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pictureinme · 8 months

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Fic idea: reader takes kitten out on a picnic for her birthday or their anniversary and treats her the way she deserves to be treated and like reader gives her all these cute gifts and treats and it's just a cute moment

thank u so much for this request !!! i felt so inspired by this ;-; it may be a bit more than you expected !

autumn breeze

patricia ‘kitten’ braden x f!reader word count: ~1.2k tags: romantic fluff, established relationship, marriage proposal, kitten appreciation hour is in full effect

(ao3)

Kitten walks blindly through the park, unaware of just how beautiful the falling leaves look across the grass. You’re guiding her through winding paths, all the way to a secret spot you paid the caretaker off to leave undisturbed.

Her outfit was as beautiful as ever, and the only criteria you gave her was to dress for the season. While she giggles incessantly, you take it in: a roomy brown sweater which nearly enveloped her hands, tucked into orange corduroy flares, paired with brown mule heels.

You uncover Kitten’s eyes, revealing the surprise she has been anticipating for a week now. Her eyes darted quickly, taking in the set-up before her: a yellow gingham blanket, and atop it was an overflowing picnic basket. She could only imagine what else could be awaiting her, but she could definitely see a familiar wine bottle and accompanying glasses.

“Oh, darling…” Kitten’s hand comes to cover her agape mouth.

You grin, hugging her tightly from behind, “Happy anniversary, my love.”

“Even bought my favorite wine…” She spins around, and her hands come to rest on your shoulders. Her eyes are sparkling, hints of tears threatening to spill. “Thank you, (Y/N).”

“Don’t thank me just yet!” You guide her down to the blanket, kicking off your flats before sitting. “You haven’t even seen the records I brought.”

Kitten daintily takes off her heels, grinning almost maniacally as she kneels on the fabric, “Do tell!”

“I brought all of our favorites,” gesturing to the case against your hip, she notices you had the portable record player, as well as your book of 45s. “Goldsboro, Rubettes, Sweet… even some Stevie!”

You rifle through the binder, and pull out your Bobby Goldsboro “Honey/Danny” single– something you bought for Kitten on your second date. She glowed when she unwrapped it, revealing the orange magenta label with her favorite song’s title plastered onto it.

Kitten holds the record carefully as you set up the portable player, its wood grain stark against the gingham, a holdover from your parents’ generation. She places the disc onto the center spindle, and you place the needle. The sweet, sweet sounds of adult contemporary fill the space.

The warmth of the afternoon lay dappled on the ground, wrapping the two of you in something like a yellow aura. Kitten’s nails were adorned with an orange polish, with delicate flowers– painted by you– in white. Her hand is on top of your own, and you bathe in the feeling of contentment. The autumnal breeze was cool, but welcome.

From her reclined position on the blanket, she hums, “We should probably eat before whatever it is goes stale, hm?”

“Perhaps,” you groan as you move from your own lounging, “You do tend to be the voice of reason.”

You shuffle towards the picnic basket, and hand her the bottle as well as the glasses. Opening it further reveals to Kitten the true lengths you went to for this event: cucumber sandwiches, various berries, cheeses, and crackers, and even more she couldn’t see.

“Goodness, you pulled out all of the stops, didn't you, dear?”

Laughing slightly, you take the bottle back from her and pop the cork, “I’d pull the stars from the sky if it could make you happy, my love.”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes as you pour the Sauvignon blanc into her awaiting glass, “Oh, such a poet you are.”

You pour your own glass as she takes out the sandwiches and charcuterie set-up. Kitten splits the sandwich triangles between the two of you.

“Thank you, my love,” Kitten bites into her sandwich, careful not to smudge her meticulously painted lips, “Truly.”

“It’s our third anniversary, and you always do so much for me,” you pop a cube of chèvre into your awaiting mouth, “You deserve so much more than this, Kitten.”

Cocking her head, she hums, “Well, you’ve certainly outdone yourself! Can’t remember the last time we could do something so romantic together in public…”

You bite your lip slightly as her lidded eyes meet yours, “Me neither, I had to bargain for this spot, you know. Sold all our assets away!”

“Shame, I was just about to blow it all at the slots tomorrow night with Charlie.”

“And you weren’t going to invite moi?” You hold your heart in faux offense, “Now I don’t feel so bad about auctioning off your precious silk slips.”

“You did not!”

Laughter erupted from your throat, “Dear, I would never do such a thing! You really must pick up a book on sarcasm.”

Rolling her eyes yet again, Kitten smiles as she tosses a blueberry in her mouth, “Silly, silly girl. On our special day, too.”

You grin widely, and the pair of you continue to eat away at your borderline rabbit food and white wine. The way her head is thrown back after a particularly raunchy joke you made, or how her blonde curls bounce when she’s truly excited, you couldn’t get enough of it.

The two of you make it through almost all of the records before you decide to reveal the true surprise of the afternoon.

“Doll, could you check the basket for me?” You coyly ask, busying yourself with cleaning the stray napkins and empty berry containers. “I’m sure I forgot something.”

She cocks an eyebrow, “You, forgetting something? Believe it when I see it, love.”

You watch as she leans over the picnic basket, moving her locks from her eye-line to properly check. As she investigates, you feel your heart begin to race. What if she said no, what if–

“(Y/N)!” Kitten practically shrieks when she finds the so-called missing item. “Is this what I think it is?”

She moves back to sit in front of you, an expression of pure joy written all over her face.

“Patricia ‘Kitten’ Braden, saint of my heart… will you marry me?”

Her hand was held open to reveal a golden ring, within the center was an oval diamond cushioned by two smaller ones.

“Oh, God, yes, yes!”

Before your hand reaches to slip the ring onto her finger, she’s caught your lips in a kiss that would’ve knocked off your feet, had you been standing. You could feel her heart beating out of her chest, and you raise a hand to cup her cheek.

“I love you more than anything in the universe, my Kitten. I know it may not be easy, getting married and all, but–”

Kitten shakes her head slightly, a tear falling from her eye, “Don’t say such things right now, we’ll be okay.”

Nodding, you smile through what you realize are your own tears, and take the ring from her still outstretched hand. You hold her left hand in yours, and slowly slip the delicate ring onto her finger. Her breath hitches, and so does yours.

“Please tell me I’m not dreaming, darling,” the desperation in her eyes made that knot in your throat hurt so much more.

“Far from it,” you kiss her sweetly on her plush lips, “This is as real as it gets.”

#kitten braden x reader #patricia braden x reader #breakfast on pluto #cillian murphy x reader

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laracrofted · 1 year

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baby, i'm high octane (iv)

synopsis: at bradley bradshaw's birthday party, nora has a realization under the disco ball.

pairings: jake seresin x nora rogers (oc)

warnings: 18+, minors dni, explicit language, alcohol consumption, pop culture references, slutty (affectionate) rooster, brief mention of blood, and smut. (wc: 6.8K)

note: at long last, the rollerskating chapter 🪩✨ and icymi, i posted another mood board for this chapter 💖

previous chapter | series post | next chapter

tagging // @theharddeck (who talked me off a ledge about this chapter; i snuck a california coast reference in here for you, dear) @frenchyjuju @bioodforbiood @cursedtobe @roosterbruiser @t-nd-rfoot @bethbunnyy @filmflux @djs8891 @mayhemmanaged @sometimesanalice @eli2447 @bradshawsbitch @hangmanbrainrot @startrekfangirl2233 @kandierteveilchen @lostinwonderland314 @hangmanscoming @dempy @mlibbydp

“Mav actually said I’m not supposed to do anything high-risk after I had that bird strike scare so…”

And with that, Bradley crosses his big arms – dusted with new freckles and sun from his afternoon on the boat with Captain Mitchell and Penny Benjamin – over a barely buttoned shirt; something Nora half-suspects Bradley found from searching Hawaiian shirt comma eighties disco and ordering the first option.

What Bradley ended up with is a black shirt, covered in bright geometrics, squares and squiggles and martini glasses in neon shades of violet, cyan, and pinkish magenta.

As close to a Hawaiian shirt as the Naval aviator could wear and still be on theme and funnily, eerily identical to the carpet at the long-since-closed bowling alley where Mom booked one of Nora’s elementary school birthday parties.

He could probably lie down and blend right in.

Minus the martinis, obviously.

Bradley uncrosses his arms. Crosses them again.

And Nora watches him, absentmindedly, blinking at this indifferent nonchalance that Bradley is putting on. So unbothered. So casual. Real believable.

“Are you okay, Bradshaw? You’re sweating a little.”

And as only a mature and newly minted 36-year-old could, Bradley ignores Nora.

Smiling, Nora slurps down the rest of a frozen strawberry lemonade, spiked with vodka. Cheap vodka. She pulls a face at the well of might-as-well-be-rubbing-alcohol at the bottom, rapidly blinking and deep breathing through the sharp sting in her nostrils.

She will not let some bottom-shelf vodka ruin her eye shadow, not now, not in her favorite dress.

A delicate cough spurts from her mouth. She wouldn't be surprised to see a puff of fumes come out.

“That was like…” Mickey sounds confused. “Four months ago, Rooster.”

“And?”

Bradley uncrosses his arms and spreads them wide, palms upturned – an incredulous gesture as bird-like as his call sign. His winged arms drop back down in a whoosh of wind.

“I almost crashed into the side of a mountain and had to do an emergency ejection. Medical kept me overnight for observation. It was pretty serious, Garcia.”

Bradley drags out the vowel and clips the constants in the word pretty for even more emphasis, and in her peripheral, Natasha pinches the bridge of her nose and screws her eyes closed.

Drama drama.

Reuben exchanges a bewildered look with the WSO and shakes his head. Deadpans, “You had one bruise, man. Singular.”

“Nurse Julie said I had a hematoma,” Bradley retorts, like, so there!

Someone audibly groans. It might be Reuben.

“Fine. You had one bad bruise. Happy?”

Bradley makes a face – a distinctly, not happy face – and crosses his arms again.

“And when did you graduate from medical school, Doctor Fitch? My invitation must’ve gotten lost in the mail.”

“I’m dating a nurse! A hematoma is a bad bruise.”

From Natasha's side of the bench comes a prolonged sigh, a good four-second exhale.

“Moving on…" Natasha continues, "Rollerskating definitely doesn’t fall under what Maverick would consider high risk.” Air quotes are audible in her voice. She waves the roller skate around, abandoned when Bradley put them down. "Children were out there like... 10 minutes ago. Children, Bradshaw!"

A valid point.

Before Moonlight Rollers made the loudspeaker announcement (“Anyone who isn’t of legal drinking age should turn in their skates and head to the nearest exit in the next 15 minutes. Saturday Night Fever is now in session.”), Nora sat down with her skates and lacing them, counted at least six skaters who were younger than the bourbon Penny Benjamin serves at the Hard Deck.

Children – as Natasha very much emphasized – who cut across the rink with the unselfconscious effort and fearlessness of a child who'd never broken a bone before and honestly, wouldn’t mind a super cool cast for their summer camp friends to sign on Monday.

As if reading her mind, Bradley’s next argument is: “Someone could fall or sprain their ankle or fall and sprain their ankle. How’re you planning to fly with a broken wing, Phoenix?”

As Natasha studies him, unreadable, Nora decides to wade in.

She can't listen anymore. She's aged five months in the past five minutes.

“Bradshaw – You’re the one who wanted to do an activity for your birthday party, remember?”

Clearly, Bradley needed the reminder. He was the one who specifically wanted an activity with alcohol and some sort of theme, and Nora found Moonlight Rollers on Instagram.

On Thursday, which was his actual birthday, Nora brought him an Americano (no milk, no sugar, steaming hot) and a breakfast sandwich (a bacon, egg, and cheese on an everything bagel, extra toasted) in the morning and as a present of sorts, secretly asked Technician Ethan to install the camera in his F-18 for the afternoon.

He was ecstatic, so ecstatic that Bradley picked her up and spun her around, like a rag doll in cool shoes, until Captain Mitchell crackled over the radio, sounding equal parts amused and long-suffering.

“Admiral Simpson says – and I quote. Put Miss Rogers down. She's a loan." Captain Mitchell then added, "And from me, I won't protect you or your wings from Charlie Blackwood if Nora somehow falls. Put her down please."

Bradley set her down with a grimace.

Now, Nora continues, “We could’ve done drinks at the Hard Deck again and called it a night. I could be one and a half Old Fashioned's down right now, watching Netflix in my underwear," and Bradley grins, wolfish.

He waggles his brows, impish and obnoxious, and Nora knows what Bradley is picturing right now. Anyone would be able to see it all over his face.

For a 36-year-old man, Bradley can really be a 16-year-old boy sometimes.

She sends him a blank I will kill you in your sleep stare and mimes a slow slash across her own throat, shaking her head from side to side, and Bradley barks out a laugh, apparently not very intimidated.

Should Nora be offended?

He should be like... a little afraid, at least.

Natasha stares him down, and now, Bradley does look a little afraid.

Dark eyes narrowed, sharp against the glittering lavender Natasha lined them with earlier; Natasha is a stunning lavender monochrome, dressed in a ribbed tank and short sweat shorts, even down to the light purple wheels on her skates.

How did Natasha manage that? Nora wonders. She peers down at her own skates and sees only a bright cherry red. Damn. She would've loved a bubblegum pink in this dress.

If Nora has learned anything in the past month, Natasha seems to get her way one way or another. Now is no exception.

Nora smiles. Watch out, Bradshaw!

Natasha rounds her lips to an O shape, smooth voice sweetening into something more saccharine; more patronizing. "Oh... You're scared, aren't you, Rooster? Why didn't you say earlier?"

Are Bradley's ears turning a little red?

"Really? You can pilot a million-dollar plane for a living but can't handle a little..." A polished nail spins one of the wheels. Mocking. "...sneaker with wheels on the bottom?"

And like that, Natasha has him.

Hook, line, and sinker.

She's barely gotten the words out when Bradley yanks the skates from her outstretched hands with a grumbled, "Fuck off, Phoenix. I'm not scared. I just remembered I don't know how to roller skate. Goddamn," and drops right down on the carpet to strap them on, swearing up a storm under his breath.

Ever optimistic, Mickey calls out, "It'll be fun, man," and Bradley grumbles something unintelligible.

Natasha doesn't even pretend not to look victorious. She beams.

Nora, on the other hand, is a little more sympathetic. A little.

He is a big man. Tall and broad with a long distance to fall in a wobble. She'd probably be a little nervous too.

Everyone is drinking. Someone is all but guaranteed to fall on their ass before the end of the night. Who? is the only question that remains.

“I can show you the basics,” Nora offers, watching him fumble with the shoelaces, double and triple knotting them around his ankles. “You can surf, right?" A grumbled sound that Nora will interpret as a yes. "You'll be fine. Balance is the hardest part. We can even hold hands."

She wiggles her fingers in his direction, teasing, gleaming an iridescent pink that matches her dress.

He snorts. “Hot. Promise?”

Never mind. She's less sympathetic now.

Nora kicks out a leg and lightly catches him in the side of the knee, scuffing the dark blue denim, and Bradley scoots away with a surprised exclamation.

She rolls her eyes.

Maybe if Bradley falls, Nora can get a good shot on her phone.

She'll frame it. A memento for the birthday boy.

"Natasha, do you know when Coyote will be here? I still need to meet him."

Last Nora had heard, Javy 'Coyote' Machado had gotten back from the deployment in the middle of the week. He drove down late last night and crashed on Jake's couch. Got coffee with Captain Mitchell in the morning to discuss when Coyote could move down to North Island. It is still a vague – albeit promising – soon, but Natasha seems to think Coyote will be permanently moved before the beginning of August.

Natasha slides her phone from the front of the fanny pack slung around her waist – silver with prismatic purple, pink, and blue hues, same as the one Nora is wearing over her shoulder like a Miss America sash – and checks her appearance in the front camera.

Holding the phone like a compact, Natasha applies a fresh coat of shiny lip gloss and smushes her lips together to spread it around. Replies, slightly muffled, "He and Hangman got in an Uber like 20 minutes ago. They should be..." A bicycle bell notification chimes from her phone. "Speak of the devils!"

Natasha searches the rink, sipping from a Blue Moon bottle on the bench. Smiles widely.

She points with the sweating bottle, seemingly oblivious to the line of condensation that drips down her forearm and onto the carpet.

"He's right over there, next to Hangman."

Nora looks across the room, dancing over the multi-colored lights and foil streamers, gleaming and rustling in the warm evening breeze that sneaks in through the opening and closing of the main entrance – and lands on Jake.

He leans against the black-and-white checkered Skate Rental counter in a familiar stance, arms crossed lazily over his chest in a way that makes his muscles really shine. He probably does it on purpose.

Don't look at his arms, Rogers.

Coughing once, Nora remembers what Natasha said about Coyote and re-directs her gaze over one. Jesus Christ.

Even from across the room, Javy ‘Coyote’ Machado is… extremely good-looking. Model, good-looking.

“Are all Naval aviators hot?” Nora accidentally asks out loud, already a little buzzed somehow. Damn vodka.

A grumbling stomach makes her wistfully remember the cold pizza in the fridge that she definitely meant to reheat for dinner before Natasha called and said the Uber would be there in less than two minutes. Damn.

She hopes Moonlight Rollers has more options for food than the six options for alcohol at the concession stand. She would kill for a greasy slice of cheese pizza or even better, some crinkle cut fries that'd probably be inexplicably soggy but still taste good.

"Is it like, part of the admission requirement for Top Gun? Like America's Next Top Model, except instead of Tyra Banks, Admiral Simpson is there."

Nora imagines a stone-faced Admiral Simpson – who’d never so much as cracked a smile in her presence before – walking down an aircraft carrier, a collection of files under his stern arm.

Congratulations. You’re still in the running to be America’s Next Top Gun graduate.

Natasha bursts out laughing. "You should've seen my Top Gun class. You wouldn't ask that question."

She is still chuckling when Bob walks over a few minutes later, sipping a blue raspberry slushie from the concession stand with a cerulean tongue.

"Got us a locker," Bob announces, pointing to the wall of lockers in the corner of the room. "Anyone have anything that needs to go in right now? I can put 'em away while I have it open."

Mickey and Reuben dig around in the turquoise pockets of their matching nylon tracksuits – which must have been a buy one, get one deal – and produce loose change, apartment keys, and the like. They hand them over.

When Bob comes over, Nora gently pats her pack and shakes her head. She's got all the essentials in there. She's all set.

Something is different about Bob tonight.

As Bob quietly repeats the locker combination under his breath, a row of concentrated wrinkles on his forehead, Nora stares at him for a probably uncomfortable amount of time.

Pink dusts across his cheeks under her observation, and Bob shuffles his weight around. He looks startled when Nora snaps her fingers in an aha! moment.

“You aren't wearing your glasses, Bob," Nora says, almost accusing. "Have I ever seen you without your glasses?"

“Probably not,” Mickey ribs with a good-natured grin. “He practically sleeps in them.”

Looking like a Hairspray character, Bob is dressed in a plain white shirt with suspenders. A single curl hangs loose in his face, fighting against the iron hold of what look to be a good amount of hair gel. He blows it out of his wide blue eyes with a sheepish smile.

"Guess not. I need to put in lots of eye drops when I wear contacts – sensitive eyes and everything – so I don’t wear them all that much,” Bob explains, looking much more comfortable now that Nora isn't staring at him quite so intently. A self-conscious sip. "But I'd much rather run to the locker every half hour to put in eye drops than break my glasses and need to get new ones."

It's like Bradley Bradshaw was waiting for that very moment.

On his knees, Bradley butts in, "Did you hear that? Even Floyd is afraid to fall on his ass and break something. Are you gonna make fun of him too, Trace?"

Robbie frowns a little. “I don’t know if I’d say I’m – ”

“High. Risk. Activity.”

Nora laughs out, "Go away, Bradshaw," and gently shoves him backwards.

He shouldn't have budged, but Nora must catch him in an uneven moment.

Bradley reels back, arms flailing like a wild goose, catching himself on a spread palm. His expression is comically dark and promises retribution, and Nora puts in a concerted effort not to laugh.

A giggle escapes, and Nora's eyes grow wide.

"Wait, I'm – Bradley!"

"Say your prayers, Rogers!"

For the second time in 72 hours, Bradley grabs her around the middle, and Nora is in the air.

At least Nora decided to wear bike shorts to make the short dress – usually reserved for parties and cocktail bars – more wearable. He'd be a dead man otherwise. He might still be a dead man.

Because Bradley is barely skilled enough to balance his own weight on the skates.

His proud smirk quickly falls as Bradley stands and starts to zig zag on the carpet. His skates go out from under him.

He goes down like a collapsed Jenga stack, and Nora is falling.

Strong arms catch her under the armpits and pull her out of the splash zone of Bradley Bradshaw's flailing arms, and still unbalanced, Nora wobbles and stumbles back against a firm chest with a sharp inhale.

Mint and cologne.

She tips her head back and sees an upside down – and very amused – Jake.

"Hi," Nora says, a little winded. She spies the black Stetson, perched on his head. “You really are such a damn cowboy, aren’t you, Texas? What’re you even supposed to be? Butch Cassidy and the 80's Dance Kid?"

She feels more than sees him chuckle, a low vibration against her back that sends a warm shiver down her spine.

Jake releases her arms, but a careful hand hovers around her lower back until Nora has her sea legs again.

She smooths down the dress down, running her hands over the glimmering pink sequins, and in the background, Reuben and Mickey rescue a dazed Bradley, who is flat on his back on the outer space patterned carpet.

"Howdy," Jake drawls with an ever present smirk. "Good guess, sweetheart, but I'm Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing. Don't you know your Hollywood movies, Hollywood?"

From here, Nora is close enough to smell the spearmint gum in his mouth. She can see the pale blue flash between white teeth. He smells incredible. Damn damn damn.

Casually, Nora does her best not to breathe in.

"Patrick Swayze doesn't wear a cowboy hat in Dirty Dancing." Jake is rocking the black-on-black look. She'll give him that. "Did you watch a porno with the same name?"

Someone laughs, full-bodied and delighted.

“Aren’t you gonna introduce me, Hangman?”

Nora smiles, and Javy Machado smiles back.

"You must be Javy. I'm..."

"You're Nora," Coyote cuts in, smooth and polite as can be, despite the interruption. He shakes her hand with a blinding smile. "Maverick gave me the whole run-down on the documentary when I saw him earlier. If I was any more envious of the bastards who get to be in it, I think I'd be green. Really."

"Well," Nora replies with a cool smile. "I bet I can sneak you in. I could probably delete all of Jake's footage and make it look like an unfortunate accident. How would you feel about pretending your call sign is Hangman?"

Javy guffaws, but Nora looks sidelong at Jake with a smirk.

Jake's chuckle is a pleasant and rasping sound. "You're a little mean today, Hollywood."

"More than usual?"

Jake drawls, "No. You're always a little mean," and makes it sound like a compliment. Warmth slips down her spine, and Nora swallows hard.

"You tired yet? Need to lay down?"

Can you? Nora doesn't need to repeat the question from the kitchen – over a week ago now – for Jake to hear it in her voice. Can you keep up with me?

His smirk deepens. "I'm wide awake, Hollywood."

Javy watches them like a ping-pong match, looking absolutely delighted. "We only just met, Nora, but I think I might be in love with you."

She grins. "Hm. That's too bad."

And as Natasha grabs her arm and pulls her into the roller rink, glimmering in the dark, Nora misses when Jake knocks an elbow back and catches Coyote in the ribs.

A crescent moon rises outside on the pitch black horizon, and inside, Moonlight Rollers glows in the dark.

Everyone is a little more drunk and a little less self-conscious in the silver gleam of the disco ball, spinning and shining like a glittering moon.

And in the rink, Nora is pleasantly surprised to find that the limited rollerskating abilities – emphasis on limited – Teen Nora used over a decade ago now have been dormant somewhere in the back of her mind. Not lost in the endless spiral of time.

Rollerskating is a little like riding a bike in that way.

She wobbles for the first few minutes and sticks close to the sides of the rink, just in case, and then, slowly finds the balance. Finds the rhythm.

Soon enough, Nora is coasting.

Natasha and Bob are her partners in crime for a while.

She skates alongside them, casting sidelong glances at where Jake and Javy are on the sidelines, catching up and nursing the beers that can't come into the rink with them. Alcohol isn't allowed in.

"Come in," Nora calls on her umpteenth rotation. "Water's nice."

Javy opens his mouth, already grinning, but Jake shouts over the music, "And who would stand here and admire that sparkly little dress of yours then, darlin'? You should wear that on Monday."

Nora gives him the finger, and Jake laughs.

Eventually, Bradley joins the rest of them. He picks it up quickly, just like Nora predicted. He only rams into the side of the rink once and like, barely.

He spins her around the rink until she is breathless with laughter and seeing spots of light behind her closed lids.

"Stop," Nora gasps, "I need a breather."

Citing a need for another fucking drink, Bradley follows her out of the rink and heads for the concession stand, winking at a woman in a Maid of Honor sash.

Nora sits down on the nearest bench, pressing down on the stitch in her side, and soaks in the atmosphere.

According to their Instagram, Moonlight Rollers had been in business since 1986. It looks the part. It'd be a dream of a movie set.

Nora can see it now.

A romance, bathed in the changing lights of the disco ball, pink and purple and blue. Soft.

Exactly the kind of movie Nora wanted to make once upon a time.

Take Me Home Tonight blares over the speakers, and Natasha's laugh rises over the music as Bob launches her across the rink, shimmering like a purple shooting star across the night sky of mismatched walls and lights.

Nostalgia is a dull ache in her chest.

Growing up, Nora used to strap on an old pair of roller skates from the garage – passed down from Mom, who loved an old school roller rink – and spend hours down near the Santa Monica pier.

So many summer nights were spent in the warm ocean breeze, breathing in the salt air, stretching her arms out to reach for the pinprick stars, as the Pacific Park neon blurred in the distance.

She was never so much great as Nora was unafraid.

Not afraid to, as Mom often said, fail with her whole heart. Take the leap.

Some late night, Nora skinned both elbows and both knees on an uneven sidewalk. Tears still burned in her eyes as Nora slapped on some ointment and a few oversized bandages outside the nearest CVS and got right back out there.

She still had dried blood on her forearms and calves when she got home. Gave Mom a damn good scare.

Sixteen is another world, and Nora isn’t quite as fearless anymore.

Reminiscing, Nora almost doesn't notice Javy is still at the side of the rink, drinking a nearly empty Blue Moon. She doesn't see Jake anymore.

Javy nods in greeting, and Nora waves.

Everything Nora knows about Lieutenant Javy Machado has come secondhand from the Daggers and Captain Mitchell. He is obviously a skilled pilot. He wouldn't have been recalled to Top Gun in October otherwise.

Natasha knows him from OCS in Newport and flew with him on several deployments. She calls him a good guy.

And Javy is the only person Nora's ever heard Jake outright call a friend. She knows Jake is friends with the Daggers, but Javy is his best friend.

"Did you lose your wingman?" Nora asks when Javy is close enough to hear the question over the music. "Where did Jake run off to and leave you all alone?"

Smiling, Javy shrugs, a movement that's oceanic on someone as broad-shouldered as him.

"He's on the phone."

She looks over her shoulder and sees the Emergency Exit door is propped open with a brick. She can just make out a sliver of the night and Jake. His expression is soft.

"It's Sarah, I think," Javy answers the question before Nora can ask. "His older sister."

"Jake has a sister?"

"Two. Sarah and Bethany."

Nora absorbs that information with an absent-minded nod. "You've met them then?"

He passes the beer bottle from one hand to the other with a nod. "I even spent Christmas with them one year. We were stationed in Fallon – in Nevada, I mean – and I'm from Louisiana. Neither of us had enough leave to go all the way home."

"So Mrs. Seresin and Sarah and Beth..." His voice softens on Bethany's name, and Nora wonders. "... met us in the middle. We spent Christmas at a Holiday Inn in Phoenix, Arizona."

Fondness shines in his whiskey brown eyes, and Nora can't help her own smile in response.

Something nudges in the back of her brain, and Nora pulls on it like a loose thread. She remembers how Jake had stiffened at the nepotism comment in Natasha's kitchen.

Carefully, Nora asks, "Not Mr. Seresin?"

Javy gives her a long, searching look that feels far too appraising for comfort; that feels like Nora is the only one in the room who doesn't get a joke.

After a moment, Javy says, "No." Short. Opaque.

Right then.

"So," Nora starts, but Javy cuts her off with an expectant smile.

“Can I ask you something?"

"Sure," Nora replies slowly, "but I might not answer."

He seems to get a kick out of that.

"You know, I get it now. I really do," Javy muses with a low laugh. And before Nora can ask him to explain, the Naval aviator distracts her with, "You and Rooster. You seem... close."

Something about the way Javy says close seems weighted, but Nora is too surprised to give it much attention.

"Oh. Well, Bradley and I knew each other before. His mom, Carole was friends with my Aunt Charlie before..."

Before Carole died.

Before Nora lost a mom too.

"Bradley and I are kind of family friends, I guess. Was that a question?"

He smiles again. Nods again, like Fair enough.

Javy asks, "Ever been more than friends?" and watches her closely for a reaction.

But Nora had looked up to Charlie Blackwood her whole childhood. A woman who'd never once broken a sweat. She learned from the best.

Cool as ice, Nora asks, "Maybe. Maybe not. Who's asking?" and arches her eyebrows. She'd really like to ask, Who told you?

For his part, Javy looks a little admonished, so Nora softens the expression. She's not uncomfortable. She doesn't want to make him uncomfortable.

He's not as similar to Jake as Nora initially suspected. Jake, who would've grinned wider and pushed more, not stood down until the end.

Maybe Nora kind of likes that about Jake.

She remembers what Jake had said almost a week ago, "You like that I can keep up with you," and goddamn, maybe Nora does. Fuck.

Distracted, Nora only catches the end of what Javy is saying.

"...and Jake is my best friend, so I had to ask."

Confusion wrinkles her brow. "Bradley and I are friends."

"Just friends?"

"Just friends," Nora repeats, firm. "But Jake and I aren't..."

Evidently satisfied, Javy's smile is back in full force.

"Right. Of course not."

And Javy only sounds slightly knowing.

"I'm gonna grab another drink. You want anything?"

Nora shakes her head. "No, I'll get my own in a few."

He strolls away with one last smile, whistling along to Everybody Wants to Rule the World, and Nora is left alone on the bench, staring into space.

Over her shoulder, Nora sees Jake again.

Pink light shines across the rink now, and Jake laughs on the phone, golden in the rose blush of the disco ball. She can almost hear the depth of sound; can almost feel the vibration behind her ribcage.

Fuck. When did that happen?

Nora faces forward, blowing out a long breath, and heads for the concession stand. She needs five minutes with Bradley Bradshaw – and a goddamn drink.

Anyone who works in a place like Moonlight Rollers has probably heard their fair share of famous last words.

One final misguided question or daring declaration that precedes a dislocated elbow and a late night drive to the nearest emergency room.

Like, “Crouch down, I can definitely jump over you.”

Or, "Oh my god. Let's do the lift," when the Dirty Dancing soundtrack comes on after midnight.

“Holy shit, Nora!”

“Are you alright, Phoenix?”

Crumpled like a punctured balloon animal, Natasha lets out a hyena laugh, loud enough to draw the attention of the Naval aviators who were lucky enough not to witness the absolutely catastrophic failure of a Dirty Dancing lift.

Did Nora even leave the ground? She can’t remember.

She is definitely on the ground now.

Fuck. Everything is spinning a little bit.

Wait, Nora is directly below the disco ball, which was already spinning before. False alarm. She’s not horribly concussed. Everyone can calm down now.

“Holy damn,” Natasha gasps out, wiping at her eyes. "That must’ve been the worst Dirty Dancing lift in the history of Dirty Dancing lifts. We should be ashamed of ourselves.”

"We absolutely should." Nora winces. "Fuck. I think I broke my sunglasses."

She pulls out the pink sunglasses that were once shaped like hearts and are now little more than shrapnel. Damn. She liked those.

Natasha wiggles on her side like a beached mermaid, wrenching her neck back. “Think I ripped my shorts. Can you see my ass right now?”

Nora lets out the giggliest giggle that’s ever been giggled.

“No, I can't see your ass."

“Shame. I’m wearing really good underwear, and I wanted at least one hot woman to see them tonight.”

Nora clutches her stomach, laughing, and Natasha spills back into a high-pitched shriek of laughter. Tears spill down their cheeks.

Mickey pulls away from an intense lip-lock on the sidelines to reach them. He is the first one, sinking down on his knees.

"Are you guys okay?"

Nora drops an arm over her face and gives him a weak thumbs-up from the floor, and Natasha hiccups.

"Here. Take my hand!"

She does, but Nora has a lot of liquid in her stomach right now, sloshing and splashing. She is having a hard time engaging her core.

Mickey pulls, and Nora only slides.

Her dress is probably around her stomach right now. God bless bike shorts.

"Would you...?" Mickey lets out an exasperated sigh that makes Natasha pout.

"Don't get mad, Fanboy!"

"I'm not mad," Mickey insists. He looks around and focuses on a spot Nora can't see. She tries and only succeeds in painfully pulling her hair. "Can you help me out here, guys? They’re so drunk. It’s like deadlifting a fish."

"We are not fish. We are ladies," Natasha pipes up, sounding indignant. "Some of us are anyway." A bright smile lights up her face as Javy and Bob come into frame. "Coyote! Bob! Did you see our lift?"

"I saw it, and I wish I hadn't," Javy says dryly. He has her off the ground and on her feet in a single move, guiding her arm around his shoulder as Bob grabs the other one. "How about some water? Hangman..."

"Go ahead. I'm good."

As the slurred sound of Natasha’s giggles fade under the swelling finale of (I’ve Had) The Time of My Life, Nora briefly closes her eyes. She opens them again, and Jake is standing over her wilting form.

He glows against in the light from the disco ball, a golden gleam in the silver incandescence. Twinkling.

“Hi Jake,” Nora says softly, poking at a sore spot on her bottom lip with her tongue. She must’ve bitten it in the fall. She doesn’t remember that either.

“Hi Nora.”

“You’re sparkling.”

“You’re bleeding.”

Confused, Nora frowns.

Dull pain radiates from her left knee, and Nora spots a red and angry scrape across the skin, pulsing and throbbing with a forming bruise. She wipes at her eyes again, stinging with more tears, now that Nora has remembered the pain.

“Oh, I think I'm fine though. I'm tough. I'll get back out there."

She doesn't move.

His cheek twitches, but Jake doesn’t let her distract him. He crouches down.

“Come on, Rocky. Let’s get'cha cleaned up, yeah?”

She sticks out her arms, and amused, Jake peels her from the rink.

She is on the bench again in a flash. Metal is cold against the backs of her thighs, and Nora shivers.

A warm hand brushes across the nape of her neck, and Jake murmurs something in her that Nora doesn’t quite catch.

Only after Jake leaves does Nora comprehend the words.

“Be right back, sweetheart.”

Alone, Nora looks around. She feels a little out of focus.

Underneath the neon arcade sign, Natasha is chugging a bottle of water while Bob readies another. She doesn't see Bradley anywhere. He must've snuck off or gone home with that girl.

Nora remembers their conversation and drops her head into her hand, propped on her thighs.

Nora caught the stiff edge of Bradley's sleeve.

“Sorry. Can I speak to you for a second? Alone?”

He was in the middle of a conversation with Maid of Honor sash, who glared suspiciously at Nora as Bradley slid into the booth across from her.

Don't even worry, Nora wanted to reassure. He’s all yours.

“So Coyote asked me an interesting question,” Nora started. She explained the context and repeated the question. "Did you tell anyone?"

“Did I tell anyone what?”

“You know,” Nora insisted, and Bradley shook his head, scrubbing a hand over his mouth to hide the glimpse of the entertained smile forming there. Jackass. “You know, Bradshaw. Don’t make me spell it out for you.”

He shrugged. “I really don’t know.”

“Christ…”

What had Nora done to deserve this? Riddle me that, universe.

She exhaled. "Fine. We were both at Captain Wolfe's party a few years ago." Five to be exact. She held back a groan. "There was a pool game and drinks and shots and..."

And a silver dress sparkled in the blue darkness, gleaming in a shimmering puddle on the leather back seat of a faded blue Bronco as a shirtless Bradley Bradshaw leaned over the bench seat and popped open the glove compartment for a condom.

And and and.

He grinned.

"Oh, I think I remember now. So I shouldn't have told everyone I know about the hot sex in the back of the Bronco? I shouldn't have mentioned that?" And if Bradley expected her to blush, Nora disappointed him with an unimpressed glare and a swift kick in the shins. He yelped. "God, I'm kidding, Rogers. I didn't tell them anything."

She whispered quickly, "Why would Coyote ask me that then?"

"I don't know, okay? Everyone here is a nosey son of a bitch who can't mind their own business," Bradley said. "Even Phoenix has asked me once or twice. Someone probably has money riding on it or something. Not a big deal." He sulked. "Can I go back now?"

After an internal debate, Nora said carefully, "I have one more question. Do…?”

Do you all think something is going on between me and a certain arrogant pilot from Texas?

Her lips parted as Nora hesitated, and impatient, Bradley pulled a pained face. “

“Nora, I was about to get laid."

God. She waved him away. “Fine, sorry. Use protection.”

"Always do," Bradley said with a wink and was gone, leaving Nora alone with the smothered question, still kicking up sparks in the back of her awareness.

She needed that drink to be a double.

Something brushes against her knee, and Nora startles.

“Careful,” Jake cautions, voice low and soothing, like Nora is a spooked horse. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

She didn’t notice him come back.

She relaxes.

“Did you get your skates?”

He blinks. “My what?”

“You went to the Skate Rental counter, didn’t you? I saw you.”

“I went to ask them for their First Aid…” Jake is cradling a small red and white box in his arms. A roll of gauze is around his thumb like a ring. “…and get you some water because your knee is bleeding, Hollywood."

He says it like Nora might’ve forgotten. She frowns.

She didn’t forget.

She would've remembered.

She carefully sips the water as Jake opens the kit and pulls out some bandages and ointment. He opens a packet of alcohol wipes with his teeth and nods at Nora’s leg.

“Can I?”

Nora nods, and Jake sinks down on his knees.

She is surprised when Jake doesn’t start with her knee, instead carefully unknotting the laces and pulling the skates from her feet, setting them down on the carpet.

He smiles faintly at the pink socks, the little embroidered heart on the ankles, and Nora swears Jake brushes a gentle thumb across the pattern.

He applies the alcohol, and Nora lets out a sharp hiss at the sting, the burn.

He doesn’t prolong the sensation. He moves with such quick and efficient purpose that she wonders if one of Jake's sisters is a nurse or doctor.

She wants to ask him.

What comes out instead is, "What did you tell Coyote about me?”

For a brief moment, Jake pauses, then carefully sets the bandage in place, crumpling the plastic wrapper in a clenched fist.

His voice is hard to read. “Why’re you asking?”

She should say something like, “Sorry, I’m really drunk, and I didn’t mean to ask you that. Let’s pretend I never said anything. This never happened,” and Jake would say something like, “Can do, Hollywood.”

That would be that.

Instead, Nora throws away the shovel and starts digging the hole with her hands.

“Something Coyote said. What did you tell him?”

“Well, I guess I just said I might've met a beautiful and smart and clever as hell woman, who's basically my dream girl." Jake looks at Nora, all dimples and gleaming green, stroking across the edge of the bandage with a soft touch. "My argumentative dream girl."

She swallows against a suddenly dry mouth. "Just that, huh?"

"Just that." His expression is warm. "She doesn't like me though, right, sweetheart? Not even kind of?"

She realizes that on his knees like that, Jake could slide over half an inch and be between her parted legs. He could lean right in and...

“Right," Nora echoes. "Not even kind of."

A grin brims on his lips.

She lets the moment fade, and blessedly, Jake does too.

Jake pats her on the knee and rises. He gathers the wrappers and runs the First Aid kit back to the Skate Rental counter, coming back with another water and fries.

She could actually cry. She munches on the burning hot fries and drinks the water instead and sobers enough to push down the urge to lean on Jake's broad shoulder.

She puts on her skates again as Jake tosses the rest of the fries and dusts off his hands. She flexes her knee like a brand new Barbie doll with a proud grin. He watches her with a fond expression that softens every part of his face.

“Will I live, Texas?”

“Think so, Hollywood.”

Jake sweeps his fingers through his hair, picking up the cowboy hat from the bench and setting it back on his head.

"Now," Jake drawls. "We have enough time for a few more trips around the rink. Want to get back out there?"

He holds out a hand, and Nora slips her hand in his.

She doesn’t let go in the rink, and Jake doesn’t either.

When Jake walks her to the door and lingers, looking at her with those eyes, Nora should probably close the door in his face. She should close the door and go to bed alone and tell him to do the same.

She can't be trusted around him, not with the alcohol and the adrenaline coursing through her bloodstream, making her feel unbalanced.

Instead, Nora digs her own grave.

She holds the door open, and Jake comes in with a smirk, smug and knowing.

Everything is a blur from there. A supercut of soft touches and gasping breaths and the sound of his name as Jake presses her against every damn surface in the damn apartment.

Every kiss is devouring, sucked into the column of her neck, pressed against her bare shoulder, open-mouthed and possessive.

He doesn’t kiss her on the lips, not yet, and Nora wonders if Jake wants to make her beg him.

She’s never begged for anything in her damn life.

She might let him.

She is pliable under him, and Jake is more than willing to use that to his advantage, maneuvering them onto the mattress.

She is still dressed, and on her back, Nora can hardly breathe as Jake reaches under the dress and pulls her underwear down.

"You're so beautiful..."

He licks a long stripe over her core, tongue flat and broad.

She can’t think. She can hardly breathe.

She’s right on the edge, aching, when Jake pulls back.

He looks up. Mouth slick with her, grinning like a devil.

"Come on, sweetheart," Jake murmurs on a low breath that fans right across her exposed core. She whimpers. "We’re just gettin’ started. Be good for me."

She shakes awake, drenched in sweat, with a familiar ache between her legs.

It was a dream. She's alone.

Her dress sparkles from the corner of the room, where a drunken Nora had left it a few hours earlier and crawled into bed in an old NYU shirt that feels too warm now.

She peels it from her skin and gulps down the whole water glass on her nightstand.

Neither is enough to soothe the heat that burns under her skin.

Nora sighs out an emphatic "Fuck" in the darkness and lets her hand drift under the covers. She comes with a hand over her mouth, a familiar name on her tongue.

note: i will add a real note when i don't have a blue light headache, but... past nora and bradley, confirmed? current nora and jake, still a question mark? what do we think?

should i spring the nora and bradley one shot from the vault next?

read the next chapter here!

#fic: baby i'm high octane #jake seresin x oc #hangman x oc #jake seresin fic #jake seresin x nora rogers #hangman fic #top gun: maverick fic #top gun fic #laracrofted writes

122 notes · View notes

razzle-zazzle · 2 months

Text

to the roots

7089 Words; Discolored

TW for discussions of Parental Abandonment and Child Neglect, kidnapping

HAPPY BIRTHDAY @ninja-go-to-therapy!!! 🎂🎉🎉🎉

AO3 ver

“Branch? Sweetie, is that you?”

The voice that cut across the clearing was unfamiliar, a sugary lilt that crawled up Branch’s back and had him turning around. Before him stood two unfamiliar trolls, older than him by a significant margin. They looked like they could be John Dory’s age. Branch had never seen them before in his life.

The Troll on the left had teal fur and dandelion-yellow hair, a curled mustache in a style that Branch was pretty sure was only popular when Peppy was young. Even his felt overalls looked old-fashioned in the style of the cuffs and straps, despite the fabric itself looking relatively new. The Troll to the right had lavender fur and magenta hair, crows feet clinging to her eyes and a soft smile on her face. The handkerchief tying her hair back looked to be the same cut as her dress, soft floral pattern along the hems. Even the basket on her arm had flowers sewn along the handle.

There was something familiar about them. Branch had never seen either of them before. His paws clenched and unclenched around the sticks in his paws, an indiscernible feeling clawing its way up his throat.

Branch scowled. “I’m sorry, who are you?” He didn’t know these people, didn’t know why they had seemingly come looking for him specifically. The lack of knowledge prickled against his spine, harsh and discordant. Branch fought down a growl building in his throat.

The Troll on the left smiled. “C’mon Branchy, it’s Belladonna and Daffodil! Your parents!” He stepped forwards, paws spread wide. “Surely your brothers told you about us?”

Branch froze. Once again, he looked the two Trolls up and down, taking in every detail. He could see the resemblance. Belladonna’s face was blocky like John Dory’s, her lavender fur a near perfect match to Grandma Rosiepuff. Her magenta hair had streaks of gray running through it, and was swept back with a tied handkerchief, but the swooping bangs were unmistakable, and the violet ends splayed out wildly. She smiled, small and soft like Floyd when Branch made him his favorite tea.

Daffodil was altogether more petite, narrow shoulders set just below Belladonna’s, and the teal of his fur didn’t exactly match any of Branch’s brothers. But the yellow of his hair, tinged with green at the roots, was a near-perfect match for Clay’s. He tilted his head—and wow, his eyes were the exact same as Floyd’s. Uncanny.

Branch clenched and unclenched his paws, the bark of the sticks rough against his paw pads. Reassuring. He could see the resemblance. He really could. But—

“Why’d you come back?” The question came out like an accusation, sharp in the air. That wasn’t Branch’s intent, but he couldn’t take back his tone, so it wasn’t worth fretting over.

“Why, to meet you.” Belladonna tittered. “We went back to the old tree a few years ago, and found it completely empty!” She pressed her paws together, tail limp against the ground. “The shock of it all made it clear to us what we missed by leaving for so long.” She sighed, and Daffodil took up the story.

“When we thought that you had died, we were just plain heartbroken.” Daffodil lamented, mustache drooping along with his tail. “What kind of parents were we, that we left you for so long?” He wrung his paws together. “But then we see you and your brothers performing that perfect family harmony on the Mount Rageous big screens, and we realize—”

“—That our baby boy is still alive.” Belladonna finished, eyes soft. She stepped forwards, tentatively reaching out a paw. “When we realized we had been given a second chance, well, we just had to take it.”

Branch stared at her outstretched paw. “Why?” Suspicion wrapped around his chest like an old friend. Something about this wasn’t right. Branch had literally never met his parents before—why would they come back now?

Belladonna’s head tilted. “Why?” She repeated, like the very question made no sense to her.

“Why now?” Branch grumbled, tail lashing behind him. “You never cared before.” It was an accusation spoken softly, yet still barbed and guarded.

Belladonna winced. “I know.” She said. She gestured to the basket hanging on her arm, “Why don’t you join us for a picnic? It’ll be more fun than standing around in some random clearing.” She smiled, hopeful, and suddenly Branch felt like a pinned bug. Did he go with them? Or did he retreat to the safety of what he knew, away from the uncertainty standing before him?

Branch wondered what Poppy would say. Wait, no, scratch that—Branch knew exactly what Poppy would say. He’d been in this same situation barely two weeks ago with his brothers, after all. And if they had come back…

Sighing, Branch stepped forwards. “Fine.” He decided, adjusting his hold on the sticks in his arms. “But no funny business.” As far as he was concerned, the two trolls before him were still strangers.

Belladonna and Daffodil beamed, before turning and making their way towards one of the trees. “C’mon, your father spotted a good spot to set up in the branches.” Belladonna urged, making her way up.

Branch followed his maybe-parents up the tree, reluctantly leaving his bundle of sticks behind in the crook of one of the roots in order to haul himself up with hair and paw. It wasn’t long before they were walking along the branches, Belladonna coming to a stop at a spot that she deemed appropriate.

Branch didn’t like how high up he was. He knew he could use his hair to parachute safely if he fell, but—

The branch they were on was too exposed to the sky, in Branch’s opinion. Weren’t his parents worried about birds? Even a squirrel could become a massive problem if it decided this was a good branch to run along.

But Belladonna was humming softly, the tune unfamiliar to Branch as she laid out the blanket patterned with forget-me-nots, basket open beside her. As she busied herself with setting things up, Daffodil sidled over to Branch, mirth in his eyes.

“I see you’re wearing my old vest.” Daffodil chuckled, eyes crinkling.

Branch stepped back. “I got it from Floyd.” He growled. If these two were only going to tell lies—

“And where do you think our little rosebud got it from?” Belladonna asked, from where she was unloading the basket.

“He—” Branch cut himself off. Even back then, in his fuzzy memories of his brothers all together, Floyd’s vest had been worn, faded slightly—but surely that was just because he had had it for so long, right? It had fit Floyd too well to have been made for someone else.

But Daffodil had the near exact same body type as Floyd, Branch realized.

“It suits you.” Daffodil commented. Branch waited to see if his maybe-father would say anything more, but the older troll seemed content to leave it at that.

Belladonna finished laying out the spread, the small selection of food arranged artfully upon the blanket. There was a small plate of four sandwiches, a pitcher of stoutberry juice, a bowl of fluffleberries—there was even a small selection of sandwich ingredients. As far as picnic spreads went, it was pretty impressive. Belladonna sat down, patting the space beside her, and Daffodil sat down next to her with a wide grin.

Branch clenched and unclenched his paws, and moved to sit on the edge of the blanket opposite his probably-parents. If either of them noticed the apprehension coming off of him in waves, neither commented on it.

“I guess you’ll be wanting an explanation.” Daffodil started, around bites of his sandwich.

Branch nodded, ignoring the sandwich that Belladonna offered him. She shrugged, returning the sandwich to the plate, and took up the story. “There’s not much to tell, really.” She admitted. “When we had little Dory, we weren’t ready to be parents.” She took a bite from her own sandwich, and Daffodil picked up the thread.

“I was only fifteen or so, and Bell here is only a few months older.” He picked up his own sandwich, and tore off a bite. “My mother-in-law was pretty pissed when she found out!” He chuckled, before taking the bite. “Tore me a new one.” He mumbled.

“We did love little Dory,” Belladonna continued, pouring stoutberry juice into two cups. Branch waved off the empty cup she held out to him, and she shrugged before continuing. “Really. But we just…” She sighed, her eyes darting to her bracelet. It was weirdly plain, off-white threads braided together with no charms or color. “And then Spruce came along.” She continued, “Barely two years later. We were relying so heavily on Mom to help handle things.” She shook her head, and nodded to Daffodil.

“By the time Clay’s egg was laid, we weren’t really… around.” He shrugged, taking a drink from his cup. “The stress just got to us, so we left.”

“We didn’t go far, the first time.” Belladonna added. “Just to another part of the tree, a little higher up.” She finished off her sandwich, wiping her paw off on a napkin. “Sweetie, aren’t you going to eat?” She gestured to the spread between them, sugar in her urging.

Branch shook his head. “Not that hungry.” He grunted. How could he eat when his throat was blocked off by a knot of emotions? Anxiety squeezed his gut, hope crept up his tail, and so many questions kept dying in his throat, piling up like crumpled poems in a wastebasket. His appetite was so far nonexistent that the thought of eating made him want to run away and vomit.

“Suit yourself.” Daffodil shrugged. “But you’re always welcome to try anything you like! You’re our son, after all!” He smiled, big and wide, and Branch couldn’t help but be reminded of John Dory’s smile—it had the same bombastic obnoxiousness, he felt.

“Okay, let’s get back on topic.” Branch wanted answers, dammit. “You said you left after Clay hatched?” He had to be—he needed to know, to put the story together and make it make sense if he ever wanted to even consider trying to trust his probably-parents.

Belladonna winced. “We… missed his hatching, actually.” She admitted. “Came back just days after.” She frowned, “We were only gone for a few weeks, too…” She sighed, picking up her cup.

Daffodil put a paw on her shoulder, drawing Belladonna from her reminiscing. “You should’ve seen little Dory and Spruce when we got back!” He offered. “Dory refused to talk to either of us for four days, but Spruce was so excited to show off his new baby brother!” He smiled fondly at the memory, before his face fell. “The story doesn’t get much better after that.” He warned.

Belladonna nodded. “Me and Daffy, we’ve always had a strong sense of wanderlust.” She took a sip from her cup before continuing. “Not even having three children could get us to really settle down. It became a regular thing, leaving for a little bit before coming back.” She finished off her juice, and grabbed the pitcher to refill it. “And our sons seemed fine in Mom’s care, so we didn’t really think about the effect that our running around would really have—”

At that moment, Branch’s Hug Timer went off. He slapped the flower shut, his attention firmly on the story. “Go on.”

Belladonna and Daffodil stared for a moment—a moment during which Branch noticed a lack of Hug Timers on their wrists, just Belladonna’s off-white bracelet—before Daffodil cleared his throat.

“We did try to stick around for Floyd’s egg, though.” Daffodil continued. “Stuck around ‘til our little rosebud finally hatched! When I tell you he was the cutest little thing…” He stroked his mustache, expression fond.

“But our wanderlust just kept coming back.” Belladonna lamented. “Even though we’d seen so much of the tree already, we just kept coming and going.” She popped a fluffleberry from the bowl in the center of the blanket into her mouth.

“Until Brozone,” Daffodil added, a glint in his eyes. “I showed Dory a few lyric writing tricks when he was little, before our own dreams were crushed by the whole parenting thing.” His tail flicked rhythmically. “And I know my sweet Bellady here—” He kissed Belladonna’s cheek, prompting a giggle, “—must have brought up the idea at some point or other.” Fond hunger settled in his eyes, and Branch forced his attention onto his probably-definitely-mother.

“But we never imagined our boys would take that old dream and make it happen!” Belladonna smiled wistfully. “It was the most time we spent actually being parents, just trying to help them schedule shows and encouraging them to go further.” She pressed her paws to her face dreamily, reminiscing. “It was going so wonderfully, the four of them were getting so popular…”

“Then what made you leave?” Branch asked, derisively. From the way it sounded, everything was going great—so why were his okay-definitely-parents-by-blood out of the picture after he came along? Something wasn’t adding up, and Branch didn’t know if he wanted to hear the answer or not.

Belladonna and Daffodil looked at each other, seeming to argue with their eyes before they turned back to Branch. Belladonna frowned. “This…” Her eyes closed as she exhaled sharply. “This is the worst part of the story, sweetie.” Her paw waved dismissively. “We’ve been talking for a while now, let’s take a break.”

“Wh—” Branch fought down a snarl, “You can’t just leave it at that!” He crossed his arms. “You said you’d explain. So explain.” He still needed the story to make sense, he needed to know why his parents never came up in the two years he had with his brothers, he couldn’t just—

But Belladonna and Daffodil were already standing, Daffodil coming around to offer his paw to Branch. “We have been talking for a while,” Daffodil pointed out.

“It’s not a light topic.” Belladonna added. “But we’ll tell you tomorrow, okay?” She offered, already moving to put everything back in the basket. “We’d hate to dump all of our problems on you after just meeting, sweetie.”

Branch stood slowly, ignoring Daffodil’s offered paw. “...fine.” He conceded. “But you better not back out on telling me what happened.” He threatened. He had enough to deal with—his parents keeping secrets was not something he was willing to add to that list. Not now, not ever.

“Of course!” Daffodil chuckled, putting a paw on Branch’s shoulder. Branch brushed the paw off, stepping back to get out of range. Daffodil only smiled at Branch’s actions, head tilting as he examined his son.

“You have your mother’s eyes.” Daffodil said softly. “I…” He huffed, tossing his head back. His expression crumpled, his tail flat against the ground. “We should have come back sooner, Branch. We shouldn’t have let our wanderlust keep us away for so long.”

Belladonna nodded, leaning forwards. “We really shouldn’t have. You’re absolutely perfect.” She fiddled with the bracelet on her wrist as she spoke, eyes locked firmly on Branch.

Something about her statement jolted against Branch’s carefully-cultivated intuition, a niggling doubt digging into his stomach like a worm in an apple. He swallowed, wrenching his gaze to the blanket his mother was folding up, to the light-blue forget-me-nots patterned across the lavender fabric. His tail brushed against the bark of the branch, agitated.

“We’re here now.” Daffodil declared, tail swishing behind him. “And we’re not gonna leave you, okay?” Belladonna came to stand beside her husband, everything neatly packed away into the basket on her arm. They looked like a picture-perfect couple together, like something straight out of an old photo album or painting. They looked like they could get along just fine without their children.

Branch’s tail curled in on itself, tucking against his legs. He took a breath, trying to clear the worries clawing up his throat—his brothers came back for him. He had let John Dory and Bruce and Clay and Floyd back into his life—what were two more family members into the fold?

“Okay.” Branch breathed. The trio began to trek down the branch towards the trunk, and Branch let himself fall into a comfortable silence as he followed his parents down.

When they reached the roots, Branch gathered up his sticks again, regarding his parents one last time. “Tomorrow.” He grunted. If they thought about backing out…

“Tomorrow.” Belladonna agreed, reaching into her dress pocket. She pulled out a bracelet almost—no, exactly like her own, with the same braided off-white threads. “Here,” She offered, holding the bracelet out. “A promise bracelet. So you know we want to make this work.”

Branch regarded the bracelet suspiciously. It was so plain that he couldn’t help but wonder what the catch was… but at the same time, it was so plain that Branch couldn’t think of any conceivable nefarious purpose. His eyes flicked to Belladonna’s bracelet.

Branch groaned, shifting the sticks so he could hold out his paw. Belladonna beamed, and carefully slid the bracelet onto his wrist, just below his Hug Timer. She tugged at it, and it contracted, snug around Branch’s wrist. His eyes widened.

“Pretty special, huh?” Daffodil leaned in. “Promise bracelets are charged with the same kind of energy made by a Pinky Promise.” He explained. “They’re impossible to lose.”

“So that the promises they represent can’t be broken.” Belladonna added softly, clasping Branch’s paw in her own.

Branch swallowed, jaw tightening. He’d have to check the village library for scrapbooks on promise bracelets. He withdrew his paw from Belladonna’s so that he could hold the sticks more comfortably, the bracelet a constant presence against his wrist. But it wasn’t tight enough to hurt, so Branch fought the feeling down.

Belladonna smiled, twirling in place with a giggle. “We’ll see you tomorrow!” She chirped, before she and Daffodil turned to head off to… wherever they were staying, Branch supposed. As he watched them go, a knot of hope and anxiety clung to his fur, his tail flicking behind him.

Ugh, whatever. Branch turned to return to his bunker. The picnic had been unexpected, but surely…

Whatever would come of all of this, Branch didn’t know. But he was going to get some answers, if nothing else, and that was enough to satisfy him. It’d have to be—he couldn’t allow himself to expect anything more.

+=+=+=+=+

“Something on your mind?”

Branch looked up at the sound of Floyd’s voice, clenching and unclenching his paws against the mug clasped in them. His brother was staring at him fondly through sleep-frizzed bangs, mug of tea on the table before him.

Branch glanced over to the other side of the table. John Dory didn’t stay the night every night, but here he was, puttering into the kitchen while humming an old Brozone song under his breath.

“Just thinking.” Branch responded, his gaze returning to his coffee. Thoughts about his parents had been swirling around in his head all night, muddled and mixed up with his usual worries. They claimed to be hoping to reconnect, but something about that picnic the day before just felt… weird.

But Branch’s brothers had come back, hadn’t they? And they were even making an effort to reconnect and keep in touch—Floyd was living in his bunker, after all, and John Dory was sticking around! Clay was busy helping Viva with the Putt-Putt Trolls’ end of the connecting route between the golf course and Trollstopia, and Bruce had his business and family, but they were staying in contact. Surely, if all of Branch’s brothers could come back into his life with no strings attached, then why couldn’t his parents? They’d even given him a promise bracelet—though all the examples Branch found in the library scrapbooks had had more color to them than the one he was wearing.

But… maybe it was the years of isolation. Maybe Branch was being paranoid, letting his fear trickle into his brain and poison his thoughts. But yet… if his parents wanted to reconnect, then why wouldn’t they start with the sons they actually met? Rhonda was difficult to hide—and John Dory wasn’t making any effort to do so, either—and it was well-known throughout the village that the armadillo-bus was where John Dory had taken up residence. Why wouldn’t they go there first?

Maybe they had. Maybe Branch was just getting too caught in his own head. He did that a lot, it felt, worrying over what everyone else was sure was nothing. And more often than not, it felt like it was everyone else who was right.

“Thinkin’ hard over there, Bit—Branch?” John Dory prompted, plate in one paw as he grabbed a chair to pull out.

“What were our parents like?” Branch glanced up at the end of his question. He immediately regretted blurting it out—but he couldn’t take the words back and bury them, no matter how much he wanted to.

It was a long moment before John Dory responded, face harsh and still like a statue, snarl building in the back of his throat.

“Awful.” John Dory grunted, knuckles white from gripping the back of the chair. “The absolute worst.” He set his plate down on the table with more force than necessary, sending a few bits of egg flying onto the table. “Always ducking in and out of our lives whenever it was convenient for them—” John Dory cut off with a snarl, whirling away from the table with savage force. “GAH! They just—I—Oh, I hate them so much!” He threw his paws in the air, tail smacking the table leg as it lashed in agitation. “If they ever show their sorry faces around here, I’ll—AAGH!”

As John Dory stomped off, his breakfast apparently forgotten, Branch released the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. His paws clenched and unclenched around his mug, new worries fluttering around in his head. Floyd took a conspicuously long sip of tea, staring at nothing in particular. His tail was curled around the legs of his chair, discomfort radiating off of him in waves.

Branch wished he’d kept his mouth shut. Familiar panic ebbed in like an old friend, and he had to fight down the hackles his body had raised. Right. So his parents hadn’t gone to John Dory first, then—and for good reason, if the way John Dory had been muttering as he stormed off was any indication.

Branch forced his attention to slide away from the encroaching anxiety and onto Floyd, who was staring resolutely at the table. Branch almost opened his mouth, ready to ask if Floyd had any clarification—he shut his mouth. Nope. He’d already made one brother blow up, there was no way Branch was going to incur a repeat with the others. He’d just sit here, then, in his own little stress-filled bubble, and regret ever opening his stupid mouth.

“Soooo,” Floyd began, cutting through the silence more awkwardly than John Dory at his most bombastic. “Did Poppy make that bracelet for you?” He tried, bringing Branch’s attention back to the white promise bracelet hugging his wrist.

“Sure.” Branch responded, lifting his mug to his mouth and taking a long sip of coffee. He was not about to bring up his parents again—one brother blowing up at him was enough.

Silence reigned for another long moment. Branch half-considered blurting the truth out then and there, and dismissed the thought.

Once again, Floyd was the first to break the silence. “Why’d you ask about…” Floyd cut himself off, reconsidering his words before he started again, “what got you so curious about our parents?” His paws remained clasped around his mug, and his eyes kept darting away from Branch every second.

Branch shrugged, swallowing down any notions of the truth. “Guess seeing Bruce with his kids got me curious.” The lie fell from his mouth easily, his gut turning at the lack of doubt on Floyd’s face. “Sorry.” Branch added. For the question or the lie, he wasn’t sure. “It was a stupid question. I never even met them.” His own tail curled around his legs nervously.

Floyd hummed noncommittally, bringing his mug to his mouth once again. The silence stretched on uncomfortably, Branch’s coffee barely room temperature when he got back to drinking it.

They sat like that, John Dory’s breakfast slowly getting cold as Branch worked his way through his coffee instead of through his thoughts. After a while of sitting in suffocating silence, Branch pushed his chair out and stood.

“I’m gonna head out,” He muttered, grabbing John Dory’s abandoned plate on his way to the sink. “You want anything?” He really hoped Floyd would come with him. He really hoped he could have some time alone. Branch shoved the knot of feelings down and focused on packing away John Dory’s abandoned breakfast in a jar to put in the fridge; John Dory could come back for it later if he wanted.

Floyd hummed noncommittally. “‘M fine.” He mumbled into his mug. “Are you?” There was something oddly pointed to his question, a sharp invitation that made Branch want to tear down his walls just long enough to spill everything—

Branch shut the fridge with more force than was perhaps necessary. “Just peachy.” He grit out, unable to bring himself to turn around to face his brother. “I…” He sighed, heavy and tired. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell. I just…” He fumbled for the words, staring at his closed fridge.

“It’s okay.” Floyd’s voice was quiet, “We can talk about it later.” He offered.

Branch grimaced. “Yeah.” He mumbled, tail twisting anxiously. “Later.” Deep down, he knew that if he pushed it off he would never stop—

Branch shook his head. He’d talk about it with Floyd later. He would. He just… his parents had promised the rest of the explanation today, his bracelet snug around his wrist as a reminder, and Branch wanted to hear that, first. Then he’d be able to tell Floyd about them coming back.

Yeah. It would all work out. Branch made his way to the elevator feeling considerably lighter than moments before, a sense of calm starting to finally settle in his chest over the whole situation. His worries remained, of course, but Branch felt more ready to confront them.

He was going to get some answers.

+=+=+=+=+

Belladonna and Daffodil had already set up by the time Branch made it up the tree around lunch time. The spread was similar to last time, with the same pitcher and bowl of fluffleberries—but with a plate of sprinkleberry pie instead of sandwiches. Branch swallowed at the sight of it, his traitorous mind darting to Poppy—why hadn’t he told her about his parents coming back? He’d certainly had enough opportunity, but it had seemingly never come up in the twenty-four or so hours since they had first approached him.

Whatever. Branch shook off the worry and forced himself to sit down on the edge of the blanket, brushing his paw over the promise bracelet. Belladonna nudged the pitcher his way, and Branch poured himself a cup of stoutberry juice. Daffodil cut a slice of pie and offered the plate to Branch, who took it after a moment of hesitation.

For a few moments, none of them said anything, just sitting there on the picnic blanket eating. Branch picked at his slice of pie slowly, unable to eat much past the rising anticipation. The bracelet was a constant reminder around his wrist, always noticeable.

“So.” Branch started, clenching and unclenching his paws around his cup.

“So.” Belladonna jokingly repeated, grabbing a fluffleberry from the bowl.

Branch glared. Belladonna smiled pleasantly, unperturbed by her son’s annoyance.

“You promised an explanation.” Branch continued, setting his cup down. His tail was twitching rapidly behind him, and it was taking all of his energy not to pull out a stick and start whittling. “About why you disappeared after…” He swallowed, the words getting caught in his throat. “After my egg was laid.”

“We did.” Belladonna agreed. She popped another fluffleberry into her mouth and chewed it slowly, seemingly contemplating her words before she swallowed. “We wanted to stay.” Belladonna said. “We were going to.” She sighed.

“We were so excited!” Daffodil continued, setting down his empty plate. “We’d had your egg on one of our… excursions.” He went back to the pie to cut himself another slice.

Belladonna nodded. “And the moment we realized we were with egg, we went right back to Mom’s pod with all the boys.” She clasped her paws together. “You were going to be perfect, we just knew. We showed your egg to little Dory—”

“And that was the beginning of the end,” Daffodil growled. “After everything that we had done for him, for all of them, he just—” He cut himself off with a huff, digging back into his slice of pie.

“You have to understand, sweetie.” Belladonna’s face softened, for a moment looking like the fifty-seven year old that she was. “We didn’t leave because of our wanderlust, we left because Dory cut us out.”

Branch froze, nearly dropping his cup of stoutberry juice. “What?” His voice came out quieter than he intended, in the sudden heaviness of the air. John Dory had… but that didn’t… “What do you mean, cut out?” Why would John Dory ever…

Branch was at a loss. His tail was flat against the ground, his paws gripping the cup tightly, the promise bracelet tight around his wrist. His half-eaten slice of pie remained forgotten in front of him as the world seemed to tilt.

“It was some silly fight,” Belladonna waved off. “I can hardly even remember what it was about! But, eh, Little Dory was always so headstrong…” She wrung her paws together. “Once he had an idea in his head, there was no changing his mind.” She shook her head with a shrug, as if to dismiss the thought.

Branch nodded. He hadn’t gotten the chance to know his older brother for as long as his parents had, but from what he had seen? Yeah, John Dory was stubborn. He lifted his cup back to his mouth for another sip.

“He got it from you, babe.” Daffodil teased, tail flirting back and forth as he leaned in towards Belladonna. “Shame he didn’t get your sweet sense of humor.” He purred, his paw sliding up Belladonna’s arm. “But maybe if we try again…” He pressed a kiss to his wife’s wrist, slowly making his way up her arm with quick smooches while Belladonna giggled.

“Charmer.” Belladonna pushed at Daffodil’s face with her paw, hiding her smile behind the other. She turned back to where Branch was struggling not to inhale the juice he’d managed not to spit back into the cup. “Oh, your face!” She snickered, covering her mouth with both paws.

Branch’s tail thumped the ground in annoyance as he coughed, his near-empty cup back to sitting on the blanket. “What’s wrong with it.” He hated being laughed at. He hated not knowing why. He also hated almost choking on his drink, but that was a given.

“It’s okay to be grossed out by your parents flirting, son.” Daffodil chuckled. “All kids do it.” He stroked his mustache, reminiscing. “Ah, I remember the night when your mom and I were bringing Floyd’s egg into the world… the look on Spruce’ face when he walked in on us… ah, if only Bell here had locked the door instead of the cuffs—”

“Okay okay that’s enough!” Branch held out his paws, horrified. Ew ew ew, he did not need to hear that!

“See?” Daffodil grinned. “Perfectly normal.”

“Back on topic,” Branch urged, desperate to get away from watching his parents try to undress each other with their eyes, “John Dory just… cut you out?” It made a terrible kind of sense, as much as Branch hated the thought.

Belladonna nodded. “Took your egg and gave us the boot.” She confirmed.

“Told us we weren’t welcome around anymore.” Daffodil added, “That he had things ‘handled’.” He picked his plate back up to scrape the remains of the pie into his mouth, and Belladonna spoke next.

“We did try to come back.” She took Branch’s cup and refilled it without asking. Branch didn’t have the energy to make a thing of it, numbly accepting the refilled cup. “But Dory chased us off every time.” There was something almost bitter in her lamentations, some sour chord hidden in her voice.

Daffodil shrugged. “We gave up, after the first few tries.” He added. “Gave into our wanderlust and managed to leave the tree entirely.” He brushed crumbs out of his mustache and sighed.

“We should have come back sooner,” Belladonna lamented. Her mouth spread in a small, tentative smile, her tail flicking behind her. “But… we’re here now,” She affirmed, “And we’re not wasting this chance.”

“Even if John Dory tries to chase you off again?” Branch asked, taking another drink from his cup. His slice of pie was pretty much a lost cause, at this point, with the way his stomach was churning.

Belladonna chuffed. “Oh, no, that won’t be a problem.” She waved off, “Not where we’re going.”

Once again, the world seemed to tilt, the air heavy around Branch as his mother’s words hit him. “But—you said you were sticking around?” No, no, he shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up, he was just going to get left again—

“Of course!” Daffodil assured. “You’ll be sticking with us! It just won’t be here.” His words did not abate Branch’s rising uncertainty in the slightest.

“We can’t tie ourselves down to one place,” Belladonna offered, scooting across the blanket to be closer to Branch. “And I know my Mom is dead…” Her face fell, for a moment, before she recollected herself. “But we want you to come with us, see the world.” She held out her paws invitingly. “We’ve even got songs put together for you to sing onstage.” She sounded so pleased with herself.

“Yes, a family tour!” Daffodil spread his paws invitingly, mustache twitching. “You and us, traveling around, playing songs for the crowd… the perfect way for our little family to bond!” His voice was proud and eager, his tail waving rhythmically behind him.

But something about his explanation caught on Branch’s intuition. “Just me?” He asked, paws clenching and unclenching around his cup. The bracelet was starting to feel like a chain, tight and heavy on his wrist.

“Well, there’s no way Dory would ever agree,” Belladonna waved her paw. “And we came back for you, sweetie.” There was something in her eyes that had Branch bristling ever so slightly, some hunger he couldn’t explain, and didn’t want to think about.

“It’d be a lot less crowded with just three of us, too!” Daffodil chuckled. “And I’m sure your brothers aren’t looking to be performing anytime soon—we saw the events on Mount Rageous, after all.” He nodded, stroking his mustache. “Floyd could use a nice break.”

“Are you joking?” Branch’s voice came out harsher than he wanted. He didn’t care. “I just—they just came back into my life, and you want me to leave?” He stood, itching to throw his cup at the blanket.

“It’d only be for a few months.” Belladonna uttered, gesturing for Branch to sit back down. “We just want to get to know you again, baby.”

But Branch remained standing. “No way.” He said, squeezing the cup in his paws. Clench, unclench. “I’ve got a life here—” He chuckled darkly, catching his lashing tail in one paw. “Not like you’d know.” He added, bitter.

“Branch, please.” Belladonna’s voice was sharp, almost sour; the contrast from her sugary sweetness was a prickle under Branch’s fur. “We wanna make you a star—is it really too much to ask?”

Branch stumbled back, hackles raising. “You—” He didn’t have the words. In what world could his parents possibly think this would go over well? “You said you wanted to connect.” He managed, clutching his cup tightly, eyes darting to his promise bracelet.

“And we do,” Daffodil stood, offering a paw to Belladonna to help her up. “But Branchy, there’s no way we can stick around here—”

“Because John Dory will just chase you off again!” Branch shouted. “That’s it, isn’t it? Why you’re sneaking around and trying to make me come with you on some—some desperate attempt at fame!” He shoulders heaved, and he waved his cup around wildly as he spoke, spilling a bit of juice in the process. He couldn’t believe this. How could he have possibly let himself think that there wouldn’t be strings attached? He should have known when the bracelet first tightened against his wrist—nothing came for free. Not for him.

“Branch, you need to understand,” Daffodil started, “We really do want to know you, but if Dory finds out—”

Branch held up a paw, expression thunderous. “Don’t.” He snarled. “Save your excuses.” If John Dory would really be so belligerent about their parents—and after what happened this morning, Branch didn’t doubt that one bit—there had to be a reason. “You want me to come on tour with you? Then make amends with John Dory first.” He walked over and shoved his cup into Belladonna’s hands, before turning towards the trunk.

Branch turned back one last time, regarding his parents. Anger bubbled up his throat, but resignation kept his mouth shut. Of course there were strings attached, an underlying motive. What else was there to expect? Branch could never be so lucky—not like this.

With a snarl, Branch grasped the bracelet, “And you can keep your tacky brace—”

It wouldn’t come off.

“This stupid—” Branch growled, digging in his claws, but the bracelet didn’t budge. If anything, it almost felt like it got tighter. “Oh, fuck this.” Branch groused. He turned his attention back to his parents. “I have scissors at home, and when I’m done your tacky bracelet is going in the trash!” He shouted. “Just like my trust!”

Oh, that was stupid—why did he say that? Branch shoved down the embarrassment, turning away from his parents. As he started to make his way down the tree, Branch shoved any thoughts about telling his brothers about their parents’ return to the back of his mind. Belladonna and Daffodil could handle that announcement themselves. Either they’d leave and Branch would never hear from them again, or—if they really wanted in on his life—they’d put in the same effort with his brothers. Hopefully without stupid off-white bracelets that refused to come off.

Belladonna watched Branch descend the tree, face pinched in annoyance. Wordlessly, Daffodil took her arm, his tail twining in hers. She sighed, passing off Branch’s cup to Daffodil, freeing her paws to fiddle with the bracelet on her right wrist.

“He’ll come around.” Daffodil said softly, leaning up against his wife.

“I know.” Belladonna sighed. “I just hoped he’d make it easy.” Her expression darkened, before it softened again. She turned back to the blanket.

“Let’s get this cleaned up.”

+=+=+=+=+

Branch groaned as he came to. What had hit him?

His whole body felt heavy, sluggish, his head pounding like he’d been to one of Poppy’s wilder parties. The floor under him rumbled faintly, steady vibrations pounding up his spine into his already-pounding skull.

Branch glanced around, looking for Poppy so he could ask her who spiked the punch and how much he had—

This wasn’t his bunker. This wasn’t Trollstopia, or Pop Village. This was a vaguely-homey space he didn’t recognize, small but cozy and completely unfamiliar. There was a vanity against the wall across from him, two bunks to his right, and when Branch managed to force his aching head to look to his left—

There was a small kitchenette against the wall, but Branch found himself skimming over that as his horror slowly mounted. Just past the kitchenette and small booth was a driver’s seat, familiar in shape and yet so so different from Rhonda’s. And sitting in that seat was none other than Daffodil, cheerily humming as he focused out the windshield before him.

Oh god. It was all coming back now—Branch had never attended any party Poppy had thrown—he’d made it back to his bunker, brushed off Floyd’s questions, and set out again—

He’d never made it back to his bunker.

Branch moved to stand, his chest pounding with a wild fear he hadn’t felt since Poppy had come to his bunker to tell him about the Bergens returning. He needed—

Branch tried to stand again, twisting back when he failed for the second time. The slight pressure around his chest resolved itself as a harness clipped to the wall, the cord too short for Branch to scoot more than a few centimeters forwards. His body threatened to collapse in on itself, his breaths getting quicker as panic wrapped cold hands around his throat. This wasn’t happening. His parents hadn’t just—there was no way—it couldn’t—no no no—

“Shh shh,” A crooning voice, a soft paw carding through his hair. “It’s okay, sweetie,” Belladonna sang sweetly, “It’s okay. Momma’s here.”

Branch tried to pull away, to push her and the encroaching pressure squeezing his chest off, but his limbs were heavy, slow, clumsy. He pawed at the air as Belladonna pressed up against him, an arm around his back pulling him tight against her. She cooed, whispering sickly sweet reassurance into Branch’s hair as he squirmed, like this was fine and normal and not fucked up at all.

“Doncha worry, Sprout!” Daffodil called out cheerily from the driver’s seat. “You’ll thank us for this!”

Branch would not be thanking his parents for—for trollnapping him! In what world—

“Shhhhhh,” Belladonna took Branch’s paw in hers, drawing his attention to the bracelet she had given him earlier—and to the missing Hug Timer. It was the same plain off-white as before, but with faint strands of sky blue and dusky gray running through it now. Branch couldn’t fathom what it was possibly for. That his Hug Timer was missing was more worrying.

The critter-bus hit a bump in whatever road it was traveling. Branch jolted, panic rising anew like the bile climbing his throat. This wasn’t—this wasn’t real, he was just having the world’s most stressful fever dream—

“It’s okay, Guppy.” Belladonna whispered, holding Branch tightly through his panic. “Momma’s here, it’s alright, you’re okay.” She smiled sweetly, her weight pinning Branch in place in a way that was only vaguely comforting. “Momma’s here,” She repeated, voice sickly sweet.

“And she’s gonna make you a star.”

#zaz writes #dreamworks trolls #discolored #branch trolls #floyd trolls #john dory trolls #belladonna & daffodil #parental abandonment #implied child neglect #kidnapping #okay damage fans you know what this is >:]#look i love the ''the bros' parents were eaten by bergens'' hc and in general that's the one i ascribe to #but for the purposes of discolored: what if they weren't. and what if they sucked #there's a lot of backstory that bella & daffy are NOT saying or simply. downplaying #take their words with a grain of salt fr fr

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