#he has a dream that his own legacy will be engulfed by his dads he runs into his fathers cult and suddenly finds himself surrounded on all

[himejoshiangels]

I'll never ever ner get over fabians no good very bad day never ever.

[INSANITY IN THE NOTES

#brightest boy in the world stuffed in his fathers shadow and his light is completely snuffed out #the season one ending victory was a pyrrhic one not only did he lose his darling father he fully cements himself to take his dads place #which is bad #its soo bad #fabian is NOT his dad he too soft and too spoiled and loves too too big #all the way from s1 and all thru s2 even before his big dancer arc his movements are always described as lithe and graceful and never like #his father gruff and pirate like #he has a dream that his own legacy will be engulfed by his dads he runs into his fathers cult and suddenly finds himself surrounded on all #sides by the expectations and actions of his father #hes completely wrecked as soon as hes asked to makegood on his word and become his fatherand better and his entire ego and self is just gon #GYAHHHH #fantasy high #fabian seacaster #thought bubbles

[queenpersephonesgarden]

together through the dark (dawn is still a long way off)

Dream SMP, Rated G, 3.4k, chapter 1 of ??

Summary: Fundy's family is messed up and painfully complicated as it is, with betrayal and heartbreak and death separating them on too many sides of too many wars to count. He should be grateful the attempt to revive his father failed, that Wilbur isn't here to make things worse.

But he isn't. And that pitiful heart might just be their undoing.

Or: Phil tried and failed twice to bring Wilbur back himself. Fundy succeeded without even wanting to try.

Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Accidental Resurrection, therapy arc let's go, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, it's gonna take a bit for Phil and Tommy to get involved in this ngl, if the CCs ever have a problem with this let me know and it'll be gone, bro do you ever start writing a fic only for canon to start stealing your ideas, Canon-typical swearing, Brief description of injury, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit are Not Biological Siblings, but that doesn't mean Found Family doesn't exist, They/Them Pronouns for Eret (Video Blogging RPF)

Can be read on AO3 (link will be in the notes)

The moon and the first of the stars had begun to peek over the horizon by the time they’d finally admitted defeat.

The mismatched crowd that had gathered for the spectacle of an attempted resurrection had begun the long trek down the Prime Path back to the Greater SMP, chatter finally respectfully subdued where before it had been badly contained manic chaos throughout the entire afternoon. Everyone seemed to have noticed the somber mood that had engulfed Philza, and had reined themselves in appropriately.

Fundy had lagged further and further behind, jittery with some unexplainable emotion.

It had failed.

The resurrection had been a waste of time all along, so-

He should be happy, right?

He was. He was glad Wilbur wasn’t coming back. He was glad to be spared from his father’s tumultuous presence for another day.

Hell, he was relieved.

… right?

But – But walking back, watching Ghostbur smile and murmur something comforting to the silly little sheep trailing beside him, seeing Philza’s melancholic smile, feeling the weight of Tommy’s pointed silence – it’s all suffocating.

If he follows for one more step, he’s going to end up saying or doing something he’ll regret.

No one notices when he stops tagging along – which is just typical, a nasty little part of his brain thinks – no one at all.

No one except for Eret, who darts a glance over their shoulder and almost doubles back, expression plainly worried.

Fundy quickly shook his head and shrugged, reluctant to disrupt the dejected parade and draw attention to himself.

Eret, Prime bless them, seems to understand without a word. They smile, nod, and carry on after the others.

Their door will be open later for him, he knew. If he came back soon enough, he’d even have someone available to rant to if need be.

Just the knowledge of that is a huge relief to Fundy. Eret always seems to get him when he’s in these moods, and even when they don’t, they’re always at least willing to listen.

Which is more than could be said for the rest of Fundy’s family.

And that wonderful thought is an excellent segue way into an immediate downward spiral. Fundy shakes himself hard to rid himself of the impulse to follow that down the rabbit hole. He predictably fails miserably.

Focus, dammit.

Except what else is there to focus on? The botched attempt to bring his crazy dad back to life?

Oh, hey, that’s not good for his mental health either. Great.

Fundy spins right around and starts stomping back up the Path without a single care how immature it might seem or who might see it, headed straight back where they’d come from.

He walks steadily across the glass carefully immortalizing the greatest disaster that had befallen the SMP so far, making sure not to look down for longer than a few seconds. He makes it back to the bizarre little revival shrine in record time without a host of noisy spectators slowing him down, just in time to avoid the slight drizzle the cloudy sky had been threatening the entire latter half of the afternoon.

He steps very carefully onto the blue and yellow brickwork, eyes trailing over the uncomfortably familiar little offerings placed all over like the world’s worst interior design project, before he reaches the middle and has to bite down hard on his cheek to prevent the litany of swear words wanting to escape his mouth.

Philza hung the sword on the wall, before he left.

Just- just put it up there, like it’s no big deal, like it’s a fucking prop, like it isn’t the sword he used to stab his son, Fundy’s father.

Nope. Nope, nope, Fundy isn’t okay with this.

He grabs the handle and pulls it down, and that’s as far as his planning goes. He’s left standing there like a fool holding his father’s murder weapon, heavily debating the pros and cons of either putting it down on the floor so it at least doesn’t look like a reward, or giving up entirely on composure and screaming and throwing it down into the ugly scar in the earth outside. Let it rot in the bedrock with the rest of his father’s legacy where Fundy will never have to look at it again.

But before he can decide which is the option less likely to leave him crying his eyes out to Eret later tonight, a gentle voice echoes behind him. “What are you doing, Fundy?”

Fundy straightens involuntarily upon recognizing that voice, and turns automatically. “Wil- er, Ghostbur?” He almost moves to hide the hideous thing behind his back, but Ghostbur is already floating there staring and that really would be the end of his dignity, so he just lets it hang awkwardly from one hand. “Why are you here? Did you follow me?”

Never mind the tiny stupid feeling in his chest, fluttering in excitement at being noticed.

Ghostbur hummed curiously, carefully shaking water droplets from the rain off of his steaming hands. “Hmm? Oh, no. I mean, I noticed you were gone and all, but I didn’t know you’d be here. I just came back myself, that’s all.”

Hope squashed. Fundy nodded with a hum of his own, face carefully neutral.

“So what are you doing?” Ghostbur repeated, and suddenly having an audience just makes Fundy feel very, very stupid.

His ears flattened against his skull as he stuttered a reply, “W-well, you know, I just thought, well I mean it seemed, it was just, I. Uh.”

Ghostbur tilted his head innocently. Fundy wanted to sink into the bricks under his feet.

Fundy holds out his free hand and gestured emphatically. “What are you doing here?”

Master of changing the subject, he is.

Luckily, with Ghostbur, it doesn’t really matter how dumb the change of subject is, he just rolls right along with it. “Oh, well, Phil and Tommy both went back through the Nether Portal to head home, so I didn’t really know who to follow. They were both a bit sad, so I gave them some blue, but Phil still looked upset so I- I thought maybe I’d come back here one more time, just to see if I could remember anything else that might help.”

Fundy didn’t even bother trying to disguise the bitterness in his voice when he snorted. “Well, that was a nice thought, but I doubt any memories you have of this room could make Phil less upset.”

Ghostbur smiled emptily, pulling a bit of blue out of one pocket to cup in both hands, and immediately Fundy feels awful. Being sassy to Ghostbur never feels satisfying or rebellious, just cruel.

Grimacing, Fundy glared down at his own bit of blue, too large and shaped like the world’s ugliest sword, tamping down on equally ugly feelings in his chest. “But you can do whatever you want, I won’t stop you. I’m just, glad you’re not planning to go through with an unannounced midnight resurrection to surprise us all in the morning with, or something.”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that anymore.”

Fundy blinked and looked back up. “Huh?”

Ghostbur shrugged and smiled nervously. “Oh, you know. Things change, given time. Places, people… decisions… you know? People change their minds all the time! Especially when it’s a really important or dangerous decision! And it usually works out just fine!”

It took a second for his meaning to get through. When it finally did, Fundy suddenly felt rather cold

“So, wait. You’re saying you… don’t want to be revived anymore?”

Ghostbur worried his tiny bit of blue between his fingers, shoulders slowly inching up towards his ears. “N- well- I don’t- I don’t think so? No, I don’t think so, Fundy. I’m sorry.”

Sorry? Really?

“Why would you need to be sorry?” Fundy asked, voice a bit too loud even in his own ears.

Ghostbur grew even more tense, his hands kneading the blue even faster as he ducked his head. “I just- well, I know Phil was disappointed, even when he didn’t say anything. He gets this look on his face when he- Anyway, Tommy was, was saying some things about Wilbur, and- that place I fell into was just awf- And, and I just- I just thought that-”

The ghost’s stammering became more and more incomprehensible, slowly fading out in that way it usually did when Ghostbur was starting to forget something.

Watching his expression become quietly distressed was painful in more ways than one, so Fundy cut him off. “It’s okay Ghostbur, you don’t gotta explain yourself if it hurts.”

If anything, his attempt at consolation only made Ghostbur more upset, dammit. “But that’s just it, Fundy! If, if it hurts for me, it must hurt so much more for everyone else!” He cradled his head in his hands like it hurt.

“Everyone was so excited today, everyone was working together, even after you and Phil had that falling out-”

Fundy flinched. He wouldn’t exactly describe being banished at sword point from Philza’s Arctic base without even a chance to try and explain himself as a simple ‘falling out’-

“-you still both came and no one was arguing and, and Eret was going to apologize and finally talk things over with Wilbur, and it was perfect but-”

Ghostbur’s face was wretched as his hands dropped, the picture of abject misery. “But it didn’t work, and that place was so empty, and I- I just don’t think I can do it, Fundy. I don’t want to go back there. I’m so so sorry.”

Fundy swallowed hard.

“That’s fine, Ghostbur,” and fuck, why was his throat so tight, why were his eyes stinging, “Nobody’s gonna force you if you don’t want to.”

The little ghost looks so pathetically grateful in that moment that Fundy has to turn away, has to look anywhere else lest something mortifying comes out of his mouth.

But his brain is a dirty traitor, so his eyes land back on the shitty sword, and all he can do is try to process.

Should he be angry to hear that?

Should he be relieved to hear that?

Fundy isn’t sure. He never really knows how he should feel, when Ghostbur is around.

On one hand, that’s his father, and a good day with his father back when he was alive was a day where talking to him – or arguing with him, more often than not – didn’t make Fundy angry enough that he couldn’t think straight for an hour.

On the other hand, Ghostbur can’t remember many of those days, good or bad. From what he’s said in the past, his memories of Fundy are all the scattered bright spots of their lives together; the day Fundy was born, the day they chose his name, their days in L’Manburg, little snippets here and there of jokes and teasing that had still been lighthearted, before a war and a presidency and a betrayal made all of their casual jabs carry jagged edges they hadn’t before.

Ghostbur is kind, and cheerful, and always wonderfully, terribly happy whenever Fundy is around to visit and talk to. A stark contrast to Fundy’s memories of the last few months of his father’s life, where the man was sullen, snappish, giddy and half-crazed one moment, menacingly calm and collected the next.

It’s an incredibly disquieting thing to think about, so Fundy doesn’t very often. Now, of course, he can’t help it; standing here, in this macabre, borderline cartoonish little shrine filled with all of the things that slowly drove the man into the grave, it’s impossible not to think of all the things that make the ghost of him so much better. And so much worse.

Because Ghostbur isn’t his father, and that is equally both a blessing and a curse.

Every conversation he has with Ghostbur just leaves Fundy feeling frustrated and a bit guilty, the two emotions spinning a waltz right in the middle of his guts until they’re twisted into knots.

Ghostbur’s entire existence is frustrating, but even in Fundy’s worst moods, he’s never wished ill on him.

In the end, all of these feelings of betrayal and heartbreak and anger are all Fundy’s alone to remember.

And that’s totally fine.

Yep.

Ghostbur was never actually involved with any of Fundy’s worst memories, so it wasn’t his job to try and fix anything between them.

It’s just on Fundy to deal with it.

And he can definitely do that.

Definitely.

Just, maybe some other time or somewhere else, far away from the stone that had once been stained with his father’s blood, with his literal murder weapon not in his hands.

Staring down at it right now is not doing Fundy’s emotional state any favors, thanks.

He breathes out unsteadily, holding the damn thing out horizontally with both hands, rather tempted to do- something unpleasant to it.

“Fundy?” Ghostbur asks from too close and very far away, voice echoing with confusion and worry. “Are you okay?”

But Fundy isn’t really listening.

He doesn’t want to accuse Ghostbur of anything when he doesn’t even know what he’s feeling. Arguing with Phil accomplishes diddly-fucking-squat.

But maybe-

He’s not really sure what he intends to do in the moment his grip tightens – the loud, stupid traitor part of his brain that always insists he yells louder during an argument to get his point across (as if anyone would actually listen) is clamoring for him to snap it over his knee like a twig, never mind how impossible that is with literal diamond – but it doesn’t really matter.

He is abruptly reminded why it is a rather bad idea to grab a sword by the blade end without reinforced gloves.

“Ah! Hell!”

Fundy curses vehemently under his breath, relaxing his grip quickly before he can do something even more stupid.

And then-

“Oh.”

He says it so softly.

Not scared, or sad, or panicked.

Ghostbur approaches and sees blood welling in between Fundy’s fingers, and he blinks like he just took a wrong step in a dark tunnel, and finally realized which way home was.

Blood drips down Fundy’s fingers and on to the sword, carving a path down where his father was run through, and drip-drops onto the ground still stained blue with evidence of a failed resurrection.

“Oh,” Ghostbur repeats quietly, and blinks out of existence.

“Wha-?!” Fundy jolts in surprise, which, ow, fuck, nearly slices his damn fingers off. He flings his empty hand further away from the diamond blade’s razor edge-

-just in time for Ghostbur to flicker back into view.

“Jesus Chr- dude! Hasn’t Tommy ever told you not to go invisible without warning like that?!” Fundy has to remind himself not to yell, because the ghost of his father he might be, he doesn’t actually want to start a fight right now.

Ghostbur doesn’t start stammering apologies immediately, doesn’t rush forward with a little bit of blue bandage to help Fundy feel better, doesn’t mumble in worry about forgetting something again because someone got hurt.

Maybe any of those should have been the first clue.

But Fundy doesn’t notice those clues right away, grimacing down at his bloody hand and looking for somewhere to put the damn sword that isn’t on the rack like some terrible trophy or on top of a stack of dynamite (why would they choose dynamite of all things to symbolize his father his traitor brain demands, why did Philza allow that, he should know better than anyone that guitars and books and warm sweaters would have done the trick of luring Wilbur in, that they had always made dad happiest back when he was younger and happier and not clawing at the walls of a tunnel and threatening to blow up the home he’d founded and built for himself and his friends and Fundy-).

“What?”

Fundy half spins, still looking for a suitable place to put the stupid fucking sword, looks up-

- sees a tall silhouette and his vision blurs for just a second; he blinks hard, shakes his head-

- does a double-take and freezes.

At the first glance, he was exactly the same as he was before; bright yellow sweater stained blue in a gruesome approximation of the fatal wound that took his last life over plain black pants, hair hidden by a beanie older than Fundy has even been alive, pale like snow with circles dark enough to be bruises underneath his eyes.

He was the same as he always is, except not anymore, because Fundy can actually see him. And he’s standing.

Not see through him. Not at a dull, washed out copy of the man that made a rather poor show of raising him. Not floating just slightly above the ground like he should be.

That’s not Ghostbur at all.

Fundy sees Wilbur, eyes wide and face entirely slack with shock, with skin flushed just slightly with color rather than lifelessly white.

He’s standing right there where Ghostbur used to be, not transparent, not desaturated,  not- not dead.

Is he dead? He should be. Why is he not-?

For one silent moment the world stands frozen on the edge of a knife, the two locked in a disbelieving staring contest.

Fundy blinks first. The man that should be a ghost is still not see-through, and full of more color than he should be.

The world has utterly ceased to make any sense.

Fundy’s fingers went numb.

Metal clanged unnoticed as that awful, ugly sword bounced off a brewing stand and hit the ground, splashing unremarkably into a puddle of mud.

Dead silence is left in its wake, broken only by the patter of rain that is suddenly so very far away.

Wilbur swayed a little on his feet. His face slowly contorted, warping Ghostbur’s final expression of gentle surprise into quiet, pained horror. His hands rose to press shaking fingers against his middle, where the appalling reminder of his violent end had always freely dribbled blue down his front like paint.

Fundy gaped back in response, ears ringing, heart pounding too fast and painful in his ribs, black spots eating at the corners of his vision- what is- why-

A slow, startled inhale became a choked, ragged gasp.

The specter that might have been a man stumbled.

Hurt and betrayal, anger and hatred; it all tumbled right out of Fundy’s spinning head.

One unsteady step forward-

- Wilbur’s knees buckled-

-and Fundy ran.

-.-.-

Miles and miles away in a place too dark too small too quiet, the walls glittered sickly in the light of magma sluggishly dripping over the only exit; a sticky, uncomfortable heat flooded the room only to be sucked away by the volcanic glass encasing it.

The room was utterly barren except for two things; a chest, and the resident seated upon it.

A lone young man sat hunched forward in the not-light of the lava-reflecting obsidian and stared blankly at the dark, dark walls around him.

Too still.

Too stiff.

Too quiet, quiet, quiet for far, far too long; all day, every day, ever since his favorite visitor had escaped and he’d been left all alone with nothing to play with again.

If someone were to look in at him, they might not even think he was breathing. Perhaps they would question, then, what the point was of such an elaborate cell for nothing more than a corpse.

But then-

-cold diamond slice through skin, warm blood drip-drip down, death become life again-

a movement, finally.

The young man’s blond head jerked upright, like a shock, like it was the first time in a long time that he had blinked awake.

His hungry green gaze swept his cell and fixed on the death trap that should have been a door, beyond even that, past weeping obsidian walls and wide empty fields, past the broad stretch of a long, long road to a country now lay in ruin, to a room of broken walls painted with the hope and suffering of the fathers and sons of one particular family.

For the first time in weeks, the young man’s eyes came to life with something beyond sheer boredom.

For the first time in an age, the god hidden under his skin did the same.

Dream and the shadow that shared his name stared wordlessly at the strange family reunion for one long heartbeat, then two.

Neither blinked.

They just tilted their head, curiosity personified; the closest either would come to admitting some semblance of surprise.

“Huh.”

#Dream SMP #Wilbur Soot #ItsFundy #fanfiction #my writing #in progress #fanfic rec #multi chapter

[huilian]

Dick wakes up to feel hands holding his own. His first thought is Damian, but they are too big for that. His second thought is Alfred, because who else can it be, but the shape of the hands is different than Alfred’s hands. 

Oh. Maybe. Was that real? Wasn't that just a hallucination? 

Dick decides that he is going to open his eyes. If it's a hallucination, he would rather he knows now rather than spend the entire day longing for that hallucination to be true. 

Slowly, Dick opens his eyes, already preparing himself to see nothing holding his hands. That was the case dozens of times before this, after all. But, it is not nothing that greets him. It’s the sight of black gauntlets engulfing his hands, and Dick’s breath catches. He lets himself hope it's not a hallucination. 

Dick's eyes stray from the gauntlet, moving towards the grey suit, unbelieving but hoping at the same time. The black symbol that lined that chest is real. The symbol is not real. The symbol is real. 

Is it real?

Dick forces himself to tear his eyes away from the symbol, going up and up, wanting to confirm once and for all that this is real. He hopes it's real. 

He doesn't dare hope that it's real. 

But then, the sight of Bruce’s face, lined and weary, but there, greets him. 

Bruce’s face.

He’s here. He’s alive.

Dick wasn’t dreaming, then. He was so scared that the strong arms on his shoulders as they were fighting Dr. Hurt had been a hallucination, brought by the blood clots on his brain. 

Bruce is here. He wasn’t hallucinating. 

He’s here, and he’s alive, and Dick… Dick had thought he was dead. 

The elation at seeing Bruce crumbles in an instant. 

Why had Dick thought Bruce was dead? Why had Dick believed that so easily? Bruce is Batman. He should have known, should have deduced that Bruce simply won’t succumb to that omega beam. Bruce is Batman, and Batman… Batman always finds a way. 

Dick, on the other hand, can’t even figure out that Bruce is still alive.

What a failure he is.

What a horrible son he is. 

He is, isn’t he? Tim scours the world to find clues about Bruce’s whereabouts, or, as it turns out, whenabouts. Cass actually does what Bruce asks her too and moves to Hong Kong. Even Damian tries so hard to live up to Bruce’s expectations. 

And Jason? Jason tries his best, considering everything that has happened to him. 

Dick doesn’t have that excuse. He purposely undermined Bruce’s legacy, all because Nightwing wasn’t enough. Nightwing has never been enough. He knows it when he failed to save Bludhaven, and he knows it when Commissioner Gordon looked so disappointed when he answers the batsignal. 

Dick puts on the cape and cowl against Bruce’s wishes and he doesn’t even do a good job with it. 

Everyone knows he’s different. Everyone wonders if he’s as good as the original Bat. Everyone keeps testing him, keeps telling him that he will never live up to the legacy. 

If it was him that was gone, Bruce would have known. Bruce would have continued the search. He would have accompanied Tim all around the world looking for him. He would have never stopped trying.

Is Dick such an awful son, that he doesn’t even consider searching for Bruce? That he accepts Bruce’s death just like that? 

A good son should have tried. A good son should have exhausted all of his means to find his dad. A good son should have accepted that his father is dead, just like that. 

Dick just… takes the news and believe it. He should have known. A body doesn’t guarantee that the person is dead, after all. Hasn’t he learned? Barry, Jason, Donna, Conner, even Clark. 

He should have known. He should have searched. 

Dick is a horrible son. 

Dick knows that Bruce knows that he’s awake, but Bruce doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t do anything, not even grabs Dick’s hand tighter. 

Is Bruce disappointed in him? 

He must be. Dick has done such an awful job. Putting on the cowl despite express instructions not to do so, failing to see the clues Bruce put up, letting the entire family go to ruins, making a mess out of Gotham, and allowing new villains to operate there. Professor Pyg. Dr. Hurt. Not to mention not being able to handle the rest of the rogues.

Bruce must have been so disappointed in him. Dick should have been better, tried harder, worked smarter. 

Dick opens his mouth, trying to find something to say to Bruce, but he can’t find anything. There’s no excuse, is there? Dick should have been better. 

He should have been better. He should have been a better son, a better brother, a better crime-fighter. He should have been better. 

Why Bruce keeps believing in him, even after Dick has failed him, time and time again, Dick doesn’t know. 

Bruce is not going to believe in him anymore, not after this mess. 

The thought choked Dick’s throat. Bruce is never going to believe in him anymore. How could he? Dick is a failure. 

But the second Bruce hears Dick crying, because apparently Dick can’t control even his own tears anymore, he says, “Hey, hey, what’s wrong, chum?” 

It’s supposed to calm him down, Dick knows, but Dick starts crying even harder once he hears that voice. His heart clenched from the thought that he once believed he would never hear that voice again. 

Bruce doesn’t say anything more, but Dick can feel him stroking his hand. That single point of contact makes Dick yearns for more. He wants Bruce to put his hand on his head, he wants Bruce to hug him, he wants Bruce to love him, but he knows he doesn’t deserve it. Not after his failures. 

Bruce probably knows too, and that’s why his dad is sitting so far out of reach. Bruce knows Dick doesn’t deserve it. This is probably just Bruce taking pity on him giving Dick this one last gift before Bruce retracts everything. 

It’s what Dick deserves. A horrible son, a lousy brother, an awful Batman; Dick doesn’t deserve Bruce’s love. 

But he wants it. Oh how much he wants it.

So, even though he knows he’s a failure, even though he knows that he should have known better from the beginning, Dick croaks out, “I’m sorry.”

The strokes stop. Dick closes his eyes. This is it. Bruce is going to tell him how disappointed he is at him. 

“What are you sorry for?” Bruce asks. 

He is going to make Dick spell it out, isn’t he? Bruce is going to make Dick say every single thing he has done wrong, and what he should have done instead. 

A whine bursts out of Dick’s mouth. He can’t do it. He can’t, he can’t. It’s bad enough that Bruce knows what a failure he is, but to make Dick say it? 

Bruce probably knows that, and is making Dick say it so that Dick will never do it again. 

“I didn’t check,” Dick forces himself to say. “I should have tested everything instead of just relying on DNA and on Clark’s words. I should have seen your clues. I-”

“No, Dick,” Bruce interrupts. 

“No?” Dick frowns. Oh. Maybe Bruce doesn’t care what happened to him. Maybe Bruce wants to know about how Dick has failed Gotham, how Dick has failed his oath, how Dick has thrown Bruce’s legacy away. 

“I countermanded your orders,” Dick tries again. “I didn’t take control of the city fast enough. I let them regroup and gave them time to attack back. I shouldn’t have let Jason take the initiative and force my hand. I-”

“No, Dick,” Bruce says again. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Than what do you mean, Bruce?” Dick pleads. “I know I messed up, okay, I know I should have done better. But what do you want me to say? What do you want me to apologize for?”

“I don’t want you to apologize,” Bruce says, voice as gentle as an afternoon breeze and as deep as a valley. “There is nothing for you to apologize for.”

“I-” Dick chokes out, unbelieving. What does Bruce mean, there’s nothing to apologize for? Dick has everything to apologize for. 

“Nothing, Dick. You did so well. So, so well.”

Dick gasps in a breath, feeling as if the weight of the world is lifted from his shoulders. He risks looking up to Bruce, and sees that Bruce means it. He actually means it. 

“How?” Dick whispers. “I messed everything up, Bruce.”

“No. You did so well. I am so, so, very proud of you.” 

Dick’s brain short-circuited. How could Bruce say that?

“In fact, I am sorry,” Bruce says. 

Dick’s short-circuited brain just combust. What does Bruce need to be sorry for?

“I should have seen it coming. I should have predicted the fallout and done something to prevent it. I should have done something with Jason, just like I should have done something with Damian. And most of all, Dick,” Bruce puts a feather-light hand on Dick’s cheek, “I should have never, ever, put all the weight on your shoulders. It’s not fair to you.” 

“I-.” Dick swallows before starting again. “You couldn’t have known.”

“The fallout? Perhaps not. But I still should have done something with Jay. I should have done something with Damian. I could list everything I should have done, that you do so, so well, Dick.” Bruce’s hand on his cheek moves to stroke Dick’s face. “You did so well. Better than I would have done.”

“Oh,” Dick says, still not fully believing it. But he is willing to take those words and run with it, because the other option? The other option is not acceptable. 

Bruce hums while still stroking Dick’s face, in a way he has never done since Dick first moved out. Dick finds himself leaning to it, missing it even when he doesn’t know he has missed it. 

“Get some rest, Dick. You’re still healing from the surgery,” Bruce says softly. 

And really, with that, how can Dick resist? He lets the drugs he doesn’t even feel before, too preoccupied with his own mind, pulls him back under. Bruce is here. He is here, he’s alive, and he’s not disappointed in Dick.

He’s proud, even. 

There is nowhere else Dick wants to be. 

#dc #dick grayson #bruce wayne #fic #lian writes #throwing this into the wild and hoping no one comes with hate for me

[firesofdainix]

all my wolves begin to howl, oh wake me up the time is now

Fragments of Jason's life before The Lost Hero.

.

His mother told him that she would be back, but it has been hours since he had last seen her and Thalia. He calls for them as he crawls through the Wolf House with his hands and feet. Then he starts to cry, and he feels his ordinary life, from his sister, his mother, tearing itself apart inside of him. As if his childhood is finally done, and a new life is ahead of him.

But still, Jason wishes to hold on, to hope that his mother and sister would come back for him. That fades when a lone howl pierces through his baby ears, and a figure steps out from the shadows.

Sadly, Jason wasn't afraid.

Sadly, Jason Grace was taken away from his old home to a new one with the wolves.

And the cycle continues.

Life with the wolves had been fun. Frolicking in the house where his mother and sister left him, spending the day in the woods trying to catch prey.

Lupa is quite a mother wolf, a strict one, but still a mother whom he barely remembers.

Finally, after months of training, Jason Grace at age three is now ready to face on the cruel world to find Camp Jupiter.

To say he didn't look back was not true. He did look back, to see another kid older than him being taught by the same wolves he considered as a family.

His family of wolves seem to have moved on like the family he barely remembered as a child.

They all look up at him, Jason Grace.

Jason Grace.

Son of Jupiter.

Jason Grace.

The King of the God's son, everyone says.

The son of a no good Dad, he wishes to say, but those words were stuck in his throat, refusing to come out.

He wonders if he'll just become like his father, which is his worst nightmare.

Instead of joining the First Cohort like everyone expected him to be, he joins the Fifth Cohort, filled with what they say, the sea of nobodies.

It's good to be a nobody.

The first time he got his mark, it hurts like Hades. There was a brilliant flash of light... and it's there now.

The eagle, symbolizing his father, the SPQR, and a line representing his first year.

The others say he'll get used to the pain.

He already did.

He just chooses to feel numb.

Being marked was supposed to be the most special time. It means that he is fully accepted into the legion, into the arms of the cohorts. He isn't a probatio anymore; he never is treated as one.

They try to make him join their cohorts.

Anything other than the Fifth Cohort.

And he just glares, because he knows they're not being any fair to the members of the Fifth Cohort.

Bigots.

Bullies. He hates them. He hates them all.

They think they're so high and mighty, picking on the younger probatios, but just one glare from Jason Grace and they'll be running another way.

Jason's just a kid.

A six year old.

Ten year olds run away from him.

Jason Grace tries to become a blank slate one time, resulting in him hearing most of the conversation of the bullies he had driven away.

"The Fifth Cohort thinks they're so powerful, just because Jason Grace is with them", one says.

"Just wait until Jason Grace realizes what he's done wrong and leave the Fifth Cohort", another one says.

Fury engulfs Jason. He didn't know what he was doing, unaware.

He didn't know he summoned lightning and killed three people on the spot.

He isn't a blank slate anymore.

Therapists are common in New Rome, of course. Some descendants of the gods had been involved in wars or had been put through many traumatizing moments throughout their life.

Jason thinks he doesn't count as any of those people.

He doesn't even know what war is supposed to be like.

No one here knows how much damage a war will cost.

"All right Jason", the therapist says in a warm voice, just like all the other therapists before her. "I want you to tell me what you have learned the past year in Camp Jupiter."

It was such a simple question. Jason didn't know where every thing went wrong.

"That the Fifth Cohort is the best cohort anyone has ever seen", Jason says nonchalantly.

The therapist nods slowly. Sooner or later she'll give up on him, like all the others. "Anything else."

"Everyone who tries to say other wise are bigots."

"Mister Grace, your language."

"What is even the point of this? To see if you think I regret killing those assholes a year ago."

The therapist nods. "Yes. You should be ashamed of yourself. We would've sentenced you to death-"

"But you don't want to, since I'm a son of Jupiter, is that right?"

The therapist doesn't reply.

It was his eighth birthday today, and everyone from all cohorts gave him a simple phrase of Happy Birthday.

No one asked him if he was fine.

No one dared ask him what happened in the ward.

He just wants to talk to someone, anyone.

He was elevated to a centurion of the Fifth Cohort, along with Dakota.

Together they kill bassilisks in the temples, and lead the war games with their comrades.

Jason is the reason why sometimes, the Fifth Cohort always win in the war games.

Twelfth Legion doesn't bring pride to Jason at all.

He has no idea to why everyone would be okay to be called 'the twelfth best legion'.

Now that he's a centurion, maybe he can change the minds of the campers of Camp Jupiter.

Rename it to First Legion, he says.

They're hesitant.

He knows why.

Only Octavian stands in the way.

He has no Roman pride.

He only has pride within himself.

Octavian was handpicked as the augur and it made Jason's blood boil.

How could he become an augur? Why had their praetors done this? Do they know how much political power and blackmail Octavian has?

Maybe that's why.

The praetors were also scared by his absolute power.

Jason cannot let him be a praetor given a time.

Then a marvelous and life threatening idea looms over his head.

Yes.

That's how it's going to be.

Jason is standing over Octavian's lying body, blankets covering most of it.

Jason was holding his ILVIS sword, tightly too.

He's going to kill Octavian.

He's going to do it.

He trudges over the legacy of Apollo's bed, but something stops him.

Jason regrets stopping because after that Octavian yells something about murder.

He jumps off the window and into the night.

Fuck you hesitation.

Reyna Avila Ramirez-Arellano.

That's her name.

A daughter of the war goddess Bellona.

That's nice.

She loves Diocletian as much as he does, and they'd stare at portraits everyday while getting lost at the subject of history.

That's good.

She's also his first friend.

That's the best news.

Reyna's been acting strange lately.

After that little quest, their relationship was never the same.

What did that woman do to Reyna?

Sure, they were still talking, but Reyna seems to be distant, as if thinking of something.

Being wary around Jason Grace.

But Jason tries not to give up, trying to still rebuild their friendship.

"So, you're Bryce Lawrence." Jason looks at the boy with the mix of disgust and indignance.

This-this no good son of Orcus really thinks that a little murder is entertainment.

He should've been dead, but his family is one of the most influential families in all of New Rome.

They can't just execute him and face his angry relatives.

But he was a goddamn psychopath.

Gods, Jason already hates him.

A lot of Roman campers have been missing lately.

The praetors said that they were rewarded a quest by the augur.

But they don't come back after a week.

Jason sighs as he flips his coin, transforming it to a sword.

He's going to find those campers and bring them back here.

Jason didn't know what got into him.

One moment, he was fighting a dracaena and another moment he was fighting one of his own kin, a demigod.

But the demigod isn't Roman.

He said he was a son of Hermes.

And he looks a lot like him.

Who is he?

And how could he do this to his Roman kind?

"Join me, Jason", he says.

Luke.

His name is Luke.

"Together we can tear Olympus apart stone by stone!"

Jason shoots lightning at him, but he seems unharmed.

At the end of the day, he fed the traitor Romans to the sharks.

Nico.

Nico di Angelo.

That was the Ambassador of Pluto's name.

People were wary of him.

Jason? He wasn't wary of Nico.

Finally, a cousin.

He seems secretive, but that's alright.

Jason has a lot of secrets.

And one day Nico brings Hazel, also a child of Pluto.

He cherishes them both.

There's a battle.

And he's in it.

Everyone is in it.

Against the Titan Kronos who has escaped from Tartarus.

He didn't tell anyone about that Greek demigod.

But before they go to New York, they have to face Krios first in Mount Othyrs.

It's going to be a long battle.

Their praetors are dead, and many are wounded.

Everyone is panicking, and Jason and Reyna tries to stop them from that.

Reyna comes up with battle tactics, and Jason is quite proud of her.

They march into Krios' domain, where they're faced with a dragon and the Hesperides.

Reyna kills them singlehandedly as the legion descends into battle.

Jason reaches Krios, and that is where it gets messy.

Hand-to-hand combat.

Why is Jason so impulsive?

His face burns.

His legs are tiring.

His right arm is broken.

And the entire legion is watching them, weapons ready.

They want to see if he lives or dies.

He looks up at the sky as he finally kneels for what felt like years, exhaling.

His lungs are burning.

His heart is beating too fast for his own good.

He feels blood on his face, and his eyes hurt.

He finally prays to his dad for the first time in his life.

And he's overcome with strength he had when he and the Romans scaled Mount Othyrs.

Krios is disintegrating, slowly but surely. He growls, but Jason just kicks him in the face.

"Who even are you?", Krios spits out.

Jason smirks. "I'm Jason fucking Grace bitch. And you'll remember me for centuries."

He watches Krios fully disintegrate with a self satisfied smirk.

And he faces his comrades, all full of amazement or intimidation.

Reyna starts to clap.

Sooner or later everyone starts clapping.

They made him and Reyna praetors of the first legion.

He dreams.

He dreams of his achievements, of his mother and sister, of his family.

But something is still missing.

In all his life, he never called anything a 'home', or a 'family'.

Even in Camp Jupiter, where it was supposed to feel at home, he never feels like it.

He finds Juno staring at him with a smile.

No.

He cannot be used as a pawn ever again.

Juno chuckles.

"It is your time now, little hero. Your destiny awaits."

No.

NEVER AGAIN.

Who is he again?

Where is he?

What is he doing here in a bus, in the middle of wilderness?

He feels something warm on his hand, and he looks over to see-

The most beautiful girl he's ever met.

And, suddenly, he feels a pang of hope, that maybe, just maybe, he will find a home and family.

Maybe is a strong word.

"Jason? Are you alright?"

#mine #fanfic #Heroes of Olympus #jason grace #I LOVE JASON GRACE #dark! jason #like i love that concept #some grimdark stuff here

[tenyatrash]

Day 2: A House on Fire

This is my entry for Day 2 of the BNHA Noir Week 2019. Tumblr hates my ao3 links so let’s try this instead. @bnha-noir-week Heist, Fatale, Detective

In which Fuyumi and Touya take back control of the narrative. This one didn't exactly meet the prompt as much as I would like, but it's as close as I could get and I like it too much to orphan it, so here's some noir-lite. Come for the twins pulling off a heist, stay for the fatale/detective pair up. 

Ships: BG Fuyumi Todoroki/Ryuko Tatsuma

Characters: Fuyumi, Touya, and Enji Todoroki + Ryuko Tatsuma

Rating: Teen (Some lang, references to past abuse)

Word Count: 2925

It was a hot one, a scorcher of a day that’s left a memory of fire radiating off the pavement even now, hours after the sun disappeared. Slithering heat and muggy night air swirl into a heavy fog that tries to paint the city white and pure, but it fails. Nothing can hide these sins.

This world vibrates with a sickness that skitters just below the surface, coating everything in bitter bile, destroying everyone, one way or another. Some are destroyed by simple violence, quick knives in the dark. They’re the lucky ones, if anyone can be called lucky here. Everyone else? They sit and stew as the corruption eats away at them like rust.

There’s a pair of prowlers on the town tonight, eyes and hearts hardened to cut out a spreading cancer. It’s a night of reckoning for a family name that shoulda been put down long ago.

Pine needles crunch underfoot, sap oozing into the dirt path that marks the road to so many memories, all of them as dark as the oppressive and moonless night. Fuyumi pushes back her bangs and picks her way across the garden that she was never allowed to enjoy, to the house of the Father she was never allowed to escape. She’d smile in bitter triumph, if she remembered how.

There’s a hand at her back now, burning too hot, fingers tapping a steady beat against her spine.

“Pick up the pace, will ya? Pops ain’t gonna be away forever, and yous the one who said no violence.”

Fuyumi looks over to her twin. He’s a scary looking one, alright. The kinda mug folks on the up-and-up cross the street to avoid, the kinda heel soft chippies would gossip ‘bout, bed, and then hide like some kinda dirty secret. Meanwhile, the same skirts are always falling over themselves after the sonofabitch that did it. Just more proof that this world is rotten.

They’ve all got scars of Enji’s ambition, his are just on the outside, is all. Enji got smarter after that, or maybe Touya was just the bravest of them. Either way, dear ol’ Dad learned to keep his abuse strictly need-to-know after that. Learned to hurt, to control, to destroy, all without leaving a mark. Not that anyone would bother to investigate anyway.

Not when every two-bit political wannabe and too-blind copper saw him as some kinda hero.

Fuyumi slides the door open. Just like Pops to not check after his own home security. To assume no one would challenge him, least o’ all here in his pretty little estate. It’s the same arrogance that bred them, after all. Lord, they’re going to enjoy watching the place light up, all pretty blue flames and falling ash.

Touya is eager to start, fingers already caressing awards and photos, skin shivering as they smoke and char. It’s all a lie and God does it feel good to let it burn. A happy family, a heroic life-- filthy deceit that mocks them with every pose and word of commendation. He’s a hero, huh? That what you think, Mr. Mayor, Sir? Then why don’t you try living with him.

Try being a child under that roof.

The two twins slide through the house like shadows, feet still remembering all the steps, remembering which boards creak and which doors groan. They had to learn early, how to hide. How to be silent and unseen. All that training, all that pain, and for what?

To make them big goddamn heroes?

Nah. Turns out, he’d been training them for this heist their whole lives. He mighta been able to catch ‘em, to stop ‘em, to contain ‘em...if he’d cared enough to notice, that is. As it is though, he’s just going to have to say goodbye to all this shiny scratch and all the dreams he had for this name.

Touya’s got his predisposition for fire, and Fuyumi’s got matches, accelerant, and a dream.

First stop is the study. It’s all mahogany slabs and stiff stools, designed so everyone but the kingpin himself can experience stress and smallness and pain. What kinda way is that to do business, much less raise kids? What kinda notes do you give your interior designer when building a room like that? ‘See pal, I wanna room that screams gangster, but you know, classy and legit and all. Wanna keep everyone on their toes.”

Sheesh. They could make a fortune on the book rights alone, if this was any kinda just world. As it is though, Fuyumi knows they’d get buried by law hounds and dirty money the second they so much as pitched the idea. Reputation and respect are the only currency Enji trades in, and if you threaten that, he comes down on you like the fires of hell.

Just ask Touya. Or Ma.

They fiddle with the safe, bad memories making ‘em antsy to get this job done and dusted. Neither knows the code. Not like Enji would trust ‘em with it. After all, they were barely worthy of taking his name, much less accessing his secrets. Lady Luck loves making a fool outta a fella though, and it’s not long before the too-weak twins have their hands on secrets Pops would have done anything to hide.

Fool set the combination as the date his poor “masterpiece” Shouto started manifesting his gifts to the world. It was the third set of numbers they tried. Once this place was ash and his legacy was crushed, Fuyumi hoped she’d have the chance to lean in, real close, and let him know just how his empire came crumbling down.

Let him know that it all came down to his own damn failing. His played-out narcissism and twisted family pride.

They sort through documents and trinkets. It’s all here. Sheathes of paper on the special training they all had to endure, notes from doctors that expressed concern, before blood money overwhelmed their morals, even a dowry arrangement that looks damn sure like a bill of sale.

Touya is more than a little amazed. It’s like Christmas, but happy for once. “What kind of no-good scoundrel does shit like this, then keeps records?”

Fuyumi frowns down at the papers in her hands. She should be pleased. It’s what they’ve been after this whole time, right? But all these names...she wasn’t prepared for that. She might be playing at being a hood tonight, but she’s lived her life more or less on the right side of the law, more or less with faith in people.

And now there’s this. A whole damned mountain of names, of people who knew something sick and twisted was brewing in this house, and who did absolutely nothing to stop it. Hell, even Ma’s parents were in on it, selling her off like a broodmare. Something twists in her gut and all the sudden, she thinks she understands why Touya comes home sometimes, smelling like gunpowder and copper blood.

He sees red, but she feels ice. Ice creeping up her veins and into her heart, that small and abused thing that beats with love, that never seems to learn better. Never protects itself. They all knew. They all knew and they did nothing. Long as the image stayed shiny like the coins that passed hands, they were happy to send them all to the slaughter.

At some point, Touya starts rubbing circles across her palms, gently prying away the documents from her death grip. He helps bring her back to reality, to the job they’ve got to do. She’s not a helpless little girl anymore, and he’s not a throwaway kid. Damn but it’s chilly in here.

There’s no way to heal a festering wound like this one, but at least they can get even. Can show the whole world exactly what they’ve been complicit in. And Fuyumi’s not just interested in taking down Enji. No, she wants them all. Every single patsy and punk who let themselves be bought.

It all clicks in place. That’s why he kept the evidence. Insurance. Pops was never going to go down alone. No, if he got caught, he’d take the whole damn place with him. Fuyumi has no problem making that last request come true.

She wants them to burn too.

They move on, mirror images splitting in two to check the rest of the house. It’s just as impersonal as they remember, with more shadows than furniture and more blood than memories. When he squints into the cloaking night, Touya can swear he can still see the scorch marks from his last training session out in the yard.

Fuyumi touches his arm. They start the fire in two places. Touya begins in the dojo, letting steam and tears lift off his body like all those unanswered prayers, body convulsing as he watches the sparring mats and training dummies that engulfed his childhood be engulfed by flames. Fuyumi begins in Enji’s bedroom, getting drunk on the smell of gasoline as she douses the bed and lets the barren room be swallowed up.

She does it for Mother, who laid on that bed until her body and mind were broken by a man she never loved. She does it for Touya, who destroyed his body and fractured his mind trying to meet standards that he could never reach. She does it for Natsuo, who was called worthless from the start. She does it for Shouto, the masterpiece who never asked for any of this, who spent so long in a gilded cage that he forgot how to feel. And most of all, she does it for herself.

For the girl who did the best she could, who was never enough. Who wasted years trying to tiptoe around a dragon, who blamed herself every time the world descended into flames. For the woman she is, and the woman she could have been.

She spends an eternity looking into the licking flames before Touya, who has more experience in these kinds of things, pulls her out of the room and out of the shuttered home. They leave the lot, no glance spared back until they reach a high hill a few blocks away, at a distance Touya declares safe.

They don’t sit. They stand and they stare and they watch the harsh beauty of orange and blue flames dancing across the collapsing roof and black smoke rising above the murky white fog that still blanketed the lower-lying parts of the city.

They don’t feel the release they had hoped for, but they feel a type of validation, and that’s enough. At least for tonight, their once-home is just as ugly as hellish outside as inside. A four-alarm fire that can’t be ignored. No one gets to turn away. Not tonight.

---

It’s morning, when Ryuko finally makes it home from the clubhouse, just long enough to grab a shower and a bite to eat. Her shift had been held over last night. Whole damn city was losing its mind over that fire especially when some loose-lipped recruit let it slip that the whole thing was cut-and-dry arson.

Ryuko shakes her head and steps into the shower, rivulets of water washing her skin clean but doing nothing to unlock the dark swirls of smoke that clung to her hair and pores. She shudders at the memory of Old Man Todoroki himself, all claws and fire and vitriol as he pushed through the wreckage of his ancestral home. Man damn near started a whole new inferno when he opened the scorched safe and found it empty.

Detective Tatsuma had been sent over, boot-licking superiors and ashen-faced patrol boys offering her as a sacrifice to his anger.

“Come on, you’re shackled to his baby girl. Makes sense you’d be the one to interview him-”

Ryuko had resisted the urge to fill them in on just how much Enji and Fuyumi would hate that characterization, but had trooped forward anyway, too tired to fight for rationality. It’s a losing battle anyway, and it ends up not mattering, at all.

Enji claims the safe was always empty. Nothing is missing. He’s lying like a cheap suit. It doesn’t matter. His word is law, after all.

Ryuko closes her notebook, nods her head, and feigns deference as the hero stomps off, no doubt eager to take out his rage on whatever poor chump is planning on breaking the law today. Once her towering Father-in-Law leaves, she peeks into the safe herself.

It’s bare, that true, but not totally empty. Sitting in the middle of safe like some kinda proposal is a single metal staple. Looks surgical. Ryuko takes note of it before slamming the door shut.

If Enji doesn’t care about who robbed and ravaged him, why should she? Sure, she’ll go through the motions, maybe even catch the doers. But she’s not going to kill herself. Not on a case like this, a one without a real victim.

The shower ends. The house still reeks like smoke and something squirms against the back of her mind as she steps into their bedroom and leans down to press a kiss into Fuyumi’s tousled hair.

Lord love her, but she looks like death warmed over. Ryuko feels a stab of regret. That was Fuyumi’s home, and Ryuko hadn’t been there to deal with whatever emotions hearing about it burn must have elicited. Fuyumi’s never been that forthcoming about her family, and Ryuko has never pressed. Didn’t want to seem like a fame groupie. But surely, there’d been memories there, tokens that Fuyumi might have wanted to take with her. And now some nameless, faceless thug had ripped that away from her.

She’ll make it up to her. She’ll find the arsonist, maybe even find answers. It’s the least she can do.

---

Out in the boonies, Touya’s got one last bit of trash to take out, one last crusade before he can maybe put all this filth behind him. He knew Endeavour would take the bait. Had to, with all he had to lose. He wouldn’t drag Fuyumi into this darkness. Sure, she was mad. And she has just as much right as he. But he’s already lost, his soul already in tatters. He doesn’t mind adding another mark to his debts.

He hears Pops before he sees him, skin simmering and crackling like a bull under a sweltering sun. His ears got trained a long time ago, to recognize that sound and flee from it, but he’s not a kid anymore. Whatever innocence he had was burned to nothing on the floor of that house, under the heel of his no-good progenitor. He stands tall yet disrespectful, scarred hands jammed into soot-stained jeans, a smirk chasing away the tiredness and fear of his eyes.

“Yo, Endeavor. Long time no see.”

There’s a roar. Charming.

The man who was once Touya laughs darkly as hands close around his throat. Well, this isn’t exactly how he saw this going, but he’s nothing if not adaptable.

“You sure that’s your move, Sir?”

Enji realizes there’s no loot bag. No scraps or scrips. He releases the boy who was once his son.

“What’s your game, boy?”

Dabi smiles all lazy and languid. What is his game? Ha, it’s hard to even remember. Oh, right. He’s at a crossroads now.

He could kill the man. Fuyumi would forgive him, and maybe he’d finally be free. His mind flickers forward, already seeing the State Funeral and hearing the cloying speeches of sycophants and snakes. His jaw tenses, metal scraping and clinking with every roll of his neck. Nah, he don’t wanna see that, not at all. A sight like that, no telling what it would do to a man. Nasty things, probably.

He feels his sanity start to slip, just a bit, like a pickpocket's just rifled through his head. He needs to get clear of this, and as good as it would feel to smother those flames once and for all, he can’t let him die a hero.

There’s some things that are just beyond bearing.

That leaves him with his second option. A more….poetic type thing. An execution of public sentiment, if not of the man himself. He ruffles a hand through sooty hair and smiles and Enji glowers at him.

“My game? Gee, I guess...I just wanna rob the house. Prove it can’t always win.”

“Talk sense, or don’t talk at all.”

Touya flicks a spent cigarette into a grimy barrel, still slick with the oil that powers this city, that keeps all these poor bastards rolling to and fro, as if anything really matters. As if they’re good people. As if they’re in control. He hops up on to a railing and starts to teeter before giving a false salute and dropping down to the street below.

“You’ll see.”

Enji stares at the spot for a long time, not sure if he’s more concerned or calmed by the lack of body. He doesn’t trust Touya, how could he? But a body is a hard thing to explain. It’s one thing to have a son who ran away, maybe to Europe, maybe to love. It’s another thing entirely for the corpse of a known hardened triggerman to fall at your steps. To look so much like you.

Enji’s still staring when the newspaper inquiries start to come.

They want to know about the fire, and the safe, and the strange articles and evidence that are hitting papers and precincts all over the city.

He grinds the phone into dust.

#bnhanoirweek2019 #bnha fanfiction #todoroki fuyumi #todoroki touya #endeavors bad parenting #my writing

[sclfmastery]

The Choice 

Skype rp  @mostincrediblechange as the Thirteenth Doctor sclfmastery as the Simm!Master.

Melancholy hangs in the air like a fog. It makes the whole TARDIS seem grey and gloomy. Her hearts are heavy and her usual fire and enthusiasm is lacking, but even so, she feels his weariness too and wants to help.

"Kosch... d'you mind if I join you? I... I don't feel very well," she admits, finding it hard to describe how she's feeling. It's as if she had a bad dream that she can't quite remember... but the feeling lingers. **********

The Master turns to the Doctor, a dull aimlessness in dark brown eyes a tell-tale sign of his own melancholy. But he forgets himself with her earnest request for comfort.  He stands, wearing an oversized hoodie, and opens his arms. He closes the distance between them and gently engulfs her.  He kisses her eyebrows.  "I love you, Thete."  

Such a simple straightforward declaration, gentle and sweet. "I charge whatever saddens you to take a hike, presently."   He kisses her forehead three times.

***********

The Doctor folds herself into his embrace, hiding her face in his neck and breathing in the scent of his skin.

She loves him too, more than her own existence. That's why it plagues her, days like these... Where she feels inferior. Days where she's reminded of her failings and weaknesses. Her cowardice.

She wonders if there won't always be some part of him that secretly expects her to abandon him again someday...

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "You deserved more from me. You still do. I'm sorry I failed you. Hurt you. I swear, though, I'd die first before hurting you again..."

**********

He bunts foreheads with her, with the saddest expression, and nuzzles her face with his nose.  

"Me too," he breathes, afraid to speak louder for fear of his voice shaking. "Me too, angel."

**********

The sound of his voice springs tears to her eyes and she pulls back, cupping his face. She doesn't try to stop them from falling or her voice from wavering as she speaks.

"I did this to you. It's my fault. How can you ever forgive me for leaving you behind? For... For confirming everything you had ever feared about yourself?" That he was unlovable, unwanted, broken, degenerate, monstrous...

"I don't deserve this miracle life... I don't deserve this happiness or our daughter or you..." But she wouldn't let anyone or anything take him away, for his sake more than hers. She would protect him with everything she had.

**********

"I can forgive you because you are part of me, and if I want to survive, which I always do, then I must forgive myself.  I can forgive you also, because every good thing in my life is your doing, too.  Every single thing that has ever made me happy came from you, sweethearts."  

He cups her face in his hands, as he so often does. He runs his thumbs up and down her cheeks, from the bottom of her eyes down to her jaw.  

"You deserve happiness. If I do, then you do absolutely.  You take your suffering and mistakes and try to turn them into learning, and try to exalt others. I've lurked in shadows and torn people down to ease my own hurt.  I would not have had a chance at pulling myself back up out of darkness if it hadn't been for you.  You are not perfect, but you do, you absolutely do, bring hope with you. Wherever you go. Natural as breathing. It's almost like bright little flowers grow where you've trod.  Freckling an otherwise dingy ground with color."  

"Never doubt that you leave things better than you found them, my love of loves."  

**********

She opens her mouth, but all that comes out is a pitiful sob and the Doctor cries.

She does not weep openly often, but her hearts and soul ache with a raw, cloying regret that drags at her very being. Theta Sigma, as she is, as she has been, buries her face in her husband's chest and sobs, finding comfort in his words and touch and promise.

Thank you. My best friend in existence. My Koschei. My Kookaburra. I'll be what you need. I swear.

***********

He holds her so tightly and so closely that she nearly disappears in his embrace, against his soft frame, held securely in firm arms.  There's a fierce sincerity in his hold, one that protects her from anything external to their bracketed bubble of two.  

You already are. **********

I should have been much sooner.

She pulled back and wiped her tears on her sleeve, staring up at him with a quiet determination in her eyes.

"I love you. You deserved better from the start..."

**********

He seizes her wrists.

"I don't like that look on your face. Whatever you're planning, don't.  I don't want any alternative to this. What we have now. I don't want anything jeopardizing US. Not just any us, THIS us.  We are sacred.  This is sacred. To me.  Let me decide please, what happens to me, just once. Please."

**********

She tugs feebly at her wrists, her expression pained.

"But it was my fault. Everything that happened between us. All the centuries of hating each other, of fighting. We were friends. We were in love when we were boys. That shouldn't have ever ended. I shouldn't have let you slip away!"

More tears fell. "I could fix it. I could keep us together. It would save you so much pain. Save you the drums, save us so much time... We could have a home, we could have our home, under our favorite tree... We could raise our children under that tree... I could do it. I know I could fix it... Please, Koschei..."

**********

"No, my sweet Theta.  Oh, Goose.  Would you let me do anything that might erase me from your timeline? Of course not. And I won't say yes to anything that might change who we are now.  I won't let you tamper with your own timeline.  Love, you're so focused on the present and the future, but you must remember that the past you say you wish to honor can't be edited and tweaked for a potentially speedier route to happiness.  We honor the good times but also the scars we acquire.  I am who I am because I had to fight.  And I love him.  And I love him BECAUSE of YOU. And  I love YOU. Not some version of you that you think would've been more optimal.  I might as well not exist, if you're not you.  I might as well have died in infancy.  No. We got here the way we were meant to."

He smooths all her hair back from her face and kisses her forehead again.  

"A wise person once told me that witnessing the universe and everything in it was 'ownership enough.'  You didn't need to control it."

"You can't fix everything, my friend. My best friend. You can only love what's there already."

**********

"But I wouldn't be erased, neither would you... We would be as we should have been from the start," she argued weakly.

But she knows in her hearts he is right. She can't go back. Even if she could tamper with their timeline, who could tell what events might have driven them apart? And if she did something that somehow undid their life together now, erased Zinnia from existence...

"I'd give anything to go back and undo some of the painting I caused you. I hope you know that. I was wrong. I was so wrong. And I'm scared that part of you still feels I might leave again."

********** As he watches her struggle it becomes crystal clear to Koschei that he must overcome all his insecurities, once and for all, and his self-loathing too, not for himself, but for HER.  He must do so in order for her to be able to move forward and forgive herself.

"I will never lie to you again. So I must tell you, I have my bad days.  My days of doubt and insecurity.  But they are because of ME, MY hangups, MY weak spots.  They are not your doing. But darling. I'm going to work on myself. Every day. I'm going to make a mission of it.  And one day you won't recognize a residue of pain in me at all."

His forehead presses to hers again.  

"I'm going to succeed, in your honor.  I'm going to be a legacy to your mission.  You're going to look at me one day and see nothing but cause to be happy, and secure.  No more guilt.  No more regret."  

**********

She reaches up and touches his face, her hazel gaze filled with hope and love and absolutely undying devotion.

"My Koschei. My best friend in the universe. You are entitled to your pain. You are entitled to your history. That's why I won't try to change it, because you asked me not to. If you work on yourself, I would rather it be for you, for your own happiness and self-security than to appease my guilt."

She stands on her toes and kisses him. "I already see nothing but a cause to be happy. I look at you and I see my best friend, my husband, my bondmate, my lover. I see my past and my future. All the good and bad come together to make this... this perfect life.  I want to help you heal, but for your sake, my love. Not my own."

**********

"But it is! DARLING."

He squeezes her around the waist, tight against him.

"Goose, I can't be happy unless you are.  Making you happy IS for me."  

He smiles dotingly, beams at her as she pulls in for the kiss, and returns it ferociously.

"Mmmm.  What wonderful things you say to me."  

He leans in and whispers against her ear:

"I have never been happier than I am now."   He pulls back and pats his stomach.  "LOOK at me!  I've got extra padding! I've never been fat and happy.  Not until now!  HehHAH.  Tell me I'm a hot dad, Goose."

********** He is so boisterous, so beautifully ridiculous that she can't help but laugh a watery laugh.

The Doctor wipes her eyes again and nods, taking heart in his words.

"Of course you are. The hottest dad in the universe. You still get me all hot and bothered easy."

********** "Yeh, I KNOW," he trumpets, hands on hips, with a diabolical grin.  "And all you've gotta do is go 'round in that shirt braless; or let me pull on your suspenders; oooor get really bossy and angry.  Or let me chew on your ear.  Or.  You know. Smile, or. Breathe.  A pause.  "That's really not fair, actually. Really unreasonable.  Never stop." **********

She giggles, snorting a little bit, and pressing her little body closer to him.

"I loov you, Kookaburra. My hot dad husband. Actually, coom here, nibble on my ear. Let me boss you around a bit."

**********

Koschei sniggers deviously, rubs his hands together and tickles his fingers down his Theta's sides.  He leans across her and takes her earlobe into his mouth, tonguing it, alongside the little joined-hands charm, and the chain.  "Mmm. Yes ma'am." 

**********

The Doctor shudders and squirms a bit under his touch, her nails taking down his chest.

"God, the things you do to me... Wanna go make another baby, love? Be twice the hot dad you were before."

********** He absolutely PLUMES to twice his size, like some sort of Miyazaki protagonist, at her suggestion.  His chesire grin splits his face.  " Yes I would."

#thoschei #thirteenxsimm #thirteensimm #save tag

[yellowcatcassette]

How to Become a Hitman

You know that question you’ve always been asked as a child? It goes something like, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

When I was a child, at first I didn't know that whenever you are asked that question, you are suppose to answer what kind of career or job you want to have. When someone asked me just what I wanted to be, my answer was simple. I wanted to be me, Satiné, forever. Sure, if I ever marry someone, if I love someone enough, if I ever find someone I love that much, I would let them change my last name. But as I child, I resolved to always be Satiné.

And they made me change my answer. Because apparently, just being me wasn't good enough. No one cares about who you are when you’re an adult. It's all about what job you have and how you make a living. That's what supposedly defines an adult. Either that or my answer was rejected because I couldn't pronounce my own name right when I was younger. Yeah, it wouldn't have been right to let a child go around saying, “I wanna be Satan when I grow up.” 

But Matthias had an acceptable answer. I’m the older sibling, yet whatever he says is always the right thing. Not that I am jealous or anything. His answer back then was just as good as mine.

When he was a child, Matthias wanted to be a hitman.

And of course that was the better answer. Matthias didn't want to be just Matthias when he grew up. He wanted to be dad.

Matthew Dauch, the best hitman in the business. About a hundred or so lives were taken by him. It wasn't just his way of putting food on the table. It was his passion. He was wholeheartedly devoted to serving his clients with unexpected death. And fervor just makes half the hitman. His skill and expertise made the old standards skyrocket. Even the most clean freak hitman cannot manage to leave without the smell of blood and torn flesh lingering. But dad, he left absolutely nothing behind. No one ever heard his targets scream when he attacked. But in most cases, somehow everyone knew it was him. A death scene left so spotless could not be the work of any other. People theorized that he wasn't even human and simply swallowed his targets in one gulp. But I can assure you that's not true. Dad was just that good at disposing of people. 

Before I was nine, all the kids would know me as Satiné Dauch, the daughter of the ultra-cool Matthew Dauch, a hero to all. Mess with her and you'll mess with Matthew Dauch. If he’s cool and better than everyone else, then so must she be.

When my dad was killed, however, then I become known as Satiné Dauch, daughter of the ultra-lame Harlem Dauch, the quiet, ugly widow who runs the boring thread shop. Mess with her and you'll- well, actually, no one ever comes to mom’s shop anymore. So I suppose charging an extra 15% on your purchase of plastic needles isn't as threatening as losing your life. It doesn't matter, mom would never do anything even like that. She’s too soft. Too mom.

Speaking of mom, she was the one thing dad would give up being a hitman for. I don't know what someone like him ever saw in mom, but it was enough to make him quit his career, help take care of her tiny shop, and raise two docile children. In other words, she made him weak and vulnerable. Even so, dad’s legacy lived on after his retirement, as did the jealousy of his rivals. So one day, years after dad “settled down,” as mom calls it, bullets shattered the shop window and dad’s rival hitmen (who, when you were as famous and successful as the great Matthew Dauch, was pretty much every hitman out there) tore his body to untidy shreds. Understandably, common hitman sense justified the kill and none of the involved assassins faced charges.

Sounds traumatic, right? What a harsh reality a child must suffer, they said behind my back. But me, I didn't cry. If anything, I consider having such bloodthirsty enemies like dad had to be an honor. But of course, mom, being mom, cries even today.

Matthias told me a year after the incident occurred and when he finally learned how to speak that he knew about the conspiracy against dad before he was killed. Apparently, he heard it from one of his teacher aids who was dating a nameless hitman and couldn't keep her mouth shut. How unfortunate- the only member of the family who knew of dad’s impending death couldn't talk until he was seven.

But let's move on from my dad. I've boasted about him enough. This is Matthias’ legend. Well, it will become a legend one day. For now, it’s a tale only I can start.

Becoming a hitman was just the beginning, because Matthias wanted to be exactly like dad. And he needed to, because there was no way mom could also play the father of the Dauch family. Problem is, as a child, Matthias was nothing like dad. Dad was confident, poised, graceful, and clever. Matthias was timid, clumsy, and took decades to understand a simple pun. And now that that Matthias has grown up, he is pretty much the same Matthias. Since Mom became even more pathetic after dad was killed, she provides lousy support for Matthias’ hitman dreams. Looks like it's up to me to make this kid a proper hitman.

So how does one set himself up in the hitman industry, you ask? Well, allow me, Satiné Dauch, a member of the soon to be Dauch Hitman Dynasty to describe the process in a few easy steps.

First things first, you have to pick your hook. You need a theme, something that makes you stand out among the hundred other hitmen out there. Pick a stage name if you need that extra boost.

Dad’s thing, shadow manipulation, will never be topped. Imagine this: you're sitting at home watching Saturday Night Live and are on your third slice of cheesecake. It occurs to you that the shadows cast by your recliner, your flat screen, and your coffee table seem to be engulfing your own shadow. Suddenly the silhouette of Matthew Dauch appears on your vomit colored carpet and the real Matthew Dauch appears behind you. The last thing you see is a shadow puppet show on the floor depicting the gory fate you're about to meet. Dad’s stage name was, in fact, Puppeteer in the early years of his career. Soon enough, after becoming so well known, he went by his own name, and by doing so his ordinary name suddenly held more weight and power.

Matthias is all around just as boring as mom, so we had trouble trying to figure out what his hitman motif should be. We were sitting in mom’s shop one afternoon when Matthias picked up a spool of red thread and suggested he could be a sewing themed hitman. At first I thought that was a stupid idea. But in an attempt to persuade me, he picked up a metal sewing needle and pointed it at me in a jabbing motion. At that gesture his vision clicked in my mind. I then dared him to stab me, just for the fun of inflicting pain. Matthias chickened out. By that point I could tell I had more work to do than I expected.

So we went through with Matthias’ needle and thread theme after all. Mom, who use to work as a seamstress, actually became useful during this part of the process. Matthias was able to coax her out of her slump to make him a hitman costume. Her end result is a hooded trench coat with a frenetic stitched pattern and loose satin draped across the waist and shoulders. I think the costume looks too fancy to be the intimidating garb of a killer, but I let Matthias keep it. Maybe “pretty boy hitman” could also be his thing. Besides, mom put a lot of effort into making the coat and I have to admit, it is of excellent quality. But just for an extra touch, I make Matthias wear dad’s old black wispy scarf.

The next step to become an official hitman is to find clients. Back in dad’s day, there were about twenty well known hitmen in the metropolitan area, and in our borough there were three including dad himself. But today there are hundreds of hitmen, each well known and skilled to varying degrees. That being said, it's much harder for a no-name hitman to receive even his first client.

Matthias is not entirely a no-name hitman though. Instead of using whatever cheesy stage name Matthias would have come up with, I decided using his real name would be best. Like I said, the name Dauch has a lot of power thanks to dad. So I thought Matthias would have a multitude of clients on his first day.

But nope, of course it wouldn't have been that easy. Maybe people are scared to contact Matthias because of the controversy surrounding dad’s death. Many of his former rivals are still active today. I suppose it’s been assumed that anyone who hires Matthias would become some other hitman’s victim. If that really is a big reason, I think that's ridiculous. After all, a hitman wouldn't dare kill a normal civilian not on a hit list. That would just be murder. No, hitmen are much more organized and professional.

The other reason I theorize for Matthias’ slow business is that no one believes he could do the job as well as dad did. And yeah, they’re right, but somebody has to give him a chance. A year and a half has passed since Matthias’ profile on Hitman.org went public. The number of “assignments” Matthias has discarded technically remains a big fat zero.

I use the word “technically” because in actuality Matthias has committed half a thousand hitman jobs, and they were all for the same client and target each time.

There is no good way to sugar coat this, so I will just say it as it is: Matthias’ number one and only customer is me, Satiné Dauch. I gave Matthias orders to kill the same victim over and over. Five hundred and forty-seven times to be exact.

Matthias’ rate is the same as dad’s: $10,000 per victim, an additional $1500 for a double speed kill, an additional $1200 for extra customizable torture methods deployed during the kill, an additional $1000 for each pre-kill paranoia attack, and a $12,000 combo deal. 

Now I’m a freelance artist who only works in the black market of doll implantation. For the old farts out there, doll implants is a hot trend among the tweens and teens and in betweens these days. It seems that the only skill I have is, lo and behold, sewing. Thanks a lot, mom. Fortunately, kids think it’s cute to have their consciousness uploaded into dolls. I stitch and sew the dolls according to whatever design customers pick, be it a stuffed dinosaur, the newest Disney princess, a blob like creature with centipede arms, whatever. Like a good ink tattoo, doll implantation is permanent, yet due to certain illegal reasons my commissions earn me just above minimum wage. 

So, no, of course I didn’t invest $5,470,000 in hitman kills. Although whenever the day felt lacking, I added in some of those extra benefits, but at no pecuniary cost.

I force Matthias to give me a family discount; in other words, he does hitman jobs for me free of charge. That takes care of the money problem. I convinced Matthias that these freebie kills will pay off in the end, because soon he’ll have real clients buying that $12,000 combo deal.

You should be wondering who my selected victim is if you are not already. Again, ditching the sugar coating, it’s me, Satiné Dauch. Matthias has killed me five hundred and forty-seven times, and tonight will mark the five hundred and forty-eighth.

Hear me out, this makes sense.

Here’s something the media does not always cover: anyone can sue the client of a hitman on behalf of the victim killed. It was normal for dad’s clients to be taken into court by his victim’s loved ones. Fortunately, the hitman and his rights are always protected under law during such a case.

I could easily pick any oblivious stranger who passes by the shop window as a target for Matthias. But if that random stranger’s friends or family learn that I am the client (and today there are many methods of tracking down clients), then even though Matthias is otherwise safe, I will be brought to court. If the court rules that my reasons for targeting so-and-so are unfair, and in my case, that would be most likely, then I’d face charges for murder.

I’m the only person I know who has no one else who would sue on my behalf. Matthias suing me would be stupid, and he doesn’t have the guts to do that anyway. Mom? Is mom even alive anymore, who knows? Who cares?  I don’t care. She won’t do it.

Yet every daughter of a dead retired hitman is fully aware that once someone is dead, that’s it. He can’t be killed twice. The first time Matthias killed me, Satiné Dauch was technically dead, just like her father. Her corpse was found suspended in her bedroom by a web of red thread, needles impaled in every direction. That day Matthias’ body count meter online officially went up by one.

Keep up now, this is my favorite part of Matthias’ story. Like I said, I’m a freelance doll implant artist. Before the first kill, I simply uploaded myself into one of my commissions, a doll that was a cross between a fish and a waffle, before Matthias killed Satiné the human, who by then was in a vegetative state. From there, everything became simple.

I figure that once people see Matthias’ kill count rising, they will all assume that everyone is either hiring Matthias or being killed by him, therefore making him a popular and successful hitman. As for me, all I have to do is sew myself a new doll body, download my soul into it, and wait for Matthias to arrive at the newest location we agreed on, and watch as he kills who I was before.

It’s a swell life, really. By day, I create a new doll to become, and the only daily concern I have is to give my upcoming body at least two appendages to sew with for the next day. I don’t experience hunger or fatigue. The only pain I feel is at night when Matthias destroys my last vessel.

See, the thing with soul transactions is that even if you’re not in your old body, that old body is still a part of you. From the death of my original body and through the destruction of the last five hundred forty-seven dolls, I felt everything. Every stab of the needle, every pull and burn of the thread, I’ve never grown numb to it. It reassures me that when dad died, at least he had one last thrill before he was gone. If you ever have the chance to feel such discomfort, I recommend it. Really clears up the sinuses and sorrow, you know?

Every now and then, Matthias begs me to let him quit. Even though he’s a legal adult now, he still bawls like a baby at every kill. I keep reminding him that if he won’t shut up his blubbering, a passersby will hear and his yet to exist reputation will never recover from that.

I think back to when I was a child often, when dad was still alive, and when I thought I brilliantly answered that certain question inquiring who I wanted to grow up to be. Of course I certainly never answered with something like, “I want to be a new doll each day before my brother brutally kills me.”

The irony is that after five hundred forty-seven deaths, I am no longer Satiné Dauch, who I once was so hell-bent to be. Nope, Satiné Dauch is dead and forgotten. I am nothing but statistics in Matthias’ hitman record. Likewise, Matthias is still a ways away from achieving his childhood ambition. Maybe after five hundred more deaths Matthias will become just like dad. Maybe after one thousand. One million. A trillion, if Matthias is more pathetic than I think.

Doesn’t matter. Nothing has mattered after dad died. But once Matthias and I resurrect the legendary hitman Matthew Dauch, everything will all mean something once more.

#short story #writing #hitman #fiction #yellowcatcassette

[jo-the-schmo]

Breaking... Ch.5

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

A/N: You thought there’d only be one chapter this week? Well you are sadly mistaken dear reader! This chapter has to end in an awkward place and I apologize for that now, next chapter is planned to be...interesting. I hope you enjoy!!!

Word count: 3270

Warnings: Cursing (obvious), fluff, feminism (lol ME)

Tags!!! @iamnotthrowingawaymyshit @renae-writes @literally-melonkitty @deltablue202

(If anyone else wants to be tagged I just opened an ask box so please send them my way!)

Breaking Tradtions

The blue light, it was there again, as cold and icy as it was before. It swallowed you whole until all you could see was blue. You heard your voice ring out, it reverberated, echoing against the walls of your own mind. “I could never do something like that! Never in a million year would I hurt you like that!” Your eyes shot open, every breath you heaved burned you to the core. Your muscles felt like they had just been stretched across the entire world. You clutched your chest, trying to alleviate the pain. Your room was completely dark, not a shred of light was coming through the window.

“How long was I out for? It’s pitch black outside… And what was that dream all about?” Last time that happened…Is the universe trying to tell me something? Oh shit… You suddenly realized the mistake you had made. Alex…What have I done?! You shot up out of bed. I need to…talk to someone… You opened the door to your room, the hallways were just as dark as the room. Fortunately, your eyes were adjusting quickly so that you could at least see the turns. You tip toed through the darkness, the whole house was quiet. You were thankful for the moonlight seeping in through the windows once you entered the main room. You didn’t let yourself think of where you were going as you made your way up the staircase. You had only been upstairs to go to Angie’s room, most of those visits were to help her with her work, help her dress or to hear about her day. You saw a door at the end of the hall, light was flowing out from underneath it. It was warm, bright, and welcoming. It cut through the darkness, it felt like hope. Of course you’re still awake. You’re just like your dad sometimes… You moved toward the light, once you were in front of the door you gave it a soft knock. You heard a small jolting noise, then footsteps. The door opened and you felt like the sun was shining on your skin.

“Angie, it’s the middle of the night and I’m busy. It was just a bad dre-“ He stopped, realizing it was you standing there and not his little sister.

“Hey… Can we talk?” You asked. He looked surprised, probably because it’s the middle of the night.

“Uh, yes! Of course, what do you wish to discuss?”

“Mind if you let me in first?” You raised an eyebrow and pointed past him, into the light filled room. His eyes went wide, he looked completely dumbfounded.

“In my room? That’s uh…” He scratched his face nervously. Why’s he acting so flustered?

“I’m a maid Philly, nothing different than Rachel coming in to make your bed.” You chuckled. Boys are so weird. He nodded, but he still looked anxious. Opening the door wider, you stepped inside and walked past him. I’ve never actually been in his room before, it’s nice. The walls were a soft yellow but the light from the candle on his desk gave the illusion of it being slightly brighter. There were papers scattered all over his desk, quill and ink still out. He must be working on something for school. You walked over to his bed and sat on the edge of it, heaving a deep sigh. Philip closed the door and quickly made his way over to his desk, moving the chair so that he could face you as he sat down. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he looked at you with curiosity.

“Now, what did you wish to discuss?” He asked again, this time with more worry. You took one last deep breath, finally feeling the weight of all your concerns weighing down on you.

“I think I messed up big time Philly and I don’t know what to do… I did something terrible, I don’t think I can fix it!” Your hands were clutching onto the cloth of your skirt. There’s no telling what the consequences of my actions will end up being. I told myself! I told myself not to meddle with the course of history! The world could blow up for all I know and it would be all my fault! Philip shook his head, quickly jumped out of his seat and kneeled down beside the bed. He grabbed your now shaking fist, you were surprised as to how your hand instantly stilled.

“Come on, if I know you at all it can’t be that bad. Even if it was, I know you’d be able to fix it, you are the smartest person I know after all!” He had a comforting smile on his freckled face.

“I’m a fool Philip, an idiot! I’m not even supposed to be here! I don’t belong here in this world, in your world and I’m ruining everything!” So stupid! Philip gave your hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Do not speak of such things! Y/N Taylor is no fool and certainly not an idiot! I already know you won’t tell me what’s wrong yet, I know you too well for that. But I don’t care if you ‘don’t belong here’ because I’m glad that you are! My world, my family’s world, it shines much brighter with you in it. I certainly do not see that as ruining…” He looked up at you, his eyes asking for understanding. How does he always know how to calm me down? He makes me really want to believe him. Can it really be ok? How does the sun’s life get brighter?

“Thank you Philly, I think… I think I feel a bit better now.” You gave him the best smile you could muster and he did the same for you. He stood up to go sit back at his desk.

“Perhaps you should go back and rest, I do not wish for you to have another spell as you did this afternoon. One of us should get some sleep at the very least.” He turned his chair back toward his desk and picked up his quill, already going back to work.

“What exactly are you doing anyways?” You asked, your curious nature taking the lead.

“Just an essay for class, it isn’t due for some time but I wish to put a lot of effort into it.” His shoulders slumped over, you hadn’t noticed how tired he looked until now. Has he been awake all night working on this?

“Philly… Don’t you think you should take a break? It isn’t healthy to stay awake for this long.” You suddenly became worried, he yawned and rubbed his eyes.

“I can’t exactly think about sleep right now. I’m the eldest son, I need to showcase the Hamilton legacy correctly, be just like my father.” Does being the oldest really bring this much pressure to him? But he’s already so smart!

“Philip that’s ridiculous.” You said bluntly, he turned back toward you, surprised by your response.

“It’s great that you want to make your family proud but you don’t need to be just like Alex to do it. You…you can be someone better, you can be you… And the Philip I know doesn’t have dark circles under his eyes or is sleep deprived. Don’t put your work off but you can slow down a little bit with the writing, you’ve got plenty of time.” You ended your speech, you couldn’t read exactly what you saw in Philip’s eyes as he looked at you.

“You, you really think I can be better than my father?” He asked sheepishly, you nodded.

“I don’t think, I know.” He smiled and quickly turned his head away, looking down at the papers on the desk.

“I’ll retire in just a moment; I promise… I just thought of how to end this part of the paper, it’ll only take a second.” He dipped the quill into the ink. You gave him a suspicious look.

“Philly I am not leaving until you put all of that nonsense away!” You felt like you were lecturing but honestly he didn’t really listen any other way sometimes.

“That is alright, as I said it will only be a moment.” He chuckled slightly. You watched him carefully scrawling letters onto the paper, it was calming to witness. His hand moving while he wrote was almost hypnotizing, you felt heavy, your breathing beginning to slow. You felt yourself gently falling back, your head hitting the bed with a soft ‘thud’. Instinctively you curled up on the mat, you felt at peace. You could hear the soft scratching sound from Philip’s quill as your eyes fluttered open and closed. Don’t…fall…asleep… You felt yourself be engulfed in darkness. Philip’s quill, his subtle movements and the warmth in the room were the last things you remembered before you drifted off.

            Slowly you began to wake up, stretching your arms out and your eyes open. Wow… I haven’t slept so soundly since I got here! Wait…Where the… Where am I?! You shot up in the bed and looked at your surroundings. Yellow walls, nice wooden furniture, an almost completely melted candle on the desk. The memories of you talking to Philip suddenly came back to you. Did I actually fall asleep in his room? You looked back at the desk and noticed a folded up piece of paper lying on the surface, your name written on the front with beautiful penmanship. You rolled out of the bed, went over and began to read the paper.

Dear Y/N,

            I hope that you find this letter with a well-rested mind. Currently, at the time I am writing this letter, you are sound asleep a few feet away from me. I cannot lie when I say it took me a moment to decide what to do, and in regards to that you must forgive me.  I should have awoken you, I should wake you right now, but I simply cannot. I see you sleeping so comfortably, you do not even stir. I can only imagine you are having a precious dream, so allow me to apologize for my selfishness. I cannot bear the thought of pulling you away from that dream. I feel my mind growing weak from fatigue, I suppose I must apologize for not sleeping right away as you told I should as well. It is not proper for me to see you rest, in my own bed no less, but your presence puts the ruins of my mind at ease. I have written Angie a request to awake me in time for class as I shall be sleeping in the guest room. She may act as though she would use any advantage she has against me in order to put me through trials but I trust her greatly. She is quite understanding and will not hesitate to ensure that no one misunderstands the situation I have seemed to put you in. You are a very respectable woman; I will do everything in my power to see that no one misconstrues my intentions. I must finish this letter quickly if I desire to get at least a wink of sleep. I pray the sunlight welcomes you to the day as peacefully the moon lulled you to rest.

                                                                                                                 Sincerely, P. Ham, your sunshine.

You couldn’t help but smile as you read the words in the letter. Philly, you’re such a dork! ‘Your sunshine’ Boy thinks he can try and be cute! Well, it is cute so I guess it worked. It was really sweet of him to let me stay here, I’ll be sure to thank him once he gets home. You suddenly heard a soft knock on the door that made you jump. Shit! I’m not supposed to be in here! Your worries were stilled as you heard the bubbly voice and saw the silky, pink cloth peeking out from the cracked door.

“Pssst! TT! Are you awake!” If the voice and dress didn’t give her away, the nickname sure did. The only ones who called you ‘TT’ were Angie and the younger boys. You mostly had Alex to blame for that one.

“Yeah, I’m up Angie, don’t worry.” You folded the letter back up and found a place to hide it in the side of your bodice. Angie opened the door up wider, you always forget how similar her and Alex look. Her and Philip seem like polar opposites but they have their moments.

“Well, you might want to hurry up! Rachel will be up here any moment!” You nodded and you hurried out of the room. Angie grabbed your hand and dragged you into her own room a few doors down. She pushed you inside and you were met with the familiar peach walls and white furniture. You and Rachel usually helped Angie get ready in the morning. Angie let out a sigh of relief.

“That was a close one TT!” She said with exasperation. You tried to hold in your laughter but you still ended up giggling.

“Thanks Angie, I really appreciate it.” You smiled, her eyes seemed to light up.

“Philly said that you fell asleep in his room but he didn’t tell me why…So?” She’s just as bad as Rachel!

“I had to tell him something important and I accidentally fell asleep.” You opened her wardrobe and picked out her undergarments, as was your new routine. “What color?” You asked.

“Hm… Peachy. So what was so important that you had to tell him in the middle of the night?” She continued as you chose the peach under dress she was talking about. So many garments! Nothing’s really planned today so the under dress should be fine.

“Nothing for you to worry about Angie.” You said as you gathered the accumulating pile in your arms. Seriously I’m pretty sure that her and Rachel talk about me when I’m not around. Angie squealed and it made you almost drop the clothes.

“I knew it! I knew it! I knew it! We’re practically sisters already so this is simply divine! Oh, I can practically hear it now. Mrs. Y/N Hamilton! That sounds just perf-“ Wait, what?!

“Whoa! Wait just a second their kiddo, what are you talking about?” You set the pile on the bed next to Angie as she hugged her pillow happily.

“You and Philip! You confessed your love for him! Of course you both will have to wait until after he graduates to have the wedding but I’m sure the time will fly qu-“

“No, no, no, no, no, no! That is not what happened! Not what happened at all! Geez, how do you people get these ideas?” You asked yourself. Angie looked up at you with her big, puppy-dog eyes.

“Really? Aw… But don’t you like Philip? And I think I’d make the best sister-in-law!” She sounded genuinely upset. You sat down on the bed beside her and patted her back.

“Of course I like Philip, he’s my friend and I trust him very much. But I’m afraid life is a bit more complicated than that sweetie. Although you would be an amazing sister-in-law, I don’t doubt.” You stood up and you both worked on changing her clothes.

“What’s so complicated? If you like him than you like him! That’s not complicated at all!” You sighed. I can’t exactly explain this can I?

“It’s hard to explain kiddo…” You finished tightening her clothes and turned her around. “Alright, now what would we like to start with today? Reading, writing, or shall we wait for you mother to wake up so that you can have your piano lesson?” You asked. She seemed uninterested.

“Do I have to?” She groaned. She’s been doing this a lot recently. Last month we couldn’t drag her away from the books. What’s up with her?

“Is something wrong Angie? You’ve been in a funk for the last couple weeks now, mind telling me what’s going on?” She sat down at her desk with puffy cheeks.

“I just… I just don’t see the point! You wouldn’t understand…” Uh oh, preteen concerns… Okay, I have to be as reasonable as possible.

“Come on sweetie, you love to read! I’m sure I’ll understand…” She bit her lip before looking up at me.

“What’s the point in being smart? It’s not like anyone cares how smart a lady is; all that matters is that she’s beautiful.” She stood up and stomped to her wardrobe, she threw open the doors and looked at everything inside.

“I mean, look at all of this, it’s astounding!” She turned around and gestured to herself. “Isn’t this enough?” Oh, Angie… I didn’t realize… You quickly made your way over to her and kneeled down so that you would be closer to eye level.

“Hey now, don’t say stuff like that! You’re beautiful yes, but that’s not all that matters! You’re a brilliant young lady, and even if you don’t think so now, things will change! You can’t let anyone or anything tell you that intelligence doesn’t matter or that a woman can’t be smart! The world always needs more people like you in the world, people who question these problems in the world and desire for the answers. Now, I’m going to ask you again. Reading, writing or piano?” You smoothed the top of her braided hair. She thought for a moment but soon enough her usual, happy smile crept on her face.

“Reading…and do you think I can ask daddy to tell me about the cabinet meetings like he tells you?” She asked. You stood back up, giving her your biggest and proudest smile.

“I’m sure he would be honored to teach you anything you wish to know!” But still…where did she get a terrible idea like that? I know this time period is reserved on women’s rights but her mom is one of the most intelligent and influential women in the country! Who let her actually believe something like that? Rachel joined the both of you eventually, the lesson going even better than expected. Afterwards, you and Rachel worked on the daily chores. Angie’s mood was better, Eliza spent most of her time with Willy and the boys didn’t try to tear out any pages of the encyclopedia. I’m glad today’s finally calming down, I really need some time to chill after all this history, time craziness. At one point you noticed how late it was getting. Shouldn’t Philly be back by now? I wanted to ask him some stuff… You didn’t hear the carriage until the sun was just beginning to set. You excitedly skipped over to the door as he came in.

“Welcome back Sunshine! I have so much to tell you!” The smile on your face slowly faded as he walked toward you. His hair was messier than usual, his eyes were puffy and red, he looked like a wreck. “Hey are you ok? Did something happen? Oh no, Philly what hap-“ He cut you off.

“Tell me it isn’t true! I can’t believe you’d do this! I, I don’t want to believe it! Please!” You noticed he was clutching something in his hand. What is that? Some kind of newsletter?

“What are you talking about? Philip, you’re not making any sense.” He held the bundle of paper in front of him, gesturing for you to take it. It was titled The History for the United States in 1797 by John Callender. Wait a second…

“My father…and you… My father had an affair with you…” He looked at the floor like his entire world was collapsing.

No. Fucking. Way.

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