.  Sirius drags his thumb lazily along Remus’ knuckle where their fingers stay looped.  He doesn’t let go.

Remus finishes his wine and tips his head back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.  “You’re staring.”

“Can’t help it,” Sirius says.  “You’ve got a very symmetrical face.”

“That’s not true.”

“Don’t argue.  I’ve looked at it from every angle.”

Remus snorts and finally opens his eyes.  “You’re hopeless.”

“Hopelessly charming,” Sirius corrects.

He scrunches up his face in response to that one.  Remus stands and starts walking back toward the kitchen, still smiling faintly.  “You did say you’d do the dishes tonight.”

“I did,” Sirius agrees, not moving.

Remus raises an eyebrow.

“I’m savoring the view.”

Another eye roll.  But he walks over behind Sirius anyway, sets the glasses down on a table, and leans down to kiss the top of his head.  Sirius tilts his face up and catches him halfway.  He pulls him in by the collar and kisses him properly.  Soft and slow and slightly wine-warm.

Remus sighs against his mouth.

They don’t talk for a while.  Sirius ends up standing at the sink with his sleeves pushed up and water running warm over his hands.  Remus leans against the counter beside him, drying dishes with a flick of his wand.  He is humming under his breath.

It’s such a normal thing.  Dishes and domesticity and being close enough to touch without needing an excuse.  Sirius never thought he’d live long enough to want something like this.

He watches Remus from the corner of his eye.  Watches bow the light catches in his lashes.  Notices how his hair falls when he tips his head.  Realizes how he hums off-key when he thinks no one’s listening.

And Sirius thinks again, that he could grow old like this.  He could be safe like this.  He could be loved.  Because he is loved.  From the moment of the final party during their fifth year he knew.  From the instant that Remus moved in, he was aware.  Sirius Black knew the second he saw Remus Lupin that his life was utterly fucked.

He says none of it of course.

But once the dishes are done and the lights are off, they’re curled up on the couch again under one of Remus’ ugly knit blankets.  He tucks his head under Remus’ chin again and says quietly, “Thanks for dinner, Rem.”

Remus kisses his temple.  “Anytime.”

And Sirius thinks to himself again that he could definitely stay.  But he knew that already.

Their limbs are tangled, blanket half-slipping to the floor at this point.  Remus has Sirius pulled against his chest, arms wrapped around his waist.  His chin is tucked over his shoulder.  It’s not the most practical position—Sirius is almost sliding off the cushions—but neither of them makes any effort to adjust.  They adjust themselves constantly anyways so it most likely won’t last a few more minutes.

The wireless plays low in the background, some sleepy jazz station with a charmingly awkward host mumbling between songs.  The world feels like it’s dimmed to just this.  Warm fabric.  Slow breathing.  The faint smell of laundry detergent clinging to Remus’ jumper.

Sirius shifts a little.  Enough to slide a hand along Remus’ thigh.   He presses his face into the soft place under Remus’ jaw and breathes.

And then he remembers the ring box.

It’s still in his pocket.  Still tucked into the seam of his trousers.  Small and square and stupidly heavy.

He hasn’t taken it out of his jacket in weeks.  Not since he got it.  Not since he talked himself into the idea with a bravado that felt easier in theory than in practice.  He’s carried it around since the week after seeing Umbridge.  Because the world wasn’t going to wait for them, and a small bit of him feared that there would be obstacles if they waited forever.  But it was there, through hospital waiting rooms and trial paperwork and sleepless nights.  Tucked close like a secret he doesn’t know how to live with yet.  He only took it out in fear of losing it when Regulus borrowed his jacket.

He shifts again, just enough to feel it press into the side of his thigh.  Not enough for Remus to notice.

His chest tightens.

Because he knows.  He knows it’s not just infatuation.  Not just circumstance or comfort or something convenient born from trauma and war and closeness.  They’ve been together for too long.  It’s real.  Remus is real.  The way he laughs.  The way he listens.  The way he always makes sure there’s enough tea in the cupboard and enough silence in the room when Sirius needs it.

He thinks about it sometimes.  How he might do it.  What he’d say.  Whether he’d be stupid and dramatic about it—get down on one knee and fumble it out like some bad romance novel—or whether he’d just slip the ring onto Remus’ finger over dinner one night and let the gesture say everything.

He never lands on an answer.

Because every time he tries, he gets stuck here.  In this exact moment.

Remus’ hand on his back.  The way he murmurs something half-asleep, soft and slurred.  The way Sirius feels like maybe, just maybe, he’s allowed to want a future.

The box stays in his pocket.  Heavy.  Waiting.

Sirius doesn’t say anything.

But he shifts again so he’s facing Remus.  He tucks a lock of hair behind his ear, and kisses him slow and sweet and wordless.  He leans his forehead against Remus’ and closes his eyes.

He’ll wait.  It feels like he is drowning, but he can wait a little longer.

They stay like that for a long time with their faces pressed together.  Their soft breaths syncing under the blanket.  The jazz station crackles on, but neither bothers to change it.  Sirius drifts, half-awake, listening to the rhythm of Remus’ heartbeat.  Feels the steady rise and fall of his chest.

At some point, Remus shifts too, curling one arm under Sirius’ neck and the other draping over his ribs.  Sirius can feel the warmth of him through the thin cotton of his shirt, and it feels like home.

Remus murmurs something unintelligible—half of a joke and half of a question—and squeezes Sirius’ shoulder.  Sirius smiles against his neck and presses a kiss there, light and sleepy.

“’Mus?” he whispers.

“Hmm?” Remus’ voice is soft and dream-thick.

“Why do you always—” Sirius pauses, can’t find the words.  “Why do you always know?”

Remus hums and tugs him closer.  “Know what?”

“That I need you.”

There’s a small silence.  Then Remus breathes out, “Because you do.  Just like how I need you.”

Sirius closes his eyes.  He can feel the ring box in his pocket.  An itch.  A promise.  A question.  But it stays quiet for now.

Instead, he slides his hand through Remus’ hair and presses his lips to that jutting collarbone he loves so much.  “I’m glad,” he whispers.

Remus smiles against him, and they sink into the hush together.  They cut off from the world by warmth, soft fabric, and the simple certainty of each other’s arms.

The world outside their little bubble feels impossibly distant.  The weight of the ring box in Sirius’ pocket is like a quiet drumbeat beneath everything—a reminder of the future he’s honestly quite ready to step into.  But right now, here with Remus, it fades into the background.

Remus shifts slightly, his breath warm against Sirius’ skin.  His fingers trace lazy patterns along the curve of Sirius’ side, light enough to be a whisper but certain enough to ground him.  Sirius lets out a soft sigh, tilting his head back so Remus can press a gentle kiss just under his jaw.

They’re tangled up in one another—legs twisted beneath the blanket.  Arms wrapped around.  Hearts sync in a quiet rhythm.  Sirius feels the steady thump of Remus’ pulse through the thin fabric of his shirt.  Steady and real.

“I never thought I’d be here,” Sirius says softly, voice muffled against Remus’ collarbone.

“Where?” Remus asks, lips brushing over the skin.

“Like this.  Safe.  Wanted.”

Remus pulls back just enough to look at him, eyes searching Sirius’ face in the dim light.  “You’re both.”

Sirius swallows the lump in his throat and leans in to kiss him again.  Slow and deliberate.  It’s the kind of kiss that says everything without words.

For a long moment, they just hold each other.  The kind of holding that doesn’t need to be explained.  The kind that says: You’re home now.

Sirius’ hand slides up to cup the back of Remus’ neck, fingers of one of his hands tangling in the soft curls there.  Remus shivers into his touch, and Sirius smiles.  His heart is pounding.

His fingers brush against the edge of the ring box in his pocket with the other.  The box feels cold and heavy.  A quiet promise tucked close.

He doesn’t move to take it out.  Not yet.

Because right now, all that matters is this.  The warmth.  The quiet.  The steady presence of Remus’ hand resting on his side, anchoring him.

They settle deeper into the couch, limbs entwined, their breaths slow and even.  The night stretches ahead, soft and unbroken.

And Sirius lets himself believe that maybe, just maybe, this is exactly where he’s meant to be.  He knew he was never meant to be the heir, but this just solidifies it.

The night feels impossibly still, wrapped around them like a secret.  Remus is resting against Sirius, breathing soft and steady.  His eyes closed in sleep.  The ring box is heavy in Sirius’ pocket, the weight suddenly unbearable—like it’s urging him to stop waiting.  To say the words that have been on his tongue for weeks.

Sirius slides a hand out, fingers curling carefully around the small box.  His heart is hammering, loud in his ears.  But his voice is barely a whisper when he says, “’Mus…”

Remus stirs, blinking up at him, sleepy and soft.

Sirius swallows hard, lifting the box out slowly.  The wood is cold and real in his palm.  He takes a deep breath, the words tumbling out before he can second-guess himself.

“I don’t want to wait anymore.  I don’t want to waste another day wondering if you’ll say yes.  I don’t want to have to continuously watch the news, terrified that some toad woman is going to try and make marrying you illegal just because you’re a werewolf.  I want to spend my life with you.  I want to be the one you come home to.  The one who holds you when things get hard, and the one who makes you laugh when you need it most.”

His hand is shaking just a little as he flips the lid open, revealing the simple, shining band inside.  Basically a good chunk out of his inheritance.  He could’ve asked Regulus.  Figured out a way in the Black vault.  But no, he wanted to use his money.

“Remus Lupin…will you marry me?”

The room feels impossibly quiet, every breath held between them.

Remus blinks, fully awake now.  His eyes are wide and shining.  Then, Sirius is greeted with the softest, happiest smile breaking across his face.

“Yes,” he whispers.

And Sirius feels like he’s finally home.

Remus’s smile is slow to form.  Delicate.  Like something precious unfolding in the dark.  Then, without warning, he leans forward and presses a soft, trembling kiss to Sirius’s lips.  It’s light and almost hesitant, but full of everything he’s feeling.  Relief.  Joy.  Disbelief.

Sirius melts into the kiss, heart pounding so hard he’s sure Remus can hear it.  When they finally pull apart, gasping for air, Sirius chases after Remus’s face.  His own still trembling with the weight of the moment.

And then, suddenly, Remus laughs.

It’s a light, breathless sound.  Unexpected  and warm.  And it makes Sirius blink in confusion.  “What—what’s so funny?” he asks, voice thick with disbelief and hope.

Remus grins, a mischievous sparkle lighting up his tired eyes.  “You should’ve seen your face,” he says, shaking his head like it’s the best joke he’s heard all day.

Sirius frowns, unsure whether to be annoyed or amused.  “I’m serious, ’Mus.”

“So am I,” Remus replies.  Then, without a word, he stands up slowly.  His joints pop softly in the quiet room as he stretches out the stiffness from the day.

Sirius watches him, heart still thudding, as Remus pads over to the nearby cabinet.  The soft shuffle of his footsteps on the floor sounds impossibly loud in the stillness.

Then Remus opens a drawer and pulls out another small box.  Sirius’s eyes widen.

“You—” he begins, voice catching.

Remus holds up the box with a teasing smile.  “I was going to wait, honestly.  But now that you’ve gone and done it, I guess I don’t have a choice.  Reg helped me pick this out right before those three moved out.  Paid for it too, the bastard.”

Sirius’s breath hitches as Remus flips the lid open, revealing a ring.  It’s simple and elegant and far more expensive than Sirius’.  It has a tiny engraving along the band.  The metal catches the dim light, sparkling softly.

“I wanted to ask you first, but I was scared,” Remus admits quietly, stepping back toward Sirius.  “Scared you might say no.  Scared I’d ruin everything.”

Sirius shakes his head, heart swelling with love and disbelief.  “You could never ruin anything, ’Mus.”

Remus kneels suddenly, catching Sirius completely off guard.  Well, as good as he can.  It’s clumsy and uncoordinated but wonderfully him.  “Sirius Black, will you marry me?”

Sirius feels tears prick the back of his eyes.  He laughs, shaky and breathless, before nodding hard.  “Yes.  Yes, of course.”

Remus slides the ring onto Sirius’s finger with a careful tenderness, then pulls him up into a fierce hug.  They laugh together, tears and joy mingling.  The weight of the moment settles around them like a warm blanket.

For the first time in a long while, Sirius knows exactly where he belongs.

17 << >> 19

masterlist

[kckt88]

Gēlenka Zaldrīzes I

Summary:

Events of Dynasty through Aemond's POV.

(There will be a part II)

Warning(s): Pain, Eye Injury, Suffering, Medical Procedures, Non-Con Encounter & the Aftermath, Swearing, Kissing, Falling in Love, P in V Sex, Lactation Kink, Violence, Child Loss, Suicide Attempt, Fear, Arguments, Death.

Word Count: 5720.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

Author Note: A companion piece to Courtship/Wedding & Consummation/Bath Time/Arrival(s)/Mother & Father/Petitions & Final Tributes/The Hand, The King & The Dragon/Dragonstone/Blood & Cheese/A Time for Grief/ Rooks Rest & the Silver King/The Gullet/Taking of a City/Harrenhal and the Rivers/The Gods Eye/The Fallen Queen/New Beginnings/Ravenous/Don't Leave Me & Another Plane of Existence.

But can be read as a one-shot.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated.

Aemond was laid on his bed weeping, the left side of his face covered by thick bandages.

He didn’t know how much more of this he could take. As if losing his eye wasn’t bad enough, now he had to suffer through the agony of the Maester’s slicing through his eye lid.

The Maester on Driftmark had stitched the wound as best he could, but soon after he’d arrived back at the Red Keep an infection had set in and he’d needed urgent treatment.

Not even milk of the poppy was enough to dull the searing pain he’d felt as the Maester’s blade sliced through his stitches.

It took three of them to hold him down as they went about their business.

His mother had hide her face behind her hands as he begged and pleaded for the pain to stop.

"Prince Aemond's recovery will be long and painful, Your Grace”.

"How many more procedures must he endure?" asked Alicent.

"I'm afraid I cannot say Your Grace. Only time will tell".

Alicent took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

"Come now Alicent, the boy needs to rest" urged Otto.

Aemond prayed to the seven that he would not have to endure that agony again.

Unfortunately, the gods were unwilling to answer his prayers as he suffered through another two agonizing procedures before the Maester’s were satisfied.

The scar that bisected his face was red and angry and would forever mar his features, the left side of his face disfigured.

His upper and lower eyelids had been removed completely and the empty hollow where his eye had once been was now a grotesque mess and Aemond couldn’t bring himself to face his reflection.

The eyepatch he had started to wear would often irritate the still healing scar and he would often hide in his chambers or the library to avoid the pitying and horrified stares of Lord and Ladies of the court.

Aemond also had to spend hours relearning the most basic of things because without his eye his depth perception had changed.

He was completely blind to things from the left and would often have to turn his body to see what was going on which frustrated him to no end.

But he was a dragon and he would endure his fate.

On his thirteenth name day, his brother Aegon had dragged him to one of his favourite whore houses on the streets of silk to ensure he was properly educated in the art of pleasing women.

“Come now brother, your betrothed will thank me for this on your wedding night” yelled Aegon gleefully as he pushed Aemond towards a lady much older in her years than he.

The entire act made Aemond feel sick to his stomach, the whore wouldn’t stop touching him and making exaggerated sounds as she moved on top of him.

Afterwards, Aemond ran back to the Red Keep and locked himself in his chambers, it made him feel dirty, and disgusting, he wanted to wait until he was married before he lay with a woman.

Aemond thought of his betrothed and wept, she had been so kind to him when she had lived in the Red Keep, the innocent memories of their moments hiding together in the gardens after she had stolen sweets and honey cakes from the kitchens, were now tainted by the touch of a whore.

Aemond had suffered much at the hands of his brother and those bastard strong boys, but Vaera wasn’t like that. She was kind and generous. She was also one of most beautiful creatures that Aemond had ever seen in his whole life.

The day she’d left the Red Keep and moved to Dragonstone made Aemond feel like a huge hole had been punched through his chest.

His only friend had been taken away from him and now because of his brother he was tainted.

That night as he bathed Aemond scrubbed his skin raw, he wanted to erase every single touch and trace of that old whore and he vowed never to return to the street of silk again.

Aegon of course tried to tempt him numerous times to return to the whore that took his innocence, but he flat out refused and would often hide out in his chambers, until his stupid twat of a brother got the message and left him alone.

Afterwards, Aemond dedicated himself to reading history and philosophy, he trained daily with the sword, and he spent hours flying with Vhagar soaring amongst the clouds.

On his fourteenth name day, his mother had gifted him a sapphire to replace his missing eye.

The stone felt foreign and heavy as it was fitted into the empty socket, but it filled the void and gave the socket some shape and structure.

Of course, he kept it hidden beneath the eye patch, but it made him feel more complete, that it wasn’t just an empty space.

He only had a year before his betrothed would return to the Red Keep and he was determined to be a man worthy of her.

Aegon soured at Aemond’s dedication to his training, but his hard work was beginning to pay off, he grew stronger, more focused, and deadly. His precision with the sword was unmatched.

His brother wasted himself with whores and wine, yet Aemond remained steadfast in his determination to be the best.

Aemond was the luckiest man in the seven kingdoms.

Most people get married for political gain, or even wealth. Very few got to marry for love, yet he was one of the lucky ones and despite only just getting married it was already filled with enough love to burst the seams.

His sweet wife was perfection in human form, she never looked upon him with scorn or disgust, she treated him with respect and reverence, even when he’d confessed to his misadventure on the streets of silk.

She was everything he’d ever wanted in a wife.

But she wasn’t without her own struggles, and when he heard of how lonely she’d been on Dragonstone, his heart broke.

She’d also suffered at the hands of her bastard brothers, and it made his blood boil to know that his sweet girl had been made to feel like she less than nothing.

As long as he was breathing, he would never make her feel like that.

He desired her, worshipped her, and would love her until the end of his days and beyond.

After his embarrassing effort during their initial consummation, Aemond was determined that his wife would enjoy the pleasures of the marriage bed.

After the Maester had departed, he reached for her again.

“That was for duty. Now this is for us. I wish to have you again my sweet wife”.

His hunger for her had been awakened that night, and he was not satisfied until he’d filled her with his seed another three times.

They emerged from their shared chambers very late the next day.

He thought his encounter on the streets of silk would forever haunt him, but what he experienced wasn't love. It was seedy and nothing compared to what he had with his wife and when they lay together, it was pleasurable and made him want her all the more.

He would bed his wife at every given opportunity, sometimes he would catch her in the corridor and take her in secluded alcoves, he would even take her against the bookshelves in the library.

Even the secluded island near the stepstones, they would fly their dragons there and Aemond loved laying in the sand as naked as his name day and have Vaera ride him as though he was an unclaimed dragon.

They’d even taken an impromptu trip to the Kingswood and Aemond delighted in his wife’s laughter as he chased her through the trees on horseback. She had looked so beautiful that day, her silver hair wild and untamed, her cheeks-tinged pink. Aemond had to have her.

Needless to say, his mother was not impressed when they both returned to the Red Keep, looking thoroughly dishevelled. Aemond had torn Vaera’s dress in his haste to remove it, and it was covered in numerous grass stains. Her silver hair had bits of dried grass and dead twigs stuck in it and Aemond’s appearance wasn’t fairing any better, his normally immaculate leather tunic and breeches were splattered with mud and his hair was knotted and unkempt.

Aegon found the entire situation hilarious and almost died laughing when Alicent scolded both Aemond and Vaera for being depraved and warned them both that laying with one another should be confined to the privacy of their bed chambers.

They were ordered to bathe and wash away the filth of their indulgence, and never act like that again. Did they listen? Of course, they didn’t. If anything, it made Aemond more determined to indulge in the pleasures of his wife’s soft flesh.

The day his wife had given birth to his sons was perhaps one of the best days of his existence.

Aemon and Rhaegar, his little dragons.

Becoming a father terrified Aemond, his own father wasn’t exactly a shining example of what a father should be, and he was worried that he wouldn’t know what to do or even how to love his children.

But the moment he held those tiny babes in his arms, he knew he would burn the world for them.

The need to protect these precious little dragons washed over him like a wave, he wanted to be involved with every single aspect of their upbringing.

He would read to them and snuggle them in his arms as they slept.

He would help to bathe them and changed their soiled cloths, his brother teased him and even his own grandsire told him that such things were not befitting of a Prince, but he didn’t care.

He was determined that his children would know his love, and they would grow up knowing that he loved their mother with every fibre of his being.

Aemond would wake in the night and attend to one of the twins as his wife took turns feeding them.

He was in awe of her, it was customary for royal babes to have a wet nurse, but Vaera refused. She insisted on providing their sons with her own mothers milk, and of course Aemond insisted on trying it for himself when his wife welcomed him within her body once again.

He took his time worshipping her mother’s body, her soft curves, and swollen breasts. He would run his fingers slowly along her rosy nipples and delight in her soft gasps and moans as she found her pleasure with him.

The mere thought of his wife moaning his name as he made sweet love to her made his cock harden in his breeches.

She was his heart, his soul, and his reason for existence. Never in his life did he ever think he would ever be so lucky as to call her his wife.

Aegon would often mock him for being soppy and cuntstruck, but he didn’t care. Nothing in the world mattered except his sweet wife and their little dragons.

Speaking of little dragons, the day Aemon and Rhaegar’s eggs hatched was probably one of the proudest moments of his life. The hatchlings Brightfyre and Valaerys were welcomed with open wings so to speak.

Vaera was determined that the tiny dragons would not be chained in the dragon pit and despite some initial fears, she got her wish.

Aemond once asked her why she was so openly opposed to the dragon pit, and she told him that dragons were far more intelligent that people gave them credit for, and they were magnificent creatures that didn’t deserve to be locked up. She was also of the belief that locking them away was stunting their growth.

Vhagar had spent most of her life free of chains and she was the largest dragon in the world, even Cannibal was on the larger side. No other dragons could even compete with the sheer size of Vhagar and Cannibal, so Aemond decided there had to be some credibility to what Vaera was saying. But the council were unwilling to make the Dragon Pit open access. Which broke his wife’s heart, but Aemond was determined that one day he would see her wish granted.

The audacity of his bitch sister to think she can summon his wife and their children to her side at a moment’s notice.

Rhaenyra hadn’t bothered with her own daughter since her wedding day, and she certainly hadn’t come to visit her grandchildren since their birth almost two years prior.

Now because her darling strong bastard was on the cusp of losing his false birthright, she could drag herself to Kings Landing to defend him.

The look on her face when Vaera refused her and stood beside him in the throne room, made Aemond feel all giddy inside, her own actions caused the mess she was in, and it couldn’t have been any sweeter.

Well, it could have been if Vaemond had been successful in seizing the Driftwood Throne, but his father rosed himself from his sick bed and defended the claim of his favourite child and her bastard boy.

The moment his rotting father had lumbered his way to the Iron Throne, Aemond knew it was over. Even when Princess Rhaenys announced the betrothals of her granddaughters to the strong boys, it was done. But Vaemond wouldn’t accept defeat and he lost his head for it.

Daemon swung his sword with precision and ease. Dark Sister sliced through meat and bone like it was nothing, proving to the Lords and Ladies of the realm that were present that he would defend his lady wife and the bastards at all costs.

The family gathering that night was so tense that you could cut the atmosphere with a knife.

Aemond had no desire to break bread with people he considered the enemy.

All he wanted to do was go back to his chambers and fuck his wife into the mattress.

Vaera looked so beautiful that evening. Her supple body covered in the blue silk of her dress and her long silver hair unbound and cascading down her back like a waterfall.

Aemond wanted to bury his hands in his wife’s long tresses as he filled her cunny with his seed.

But alas they both had to sit and maintain the air of decorum and propriety.

Soon the King entered, and everyone rose from their seats as Viserys was carried to the table.

"How good it is to see you all tonight together" wheezed Viserys once everyone was seated.

"Prayer before we begin. May the mother smile down on this gathering with love. May the Smith mend the bonds that have been broken for far too long. And to Vaemond Velaryon, may the gods give him rest”.

"This is a cause for celebration. My grandsons, Jace and Luke, shall marry their cousins, Rhaena and Baela, to further strengthen the bond between our families. A toast to the young princes, and their betrothed" said Viserys.

Aemond felt Vaera’s hand squeeze his thigh under the table, her touch grounding him as his father’s wheezing voice echoed around the dining room.

Aemond hated it, having to sit at the same table as those bastards and play nice.

Of course, Aegon tried to liven things up a little bit, but it didn’t last.

Then Vaera had to leave feast to attend to their son Rhaegar who no doubt wanted one last snuggle before it was time for him to go to sleep.

However, that little strong bastard had the audacity to laugh at him, after everything he’d put him through. All the pain and suffering he’d had to endure.

Sat there smirking and laughing as the roasted pig was placed in front of him.

‘Behold the pink dread’.

“Final tribute. To the health of my nephews. Jace and Luke. Each of them, handsome, wise and strong”

“Aemond” warned Alicent.

“Come, let us drain our cups, to these two strong boys”.

“I dare you to say that again” snarled Jace.

“Why? It was only a compliment; do you not think yourself strong?”.

His mother of course did not take to kindly to his tribute.

Not his fault that his strong nephews were so sensitive.

His mood was rather sour as he marched out of the dining room, he needed his wife. To feel her touch, to know she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

“A-Aemond. What’s wrong?” asked Vaera as he stormed into their chambers.

“Tell me you love me” muttered Aemond as he pulled his wife to him.

“I love you”.

“Tell me you need me” begged Aemond as he lowered his head and pressed his face into Vaera’s shoulder.

“I need you”.

“Tell me you want me” whispered Aemond placing gentle kisses along the column of Vaera’s neck.

“I want you”.

“Hm” muttered Aemond as his fingers began untying the laces of her shift.

“I-I haven’t bathed tonight” said Vaera shivering as the shift slipped from her body, leaving her standing naked.

“I don’t care. I need you. Please” muttered Aemond as he began pulling off his own clothes.

Vaera nodded wordlessly as Aemond kissed her, walking them backwards towards the bed.

His father was dead and now his wastrel of a brother was King.

Perhaps what angered him the most was the doubts regarding his wife’s loyalty.

Sure, she was Rhaenyra’s daughter, but she loyal to him and their sons. He never had any doubt when it came to his wife.

His grandsire had travelled to Dragonstone to deliver terms to his half-sister, but he clearly didn’t trust her so now he had to fly to Storms End and offer his brother Daeron’s hand in marriage to one of Borros Baratheon’s daughters in exchange for his support.

His mother had foolishly let it slip that Jasper Wyle the preening shit had suggested that their own marriage should be annulled in favour of a more beneficial match.

Of course, he did not take to kindly to hearing the news and had promptly seized Jasper by the collar and threatened to slit his throat if he ever dared to make such a suggestion again.

It was only the intervention of both his mother and Vaera that seem to pacify him.

He didn’t want to leave his wife or their sons, but he had no choice.

He had hoped that his meeting with the Baratheon Lord would go smoothly.

How his hope died when Lucerys Velaryon showed up.

Preening little shit had the audacity to try and petition for Baratheon’s support.

Little Luke almost pissed his pants when he showed him the sapphire that had replaced his eye.

Demanding his eye was a spur of the moment thing, as was chasing him through the stormy skies on the back of Vhagar.

It gave him a sense of satisfaction that now it was Luke who was afraid. That the bastard boy was no longer laughing at him.

He could end it, Vhagar could devour little Lucerys Velaryon, and the debt would be paid. But he couldn’t do that to Vaera, even though she wasn’t particularly close to the boy he was still her brother and killing him would do more harm than good.

So, he let him go.

He watched solemnly as the bastards tiny mouse of a dragon disappeared into the clouds.

Vhagar made her anger known, she had grown bored of chasing the little dragon through the skies and Aemond knew better than to ignore his grumpy old girl.

So, he directed her to return to Kings Landing.

He’d secured an alliance with the Baratheon’s and now all he wanted to do was climb into bed with his wife and sleep.

If the birth of his sons was one of the best days of his existence, then the death of Aemon was the worst.

Nothing could have prepared him for the sight that greeted him that day.

His wife cradling the lifeless body of their son in her arms.

The utter despair and devastation.

His whole world had just collapsed on itself.

“Our boy. They took our boy” wailed Vaera as she clutched Aemon’s body.

Aemond didn’t know what to do. He felt completely useless.

Following Aemon’s death, his wife had completely shut down.

She’d lost herself to her grief and wouldn’t speak to anyone.

The only reaction she had was when Rhaegar was out of her sight, she would scream like a banshee until he was returned to her.

Rhaegar was also suffering in the wake of his twins death. He had nightmares and would only sleep if he was sandwiched between Aemond and Vaera. During the day, he would hover around his mother, clinging to her skirts as she sat staring into space.

 Even though he was grieving for his son and nephew, Aemond had to remain strong, yet inside he was a wreck. He kept waking in the night to ensure that Rhaegar was still breathing, and taking care of Vaera was immensely difficult.

He had to force her to eat and drink, he even had to force her to use the toilet and bathe. It broke his heart to see his once bright wife, withering away into nothing and Helaena wasn’t any better.

It turned out that she had been forced to choose between Jaehaerys and Maelor, and in her desperation she had chosen Maelor only for Blood to slit Jaehaerys’ throat instead and now she couldn’t bring herself to look at any of her children.

The goons who had murdered two innocent children, had been caught and tortured to within an inch of their lives. They revealed that they’d been hired by a whore called Mysaria at the request of Daemon.

'A life for a life'

Jaehaerys for Visenya and Aemon for Lucerys.

It made Aemond feel sick to his stomach that Daemon had arranged for his own grandsons murder, that he’d willingly inflicted that pain upon his own daughter.

Even more so that he was being blamed for the death of Lucerys.

The bastard boy had been alive the last time he'd seen him.

What ever harm had befallen the boy it was nothing to do with him, but people still whispered kinslayer.

The funerals were difficult, his heart had been in his mouth when his sweet Rhaegar requested to say goodbye to his brother.

So, Aemond lifted his son into his arms and took him over to the funeral pyre.

“Geros ilas lēkia” whispered Rhaegar (Goodbye brother).

Aemond squeezed his eye shut at the sound of Rhaegar’s sweet voice.

“Avy jorrāelan” said Rhaegar sweetly (I love you).

Rhaegar suddenly lurched forward and gently placed his stuffed dragon teddy on his brother’s wrapped body.

“So, you’re not alone” muttered Rhaegar as he leaned forward and placed a delicate kiss on his brother’s forehead.

“Come on sweet boy” said Aemond as he carried Rhaegar back to his mother.

“-It’s Princess Vaera. S-She’s going to jump” shouted the young squire as he whirled around and raced out of the council chambers.

“WHAT” shrieked Aemond as he took off running after the squire, ignoring the frantic calls of his mother and brother.

His heart was pounding in his chest as he chased after the squire. Not to their chambers, but to the room where Aemon and Jaehaerys had been killed.

Ser Arryk was hovering near the door softly calling Vaera’s name, seemingly terrified to take another step inside the room.

When he came to a stop at the door, he understood Ser Arryk’s hesitation. 

Vaera was standing at the open window, her hands gripping the frame as she teetered on the edge.

“Issa jorrāelagon” (My love).

“Nyke jaelagon naejot ūndegon zirȳla aril” replied Vaera (I want to see him again).

“Nyke gīmigon ao gaomagon, yn daor raqagon bisa” (I know you do, but not like this).

Vaera shook her head and closed her eyes.

“Kostilus issa jorrāelagon” (Please, my love).

“We’re never going to hear his laugh or see his face again” cried Vaera.

“W-We will. In our hearts”

“He made us so happy. Him and Rhaegar” said Vaera.

“We will talk about him, every single day and we’ll laugh, and we will cry. Vaera, no one will remember Aemon like we do”.

“How do I stop this pain? How do I make it go away” sobbed Vaera as she staggered on the edge of the windowsill.

“We deal with it together”

“I-I just want him back. I want him in my arms” wailed Vaera.

“I know you do. But please Vaera, don’t do this. Think about Rhaegar, he still needs his mother” cried Aemond as he motioned for the Kings guard to stay where they were.

He didn’t want to spook Vaera, she was so close to the edge. One wrong move and she’d either slip or impulsively jump.

The Cannibal and Vhagar were roaring ferociously in the distance.

“I don’t know how to live without Aemon”.

“Please, my love. Do not let me also suffer the agony of losing my wife”

“A-Aemond I-I can’t-“

“You are the love of my life, my reason for existence. If you die. I die. I cannot live without you. Please come away from the ledge. Please don’t-“

“I don’t want to forget him” said Vaera quietly as her body shook.

“We won’t. I promise”

She was so close to the edge, one slip and it was over.

Without skipping a beat, he quickly lurched forward, secured his arms around Vaera’s waist, and yanked her back from the window.

Ever since he’d pulled Vaera back from the window, he and Rhaegar were helping Vaera during her darkest of days. They would often curl up together as a family in their chambers and hold one another until the darkness ebbed.

Even though his ashes had been entered into the great sept. Aemond had a special plaque made in the gardens for Aemon. Despite his desire to be just like his father, Aemon always loved the gardens, especially when he would chase after Rhaegar the pair of them would roll on the grass together giggling.

It gave Vaera a sense of comfort, as she would often spend hours just sitting in front of Aemon’s plaque talking and reading his favourite book.

Her other salvation came in the form of Cannibal. Her fiercely loyal dragon who gracefully took to the skies with his rider and flew for as long as they both needed too. Sometimes Brightfyre and Vhagar would accompany them, the dark blue scales of Aemon’s dragon shimmering in the sunlight as he broke through the clouds, chirping expectantly at Cannibal who had no qualms about keeping his hatchling in line as he would often throw a customary snarl in his direction.

But the war between the Greens and the Blacks still raged.

He didn’t want to leave Vaera and Rhaegar, but he had too.

They had laid a trap at Rooks Rest for the Blacks, and nine days later, Rhaenys Targaryen, and her dragon, Meleys arrived above Rook's Rest to aid Lord Staunton.

Vhagar and Sunfyre engaged Meleys in a combined and coordinated attack, which resulted in the death of Meleys and left Rhaenys and Aegon severely injured.

Rhaenys was sent back to Driftmark to recover from her injuries and Aegon was carried back to Kings Landing atop Vhagar.

The heads of Lord Staunton and Meleys were paraded through the streets of Kings Landing in a show of the Greens victory over the Blacks.

After Rooks Rest, Aegon was far too injured to carry on serving the realm as King, so he was chosen to wear the conquerors crown instead.

He fashioned himself as Prince Regent and the Lords bent their knee to him.

But ever since the crown had touched his head, his wife had grown more distant from him.

His duties as Prince Regent kept him very busy and quite often it was late into the night when he would finally return to his chambers, utterly exhausted and desperate to seek the comfort of his wife.

But she would pull away from him and quite often she would sneak out of bed and sleep in Rhaegar’s chambers.

There were days where she would even look at him, much less speak.

Even his son wouldn’t call for him anymore, it used to be his favourite thing to do. Snuggle under the covers at night-time and read Rhaegar his favourite story, but now he called for his mama instead.

He’d even stopped asking him to take him to see his dragon Valaerys, which was a bitter blow as it was something the two of them liked to do together as father and son.

Just when things couldn’t get any worse, Vaera confronted him in their shared chambers, and they had a huge argument.

She accused him of failing in his duties as a husband and father and threatened to take Rhaegar away from him and fly across the narrow sea.

He was livid. How fucking dare she speak to him like that. He had raged at her for what she’d said but then something crazy took hold of him and he kissed her.

They’d not been intimate in some time and just one touch of her lips upon his had reignited that fire in his blood.

He was an animal, untamed and unleashed. All the pent-up anger and frustration just poured out of him as he brutally fucked his wife. His hips relentlessly pounding against hers as he chased his release.

Gods she felt amazing, her warm, wet heat wrapped around him.

She took everything he gave her, screaming his name as she peaked, her cunny clenching his cock so tight as he spilled his seed into her, he was groaning so loud he was sure the entirety of the Red Keep had heard their coupling.

Afterwards when he saw her tears, he was horrified at what he’d done.

He'd never been so rough with her before and he was scared he'd hurt her.

But his sweet wife reassured him that she wasn’t crying because of what they’d just done, she was crying because of what she’d said, the threat she’d made, she didn’t mean it.

His heart broke because he knew deep down it was his own fault, he’d neglected both her and Rhaegar.

The responsibility of the crown had completely taken over his life.

It had to stop. He couldn’t be without his wife or their son.

He had vowed on their wedding day, to love her forever and by the gods he’d meant it.

“Lord Corlys is back on Driftmark caring for my grandmother. Meleys is dead. We should take the dragons and attack the Velaryon fleet. Destroy the blockade and free the Gullet”.

“It’s too dangerous” replied Otto.

“Dangerous for who exactly? If we destroy the blockade, sea born trade will resume. The people of Kings Landing are starving. We need to act now. Otherwise, you’ll have a riot on your hands” snapped Vaera.

“Your Grace if we-“

“-No. The time for sending letters is over. My love please see reason” urged Vaera.

Aemond knew Vaera was right, the people of Kings Landing were starting to get desperate, crime rates were up, and food was becoming scarcer. It was only a matter of time before everything came to a head.

But the idea of Vaera flying into battle on the back of Cannibal filled Aemond with a sense of dread that was incomprehensible. Aemon’s death was still so fresh, as was Vaera’s attempt to end her own life. He couldn’t lose her. Not now. Not ever.

“I-I will take Vhagar and attack the Velaryon fleet” said Aemond firmly.

“You are the Prince Regent. We cannot allow you to take that risk,” said Otto.

“I will not sit behind the walls of the Red Keep and cower like some frightened dog. Vhagar is more than capable”.

“It’s not about Vhagar, it’s about you. All it takes is one stray arrow and that’s it,” said Criston.

“So, I sit here and do nothing” snarled Aemond.

“I could take Cannibal, he’s-“ said Vaera.

“-NO. You will remain here in the Red Keep with our son” ordered Aemond.

“Cannibal is the second largest dragon in the world. Surely you knew it would come to this. We have dragons, we should use them” said Vaera.

“They have dragons as well or have you forgotten” snapped Aemond.

“Caraxes is at Harrenhal with Daemon, Meleys and Arrax are dead. Syrax, Vermax, Moon Dancer and Storm Cloud are the only dragons on Dragonstone that have riders and even they are no match for Vhagar or Cannibal. This is our best chance”.

“The Princess is right,” said Tyland.

“The answer is still no and that’s final” yelled Aemond slamming his fist into the table.

“Your Grace” replied Vaera, before she stormed out of the council chambers, and slammed the door.

After an hour or so, the council meeting ended and Aemond retreated to his chambers, he hesitated slightly before he took a deep breath and opened the heavy wooden door, fully prepared to deal with his wife’s anger upon his entrance.

Ever since their argument, they had decided to be more honest and open with one another and instead of letting things fester they would talk and make time for one another.

But to his great surprise, he was greeted with a warm smile as Vaera lounged on their bed reading a book.

“Your back early”.

“I decided to end the meeting early” replied Aemond as he took of the conqueror’s crown and placed it on Vaera’s vanity.

“Probably for the best, maybe a good night’s rest will clear the mind” suggested Vaera.

“I-I thought you would be angry with me?”

“Why would I be angry?” asked Vaera cocking her head to the side.

“B-Because I wouldn’t let you take Cannibal to destroy the Velaryon fleet” replied Aemond feeling slightly unnerved at his wife’s rather calm demeanour.

“Your decision came from a place of love. I might not have understood that at the time, but I do now” said Vaera sweetly.

“Hm”

“Come to bed husband” said Vaera as she closed her book and placed it on the bedside table.

Aemond watched as his wife, began untying the laces of her shift. Clearly trying to tempt him in the most delicious of ways.

After a stressful day of endless meetings, he needed his wife. He needed to feel her wet heat wrapped around him. He needed to fuck her into the mattress.

He needed her now.

Aemond tore off his clothes and jumped on top of his wife, his desire for her clouding his mind. All that mattered in that moment was the two of them, writhing together, their bodies joined as one.

Hours later, he was fast asleep. Satisfied beyond all comprehension.

He didn’t notice his wife slipping out their bed and pulling on her riding leathers.

Slumbering sweetly as she snuck from their chambers and headed towards her Cannibal, and under the cover of nightfall they took to the skies and headed for the Gullet.

[putrefacion]

REGARDING THE STATE LUTE WAS IN SHORTLY AFTER HER CREATION; SHE WASN’T CONSCIOUS, BUT SHE WAS ALIVE — TECHNICALLY, BRUTALLY. NOT AWAKE OR AWARE, BUT STILL PRESENT. SIMILAR TO A CORPSE IN THE AFTERMATH OF DEATH, PARTS OF HER WOULD TWITCH, CONVULSE, SPASM; PAIN WOULD SPIKE THROUGH HER SYSTEM, THERE WAS NO NEURAL FRAMEWORK YET IN PLACE TO INTERPRET IT. NO INSTINCTS, NO MEMORY, NO VOICE, NO PERSONALITY; JUST RAW NERVE ENDINGS MISFIRING IN A BODY THAT DIDN’T YET UNDERSTAND IT EXISTED,

HER FORMATION WAS NOT INSTANTANEOUS; BUT THE PROJECT WAS RUSHED; IT WASN’T DIVINE SPARK & BREATH, SOFT OR FULL OF LOVE & GLITTER LIKE LILITH & THE REAL EVE — IT WAS DIVINE PROCEDURE [ SURGICAL, MECHANICAL, PROLONGED ] THE SERAPHIM ASSEMBLED HER, LIMB BY LIMB…

[ I DON’T IMPOSE THIS ON ADAM WRITERS, OF COURSE; BUT FOR MY DEFAULT LORE: ] ADAM NEVER GAVE HIS CONSENT. THE SERAPHIM DIDN'T ASK; THEY ASSUMED THEY WOULDN’T GET IT IF THEY HAD. ONE MIDRASHIC INTERPRETATION SUGGESTS THAT GOD FORMED EVE LIMB BY LIMB IN FRONT OF ADAM, & HE WAS SO HORRIFIED BY THE PROCESS, SO DISGUSTED BY THE SIGHT OF IT, THAT HE REJECTED HER OUTRIGHT, EXCLAIMING SHE WAS FULL OF BLOOD & SECRETION. THE SERAPHIM WOULDN’T RISK THAT OUTCOME; THEY CONDUCTED THE PROCEDURE IN SECRET,

IT RESEMBLED FETAL DEVELOPMENT IN REVERSE; A BODY FORMING BEING ASSEMBLED WITHOUT BIOLOGICAL ORDER. HER FORM WAS A MESS OF EXPOSED FLESH, UNFINISHED BONE, RAW NERVES, TWITCHING MUSCLE; LIMBS EXTENDING BEFORE JOINTS COULD MOVE, FLESH CLINGING TO BONE WITHOUT PURPOSE OR BREATH. DIVINE MATTER SEEPED THROUGH THE BANDAGES, ADAM'S BLOOD ( BOTH RED & GOLD ) BINDING TO FLESH THAT WASN’T FULLY FORMED,

THIS IS PART OF THE REASON LUTE IS ABLE TO RIP HER OWN ARM OFF; PART OF IT WAS ADRENALINE, TRIGGERED BY BEING CALLED A FAILURE & FUELED BY RAW HATRED FOR VAGGIE — BUT HER BODY WAS BUILT TO WITHSTAND DISASSEMBLY & REASSEMBLY. PAIN ISN’T A DETERRENT FOR HER THE WAY IT IS FOR OTHERS; NOT WHEN HER EARLIEST SUBCONSCIOUS MEMORIES ARE OF BEING PULLED APART & STITCHED TOGETHER BEFORE SHE EVER TRULY LIVED,

ONCE HER FORM STABILIZED, THE FIRST WAVE OF EXORCISTS WERE MADE & THEY WERE IMMEDIATELY DEPLOYED, WHICH PROVED TO BE A SEVERE MISTAKE. THOUGH LUTE'S BODY WAS STRUCTURALLY COMPLETE, HER MIND REMAINED UNDEVELOPED — UNDEFINED, UNSTABLE & UNFIT FOR DEPLOYMENT; HER CONSCIOUSNESS HAD YET TO FORM.

& AFTER THE FIRST WAVE PROVED UNSTABLE, LUTE WAS RETAINED FOR PSYCHOSPIRITUAL INCUBATION, TO COMPLETE WHAT WAS LEFT UNFINISHED, & TO RECONDITION; SHE WAS PLACED IN A CRYOPOD FOR CONTAINMENT. INTEGRATED WITHIN THE POD WAS A SIMULATION CHAMBER MODELED AFTER EDEN; A CLOSED GENESIS DESIGNED TO TEST HER OBEDIENCE, LOYALTY, & VIABILITY AS A SUPPORT UNIT FOR ADAM. DURING THIS PERIOD, HER ARTIFICIAL NEURAL FRAMEWORK BEGAN TO TAKE SHAPE; SIMULATED INPUTS WERE INTRODUCED INCREMENTALLY: PRESELECTED MEMORIES, LINGUISTIC SCAFFOLDING, INSTINCTUAL DIRECTIVES, & BEHAVIORAL CONDITIONING BASED ON THE SERAPHIM'S INTERPRETATION OF RIGHTEOUSNESS,

HOWEVER, THE INTENDED REFORMATION RESULTED IN IMPRINTED TRAUMA; THE PSYCHOLOGICAL IMPACT OF HER ARTIFICIAL FALL WAS ENCODED INTO HER CORE BEFORE CONSCIOUSNESS FULLY STABILIZED. SHE DISPLAYED: SPONTANEOUS MOTOR ACTIVITY, UNPROVOKED VITAL FLUCTUATIONS, & EMOTIONAL REACTIONS TO STIMULI SHE HAD NOT YET BEEN TAUGHT. THE SIMULATION WAS EVENTUALLY INITIATED. LUTE WOULD LIVE A FULL ARTIFICIAL LIFETIME AS A REVISED EVE; SHE EXPERIENCED SIN, EXILE, GRIEF, & DEATH. WHAT WAS MEANT AS CONDITIONING BECAME IMPRINTING; THE TRAUMA SHE UNDERWENT WAS ENCODED BEFORE CONSCIOUSNESS FULLY FORMED. WHEN SHE AWAKENED, HER BODY WAS FUNCTIONAL, BUT HER PSYCHE BORE THE AFTEREFFECTS OF SIMULATED GUILD & LOSS. RATHER THAN RESOLVING HER INSTABILITY, THE SIMULATION SEVEREL REPRESSED IT & WHILE LUTE EMERGED BEHAVIORALLY CORRECTED ON THE SURFACE [ OBEDIENT, PRECISE, FUNCTIONAL ] THE UNDERLYING FRACTURES REMAINED INTACT, DEEPENED BY TRAUMATIC IMPRINTING. THIS RECONDITIONED STATE, POLISHED BUT COMPROMISED, BECAME THE TEMPLATE FOR THE SECOND WAVE OF EXORCISTS

[cynthicism]

cole and gwen’s relationship is so unique because, in their world, people measure morality by whether you have a set of horns or a halo.

halos are commonly associated with children, as with growing up comes a loss of innocence and people become more self-serving. while not impossible, it’s quite rare for an adult to have a halo.

horns ( around 2-3 inches ) are incredibly common and associated with almost all adults. they aren’t “bad people” in the way that everyone is committing egregious crimes and what not, but the general self absorption and lack of care for others is enough.

halos are lost around the ages of 16-19, and horns grow in during a painful process lasting about a week, almost as punishment. there are painkillers strong enough to suppress this pain, but they’re only used around the time horns grow in, or for the very rich and famous; there are procedures to remove horns, but they are incredibly expensive and the public generally treats anybody without them with wary. horns are an understandable science - a sort of bone compound that is strong enough to exist outside the protection of the body. halos are something else entirely- basically pure light, with anyone besides the halos owner touching it getting burned.

cole and gwen’s situation is unique because gwen is an adult with a halo, which while rare wouldn’t be too out of the unordinary, except for her profession (SW, mainly dancing. this is something she does before the start of the comic and for a little while during, but ultimately is able to pursue a job in the arts). in public she’s usually assumed to be a child, and constantly has to prove her ID is real. people talk down to her, thinking that she’s naive or stupid. she also takes advantage of this in her job, as the juxtaposition of what she does vs how she looks is enticing.

cole, on the other hand, was born with an extremely rare (condition? disorder? i don’t know medically what it should be referred to) that caused him to never have a halo, instead growing long, gnarled horns a few days after birth. this rarely ever happens, and in the past has been seen as a “sign from above” that the baby would become a catastrophic monster, with the assumption that the baby should not be allowed to get that far. with there being the same tragedies in their world as in ours, this is obviously incorrect. cole’s mother fought furiously for her son, knowing that’s not something he would become, and if it was what he was supposed to be, then she would teach him otherwise. through this, cole was able to grow up, learning that his horns are actually attempting to destroy themselves, very slowly, due to the fact that they just shouldn’t be there. cole strives to be the best person he can be everyday, and although he sticks with it it’s unrewarding due to how people see him. he’s beat down and ostracized from basically everybody. this, combined with a horrible bullying incident, is why his horns are sheltered in adulthood than they are when he was a kid.

cole and gwen are on the opposite ends of the same spectrum, and are drawn to each other due to being the only people who can ( and are willing ) to understand the others situation. gwen has no reason to trust cole, but does so anyways because she believes it’s right to give him that chance. cole doesn’t necessarily understand how gwen’s halo could be a problem, as it’s something he’s wished for his whole life, but listens to her troubles and realizes it’s not all it’s cut out to be if it sticks around.

anyways. they kiss a lot and i love that for them

[pocket-lad]

CH 2- Grapes

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After endless minutes of constant thrashing, the movement in his pocket stilled, and Ian started to worry. He lightened his hold a little, but still kept his hand in place while the helicopter made its rough descent, not wanting Adelaide to hurt herself or fall out. 

It didn’t take long for Adelaide to regain consciousness. Her eyes peeked open as the giants exited the helicopter onto the landing pad. 

Okay, Adelaide, take stock of your surroundings, she thought. Standard procedure when she woke up anywhere, really.

She couldn’t see, that was for sure. So, she was still in Ian's pocket. At least she hoped it was Ian’s pocket, but she refused to consider any alternative, lest she throw herself straight into another panic attack. The sounds of rushing water and helicopter blades assaulted her ears, and she was suddenly grateful for the relatively quiet ride to the island. For the time being, Adelaide had to plug her ears. She felt the familiar sway of the pocket that came with Ian’s casual swagger. They probably just disembarked. 

Oh yeah, and she was mad.  

As much as Adelaide wanted to stay in the pocket and never face Ian or any of the giants ever again, she was still gross and sweaty and cramped, and above all else she had to know what was going on, so she squirmed her way to the lip of the pocket. 

Ian glanced down a little too eagerly when he felt movement. Slowly, he pinched the pocket open with his thumb and index finger. 

All the progress Adelaide made climbing to the top was foiled when Ian opened it, jostling her back to the bottom in surprise. She glared up at him as his face filled the entire opening, blocking any potential sunlight. 

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” he said. 

“Not funny,” she said, crossing her arms. 

Ian's smirking face was suddenly replaced by a giant hand looking to fish her out. Adelaide gave a half-hearted kick to his fingers just to let him know that she wasn’t in the mood, which made him momentarily freeze, but he continued, and she resigned herself to being lifted out. She made sure to secure her knife at the last second but was unable to grab her bag. Not that she needed it. She just felt naked without it. 

When she regained her bearings in his loose fist, Adelaide found herself held up to eye level. She surely wasn’t going to speak first, so she just stared at Ian, swaying in his palm as he walked along with the others. Her instinct was to look around and locate any threats (the rest of the giants), but she couldn’t be the first to look away in their potentially one-sided staring contest. 

Despite her size, Ian could clearly see the stains of tear tracks on her cheeks, which made his heart do a small somersault.Guilt. That’s what that was called. He didn’t like the feeling. “Are you alright?” he asked. 

“Fine,” she lied. 

“Yeah, okay,” he said, seeing through her bullshit. He lowered his hand to his chest so he could focus on walking across such uneven terrain, not wanting to launch her into oblivion. Apologies were easier when he didn’t have to make eye contact anyway. “What did you want me to do? The helicopter was ascending and - and descending feet at a time. I uh, I didn’t want you to get... hurt. I'm sorry.” 

“I said I’m fine." 

Ian sighed as he deposited her on his shoulder. It was a conversation for another time. 

If Ian hadn’t listened to Adelaide before, he certainly wouldn’t listen now, so what was the point in explaining herself? He would never understand what existence as a borrower was like, no matter how much he tried. He didn’t understand the exhaustion that came not only with the physical toll on their bodies, but the mental and emotional gymnastics of constant vigilance too. A borrower always had to be on guard. They had to sleep light, keep their head on a swivel, and always plan for the next outing, because they were always in need of something. Food, water, clothing, tools - all depleted quicker than they could keep up with. Plus, how embarrassing, to be shoved into a pocket against your will in front of a bunch of new giants. She was trying to make a good impression, exhibit her autonomy, and he made her look like some plaything. 

Adelaide loved Ian. She really did, but even a trusted giant was still a dangerous giant. One misstep, one careless gesture, and she could end up injured or dead. He simply didn’t understand that.

*** 

Adelaide stood in the enormous bowl of fruit, tugging on the same green grape she had been tugging on for the last thirty-five minutes. She was surrounded by food larger than her, but it had been a long time since anything like that bothered her. The more food around, the better. It had to have been almost two in the morning at that point, and she could feel her eyelids get heavier by the second. But the grape was so loose, just a couple more tugs and she knew it would be hers. Adelaide hadn’t had fruit in so long.  

Without warning, tremors shook the ground. They grew stronger and closer quickly, which only meant one thing. Ian was awake.  

Abandoning the grape, she ducked behind the bundle of them, holding completely still and letting her dark hair conceal her face as he approached the kitchen. Though her eyes were well-adjusted to the dark, his massive body was so big and so fast that he still appeared as a dark blob.  

Don’t. Move. Don’t move and he won’t notice you.  

It was just her luck that the Bean stopped right in front of the granite counter her shelter sat upon. It was also just her luck that he wanted something from the bowl of fruit. A hand over double Adelaide’s size reached right toward her at a blinding speed.

Startled, Adelaide stumbled and fell through the grapes onto her back, landing somewhere in the middle of the bundle. She yelped. The hand froze three quarters of the way to its destination.

He heard me.  

It was all over. She was tangled up in the stems of the grape bundle, as bare as it was. It would take Adelaide a solid ten minutes and a lot of scratches just to untangle herself, and that was without a Bean standing right in front of her with the knowledge that she was there. The hand retreated, but only for a moment to flick on the light. Blinded, Adelaide reached up to cover her eyes, already nicking herself on a stem.  

Ian peered into the bowl. “Della?”  

Adelaide winced. Could she have explained herself out of that one? “Heyyyyy,” was all she could think to say. As her vision cleared, she stared straight up at him (not that she had the choice to look any other way, stuck as she was) and saw that he wore his pajamas. There were bags under his eyes and his dark, curly hair hung askew.  

“What are you doing in my, um...in my fruit...bowl?” he yawned. His booming voice made hers sound so quiet in comparison.  

“Oh, you know...just...hanging out.” She winced at how dumb she sounded.  

“Alright, well... can I grab a banana?”

“Be my guest,” she responded shakily. He still didn’t reach for it, expecting an explanation as to why she was ensnared in grapes. “I wanted some food,” Adelaide sighed, knowing how pathetic that admission was. 

“You can just ask, you know."  

“I know.”  

Silence.  

Finally, Ian broke it. “Are you going to get out?”  

“I can’t.”  

“You can’t?”  

“I’m stuck.”  

“Ah.” Ian wasn’t sure what to do. He hadn’t known Adelaide for a very long time, maybe a little over two months or so, and he had not held her, or even touched her for that matter, since the first day they met. If he knew one thing, it was that she didn’t like to be touched.  

The two stared at each other for what felt like an infinite amount of time before Ian made an impatient decision. He reached into the bowl.  

Adelaide cried out as the hand descended right toward her, same as before. But he just reached for the banana sitting innocently to her right. Ian’s hand was in and out of the picture before Adelaide could even think to move, leaving her confused and disoriented.  

Ian peeled the banana as he walked toward the kitchen table. With his mouth full, he said, “Well, let me know if you want any, uh, any help.” He sat in a chair, sinking below Adelaide's eye-line.

Adelaide was momentarily baffled that she made it out of the encounter unscathed. A larger part of her was baffled that he didn’t offer any help. He was going to make her ask for it.  

Fine. She would get out of this herself, then. At least she had light.  

Looking up through the stems above her head, Adelaide hoisted herself into a sitting position. So far so good. She leaned forward to see if she could build the momentum to swing her feet underneath her. A sharp tug on her hair.  

“Ow!”  

There was no way Ian didn’t hear that, sitting as close as he was, but she couldn’t see him over the lip of the bowl, and he gave no indication that he did. Adelaide twisted her head as much as she could, only to see her hair knotted around several different stems. Great.  

So, Adelaide spent the next six and a half minutes untangling her hair, scratching up her arms and legs in the process. Afterward, she tied it back to keep it out of the way like she should have done in the first place. Luckily, untangling her bag was less of a challenge. The only thing left to do was climb up.   

She saw multiple different openings and multiple potential paths, but each one was just a little too small for her to squeeze her body through. Where was the original hole she fell through? Adelaide tried and tried, but the stems kept her trapped in her prison. It would take her a million years to cut through even one if she wanted to use her knife, and the effort would dull the blade considerably, so that wasn't an option.  

The cuts across her body and face started to build up, and they stung. After about thirteen more minutes, Adelaide gave up. She would have to ask for help. If Ian hadn’t left. How embarrassing would it be for him to find her in the same position come morning? 

Though she still couldn’t see him, Adelaide never heard him leave, so she assumed he was still there. “Ian?” she tried. No answer. “Ian, I need your help,” she said, a little louder this time. Every prideful ounce of her body burned at the pitiful sound in her voice. Maybe he left when she was distracted, but she knew she would have heard, or at least felt his departure. Maybe it was for the best that Ian didn’t hear that, and she could save herself some dignity. 

In reality, Ian had finished his banana ages ago, and waited with crossed arms for Adelaide to either pull herself together (unlikely) or give in and ask for help. Adelaide heard a chair scrape backwards. Heavy footsteps shook the ground as Ian approached, right until he loomed over top of her. Sweat dripped down Adelaide’s back and she gulped.

“Please don’t make me say it again,” Adelaide said.  

“Say what?” Ian asked not-so-innocently, a smile plaguing his face.  

The word 'asshole' was on the tip of Adelaide's tongue. She took a slow, deep breath. There was only one way out of this. “I need your help.” 

“Alright,” was all he said before he reached in with both hands. Adelaide didn’t have time to process what was happening until she, along with the bundle of grapes, was lifted into the air and set back down on the kitchen table at an impossible speed, everything a blur. She forced herself to unclench her fists.

“Be right back,” he said.  

Adelaide waited there awkwardly. It wasn’t like she had much choice.  

Ian returned shortly with a pair of scissors. Adelaide’s heart plummeted. She knew that Beans used scissors of this size every day. It was natural for them, and she was sure Ian would be careful, but staring at scissors over twice the length of her fragile body as they rapidly approached was not for the faint of heart.  

Adelaide squirmed. “Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait!” she yelled, stalling. Ian froze. “Hold on. Do you need scissors? Can’t you just...” Adelaide knew that she sounded ridiculous even before she asked the non-question. 

Ian stared down at her, eyes never wavering. “I’m careful. I promise. Just uh, hold still.”  

Adelaide nodded and held her breath. That was all the confirmation Ian needed to continue. He reached down again, slower this time, but still too fast for Adelaide’s liking, and she braced herself. Up close, she saw that even the blades alone were bigger than her body. She watched as they came within inches of her, but just as Ian promised, he was careful. Even if the loud snap from each cut and the bounce back of the stem that followed made her jump every time.  

If she wasn’t so scared, it would have been mesmerizing to watch him work. The way the muscles and bones in his hand shifted under his skin with the smallest movement- Adelaide knew that it was just his hand, much like her own hand, but blown up to this size, it seemed unreal. A giant mechanism attached to an even bigger Bean with a mind of its own. She shivered.  

Eventually, Ian worked a larger hole into the bundle, big enough for Adelaide to pull herself through.  

She started to get up but was suddenly engulfed by a hand. It reached into the hole for her, easily sliding past those stems that gave her so much trouble. It wrapped around her body, perfectly covering her head to toe to protect her from scratching herself further, which meant his hand was just as wide as she was tall. Wow.  

Adelaide squirmed in his grip. It didn't hurt and she wasn’t suffocating, but it was tight enough to make her uncomfortable. Plus, he hadn't held her since the day they met, and that definitely wasn't a pleasant experience. There was no way he knew what he was doing. She felt her body yanked upward into the sky and then placed down on a hard surface. Still trying to wriggle out of his grip, the hand unwrapped unexpectedly, sending her sprawling.  

Adelaide blinked a couple times to clear her head. She was sitting on the kitchen table. Her body burned from all the miniscule cuts, some of which were bleeding lightly. And right in front of her stood Ian. He sat down and leaned his elbows on the table to put himself closer to eye level. Adelaide stepped back a little to get some space between them and to avoid looking directly up at him. She knew there was something she was supposed to say, but no words came to mind while her head spun. 

“You’re welcome,” Ian smirked.  

“I was getting to that,” Adelaide lied. “But thank you.”  

“Are you uh, are you alright?” he asked uncomfortably, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else but there. But if he didn't want to be there, why didn't he set her on the counter so that she could have been on her merry way? No, he set her on the table for a reason, and Adelaide dreaded that reason. He wanted a captive audience, literally. He wanted to talk.

“Yeah. Just a couple of scratches, nothing out of the ordinary," she answered, downplaying the situation.

“Let me get you some Neosporin or - or something.”  

“It’s really not that serious.” Adelaide desperately wanted to get back into the dark, safe confines of the walls.  

“I insist,” he interrupted, and before she could dissuade him, he disappeared. She could have just left. Nothing really stopped her, but on the off chance that Ian got unreasonably angry at her early departure, she stayed. And whatever Neosporin was - it sounded like it was supposed to help with something. Adelaide kept telling herself she needed to make an effort if she was going to keep living in his walls. The opportunity practically fell into her hands.

Ian returned with a crumpled yellow tube. He stopped at the table while squeezing whatever was in the tube onto his index finger. He set the tube off to the side and lowered his outstretched finger next to her.  

Instinctively, Adelaide stepped back, but she wasn’t really frightened, just startled. He was too fast. She eyed the gel on his finger and slowly approached, not quite sure what she was supposed to do. She looked between Ian and his finger a couple times, trying to work it out. Adelaide hated looking stupid.   

“Put it on your arms,” he explained.  

“Oh,” Adelaide said. She tentatively placed her hands in the gel. Oh. It was a thick, cool, sticky substance. She wriggled her fingers around a bit, then pulled her hands out with a gross suction noise, and hesitated before she glanced up at Ian for confirmation.

Ian nodded encouragingly. If Adelaide had to guess, he almost seemed amused. If he even thought about mocking her though, she would have stuck him with her knife.  

She slowly glopped the gel onto her right arm, rubbing it in in a repetitive circular motion. At first it stung, but Adelaide felt relief almost immediately. “ Oh.”  

Ian quietly laughed as he she rubbed the ointment into all her limbs and realization lit up her face. By the end, she was one big ball of grease, and Ian couldn't help but smile. She looked so content, especially in contrast to her usual spiky demeanor.  

“You know, uh, you don’t have to sneak around to get, um, to get food anymore...right?”  

Adelaide closed her eyes. “Yeah, I know,” She was dreading this question. Because he was right. Adelaide had all the supplies she needed at her disposal, including food. So why was she out borrowing in the middle of the night, risking her life for a grape?  

Because you can’t rely on anybody. Ian didn't owe Adelaide anything. At any second, he could decide against sharing what was, by all accounts, his. She couldn’t provide him with money, couldn’t provide him with anything of use. He gave her these constant gifts out of the kindness of his own heart, even if he wouldn't admit it, and he could change his mind at any time. He could become annoyed by her; he could grow to hate her. Or he could just up and leave, away to some new place, leaving her behind. So, Adelaide couldn’t get soft or weak. She couldn’t stay reliant on anyone but herself, at least not if she wanted to survive.  

And even if she could rely on Ian for forever, she didn’t want to. Adelaide was not some pet to be taken care of. She was not some pitiful being who was less than Human Beans, who let the big, nice Bean take care of her. What would other borrowers think? What would her parents think? No, Adelaide was strong and intelligent and resourceful, and she would be damned if she let this man ‘look after her’. She did it on her own for eight years, and she would do it on her own for the rest of her life. Bean or no Bean.  

Adelaide could have said all of that. What she actually said, after a lengthy pause from Ian that indicated she should talk more, was, “I need to be prepared for the worst possible situation. You understand that? If I end up on my own again, I need to know I can survive.” Her cheeks flushed.  

“I don’t have any plans to – to go anywhere any time soon,” he shrugged. How could he be so nonchalant about everything?

“That’s not the point.”  Adelaide saw how he interpreted her admission and knew she needed to fix it, she just didn't know how. She felt like a child throwing a tantrum.

“That sure sounds like the point. Plus, I know-” Ian stopped mid-sentence to reach over Adelaide, pluck a grape off its stem, and pop it in his mouth. He continued, still chewing. “and - and you know...you can survive just fine with or, uh, without me. So, you might as well let me – let me help you.”  

Adelaide had to look away while he chewed, unsettled. A spark of envy briefly shot its way through her body at how easy it was for him to get that grape. It took her an hour to get to this point and she had nothing to show for it. Even if she did manage to snag one, she’d still have to haul it through the walls back to her home, clean it, chop it up, and store it as best she could. And that was ignoring the fact that predators would probably sniff it out from a mile away and come prowling. For Ian, it was as easy as picking it up between two fingers and bringing it to his lips. Ugh.  

When Adelaide looked back up, another grape sat next to her. She was shocked that Ian was able to move so quietly while she was lost in her thoughts, to the point that she didn’t even notice. That probably wasn’t good.  

Adelaide knew she should have felt grateful, but instead, her envy only grew. Oh, grab an another one. Rub it in even more, she thought. Then, she was mad at herself for being jealous. Things were the way they were. This was her life, and she was good at living it, end of story. And Ian obviously didn’t mean anything by it, he was just trying to be helpful.  

At the very least, Adelaide couldn’t accept the grape, no matter how much she wanted to, especially while she was trying to defend her independence and her insistence on borrowing.  

“Ian, please,” Adelaide said forcefully, ignoring the fruit. She was about to be vulnerable, and she needed his full attention if she was going to break through to him. She looked at her feet as she forced the words out. They sounded quiet even to her own ears. “I need to borrow, I need to feel this connection to my identity, to my...whatever." That was almost too vulnerable. She needed to reel it in. "I’m not some pet.” Adelaide lazily kicked the grape and watched it roll an inch or two.  

Silence. She slowly peered up at him, wondering what he thought, wondering if anything happened. Did she say something wrong?  

Ian just stared at her, confused. “You’re certainly not my pet,” he said matter-of-factly. “That- that doesn’t even make sense but beyond that, I can’t say I... follow... But hey, if it’s important to you, it’s important to you. We all have our things, and uh...’borrowing’ is yours. Mine is Chaos Theory. So go wild, but uh, you always have food here if-if you need it.” He smiled and ruffled Adelaide's hair with a fingertip.  

Stunned, Adelaide leaned back and batted at the finger overhead. She was frightened at first, feeling a slight pressure on her neck, but once she understood what was happening, annoyance sprouted, along with a little surprise at the sheer audacity. Ian seemed more comfortable touching her, and she could not let him make a habit out of it. The finger retreated before she could get a good hit in, but not before it could do some mild damage to her already tangled hair. 

With that, Ian lightly nudged the grape back over to her, stood up, and walked away, probably headed back to bed. As he made it to the door frame that led to the hallway, he paused and turned to look at her.  

Adelaide’s heart froze at the sudden attention, but otherwise she didn’t move. “I’d offer to take you back to your place, but you insist on independence, so...” he trailed off. 

Adelaide recognized his teasing but also recognized the question that lay underneath. Ian was asking to give her a lift back to the counter.  

She appreciated the gesture, but her heart wasn’t quite there tonight. It probably leapt out of her chest and ran away when Ian pulled her out of the grapes. Her body was sore, her mind raced, and she had already spent way too much time in those hands today.  

“I’m fine,” Adelaide said. “Go to bed.” She smiled at him. He smiled back before he turned to go.  

Adelaide’s smile faded. She liked Ian a lot. He was sarcastic but helpful, and he kept her life interesting, but she felt like most of her words didn’t register in his head. He didn’t understand and would probably never understand, but was he even trying? It wasn't like he had any obligation to. Or did he know it was useless to imagine being three inches tall anyway? Imagination didn’t do it justice.  

Whatever the case, Adelaide eyed the stupid grape as she pulled out her hook and briefly considered taking it, but she didn’t care enough and was frankly too exhausted to figure out how to get it up the cliff that was the counter and through the walls. Her thoughts would be elsewhere for the rest of the night, too distracted to even try.  

*** 

Exhaustion. All the time. 

So, Adelaide guessed she shouldn’t have expected Ian to understand why she needed out of the pocket so bad. In his mind, it was the only way to keep her safe, and therefore the benefits outweighed the costs. He didn't understand that at a certain point, it didn't matter if the hand belonged to a friend or enemy. It was still a trap, still a prison. There was no way he could’ve imagined what it was like to be stuck in a sauna of a cloth prison, held in place by an unmovable force with a mind of its own. One that could squeeze just a little too hard and- 

Glancing at the handful of giant strangers walking around her, Adelaide suddenly wanted to drop it. So as Ian approached a car with the others, she whispered, “I didn’t know your mouth was capable of forming the words, ‘I’m sorry.’” 

At that, Ian laughed. “I have my moments.” 

Okay. They were back for now. Both Adelaide and Ian felt the uneasy tension in the air, but both were willing to look past it so long as they were on this island. The argument certainly wasn’t over, but they could do that back at home. Stuck out on an island in Costa Rica, they were better off as allies. And so, the unspoken pact to take it easy was born.

Prev ● Masterpost ● Next

[therevivalseries]

Sniperriffle, Blitzwing, and Void’s backstory for Outcasts!

(Warning‼️ Various types of child abuse and grooming are involved!!!)

Blitzwing’s sire Recording should never be allowed around sparklings, much less have his own. Blitzwing’s carrier, Whiteout, was easy pickings for someone like Recording, young, pretty, and mentally unstable enough to be manipulated. What Recording failed to take into account was that seekers only have seekers, which isn’t the best thing when you live in a functionalist society where your alt mode determines your status. Stereotypes were common, and because of their lithe frames and fair appearance, Seekers were often seen and treated more like toys than actual bots. Recording was furious when Sniperriffle’s spark was placed in a protoform and he was presented with wings. He pushed Sniperriffle to be the best, imperfection was unacceptable. Recording also tampered with Sniperriffle’s protoform in an attempt to make him a grounder, but without the exact knowledge on how to do such a procedure, he ended up damaging the part of Sniperriffle’s processor that distinguishes dreams from reality. This caused Sniperriffle to constantly see creatures akin to twisted ‘imaginary friends��, whose existence was very real to Sniperriffle and did not go away with age.

When Blitzwing was born Recording tampered with his protoform even more, this caused Blitzwing to gain a body-type similar to a femme’s with a more curved shape. Recording was overtly critical of Blitzwing’s appearance, often mocking and criticizing him for things that were out of his control. Blitzwing hung out with his carrier a lot, Whiteout’s own twisted view of beauty not helping Blitzwing at all. Blitzwing became very self conscious and defensive, trying to ‘fix’ himself so he wouldn’t stand out as much. His emotions were often all over the place, mood swings were common place and he was constantly fidgeting. He often forgot things and certain behaviors couldn’t simply be beat out of him, no matter how hard Recording tried.

Void was Recording’s last attempt at a ‘real sparkling’, but of course the last one was even more glitched than the first two. Void had a whole boatload of problems no one wanted to address. His motor-skills were terrible to the point just picking up blocks posed a challenge. His speech was very much delayed, and when he was upset he wasn’t able to convey why, often biting and scratching himself out of frustration. Loud noises caused a complete meltdown, same story if he didn’t have proper simulation. Recording was about to send him away when Sniperriffle stepped in.

Sniperriffle had his own learning curve with Void. He played with him as often as he could, helping build Void’s motor-skills but using a Rubik’s cube. He would have Void carry it everywhere, watching as he gradually got better and better at moving the pieces. Void began to solve it all on his own, which to Sniperriffle was quite impressive. Void no longer hurt himself when he was frustrated, instead moving the pieces at a rapid speed, scrambling and unscrambling it so fast Sniperriffle was sure he beat some record. Sniperriffle, after a while, was able to teach Void basic speech and vocabulary, and after being given a dictionary, Void was able to memorize every word with a single glance. Void was terrible at social interaction, but his intelligence started to shine through as he grew. Taking a liking to engineering, he wanted to become the autobots top engineer, and Sniperriffle just smiled and nodded, not having the heart to tell him that the autobots would never let a seeker be in a position that required intelligence no matter how skilled Void was. But Blitzwing came without a filter and promptly stated his unapologetic opinion along with very hard truth life had to offer. Void understandably cried his spark out as his dreams were simultaneously crushed.

Whiteout wasn’t doing great either, Recording’s drinking problem had become worse, and beating her and his sparklings became his favorite way to relive stress. She quickly turned to over the counter drugs and an addiction took root. After years of abuse she simply couldn’t take it anymore, and one day she overdosed. Recording blamed her death on Blitzwing, seeing as he was the one who spend the most time with his carrier. Blitzwing had begged Whiteout to quit, and hated himself even more than he already did for not trying harder.

Sniperriffle was 13, Blitzwing was 11, and Void was 9 when Whiteout died.

After Whiteout’s death, Recording often had his friends over, having Sniperriffle and Blitzwing help him with hosting while telling Void to stay out of sight.

This was how Blitzwing met Iceblast.

Iceblast was a work friend of Recording. He was over often and the young seeker caught his eye. He started bringing gifts for Blitzwing, small things like chocolates and snacks. He often praised Blitzwing, slowly building the trust of the young, naive sparkling who had never had a shred of positive attention in his life.

As Blitzwing grew older, the gifts changed, Iceblast brought things like polishes and perfumes. Sniperriffle took notice, and soon connected the dots. He tried to warn Blitzwing, tried to tell him to stay away, but Blitzwing mistook Sniperriffle’s concern for jealousy and shut him out.

Iceblast was great at making Blitzwing feel loved, he paid attention to him, validated his feelings, and listened to him. When Blitz turned 15, Iceblast started to take him places, (he gave Blitzwing a fake ID of course, not wanting to be seen with a sparkling stellar cycle’s younger than him.) and Blitzwing thought this had to be love.

He was wrong.

Blitzwing’s relationship with Iceblast started to become increasingly sexual. And one day, Iceblast, ignoring Blitzwing’s vehement protests, took advantage of him. Blitzwing stayed, believing it was just a misunderstanding and that Iceblast would listen next time.

Then it happened again, and again, and again. It took Blitzwing 4 years to see that bars of his cage, and it devastated him. He told Sniperriffle how he wanted to join the decpticons with Him and Void, and Sniperriffle asked about his relationship with Iceblast. Blitzwing just shrugged it off, simply telling him it wasn’t meant to be and offering no more information.

No one else had to know what happened between him and Iceblast, Blitzwing was going to make sure of it.

[alloutofgoddesses]

They removed your tailbone????????????????

YES!!! Story time!

It was winter. It was seventh grade. I was walking back inside on the sidewalk. The sidewalk had not been salted properly. I slipped on a huge patch of ice and instantly felt pain right where your tailbone exists. It hurt like a bitch but I had just taken a hard fall onto concrete so like of course it hurt. It went away after a while so I figured it was fine.

Until it came time to travel to my grandparents house several states away and I was in TEARS by the end of the road trip. My butt hurt SO BAD, way more than the usual aches and pains of road tripping. And then the pain didn’t go away.

At first my mother did not believe me which Rude but eventually I went to my doctor, and she ordered an X-ray and she couldn’t really tell what was wrong so she ordered an MRI and both those things led to her noticing that I have three degenerated disks in my lower spine (honestly probably the cause of most of my problems) and it looked like my tailbone was “anti-verted” which I will forever believe is just a fancy doctor term for “idk man it looks weird”

I get sent to a specialist. The specialist has ZERO bedside manner and tells me, a scared very mentally unwell thirteen year old that my only options are to have a surgery wouldn’t really fix the problem or take Advil for the rest of my life. That sucked. My mom took me to Spirit Halloween to cheer me up because it was so bad.

By this point, I’m in pain all the time. I get a special pillow to sit on both in the car and at school, and it is put in my IEP that I have special permission to stand up in class whenever necessary because the pain was just that distracting. To help mitigate the pain, I am seeing a chiropractor on a very regular basis. It’s awkward as hell because I’m experiencing puberty and he’s constantly touching my lower back and butt.

Blah blah blah I make it to eighth grade and I am having A Bad Time. I’m in so much pain that I think it’s the only thing I’m going to feel for the rest of my life. I am being heavily bullied at church on top of getting injected with a crap ton of religious trauma. At the same time I’m going through a sexuality crisis because middle school. I am scrounging for reasons to get out of bed and it’s only working sometimes. It’s BAD.

Somewhere along the line my chiropractor takes a look at my X-ray and he goes: “This is broken. This is very broken. Your tailbone is broken.”

I look at the X-ray. Instead of being attached to my spine, my tailbone is completely detached from bone, muscle, tissue, and is existing at a 90 degree angle in my body cavity. No fucking wonder it hurt so much!!

On it goes. We know what the problem is but we don’t know how to fix it and this point I have a very healthy mistrust of doctors.

Enter my eighth grade social studies teacher. Her husband has been the gym teacher at the elementary school where my dad works since idk the beginning of time probably. And also, small town, so they both me well.

She hears what’s going on. She sees me struggling to exist on the daily. She pulls me to the side after class one day and says “Hey. My son broke his tailbone a couple years ago. We went to this doctor and the surgery they did really helped.”

Cue social studies teacher getting in contact with my parents and me having approximately a million appointments at a doctor’s office in *gasp* the great city of El Paso, Texas. The doctor decides that it’s best to remove the bone because it just floating around is causing A Lot of nerve damage.

So, July 7th, 2016 I got my tailbone removed from my body in a procedure called a coccygectomy. I had to figure out how to do things while either completely laying down or standing up for two weeks because I couldn’t sit. I walked around with a Franken-butt for a few weeks until the stitches dissolved. I still have nerve damage and I will probably never be able to sit normally or without pain again but it is so much better then it used to be.

And now that social studies teacher is my principal and I have a cool scar that I can’t ever show to anyone because well. The location of the tailbone is. You know.

[drippingviolets3]

Feeling bored and a little frustrated, so here’s a Danganronpa rant about Chihiro Fujisaki.

Spoiler warning.

Duh

I hate how the fandom tries to brush off the themes of the second trial as just “trapping” because of Chihiro’s gender reveal.

What I find stupid is how everyone reacted when Kyoko physically investigated the body, touching around and stuff when that’s basic procedure in these types of situations. It’s normally not part of their job to go in depth, but there was no forensic pathologist who COULD investigate the body in depth. It’s how they find out if foul play was involved in someone’s death (which in the context of Danganronpa, might sound silly since we know foul play was involved considering it was a murder.)

My point is that Kyoko probably did the same thing to the other corpses. But she didn’t find anything out of the ordinary so she never said anything about that part of her investigations.

Second of all, and this is my main issue, is how people will blatantly ignore the themes of masculinity within this chapter.

THH came out in 2010, and while the 2010’s was a relatively progressive time, it’s still incredible that a game covered these themes. In the game we hear a lot of sexist themes, especially in the second chapter. Examples include Mondo and Ishimaru claiming that a girl “wouldn’t understand a bond between men,” and Asahina telling Kyoko after learning how she handled the corpse that she “should’ve let one of the boys do it.” Even before the second chapter we hear Mondo claim that it was wrong to harm a woman, but he had no qualms with hurting a man.

And then in the second trial we are IMMEDIATELY slapped in the face with a direct challenge to these supposed gender roles (if you could call it that, I don’t know a better term to fit in this context 😅). We learn that Chihiro was cross dressing the whole time. That he wanted to change and when his secret was threatened to be revealed, he took it upon himself to seek out help and challenge the reveal head on by working out to get more “manly.”

Mondo was the perfect role model in Chihiro’s eyes. Buff physique, rough exterior, and he was tough enough to where no one would think about making fun of him without getting their teeth knocked out of them. Mondo was the textbook definition of society’s depiction of what a man should be and look like.

But Mondo didn’t think he was a real man because of how weak he felt deep down. So when Chihiro approached him headstrong, telling him how he wanted to change, Mondo was jealous and overcome with rage.

But y’all didn’t read this to listen to me summarize chapter 2, you’re here because I’m writing this at 3AM and you want to see what bs I can put into words.

The fact is, Chihiro’s existence in the game was a direct challenge of society’s definition of men and women, how they should each be respectively. I hate how people with brush him off as a “trap” when he played such an important role in the series and included incredible themes during such a time period.

Honestly, the themes in THH were immaculate, it really feels like Danganronpa lost its touch with each release. I’m willing to go into more detail when I’m not sleep deprived and doing minimal research, but for the love of god please don’t fight with me. I don’t have a problem with people headcanoning Chihiro as transfem because I genuinely can see where they’d make the connections on a deeper level than just “Man wearing skirt = Trans Woman”. But I’m tired, these were my thoughts, and I’m not trying to make excuses for some of the problematic themes within THH (because there are a LOT).

[grahambaham]

This post isn’t related to dc or marvel or anything like that, sorry, but this is something I’ve been seeing a lot of and it pisses me off.

Okay so, most recently, I saw a man who was telling a story of how he was in a store buying those moving seat things for his baby (I forgot what it’s called) and when he brought it to the cash register to buy, the cashier asked him if he was sure this was a decision he should be making alone, without his wife.

That is sexism. It is not okay. We all know that and agree on that (most of us do at least). The problem is that I have seen many men use examples of sexism towards men like that to compare them to, for example, doctors refusing to let you abort or do a medical procedure that affects your fertility without your husband’s permission. They claim the examples given for the sexism towards men were equal to the examples given for sexism towards women. I disagree. A LOT.

First of all, there are different levels of sexism. There is the “nice” form of it where men consciously or subconsciously believe women incapable so they go out of their way to be “nice” and never let them do things on their own, where they think women are so amazing and such beautiful creatures or whatever the fuck that they shouldn’t be doing these things on their own, they should stick to their “easier” tasks. There is the ignorant asshole type, where men call women some names and tell them to make them a sandwich or shit like that. And there are the more extreme versions of it, like violence against women. This can all be explained way better but I don’t want it to be a long post so I’m over simplifying it.

If we reversed that and had to decide which category to put the whole cashier thinking the wife should be making decisions for the kids thing in, I would put it maybe in the ignorant asshole one, but barely. Closer to the “nice” sexism than anything. On the other hand, I would put the doctors needing permission from husbands to do medical procedures/abortions thing in the most severe type of sexism category.

Some might say that’s too extreme. Why would I put that in the same category as violence against women? Because I believe it to be just as evil and horrific, instead of an “ignorant asshole” thing. By needing a man’s permission for a decision regarding a woman’s body, you are implying that woman’s body does not belong to her, and therefore she alone cannot make decisions about it. You are implying that the man owns her body more than she herself does. And taking away a persons bodily autonomy is horrific. And it most certainly is not comparable to people thinking a woman should be making decisions about what to buy for her and her husband’s child. That last part is obviously not okay either and is most certainly sexist, but is so not as bad as taking away a woman’s right to make decisions about her own damn body.

The only other case of someone being allowed to make important decisions about another person is in case of parents making decisions for their child. The reason that is a law and okay is because children are young and impressionable, often making decisions before they think about it, decisions they end up regretting for the rest of their lives. I wouldn’t call them too stupid to make their own decisions but I still agree that their parents should be making decisions about the more important things that could affect their lives. The reason that exists is because children are considered not competent, capable or mature enough to do it themselves. Harsh but overall true, I’m only a year out of my teens and can agree that without my parents making those decisions I’d have fucked up my life quite a bit.

So to imply that women also need these decisions made for them is to imply they are also not competent, capable or mature enough to decide for themselves. You consider them the same mentally as children. You realise how fucked up that is, right?

So the point of this post is that those two examples are very much not comparable. Misandry and misogyny are not comparable. Because misogyny is systemic and is, I believe, the oldest oppression. A man hating a woman most often results in the women being beaten, killed or raped. It results in woman losing their rights as humans, being considered below men, not getting as many opportunities in life as men, and it is something that has been happening, is happening and is going to continue to happen for many years to come. A woman hating a man results in his feelings being hurt.

THEY ARE NOT THE SAME.

[longwindedbore]

The problem is laws crafted by white conservative males WITHOUT input from physicians and the public

So that when a tidal wave of outrage occurs the same conserve-a-turds issue half-assed placebo useless exception (also without physician input) thinking it solves the problem the brain dead MAGAs created out of thin air.

In an Emergency situation in the ER room with life or death measures in minutes, Florida requires

“…two physicians certify in writing that, in reasonable medical judgment, the termination of the pregnancy is necessary to save the pregnant woman’s life or avert a serious risk of substantial and irreversible physical impairment of a major bodily function…”

Fukking assholes! It will take two doctors longer to perform all the requirements than it took both houses of the Florida state legislature to pass their willfully ignorant and gleefully malignant abortion ban.

It took 12 hours after one of my grandmothers brain waves flatlined to get two doctors to certify taking her off of life support. Because those had MORE IMPERATIVE MEDICAL CASES. As soon as theyvhad time to do the examinations and fill out the paperwork ‘…in writing…’ they did so.

What the hell can Florida doctors do in an emergency?

Doctors are solving that question by LEAVING NEO-DARK AGE DYSTOPIAN STATES to instead save lives in States existing in the 21st Century.

Remember, there are NO ABORTION DOCTORS. That’s a bullshit term made but by conserve-a-turd Christian demon-fearing dark age cults.

An obstetrician gynecologist cares for a women’s health and is the leading provider of the post RvW pre Dobbs treatment healtcare pallitive of voluntarily ending a pregnancy.

The imbecilic abortion bans target the D&C process to remove a clump of cells that remain when Nature - or the cult’s God- causes a natural termination of pregnancy.

Not having D&C available is one reason why in the great days of prayer before modern medicine 250 times as many women died in the process of child birth.

ObGyns are leaving dystopian States in droves. Abortion is but a small percent of the medical devices they were providing women.

Some women develop leukemia during pregnancy and the available drugs can cause termination of pregnancy. So farewell to Hematologists in Florida.

Some pregnant women develop complex medical procedures requiring cardiologists, pulmonologists, endocrinologists. So farewell to these specialties because vile MAGA politicians passed laws they couldn’t begin to understand the implications thereof.

In emergency room life saving procedures to end a pregnancy anesthesia may be needed. Farewell Anesthesiologists.

The draconian laws are reversing medical care for males, females children in these death-cult States.

Which may be the intent: in all these Red States the larger cities are bright Blue. I suspect they think that these people are ‘woke’ New Yorkers or ‘socialistic’ Californians reverse-colonizing their States.

Taking away health care MAGA believes will drive them out of the State.

HOWEVER. The MAGA plan wouldn’t work if ITS NATURAL FOR PEOPLE WHO MOVE WITHIN A STATE TO A LARGER CITY DO SO FOR JOB OPPORTUNITIES AND A BETTER LIFE. Thereby, rejecting the deviant MAGA bigotry and nostalgia for a time that never existed.

TO SUPPORT THE FOREGOING simply look at the post-Dobbs tidal wave sweeping MAGA from school boards as well as local and state offices in every 2023 and 2024 after these laws were instituted.

If we vote against MAGA in every race in 2024 and EQUALLY IMPORTANTLY every Congressional, Senate and State & Local races in the off year 2026. ONLY THEN can we rid purses of this infestation of malignant bigots.

The unfortunate pattern I’ve 3 decades has been a blue wave elects Clinton, Obama, and Biden but millions fail to vote the down tickets. Then most Dems and independents don’t show up for the off year.

So Clinton, Obama, and now Biden had two years with both houses and the rest of their administrations with a divided or hostile Congress.

We the majority with our purity tests and indifference to ‘smalller’ elections.

Not the minority of bigots whom we empower with how we approach elections.