This blog is anti-Trump, anti-everyone associated with him, and anti-facist. This blog is run by a bisexual witch who believes everyone should have human rights. This blog supports Black Lives Matter, the LGBTQ+, womenโs rights, Palestine, and a united Ireland. All bigotry will result in an immediate block.
My name is Nikki! Iโm 26, an INTJ, and a Taurus sun, Leo moon, and Libra rising.
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This blog is also not safe for Taylor Swift haters๐ซถ๐ป
non-writers will never understand the mental illness of writing an entire conversation in your head while doing dishes and then forgetting every word the second you open a blank doc
Do you think bobby would leave his wife and kid if he saw companion again ? Is beeny keeping him in the dark, somewhat hoping to have companion to himself this time ? Pr is it something she asked, or something he knows is right because kat and her kid deserve it ?
bobby married kat because she got pregnant. thatโs the truth nobody says at the dinner table. he cares about her. genuinely and deeply. sheโs kind and steady and she showed up at a point in his life where he was choosing between a headstone and a possibility of a life, and she gave him a reason to pick the latter. but he didnโt marry her because she was the love of his life. he married her because the love of his life was in a cemetery with no body under the stone, and he had a kid coming and the kid deserved a father who was present even if the father was hollow.
so yes, if bobby saw you standing in brendanโs rectory, alive, breathing, real, he would dismantle his entire life before you finished saying his name. and the dismantling would be loud and public and catastrophic because bobby doesnโt do things quietly. bobby does things the way bobby does everything: full volume, no filter, consequences later. heโd be at your side within the hour. heโd be making phone calls, hiring lawyers, alerting authorities youโre alive, alive, god youโre alive, blowing the entire operation wide open because bobbyโs first instinct is act and his second instinct is think and brendanโs whole plan relies on thinking first.
brendan knows this.
reason one for keeping bobby in the dark: operational security. bobby canโt keep a secret, has never kept a secret. his face is a billboard and his mouth is a megaphone and the moment he knows youโre alive every agency monitoring threshold returnees (and him due to past association) will know too because bobby franklin is constitutionally incapable of subtlety.
reason two: the family. bobby has a wife and a child and the wife is kind and the child is innocent. if you resurface in bobbyโs life then bobby leaves kat and the kid loses a present father and the cycle repeats. their dad left. bobby swore he never would. and brendan watched his brother rebuild himself around a family and the rebuilding is fragile and imperfect but itโs standing and brendan will not be the one to kick the foundations out.
reason three: you. he heard your reaction when bobbyโs voice came through the wall. he felt the temperature drop. heard the clicking go sharp and predatory. saw the thing behind your face press forward with a jealousy so primal it made the crucifix vibrate. youโre not stable, and youโre not safe. and the collision of you and bobby and kat in a room is a detonation he canโt control. you might hurt kat. you might not mean to. because the other version of you heard another woman laughing with your first love and the room got cold and brendan is not going to put kat and a child in that room.
reason four: he likes it. the small, selfish, rotten part of him that he confesses to nobody, not even God, not even the notebook. the part that savours coming home to find you in his kitchen wearing his shirt. the part that glows when you reach for his hand and press your face into his chest and say youโre warm, benny with your eyes closed. the part that thinks, quietly, in the ugliest corner of his heart: she needs me. not bobby. me. for the first time in my life Iโm the one she chose. Iโm the one she came back to. and if bobby walks through that door sheโll look at him the way she used to look at him and Iโll be the quiet twin again. the invisible one. the shoulder she slept on while she dreamed about his brother. he hates this part of himself. hates it so much. heโs not keeping bobby in the dark because of it. the other three reasons are enough. but the fourth reason is there. sitting in the dark beside the other three. and it purrs when you fall asleep in his bed instead of asking about bobby, and he lets it.
itโs a hierarchy of justifications, really, but the bottom level, the one that lives below the priest and the brother and the good man, is just this: for once, sheโs mine. just for now. just for a little while. let me have this. please. Iโve been the invisible one my whole life. let me have this one thing before the world takes it back.
question about the priest au: how does companion actually go to ceremonies or leave the room at all if sheโs hiding? wouldnโt people eventually notice her, especially if sheโs walking around the church and someone recognizes her?
the most frequent question I get for priest au aside from are they going to fuck is: whatโs bennyโs long term plan? surely he knows he canโt keep companion locked up for the rest of their lives.
and youโre right, and brendan does know. and brendan, as always, has a plan.
phase one: confirm youโre real. this takes a week. he takes your pulse eleven times. makes you eat in front of him (real food, not an illusion, illusions donโt chew). puts a bible in your hands to check for a demonic burning reaction. you hold the bible and look at him with flat, unamused eyes and say, โIโm not a demon, bennyโ and the clicking in your voice makes the pages vibrate and he thinks debatable but Iโll take it.
phase two: socialisation. slow. agonising. because you can barely tolerate him some days, and heโs your favourite person. strangers are a full sensory assault after so long alone in purgatory. so he starts small. one parishioner. mrs. delgado. seventy-four. half-deaf. brings him casseroles. he introduces you as a โdistant cousin visiting from out of stateโ and you sit in his kitchen in a borrowed wig and glasses gripping his hand under the table so hard his fingers turn white while mrs. delgado talks about her hip replacement.
it takes three months before you can be in a room with more than two people without the clicking starting. four months before you can walk through town in the disguise (hair different, glasses, his oversized coat) without snarling at every sudden sound. six months before you stop flinching at car doors.
heโs patient. endlessly. walking beside you through the grocery store at 6am when itโs empty, his hand on your lower back, murmuring โyouโre doing greatโ while you grip a shopping cart like a weapon and stare at a wall of cereal with the thousand-yard gaze.
phase three: the part where he needs help. because getting a legally dead woman out of the country requires documents. fake ones. good ones, especially if you hope to start a new life. and brendan bennett franklin, priest, valedictorian, the biggest rule-follower, has absolutely no idea how to acquire fake documents.
but he knows someone who might know someone. a certain childhood friend. a man who has spent the last five years tearing apart every lead, every clue, every cold trail. a man who didnโt give up looking out of sheer stubbornness. a man whose name starts with T and whose moral compass has always pointed toward a nonchalant, โeh, whatever it takes.โ
terrence wilson gets a phone call at 2am on a tuesday from a number he doesnโt recognise. the voice on the other end is brendan franklin. the quiet twin. the priest. the one who never calls anymore.
โI need your help,โ brendan says. โand you canโt tell anybody, not even bobby. especially not bobby.โ
the silence on terrenceโs end is long and loaded.
โwhat kind of help, man?โ
โthe kind that requires you to not ask questions you donโt want the answers to.โ
โโฆ bb, the hell did you do?โ
โI didnโt do anything.โ a pause. the careful, measured pause of a man choosing his next words very carefully. โbut someone came back. someone we thought was gone, and if the wrong people find out, she disappears again. permanently.โ
the silence that follows is the silence of a man putting pieces together very fast.
โIโll be there thursday,โ terrence says.
he doesnโt ask who. he already knows. thereโs only one she that would make brendan bennett franklin break his careful, structured, God-shaped life open.
terrence is going to walk into that rectory two days later, and see a ghost. and the first thing heโs going to do is cry, and the second thing heโs going to do is start making phone calls to people whose names he knows from places he doesnโt talk about because terrence has spent five years in the grey space between legal and illegal searching for a missing woman and the contacts heโs made in that grey space are exactly the contacts you need when youโre trying to move a dead girl across a border.
phase four is getting out of the country. phase five is a new identity. phase six is a small town somewhere with no threshold activity where nobody knows your face and the backrooms canโt reach you.
he hasnโt planned phase seven yet. phase seven is the part where he decides about the collar. the part where he chooses between God and you. the part the whiteboard doesnโt have space for because the answer is too big for a diagram.
but terrence is coming and for the first time since you showed up on his church steps barefoot and bleeding, brendan bennett franklin has something he hasnโt had since 1985.
it likely takes years. half a decade of chasing dead leads through volantis, pentos, lys, asshai-adjacent rumours, old valyrian texts so degraded the ink flakes off under your fingers. a dozen friends made and twice as many enemies gained. you piss off a volantene magister badly enough that there's a price on aerion's head for a few years. you nearly die in a collapsed ruin outside old valyrian ruin. you both learn blood magic from a red priestess who looks at the pair of you and says ah, so you're the ones the flames keep showing me and neither of you knows what the hell sheโs talking about.
the free cities are still rich with magic in a way westeros hasn't been since the dragons died out. the old blood of volantis still remembers behind their black walls. the red temples still burn. the shadowbinders, the priests, the alchemists, the remnants of valyrian sorcery that never fully died, all of it is still there, buried under commerce and politics but still very alive. and what you and aerion bring to the table is something none of those practitioners have seen in generations: two bloodlines that were never supposed to meet.
targaryen fire and stark ice. the blood of old valyria and the blood of the first men. dragonlords and wargs, fire magic and the deep green sorcery of the north that predates every civilisation on the continent. R'hllor's flame and the old gods' roots. two completely opposed magical traditions fused in a marriage that was never supposed to happen and expressed through two people who are, frankly, insane enough to try anything.
the ritual, when it finally works, isn't pretty. it costs them. blood magic always does. but the egg cracks on a night with no moon in an ancient ruin, and what crawls out is beautiful.
white scales. pure, blinding white, like fresh snow, like bone, like the heart of a flame so hot it's lost all colour. and gold. shimmering gold threading through the wing membranes, gilding the tiny horns, tracing the fine scales around the face like filigree. ice and fire made flesh. stark and targaryen hatched from the same shell.
aerion nearly weeps. he will deny this until the day he dies but his eyes shine, and you hold him and the dragon, wet and trembling and no bigger than a cat, crawls up his chest and presses its face against his throat and makes a low chirping sound.
but hatching a dragon doesn't make life easier. if anything, it paints a target on your backs so bright it's visible from oldtown to yi ti. every magister, every would-be conqueror, every ambitious lord with valyrian pretensions wants what you have. and westeros? the crown would demand the dragon be returned to Westeros and serve the crown. aerion would be brought to heel or killed and you, the stark girl who married the mad prince and helped him birth a living nuke, would become the most dangerous woman in the known world.
so you make a choice. together, the way you make every choice now, forehead to forehead in the dark with the hatchling sleeping between you.
you go west. past the sunset sea. into the unknown, where the maps end and the legends begin and no one can follow easily. you take your dragon and your marriage and whatever gold you've hoarded and you sail past the edge of the world because the world behind you has no place for you anymore.
as far as westeros is concerned, aerion and his wolf wife disappeared somewhere in essos and probably died. there are rumours for years. decades even. sightings in qarth, in asshai, in the basilisk isles. none of them are ever confirmed.
and somewhere past the sunset sea, in a place no maester has ever mapped, there's a white dragon with gold-tipped wings circling above an island that doesn't have a name yet. and on that island there's a man with silver hair and a woman with wolf's blood, and theyโre building something new, from nothing, with no dynasty and no crown and no one to answer to except each other.
(and the cannibal. because the cannibal survives the dance, disappears from the skies of westeros, and goes somewhere. and i'd imagine that somewhere past the sunset sea, on an island that doesn't have a name, a white dragon with gold wings looks up one day and sees something ancient and black and terrible on the horizon. and doesn't flee. and the cannibal, old and wild and savage, who has never tolerated another dragon in its territory, circles once. twice. lands, and stays. because the cannibal recognises what the white dragon is: not a rival or food. a continuation when he thought he was the last. the last flame finding the new one. and you, standing on the beach watching two dragons regard each other in the fading light, grab aerion's hand hard enough to crack bone. and he squeezes back. and neither of you says anything because what is there to say? you went looking for dragons and the dragons found you back.)
companion reciting bennyโs journal in the confessional thought bubble
youโve been coming to confession for three weeks now, sitting in the dark, talking through the lattice. and he lets you because he canโt not. because your voice in the dark is braver, here you talk about the other place and the horrors you saw there.
but tonight youโre different. he can feel it before you speak. thereโs an edge running hotter than usual. your breathing shallow, the scent of you through the screen sharper, more metallic. the other version of you closer to the surface than the version that eats apples in his kitchen and falls asleep on his shoulder.
โforgive me, father, for I have sinned.โ
โhow long since your last confession?โ
โthree days.โ a pause. โI found something.โ
brendanโs hands tighten on the armrests, his nape prickling.
โin your desk. under the bible. a notebook.โ your voice low and even, stripped of everything once soft in it. โprivate property of brendan bennett franklin. do not read. I mean it, bobby.โ
the blood drains from brendanโs face. he can feel it leaving, every capillary contracting. his heartbeat, the one thatโs been hammering your name since 1985, goes haywire.
he sucks in a soft, uneven breath. โyou read it.โ
โI read it.โ
silence. the confessional shrinks around him. the lattice screen suddenly too thin, too permeable. your breath on the other side too close and too warm.
โseptember 3, 1985,โ you recite, your voice flat, the words almost gentle despite their cruelty. โnew girl transferred today. she walked into homeroom twelve minutes late. I forgot what mr hendricks was saying. this is probably not important enough to write down.โ a pause. โyou wrote it down anyway.โ
โplease stop.โ
โoctober 22, 1985. she linked her arm through mine and walked me to class. I have never felt warm the way I feel warm when she does this.โ your voice dropping lower. โnovember 9, 1985. I hate being touched, and Iโm desperate to be touched. both at the same time. but when she touches me my body does the opposite thing. it leans.โ
โpleaseโโ
โjune 14, 1989.โ your voice shifting register, the darkness in it thickening, going almost syrupy. โshe was lying on a blanket in our backyard. the sun was in her hair. her shirt had ridden up and I could see a strip of skin above her waistband. I looked at that strip of skin and I wanted to put my mouth on it so badly my teeth hurt.โ
his knuckles go white on the armrests, clenching, trembling. he can feel sweat gathering at his hairline.
โyou wanted to put your mouth on me,โ you drawl, not reciting anymore. your voice your own again but the wrong version of your own. โfor years. you wanted to press me against the kitchen counter when we were alone. you wanted to pull me into the library stacks and pin me against the shelves. you wrote it all down. every fantasy. every crossed-out confession. every time you imagined what my mouth tasted like.โ
his breathing has gone shallow, hurried. โthose were privateโโ
โyou should have done it.โ
brendan stops breathing.
โyou should have pinned me down.โ your voice drops to a register that makes the screen vibrate, silky and low. โyou should have taken what you wanted. in the kitchen. the two inches. your hand on my face and my back against the counter and you should have kissed me and then you should have kept going. pushed my shirt up. put your mouth on that strip of skin. pressed me into the tile andโโ
โstop.โ
โyou should have fucked me, brendan.โ dark and cooing, each word purred into the shadows between you. โin the library. in the kitchen. in the back of bobbyโs truck. every time you wrote I love you and crossed it out you could have been inside me instead. every time you were good and quiet and safe you could have had me on my back with your name in my mouthโโ
โI said stop.โ
the authority in his voice cracks through the confessional. not the pastoral voice. brendanโs voice. the real one. the one that called bobby from three thousand miles away shaking with fury over a forgotten birthday. the voice with a locked door behind it.
silence folds over you again, your breathing ragged on the other side of the screen.
โno.โ his voice low and shaking but absolutely certain. โno. I could not have done that, and we both know why.โ
a mocking little hiss. โbecause you were a cowardโโ
โbecause I love my brother.โ blunt and honest, full of sincerity despite the tremble woven into the syllables. โand you loved bobby, and bobby loved you. and if I had pinned you against the kitchen counter and put my mouth on your skin you would have pushed me away.โ
silence.
โyou know you would have.โ his voice cracks at the edges, making him suck in a steadying breath, โyou were in love with my brother. genuinely, completely in love with him. and if I had triedโif I had taken what I wanted, if I had been selfish, if I had ignored your relationship and his trust and every boundary that existed between usโฆ you would have looked at me with horror. you would have shoved me back, and you would have been right to.โ
your breathing changes on the other side of the screen. the metallic edge fading from your scent.
โthe fantasy was simple,โ he says, quiet now, his lashes fluttering so he can see those images behind his eyelids. โin the fantasy you want me back. in the fantasy thereโs no bobby. no consequences. no betrayal. but thatโs not what would have happened. what would have happened is that I would have destroyed the only good thing in my brotherโs life, and lost you in the same moment. because you loved him. not me. him.โ
silence. a long one. the dark sharpness from before retreats minute by minute, softening into nothing.
โI wrote those things because writing was the only place I could be honest.โ his voice goes quiet, sad, barely above a whisper. โthe notebook was the only room where the wanting was allowed to exist. and it stayed in the notebook because thatโs where it belonged. not because I was a coward but because I loved you enough to let you be happy. even when the happiness wasnโt mine.โ
a sound through the screen. ragged. wet.
โand you were happy.โ his voice cracks now, the tears audible in each word. โwith bobby. in the golden years. you were happy and he was happy, and I sat in the library and watched and the watching hurt more than anything in the world but it was right. it was the right thing to do. the only right thing Iโve ever been sure of.โ
your breathing goes thin on the other side, the charge from earlier fading completely.
โbenny.โ your voice is yours again. the real one. small and lovely, scraped clean of the darkness. โIโm sorry. I donโtโI donโt know why Iโโ
โI know why.โ gentle. the priest voice returning. the tenderness that he learned from you reassembling itself around the words. โyou came back different, and that means sometimes you say things you donโt mean.โ
โI meant some of it.โ
barely a whisper and oh how the whisper aches and burns.
โI know, and I meant what I said too. every word in that notebook was true. I wanted you. I have always wanted you.โ he sucks in a steadying breath. โbut wanting isnโt the same as taking. and the brendan who wanted you was the same brendan who loved bobby enough to keep the wanting in a notebook where it couldnโt hurt anyone.โ
your hand appears at the edge of the screen, fingers curling around the lattice frame. he looks at them. your knuckles, your scarred fingers, the nails you file down every morning.
his hand lifts, covers yours on the screen, holding your fingers through the lattice. the wood between your palms. the closest you can get without the barrier falling.
โthe notebook was the right call,โ you say quietly. โI would have pushed you away. youโre right. I would have pushed you away and it would have broken everything.โ
โI know.โ
โbut benny.โ your fingers tighten on the lattice. โIโm not with bobby anymore. bobby has a wife. and I came back and the world thinks Iโm dead, and youโre a priest and none of this is the kitchen in 1989.โ a breath, then softly, โthe reasons you stayed quiet donโt exist anymore. every single one of them is gone.โ
silence. he stares at his hand on yours through the screen.
โI know,โ he whispers, and the two words carry the weight of every prayer heโs said since you walked back into his life. every our father that was actually your name. every hail mary that was actually please. every amen that meant I love you and has always meant I love you and will always, always mean I love you.
your fingers lace through the lattice gaps, his fingers lace back, holding on.
camboy!bobby and LS.. maybe she doesnโt need the money but she wants to do something new and spotted Bobby and her hunter wolf brain went โoh, thatโs a good mealโ like second nature. Starts recording and it starts with her on the bed and ends with Bobby gasping clawing at the bed sheetsโ
Ahem Iโm in a mood today sorryโ
you're right, you don't need the money.
you find bobby the way a wolf finds a deer trail. scrolling through something late at night, bored, restless, and there he is. crop top, happy trail, low shorts, lopsided grin, running his mouth at the camera with that golden retriever energy that should be annoying but instead makes you tilt your head and eyes narrow.
because yes, that is a good meal. a pretty meal, even.
you reach out. professional. clipped. "I'd like to shoot with you." no explanation, no flattery. bobby opens the message and stares at the profile picture and his brain does the windows shutdown noise because you look like you could buy his apartment building, and also maybe end his life. he says yes so fast he nearly drops his phone.
you arrive at his place in all black. heels, hair down. look around his setup with that cool appraising stare and say, "the lighting is good." bobby, who has never once in his life been nervous about filming, is suddenly very, very nervous about it. his hands are sweaty, he smells your perfume and feels hot all over.
because you're so far out of his league you're not playing the same sport.
the camera starts rolling and you're on the bed, propped against the headboard, one leg crossed over the other, watching him like he's your prey. "come here," you say, and he goes, and that's the last time either of you is fully in charge of anything.
because bobby surprises you. bobby is genuinely, disarmingly good at this.
it starts with him behind you, your face in the pillows, his hips driving into you from behind because you do love a good doggy. it's primal, deep, the angle hits everything. and bobby's hip game is lethal. that crook to the left, that rolling grind, finding the spot on the third thrust and hitting it on every one after.
you expected competence given his following, but you're getting artistry. your fingers are clawing the sheets and your composure is cracking and he leans down, mouth against your ear, and murmurs something filthy with that warm, easy confidence and your walls clench around him so hard your vision stutters.
that surprises you. genuinely. you are not easily surprised, especially not by men.
then you push back into him hard enough to break his rhythm and look over your shoulder and snap "harder" and he grins, wide and reckless, and gives you harder. gives you harder so well your arms give out and your face hits the pillow and you moan into it and he heard that, he absolutely heard that, and his hand gathers your hair and pulls just enough that your neck arches and he says "you sound good, baby" like he just heard exactly what he was looking for.
and then you flip him. because nobody gets to have you gasping for long without paying for it.
his back on the mattress, your thighs straddling him, sinking down in one roll. bobby's head falls back, mouth drops open, and the sound that comes out of him is pornographic in a way none of his solo content has ever touched. you ride him and he lets you and he's flushed from his ears to his collarbones, moaning loudly and unable to stop.
except he's not just lying there. his hands are on your hips, adjusting the angle, tilting you forward so his cock drags exactly where it needs to. even fucked out of his mind, even gasping and clawing at the sheets with his abs clenching, he's still working. still finding the angle that makes you falter. still rolling his hips up into you on the downstroke in a way that punches a sound out of you that you didn't give permission for.
he's good and even from underneath you, he's doing damage, and you're so fond of it you could bite him.
you lean down, press two fingers to his full lips, another little test. bobby opens his mouth on instinct, and you slide them in and he sucks, cheeks hollowing, eyes glassy, looking up at you while you bounce on him. you curl your fingers against his tongue and he groans around them, muffled, hungry. and then he bites your fingers, gently, and his hips snap up hard enough that your whole body jolts.
you gasp against his mouth and he grins around your fingers because even now, even ruined, he's still got a move left.
you pull your fingers out, press your forehead to his. you're both breathing hard, sweat-slick, the pace gone ragged, and you look at him from an inch away with his pupils blown, and his mouth kiss swollen, his golden skin flushed dark and you breathe against his lips:
"I like you a lot, robert franklin."
his hips stutter, eyes going wide. the cocky grin dissolves into something open and young, genuinely startled because for all the performing he does, for all the camera confidence and the easy charm, a woman like you saying that to his face while he's inside you is the one thing he didn't have a script for.
"yeah?" barely a whisper.
"yeah."
he kisses you. soft in the middle of all the rough, his hand cupping the back of your head, and when you start moving again it's slower and his eyes don't leave yours and the camera is catching everything but neither of you remembers it exists.
by the end you're both wrecked. he's gasping and clawing at the sheets and you're shaking above him and the footage is the hottest thing he's ever shot by a margin so wide it's embarrassing. but the part that breaks his channel's metrics isn't the filthy stuff. it's the forehead touch. the whispered "I like you a lot." the kiss that came after, soft and real in the middle of the performance.
he watches the footage back the next morning. alone, in his kitchen, half-hard, coffee going cold. rewinds the forehead moment three times, cursing under his breath each time.
the video breaks every number his channel has ever had. the comments are flood. he doesn't read them, but only because he's busy staring at his phone waiting for you to text back.
you text him back four days later. one line. "same time next week?"
