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the-greatest-story-untold · 11 months

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Dear Sunshine,

~ 06/06/23, Tue

(long post)

Or as everyone knows you as, Haechan, bearing the meaning of Full Sun.

Or for those who are more intimately closer to you, to whom you are Donghyuck/Donghyeok.

The first (Sunshine), my own name for you, a title delegated all to myself, though the word itself is universal and I am sure many have adopted this as their own term of endearment for you. You who is the epitome of this namesake. The light that has entered my life when before, the word had never meant anything more than just some letters joined together.

The second (Haechan), your professional title, your stage name, your idol essence, your performing act. The name thousands know you by. The name adored and shared among millions. The fullness of the namesake that has spread its meaning across the hearts of so many all over the world. The familiarity to the name but yet, still a gentle reminder of detachment because of its world-renowned status.

And lastly (Donghyuck/Donghyeok), your own private identity. The beginning of the story of the growing star before it became the full sun it has become today. The true you, I would hope. The name I honestly dare not utter; as no matter how relatable you’ve become to me, the name still serves as a reminder that I am never truly close in distance, physically or otherwise.

Whichever it may be, it still refers to only one of you.

I am assuming it has struck 12 midnight where you are (and looooong past it). You are either asleep, or more likely up on Bubble, IG perhaps, or just on one of your many devices. Maybe you are reading well-wishes from those you love, your family and friends. Maybe you are scrolling through the heaps of birthday wishes flooding your social media feeds from those who love you all around the world.

What is my letter but just one more, right?

I feel like I have so much to say. Words are always in my head, running around and popping up into focus now and then. I’ll scroll through social media and see clips and shots of you, and words flitter and pop. Words I feel like I’d want to share with you but the magnitude of them is just too much to process at the moment.

So my task now is to try to do that. To organise the words fluttering about and reign in the feelings running amok. I hope I do well. Let’s begin.

Haechan, my Sunshine.

Before knowing you, ‘sunshine’ never truly held any meaning for me, except for what it was meant for; the light emitted from the sun.

When I first knew of you, introduced to me as ‘Haechan’, again, there was no resonance with the name. I did not know the story behind your name.

Interesting how meanings behind a name and how prophetic they can be, could really draw you into the story of somebody, doesn’t it?

Because that was what happened when I got to know about you.

My story began in 2019. I was already familiar with NCT and her concept, but I did not know much about you. Although, I did understand that you were the youngest in NCT 127. I also understood the concept and expectations of a maknae, and anticipated you to behave as such. (Which you did.)

Back then, my only experiences with groups’ maknae had been that of SuJu’s Kyuhyun (he is so ahjusshi compared to you at this point, let’s not deny this), EXO’s Sehun (who had always been this ‘too cool for school’ dude in my eyes), and BTS’ Jungkook (another ‘too cool for school’ child). Kyuhyun began my formulation of the ‘Evil Maknae’ and although Sehun is far from being as devious as Kyuhyun (in my opinion), he was sort of dubbed as ‘difficult to manage’ too. Jungkook was the Golden Maknae who could do no wrong even if he was.

Then, there was you. I did not know what to make of you. The maknae (of other groups/within Kpop) had never really caught my attention before. They were often just there for entertainment purposes. But you? You did catch my attention. And as my brain scrambled to get what information I can about you, an obvious archetype that came up was that of the maknae.

But you were still different. The ‘maknae’ archetype was not why you caught my attention. And for a while, I continued to scramble for my thoughts and opinion on this young man who has so undeniably got my undivided attention.

My first true recollection of you was actually back in 2018. I didn't really want to count that because that memory thread aligned more with Mark’s graduation rather than ‘you’. But I still recalled fans being upset and lamenting about your separation. (It was then that I learned about ‘MarkHyuck’ - and subsequently your real name ‘Donghyuck’ - and the idea of shipping. We shall not go down that road.)

Then you had the unfortunate incident of injuring your ankle, which caused greater despair within the fandom. Sentiments and emotions were especially high as you missed NCT’s first ever live concert with NCT 127’s Neo City: Seoul – The Origin (a mouthful to say and a hassle to write/type, seriously). It was fair to say the fandom was especially concentrated on your well-being. Throngs of well-wishes continued across social media through the months you recuperated and recovered.

But yet, I still did not know much about you other than that you were the maknae, and you were close to Mark. I knew of course that both you and Mark were part of Dream too. But let’s face it, at this point, the only news thread in the Dream vine was Mark’s graduation. I too knew you had been around since SM Rookies and the MMC days. But that was old news.

So if you were to ask me to recall what exactly about you made me drawn to you? I could not answer. Till this date, I still can’t think of what about you caught my attention.

However, I can tell you what had caught my attention: clips of your solo dance before ‘Good Thing’ during The Origin tour.

Because boy, you returned from an ankle injury and was launched into a world tour and then managed to deliver such a solo with such grace and ease? Many of your fans were ecstatic at your return, grateful you are back at full health. But dang, you dived back into work and did not play around. You took your return seriously and embraced it fully.

I have never been drawn to dancers before. My biases or my cause of interest have always been vocalists. And this tracks all the way back to my 90s boy bands phase (if you haven’t figured out that I’m that old…).

So imagine my surprise when I was very very drawn to all the clips of you dancing in that solo. And subsequently, when you came to my country for a concert, and I actually witnessed you dancing, let me tell you that that concert experience was a turning point in my life.

It was my first concert of any type whatsoever and it being a Kpop band (which also, in all honesty, was the first Kpop band I truly invested in and paid attention to), says a lot about how NCT changed my life. It was not drastic but looking at my life receipts, it was my riskiest and bravest purchase and decision, ever.

I’ve said this before, in my old blog posts and my conversations with friends who deemed it their worth to listen to my regaling Kpop tales; when I entered the Origin concert, I had came for Taeil (the man who drew me into NCT) and watched for Taeyong and Mark (the only ones who I had been able to recognise). And by the end of the concert, I was a true fan – a dubbed NCTzen. But most importantly, I was starting to understand what the fans meant by ‘bias’. Because boy, though I denied it then, I was drawn to you like a moth to a flame.

Eventually 127 ended their first world tour. But yet, another world tour awaited you: The Dream Show.

As aforementioned, I was ready to be an NCTzen; I was committed to support the entirety of NCT and her ludicrous concept and projects. That included exploring beyond NCT127 and venturing into its next major unit: NCT Dream.

My journey with NCT Dream … is another long novel on its own and a narrative to explore in another time. But I have to admit it was my journey into NCT Dream that got me to know more about you, Haechan.

NCT Dream Haechan is, in my opinion, different from NCT 127 Haechan. Where you are maknae in NCT 127, you play an entirely different role in Dream.

You are expected to be, dare I say it, petulant and childish with 127 as it is expected of a maknae to behave as such. You whine more, you act cute more and get things your way because the older guys relent to it. You are, as popular (fan)fiction describes it, “bratty”. Endearingly so, as seen by how your hyungs absolutely give in to your shenanigans, scripted or not.

But with NCT Dream, there is a shift in the presentation of your behaviour. If this was conscious or not, scripted or natural, I will never know (and it is not my prerogative to know). But either way, there is a shift.

I think this was why I ultimately started paying attention to Dream; and often than not, started paying more attention to you.

Paying attention to Dream meant listening to your tracks. Being the main vocalist for the unit, I hear you more. All the online accolades and praises for your vocal uniqueness were no lies. I heard the difference in your timbre. I hear the colour of your voice when you sing with Dream. And I love it.

Paying attention to Dream also meant supporting your comebacks. With 2019 passing, and me having attended Neo City: The Origin on 22 July, the first Dream activity that came along was ‘We Boom’. And with every pun intended, that album came booming into existence: It was loud, it was daring and it was a statement. And I love every bit of it. I paid attention to every single member and will honestly say, I became an official ‘Dreamzen’. Everything about that era was giving me energy I loved. And when it was released that you will be returning to my country for a world tour? I was genuinely ecstatic. Where I was nervous and hesitant with The Origin, I was absolutely sure I had to go to The Dream Show.

Alas, I did not manage to get good tickets (restricted view) and subsequently, when the end of 2019 came about, the world pandemic happened. I was gutted when it was official that The Dream Show was cancelled. Never before did I feel so despondent at seeing a refund processed in my bank account.

At this point, perhaps due to the emotional drawback or the anxiety of an upcoming world pandemic, I turned to you (and your members).

I learned what your name meant (Full Sun), and I learnt what your fans were called (sunflowers). Suddenly, everything yellow or orange, or any associations to sunflowers and the sun, made me think of you. Specifically, I remembered your smile and your warmth. And though everyone (even I) refer to your precarious childishness as ‘brattiness’, it was actually this very behaviour that made me relate to you. I eventually realised, this was not ‘bratiness’. You were simply mischievous. Which I, myself, have a knack to behave as such.

I am 'a little bit' on the mischievous side myself, growing up. I got into plenty of trouble as a child... but as I grew up I learned to tuck that mischief away in official settings such as school and the public. But as I crossed into teenagehood, ‘mischief’ became forgotten and something else morphed out of it. My family called it ‘being rebellious’, and I bought it. I was berated and chided for it, and worse, made to feel guilty for it but without understanding why. And through the ending years of my teenagehood and the beginning of my adulthood, the guilt stayed with me and fostered something else in me. I still functioned though, never truly conscious of this ever-growing ‘something’ in me that was just getting fed by guilt-tripping and societal pressure on what it is to be an adult, a woman. And when I got to adulthood, I already had baggage on me, which I had (barely) succeeded in hiding… by tucking, pushing, prodding, and forcing it into this very ever-shrinking box in me. Till one day it wouldn’t fit anymore, and that box (that was supposed to contain ‘things’) just disappeared, and a very ugly ‘something’ came bursting out and overtook everything.

<<This may be my midnight ruminations, or the result of finally becoming comfortable with my thoughts and words as I delve deeper in reflection. I hope you don’t mind me sharing.>>

As you have read, I did not grow into what I term a ‘wholesome’ adult. I did not ‘have my shit together’.

I am sure you have heard or read so many moving stories of how you, your members, your band, had saved someone from a dark place in their life. And sometimes, I so badly want to say that was the case for me too.

In a way, perhaps. I have to admit, I did find a safe place in NCT for a while. Be it 127, with your found-family vibes. Or NCT Dream with your friendship forever familiarity. Even WayV and their pets had made their way into my heart. I won’t deny NCT2020 was my favourite era and today, I am very grateful I had been fortunate and blessed to have witnessed it.

But regardless of what it was, what kept me drawn to NCT was you. Your warm personality, your kindness, your passion, your softness, your loving attributes, and yes, your mischief – your love for fun, your inclination for affection, your joviality. I see a glimpse of my old self in that. And I don’t know if that old me is still somewhere in me or if it has morphed into something I am fearful of (I still need time to process that).

In the meantime, I am glad to be able to see the sun in you. And I know it is not easy. So many things aren’t easy, I would think. But I just don’t know which one you’d relate to the most: It must be so difficult to be so happy and so passionate all the time. To be so hard working and committed to what you love. To be sufficiently happy as yourself and also happy as what is expected of you (you are human too, and experience the ups and downs of life… but as an idol, it is a profession that expects perfection from you. And given the happy, mood-maker personality that is associated with you, that must make it harder sometimes to find the balance of being genuinely happy because it is where you want to be versus being happy because your professional image demands you to be as such).

During this birthday, please remember that you have been my definition of sunshine and happiness for as long as I have been your fan. I want to thank you so much for that.

But please remember, you do not have to be forever happy and grinning for the sake of fans. I understand you have been tired for a while now. If it helps, do take a break. It may cause some fans to be upset, yes, but it is far more important that you gather yourself and take time for yourself too.

Something that has kept me going, is the saying (paraphrased) that “you cannot serve from an empty vessel. Rest and self-care is important because when you take time to replenish your spirit, it allows you to serve others from the overflow”.

I love this quote; it is from Eleanor Brownn. And as a social work associate (and through my young adult work life, a case worker in the social sector), this saying has been an essential reminder for me to know when to stop pushing forward because I need to, so that I can rest and recollect myself before I continue to push on. And I hope it resonates with you too on some level.

From the bottom of my heart, I truly want to thank you again. Should I ever be lucky enough to meet you, I will never know what to say, what to do, or even how to act in front of you (or anyone else in NCT for that matter). Language barrier aside, we have quite an age gap too. But regardless, I will continue to love you, and ‘bias’ you, as the young ones so eloquently phrase it. I may face judgement for it, but at this point, I’m accepting that I am happy watching you dance and play, and of course, listening to you sing. (Like a little brother bear...)

Please continue to be passionate in your art for the longest time. You don’t have to be an idol, but never let go of what you love.

Be happy, for yourself and the ones you love. Don’t lose yourself in the hub-bub of the entertainment world and remember yourself, your family and friends. I know you feel that fans are important, but at the end of the day, we are just here to supplement and support you. Remember that what you do must be for your own drive. If you get tired, remember to take a rest and refuel. Genuine fans know how to take a step back and give you your space, because they respect you.

Finally, treasure all the memories you make, good or bad. You will learn from life, even if she is a tough teacher. I am not from your world, and may never be able to put myself in your shoes or imagine the challenges and difficulties you face. But as a human being, I empathise that you can have difficult and even dark days.

Have a good rest (tell this to all your hard working members… all of them), and happy birthday. I hope you wake up to a beautiful day, sunshine.

With love,

Just another birthday wish.

#nct #nct heachan #lee haechan #nct lee donghyuck #nct 127 #nct dream #happy birthday haechan #happyhaechanday

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happylittledrabbles · 3 years

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choke me!

Rating: 18+

DO NOT READ IF UNDER 18, NO MINORS!!!

Fandom: Attack on Titan

Pairing: Reiner Braun x Eren Yeager

—

"It's been four years, Reiner."

Reiner never thought he'd see Eren again. And yet there he was, sitting in front of him. The two exchange some heated words until Eren has had enough and lunges at Reiner, pinning him against the wall by the throat.

Except, instead of a cry or a shout, Reiner's reaction is a lot more...unexpected.

"Did you just...moan?"

Choking kink fic, basically.

AO3

—

“It’s been four years, Reiner.”

The last person Reiner Braun expected to see tonight was Eren fucking Yeager. He knew he’d see Eren again eventually, he just figured it’d be when Eren was killing him or he was killing the damned menace.

He didn’t think the reunion would be so soon.

They had warned that if Eren were to attack Marley at any time, it’d be tonight. But he had had so much fun at the fair with the kids that he hadn’t fully registered that Eren Yeager still existed. All he could think about was how happy he was to finally be out of that hell that was called Paradis and away from seeing the devils he had grown to love die at the hands of his own people. And he thought he had finally escaped it, except now, the biggest threat among both of their worlds was sitting right in front of him.

“H-how…” No thoughts in his head. There was nothing. Eren’s expression was so calm, it was mocking in comparison to the panic running amok in the blond’s chest.

“I’ve done a lot of thinking in these four years, Reiner Braun.” His name sounded like pure acid on Eren’s tongue. Even if Eren kept his tone measured, Reiner’s name still came out like two spears that pierced him directly in the heart.

“A lot of thinking about how you betrayed us. About how you killed Marco. About how you were my role model. A big brother, really.”

Nausea swirled in his stomach like a hot pit of lava, and he couldn’t help but step back and bump into Falco, who was also petrified; the two of them stilled like perfect marble statues. Reiner had tried hard to forget he ever interacted with Eren, nevermind considered him a friend. There were many times when they were alone together that he almost professed that he was the Armored Titan because he felt so close to him. He felt pride whenever he watched Eren succeed, even though he should have been actively distancing himself from him in preparation for the big operation. When he was supposed to not feel anything at all after breaking through Wall Maria and effectively killing everybody Eren knew, he locked himself in a room and cried and screamed for hours until Bertholdt came in and had to pry his hands from the table and hug him until his other personality took over, and he felt nothing again.

Oh, how he wished his other personality took over now. Then he wouldn’t be able to feel the crippling fear resonating throughout his entire body. Then he wouldn’t be able to feel the pure dread cross his face as Eren grew his missing leg back and stood up, instinctively hugging his arms behind him to make sure Falco was protected.

“I won’t hurt him,” Eren said, his visible eye dropping to the young boy staring at him with stormy blue eyes, wide with terror. He snickered. “Maybe he’ll get caught in the fallout. But, I won’t hurt him now, if that’s what you’re wondering. In fact...” He gestured with his hand for Falco to leave, giving him a chilling smile that he meant to be reassuring. “Go ahead and leave, kiddo. This shouldn’t take long. I just need to talk to my old pal Reiner here.”

“Don’t talk to him,” Reiner whispered shakily, but eventually let Falco go and pushed him forward. “Go. Run as far away as you can. I’ll handle this.” If anything happened, he wanted Falco as far away from the site of disaster as possible.

He turned back to Eren and noticed he was several inches taller than when he last saw him. It made sense; he was a grown adult man now, but it was still a shock. He was so used to peering down at Eren and resting his arm on top of his head, ruffling his hair, tipping his chin back to make eye contact with him. But now, if he slouched even a bit, he’d be shorter.

“How cute. You used to be protective over me like that,” Eren said with a bitter laugh, beginning to step forward when Reiner stepped back and nearly tripped over a chair in response. “What, are you scared of me? Ha. I remember when—”

“Stop!” Reiner cried, slapping his hands over his ears and shaking his head emphatically. “I don’t want to hear it! I don’t—”

“Don’t want to hear what, Reiner? How we used to be friends? How I looked up to you? How we shared so many good times together?” He picked up the chair he was sitting in and smashed it to the ground, the wood strewn across the ground like puzzle pieces. Reiner flinched at the echo of the crackling wood, his hands balling into fists at his sides. Eren blew the splinters off his palms and clapped them together to get rid of the rest of the debris as he walked leisurely around the room with his freshly grown leg, circling Reiner like a hawk to its prey.

“Did you feel anything when you killed Marco? Did you feel anything when I told you my mom was eaten? Knowing it was all your goddamn fault?!” Eren roared, his eye a ball of flaming green fire.

“I—”

“No, you didn’t feel anything. Because if you felt anything, you wouldn’t have tried so hard to get close to me.” Eren unraveled the bandages around his face to reveal his other eye, somehow making the fury blazing in his stare even more potent. He let the bandages drop to the ground, the fabric twisting and turning gently as they fell into a pile. Reiner blinked slowly, so slowly it would have seemed he fell asleep for a moment. He stepped forward, about to reach out to Eren when his breath hitched in his throat, his lungs refusing to expand as he was yet again face-to-face with the boy—man—he had ruined the life of and had grown close to, all at the same time.

He took a deep breath once his lungs began to function again, closing his eyes to block out Eren’s intense glare.

“I was always your friend, Eren,” he clarified, taking the chance to raise his arm up and reach out to the other man in hopes of understanding, of doing something to prevent whatever he was about to do. He flinched at the sound of applause outside, a horrifying reminder of the sheer number of people outside that Eren could so easily massacre in the span of a minute if he transformed. If only he could teleport and tell Willy to get everybody the hell out of there. But alas, he was confined to this basement with nobody other than the embodiment of the Attack Titan.

“Please believe me,” he pleaded, a hopeful yet terrified smile pulling at the corner of his lips as he watched Eren’s expression soften. “I’ve always liked you.”

But Eren’s expression wasn’t softening. It was merely morphing into one of mockery, disdain sharpening in his glare and piercing his chest like a lion’s claws ripping into its prey. He never felt weaker than at that moment.

“Don’t,” he huffed, taking a deep breath before shrieking, “ patronize me! ”

He descended upon Reiner with superhuman speed, gripping his outstretched wrist and pinning it against the wall along with the rest of his body, raising his forearm up and pressing it against Reiner’s neck. He expected Reiner to scream, grunt, curse, or exhale sharply, but the last thing he expected to hear was—

“ Ah-nn!”

It was almost comical how stiff the two men went at the sound, their eyes widening at the same time as they simply stared at each other. In awe, fright, surprise, or a mixture of all three. Reiner couldn’t gather what Eren was thinking from his unreadable expression, but all he knew was that his face was bright red, his heart was racing, and his body was being far too receptive to the heavy weight on his windpipe.

And all Eren knew was that he quickly found out that he liked this just as much as Reiner so obviously did as well.

“Did you just...moan?” Eren whispered, his eyebrow quirking in intrigue. He moved his forearm forward, pressing more of his body weight into Reiner, eliciting yet another sound of pleasure from the other’s thin lips.

“N-no— mmn!” The feeling of his windpipe and the sides of his neck being pressed in together was a feeling that left Reiner’s knees weak, his eyelids growing heavy as endorphins danced around his brain, leaving him in a state of swoon.

As Reiner struggled to stay standing, all Eren could do was stare in pure shock at the scene before him. Never had he seen Reiner come undone so quickly and so easily before, not even when he came across Bertholdt fucking him brilliantly in the outhouse during training. He looked, frankly, bored, as if he was putting on a scene for the other. Perhaps it really was a good thing the beanpole died. Now, Eren could play around with that expression of pure ecstasy without worrying that a seven-foot-tall bag of bones would try and slap him with those gangly limbs.

“Interesting…” Eren trailed off, his tongue wetting his lips as he dropped his forearm, allowing Reiner to gasp for breath and cough. The blond’s hand snaked up to his own throat, making sure it was okay, although its trail was hesitant, bewildered. Was this discovery also new to Reiner himself?

“So...this is new to you, too?” he dared to ask, his hand twitching to replace Reiner’s and uncover that never-before-seen expression on the other’s face once again.

Reiner scoffed and swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing at the resistance his throat gave. “Shut up.”

“I mean, no wonder you always looked so bored when Bertholdt was fucking you,” Eren continued with a shrug as he looked around the room. He smirked, his eyes drifting to Reiner’s, mischief glinting conspicuously in both of them. “You needed something else to get you off.”

Reiner’s confusion was palpable, his agape mouth transforming into a sneer once he realized what Eren was talking about. His face had already been red, but now it was a deep scarlet as his mind ran back and quickly figured out that the shadow outside the window of the outhouse had, indeed, been Eren Yeager. How long had the little bastard been there? He was...busy during that time, so he lost track of the shadow outside once they changed positions. Had Eren...been watching them? Not merely passing by and getting surprised by the sight?

“I said shut the fuck up,” Reiner growled, pushing himself off the wall to leave. However, Eren’s hand clamped down on his throat, pushing him back in the wall and causing his head to thump off the concrete. “Shit!” He tried to gasp, but the force pressing against the sides of his throat was even stronger than before, with more purpose, causing his gasp to morph into a squeal.

“Did I say you could leave?” Eren murmured, leaning forward so that his lips tickled the shell of the other’s ear. He licked a trail on the outside of Reiner’s ear, causing the other to release another strained gasp and squirm under the weight of his hand. Perhaps this awakened something in him, too, because his body was reacting just like Reiner’s was. He couldn’t stop his hand no matter how much he tried; the expression and small whimpers the blond was making underneath him were like pure opium.

“Eren! Ere— oh,” Reiner cried, his clawing at Eren’s hand halting once the brunet’s lips fell to the junction of his jaw and neck, sucking feverishly at the soft skin that wasn’t taken up by his tense fingers. Once he came to after the sensation roiled him up, he exclaimed, “W-what are you doing? Eren, stop—”

“Stop?” Eren chuckled, his other hand dropping to Reiner’s crotch, which was painfully swollen and twitched as his knuckles brushed against it, drawing out a delicious moan from the throat underneath his hold. “And let you leave like this? How rude would that be of me, especially since I was the cause of this?” He paused, a pensive look replacing his devious one. “I mean, if you really want me to, I’ll stop.”

He stepped back, releasing Reiner’s throat and holding his hands up in the air. He tried to suppress the devilish grin that threatened to come out, keeping his face neutral. “I stopped.”

But it was nearly impossible to suppress the grin any longer as he watched Reiner’s expression morph from pure pleasure to confusion to, finally, loss. His trembling hands came up to reconvey the place where Eren’s hand was, an angry red bruise beginning to bloom at the sides of his neck as if trying to see if the hand was truly gone. His eyes dropped to his own crotch, wincing at the sight of it as well as, probably, the pain his constrictive pants were giving him.

“I…” Reiner was both at a loss for words. His eyes searched the room until they fell upon Eren again, a sort of pleading in them. He wanted Eren to read his mind so that he didn’t have to embarrass himself by begging do it again, please come here and choke me and fuck me— but all Eren did was stand there, which was somehow more infuriating than listening to him whisper humiliating things into his ear.

“...come here,” he mumbled, rubbing his forearm nervously. He didn’t dare make eye contact, staring down at the floor as if it’d kill him to look up and meet Eren’s undoubtedly jeering eyes.

“What? I couldn’t hear you?” Eren cupped his hand behind his ear and leaned forward, causing Reiner to suck on his teeth and ball his hands into fists at his sides.

“You’ve always been a little shit, haven’t you?” Reiner grumbled, his arm shooting out and gripping Eren’s wrist, bringing it up and guiding the other’s hand around his throat. “I said—”

“Ah-ah,” Eren interrupted, shaking his head. His hand stayed limp around Reiner’s throat, his other hand sitting comfortably in the pocket of his trousers. “You have to prove to me how much you want it.” He tipped his chin up, gazing at Reiner underneath heavy eyelids, shifting his weight onto one foot.

“Beg.”

“Wha-wha—” Reiner spluttered, his eyes wide and his grip on Eren’s wrist getting tighter and tighter. “What?” As much as he was surprised, his body very much was not. It took in the simple word like an aphrodisiac, his shoulders and cheeks getting even redder and his crotch getting even more painful.

“You heard what I said,” Eren taunted, licking his lips as he closed the gap between them, halting right before his lips. “Beg. Or else I’ll leave you like a bitch in heat.”

When had Eren grown so domineering? He had always had a certain gusto about him, some confidence that propelled him forward, even if it made him look like a loser. He didn’t give up during the ODM training even when it was clearly rigged against him. He made the broken thing work. It was pure rage that was fueling him, but...when had lust taken over? When had the fury in his eyes melted into hot ardor? Had he...always felt that way about Reiner?

“Eren…” he trailed off, trying to muster up the courage to actually beg. God, this was humiliating. How the hell did they even get here? What were they doing? But he couldn’t let Eren leave and kill all those people. And he certainly couldn’t fight in this condition. As much as it was dehumanizing, Eren was right. It felt as if he was in heat, his entire body boiling and in need of an electric touch.

“Choke me, please.”

“Yawn. Do better.”

“C-choke me, hard.” Reiner’s eyes rolled partly up as he felt the pressure of Eren’s hand growing around his neck, unable to restrain his outburst: “Harder! Please, choke me—touch me...ugh…”

The pressure had returned, and the physical incapability of speaking due to his constricted windpipe replaced his emotional incapability due to his dignity. But what dignity did he have now? All he could do now was completely let go.

“Fuck, yes! E-Eren, I—” He gasped when the pressure finally returned to its previous state, giving his body its much-needed dose of aggression. “I want you to f...f-fuck me.”

Eren chuckled, deep and dark, and before the other knew it, they were smashing lips, a violent exchange of saliva and pleasure.

“I thought you’d never ask,” he murmured against Reiner’s lips, both of them panting after the impromptu makeout session. He smirked as he slipped his other hand out of his pocket and trailed it down Reiner’s chest, stopping at his pecs and giving them a generous squeeze, earning him a grunt from the blond. “To be honest, I thought you’d come just from me choking you. Kind of pathetic, don’t you think?”

Reiner’s eyes were tightly squeezed shut, biting his bottom lip to prevent any more embarrassing sounds from slipping out.

“S-shut up.” But that couldn’t have been less convincing. The affinity for choking was new, but the chest fondling was old news. The training camp had been torture for him since there were way too many instances of people accidentally brushing against his pecs or nipples, almost causing him to rupture a blood vessel from trying to suppress a squeak.

But Eren was taking full advantage of having it right in front of him, diving his face into them and massaging them with his free hand with a voracious speed as if they’d disappear.

“These have grown a lot, haven’t they?” Eren jeered, pulling back his choking hand to strip Reiner of the top half of his clothing to be even closer to those soft pecs. The second the fabric had been removed, his choking hand returned and he dove right back in, leaving a trail of hickeys on the cleavage made by his pecs.

“Eren! E—a-ah—”

“I’d say they’re almost D cups, I think,” he continued, his voice muffled from the masses of muscle. He pulled back slightly, eyeing them for a moment before opening his mouth and clamping his teeth around the perfectly pink and perky nipple, leaving deep marks in the velvety areola.

“AH! What the—ow!” Reiner’s eyelids shot open, looking to see what the hell Eren was doing down there. All he saw was him grinning proudly, his hand coming up to stroke the bitemarks and not-so-accidentally passing over the nipple, giving it a gentle squeeze and flick. “Eren, the fuck?”

“Get down on your knees,” Eren commanded, and Reiner found himself on autopilot at the conviction in the other’s voice, his knees wobbling before dropping to the floor in compliance. He kept his eyes on Eren’s knees, his previous bashfulness returning; how could he make eye contact like this? He knew what was going to happen next: the horrendous blush on his face and chest made it quite clear.

Meanwhile, Eren was taking his time enjoying the view under him. He bit his bottom lip, letting out another chuckle as he shook his head. “You know, Reiner, I always looked up to you. I never thought I’d see you like this. So...submissive.” He tipped Reiner’s chin up gently with his finger to get the other to meet his eyes. “You never let me get the upper hand in training. You were the one making me drop to my knees.” He frowned. “But now you’re looking up to me. Funny how that works, huh? It only took the murder of an entire village of people and my mom to get you like this.”

Eren teasing him about his choking kink was humiliating. Being on his knees to somebody he saw as a little brother, about to commit even more sinful acts, was humiliating. But being constantly reminded of all the atrocities he committed against his friends was pure torture. It was putting quite a damper on his mood, but he couldn’t exactly tell Eren to stop talking about it because he’d only jeer him more. The only way he could think to get Eren to shut up was…

He dove forward, opening his mouth and wrapping his lips around the bulge in Eren’s trousers, his hand coming up to further massage it. His trousers smelled of grass and disinfectant, but the distraction was clearly working, seeing as Eren’s agape mouth stopped forming words and only allowed a shuddering breath to pass through.

“You’re eager, eh? Alright, I’ll give you what you want.” With one swift motion, he unbuckled his belt and was about to let it drop to the floor, but his eyes flashed with intrigue as they switched between Reiner’s neck and the leather. “On second thought…”

He wrapped it around Reiner’s neck, and before the blond could say anything, he zipped the belt until it was pressed tightly against the pallid skin underneath, already causing it to pinken from irritation. He poked a new hole into the leather, sliding it through and returning his hands to unbutton his trousers.

“You look like a dog,” Eren scoffed. Once his trousers were unbuttoned, he pushed them down only slightly; he didn’t expect this to take too long, seeing as how undone Reiner already was. He gripped the other’s jaw tightly in his hand, maneuvering the chiseled face to look up at him. “Bark for me.”

Reiner, who was still processing the belt around his neck, spluttered about and furiously shook his head, trying to get it out of Eren’s grip. “Hell no! I’m not a damn dog.”

“Hm. Shame.” Eren’s grip on him lessened, only for it to return full force when he transferred it from his muscled jaw to his short hair, the locks sticking straight up in between his fingers. “Then put your mouth to good use.”

Reiner was going to object, but the warmth radiating from in front of him made him drop his eyes to be faced with what looked like an iron rod underneath the linen fabric of Eren’s drawers. He gulped at the sight; if this didn’t fit in his mouth, how the hell was this going to go inside of him? He would have cursed himself for thinking that far ahead, but the act was inevitable—Eren was going to fuck his brains out.

He took a deep breath and leaned forward, pressing a hesitant kiss to the tip wetting the fabric with precum practically sticking up out of the top. He had caught flashes of Eren naked whenever they came across a hot spring or all the boys bathed together, and what was in front of him hardly compared to what he had seen back then. Eren truly had grown in more ways than one.

He shakily lifted a hand and moved the fabric out of the way, allowing Eren’s cock to spring up proudly, almost as if he was mocking Reiner and his need for it. He licked his lips and leaned forward, licking from the base to the tip with a flat tongue, practically drooling over it with the amount of need swirling in his chest.

“F...uck,” Eren groaned, tipping his chin up as his grip on Reiner’s hair tightened. “Got a lot of practice with Bertholdt, I see.”

Just at the mention of Bertholdt, Reiner sped up his stroking and licking, yet again hoping this method would get Eren to shut up and to produce more of those sounds of pleasure. Sure, he seemed to be dominant in this dynamic, but Reiner was the one who held the most power as of now. He could leave Eren blue-balled and walk away, or Eren could do the same to him. They were caught in a lustful dance of power, and neither wanted to walk away, as sinful as it was.

“Wait, you’re going too— shit!” The grip on his hair was growing painful, and it only grew tighter when he opened his mouth wide and engulfed Eren’s cock up to the middle, using his tongue all the while to lap up his drool and his hand to stroke the places his mouth couldn’t reach. He very much successfully got Eren to shut the fuck up, and he smiled to himself as he graciously lent his throat as a substitute for yelling at him to be quiet.

“What a fucking slut,” Eren chuckled, brushing the few long locks of hair that flopped into Reiner’s eyes, tipping his chin up slightly to meet his eyes. “Look at me while you do it.”

Pervert, Reiner thought, but he wasn’t all that different himself, for he looked up at lightning speed and locked eyes with the commandeering man above him, feeling precum and saliva running down his beard. That’ll be a bitch to clean.

“Good.” Just that word was enough to send chills down his spine, his eyelids fluttering with pleasure as he reached his hand that wasn’t busy stroking down between his legs, trying to soothe the throbbing pain spreading in his groin. But he was interrupted by Eren groaning and his grip on his hair turning into stone.

“Since you wanna go so fast,” he murmured, cocking his head curiously before pulling Reiner all the way down his cock, the other’s nose nestling in the happy trail leading down his stomach.

GURK!

“It’s satisfying to see you choking on me,” he laughed, tossing his head back to let out a moan as he could feel Reiner’s throat tightening and moving around him, the softness of the back of his mouth leaving him breathless. “I’ll fuck you in a second, but in the meantime…”

He gave an experimental thrust, slow and shallow, leading to more gurgling and choking noises from the man below him, drool beginning to build up in the corners of his mouth and dribble down his chin. Reiner’s hands flung out to grip Eren’s thighs, trying to process the fact that he was being facefucked.

“Mmgh—nngf!” He tried desperately to slurp up as much drool as he could, but it was beginning to pour now, down his chin and onto the floor, gathering into a pool near his knees. His eyes were watering, the tears accumulating in the corners of his eyes.

“F-fuck yeah,” Eren growled. Now equipped with more confidence, he pulled out of Reiner’s mouth partly—giving the other a short sense of relief—before snapping his hips forward, lodging himself deep down in his throat. A horrid gagging sound released itself from his throat, squeezing between his cheeks and Eren’s cock. His stomach dry-heaved, but he had hardly any time to recuperate before Eren launched back into thrusting himself over and over into his mouth.

“Hah— fuck, this is good,” he groaned, a smirk ever-present on his lips. He could feel Reiner’s throat straining against the belt as it expanded, which only provided even more tightness. However, his smirk disappeared once he felt a familiar warmth building up in his stomach, signaling he was almost at his end. He lowered his head from the thrown-back position it had been in before, and he almost finished on the spot when he saw the lewdness on Reiner’s face. The blond was beet red, his cheeks looking as if he had been slapped over and over—which he had somewhat been, with Eren’s stomach—his mouth berry red and stretched to accommodate the cock he was sucking so deliciously, gobs of spit running down his chin, and tears trailing down those highlighter-red cheeks. God, he looked gorgeous.

“Well,” he mumbled, pulling out of Reiner’s mouth and allowing him a moment to breathe and cough out all the phlegm and irritation gathered up in his throat. He only added more spit to the pool in front of him, falling onto hands and knees as he spat out the last of the spit and precum that accumulated in his throat.

Eren let out an exasperated breath, rolling his eyes as he buried his hand in Reiner’s hair again and roughly tugged him up to his feet, the other whining and complaining the entire way. He faced the blond for only a second before turning him around to face the wall and shoved him against it, his chest pressed against the cold stone. While his hand was busy holding Reiner’s wrists together behind his back, the other trailed down to grip his ass, giving it a firm squeeze before slipping it underneath the waistband of his trousers.

“Your mouth pussy was fantastic, but I want to use the real one,” he explained, his lips leaving the tip of Reiner’s ears bright red as he stroked the soft skin underneath his hand and cupped the mounds of well-built muscle. “What a bubble butt. Heh, you really worked hard on this. If your muscles are this tight, I can’t imagine your asshole.”

“Mm!” Reiner whimpered, his shoulders hiking up to his ears to protect them from the assault of Eren’s hot breath and humiliating words. He tried to break free from Eren’s grip on his wrists, to no avail. Both his wrists and his neck were restricted, and although it was uncomfortable, it only made the throbbing ache in his pants even more painful. How he developed this kink, he had no idea—all he knew was that he wanted relief, now. “Eren...Eren, please. Fuck me. Ple—guh— ”

“Shut up for a second,” Eren commanded as he forced two fingers into Reiner’s already heavily lubricated mouth, sopping up the spit dripping from the roof of his mouth and tongue. He shuddered at the feeling of Reiner’s soft tongue wrapping around his fingers, amazed that such a thing was on his cock only a few moments ago and even more amazed that he didn’t come on the spot. He used his thumb to push Reiner’s pants down to his ankles, marveling at the view of his back muscles rippling under his pale skin, fighting against the restraining grip on his wrists, followed by the elegant slope into the two golden apples for an ass.

“Goddamn,” he breathed, lowering his head and opening his mouth to deliver a deep bite to the virgin skin at the nape of Reiner’s neck, sinking his canines into the flesh in an almost animalistic motion, causing Reiner to jolt from underneath him.

“Eren, stop with the biting!” Reiner pleaded, but he couldn’t help the whispery moan that passed through his lips at the thought of being marked.

“Sorry not sorry,” Eren replied with a snicker, resorting to leaving hickeys to further mark his presence on Reiner’s body, proudly screaming I was here and fucked him beautifully. “You clean back here?”

The mere insinuation that he wasn’t made Reiner want to turn around and snap Eren’s neck right then and there, especially considering he very much doubted Eren was. He grunted, the awkwardness of that question causing nausea to boil in his stomach.

“I...bathed for the festival earlier today,” he explained haltingly, his blush radioactive at this point. But when Eren didn’t move right away, he sighed and opened his legs slightly, wrestling one wrist free and trailing it down to his asscheek, spreading it open as a very clear invitation. “Hurry up.”

Eren’s eyes widened, and a heated smile filled out his face at the sight of Reiner coming completely undone and practically begging to get fucked. Before the spit on his fingers could dry, he spread Reiner’s cheeks with his other fingers and plunged his index and middle fingers inside, earning a squeal from the blond.

“S-slow! Slower!”

A confused look crossed Eren’s face, but he shrugged and continued to scissor Reiner open, curling his fingers against the soft walls to try and find that one spot that drove men crazy. He found out about that quickly while at the hospital, a male nurse being particularly caring and spreading his legs open to cure a patient.

“I thought you’d be looser than this,” he replied, genuinely baffled at how tightly Reiner’s grip around his fingers was. How the hell was he supposed to fit inside? They said the bottom being tight is more pleasurable, but he imagined it’d downright hurt his dick.

“You jackass, I haven’t done it in a-a wh... while,” Reiner stuttered, a grunt sneaking in between his words as he tried to accustom himself to the feeling. He was arching his back as much as possible, but he quickly discovered it could arch much more when a sudden wave of pleasure crashed over him and a lustful cry made his mouth drop.

“Found it,” Eren sang, a proud grin spreading across his lips.

“Hng-! ” was all that came out of Reiner, followed by heavy breathing and small whimpers as he tried to regulate his breathing, but it was difficult when Eren ruthlessly continued abusing that spot now that he knew its location. “Eren...it feels...a-ah…”

“My fingers are magic, I know,” he replied with a shit-eating grin, and although Reiner’s back was to him, he could feel the bratty expression he was making.

“Oh, shut up, you idiot,” Reiner groaned, about to insult the other once more before another wave of pure pleasure corrupted him and returned him to his panting, sweating state.

After a few more moments of scissoring and dirty talk, Eren pulled out his fingers, much to Reiner’s dismay, and gripped himself as he stepped closer and lined himself up with Reiner’s entrance.

“Alright, get ready,” he joked, bracing the wall with one hand and snaking the other around Reiner’s neck once more, pulling his head back so that he could see the look of shock in his eyes as he slowly pushed the tip inside.

“Ngh!” Tears were gathering at the corners of Reiner’s eyes again as he attempted, again and again, to relax and breathe the pain away, but it didn’t help that Eren was so well-endowed. “Just...slow—go slowly.”

Eren pulled out at a snail’s pace, looking down to see where they connected before pushing back in, earning a low groan from both the men. “I don’t even have to try. You’re so tight, I can’t fucking move. Feels like my dick is going to be pulled off.”

Reiner rolled his eyes, about to say something until a sigh interrupted him as Eren continued to pull out and push inside, staying at the same pace. “I can’t control that. I hope your dick gets pulled off. Maybe then you wouldn’t be a murderous basta— hngh!”

A slap echoed in the small room from Eren giving one solid thrust, the roughness of it seen from the reddening of Reiner’s ass. He chuckled at the other’s reaction and tightened his grip on his neck, the belt making it a lot easier to yank him back and force him to meet his eyes. “Watch your words, Braun. Or else,” he gave another rapid thrust, causing the fat on Reiner’s ass to ripple from the force, “that will happen.”

“O-okay, okay, I’m d-done!” Reiner cried, his arm reaching back to grip Eren’s shirt for leverage while the other clung to the wall for dear life. “I promise, I’ll s...nngh...stop.”

“That’s what I thought,” Eren taunted, licking a trail up Reiner’s cheek, picking up the salty tears spilling from his eyes along the way. “You think I can move now without losing my dick?”

Reiner didn’t answer. All he did was lower his head as much as he could with Eren’s grip on it, preparing himself to lose the small ounce of dignity he still had left. He arched his back and pushed back onto Eren’s cock, gasping at the feeling of it spreading him apart and leaving him so perfectly full. He swirled his hips, trying to find that spot Eren so easily discovered, all the while pulling out and swirling his hips as he pushed back. It was quite the ab workout, causing sweat to build up on his hairline and building a thin sheen on his skin.

This was heaven on Earth. The view was spectacular, but what was more spectacular was watching Reiner act like a complete slut, as if Eren’s cock was the only thing that could bring him relief and pleasure. He was really willing to give up all his dignity just to use it to pleasure himself, and Eren couldn’t have been more willing of a participant.

“I guess that’s the answer to my question,” he breathed, a moan causing him to throw his head back. He dropped both his hands to Reiner’s hips, riding alongside their gyrating motions. “Yeah...that’s nice. Keep moving like that.”

“Eren,” Reiner warned, looking over his shoulder now that his neck was freed. “Eren, move, goddamn it.”

Eren cocked his head. “Is that how you ask for it?”

“Oh, for fuck’s—Eren, please, fuck me. Ruin me, do what you want, just please fuck m— ”

“That’s all I needed to hear.” It only took half a second for Eren to comply with Reiner's wishes, snapping his hips forward and sending Reiner careening toward the wall, his face pressed up against the stone just like his chest was. He’d definitely have scrapes on his face as it bounced up and down with each merciless thrust that practically sent him up the wall.

“ Ahn—ugh! Fuck, fuck, yes! Feels good, f-feels so—hnngh! ” The dry slapping noises eventually turned into wet, squelching sounds that would have made Reiner cringe, but he could barely hear them in the fugue state he was in. Eren was right: he felt like a dog in heat, his mind on nothing else but getting pounded until he was filled.

“Faster! God, faster! Ngh, harder!”

Reiner’s moans leaked, and as much as he wanted to stop, he didn’t have the energy since all of it was going into not finishing right then and there. It was just what he needed, except…

He tilted his head back, which was difficult with how roughly Eren was slamming into him, but he eventually caught Eren’s eye and smiled. “Choke me, Eren. Choke me until I can’t breathe.”

Eren smiled back, his grin malicious. “You got it, sweetheart.”

He took that command to heart because instead of one hand this time around, he used both hands, wrapping them around Reiner’s neck and using that for leverage instead of his hips. It was honestly a nicer angle to better fuck Reiner into oblivion, and he used it to his full advantage.

Smack, smack, smack, smack…

“ Guh— ugh, fu-uck,” Reiner groaned, practically gargling his own words with how he could barely breathe. Meanwhile, Eren was struggling with holding back his own moans with how velvety soft Reiner’s walls were, hugging him like the most comfortable sweater in the world. How did he go this long without taking advantage of the hole that had been around him all this time?

“I never thought you’d be this easy of a lay,” Eren remarked, graduating one hand’s place from Reiner’s neck to his hair, pulling it and pushing his face into the concrete. “Who knew you’d open up to me this easily? If I knew, I would’ve fought Bertholdt for access to your ass.”

The fog of lust clouding Reiner’s brain long enough for him to understand and process Eren’s comments, and, even though it was nearly impossible to speak anything other than moans and whines and emote anything other than pleasure, he still attempted to reach backward and scratch Eren’s hip, leaving three bright marks on the tanned skin.

“After this is over, I’m going to kill you,” Reiner managed to say when Eren stopped shortly to readjust his angle. He was very grateful for that split second of clarity because once Eren started up, instead of brushing against that spot, he was directly nailing it over and over with perfect precision.

“ OH— oh, my God, I-I’m—too much, too much, I’m so— ah, hah... c-close—!” Reiner was incoherent at this point, finally reaching the “brains fucked out” stage of this brutal hookup. He could no longer think. All he could do was moan, pant, and cry out each time his spot was abused.

“ Hah—I’m gonna come soon, t-too,” Eren breathed, having his own difficulties with speech. He tried to act as cool and collected for as long as possible, but now, it was nearly impossible, with each thrust drawing out the warm feeling in his stomach more and more. It also didn’t help that Reiner kept tightening around him with each thrust, giving him all the components to finish. He just needed one thing.

“Where do you want it?” Eren whispered, dropping his head to take advantage of the last few moments to leave more hickeys all along Reiner’s neck and collarbones.

Reiner was beyond redemption at this point, evidenced by the fact that he all but screamed out, “Inside! Please, inside, come inside, I n-need it, I need you, please, I—”

His orgasm was sudden and unexpected, but Eren hit his spot at the perfect angle and speed, causing it to rip through his body. He was left speechless, going rigid as his vision spotted before going completely white, finally receiving the release he had been chasing over the past half hour. He heard somebody wailing, and when his consciousness returned to him, he realized he was the one making that awful noise, his vocal cords frying themselves with the unadulterated ecstasy running through his system.

Eren didn’t take much longer to follow, giving a few more slams—rougher than all the ones preceding them—before coming undone deep inside Reiner, groaning at the feeling of warmth coating Reiner’s walls and making his insides even hotter than they already were. But he wasn’t done. In his state of bliss, he managed to pull out of Reiner—earning a pitiful whimper from the other—and turn him around to push down on his shoulders so that he was on his knees again.

“Fuck, fuck—fuck! ” Eren couldn’t help the countless exclamations of pleasure that racked his body as he stroked himself furiously in front of Reiner’s face. The last of his come splashed on Reiner’s face, coating his cheeks and the bridge of his nose in the milky white substance. Yet again, he wasn’t done. He smeared the tip across Reiner’s lips, painting them with the same glossy color. And with that, he was done, stepping back to admire his handiwork. He grinned, satisfied with the result.

He had completely ruined Reiner Braun. His hair was tangled and sticking out in all different places. His eyes were red from crying. His face was completely coated in sticky, hot semen. He could barely open his lips without it stringing between them. Tears stained his splotched cheeks, and dried saliva ran down the entirety of his chin and throat. His chest was red as well, full of bite marks and hickeys. His neck was a completely different story—it was probably rubbed raw and full of scratches and finger indentations, all of which were hidden under the belt. And then…

“Turn around for me and bend over,” Eren said, his last demand of the night.

He had evidently turned Reiner into an obedient subordinate because without a single complaint or hesitation, the blond nodded submissively and turned around, revealing his back that was full of scratches and the deep bite mark at the nape of his neck. To think, he’d probably be targeting that nape in a couple of minutes once again, except it’d be for the kill. He wondered if, when he’d rip Reiner from the nape of his Titan’s neck and admire his dead body, the bite mark on his neck would still be there.

Reiner bent over, lifting his ass in the air and dropping his chest and face to the floor, a look of pure embarrassment on his soiled face.

“Beautiful,” Eren whispered to himself as he watched his come pour out of Reiner’s hole, running down his leg and dripping onto the ground. “Satisfied?”

Reiner, from his docile place on the floor, nodded his head, his hair flowing back and forth on the ground. “Y-yes...thank you…”

He then collapsed to the floor, his hips no longer able to sustain his own weight. His legs were trembling, never having experienced such a savage fucking before. It had always been loving, sweet, slow. But he quickly found that he had been severely deprived of something he so desperately needed. He’d probably get brain damage from all the choking he was going to do in the future, but that didn’t matter. He already planned on dying soon, anyway.

“I’m going...to kill you...after this,” Reiner continued, severely out of breath.

Eren walked over silently, squatting down and brushing the hair out of Reiner’s sweaty and dirtied face. “I’d like to see you try. You can barely walk.”

He laughed and pat Reiner on the rear, standing back up and walking over to the exit as he fixed his trousers and buttoned them.

“But thanks for the good fuck. I needed that. Honestly, if I hadn’t made everybody from Paradis come rescue me today, I’d save this battle for another day. I’m feeling very…” He lifted up his hands, looking at his nails and running his fingers through his hair. “...relaxed right now.”

Reiner was half-asleep, but he was conscious enough to have heard Eren’s words loud and clear. He snapped his head up and turned to stare at Eren to see if what he heard was the truth, but all he was met with was Eren adjusting his shirt and tightening his hair into a bun.

“P-Paradis?”

“Yeah. Heh.” Eren looked over his shoulder and winked. “I’ll catch you out there, then. If you manage to survive, come to Paradis. I’ll give you a very special welcome.”

And with that, Eren Yeager exited the room heavy with the smell of sex and quiet enough to hear a pin drop. Reiner Braun was left alone—used and besmirched with a fucked-out mind—to mull over what just happened and what will happen in only a handful of minutes.

Eren fucking Yeager.

#attack on titan #aot fanfiction #eren jaeger #eren yeager #reiner braun #eren x reiner #smut #aot smut #fanfiction

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ghost-in-the-hella · 3 years

Note

Could I get "39. holding hands in a museum to pull them to the next exhibition", Chasemarsh, Bless this Mess AU?

As you wish :) Same AU as Bless this Mess, but early days. (For those who haven't read Bless this Mess, it's an AU where Victoria and Kate didn't meet until they were adults and therefore Victoria had never bullied Kate) The museum in this ficlet is fictional but based on my own favorite museum, the Eric Carle Museum of Picture Book Art.

---

“This… is a museum?” The building before her has nothing of the grandeur that Victoria has come to expect from museums. It is neither cold nor imposing, just a modest one-story building with some whimsical decorative frills around the entrance. Bright colors show through the large windows. There are bronze statues scattered around the grounds, but they’re all of creatures that look like they’d be more at home in a fairytale than at a museum. Children run around the grounds, screaming and frolicking.

“Of course it is, silly!” Kate stands next to the entrance sign and Vanna Whites a hand across the bold letters. “The Leo and Diane Dillon Museum of Children’s Book Art. See? It says ‘museum’ right there.”

Part of Victoria wants to roll her eyes, curl her upper lip, and unleash a comment so scathing Kate will feel flayed to the bone for having the temerity to call this obvious travesty a ‘museum’. Fortunately, this is the part of Victoria that - with the help of her therapist and years of hard emotional labor - she’s gotten better at catching and overcoming before it can claw its vicious way to the surface. She searches for something nice or at least neutral to say instead. She likes Kate. If she didn’t like her, she would be home marathoning something on crunchyroll in her pajamas instead of getting dressed up on a Saturday morning to go out on this date with her. She doesn’t want to scare Kate off by being needlessly rude. “It’s… not quite what I’d pictured when you invited me to go to a museum with you.”

Kate’s smile doesn’t falter as Victoria had feared. Instead, it softens into a grin that does frankly criminal things to the state of Victoria’s heart. “I know what you mean,” she says so fondly that Victoria is both certain and relieved that Kate has taken her comment as a compliment instead of a barely masked insult. “The first time I came here, I couldn’t believe my eyes.” Her eyes - such warm, lovely eyes; Victoria can’t imagine a work of art that holds a candle to those eyes in any museum - sparkle. “It’s been my favorite museum since I first set foot inside. I come here at least once a month.” She sighs rapturously and Victoria’s heart gives an embarrassing squeeze. “We’re so lucky to have such a special place so close by.”

Victoria makes a noncommittal sound, not wanting to quash Kate’s enthusiasm. Kate smiles at her and beckons playfully for Victoria to follow her as she leads the way inside. They’ve only gone on a handful of dates so far, but already Victoria suspects she’d follow Kate just about anywhere.

The museum truly is unlike any that Victoria’s ever been in before. There are so many children, for one thing. The security guards just smile at them benignly, for another. The last time Victoria was in a museum, she watched someone get chewed out by a security guard for having the audacity to take notes with a pen instead of a pencil. Had a parent been foolish enough to bring a small child inside, they would’ve been stalked by security and stared at so ominously they would soon think better of their faux pas, and perhaps reconsider their decision to reproduce altogether.

But here… Here, the children are not only encouraged to run free, they’re allowed to touch things with their grubby little child hands. Encouraged to, even; there are kiosks set up all over the room they’re in with interactive exhibits, as well as cozy reading areas all around full of children’s books, where parents and children can sit together and paw through museum property with their bare and presumably unwashed hands.

“Isn’t this place amazing?” Kate asks, her voice as warm and gooey as melted chocolate. “You can practically press your nose up against the art and not get in trouble for it. I love it. I can really get in there and see how the artists used all their different materials. It’s so inspiring!”

“I’ve never seen a place like it,” Victoria replies neutrally. Honestly, the idea of children near artwork makes her break out in nervous sweats. She tries to imagine how her parents would react to children running loose at the Chase Space. They’d probably have a coronary each. She herself wasn’t allowed to set foot in the gallery until she was solidly in double digits, and even then she’d always been treated like a disaster waiting to happen, a ticking time bomb in Mary Janes.

Kate nods in satisfaction. “It’s really special.” She gestures at the room they’re in. “This gallery always has a show of Leo and Diane Dillon’s works, plus the interactive exhibits. The specific stuff changes periodically. The gallery across the hall has shows of different works by children’s book illustrators.” She smiles bashfully, a delicious pink tinge warming her cheekbones. “It’s one of my biggest dreams to be included in one of those shows.”

Victoria stops short and blinks rapidly, trying to process. “Here?” she asks, dumbfounded. Here, where children run amok? Where your artwork will never be hung alongside that of a truly great artist?? She remembers Kate mentioning minoring in illustration in undergrad, but somehow that had never really clicked in Victoria’s brain as something important. It’s not like she’d studied photography or even painting, something Victoria would be able to sustain a deep conversation about.

“Of course here!” Kate giggles. “I illustrate children’s books. Well,” she avers with a shy shrug, “a little bit, anyway. It’s only a side hustle right now, but someday I’d like it to be a bigger part of my career.” She looks around the room and sighs dreamily. “It would be such an honor to show here.”

“Here,” Victoria repeats, her brain still struggling to compute. She’s fully being rude now; she can hear it in her voice, a shift from merely confused to straight up condescending.

But Kate just giggles again and rolls her eyes, not looking remotely fazed by Victoria's attitude. “Not every artist needs to show at the Guggenheim, Tori. Some artists dream of being showcased in the Whitney Biennial, and some dream of showing in, well, the Leo and Diane Dillon Museum of Children’s Book Art.”

The nickname throws Victoria even more than Kate’s good natured response to her blatant rudeness does. It distracts her so much she almost doesn’t notice when Kate’s fingers suddenly thread into her own. “Come on,” Kate goes on, “I’m really excited about this month’s exhibit. Have you ever heard of Mary Blair?”

There’s a firm but gentle tug at Victoria’s hand leading her toward the doors separating exhibition rooms and Victoria’s awareness sparks to life. Kate’s holding her hand. Her heart dances a little two-step as she fumbles for words. “N-no, I haven’t.” Heat flushes her cheeks and she clears her throat self-consciously. “My art history degree didn’t cover children’s book art.”

Kate nods thoughtfully as she pushes the doors open and returns the security guard’s smile and wave. “She was actually more involved with animation and concept art, especially for Disney. Murals, too. But it’s true; art history classes tend to leave illustration out as a whole. It’s such a shame, really. There’s some fascinating history there.”

Victoria’s never given a shit about illustration - for children’s books or otherwise - before, but she’s pretty sure Kate could deliver a four hour lecture on the subject and she’d have Victoria’s undivided attention for every minute. “Photography gets the shaft, too, especially in survey courses,” she says. “Anything other than art history courses specifically oriented toward photography, really. It’s like if you’re not a white cishet male painter, you don’t matter.” She shakes her head in aggravation. “As though the advent of photography didn’t change the entire course of art history, and painting in particular. Such bullshit.”

Kate gives Victoria’s hand a little squeeze, and Victoria is floored once more by the realization that Kate is holding her hand. Still. She’s not even leading Victoria anywhere anymore; they’re just standing there, holding hands. It’s astonishing. “We should write a book,” Kate suggests. “Shed some light on the more underappreciated aspects of art history.” Her tone is light and teasing but Victoria finds herself considering it seriously.

“I could probably sell that pitch,” Victoria muses. “I have some contacts in publishing. You could cover illustration, I could cover photography, we could tap my friend Taylor to cover--” She’s snapped out of her brainstorming by the sensation of Kate’s thumb rubbing softly over her knuckles. “Uh, but we can work out those details later. If you want to. In the meantime, why don’t you tell me about…” She gestures with her free hand. “...whatever’s going on here?”

Kate grins and gives her a warm nod, not letting go of her hand as she leads her to the nearest artwork. “Don’t be scared to get up good and close,” Kate instructs her, tugging her closer. “We’re not at the Met, don’t forget.”

Victoria scoffs. “As if I could forget that.” She lets Kate pull her closer til she’s scant inches from the art and her shoulder is pressed firmly against Kate’s. “Close to the art… or to you?” she asks softly. She doesn’t know how to look at art this closely; it all blurs to abstraction as she waits for an answer.

“Both,” Kate replies seconds before a tender kiss presses bold and warm against Victoria’s cheek.

#ghost writes #prompt fic #prompt fill #life is strange #fanfic #prompt ghost #chasemarsh #victoria chase #kate marsh

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luverofralts · 3 years

Text

Post Arkhelios

Even as inexperienced as the teen students were, zombie Benvolio had been defeated within minutes, and without any casualties. A simple ward had held him in place, and his hands and feet were bound just for good measure.

Yvette still couldn’t believe her eyes. Her long dead son had returned to her...but as a pale, flesh hungry creature that was unresponsive to her tears. He hadn’t said anything to her, aside from grunts or moaning. Here was the son she had longed for years to be reunited with, but it was only a sick shadow of what Benvolio had been. Now that he was bound, no one objected to Yvette investigating this twisted imitation as long as she did it from a distance.

Just as quickly as Benvolio had been thrust into the Durant’s lives, Wanda and the rest of the Hydes appeared in the living room, completely unannounced.

Wanda and Melvin began shouting about danger, and monsters, talking over each other loudly, making it impossible to understand a word they were saying.

Ulyssa decided that after taking down a zombie uncle, she could take charge of this situation. Wanda wasn’t the only witch here anymore.

“What are you guys doing here? What’s going on?”

“Zombies,” Wanda answered breathlessly. “Zombies and something else malicious that I can’t quite place.”

“That would probably be the demons,” Miruna said.

Wanda eyes widened, but she managed to pull herself together to stay on task. She could react later if things ever went back to being normal again.

“Alright, zombies and demons. Anything else? Bigfoot? Genies?” Wanda was relieved when no one else chimed in with other supernatural enemies they had encountered. That is, until she began wondering just why everyone was so unfazed. “Why is no one surprised about zombies running amok?

“Uncle Benvolio is tied up in our kitchen,” Ulyssa answered. “Why? Who have you seen?”

“Benvolio?” Wanda repeated. That was a name she hadn’t thought about in years. “Well thank the watcher Oriana’s not here, or this would be even more of a mess. Melvin saw Ian and Tabitha turned into something, I’m not sure what, and...and him.”

When Wanda snapped her fingers, Ulyssa’s heart froze in place. Standing in front of her was the bloodthirsty, pale and twitching image of her ex-boyfriend Zane. Ulyssa felt nothing facing down the uncle she’d never met, but seeing Zane in this condition felt like her heart was being stabbed with thousands of tiny daggers. She had loved Zane once, and he’d always have a small piece of her heart no matter how many years went by. He’d been her first boyfriend, first kiss, and first whoo-hoo. She had once planned a whole life with him, even if she had eventually outgrown those plans. To see him suffering like this was unbearable.

Wanda gave Ulyssa a sympathetic look.

“Yeah, it sucks,” she said quietly. “As much as I want him back, I would rather he stay dead in his grave than be like...this. He must be suffering terribly, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

Ulyssa reached out to Zane until her brain caught up with her heart and she realized how dangerous that could be, even if he was tied up.

This had all been too much for Launce to handle. His grief over losing his brother had already paralyzed him for his entire adult life, he found out he had a secret son, and his wife had left him for his ex’s husband. Now seeing the corpse of his brother writhing around, trying to chew through ropes and making inhuman noises was all he could take. He sat with a glass of wine, facing away from Benvolio and sobbed.

“Help! Help me please!”

Someone was pounding furiously on the front door, clearly in distress.

“Please, it’s going to kill me!”

Ulyssa and Wanda leapt into action, opening the door for the terrified woman, and searching the perimeter of the lot to look for her attacker. They hadn’t been able to see anything pursuing her, but that didn’t necessarily rule out the supernatural. The woman was shaking and sobbing into Melvin’s uniform as he tried to take a statement from her.

“My name is Suzy, Suzy Wright,” she cried. “I was just walking through the park like I usually do before dinner and I saw the most horrible thing. It couldn’t be real, it just couldn’t! This creature’s eyes were a mixture of black and yellow, like nothing I’ve ever seen before. It stared right at me, and I could just feel it chasing after me when I started running. If you hadn’t been home who knows what would have happened!”

Melvin continued taking Suzy’s bewildering statement, and eventually every one dispersed around the house waiting for the next horror that would surely arrive. Jorah decided to follow his dad’s example, and started pouring himself a glass of his grandmother’s expensive wine. If they were going to die tonight (and it really was starting to look like they might), he might as well try to live a little.

Miruna picked up a glass and joined Jorah in his underage drinking.

“This place is even more horrible than Ulyssa made it sound,” she said. “At least the wine is good.”

She raised her glass and clinked it with Jorah’s.

“To getting the hell out of here alive.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

Someone was pounding on the front door again, and everyone not currently drinking snapped to attention. Could it be whatever had chased Suzy here or was it yet another loved one resurrected to attack the living?

Fortunately, it was neither. Hunter Bellamy knocked on the glass, calling for his wife.

“Wanda? Wanda are you here? Are you safe? Wanda?”

Wanda ran to the door, but left it locked.

“What do you want Hunter? Are you here to convince me that your family has nothing to do with all of this?” Her hands balled into fists. “My dead brother is here trying to murder us! My brother, Hunter! You know Kamalani is behind this somehow, you have to know that.”

Hunter nodded, and put on his most apologetic face. He’d never seen Wanda like this before, but then again, she’d never had to fight her zombified brother before tonight.

“Yes, Wanda, I believe you,” he said. He stared directly into her eyes, trying to broadcast his sincerity so she would believe what he had come to say. “That’s the thing though, Kamalani escaped police custody today. Tanya was found unconscious, and what was left of the cell doors at the jail were wide open. She’s gone and my mother is acting really weird. Like telling me she loves me kind of weird.”

“How have I not heard about this?” Melvin demanded. “I’m the head detective, how did the Bellamy family get this news first? Why hasn’t an alarm been sounded?”

“Because there’s no longer an alarm to raise,” Hunter answered. “The detention area is destroyed. It’s burnt to ash. Adam saw the whole thing and just managed to pull Tanya out in time. It’s not like we have a large number of officers. Everyone is a little busy at the moment, and they answer to city council, not to you.”

Melvin pulled out his phone, and started dialing numbers. If this was true, then surviving a zombie apocalypse wasn’t the only priority he had tonight.

“Why was Adam there?” Wanda asked.

“He was trying to get her to talk to him. We thought that maybe if Adam used Kamalani’s feelings for him against her, she would open up about...the crimes she’s accused of. If she really shot Roman-”

“Which she definitely did.” Wanda interrupted, and her husband sighed.

“Yes, you were right,” he conceded. “We hoped she would explain why she absolutely did shoot Roman, so that maybe we could try to get him back where he belongs and not be so terrified of us.”

“Oh Hunter, I knew you’d see reason eventually!”

Wanda unlocked the door and leapt into her husband’s arms. It felt good to finally be on the same page as Hunter and not fighting with him about his horrible family.

Melvin hung up his phone.

“Okay, Adam has Tanya settled in at the hospital. Kamalani is nowhere to be found. We have to assume that something bad is coming. Something even worse than this. Does anyone have ideas about how we should proceed?”

“M-maybe we should split up,” Suzy suggested. “We all find somewhere to hide until we can get help so even if we’re attacked, some of us still survive.”

Suzy’s idea was not popular.

“We should all stick together,” Hunter said. “We’re trying to assemble people at home, and with all of Arkhelios working together, I think we stand a better chance. There’s safety in numbers.”

“You want us to assemble at the Bellamy house?” Yvette asked dryly. “Why should we go there? We’re already fighting off demon and zombie hoards, why would we want to step foot in the house of an escaped murderer with an itchy trigger finger?”

“Because that’s where Kamalani will go,” Hunter answered. “My brothers and I are trying to prove that our family isn’t as bad as everyone believes. We’re inviting you to come look for evidence, talk about your concerns, and if Kamalani returns home, we can all confront her so there are no rumours or lies going around. Arkhelios needs to band together to survive, so let’s survive.”

Everyone but Suzy Wright murmured amongst themselves. When a show of hands voted to descend upon the Bellamy house to find answers about the most secretive family in Arkhelios, she had simply rolled her eyes.

“Does that girl look familiar to you?” Yvette asked, eying this new stranger sitting on her couch with suspicion. “Arkhelios is too small to not have bumped into her, but I do feel like maybe we’ve met before.”

“Maybe you’ve met her mother or sister,” Emilia responded. “She does look a little familiar, but nothing I can place. Maybe someone from Giovanni’s work? One of his trainees?”

“Do you believe her story? It doesn’t seem like she’s really in shock at all, and the way she’s clearly trying to divide us? I don’t trust her.”

Emilia nodded, and took another sip of her drink.

“No, me neither.”

#sims 2 #arkhelios #post arkhelios #durant family #Ulyssa Durant #hydes family #wanda hydes #sim: Miruna Maricourt

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lynxmuse · 2 years

Text

Mindfulness Moment

I’ve spoken a bunch about our identity/identities. No surprise – it’s perhaps the most fundamental way we understand and interact with ourselves, and, as such, perhaps the most fundamental way we interact with and understand the world (through the filter of how it relates to us). The three-part series that starts here is the big primer on our “identity of identities”, but later posts cover even more facets, including this one on the benefit of diversifying our identity/identities as well as this highly important bit about how our brains cannot tell the difference between an attack on our body or an attack on our identity.

All of which means that what we incorporate into our identities is vital, lest we lash ourselves to a narrow set of views and options (often leading to unproductive results) or lest we lash out in all sorts of deleterious ways when they are threatened (leading to further unproductivity).

But one thing I hadn’t really done before is to consider that there might be differences between the ‘intensity’ of our identities. That is to say, I have been treating all of the identities we have as equal in their enforced rigidity as well as in their fervency. But that doesn’t exactly fit with my lived experience, nor with the philosophical concepts of the gradient and the middle path.

And so, perhaps it’d be good to introduce into this mix the idea of “tiered” identities, where our Tier 1 identities are the most intense identities that govern our behaviour the most rigidly and to which our calculating self reacts the most ferociously if it feels threatened. Tier 2 identities are less so, Tier 3 even less so, and our Tier 4 identities are, in many ways, only tenuously an identity and mostly are of the ‘for fun’ type relating to a casual hobby or interest.*

By looking at and recognizing our identities within this framework of Tiers allows us, for starters, to focus our mindfulness on those of the higher Tiers, as those are the ones most likely to lead us astray.** It also opens flexibility, reminding us that we are always at choice and even something like our identity is malleable. And it lets us have more fun! We needn’t, even accidentally, tamp down our lower Tier identities for concern that they may run amok.*** We can be playful with them and let them lead us to be playful with others as well.

I’m intrigued to see what opens up for me as I begin to explore this more. If you were to list your identities, what would you say they are, and, of those, what Tier would you assign to each?

* For sure, your hobbies or interests very much CAN be a higher Tier identity – for some it is their LIFE and they’ll twist everything in their lives for it and will react very harshly to anything that threatens it, whether external (someone speaks ill of it) or, perhaps, internal (an injury that removes their capacity to do it well or altogether).

** And when, by being present and mindful, we can notice that the default, already, always ways of being that live within those identities crop up in situations where they would not be productive and thus interrupt them before they cause undesired outcomes. Remembering that our identities are a creation, we can set them aside and be another way or engage another more appropriate identity here. (And, if it happens often enough, swap out that identity entirely).

*** Again, not to say they won’t or can’t run amok, but the chance is lower, and realizing they’re of lower intensity also has us realize they’re easier to interrupt and redirect ourselves before they go too far.

#mindfulness #philosophy #ontology #transformation #identity #possibility

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bang-to-the-tan · 4 years

Text

Moth to Flame

Chapter 13

Reader x OT7

► Vampire!AU

Smut/Porn With Some Plot

Warnings: (hoo boy) Oral Sex, Blowjobs, Cunnilingus, Double Penetration, Sloppy Seconds, Vaginal Sex, Anal Sex, Degradation,Somewhat Dubious Consent/Hypnosis, Vaginal Fingering, Anal Fingering, Handjob, Masturbation, Cumplay, Threesome (M/M/F), Foursome (M/M/M/F), Voyeurism, Slight Stockholm Syndrome?, Possessiveness, Vampires (Biting, Blood-Sucking, Reference to Death), Language

Words: 11.1K (jesus tittyfucking CHRIST)

↳ Summary: Robbed of your memories and intended as a birthday present for a deadly creature of the night, you unwittingly become the center of a territorial dispute between two covens of vampires. Tensions are rising and the brothers are getting hungry…

Previous Masterlist Next

Yoongi’s sweatpants fit well enough to get by in, matched with another of Namjoon’s hoodies—this time in a tan color. (How many hoodies does one man need? You’re reminded again of Jin’s seemingly endless supply of clothing, though you don’t dare mention the similarity) The flip flops he’s lent you are a little on the large side, but you doubt it really matters. You’re just glad to be wearing shoes again. As you wait by the door for Namjoon to get his keys and slide his arms through his jacket, tugging on a bucket hat and hanging a pair of sunglasses onto his shirt, you’re still trying to process your emotions. Outside. With other people. Other humans, even. Are you going to run? Are you going to try to escape? It feels like that’s what you should be planning.

“Oh.” Namjoon catches your attention as you muse, pulling dark, smokey fabric your way and wrapping it around your neck. You pluck distractedly at one of the fringes hanging off it, meeting his gaze after a second.

“Just in case,” he says, shifting the scarf around your shoulders more securely. “For the marks.”

“They look bad?”

He tilts your head to the side, inspecting you with a quirk of his lips. “Mm. No. Not really. Kinda healed. But just in case. Don’t want any awkward questions.”

Awkward questions. Like, ‘blink twice if you’re being held hostage’? That kind of awkward? You allow him to tuck the edges back in, hiding the evidence of where you’ve been. What you’ve been doing. What’s been done to you. You grimace. Your head still hurts, and the world has begun spinning a little when you turn your neck too quickly.

You blink, and you’re in the passenger’s seat of the car, staring out the window while Namjoon talks. Vaguely, you’re aware of what he’s saying. That he thinks it’s awfully important. You beg to differ.

“—find you on any, like, missing persons databases so I think we’re in the clear, but just to be safe, y’know. This is…it’s a risk. You understand?”

You hum, working your jaw. You wish he’d gotten you something a little stronger for the headache. It’s better than it was, but not gone. Swear it gets worse when he talks, and he’s talking a lot.

“I need you to behave yourself. Don’t make a scene. If you act out, then we can’t do this anymore.”

You roll your eyes, even knowing that it’s going to twinge at your migraine.

“I’m not gonna run around screaming about being kidnapped, Joon,” you grumble.

“I know. I know, I just want to make sure we’re on the same page. I promised you we’d let you go when we’ve…sorted something else out.”

“That’s a different phrasing than you used last time.”

“I’m trying. Okay? Just—I’m not trying to keep you prisoner.”

“Hence the handcuffs.”

You flick a glance over at him just in time to catch the tick of his jaw as he narrows his eyes at the road ahead.

“That is…not the same thing.”

“If it’s sexy, then kidnapping is okay.”

The exasperated snort of air that he answers with is partly humored and partly frustrated.

“You are, annoying sometimes, you know that?”

“I get to be, I think.” You turn back to the window. “Considering.”

“…yeah. Alright. Considering.”

The store has too many fucking people in it, is the thought that occurs to you. At first, pulling into the parking lot, you’re excited to see them. Human beings, running amok, running free. You feel like an animal at a zoo released into the wild. Ordinary people, milling about, going about their ordinary lives. It’s invigorating.

That feeling quickly fades when you actually get into the building. The smells, too-sharp chemicals and body odor hits you immediately; cheaply, quickly cooked food and even cheaper body spray. The noises. Chattering, obnoxious laughing heard from the other side of the store, children shrieking and shouting. A cart down the way has a squeaky wheel and you can track it through the aisles. You ruminate on thoughts of violence perpetrated by the item in question itself, of picking it up and throwing it out the finger-smudged windows with the screeching baby still inside it.

Namjoon’s hand on yours squeezes reassuringly. It’s unclear to you whether he can sense your discomfort but you don’t think you’ll mention it if it’s possible to avoid doing so. You can’t imagine how unbearably smug he’d be to learn that you’d rather be around him than them. Once you’re in the store, he lifts his sunglasses, but leaves the hat on.

“Not gonna burn to a crisp in the sunlight?” You ask after a moment of watching a child attempt to shove his entire hand up one nostril.

“Nah. Just a little sensitive on the eyes.”

“The super cool, far-seeing, all-knowing vampire eyes.”

“Those ones.”

“I should have brought a flashlight to the club, is what you’re telling me.”

He chuckles, shrugging. “Maybe so.”

He leads you to the clothing section, still holding your hand, and there isn’t an atom in your body that is even vaguely alright with the idea of letting him out of your sight. There’s a feeling like you’d get swept up in this sea of people, lost in a world so entirely foreign to you. You know you used to belong here. This used to be yours.

But flicking numbly through shirts and pants, skirts, jackets, mumbling half-remembered guesses at measurements, listening to the cacophony around you, lost in the harsh overhead lights…you don’t belong here. You aren’t sure whether it’s more upsetting to think that you don’t now, or that once upon a time, you did. Once upon a time, you didn’t question it.

A gaggle of teenaged girls passes by. For a third time. They stare at Namjoon in turns, giggling and speeding up, skittering past, chattering to each other excitedly. Their idea of stealth leaves a lot to be desired.

“You have admirers.”

Namjoon cocks his head, lips pursing, as he pulls a t-shirt off the rack and holds it up to you appraisingly. “I’m ignoring them.”

“Not hungry?”

His eyes flit to yours. “Never teenagers.” He replies, low, firm. He sounds almost upset. “Never kids.”

You hear the click of a phone camera and a high-pitched giggle of embarrassment, the forcibly hushed whispers of ‘turn off the noise turn off the noise, oh my god!’.

“Not even annoying ones?”

“If you really want to discourage them, you could kiss me.” He says instead, lightly, but his eyes flick to yours and you can taste the heat behind them.

“That’ll do it, you think?” you echo sardonically.

He hums, nodding once in affirmation.

Before you can think too hard, you slide a hand over his on the shirt hanger, guiding it back towards the rack so that you can close the gap between you. Like the first time, he doesn’t move at first. Allows you to crane upwards, struggle to brush your lips together, before he finally acquiesces and takes the remaining space, laying a lingering kiss against your mouth. He’s warm, soft. His lips taste like him. Like how he smells. Like Namjoon. The two of you lock gazes as you part, and you willfully ignore the electricity shimmying down your body.

“I don’t like the color of that one,” you break the silence after a pause. He blinks slow, a grin crawling across his face.

“No?”

“No. But the one behind it is nice.”

“Anything for baby.”

You don’t allow him the warmth that curls inside of you at that.

The two of you end up standing in line, holding a modest armful of clothing that you’re pretty sure will fit, waiting for your turn at the checkout. It’s not even a matter of what you’re planning to buy at this point—your headache has only gotten worse and it’s all you can do not to lose your fucking mind. You reached the breaking point about ten minutes ago and you’re absolutely going to go batshit if you don’t leave this store immediately. Which is why when Joon starts doing that ‘patting himself down in surprise’ motion, you’re thrown into palpable despair.

“Oh, shit.”

“No. No, Namjoon.” You plead through gritted teeth, throwing him a desperate look.

“My wallet’s in the car.”

“Damn you, goddamn you—“

He grabs your arms with an apologetic smile that dimples his cheeks. “Just stand off to the side. I’ll be back in two minutes.”

“No, Namjoon. No.”

But he’s already skipping away from you, holding up two fingers and mouthing ‘two minutes’ back your way. You hate him. You hope he gets run over while he’s out there.

You trudge over to a nearby empty counter, dumping your armful onto it, resisting the urge to throw yourself on the pile and pull a pair of jeans over your head. Your brain hurts, your teeth are chattering, it’s too bright, it’s too loud, it smells, god, it smells, you had no idea you were so sensitive, you are so ready to go home. And by now you don’t even care that you’re calling it home. You can’t afford to care. What you wouldn’t do for more medication. For that turtle. Oh, how you lament the absence of that heavenly reptile.

“Hey.”

You start at the sound of an unfamiliar voice, sounding up and away but too close to the back of your head. You turn, casting your glance up at the tall man standing by the counter. He’s not a worker; instead of their overly bright getup he’s sporting a leather jacket and black jeans. You don’t understand why he’s talking to you, if that’s the case, and you’re not really in sure how to pretend otherwise at the moment. His grin is crooked, raising his eyebrows expectantly, but at your expression his mischievous look fades.

“…Sorry, I thought I knew you!” He says after an awkward moment. Your heart seizes. Knew you?

He gestures with his hands as he explains. “Y’know, from the back, you look—I thought I recognized you.”

“…O-oh.” You aren’t sure what to say to that. Fuck, you sincerely hope he was mistaken. You hadn’t even considered what would happen if someone who used to know you sees you. The person you were before…before this. You don’t think you recognize him.

There’s another pause, where you turn away slightly, willing this moment to be over, but he doesn’t move. The moment instead stretches into forever. You would like to cease existing.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine! I’m—“ God, it’s been a long time since you’ve spoken to real people. You crane back around, forcing a smile that you hope doesn’t look too forced. “I’m fine. Just waiting. My, um.” You stumble over a way to define Namjoon, deciding in the end to abandon it entirely. “He left his wallet in the car.”

“Hm.” He doesn’t look convinced, flashing you a cursory up-and-down glance. Actually, looking at him, he’s pretty handsome himself. Wide lips, strong nose. A jawline to kill for. His neck is thick. You wonder what else of him—no, no. No. No. You like his eyes, you decide weakly. He’s got kind eyes. Good, nice eyes.

“Do you mind if I talk to you?”

You frown, throwing him another glance. Misgiving pools in your stomach warningly. You really, really aren’t in any kind of state to be carrying conversations with strangers. “Uh.”

He casts a look around, casual if not for the serious slant to his strong brows. He leans forward, pulling one edge of his jacket to the side. You see a flash of silver, recognize the badge hooked to the inside, and it clicks in your head, despite the chaos spinning around the edges of the world like a sick carousel. You don’t see much of the ID badge underneath but for his name, and his serious-faced photo, before he tucks it back away. Jackson. His name is Jackson.

“…You’re a cop.”

“Nothing’s the matter,” he reassures, holding out a hand placatingly, eyes watching yours. “Just like to ask you a few questions.” He jerks his head at the entrance.

“Come with me.”

Oh. Relief floods your limbs so intense you almost sigh aloud. That’s okay, then. Yeah, that’s fine. The clothes’ll be alright here for a second longer, you’re sure. You’re already following him as he peels off the counter and starts walking casually, your doubts melting away, making your steps lighter. Local police. Just a few questions, yeah. You can handle that. God, you were so afraid for a minute. The thought makes you chuckle under your breath when his back is turned as he leads you out the door, turning the corner to an alcove by the entrance. You definitely can handle whatever this handsome stranger wants to dole out.

He turns when you get there, stepping to the side so you can tuck yourself by the side of the building, out of view of any nosy people.

“How can I help you, officer?” you ask demurely, a smile curling the edge of your lips. Just being out of that building is helping your headache immensely. It’s fading as you speak, releasing its grip on your jaw, your thoughts.

He cranes over his shoulder to survey the parking lot behind him and you take the brief respite to admire the way his shirt pulls across subtle pecs, across broad shoulders, underneath the jacket that does little to hide his physique. The way he fills those black jeans. You like the obvious power in what you can see. Is it weird to be checking the cop out? No. No, certainly not. You resist the urge to bite your lip when he looks back to you and grins again. He’s cute when he smiles.

“So where are you from?”

“Ah…not too far from here, actually,” you return, playing at shy.

“No?” he chuckles, and the giggle threatening to bubble up past your lips finally wins over. You sway a little with the girlish sound. It’s all part of the act. You’re a normal human girl talking to a normal, albeit strikingly handsome, police officer. Everything is fine. “You sure? You aren’t from a little further up north? Think very carefully.”

You shake your head, grinning. The world around you spins delightfully when you do, fuzzing slightly about the edges. It’s really warm out here. You didn’t notice that before. It’s nice. “No. I don’t think so.”

“Don’t think so?” he echoes, stepping closer. That’s good. You like that. Your heartbeat quickens in your throat. “Weird way to answer…are you having trouble remembering?”

“Maybe.” You giggle again, feeling a thrill wash through your frame when he takes another step forward, threatening to invade your space. You fall back to the wall, leaning your head against it to allow yourself a better view of his smirk. Your head doesn’t want to stay upright properly, but the wall helps. If you can just get him a little closer…maybe you could…he is very handsome. And his lips…You stare at them with hunger pooling in your gut, intently watching the way they pull when he scoffs. Very kissable. Check.

“I’m gonna take a wild guess,” he murmurs in that low growl of his, “About who you really are…”

One hand comes up to brace against the wall, caging you in. You can feel his warmth now. Can smell the mint on his breath. Your stomach twists in anticipation. There’s something familiar in his expression now. A darkness. A hunger. You’re beyond pleased to see it in a face so handsome.

“Going by these…” he hums, and you feel a finger dragging against the column of your neck, slipping underneath the scarf. You huff a pleased breath, craning to press more of your skin towards him, nearly moaning when he presses his hot palm against the bitemarks in a curious fashion. “And…this…” His hand slides down, disentangling from the fabric, fingertips grazing your sternum, too close to the mark at your breast. He’s finding your little secrets very easily, you think with a hushed giggle. You wonder if he’ll get the next one. You hope he gets the next one. Arousal crawls down your spine and you arch at the thought, suddenly desperate for it.

“Hah, fuck, wow, that’s a reaction, huh? They treat you nice?”

You’re nodding, whimpering when his hand starts towards your hip. He nuzzles forward, presses a testing peck against your lips but you surge towards him, clutching at his wide shoulders, pulling him closer. He chuckles breathlessly against your mouth as you kiss him, a free hand going to his wrist and tugging it towards your inner thigh. He tastes like mint gum, warm lips caressing yours firmly, supple and pliant.

“Are you good for them?” he whispers between kisses. “Hmm?”

“So good,” you simper, humming when he nips lightly at your mouth. “I’m so good.”

“What do they call you? Are you their little whore? Little pet? Hm?” he clutches the meat of your thigh suddenly, and your approving squeak is muffled by his tongue, wet, slippery, sloppy.

“Could you be good for me too?” he growls when you part, licking across your swollen lips. The sound of it, already so rough, so low, has you twitching. “Could you add one more to your little collection?”

“Yes,” you’re tugging him closer, writhing when his hand ghosts to cup you between the legs, firm, possessive, demonstrative. “Y-Yes, yes, I can be good.”

“Can you be quiet?” he adds with a hushed laugh, raising his eyebrows at your fevered expression as you continue to scrabble at him, yanking on his jacket, his wrist, begging and twisting. “You have to—shh,” he shushes you when you keen, pressing his fingers closer to your pussy through Yoongi’s sweatpants, feeling for your heat and finding it easily, “You’re too fucking loud. You have to be quiet, or else—“

“She’s very vocal.”

You almost cry out in pleasure when you hear the voice that breaks through the cop’s low mumbling, arching and trembling against the wall. But he told you to hush, so you bite down on your lip, vision swimming with sweet obedience and heady recognition.

“I can see that.” The dark-eyed officer chuckles after a beat, his hand slipping from your apex despite your muffled, disappointed noise and attempts to pull him back. “Shocked nobody’s been called in for domestic disturbance around yours yet.” He pulls his hand from you easily, leaning back and turning to better address the owner of voice behind him.

Arousal skitters up your spine, coiling in your limbs, at the way Namjoon flicks you a momentary, disapproving look, his jaw ticking. Is he thinking of punishing you for this? You hope so. But his plump lips curve into an overly-pleasant smile, eyes crinkling as they cast to the other man.

“By all means, don’t let me interrupt.” He says smoothly. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

“I’d hate to get in any real trouble,” is the reply, just as cool. “Have to set an example for Yugyeom, right?”

Your body itches. Everything is warm, soft, bubbly, and the heat of the man in front of you is like a furnace, the hot center of your universe. You sneak your fingers into his belt loops, scooting him closer to you, and he allows it with a vaguely smug expression.

Namjoon’s smile doesn’t move, frozen on his face. “Your border is a few miles north from here, isn’t it? You’re cutting it a little close, don’t you think? Jackson?”

Jackson blinks, straightening. He grabs your wandering hand by the wrist from where it had travelled around his side to his zipper (how on earth did it get there, you wonder with a snicker), holding it up and away from his body with one wide palm. You whine through your nose. “We’re just passing through.” His tone has turned more serious. Respectful. “Avoiding the main roads. Won’t be spending more than a few hours this close to your territory.”

“Passing through?”

Jackson hesitates.

“We’re leaving, Namjoon.”

Namjoon’s smile falls, curving into a confused frown, his brow creasing. “What do you mean, you’re leaving?”

“It’s too slim here. We’re not having any luck lately. It’s my turn to disappear anyways.”

You press up against Jackson’s side, trying to slide your other hand up under his shirt, but he catches that one, too, holding you prisoner against the tacky feel of leather and his body heat. You mewl pointedly, hands straining, rocking against him. What’s he so busy for? Can’t he see that you need it? Your mouth waters. You need it…Up against this wall, bent over—you imagine Namjoon joining in and the thought has you aching. You can always prove how good you are. Can always show your new friend how good you can be for him.

Namjoon’s frown takes his lips with it, bares his teeth in a grimace. “You can’t be serious. What, already? What are we supposed to do?”

Jackson cocks his head in your direction and returns your sly grin with a raise of his eyebrows, briefly looking you over with an expression that makes you wet. You hum, trying to send him psychic requests for touching, kissing, biting through your locked gaze.

“Looks like you’re already doing something.”

“She…she was an accident.”

“And here I thought you and Jin had finally made nice.” Jackson looks back to Namjoon, neck lolling with disbelief. He lets go of your hands, spinning and suddenly disentangling you from him in one smooth motion. He pushes your arms to your own chest and looks you dead in the eyes again. Hours pass where you’re lost in his eyes, caught in the endless depths of obsidian, floating in nothing and everything.

“Don’t. Move.”

A shiver wracks your body violently, and you have to throw yourself against the wall just to avoid crumpling to the ground with the pleasure that comes with obeying. You won’t move, you won’t move. You can do that for him. You press yourself to the brick, shuddering and panting quietly, eyes trained on his frame, watching how the world seems to heave with your every breath, lends him and Joon halos, makes heat spark and flare inside of you.

“You’re not actually leaving. We need you up north. Who’s taking your place?”

Jackson shakes his head, craning back to Namjoon. His tongue flits to wet his lips, gaze flicking upwards. You can think of better places his tongue could be. “No one. All of us are headed southwest.”

“Jaebum has better sense.”

“Back when it was an option.”

“You can’t just fucking leave, Jackson, we need cover. Now more than ever.”

“Wasn’t that the point of Jungkook?”

Ohh, Jungkook. You like Jungkook. Jungkook would take you. Press you up against the wall again, like when you met, but this time…you’re threatening to drool. Not moving is really hard.

“Jungkook is a kid. They’ll notice eventually. Jin isn’t thinking about the long term.”

“Then you’ll have to move anyways. You can’t just stubborn your way through everything, Namjoon.”

Namjoon’s smile returns, but it’s tight, dangerous. He looks like a predator. It’s a good look, makes you warm and wet all over, but you know better than anyone how to smooth it off him.

“I appreciate your opinion.”

“Good. I like giving it.”

“Stay out of my territory.” He pulls the phrase through his grin, low and heavy with threat. “If I catch any of you with so much as a toe over the line, I’ll pull you apart.”

“Wasn’t planning on it. Like I said, we’re just passing through. Thought we’d grab one for the road in between territories.” Jackson flashes you another glance and you shiver. “…I won’t say anything about her, though. For you.”

“I told you she was an accident. You know times are tough.”

“I don’t agree with taking them like this. I don’t know anyone who does.”

“It’s temporary.”

Jackson shrugs.

“I’ll leave her with you anyway.” He says finally, with a sniff. “From the smell of her, you’ve got enough to worry about with just the two of you involved.”

He ruffles the back of his hair as he starts to walk. Namjoon doesn’t step aside for him, only watching as he gets close. When he comes within distance, he reaches forward and takes his arm. It’s weirdly gentle, familiar. You wish he’d grab you instead. Less gently would be preferable. Be nice if you could move, also.

“Tell me someone is staying.” Namjoon pleads. His eyes are genuine as he searches the other man’s. “Someone, anyone. Tell me we’ve still got cover. That the riots won’t reach us.”

Jackson slowly, hesitantly, places his hand on top of Namjoon’s.

“…You said it yourself. Times are tough, Joon.” He replies, quiet. “I’m sorry.”

This time, when he moves to walk past, both hands slipping from his arm, Namjoon angles his body to the side to allow him the space to continue.

“By the way,” Jackson adds after a beat, “You might want to check the ‘most wanted’ lists for up north. I could be wrong, but I think you’ve got one more problem.”

Namjoon’s head drops into a defeated nod, worrying his lower lip through his teeth as Jackson turns the corner out of sight, back towards the entrance.

Don’t move, don’t move, don’t move. A particularly violent shudder courses through you and you whine at the feeling of disobedience, but your body is shaking, breath coming in irregular pants. You’ve broken out in a sweat, your entire frame twitching and needy. Namjoon’s form ahead of you has you wanting, knowing he could make it better, he could kiss and lick and bite and touch and fondle and you need him to. But he only stands there, brow furrowed at the concrete beneath his feet, scratching at the back of his neck distractedly.

“N-Namjoon,” you whisper before you can stop yourself, feeling a thrill race through you when he freezes. Jackson said you needed to be quiet, so you don’t dare say much else, but when Namjoon looks up and meets your eye with a steely glare, you bite back a whimper.

“And you,” he says, low. “What do you have to say for yourself, hm?”

You only watch him, shivering.

“Speak,” he commands.

“Please, please, Namjoon,” you’re begging, babbling loosed from your lips in a tidal wave, “Please, I’m so hot, I need, I need you, I’m so warm, Namjoon, I need—“

“Were you going to let him fuck you?”

“I—“

“Were you. Going to let Jackson fuck you?”

“….I…” your mouth goes dry. At his scathing look you crumble. “Y-yes, yes, I wanted—“

“You were going to let him bite you?”

Your voice has become small, hesitant, but the surface of your skin still buzzes and every time you answer him, pleasure rushes up your spine. “Yes.”

“After I told you not to.”

“I’m hazed,” you whine, shuffling your feet, squeezing your thighs together.

He shakes his head, casting his glance to the side with an expression that morphs into desperation mirroring your own. “…Fuck.”

Yes. Yes, exactly. You concur.

“Come—” He gestures, but the movement doesn’t even register until you’ve already thrown yourself into his outstretched arm, nuzzling into his shirt, pressing as much of you against you as you can manage.

“—here,” he cuts off with a shocked wheeze when you slide your palm down past the front of his pants, rubbing for his cock through his jeans. A thrill runs through you at the realization that he isn’t soft under there. You growl. He grabs for your wrists, shaking, eyes wide as he tries to meet yours. “Hey, whoah, no—fuck, goddamn it.” “Naaaaaamjooon,” you complain. “I was gonna let you fuck me, too…”

“I can see that.” His voice is strangled. He pauses, grip briefly tightening over your wrists and you purr at the feeling.

“Get in the car,” he says finally.

“You could haze me more to get in the car,” you waggle your eyebrows at him, chuckling under your breath at the bubbliness of the world in the corners of your vision.

“Or I could tell you to get in the fucking car and then you just do it.”

“I’ll do something fucking for you, Namjoon.”

“Get. In the car.” He sounds strained, but you’ll take it. Eventually, he’ll give you what you want. You don’t even have to worry about it! You stumble with him to the car, giggling when he tries to usher you into the passenger’s side and avoid the way you’re trying to pull him on top of you.

By the time he comes around the other side to sit behind the wheel, he’s already chattering to himself under his breath. He does like to talk a lot.

“Get Hoseok to pull some strings with one of his, get those clothes bought, look up the wanted section—wanted? What the fuck does that have to do with anything? Godammit, Jackson—gotta give this time to wear off. Maybe we can sneak you past Yoongi. Maybe he’s sleeping. God, I hope he’s sleeping.”

Your hands are wandering again. Drifting over the center console as the car jerks roughly under you and starts speeding smoothly into the sunset. It’s way more interesting to you, what’s happening inside the vehicle. Your fingers dance over to Namjoon’s lap, trailing, watching his face for any sign that he’s going to stop you. His jaw clenches again and he throws you a grim glance.

“Don’t think about it.”

“Think about what.”

“You know what.”

“Taking your cock out?” You clarify innocently, watching with interest the shuddering inhale he takes. “Putting your cock in my mouth?”

“Exactly that.” His teeth are gritted.

“Tasting the tip?” you continue, curious, brushing a palm against his crotch, feeling triumphant at the way the fabric stirs, the way he shifts underneath you. “Or deeper?” Your mouth isn’t working exactly the way you’d like, you’re slurring pretty hard, but you’re already drooling at the thought of sucking him off.

“I’m trying to fucking drive,” he whines, and the sound takes you aback slightly, watching his brow crease in frustration. Consent. Namjoon likes consent. He likes it when you ask.

“Can I suck your dick?” You ask with a polite smile, delighted with yourself for figuring him out so quickly. “Namjoon?” His hips rise of their own volition, stuttering. He doesn’t reply beyond a sharp breath and you frown. Not a ‘no’. But not a yes.

Wait a minute. You’re being so silly. You’ve forgotten the most important part!

“Can I suck your dick, sir?...”

He growls.

“No.” he says. You pout. You did so well, and this is what you get for it. You’re a good girl, why is he going to act like this?

“But I—“

“No buts.” He snaps. “Hands to yourself. Don’t move until we get home.”

Gold dust bursts beneath your eyelids, gathers under your skin, slinks up your throat, and you lean back into the car to watch it curl up through the atmosphere. Your hands are by your side. Where they belong. Where they’ve always been. You barely even notice how hard Namjoon is breathing.

By the time you get home, the soft lights and rounded corners of the world have faded some—not enough to be gone, but enough that your attention has returned to the wetness between your legs. You’re so wet. There’s even a patch forming on Yoongi’s sweatpants. You hope he won’t mind. You recall the way he licked you up in the diner and shudder. He definitely won’t mind.

Namjoon leads you quickly out of the car and up the stairs to the apartment, refusing to look at you, eyes wild, brows furrowed, nostrils flaring and jaw working. He looks like he’s thinking about lots of important things. One of them ought to be how good you’ve been, and how much you need him to touch you, but you’ll let him come to that conclusion himself.

He halts violently in the front hall eyes wide.

“Shit.”

“…Namjoon?” Yoongi’s voice comes from the living room, sounding surprised, almost…guilty?

Namjoon immediately takes a few steps forward, body angled between you and the room.

You peer around him to snag a peek anyways. Yoongi stares back at you from his position on the couch, belly down and hunched over something black. The bags under his eyes are almost a weird shade of purple, they’re so dark. He looks like he’s dying, drawn and fixated. When your gazes meet, his tongue slips over his lips, slow, heady. You whimper before you’re even aware you’re doing it.

“Really? Yoongi?” Namjoon sounds exasperated. Worn thin.

“Really yourself,” Yoongi bites back, but his tone is gravelly. “When you said you were going shopping I thought it would be for longer than five minutes.”

“On the couch?”

Yoongi’s upper row of teeth suddenly bare in a lopsided grin with a mild chuckle. “Not the worst thing to happen on the couch. Right?”

His smile drops suddenly, nostrils flaring. A shiver crawls up your spine as you watch his hips rock forwards and his eyes flutter back in his head. “A-ah, fuck. What the fuck have you two been doing?...”

It isn’t until you feel Namjoons arm raising to halt you at your chest that you realize you’ve been scooting forward in a trance, trying to catch a closer look at the fabric that Yoongi presses his face into now with a low groan.

“Yoongi…” Joon swallows, hard, “You should go back in your room.”

“She’s fucking hazed, isn’t she, Joon? Fuck, she’s so wet,” he continues to hiss under his breath, as if to himself. “Fuck, she’s so wet.”

This time you can see his arm shift, can hear a slick noise from underneath him, his breath catching. His jeans are hanging a little low on his hips, baring a black strip of underwear, you realize, and with that realization comes understanding. The fabric is Namjoon’s old hoodie. He’s got it pinned to the couch beneath him. When he nuzzles into it, you recognize the faded pattern from the hem brushing his nose. It’s upside down, so that his face is where…where your pussy was.

“It was a mistake,” Namjoon says while your world spins dizzyingly with arousal.

“Hmm…” Yoongi grunts, impossibly low in his throat. “Lots of those.” He doesn’t sound fully cognizant of what he’s saying. It’s absent, slurred. You see why when he twists his head again, mouth lolling open to lap secretively at the hoodie, his tongue pointed and firm. Arousal slips heat down your back, between your legs when you spot his bared teeth. Long, sharp, glistening with saliva as he exhales shakily. Oh, yes. That’s what you want.

Namjoon’s arm presses against you and he takes a half a step back, taking you with him even though you don’t really want to walk backwards. The way Yoongi tucks his head into the hoodie, his hair splaying against the fabric, inhales loudly, humps forward, hips curling with a sloppy sound that indicates just how wet he is in his own palm—it reminds you of an animal.

“Gonna bite holes in the couch, Joon,” he warns thick, muffled. “Mmm…I’m going to lose my fucking mind. She’s fucking hazed. God, I-I can’t do this.”

“It’s only been a day.” Namjoon’s voice is strained. You cast a curious look at him, but immediately your eye is drawn to the tent growing in his pants. He tries to move it, tries to casually tuck it out of view, but it’s too late, the damage is done, and a huff of desire escapes from your throat, eyes threatening to bulge out of your head. You like very much the way things are shaping up. “It’s only been a day—“

“Fuck. Fuck.”

“—We need to give her time to recover—“

Yoongi makes a noise that’s too close, too close, to a high-pitched whimper, his head still bent, hiding his face.

“Recover nothing, recover is bullshit,” he’s babbling, dark, frustrated, garbled by the pillows underneath him. “I need—“

“It’s not a good idea.”

“I need to be inside of her now, Namjoon.” Yoongi pulls his head back up, laying his cheek ontop of the hoodie. His eyes are blown wide, all traces of brown swallowed by obsidian, hooded and piercing as he meets your gaze, blazing a path straight through you. His delicate lips can barely keep his teeth at bay, bitten, abused pink playing peekaboo with glistening pinpricks of ivory. His jet hair spiders out across his forehead, stuck in places with sweat. “I need to drain her.”

“It isn’t a good—“

“I’ll kill you.” It fights its way past his lips, stuttering and stammering, like an addict denied his high, lent credence by the way he digs his nails into the sofa, ruts into his own hand. “I—I’ll, Joon, I’ll fucking kill you.”

There’s a pause of silence, punctuated only by your breathing and the soft fabric noises as Yoongi humps the couch.

“…No, you won’t.” Namjoon’s voice is soft. Quiet. He sighs through his nose, long and weary.

Yoongi opens his mouth to reply, but he stills at the same time you see movement in the corner of your eye. A hand drifting to the hem of Namjoon’s second hoodie. Its twin, on the other side. Shuffling its grip up, taking the hoodie and the scarf with it, peeling it up and over your head with all the gentleness of a caretaker. You can’t look away from Yoongi. He’s stopped moving entirely, too-bright eyes watching you from over the pillows, a snake in the grass ready to strike. You don’t think he’s breathing. Namjoon’s hands return, slipping long fingers beneath the elastic waistband. He shucks them off you, helping you step out by placing your hand on his shoulder. One leg at a time. You sway a little, completely nude, standing in the living room like a sacrificial offering to the heathen gods. And the intensity with which the creature on the couch watches you, your chest heaving with heady breath, tells you that analogy isn’t far off.

You next feel warmth at your hand, wandering fingers drifting to clutch yours in a show of unexpected softness.

“We aren’t going to hurt her,” Namjoon says, fighting to keep a tremble out of his voice. Is it excitement? Fear? “We’re going to take care of her. Right, Yoongi?”

“Fuck,” Yoongi whispers, eyes wide.

“We aren’t going to hurt her.”

“No.” Yoongi echoes.

“We’re going to take care of her.”

“Yes.”

“I will use force if I have to.”

“Mm.”

Namjoon nods, once. The hand at yours disappears, reappearing with a sudden grip of your hair, tugging your head back.

“You wanted so badly to suck cock, baby,” Namjoon snarls into your ear, sending hot breath coasting against your neck, making you squeal when he yanks unmercifully, his grip burning against your scalp, “Here’s your fucking chance. You’re going to take Yoongi down your throat like a good slut. I don’t want you coming up for breath. Do you understand?”

“I understand, sir,” you mewl immediately, scrabbling upwards, delicate fingers flying to his with no effect. The switch has left you reeling with whiplash, but it makes you shake all the same. All the same, it makes you ache. He releases you, shoving forward, and you stumble, catching yourself on the arm of the couch, just beside Yoongi’s head.

Yoongi still hasn’t moved. You slide to the front of the sofa, eyes trained on his, unable to keep down the feeling of being a steak in a lion’s den. But he uncurls from his position, turning to reveal his dick to you, head cocked, hands clutching the cushions on either side of his legs like he has half a mind to tear them to shreds.

You almost choke, just looking at him. Flushed a painful red from tip to base, bright veins bulging angrily, twitching in the cold air apart from his hand. Coated in precum, streaks shining in the light down what you can see of his lower belly, wet patches soaked through the bottom of his white shirt, glazing his cock. Under your stare, it oozes another dribble, and suddenly you’re famished.

“Please.”

It doesn’t register as a word until he shifts, legs widening, hands kneading. You look back to his face. He looks half out of his mind, eyes dark.

“Please.” He repeats, hoarse.

You’re already falling to your knees, jaw dropping opening with the sick plop of your tongue leaving the roof of your mouth, reaching for his thighs. His hips flex when you get close, easing his head past your lips and you can taste the heat before you even descend on him, sucking, laving at his fevered skin.

The noise he makes is sin, lust, and velvet. Not far from a purr. His hands don’t move from where they’re digging into the cushions, allowing you to take as much of him as you want, as much as you can. You fill your senses with him greedily; his taste, his smell, every twitch of his thighs and every bob of his cock into your mouth.

You feel wandering fingers trace your spine, curling around your ass, alighting to your dripping pussy with intent. When two push inside, eased tremendously by the seemingly endless slick that drips from your entrance, you arch into him.

“Y-You fuck her first,” Namjoon’s murmuring from behind as he presses his fingers into you, scissoring, stretching, curling seekingly. You hump against his hand, trying to push him deeper even as you suck Yoongi’s cock down your throat with a slavering eagerness. “Or-or maybe I do…M-maybe we…”

“Both,” Yoongi growls, sharp. A moan bubbles up around his member from your throat and his hips rise to meet the sensation, almost lazy if not for the way he shakes. You feel a hand curling into your hair less than gently, by your face, tugging your head a little to the side so that he can look you in the eye while you suckle at his head. He’s grinning, feral and distant. As your gazes lock, he scrunches his nose at you in a playful snarl.

“You have two holes for a reason, don’t you think?” he drawls past a slur. “Let’s see how wide we can stretch them.”

Behind you, Namjoon grunts deep in his throat and his pace stutters. “Sh-shit, that’s—“

“She wants it. You want it, don’t you? You want me in your ass. You want Namjoon in your cunt. Admit it.” He tsks, his tone dropping somehow lower. “Admit it, and we’ll prepare you first.”

He pulls you off his cock with a fierce tug of your locks caught between his knuckles, teeth baring again in a half smirk, half grimace as he watches you take deep gasping breaths with all the tenderness of a hawk surveying its squeaking prey.

“I—I do.”

“Little whore.” The vampire in front of you hisses, murmurs, but the thumb brushing against your swollen lips is akin to fond. “I know you do. You want Namjoon’s fingers in your tight little hole?”

You’re nodding into his palm, trying to shift your weight more comfortably on your knees. Either he doesn’t notice or he’s pretending not to, perfectly fine with allowing you to arch, crane. Twitching when Namjoon’s fingers bump against those perfect places inside of you with slick, overly wet noises.

“You want him to stretch you wide for me. You want to beg us for it.”

“I do. I want it.”

“I don’t know that she can take it,” Namjoon mumbles, hoarse, but his fingers give you one more pump, squelching into your arousal, before they’re sliding slowly out, tracing up back towards your spine.

“She’ll fucking take it.” Yoongi’s leading you back to his cock, pressing your cheek to his strained member. His head throws back with a low groan when you obligingly lick up as much of his skin as you can, tasting salt and feeling the heat under your tongue. “She’ll take it and she’ll love it.”

“I’ll take it so good,” you agree between laves, between sloppy kisses and slurps. “I’ll take it.”

Warmth presses experimentally against the tight ring of muscles at your ass. When you tense thoughtlessly, it immediately disappears, Namjoon exhaling shakily.

“I don’t think—“ he mumbles.

“I think,” Yoongi snaps. “Stop fucking thinking, Namjoon. Just do it.”

There’s a pause, a shuffling from behind you, the sound of a bottlecap popping open. The fingers return, and this time you make sure to roll towards them, humming your approval as you lathe up and down Yoongi’s member sloppily. This time, you recognize a much slicker feeling—he must have found lube. Just for you. How nice of him. One digit presses deeper, sinking into you and you huff a sigh at the strange sensation; even with the lube, it hurts, just a little, just a sting, but it’s warm and smooth, filling you up. Another finger pad rubs comforting circles into your clit as he pumps his finger steadily into your asshole. Yoongi purrs with appreciation at the both of your compliances, hips twitching.

“Mm, yeah, stretch her good. Stretch her so good, so I can slip right inside of that tight little ass.”

Namjoon introduces a second finger and you have to stop sucking Yoongi’s cock to rest your head in his lap, keening at the intrusion. It burns, it burns, but the thought of taking his member inside of you, the thought of taking both of them, has you shaking with anticipation.

“Hoseok’s gonna be so mad,” Yoongi mutters, watching you whimper and carding lithe fingers through your hair. “His loss.”

Namjoon’s abrupt chuckle is humorless and short. “Hoseok is in big trouble for that stunt he pulled last night.”

“Hmm? What stunt?” The corner of Yoongi’s mouth twitches upwards in a knowing grin. A hand explodes against your ass, forcing you to jump, working yourself harder on Namjoon’s fingers, and you moan thickly.

“Tell him.”

“H-Hoseok came in the room while I was being pun-punished,” You stutter as Namjoon slides a third finger into your quivering hole, stretching you further with a deep grunt. “He-he fucked my chest.”

Yoongi chuckles. “Shh,” he hums, mock-comforting, stroking your hair with one hand as his other drifts to his own member, teasing at the purpled, leaking head absently, drifting to lock around his base. “I know. I know. Did you like it? Hm? You did, didn’t you? I bet it made you so fuckin’ wet for Hobi’s cock.”

He makes a thick noise deep in his throat. “Namjoon.”

“Gently,” is the response. Namjoon’s fingers slip out of you, even as your body clamps down on him as if trying to convince him deeper, and the rush of pleasure as they’re removed has you shuddering. “Go slow.”

But Yoongi’s gripping your hair, patting your cheek, is excited and rushed. Feverish.

“Turn around. Turn around,” he urges.

Obediently, you sit up shakily, assisted by an arm slipping beneath yours, and turn to face Namjoon. At some point, he’s taken his shirt off, unbuttoned his pants to better stroke at the bulge growing at his crotch. His eyes are hooded, his lips are red from his own worrying. He flicks his eyebrows at you when Yoongi’s hand comes up with a sharp crack on your asscheek, jolting you forward. You can hear him shuffling out of his pants entirely behind you.

“Ready?” Joon asks.

You nod, leaning up and seeking out his lips again. He kisses you back briefly, hands alighting on your waist to encourage you down. Yoongi’s hands drift over your ass, your thighs, tugging you closer, pulling you to meet the hot skin of his lap. His fingers as they dance over your cheeks, shifting you open so that he can rub the tip of his dick against your opening. The hot, slick feeling of his velvet head finally breaching the tight ring of muscle has you gasping, scrabbling at Namjon’s arms.

Yoongi is definitely bigger than Namjoon’s fingers. As you sink down on him, impaling yourself on his cock, you clutch forward at Namjoon desperately, mouth open to allow for the breathless mewls escaping your throat. Behind you, Yoongi grunts and hums directly into your ear, tsking through his teeth.

“Are you okay, baby?” Namjoon murmurs, almost sweet if not for the feverishly intent way he watches his elder penetrate you. “Is that still good?”

“Big,” you hiccup, unconsciously trying to shift your hips to accommodate the girth as it parts your walls. “It-it’s big.”

“I know,” he soothes. He keeps up petting your cunt, brushing your clit, rubbing your tits. He leans forward, pressing soothing kisses to your collarbone, up your neck, the edge of your mouth. “I know. You tell me if it’s too much.”

“Oh fuck,” Yoongi growls, low, when he finally bottoms out, sheathing himself completely inside you. “Oh fuck. God, you take it so good. You take it so well. Are you sure Jin’s boys didn’t do this for you?”

“N-No.” You’re glowing at the praise, at the attention, as you adjust. The pain quiets to an ache the longer you sit there, but you won’t deny the twitching in your limbs, the leaking of your pussy. It isn’t taking you too long to warm to the idea of taking both of them at the same time.

“No? No, just us, hm? Think they’ll be jealous, Namjoon?” Yoongi catches your earlobe with a bite that’s a little too sharp, humming.

“Jealous that we got to have so much of baby? Oh, yeah.” Namjoon mumbles, kissing you deep. His tongue slides across yours, sweet and gentle. Your lips smack obnoxiously when you part, the sound so loud in this enclosed space between your faces. “Jealous that she’s ours.”

“Is that right?” Yoongi’s hips move experimentally, thrusting shallow, and you moan at the sensation. It’s like he’s reaching through you to your guts, and you love it. “Are you ours? Hmm?”

“Y-yours,” you choke, humping with him.

Eyes caught in yours, Namjoon fishes his cock out of his underwear, giving the thick length a pump, two, before he’s edging closer. He’s kissing you again as he sinks into you, and you melt into the bliss of being held so intimately, so gently. Yoongi at your back, rocky steadily into your ass, Joon at your front, thrusting into your wet pussy, both humming and grunting with the effort as you writhe helplessly between them. You’re so full, so full, disallowed from resting between thrusts with the alternating rhythm they quickly fall into.

“F-fuck,” Namjoon growls. “So good, you’re doing so good for us, baby.”

When he thrusts especially hard, you can feel it criminally deep inside of you and you arch, hips lifting to meet him. The feeling of both of them fucking into you simultaneously, breathing into your ears, moaning, has you roiling in ecstasy, strong, warm arms holding you up, moving you against them, caressing breasts and rolling your clit.

“I-I’m not going to fucking last…” Joon warns.

Yoongi chuckles breathily, licking his lips so sloppily it’s loud.

“Cum in her,” he demands, hoarse, “Give her everything. I want to feel it.”

There’s the sound of the lock turning at the front door. Namjoon’s pace quickens with a groan. He starts pounding into your cunt, leaning over you with his brow furrowed, lips parted, sweat making his neck, his cheeks, glisten. His cock fucks so smoothly into your cunt, stretching you around his girth, bottoming out and slipping until he finally settles for rocking up deep into you. The sounds his pelvis makes as he fucks you perfectly are loud, stuttering.

“Gonna, gonna,” he mumbles, licking up your lips.

“Hoo!” Hoseok’s voice calls from the front hall, “What is going on in…here…?”

Joon stills inside you with a violent thrust, cock buried deep inside of your guts, pulsing as he paints your walls with wet warmth, exhaling a grunt into the crook of your neck. Yoongi stills completely, moaning low in your ear.

There’s a pause, punctuated only by the heavy breathing of everyone present. Namjoon presses a sweet kiss to your mouth, humping once, twice, sliding his spent cock from your gaping hole with a hiss.

When he moves to look to Hoseok, you get to see him too.

Standing in the hall, a gym bag slung over his shoulder. His hair’s wet at his forehead with sweat. Under your stare, he licks his lips. His eyes are already smoldering, congenial grin faded into a hungry look.

“You guys having fun?” he asks, falsely conversational.

“No, it’s the worst.” Yoongi’s deadpan reply doesn’t earn him more than a flick of the eyes. “You should probably go back to the studio.”

“Sorry, Hope,” Namjoon interjects softly, still panting. “It—we didn’t mean to go this far.”

“I did.” Yoongi interrupts again in a whisper. You jolt at the feeling of his hot, slick tongue suddenly wetting a path up your neck to your ear. You squirm, both of you moaning quietly when you jostle his cock inside you.

Hoseok shrugs, lips curving into a pout. He slips his gym bag off his shoulder, tossing it carelessly to the ground as Joon flops to the side of the couch, far enough to be out of the way but close enough to keep a discerning eye on Yoongi.

“Well. I’m here now…” Hoseok says low, stalking closer. You’re suddenly very aware of how lewd you must look right now. Yoongi buried in your ass, Joon’s cum leaking out of your wrecked pussy.

“Hmmm about that…Hoseok misbehaved, didn’t he?” Yoongi murmurs into your ear, his breath tickling your neck. He shifts, beginning to roll into you again, stealing your breath. “Left you high and dry. What do you say we leave him?”

It’s impossible to concentrate, between his smooth fucking into your asshole, the way Joon’s rapidly cooling cum runs down your cunt, the smoldering glare that Hoseok throws your way.

“We can make him watch.” Yoongi’s next thrust is overly excited, and you jerk back into him with a loud moan, back arching as his cock parts your tight hole and slips up into your depths. It dislodges more of the cum inside you, encouraging it to ooze out in a fresh glob painting your slit. “Hmmm…we can make him watch and he can fucking cream all over himself in his ridiculous fucking pants. Make him clean it up, suck it up out of the fabric, no hands.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Hoseok’s smile is not friendly. It’s dark, dangerous—not far removed from an animalistic sneer.

“You don’t think I would?” is the glib response, heavy with promise, punctuated by a grunt when you clench around him. Hoseok’s smile disappears.

“Fuck, fuck,” Yoongi pants into your skin, tsking through his teeth. “What a fucking idea. What a fucking idea. You want to see it, too, don’t you?”

“P-promised,” you stammer, mind reeling, toes curling.

“What was that, slut?” Yoongi snarls, a free hand curving around your neck. Namjoon’s eyes dart to his fingers with an expression that betrays how ready he is to save you, even as he continues to recover from his position on the floor, but Yoongi doesn’t tighten his grip more than enough to choke your words and make it difficult to slur through them.

“He, H-Hoseok promised, he promised, t-to fuck me.”

“He promised to fuck you.”

“Mm,” you whimper, nodding, vision swimming with heady pleasure.

“You can’t get enough, is that what you’re telling me?”

“N-no.” You moan when he starts to thrust even harder into you.

“Never enough cock for you. Never stuffed full enough, never satiated. It would take all of us, wouldn’t it, and still you’d beg for more. Tell me I’m wrong.

Come here,” he barks, fevered, without waiting for your reply. “Get over here.”

Automatically, Hoseok moves, the edges of his expression softening as Yoongi’s haze pulls a veil over his eyes. He doesn’t even get a full step forward before Yoongi is commanding him again.

“Down. Knees.”

Hoseok’s legs buckle at the knees, his head flopping forward, eyes fixated on the unbelievably erotic sight of Yoongi’s cock disappearing into you and reappearing covered in juices and lube, the way your pussy weeps clear arousal and thick white seed down your thighs, soaking into the couch beneath you.

“Tell her you’re sorry.”

“I’m sorry.” It escapes his mouth easily enough, but his lips twitch in a faint grimace afterwards, as though the words leave a bad taste on his tongue. Yoongi fucks harder into you, before grunting and suddenly grasping your hips with both hands, one on either side. You can feel him twitching deep inside of you, but he doesn’t cum yet, just rocks upwards, curls absently against your back.

“How sorry?”

“So sorry.”

“Prove it. Show her. How fucking sorry you are.”

Hoseok’s eyes flit upwards, catching you in their endless chocolatey depths. You feel warmth, palms, curling over your thighs, holding you splayed in front of him with long hands. Maintaining eye contact, he leans forward, jaw inching open, tongue presenting itself, before he makes contact with your pussy, licking a long, hot stripe upwards. A low moan claws its way out of your chest, your hips thrusting forwards and halted by their hands, Yoongi’s on your waist, Hoseok’s pinning you to Yoongi, forcing you to take it as he starts to eat you in earnest. He slurps up Namjoon’s cum like he daren’t waste a drop of it, sucking it off your lips, sliding his tongue everywhere but your clit, rubbing through your folds, dipping like a man possessed into your cunt to retrieve as much of it as he can taste. You convulse with every flick, humming and whining, sweating, straining against their grip as Hoseok tilts his head, maneuvering this way and that, as though determined to lick up every trace of Namjoon from you.

“That’s it,” Yoongi growls thickly. “That’s it, just like that. Make her cum and I’ll let you inside her.”

The response is immediate. Hoseok forces your thighs apart even further, lips finding your clit easily and attaching with a decadent slurp so loud and so obnoxious your ears ring, holding you down as you shake and arch into him, moaning unintelligible pleas for mercy as he sucks you up like his last meal. Your body wracks, shivering, and you hardly even realize how near you are until you’re finally shoved off the precipice. You’re cumming, hard, scrabbling for purchase on Yoongi’s thighs, the couch beneath you, Hoseok’s fingers. The scream that tears itself from your throat is raw, over-extended and cuts out entirely at the end as pleasure races through your entire body, forcing you to convulse and shake.

Yoongi’s steady fountain of curses barely registers until you realize he’s begging just as painfully, as desperately as you are.

“Fuck, Hoseok,” he hiccups, “Fuck, hurry up, get—get in her, fuck, I can—I’m gonna—“

“Was that nice?” Hoseok preens as he pulls away. His mouth and chin are shining, glazed with your arousal. He licks absently at it, slipping the waistband of his sweatpants down teasingly, catching your eyes with a hazy, prideful smirk. “Was that good? You want Hobi to fuck you now, pretty girl? You forgive me yet, hm?”

“Stop fucking around,” Yoongi bites, hands dashing to your thighs from around your back. He opens your folds for you, presenting you even more prettily to the other vampire, who watches you twitch with satisfaction and desire. “Come fuck the communal whore.”

Hoseok’s cock is thinner than Namjoon’s, but it’s longer. When he lines up with your entrance, guided easily by Yoongi’s fingers, and presses in with one smooth motion, you release a deep exhale, head thrown back over Yoongi’s shoulder.

“There you go. There you fucking go.” He encourages in a mumble, hands raising, one to your neck to caress and fondle, the other to your hip, to steady as he and Hoseok start thrusting in tandem.

Hobi’s hips flow into you effortlessly, curling, stroking the inside of your cunt with precision that leaves you breathless. The difference between the fevered way Yoongi now rams unevenly into your ass, drawing thick breaths through clenched teeth, has you clenching around the both of them.

You feel something against your palm, and you turn to look, meeting Namjoon’s eyes. He watches you caught between his brothers, expression heavy. He wraps his fingers around yours, and you realize his other hand is curled around his own dick, stroking himself to the time of Yoongi’s thrusts. He leans his head back, staring at you past hooded eyelids, plush lips parted in quiet huffs as he twitches and releases again, small spurts up his chest, decorating his abdomen. The sight of him, shining with sweat and cum, pleasuring himself as you bounce, filled up and defiled, makes you cry out, wrapping one thigh around Hosoeok’s ass.

“Gonna fill up this pretty ass,” Yoongi hisses, “Gonna fill you up so good, fuck.”

“Good girl,” Hobi soothes through his grin, “Good, just like that, take it, yeah, take it.”

Yoongi’s pace becomes even more erratic, even more uneven, his voice giving way to high pitched mewls and low grunts, burying his cock inside you with a growl.

“N-Nam—“ he pants suddenly, arching, pressing his lower half to your back.

Namjoon sits up with a rush, hand disentangling from yours to reach upwards, just over your shoulder, and you can feel the force as Yoongi’s head is thrown backwards into the cushion of the sofa. His prick twitches and throbs, finally emptying himself into the cavern of your asshole, filling you with wet warmth. Hobi pushes forward one last, long drawn-out time, and cums inside your cunt with a huffed breath almost of surprise.

Behind you, you can hear Yoongi hissing, growling, whimpering. You can feel the struggle as he thrashes against Namjoon’s hold, his fingernails beginning to dig into your hips.

“You fucker,” he spits, seething. “I’m so fucking hungry, you son of a bitch. It’s your fucking fault, you fuck.”

“Shh, Yoongi,” Namjoon soothes, brows knitted together. “Shh, I know. I know.”

“Fuck you, Namjoon, let me drain her fucking dry. You’re such a cunt.”

Hoseok slides out of you, watching your pussy leaking fresh cum with absent satisfaction, brushing a thumb against a flushed lip to collect some of it. He leans up, smearing it across your mouth and you lean forward into him, sucking the digit into your mouth with an exhausted moan.

“Hobi, get her off him.” Namjoon says, sharp.

“Alright, alright. Come on, pretty girl,” Hoseok urges gently, wrapping his palms underneath your ass to help lift you upwards. You try to prop your legs up under yourself, but you’re so sore, so used up, they’re almost completely useless. Yoongi’s member leaves your ass with a plop, his release already beginning to ooze down your thigh. His hands are hesitant to leave your waist, but eventually trail off, obeying hushed encouragement from Namjoon. Hoseok pulls you to stand, into his still-clothed chest, propping you up on your feet and letting you lean against him.

“Can you stand?” he murmurs into your ear. You’re shaky, disoriented, clutching everything you can reach of him. You shake your head ‘no’, burying your face into him, inhaling the comforting scent. “Okay.”

He slowly moves to collect his pants from the ground, keeping your hands on his shoulders as he bends. When he straightens, he pulls the soft material up your legs, wiping at the thick liquid flowing freely from your abused holes. When you flinch away at a slightly rougher tug, he apologizes quietly under his breath, craning to press a weirdly sweet kiss to your cheek.

“I’m gonna take her to get cleaned up,” he says over your shoulder, rubbing comforting circles into your lower back.

“Good,” Namjoon replies, distracted. Briefly, you feel a hand at your calf, stroking upwards in a soothing kind of manner. As Hoseok turns, leading you down to the hall, you catch a glimpse of Namjoon sitting beside Yoongi on the couch. They’re embracing now, both glistening, both panting. Their eyes are closed, Namjoon’s peacefully if not for the worry that creases his brow, Yoongi’s screwed tightly shut.

“Didn’t mean it.” You catch Yoongi’s deep mumble, choked with emotion, as he buries his face in Namjoon’s shoulder.

“I know. I know. It’s okay.” Namjoon’s hand brushes up his back reassuringly, even for how it shakes. “It’s okay. I’m sorry.”

Hoseok leads you slowly to the bathroom, props you up in the shower. The space is too tight, too small, to comfortably fit both of you, but he gets down to business washing you clean with the kind of care you’d expect from someone who’s done it a million times before. He keeps you upright, sudsing you up, rinsing you down, keeping your hands on his shoulders, occasionally placing a steadying arm around your waist while he cleans the rest of you with lukewarm water. He hums while he works, some absent tune you don’t recognize.

“Namu seems to really like you,” he pipes up. “I saw that handholding jerkoff thing.” He shakes his head, chuckling under his breath. “What a sap.”

You don’t have anything to respond with, so he continues.

“He’s not the type to like people easy, you know.” He sighs through his nose, craning to catch your eye with a nod to indicate how serious he’s being. “None of us are. I don’t know what Yoongi thinks…or if he does right now.”

He straightens to continue rinsing your hair, taking the utmost amount of care to avoid getting soap in your eyes. It feels nice. Warm.

“But if Namjoon likes you…I guess we’re going to have to take better care of you.”

There’s a pause.

“I am sorry.” He says finally. He sounds sincere. “For the tit job.”

Now you look up at him, too tired to really say or think much, but hoping he gets the expression you mean to send him. He grins, wide, and boops your nose with the loofah with a giggle.

“It was really hot, though.” He adds, in a mock-defensive pout. “Really hot. I jacked off earlier today just thinking about it, you know. Shit, maybe I’m falling for you.”

That makes him laugh, his signature cackle bouncing off the tiles of the bathroom.

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#moth to flame #bts x reader #bts smut #bts vampire au #namjoon x reader #yoongi x reader #hoseok x reader #do you see now #do you understand #why it took me so long #none of this was originally in it ok #(hey anon i hope this soothes our relationship. <3 u #sorry again)#FUCK yoongis fuckin MOUTH in this one #i dont know WHO i was CHANNELING #hand to god it only gets worse i just kEEP GETTING W O R S E #am i retconning hoseok being an asshole #eeeeeeyup lmao do what i wanna shrug #oh oh did you get my reference #w the other vampires #eeyyyyyy im not gonna put them in the tags cos its such a small bit part but eeeeeYYY #i dont actually listen to anyone but BTS im sorry i just wanted smone else to exist in this world that WASNT them ok #ive heard some of their stuff just havnt like #idk i dont follow anyone #i was incredibly into super junior when i started listening to kpop but thats cos i used it to write other smut :)#cos i couldn't understand korean #hey how you doing this is a lot of tags huh #well its been a long day alright #its been a day #ive been writing this chapter for so long i just wanna write my FEELINGS now

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kewltie · 4 years

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omfgggg pregnant!deku. imagine where no. 1 hero is not only an omega but is pregnant and it's still early in his first trimester so he's running around kicking ass but IT'S DEKU so ppl frets and worry over his safety that even villains r like uh i dont wanna mess w/ that. deku is like ridiculously popular & well like even among criminal bc he believes in 2nd chances & rehab of the criminals/villains & fight for disenfranchised youths who fell on the wrong side of the track. so yea, they fight against him but they're also kinda soft for him!!!

so when they found out their fav hero is pregnant & still patrolling there's like some super-secret nonverbal agree among them that they won't stop doing what they are doing but like,,,, nobody fucking touch deku ok or you'll deader than dead. which is ALL KIND OF HILARIOUS bc deku coming to a bank robbery & the criminals doesnt stop their crime but when they fight him, they're like super careful w/ him making sure he doesn't get knock back, fall, or hurt himself too much.

when deku finally captured them and as they're about to taken away, they happily congratulated him on his pregnancy & ask if he'd thought of names yet & one of them is like, "oh, when my husband was pregnant eating X & Y really help with the nausea." and izuku is like,,, thanks???

there's like so many ppl invested in deku's pregnancy that it bizarre bc he's not the first or the last omega to ever be pregnant but he's deku, prohero, no.1 rank, and symbol of hope. all that means is there's a hyper fixation on everything about him esp now that he's pregnant. talk shows, news channel, & celeb gossip show are all talking about it one way or another. whether he's should take an early leave of work or not bc of the danger of his job, the baby's sex, his pregnancy craving, bump watch (I KNOW), & even a countdown to his due date.

the entire country is in a baby fever just bc of deku. everybody talk obsessively about it & even if you find that one person who does not care they def know someone who does. all this happen while deku just go about his day like all of Japan isnt watching his every move lol. the strangest thing about deku's pregnancy is that there's no sign of the other parent?? deku isnt even dating anyone. he never mention any alpha AT ALL, only declaring that he plans to raise his baby all by himself as a single parent which blew their fucking mind bc wtfffff.

look, deku is the most famous omega around, sitting high atop of the world as the no. 1 hero & is adore by the mass--he's greatest omega of his generation some would say so yea there's lot of expectation & hope place on him but deku is deku & he does what he wants. ppl speculate that maybe he's pregnant bc he had a one night stand and this was accident, maybe he has been in a secret relationship all this time, maybe this baby was from a spurned lover or WORST yet a produce of rape... LIKE there's so many rumor swirling around but the answer is actually v v v simple. deku has always wanted a child and since he's nearing 30 right now, he thought it's hightime he has one and the other father? JUST A DONOR. it's nothing serious or complicated as ppl imagine to be.

deku wants a kid and now he has one!! but ppl just can't comprehend how it could be that simple when the most notoble omega in all of japan decide he wants a kid W/O having a mate and he's going to raise this baby all by himself and nope he's not even going to quit his job at ALL to have a family. deku is just--blowing their mind lol

the world doesn't so much get over it as they just kinda get dragged along bc deku does not give a single fuck wut other think and proceed to be immersed in his pregnancy and try to survive the next 6 months while everyone waited on bated breath to see what deku does next. the only thing that stick is the constant rumor mill of who is the donor of deku's baby. they assume that deku wouldn't just pick a stranger bc he's sentimental like that so speculations run amok about every alpha that is closely associate with deku.

there are public polls, betting rings w/ billions on the line, televised debates, internet flame wars, and ACTUAL ARGUMENTS B/T FAMILY/FRIENDS/COWORKERS on who the fuck is deku's donor! even more than deku's baby, they're fucking obsessed on finding out who is the actual donor. the thing is it's not THAT big of a secret. all of class A are in the loop, his mom know (ofc), and even his agency but they all managed to keep it a secret bc deku's privacy is the utmost important & beside the other father would literally MURDER them if it ever get expose.

this is how it went: bullied by his pr team, deku went on a variety show where they have to babysit kids & put through various childbearing challenge while cameras record them for entertainment purpose. It's there when deku realized "ah, I WANT THIS. I WANT THIS V BADLY." deku is climbing close to his 30 now, he's well established presence in the hero world, and his life is pretty stable so it's high time he have his own little family but the thing is babies are two ppl business. they don't just come from thin air so deku did the next best thing.

katsuki would like to say he didn't see this coming the same way you would not expect to be attack by a shark on land, but in this case deku is that fucking shark & katsuki is the idiot that get completley blindsided by him when deku cornered him one day and asked for his sperm.

ok, bakudeku aint dating. they have deep & complicated history that is not only confusing o everybody else but also confusing to them. 'friend' would be to light of a word but anything else is left undefined bc how do you explain more than 2 decades of w/e they are to each other. katsuki doesn't want to talk about the amount of time he'd used image of deku to get off while in rut just so he can survive through it, while the next few days trying to resist punching deku in the face bc he act like a sacrificial idiot who got a cross he wants to bear.

it's not 100% healthy his therapist unhelpfully pointed out but the core of all his volatile feelings have always been named deku & katsuki doesn't know how to compartmentalize it properly bc katsuki may have squashed to something small & insignificant but it's heavy & permanent. so when deku laid his fucked up request at katsuki's feet, he broke the table they were using and nearly walked out if deku didn't catch him by the arm in time.

"kacchan, pls here me out first," deku begged of him, his sweet permeating the air; he's NOT PLAYING FAIR AT ALL. whoever said alphas are the dominate sex in the world have never met an omega, a determine goal focus omega with babies on the brain like deku.

"kacchan, recently i realized that im only getting older so i want a child when i still can," deku explained. "so won't you help me? i know settling down right now is the farthest thing from your mind, but im not asking you anything like that," he continued as katsuki quietly fumed in the background. "i just want your help in making this selfish wish of mine come true. you're among my top choices, kacchan."

Katsuki jerked up. "wait, you mean to say there's a fucking list of alphas you plan to extort their sperm from?" he seethed, feeling like deku had took a goddamn knife to his pride and butcher it completely. "how many other ppl have you asked before you even came to me?!"

"im not extorting anything from anyone." Deku frowned. "and, well, you always lectured me about diving head first w/o any backup plans," he pointed out, "so i made sure to leave several options open just in case the first one fell through. see? i did thought this one thru."

katsuki nearly broke another piece of furniture at the thought of deku asking someone else to father his child as though he was just another face in a long list of ppl deku could use. "What did every alpha on ur shitty list rejected u already so now have to come to me for help?"

deku, who was no.1 for a reason, narrowed his eyes and the air crackled around them. "kacchan, this is extremely important to me so i wouldnt just chose anyone. i only know a handful of alphas i can trust and someone im happy to share the other half of my child with. you're the 1st person that came to my mind when i thought about a child growing inside of me," he said, wrapping his arm around his flat tummy. "despite our many differences you're the one i admire the most. your strength & ambition, grounded by your strong drive & work ethics. the fact that you got where you are w/ your own hands & wits to guide you, i think you're just amazing. so how could i not want those kind of qualities for my own child," deku explained. "im sure a child born from half of your genes you will shine just brightly as you do."

katsuki felt so taken back that found his tongue heavy and words were escaping him. on one hand he felt a rush of pride and a strange sensation of happiness that deku had specifically chosen him out of his potential candidates bc of the greatness he had seem in katsuki but he'd also narrowed katsuki out not bc of some sentimental bullshit or lingering feelings but he thought of providing his future child with the best gene pool as possible so his child can flourish. it's a damn ego busting for katsuki but deku was clearly a man on a mission.

katsuki hesitated and thought what it would mean to have a child out there who carry a lil part of him in them; it's unnerving and humbling at the same time. he never thought of it himself but deku had dream of this, wanted this so badly enough to beg katsuki for help.

"alright," he said finally, not knowing exactly what compelled him to agree, but the look of utter happiness spreading across deku's face as he can barely contain his joy. a single word from him had caused deku's word to shift and rearranged itself to make room for another life.

and that's how katsuki got con into helping izuku make a baby lol. but, really katsuki was the one who agreed to it out of his own will bc he's an idiot & also terribly whipped; omegas are the ones ppl should be frighten of bc once they make up their mind it's hard to move them. they're an unstoppable force, something to be reckon w/ esp when that omega is the no.1 hero who fought his way to the top of the rankings and maintain that status quo for many years despite how many times katsuki tried to topple him from that perch LOL.

katsuki already lost the war before he'd even put a foot down on battlefront the moment deku'd opened his mouth & demanded his sperm AND HE KNEW IT TOO. so that was how katsuki found himself preparing to empty his balls in front of a two-way mirror in a mating clinic bc of deku. omegas, esp males, are the most fertile when they're in heat & when an alpha go in a rut, but the both of them have this arrangment that's more of a duty than any feelings involve bc they cant risk getting mix up in the hormones. this is for deku & his future child!!! so the clinic had prepared a large room w/ two way dividing mirrors& open air vents circulating b/t the two rooms so they can breathe in each other scene where deku can have his heat on one side and katsuki can watch BUT NOT TOUCH and get his rut on so he can produce sperm.

it's uh, not supposed to be v sexy since it's all clinical & shit but bakudeku being bakudeku they nearly tear the room apart to get to each other in heat/rut madnes. deku had blushed earlier as he asked to be bind with quirk restrictions cuff just in case he go crazy which HE DID. at first the nurses there was more worry about katsuki going crazy and out of control bc he has been known to fall pretty high on the alpha aggression and they fear it would be katsuki who would be dangerous; BUT NOPE it's deku all all along who almost broke the REINFORCED MIRROR just so he can get to katsuki!!!! DEKU WHO PPL SOMETIMES FORGET IS LIKE THE NO. 1 HERO FOR A REASON. soft and sweet deku who single handedly can fuck you up with just his fingers if he want to. he's an omega on a mission and he wants that knot up his ass AND HE WANTS IT NOW.

the nurses & docs have to use everything in their toolkit to pull bakudeku apart. when it's all said and done, katsuki embarrassingly produce buckets of cum enough to last deku a looooooong long time if the first one didn't take lol while deku couldn't look at katsuki in the eyes. they are both horridly embarrass about their 'not mating' and their action toward each other there even though they never actually touch each other through out the whole heat/rut procedure. despite the fact that they DIDN'T HAVE ANY SEX, it was still the hottest exp for both.

katsuki never seen more more feral and fierce omega who nearly broke the entire room just to get to him, in that moment if katsuki wasn't in love already he would have been half way there and izuku didn't expect KATSUKI AT ALL. the way he had handle izuku was completely diff. in izuku's heat fever, katsuki was the lone anchor who'd provided him grounding. he tried to calm deku down from his ramp up hormones even though he was as clearly affected as deku. forceful but not unforgiving, commanding not unyielding, firm but gentle.

it was electric.

it was as though izuku was a wild animal unleashed and katsuki managed to tamed him and he never had even had to raise a single finger to do it. it was all in his words that cut through izuku's hazy feverish wants and desires. the kind of alpha that made deku's knees weak.

after that, they have wordless mutual agreement to never talk about it. deku got the sperms he wanted and katsuki had finally fullfiedd his obligation and isn't responsible for deku or his future child. HE'S DONE. they dont have anything to do w/ each other anymore. RIGHT??? ha.

it's funny bc izuku had his hope on a child but didn't think it would take so soon! he'd thought he would fail a few times first before he get really lucky w/ conception bc of his age now that he's older, this 'psuedo mating' can't replace real mating, & biology is fucking weird. even the fertility doc couldn't promise this procedure to insert bkg's sperm in him when he's still got in a heat fever will work 100% and if they fail, they have to wait for another HEAT to come before it could work. which mean months of waiting in b/t so izuku is desperate. BUT it took one try. THAT'S ALL IT TOOK as izuku anxiously waited for the news in next couple of weeks. he took at home pregnacy tests and when hall 3 results were positive he'd cried and called his mom but even then he didn't tell anyone bc he was so scare it just was a fluke.

he'd kept this secret until he finally got the visit to his doc and could get the firm confirmation he needed! when the doc revealed that he was indeed pregnant, izuku fell to his knees in relief bc finally, FINALLY, his dream of having a baby had came true. he's a father now!!

the doc had warned that the first trimester would be rough on him bc of his age and miscarriage is more likely for him than most male omega. maybe he should consider taking an early pregnacy leave bc of the danger his job poses to him & the unborn baby. deku had agonized over it. ultimately, he decided to continue w/ his hero work but won't take on as much stuff as before. he plans to be more careful & attentive to his safety, and defer his more dangerous work to his colleagues instead. all his friends and coworkers go out of their way to help him w/ this

izuku got an entire community of heroes WHO DO THEIR BEST TO ENSURE HIS PREGNACY GO SMOOTHLY bc look izuku may be doing this alone but HE'S NOT ACTUALLY ALONE bc he got his friends, colleagues, and mom to support him through this bc they know how much this means to him!!

katsuki was one of the last to find out but only bc deku plan to see him in person to tell him bc katsuki HAD GIVEN HIM ONE OF THE BEST GIFTS (beside OFA) and he wanted to thank katsuki in person but class A are a bunch of gossip mongers so he found out through their groupchat. it started as a joke about katsuki & his super seed bc what a fucking stud bakugou katsuki to have ONE TRY and is able to knocked izuku up so quickly lmao. w/e the fuck katsuki is doing or eating, apparently it works wonder for him bc one of his sperm luck out & hit jackpot. his so called friends cant stop ribbing into him for knocking up deku so quickly bc they know from deku's worry that it wasn't going to be an easy conception but IT'S BAKUGOU KATSKUKI, outdoing himself once more bc he never does anything by half, not even his own sperm lol.

izuku met up with katsuki right outside his agency bc he knew wassup and how to corner katsuki effectively by trapping him when he just high off his patrol when he least expect an ambush esp when he was too busy avoiding izuku's attempts to reach him bc of COMPLICATED FEELS.

it's not cowardice that kept katsuki away, but izuku was the source of all his confusing feelings already & now w/ the news that he's carrying katsuki's child now it'd gotten worst. izuku, though, was nothing if not persistent. he zeroed in katsuki right away w/ purposeful steps.

"kacchan, i'm so glad to meet you here," izuku says as though he hadn't coordinate this w/ katsuki's coworkers, who are all SOFT for izuku anyway lmao, to get katsuki alone JUST LIKE THIS. katsuki knew he was caught bc every one his friends & colleagues are FUCKING TRAITORS.

"what," he snapped, clenching the hands at his side as he tried to keep his gaze from izuku's still very flat tummy. it's weird to think a life was quickly taking shape there when it's not like izuku looked any diff but he smiling more brightly & warmth coming from his person. was this what they call the pregnancy glow? bc deku was fucking blinding that katsuki wanted to shove his hand to deku's face to block it out.

"what you want," he demanded again even tho they both know why deku was here.

unperturbed, deku smiled. "im pregnant now so thank you. you'd helped fulfilled one of my biggest dreams & im ever so grateful for it!" he continued, rocking happily back & forth on his heels but the words barely registered katsuki kept staring at the way deku's body swing out & he opened his mouth before he could think better of it.

"should you be even moving liek that ?" he asked BC SINCE FINDING OUT IZUKU IS PREGNANT HE LOST HIS MIND. as soon as the words left his mouth he knew he was a dead man walking.

izuku leveled him a glare so fierce that he actually took a step back w/ chills running up his back. "kacchan i may be pregnant but im not an invalid," izuku said with the sharp edge of a smile and thinly veiled steel in his voice. the scariest part was that he hadn't drop a single smile but the ominous threas was there. "do you want me to show you how much of not invalid i am?"

katsuki scowled, face pinching at the thought whether this was just the usual deku's bs or this was deku's bs + the pregnancy hormones that get him so rile up. either way, katsuki no matter how much of an ass he was, he wasn't going to punch a pregnant omega to prove a point.

"fine, that was dumb sorry," he said, scratching the back of his ear in annoyance. "so was that all you wanted to say?"

deku's eyes crinkle in amusement as katsuki's scowl deepens. "yea, i just wanted you to hear the news from me personally and expressed my thanks."

"i'll take good care of them," he said softly, a stray hand caressing his stomach carefully. "I promise i'll be good to them so you dont have to worry."

katsuki paused and then, "I know," he said bc he does. deku was going to be a good parent w/o a doubt. That is a truth.

deku's eyes light up at katsuki's words and there was a hint of wetness in them that katsuki had the unnerving fear that he was going to cry right here and katsuki's entire agency going to charge out & murder him for making a pregnant omega, THE PREGNANT OMEGA DEKU cry in public.

"t-thank you," he sniffs, but THANKFULLY NO ACTUAL CRYING INVOLE, "it makes me so happy to hear that you in believe me. i won't fail you, i swear!" he said it like he was making a vow for world peace or some shit bc of how serious it had sounded but this was important to him.

"yea, okay," katsuki said, looking away bc got this entire conversation was agonizing bc here he was talking to the person, but not JUST ANY RANDOM PERSON, who is carrying a baby w/ half of katsuki's dna & they're not fucking each other. like,,, that's fucking weird okay.

"that's all i wanted to say," deku told him, fully aware how uncomfortable this talk was making him, "so I won't bother you anymore." he gave one last smile and turned to go but KATSUKI WHO SHOULD HAVE LET IT END THERE found himself opening his mouth and grabbing deku by the arm.

it was careful, a firm but gentle hand placed his forearm like deku was glass that stopped him for a moment. "if--if," katsuki said, swallowing around a stone in his throat, "you find yourself needing anything, call me ok? ANYTHING i dont care just call me and i'll be there."

a slow but the brightest fucking smile he had ever seen bloom on deku's flushed face. "ok, i'll let you know," he replied, bc this was KATSUKI PUTING HIMSELF OUT THERE AND WANTING TO GET INVOLVE IN IZUKU'S PREGNACY even tho deku had given him a clean break from it. HE CHOSE THIS.

katsuki doesn't know what he was thinking then but the words slipped passed his guard before he can stop it & now he fucking doomed himself, doom himself to 3am late night calls of deku crying in hysteric at his home bc he ran out of some rare hard to find fruit bc CRAVINGS. so now katsuki had to dragged himself all the way across town to hunt for this shit. the morning news of that day was hero ground zero harrassing shopkeeper in the FUCKING ASS'S OCLOCK FOR SOME FRUIT AND DEMANDING IT NOW FOR W/E REASON, WHILE LOOKING SO FURIOUS & UNHINGED.

look, it's not like deku doesn't have an entire network of ppl to reach out to if he ever needed anything bc they would even laid down their life for him but even when he's cursing a storm trying to get deku's his midnight craving, he's so relief it's him that deku called first. besides, he firmly knew wut he had signed up for the moment he had opened his mouth. offering is help in the pregnancy process was him choosing to get involve and commit to deku & his (god fucking damn shit, he can't think of it as *theirs* bc that's too dangerous) baby. and bc this is bakugou katsuki and he never does any by halves so even though he may have been reluctant at first but now that he's firmly on board he's going in full throttle w/ no break in sight. katsuki dumps all his $$ on pregnacy & prenatal care books.

he read papers, argued on pregnancy forum, & even harassed his parents on it just so he can come at this like a fucking boss bc while he has full faith in deku to put the safety of the fetus first but also HE DOESN'T FUCKING TRUST DEKU TO PUT HIMSELF FIRST which is just as import. deku has the self-preservation of a damn child & he can't expect a *child* to take care of himself so KATSUKI OBVIOUSLY GOT TO DO IT FOR HIM. so he make diet plans, prepare prep meals for deku ahead of them, annoyed deku's coworkers to watch out for him lest he does something stupid. he make it his firm mission that this pregnancy will go smoothly as possible so even when he's running errands for deku, getting his weird ass food craving, and taking deku to visit his ob-gyn, sitting in the waiting room anxiously for any news in case SOMETHING GO WRONG.

He even drives himself crazy learning about the things a pregnant person can't do/is at risk of doing & he doesn't know how anyone can fucking take this for 10 months bc it's like walking on a precarious tight rope. it's scary & humbling and he just want deku & the baby to be ok.

there are still crimes and villains to wrangle, and the world keeps on spinning; nothing really change all that much now that deku's pregnant but katsuki finds himself personally accolating his precious time and energy toward deku & the baby. he became one of those *PEOPLE*, ugh. he never got it even when his friends had popped out spawns of their own. he wasn't going to get dragged down by biology & all that general bullshit about settling down. he's at the top of his game & prize to take over deku's position as no.1. he got no time for playing family.

yet here he is standing in the middle of a fucking baby store, staring down a damn baby crib and having a melt down. who the fuck knew that baby cribs come in so many fucking versions and THERE ARE JUST TOO MANY OF THEM. he thought he had come prepare but no this was toughs shit. he only saw this store in passing while on a patrol & thought he should drop by but the next thing he knew he got trapped here for three fucking hours just looking at baby cribs. he already got several people walking passed him, eyeing him weirdly as he internally freak out.

there are ridiculous amount of info floating on the internet about crib buying guide like the bars could only be certain inches apart, non-toxic paints, diff kind of mattress, safe headboards, etc etc. all of that to ensure the baby doesn't fucking DIE bc babies are like FRAGILE.

he calls deku & as soon as he picks up, the first thing katsuki says is, "last year, there were 1,842 babies death due to sudden infant death syndrome."

a long pointed pause, and then, "oh geez," deku answers, "where are you? I'll be right there, okay? don't go anywhere!"

#bakudeku #not!fic #sperm donor au

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greenjudy · 3 years

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Inquisitor Ask Meme

Reposting this for fun.

Anyone else want to take a crack? What kind of Inky would you be?

@allsortsoflicorice? @tyramir ? Bueller?

1. Race:

Human.

2. Class/Specialization:

Rift mage.

3. Your homeland?

The Free Marches. Wycome, to be precise.

4. Your family?

Keep my family out of this; they have things to do besides die.

5. Who were you before?

A Circle Mage of some skill and much fear. Given my personality, the Circle would probably not cater to my strengths. It would make me more nervous and paranoid than I already am. The Inquisition would force me out of my comfort zone and give me some resilience I would never otherwise develop. Left to my own devices, I’d fall prey to obsession, and possibly possession by a Pride demon.

6. Would you be religious?

I’ve read a lot of books by Brother Genitivi and Philliam! A Bard; I’m actually using my clout as Inquisitor to gather whatever is known about the Black City. You might say I’m an originist, I want to know where we came from; Andraste is kind of late on the scene for my interests.

Post-Trespasser, this quest will more or less eat my brain.

Short answer: obsessed with “religious” subject matter, not religious per se.

7. Do you have a mabari?

Nope. But I spoil Cullen’s baby.

8. Your opinion on other races?

Raised to “not be racist” (as far as that goes) in cosmopolitan, edgy, free-wheeling Wycome; family with a ton of Dwarven trading connections. Angry about the elves. Knew loads of elven enchanters in the Circle, but I have awkward awareness of human privilege around the Dalish.

Fascinated by the Shaperate. Wish all Thedas had those. Can you imagine?

Worried about the Qun, but deeply impressed with the handful of Qunari I’ve met in person. Not mindless drones at all. Disciplined. Community first has some virtues, must say.

9. What would Varric’s nickname for you be?

Baffler.

10. What would your tarot card look like?

The High Priestess: an older, abbess-looking chick standing at a scriptorium, surrounded by magical paraphrenalia and a gorgeous view out my high window. Raven (with message) standing on the windowsill.

11. Where would you hang out in Skyhold?

My bespoke mage tower, if I’m not in the Undercroft picking Dagna’s brain. Do a little weeding in the herb garden from time to time; we’re growing some fascinating things in there.

After Solas leaves, I’d go spend time in the destroyed holding cells, watching the water fall.

12. What would you do for fun?

Study. Knit. Paint. Visit my horses; the smell of horses is very comforting.

I’d have highly technical arguments with Dorian and spend a lot, a lot, a lot of time talking to Solas.

13. What armor would you wear?

Cutting-edge tactical enchanted fabric. Light, layered, tweedy, enchanted.

I’d probably get sucked into magical materials research, specifically, making improvements to armor base-layers. I’m obsessed with armor. I have a whole research group (headed by Dagna, Cullen consulting) devoted to armor improvement.

14. What would your room look like?

Given the state of my current room, a chaotic mess of books, papers, research tools, letters from colleagues, blueprints, schematics, dirty dishes, orchids, and automata (Josie and I would be doll-geeks together).

15. Who would be your friends at Skyhold?

I try to make sure that the Inner Circle understands how much I appreciate them as a general rule.

As for friends:

Cassandra is one of the great ones. Just about the best person I know. Never met anyone so ready to acknowledge her mistakes. I’d trust her to be the next Divine.

Dorian is a dear. One of the best sounding-boards. Somebody peel that man a grape.

Cullen and Josephine are terrific advisors, couldn’t ask for better, their own problems of course, we’re all doing our best. I’d like to know Cullen better—suspect we have things, Circle things, to talk about. In another life, maybe.

I’d get on with Varric—everyone gets on with Varric, come on—but I find him ultimately very armored, hard to know. Hid his best friend, didn’t he? Never talks about the lady he loves.

Sera is actually easy to understand. Raw genius with a bow, one of the best to have along, out in the field. Not exactly my friend. So down on the Dalish. It’s her business, though. She and Dagna are adorable together. She makes Dagna happy, that’s good enough for me.

I have a bit of a GP for the Iron Bull. (He had me at “front-line bodyguard.”) Never acted on it, though.

Solas is my… see… well, see below.

16. Would you have any friends outside of the Inquisition?

I’d have the Thedas version of LinkedIn comrades in Antiva, Nevarra, and Orlais—researchers all. Plus one brilliant friend who’s a materials mage based out of Denerim, working with Sandal on woven metal enchantments; call her my “knitting buddy.”

17. Who wouldn’t you get along with?

Leliana would trouble me. Don’t like having someone this emotional and vindictive managing our intel networks. It’s bad juju, Ambassador; can’t trust her judgment, can you? And that feels like a loose end. Put us in a tight spot someday. Couldn’t we ask Varric…? No, I quite see that. Still.

I’d understand Vivienne, and try to maintain a cordial relationship because I think most of her head is in the right place, even though she is entirely too power-oriented for a real friendship.

Blackwall’s “find Darkspawn, kill them, repeat” approach would bother me. When I found out the truth about him, it would confirm my feeling that you need to lie to yourself, a lot, to just have enemies and kill them without compunction. I would also find myself highly influenced by Solas’s take on the Wardens.

18. Who would you romance?

I’m a Circle mage who’s watched close friends be tormented by romantic love. Demonic possession and Tranquility. Babies taken away. This is not the kind of conditioning that disappears just because you take me out of a Circle. In my youth I worked it out by restricting myself to impossible love objects—there was this one Templar, very stern, very disciplined…he’d barely speak to me… Well. That was many years ago.

That said, the best impossible love object I’ve ever encountered in my life is Solas.

What does it matter, really? Bonds of friendship, don’t you know; romantic love leads to envy demons. I’m old now, at any rate. Inquisigeezer not exactly a romanceable character.

19. Would you do pranks with Sera?

Probably not. Too busy. Too tired. Feel too much sympathy for her innocent victims.

But I would do operations with Sera, with pleasure.

20. Would you sleep with the Iron Bull (casually if not romance)?

My front-line bodyguard? Get on with you. It would get too complicated—for me, I mean, not him.

21. Would you keep Cole around?

Yes. And I’d agonize about what would be the best path for him to take, and probably make him a spirit.

22. Can you play the game (politics)?

Yes. I’m better at it the more distant it is. If you’re talking about what to say at a party, I’ve developed a persona for that sort of thing. Stakes are high. Can’t be fooling around. A mage, remember? This guard drops, I get possessed; lose my temper, might incinerate you, can’t have that.

23. What would be on your tombstone in the fade (What are you afraid of)?

“The world fell apart on my watch.”

24. Who would you recruit to seal the breach?

Mages. I understand mages. Their leadership’s been simply awful. Not sure what Fiona did with her spine. Without decent leadership, it’s mages running amok, trying to protect themselves, doing awful things out of fear; can’t have that, they’ll pull their own house down. Get them out of the weeds, stick ‘em in the Inquisition, give them a chance to show what they can do for the right cause.

25. Opinion on Mages versus Templars?

It’s all about training, though, isn’t it? Templars and mages both need much, much better training. Without training, without a penetrating education with a solid grasp of magical theory, history, ethics—co-train the mages and templars, make ‘em take core courses together. Make them work together in strike teams; I’ve been doing that since we recruited ‘em, they actually partner well, as long as you’re not, you know, mad.

I would become obsessed (do you see the recurrence of this word) with the idea that mages could be Seeker-trained to resist possession and mind control, obviating the need for Tranquility. These disciplined (another key word) and trustworthy mages could be placed in a position of joint authority with properly educated Templars to create a College of Magi with research cells all over Thedas…

Yeah. We’ll see how that works out.

26. Who would be put in charge of Orlais and why?

Celine and Briala. Celine is the one with the right temperament, and for some reason I viscerally understand Briala. I’m all about reparations and integrating elven populations and something something protect the Dalish (can’t we actually give them the Dirth?).

27. Would you sacrifice the Chargers?

I couldn’t.

28. Would you go after Blackwall?

Oh, yes. And I’d keep him on, as Thom Rainier.

29. Would you drink from the well?

Knowing me? Not knowing the implications except for those vague warnings? Yes, I would, and it would affect me for the rest of my life.

I’d spend what’s left of myself using whatever insight and connections the Well gave me to work on Solas.

30. Where would you go if the Inquisition was disbanded?

Under ordinary circumstances, the College. Daresay they’d want me to do something draining and administrative because of my being the (ex)Inquisitor; I’d look for a research niche but probably not get to keep it.

Solas is not ordinary circumstances. I’d dedicate the rest of my life to that problem.

31. How do you react to the egg telling you he is an elven god?

I’d naively and arrogantly imagine that I could—if we could just get enough time to sit down together—he must understand what he’s likely to bring about, he needs people to talk to, dammit—

He would be the death of me, I’m afraid.

#DA:I

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theonceoverthinker · 4 years

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Friday the Flirteenth (1/?)

Summary: Qrow likes to avoid others on Friday the Thirteenth. He claims he’s doing it for everyone else’s sake, and that they’re better off if he spends the day alone in his room. Clover’s not having any of his self-loathing bullshit -- not today, and not ever, if he has anything to say about it.

AO3

A/N: You ever come up with an AMAZING pun and then find a way to write a fic around that? Well, that’s happened here! I’ve wanted to release this for SO long, and finally, I can...at least release part 1! Yeah, illnesses have made this a hard fic to finish, but fortunately, I have enough here to release a respectable first chapter to what will hopefully be a respectable MC! I hope you enjoy it! Tagging @fair-game-week!

BIG thanks to my beta, @skybird13. Sky, you’re the best, and I hope you understand that. Coordinating with you with my works makes me feel so confident in them. I want you to know more than anything how much I value your help and support, not just in this fic, but in everything, and I hope we’re friends for a long time to come!!!!

()()()()()()()()

Chapter One: Fourteen Hours, and A Whole Lot of Peanuts

Qrow Branwen liked peanuts.

They were cheap, could be found just about anywhere in Remnant, had a pleasantly salty taste, and served as the perfect snack on days where he had no intention of stepping so much as a toe outside of his room.

So, in anticipation for Friday the Thirteenth, Qrow bought a LOT of peanuts.

When one had a semblance like his, a day dedicated to the very concept of bad luck was one that couldn’t be dismissed without some burden on their conscience. In fact, Friday the Thirteenth more than most any other day put extra responsibilities upon Qrow’s shoulders -- a responsibility to not cause any more trouble than necessary, a responsibility to stay away from anyone who he might accidentally harm, and a responsibility to keep the other two responsibilities secret from all who might try to intervene on his behalf.

And, just as he usually did, Qrow accepted those responsibilities and kept himself at a distance from all.

Fourteen hours. He just had to stay in his room alone for fourteen hours.

He’d lasted a lot longer on his own many times before.

It wasn’t that big of a problem, at least not in previous years. Thanks to a lifetime’s worth of practice, Qrow knew the most secluded spots in all of Remnant to hide in on occasions like this, and the fastest routes to get to them from pretty much anywhere. And with no one but enemies on his trail, there was little risk that the day provided to anyone, or at least, anyone who didn’t deserve it.

But things weren’t so simple this year.

This year, he had his nieces and a gaggle of kids as traveling companions.

This year, he resided in an Atlesian military base, one that restricted access to any type of real seclusion further than the privacy of his own room.

This year, he despised the man he had formerly dedicated his life to.

This year, things were complicated, and his semblance always loved running amok when things were complicated.

But, as he reminded himself, some of those complications ended up turning into triumphs.

Sure, it was the first year without the hope Ozpin provided. But it was also the first year where Qrow had a different kind of hope to keep him going. It was a kind of hope that made itself tangible through his nieces’ determination, his own efforts to fight off the allure of alcohol, and as of late, an encouraging smile and a flirty wink from a kind man with a semblance that seemingly counteracted his own…

Clover…

Clover...

Well, in a life of complications, Clover stood out as one of the biggest he’d ever faced. His very presence complicated everything in Qrow’s headspace all over again.

Still, that wasn’t a bad thing.

At least, Qrow was pretty sure it wasn’t.

Clover...Clover was really something else…

If someone were to ask Qrow to describe Clover after their disastrous first meeting, he’d have more than a couple of choice words for them -- cocky, pedantic, narcissistic. But things changed once they started working together, and as he learned more about Clover, while all of those descriptors were still true, the words themselves took on an entirely new shape for Qrow. What was cockiness just days before was now self assuredness, what was pedantic was revealed to really be caution on behalf of those he worked with and for, and what was narcissistic was actually a confidence that he created for himself, a confidence based in real pride in who he was and how that pride amounted to far more than just his semblance.

Additionally, a new word came to mind, too -- warm. It was a genuine warmth that flowed through each and every one of Clover’s words, and accompanying that warmth was a trust in those fortunate enough to be on the receiving end of them. It was hard not to return that trust in kind with some of his own, and for the first time in a while, Qrow felt no need to resist doing just that.

It surprised Qrow sometimes just how much he had already divulged to Clover. Part of the reason for that came out of a desire to put his best foot forward for their assigned partnership. Part of it was a warning in the interest of Clover’s safety. But some things couldn’t be explained away so easily, and could only be attributed to a real sense of trust.

Frankly, it was nice having something like that again with someone.

And it wasn’t even just Clover’s personality that painted the portrait that was Clover Ebi. Looking at Clover was like looking at a cloudless sky on a spring day. He was bright, bold -- brilliant, even. His smile was caked in charm -- true charm -- and his brow was shaped with a resolve to keep promises Qrow knew he probably could, promises he likely made to himself, Ironwood, and his country.

Maybe there was even a promise to Qrow somewhere in that mix.

No -- there was no maybe. He was sure there was.

But there was a coolness in Clover’s being too, both in his demeanor and his personality. There was an untold story in his eyes, one uncared for by his teammates, and only allowed to exist through fleeting expressions here and there during moments where he let his guard fall down. And that same jaw that held his charm like a jug held water held tension there too, as if there was an entire book’s worth of things he wanted to say, but for whatever reason didn’t. It was enough to make anyone who saw those things pretty curious about what hidden depths might be underneath that veil of job-dictated professionalism.

Qrow spent far more time thinking about all that he had left to uncover about Clover than he would ever admit.

After all, there was a lot to ask about what went on in that man’s mind, especially when it led him to befriend him, of all people.

But that wink Clover gave him on their first mission together made Qrow wonder if befriending him was all Clover wanted to do.

And regardless of how he felt in return, Qrow had to wonder whether or not he should try to stop him before Clover jumped further down the rabbit hole that was his life.

Qrow was bad news.

Then again, just about everything having to do with Clover was good news, and perhaps the exact thing that rabbit hole of his could use in its life was a lucky rabbit’s foot to help fill it up.

Wow...that was sappy.

Even on his worst days, Clover seemed able to bring out a little bit of sappiness in him. Go figure.

But, whatever fate had in store for him and Clover could wait to be further unearthed until tomorrow. Hell, he might even have time to muse on what that might be today, because for the next fourteen hours, it would be just himself, his room, and an overabundance of peanuts fighting against the slowly whiling hours of time.

Jeez...greater good or not, even Qrow could admit just how sad that was...

Maybe his abandonment of his morning coffee would at least grant him a nap and make the day go by faster…

He’d certainly prefer it that way.

Before he could even attempt to take advantage of his coffee’s absence, two knocks hit his door.

Perhaps it was foolish to think no one would bother him today -- after all, in Atlas, there was always something going on -- but he had a day off of Huntsmen duties while most everyone else he knew didn’t. He’d hoped against hope that meant that he’d be left in peace for the day.

Apparently, it didn’t.

Just his luck…

“Hello?” Qrow called out, reluctantly standing up.

“Qrow?”

Immediately, he recognized the voice, the voice that had burned itself into his memory within a matter of weeks and now had a summer cottage nestled somewhere between his brain and heart.

And there he was, letting that sappiness invade his thoughts again…

Of course the one person responsible for inspiring it was the one visiting him on the absolute worst day to do so.

Qrow approached and opened the door.

Just as he suspected, it was Clover who stood on the other side, as chipper as ever. After willing himself to hold back a grimace at the unexpectedness of his or anyone’s visit, Qrow noticed two cups of coffee in his hands.

“You missed your morning cup,” Clover stated, offering one of the ones in his hand to Qrow. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Despite himself and everything the day represented for him, Qrow let down his guard ever so slightly at the awkward way Clover explained himself. He wasn’t thrilled about someone showing up on his doorstep, but that’s not to say it wasn’t nice to see a friendly face at all, especially in the face of the rest of his sure-to-be lonely day.

“Thanks,” he said, accepting the cup with a light smile he allowed to surface.

“So,” Clover said, elongating the vowel for a few seconds as he expectantly stared at Qrow.

“So?” Qrow repeated, matching Clover’s delivery and adding in a bit of confusion.

“IS everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Qrow said, shrugging.

Clover quirked his brow. He didn’t look convinced, and unwilling to give Qrow so much as the chance to rectify that.

“It’s not, though, is it?”

Qrow fought the urge to bit his cheek, but paid the cost of that with a tremor in his voice.

“W-what do you mean?”

“You not coming down for coffee is strange on its own,” Clover elaborated, “but you haven’t even left your room and it’s nearly ten. Usually, even on your lazy days, you’re out and about by half past eight, at the latest.”

“So I slept in a bit,” Qrow defended, shrugging in what he hoped would be a casual enough manner. “What’s the big deal?”

“It wouldn’t be a big deal at all if it wasn’t Friday the Thirteenth.”

Qrow blinked, flustered even more so than when Clover had started pressing him. Clover merely looked at him expectantly.

How did he-?

Sure, Clover had a calendar, but why would he-?

Damnit, Clover...

“It’s a day for bad luck,” Qrow explained, his mood dark out of instinct more than malice. “Given my semblance --”

“It’s a day for superstitions,” Clover insisted.

“You seem to like yours just fine.” Qrow made a circle with his finger that encompassed the various lucky charms on Clover’s outfit.

Clover smiled as if he saw the rebuttal coming from a mile away.

“These are just here to make the uniform pop,” he said, laughter bubbling underneath him, as if Qrow had just walked into a trap. “And judging by how you clearly seemed to take notice of them, it looks like they’ve done their jobs quite nicely.”

Just as he finished speaking, Clover winked right at Qrow, something that was very quickly becoming a habit of his when they were around each other. Fria must’ve imbued that wink with some of her magic or something because it always felt just a bit overpowering.

Qrow made a noise that would’ve sounded more at home in his bird form than the form that actually delivered it.

“Okay, but even still,” Qrow said, quickly pushing to make Clover forget about that sound, “you know what kind of things are out there in this world. Magic exists, fairy tale maidens and Grimm are running amok -- who's to say something like Friday the Thirteenth isn’t real, too? What reason do I have to trust that my semblance won’t go haywire on a day devoted to it?”

“If you stay in your room,” Clover countered, just as quickly as Qrow had with him, “you’re making things worse for yourself. Come on,” he said, his tone brightening alongside a fresh, new smile. “We can go get an early lunch. There’s a fantastic sushi restaurant just on the outskirts of the academy that you’ll love. Their rolls put the ‘ah’ in ‘tuna.’”

Now it was Qrow’s turn to quirk his brow. “And if I leave my room, I’ll risk making things worse for everyone else. I’m not leaving. Maybe we can go to that restaurant tomorrow.”

Qrow expected Clover to keep pushing back with yet another comment, but instead, he just took a patient, deep breath.

He then shrugged.

“And I was so excited to take you there, too,” Clover lamented. “But, oh well. Have it your way, then.”

Without giving Qrow so much as a second to respond, Clover gently pushed him to the side, walked inside his room, and sat down on one of the chairs across from his bed. Qrow was stuck somewhere between being utterly stunned by the action, and not at all. After all, this was pretty standard Clover Ebi behavior in that it was utterly unpredictable.

That’s not to say it was necessarily welcome -- or that Qrow would admit it even if it was.

And this morning, he was feeling particularly stubborn in his quest for solitude.

“That wasn’t an invitation to join me,” Qrow snipped.

Clover simply lounged back into the plush chair, easing his knees as his legs spread forward. “Well, if you won’t come out with me, then I’ll simply have to come in with you.” He then pulled something out of his pocket, something that instantly brought another grimace to Qrow’s face, all the while smiling.

“Up for some cards?”

Qrow groaned.

He knew it when he woke up, and he was even more sure of it now: This was gonna be a long, long fourteen hours.

#fair game #fairgameweek2020 #qrow branwen #clover ebi #rwby

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elizabeatrice · 4 years

Text

Mystery Spot (Chapter 68)

Let’s Talk About JSHK Manga #4

If you get the title reference, I applaud you.

Warning: 1) !!! MANGA SPOILERS UP TO CHAPTER 68 !!! Duh.

2) I dropped a couple of f bombs and several curses here ... I really ranted lmao.

3) This reaction/review is closer to me spewing wild theories rather than an actual review. But these wild theories are my reactions. So. Ehhh these theories are probably wrong anyway. Lemme have my dark, twisted fun, mkay? Not sure if they’re entirely coherent though.

Had trouble copying some kanji this time around ‘cause they’re so freaking blurry! So I got too lazy to write this yesterday haha. Thank you Ropes of Fate for the translation! Truly commendable heroes of the fandom *sobs*. I also used three panels from Chapter 61, translated by Caim.

Let’s jump into it (ba dum tss).

This chapter is a bit shorter than usual and boy do you feel it. Well. At least I do. But I really hope sensei are taking some time to relax. Last chapter was 45 pages, after all. Y’all deserve it you wonderful creators.

First of all I would like to dedicate the biggest f bomb for the villagers because what the fuck. Why the fuck would you sacrifice poor, innocent young girls just to keep yourself safe? And it’s not even a sacrifice to kami-sama! Y’all just droppin’ these girls to be eaten by supernaturals! And y’all practically manipulated them smh.

Are y’all insane?! Y’all could’ve just moved the fuck out. What kind of insane people just decide to stay near a literal pit of hell? Don’t give me the ‘we’ve lived here for generations’ bs okay ‘cause y’all neighbors be getting eaten by supernaturals but y’all rather trade innocent young girls for your own safety. If Berkians and Asgardians can suck it up and be the bigger nation with all that ‘Berk/Asgard is not a place it’s the people’ shit, y’all can too.

I’ve disliked characters in JSHK before. But I’ve never hated JSHK characters before. Until now. Y’all fucking did it, dumbass villagers.

Ahem. Pardon me.

Because my brain is a literal self-debate machine let me just say that I did consider several possibilities in these ‘people’’s defense. There’s the obvious ‘some people back then didn’t know any better and believe a human sacrifice will solve everything’ mindset. Then there’s the possibility of them being trapped in their village for some reason, hence not having any other choice but to sacrifice those girls.

But y’know what else could be the case? ‘Cause my mind really went dark there for a bit.

The Minamoto clan let it happen.

In the last chapter it was mentioned that the Minamoto clan was involved. And this is a bit shocking now that I think about it more ‘cause Teru has always been adamant that all supernaturals are evil and must be exorcised, humans must be protected.

But what if they just let the villagers sacrifice these girls so that the monsters can be contained in this village, in that pit, instead of running amok to other places and cause more trouble?

Which makes me wonder.

Uh. Where did Teru go to? Does he know about this? Did he go to that pit (or that village, if Kamome Academy wasn’t built on its land)?

If he does know, isn’t he interested in saving a fellow human student and underclassman? If he does know about the Akane clan, isn’t he interested in telling his VP, who’s obsessed with an Akane? Unless ... you know ... he meant for this to happen, which I kinda doubt.

He must know something about this. He went out of his way to make Akane promise to protect Kou if something were to happen. What’s more dangerous than the Grim Reaper showing up looking for a sacrifice who turned out to be Kou’s beloved senpai’s best friend? What if Akane had to choose between Aoi and Kou at some point?

Okie next I wanna talk about Hanako. This is gonna sound just as far fetched as the previous bit lmao but here goes.

Boiiii y’all saw it. The pause before his answer. His face drawn out of view, in an evasive body language.

(Hanako my boy pls do us all a favor and stop lying to your girlfriend, we all know how well that turned out in Picture Perfect lmao)

Theory. He knew what’s been going on all along. Or at least the gist of it.

Remember this?

Imma take a detour a lil bit.

The Far Shore/torii gate refused Nene in chapter 67, right? In my Chapter 67 reaction I said it was the bracelet that saved her but now I think the bracelet probably disguised her as Sumire in the villagers’ eyes. So the Far Shore/torii gate refused her, and we all thought it was because she wasn’t an Akane.

But then we found out that Hanako was right about the village. It was just a ‘made up world’ inside Shinigami’s boundary. It’s just a reenactment of the day Sumire died, probably based on Shinigami’s memories, as the first page of Chapter 64 said.

So of course Nene was refused. Because in his memories, Sumire was the one who fell into the pit that day.

Sumire also said in this chapter’s narration that the villagers sacrificed young girls. Not Akane girls. Also, before the sacrifices began, the monsters already ate villagers anyway, right? They didn’t only eat young girls. It wasn’t said as such. The villagers probably just chose young girls because that’s sorta like the equivalent of offering the best meat or smth. Practically a please accept our humble offering of tenderloin wagyu, O Horrible Monsters.

The coveted bloodline thing was probably a plus, not obligatory. Often in stories, people with high ‘spiritual energy’ are supposed to taste more delicious and grant whoever eats their meat special powers or smth (e.g. Tang Sanzang from Journey to the West). Also ancient cultures sacrifice young girls often, that was the trend.

And they proceeded to try to sacrifice Nene anyway, despite her not being an Akane. They said it themselves. “It doesn’t matter if it’s that girl.”

So according to the (rather vague) information we have, it’s possible that the sacrifice doesn’t have to be an Akane or a girl.

Some of y’all have been theorizing that the Yugi twins got involved with supernaturals, and that sorta lead to their death.

What if this is it?

I myself am not sure how it went down if this is really the case. But I keep imagining our boy’s infamous ‘I’m not going anywhere’ being said by Sumire because bruh she’s the epitome of not going anywhere. She was chosen to be sacrificed since she was a child, not given a choice. Even after she died and became a yorishiro, she was imprisoned in this time prison world or whatever, reliving her death every single day with no escape.

And I couldn’t help but think ‘hoooo shit what if???’

I mean. I don’t know who was the chosen sacrifice. Could be Tsukasa, could be Amane. Maybe he killed his brother so that he wouldn’t get sacrificed, and decided that he’ll die along with his brother. I’m not going anywhere. Maybe it also means I’m not letting you send my brother to be eaten by monsters, and since we can’t escape either, we’re staying here no matter what.

And if the Minamotos were really in on it, it makes sense for Grandma Minamoto to accuse Amane of being an evil murderer. He practically got in the way ‘of other people’s safety’ by killing the chosen sacrifice.

banjjakz also said something about the possibility of Tsukasa being a previous sacrifice. Read about it here and here. It’s pretty interesting!

Besides, a wonder whose precious person got sacrificed and later became their yorishiro? That’d be some parallel, haha.

Sure, Sumire said ‘if the kannagi was switched’. But the early narration didn’t mention a sacrifice of kannagi. Just ‘young girls’.

Look just lemme have this, alright?

Oh. Also I wanted to point out the possible tension/trust issues between Hanako and Nene but many other blogs have pointed it out quite well so I’m just gonna stick with my wild theories.

But I will address what Nene said about the pit.

Where is said pit anyway? In Kamome? Why is it open? Is it Tsukasa changing rumors and allowing more supernaturals to cross back to the Near shore? More likely. I mean, he does grant wishes for supernaturals after all.

Oh. Speaking of Nene. Let’s give her a round of applause for her character development. She’s become of better judgement regarding men’s terrible behavior. Wow. That’s my girl. I mean, we still don’t know much about Shinigami, but from what I’ve seen so far, Sumire guuuurrrrllllll you deserve better.

Regardless of my ships, these supernatural boys should take notes from my precious Kou and how he loves so selflessly. Lmao. Remember that one post-chapter panels in Picture Perfect where he said he’ll find Nene a prince in the real world, even though he likes her? Broooo I want ten of this precious boy.

Lastly, Akane and Aoi.

Where are they? They look like they’re stranded in some wild boundary somewhere, the one with half sunken houses and lost things that usually appear in color spreads. I am so hyped, ‘cause I love the aesthetics, and I wanna see more of this place.

Oh. And Akane’s alive. Phew. I gotta be honest though, I kinda looked forward to his death. Not because I hate the kiddo. He’s technically still human, right. I’m just wondering whether his death or Aoi’s would cause Teru to outright declare war against the Seven Wonders because aren’t these folks supposed to protect students like they claim to be? (This, of course, ignores my previous theories about the Minamoto clan)

Basically I just wanna see some shit go down with Teru mkay ‘cause this powerful dude has been useless for quite too long now.

Aoi’s still pretty confusing, too. She went from this weird expression:

to this:

She kinda looked like she was still under the influence of the drug thingy. But she was also concerned about Akane, even though it’s not like how she worried about Nene in the past. And she knew Akane longer than her, they practically grew up together. Real Aoi would be in tears seeing his condition, y’all. So I guess the drug thingy’s effect is slowly wearing out.

Closing! JSHK is dark but usually not in ways my brain expects it to be. (And a lot of times I still get surprised with the amount of comedy it has lmao.) Sooo sensei are probably gonna prove me wrong about most of these, anyway. Haha.

As always feel free to discuss.

#jibaku shounen hanako kun #toilet bound hanako kun #jshk spoilers #tbhk spoilers #minamoto teru #akane sumire #shinigami #aoi akane #hanako #yashiro nene #akane aoi #bea rambles #see there's a reason why my tag is called bea rambles #here y'all have some wild theories y'all didn't ask for lmao #let's talk about jshk manga

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tparadox · 4 years

Text

My essential Star Trek episodes

@velociraptors-in-hats asked me for a list of essential Trek, and this is gonna be way too big for a text message, so here we go.

The Original Series (TOS)

While a lot of the show holds up surprisingly well for being over 50 years old, the pacing and aesthetic is incredibly dated. There’s a lot you can skip here.

Highlighted episodes:

“Charlie X”: If anyone tells you Kirk is a womanizer, point them at him teaching found teenager Charlie to behave himself.

“The Corbomite Maneuver”: If you wanna see Kirk do what Kirk is best at, this is a good place to start.

“Balance of Terror”: an antiracist cold war submarine drama in space (borrows heavily from movies like Run Silent, Run Deep)

“The Menagerie”: This was an excuse to recycle the unaired pilot, but the unaired pilot is a pretty good story and it’s framed by courtroom drama and Spock going rogue for a good cause.

“The Galileo Seven”: another really good drama centered on Spock.

“Space Seed”: I know I already said that this isn’t necessary to understand Wrath of Khan, but it’s a great episode anyway. If you have an opportunity to watch Ricardo Montalban act, it is best not to miss it.

“City on the Edge of Forever”: arguably the greatest Star Trek episode of the entire franchise.

“Amok Time”: You wanna see Kirk and Spock wrestle in the sand. You know you do.

“The Doomsday Machine”: more great writing.

“I, Mudd”: illogic bombs everywhere.

“Journey to Babel”: Father and Son drama, the beginning of “Spock doesn’t talk about his family until they’re standing in front of you”

“The Trouble with Tribbles”: the biggest space romp ever.

“Patterns of Force”: one of many Space Nazi episodes (there’s even more than one with literal Nazis), but the best one.

“Spock’s Brain”: there’s probably a drinking game for this one. Do not follow any rules about drinking for the word “brain” or you will die.

“The Enterprise Incident”: It’s hard to remember this is third season TOS because they were actually still trying here.

“All our Yesterdays” is pretty cool sci-fi. Time travel, marooned, going native-ish.

The Next Generation (TNG)

The first two seasons are the most skippable Star Trek has ever been, but if you wanna get a sense of it, I recommend considering any of “Lonely Among Us”, “The Battle” (gets a sequel seven years later), “The Big Goodbye”, “Datalore”, “Too Short a Season”, The Arsenal of Freedom”, and “We’ll Always Have Paris” from the first season, and “Where Silence Has Lease”, “Elementary Dear Data”, “The Measure of a Man” (civil rights courtroom drama, referenced heavily in the recent Picard series), “Q Who” (first Q episode I actually recommend, introduces the Borg), and “The Emissary” (starts an arc with Worf that will last into Deep Space Nine).

I do not recommend “Shades of Gray” unless you are really interested in what you missed from skipping the first two seasons. It doesn’t even have the So Bad It’s Good that The Enterprise Incident does.

I’m gonna have to get really discriminating here or this is gonna get really long now. I grew up with TNG and more than half of the episodes are ones I have some reason to love. (narrator voice: he did not get more discriminating)

Probably any Q and Borg episode from here.

“Yesterday’s Enterprise” is an alternate universe drama where we shift into a darker timeline where the Federation is losing a war with the Klingons (who are our friends now normally).

“The Offspring” - Data makes a child and it goes better than could be expected until it doesn’t.

“Sins of the Father” - this is where Worf’s arc really gets going.

“Allegiance” is just a good episode.

“Captain’s Holiday” is a bit pulpy. It was written because Stewart was complaining that the captain doesn’t do enough shooting and screwing. But it’s fun. Vash is fun.

“Sarek” has a great scene for Patrick Stewart showing Picard have another man’s breakdown for him.

“The Best of Both Worlds”: for the best effect, watch part one, then wait three months before watching part two.

“Family”: partly an epilogue to Best of Both Worlds, but a great story for Picard. And I think it’s another one in Worf’s main saga.

“Brothers”: this is the quintessential Data episode. If you only watch one episode with Lore, watch this one.

“Reunion” seeds the Klingon Civil War arc.

“Final Mission”: you are probably not going to see Wesley at his worst, but this episode is Wesley at his best. It is his final episode as a regular.

“Data’s Day”: literally a day in the life story, but Data is a lot of fun.

I personally really like The Nth Degree.

“The Mind’s Eye” is an “It’s very good but I would rather not rewatch it please” episode, but as with Chain of Command, torture stories are not a good time for me.

“Redemption” 1 and 2 brings home the Klingon Civil War and also ties in Yesterday’s Enterprise.

“Darmok”: Good science fiction predicts the internet. Great science fiction predicts communication through memes.

“Unification” 1 and 2: remember how the Vulcans and the Romulans look alike? This is important.

“Ethics” is well-written moral drama, but one of the two debates it engages with is assisted suicide, so you specifically will probably want to pass.

“The Inner Light” is a bit of a one-off, but you get to experience a man’s entire life as Picard experiences it.

A lot of people will tell you that “Time’s Arrow” is the weakest season cliffhanger, but I just think that running around San Francisco in the time of cholera with Mark Twain and Jack London is a lot of fun.

“A Fistfull of Datas”: Would you like to watch a spaghetti western where every character is played by Brent Spiner? Of course you would!

“Ship in a Bottle”: a sequel to “Elementary Dear Data”

“Tapestry”: possibly not actually a Q episode. Picard gets to face an old regret and see how his life would be different if things had gone another way.

“Frame of Mind” is a psychodrama where Riker’s reality falls apart.

I like high concept stories about time. “Timescape” is Clockstoppers before Clockstoppers.

Watch “Attached” if you find yourself shipping Jean-Luc and Beverly.

“The Pegasus” sees Riker forced to face the ghost of a past shame he thought was buried.

“Sub Rosa” is another one that everyone hates that I like. I’m just a sucker for the Scottish Highlands In Space setting, but to be fair to its detractors it was literally plagiarized from an Ann Rice paranormal romance novel.

“Lower Decks”: the characters we usually spend time with are up in the stratosphere in terms of the hierarchy on the ship. This episode takes the perspective of some junior officers.

“Masks” because Brent Spiner needs to set records for “most characters played in a single episode”.

“Emergence” is a creepy weird high-concept episode I really like.

“All Good Things” is unmissable. When you feel like you’re at home with TNG, watch the finale.

Deep Space Nine (DS9)

Again, the first few seasons are a bit awkward before the show finds itself. However, “Emissary” is possibly the best series premiere the show has ever done. This is a highly serialized show (for its time), so the deeper into the show, the more you should really watch them in order.

“Move Along Home” is another in the “so bad it’s good” pile. Get to know the show before you watch it.

Most people will tell you that “Duet” is one of Deep Space Nine’s best episodes. What would you do if you just arrested Josef Goebbels?

“In the Hands of the Prophets”: the Scopes Monkey Trial in space kind of.

“Whispers”: creeeepy. O’Brien is firmly cemented as the show’s designated sufferer.

“Shadow Play” is one of the early episodes that probably would’ve worked better for TNG, but I kind of like it.

“Blood Oath”:probably the beginning of Jadzia Dax being everyone’s favorite lesbian (/bi/trans) icon.

“The Maquis” two-part story is kind of a mission statement for the show.

“The Wire”: one of the two most Garak/Bashir episodes of the entire run.

“The Search” is a big reveal that has consequences for the entire rest of the series.

“The House of Quark” is a really fun episode pairing Ferengi and Klingon culture like oil and vinegar making salad dressing.

“Equilibrium” is a great episode for getting into the whole deal with Dax’s Trill gimmick.

“Civil Defense:” they trigger a lockdown protocol the Cardassians meant to use to suppress a Bajoran riot.

“Past Tense”, two parts. Please oh please don’t let the real 2024 look like this. One of DS9′s most prescient episodes (inspired by the Rodney King riots).

“Destiny” is one of the best episodes in the “Sisko has to reckon with being the Bajorans’ messiah figure” arc.

“Improbable Cause”/”The Die Is Cast” (DS9 is a bit averse to putting the same title on every part of a multipart story): dark, plot-heavy, and pretty important to what’s coming up soon.

“Family Business”: I think this is the introduction of Quark’s mother, the Ferengi feminist.

“The Adversary” is big for Odo.

“The Way of the Warrior” is basically the show’s second pilot episode.

“The Visitor” is a one-off story about the bond between Ben and Jake Sisko.

“Rejoined”: Give Jadzia A Girlfriend

“Little Green Men”: a one-off romp at the 1947 Roswell crash.

“Our Man Bashir”: Bashir and Garak are gay at each other while larping Bashir’s James Bond fantasy, only it turns deadly because the camera wandered into the holodeck again.

“Homefront”/”Paradise Lost”: again, a very Relevant episode where a terror attack on Earth causes the enactment of martial law.

“Bar Association”: Quark’s brother reads Das Kapital and starts a union. No seriously, that’s the episode.

“Body Parts”: Quark gets misdiagnosed with a terminal illness, sells his remains as is the Ferengi custom, and hijinks ensue (possibly triggering because he considers putting a hit on himself to get out of his dilemma).

“Broken Link”: this is a very big Odo story.

“Apocalypse Rising”: carries on from the not-really-a-cliffhanger in “Broken Link”, but it’s more about going undercover in the Klingon empire.

“Trials and Tribble-Ations”: Let’s go full Back to the Future Part 2 on a fan favorite TOS episode.

“For the Uniform”: explores the lengths Sisko will go to against a traitor.

“Doctor Bashir, I Presume”: Julian Bashir gets outed. The basis of the “Julian is transmasc” theory/metaphor.

“Children of Time”: high concept morality play. The crew meet their descendants from the crash they haven’t experienced yet.

“In the Cards”: notably, the A story is a breather romp and the B story is Plot Arc stuff.

Take “Call to Arms”, “A Time To Stand”, “Rocks and Shoals”, “Sons and Daughters”, “Behind the Lines”, “Favor the Bold”, and “Sacrifice of Angels” as a six-part arc. It’s not exactly one long story, but they were written as a short arc and play through each other.

“You are Cordially Invited”: Klingon Bachelor Parties are almost as bad as Klingon mothers in law.

“Statistical Probabilities”: following on from what we learned in “Doctor Bashir, I Presume”, Bashir tries to help some institutionalized augments find a greater purpose than being locked up in an asylum.

“Far Beyond The Stars”: a one-off where Sisko has a vision of being a pulp sci-fi writer in the 50s trying to get a story about a black man commanding a space station published.

“One Little Ship”: just some fun with a negative space wedgie that shrinks people.

“Wrongs Darker than Death or Night”: Kira learns what her mother did to keep her family safe.

“Inquisition”: Bashir gets accused of having been brainwashed into an unwitting spy.

“In the Pale Moonlight”: how many lines will Sisko cross in order to win the war?

“His Way”: Odo gets mentored in dating by a 50s lounge singer hologram.

“Valiant”: a crew of cadets that think they can do anything go cultish when their senior officer dies and they have to run the ship by themselves behind enemy lines.

“Take Me Out To the Holosuite”: the war is pretty grim, let’s play baseball against Sisko’s academy days bully.

“Treachery, Faith, and the Great River”: Odo escorts a defector who sees him, like all of Odo’s kind, as a god (because that’s how Odo’s people control them).

“The Siege of AR-558″: the War is Hell episode of the War Is Hell series.

“It’s Only a Paper Moon”: Quark’s nephew escapes reality in the 50s lounge singer’s world after losing a leg in the war.

“Prodigal Daughter”: It’s season seven, so Ezri Dax gets a lot of focus because they only had one season to get to know her. But this is one of the best Ezri episodes.

“Badda Bing, Badda Bang”: Deep Space Nine does Ocean’s Eleven.

The ten episodes after that are the Final Chapter arc, which ties up all the stories they had in the air for the last seven years.

Voyager (VOY)

“Caretaker” sets up a lot of things, some of which will even actually be followed through on.

“Faces”: an alien scientist splits the half-Klingon/half-human engineer into her human and Klingon halves.

“The 37s”: I don’t remember much of this one aside from they find Amelia Earhart and others from that time cryogenically frozen on a planet on the other side of the galaxy, and we get to see the ship land for no particular reason.

“Projections”: Doctor episodes are great in general. This one has the Doctor’s reality breaking down.

“Twisted”: weird space stuff warps space inside the ship.

I really like the Q episodes on Voyager, but if discussion of suicide is triggering, you should know that “Death Wish” is about a Q (not The Q, another one. They’re all named Q and so is their species) who wants the right to end his immortality.

“Deadlock”: Voyager is duplicated by a negative space wedgie, but only one can survive because reasons.

“The Thaw”: a great episode about facing Fear. Guest starring Michael McKean as a personification of Fear.

“Resolutions”: Hey, did we set up romantic tension between the captain and her first officer? Let’s put that to bed.

“Flashback”: Janeway and Tuvok go inside Tuvok’s memories of the five minutes Sulu was in The Undiscovered Country.

“Sacred Ground”: this episode kind of defines how I see the relationship between faith and skepticism.

“Future’s End” (two parts): Remember The One With The Whales? We’re doing it again twelve years later, but with Sarah Silverman instead of whales.

“The Q and the Grey”: Q (yes actually that one) gets Janeway involved in a Q Civil War because somehow making a Q baby is going to end it and he wants Janeway to be his baby mama.

“Coda”: Janeway gets stuck in dying dream after dying dream.

“Before and After”: Kes is jumping backwards in time.

“Worst Case Scenario”: episodes where the cast get to play evil versions of their characters are fun.

“Scorpion” (2 parts): Janeway makes a deal with the devil.

“Year of Hell” (2 parts): they wanted to do an entire season of this, which in turn was inspired by what they’d originally planned for the show all along before the suits decided it should be a safe TNG knockoff.

“Message in a Bottle”: They find a way to send transmissions across the galaxy, but for Reasons, text and video messages can’t get through, but a hologram can, so the Doctor has an away mission to the Alpha Quadrant.

“Living Witness”: a one-off episode with a backup copy of the Doctor in the far future setting the record straight on Voyager’s involvement in a war between two planets.

“Timeless”: Chakotay and Harry made it home, but the rest of the crew died in a crash. So now they’re on the run from the law to send a message back in time to put it right.

“Latent Image”: the Doctor’s memories have been tampered with.

“Bride of Chaotica!”: a holodeck Buck Rogers fantasy goes off the rails.

“Course: Oblivion”: the ship and crew start to fall apart.

“Someone to Watch Over Me”: Voyager does My Fair Lady.

“11:59″: As an Indiana native I am legally obligated to recommend this story about what Janeway’s ancestor was doing on New Year’s Eve 1999.

“Relativity”: Time chase. Somebody’s trying to blow up Voyager in the past.

Equinox (Two parts): What if Voyager hadn’t held onto its ideals in their quest to get home?

“The Voyager Conspiracy”: good sci-fi anticipates the internet. Great sci-fi anticipates people finding patterns that don’t exist in the information overload.

“Pathfinder”: Remember Barclay? His latest awkwardness is his obsession with Voyager.

“Fair Haven”/”Spirit Folk”: these aren’t directly paired, but they’re both set in holographic Ireland. In the first one, Janeway tailors her holographic boyfriend to exactly what she wants, in the second, the characters have been running for so long they start to get the sense that there’s something strange about the out of towners.

“Life Line”: The Doctor gets transmitted across the galaxy to save his creator from an illness.

“The Haunting of Deck Twelve”: Neelix tells the Borg Children a ghost story that maybe really happened.

Unimatrix Zero (two parts): I don’t remember much of this, but it’s one of the biggest Borg stories in a show that overused the Borg.

“Imperfection”: Seven of Nine is practicing being human on the holodeck and starts to have a systems failure.

“Critical Care”: the Doctor gets captured by an alien hospital and fights against the stratification of their healthcare system.

“Inside Man”: Barclay again. He sent a hologram of himself to help Voyager get home.

“Flesh and Blood”: a hologram rights story.

“Shattered”: the ship is fractured in time, and Chakotay is roaming the ship through different time periods trying to reintegrate it.

“Lineage”: B’elanna goes a little overboard tinkering with her baby’s genome.

“Q2″: It’s a Q episode, and nobody’s suicidal.

“Renaissance Man”: The Doctor does more than he was ever designed for.

“Endgame”: the end.

Enterprise (ENT)

I’ve only watched most of these once. I really don’t know the show that well.

I can tell you that the first two seasons are a bunch of one-offs with the major theme being “we’re out here to make friends and introduce ourselves to the neighborhood”. The third season is Star Trek’s answer to 9/11 and it goes really Jack Bauer. There are some one-offs, but it’s very focused on the Xindi threat. The fourth season is short arcs where they got around to being a prequel show and did a lot of the good kind of callbacks to TOS.

Discovery (DIS, Disco, DSC, definitely not ST:D)

Modern-era Star Trek is very serialized. It would take less time to say which episodes of Discovery are skippable. I’ve only seen the first season once, and I’m still not done with the second season. Captain Pike from the original TOS pilot is the captain in the second season and he is the best thing about modern Trek.

Picard (PIC?)

There’s only one season so far, and it is 100% serialized. It doesn’t have filler episodes, it has filler spread out through all the episodes. They told a four or five episode story in ten episodes. Though really not much happens between the end of the first episode and when they pick up Seven of Nine. The stuff on the Borg Cube is highly skippable until episode 6.

Lower Decks (LD?)

This is currently in its first season. It’s an adult-oriented animated comedy by the guy who did TNGs8 on Twitter and his most notable professional work before this is Rick and Morty. It’s a loving tweak on the nose of Star Trek.

The future

There’s a Nickelodeon show coming up called “Prodigy” that we don’t know much about. It’s animated, it’s for kids, and it’s about a ship crewed by cadets.

Discovery season 3 is coming very soon, again going in a completely new direction from the first two seasons.

Picard is going to get a second season eventually. It doesn’t seem to have been part of the plan, but there it is.

There’s also Strange New Worlds, a... Discovery spinoff? Centering on Discovery’s version of Pike commanding the Enterprise with Number One and Spock, and it’s planned to be more episodic. Also coming whenever the world isn’t on fire.

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galahadwilder · 5 years

Text

The Cat That Came Back

Chapter 1: In Living Memory

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AO3

I’ve been seeing a lot of “one of them dies and the other has to move on without them” fics for Miraculous lately and, while they’re amazing, they always hurt too much. Figured I’d write the reverse.

Inspired by @chatalyst‘s Ghostin’.

The view from the Eiffel Tower is spectacular, watching the lights of Paris spread out beneath them, but something about it fills her with a sense of ineffable loss. Of longing. Of... hollowness.

He dances, laughing, taking her hand and swinging her out, and she feels her heart life at the feel of leather beneath her fingers again. “I’m coming home!” he cries with delight. “My Lady, I’m coming home!”

Her brow crinkles. “Home?” she says. “Where have you been?”

He pulls her in, close to his chest. “I need you to do something for me, Marinette,” he says.

She’s confused. When did she tell him her name? “Anything,” she whispers.

His fingers squeeze hers. “I need you to wake up,” he says.

“What?” Ladybug says. “No, no, I—Adrien—”

His chest is torn open beneath her fingers, raw and bleeding as Hawkmoth stares down at them in shock. “No! Please!” Ladybug screams, trying to hold him together. “I can’t—I can’t lose you!”

“It’s okay, My Lady,” Chat says with a weak smile. “I’m coming home.”

“Don’t leave me again!” she screams, knowing it’s too late. Knowing he’s already gone.

“Ohime!”

She feels familiar, callused fingers brush into her hair. The ring—Adrien’s ring, Chat’s ring, presses into her back.

“Ohime, I’m here, I’m sorry.”

It’s not his hand. It’s not his ring. Not anymore.

Marinette collapses into Kagami’s chest and sobs.

“Shh, shh shh,” Kagami whispers. “I’m here, I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.”

But you’re not him, Marinette doesn’t say.

She’d never been agoraphobic before Gabriel Agreste went to prison. Now, everything is too large. She shakes in Kagami’s arms in a cavernous room that she once would’ve called tiny, in a bed that’s far too large without him in it. She moved in with Kagami almost a year ago and she still can’t let him go.

She feels the feather-weight of Tikki settle in her hair, the warm pulse of healing magic press onto her scalp, filter through her thoughts, calming her racing heart. “Oh, Marinette,” Tikki says. “Did you have the dream again?”

Marinette whimpers, nodding into Kagami’s chest.

“I’m sorry,” Kagami murmurs. Doesn’t say we should’ve been there for you, because leaving the rest of them out was Marinette’s choice, she wanted to take Hawkmoth by surprise, and now Chat’s dead because of her. The first time Kagami said I should’ve been there Marinette couldn’t bring herself to speak to her for a week.

There’s nothing Kagami can say. There’s nothing Kagami knows how to say.

That’s better than what Luka tried, anyway.

“Where’s Plagg?” Marinette murmurs. He’s the only one who can burn the nightmares away, destroy the haunting memories that won’t leave her alone.

“One of his late-night walkabouts,” Tikki says, and Kagami nods. He’s never told them where he goes and they’ve never asked. Letting him mourn the way he needs.

Marinette twines her fingers into Kagami’s hair and pulls her down for a kiss. She needs to feel—she needs the reminder that somebody she loves is still alive.

He said he was coming home.

Her dream’s never done that before.

She’s in-between meetings when her girlfriend calls her the next morning. She almost doesn’t want to answer.

“Marihime,” Kagami says, her voice full of concern, “something happened to the ring.”

A chill shoots up Marinette’s spine as she drops her pen, the pen Nino got her for her first day. “Are you okay?” she says. “Is—is Plagg okay?”

“I’m fine,” Kagami says. “The ring—it just shot off my finger and flew out the window. Can it... does it do that?” There’s still so little Marinette’s told her about the Guardian lore, so many things she can’t bear to tell her about. Things that remind her of him.

“...No,” Marinette says. “Not unless a Kwami is carrying it.” She doesn’t know what happened. All the Miraculi are accounted for—if Plagg is doing something—

A text comes through on her computer screen. From Alya.

Chat Noir has just been sighted at the Eiffel Tower, it reads, and Marinette’s heart stops.

The next message restarts it.

Not Kuro Neko, it says. Chat Noir.

“Nekochan?” Marinette gasps. “I’m—I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you back.”

“Of course,” Kagami says. “Love you.”

Marinette doesn’t say it back, but then, Kagami doesn’t expect her to.

She’s running blind. Her limbs are on fire, and she’s pretty sure she breaks eight speed records in her blind dash from her office to the Tower. Barely sees the crowd gathered around the base. Too focused on the tiny black figure, halfway up the tower, right in their favorite spot.

She slams her feet into the I-Beam at what must be thirty miles an hour, faster than she’s ever moved before. “That ring isn’t yours!” she hisses, crouched, whipping her yo-yo in a circle as she prepares to tear apart whoever dared impersonate her—

Her eyes meet vivid emerald and the yo-yo slips from her fingers, slams into the beam behind her. “Chaton?” she whispers.

He’s staring at her too, like all the wind knocked out of him at the same time it did her. “You—you cut your hair,” he says. And oh, after five years, isn’t that just the stupidest possible thing he could’ve said, isn’t that—

“You look exactly the same,” she says. Because, impossibly—minus the ravaged chest—he does.

He collapses, and so does she.

“Adrien,” she says, her voice cracking. “Cha—Chaton, you’ve... you’ve been dead for five years.”

“I know,” he whispers back, his head between his knees. “I... I remember. I remember dying.” He looks at her, tears streaming down his face. “How am I back? How am I alive?”

She shakes her head, closes her eyes.

“Mari,” he gasps, “what did you do?”

She gives herself five minutes to believe it. Five minutes where he’s back, where she gets to hold him, where she never lost him. Five minutes where the boy in her arms is the love of her life. Five minutes to cry.

Then Ladybug takes over.

“You can’t be him,” she says, wiping her eyes. “There’s—it’s impossible.”

“I’m not an Akuma,” he says, reaching for her hand. “Or... or an Amok.”

“I know,” Ladybug snaps, scooting away from him. “Nooroo is with my mother, and Duusu is still hibernating.”

Chat—or, whoever—blinks, his head jerking. He withdraws his hand.

“That doesn’t mean you’re not one of Enchantress’ illusions,” she says, not looking at him. “Or a boggart, or that shapeshifter from Amsterdam, or... or something.”

“I’m me,” he says, his claws digging into the iron with a screech. “I’m—Mari, Princess, please, it’s me.” He’s begging, desperate, and her heart is straining out of her chest. She wants to believe him so badly.

“Prove it,” she says. “Say something only he would know.”

He stares at her, glances down at her hand. “You... you don’t wear a ring,” he says.

She bristles, her eyes narrowing. “Why would I?” How—how dare he, how dare this imposter...

He turns away. “My name wasn’t... Adrien Agreste, when I died,” he whispers. “We were—we were losing, and we were desperate, and...” He looks up at her, tears in his eyes. “Tikki officiated,” he says, clearly straining not to take her hand. “For the last ten minutes of my life, my name was Adrien Dupain-Cheng.”

All the sounds of Paris below burn away. Her temples squeeze inward, The ringing in her ears stabbing into her brain. She can’t breathe. She tries to inhale, but the air isn’t coming—her heart is about to explode out of her chest, pounding, pounding, pounding, because she never even told Kagami that, because only one human being ever knew, because it’s him, it’s him, it’s him, it’s him, it’s him—

Smelly Wolf. He’s humming Smelly Wolf.

She’s enveloped in Chat Noir’s arms, pressed against his chest, curled up in his lap. She feels the leather against her face, a different texture than when Kagami wears it, soft and strong and oh so familiar. His scent, leather and sweat and cologne that was discontinued when he was buried.

She sniffles, wiping her eyes.

“Back with me, Bug?” he says.

She closes her eyes. “How long was I out?”

“Two minutes,” he says, squeezing her shoulders with his arms. “I’m glad Smelly Wolf still works.”

Her tunnel widens, and she realizes she can hear the whup-whup-whup of helicopter blades. “The news is here?”

Chat nods. “Just arrived.”

Ladybug sniffles, waits a second for her pulse to calm. “We need to get somewhere private,” she says. “I—follow me.”

She flings her yo-yo, and Chat flips out his baton, saluting to the crowd below.

Ladybug is nearly knocked off balance by the wave of screams of joy as Paris realizes that this is real—that her fallen hero has come home.

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ephemeral-afterlight · 5 years

Text

Mourning at Midnight

(UwU so Hey. i’m back with some more trash)

Word Count: 7480

Summary: It’s scary, in a way, how in moments like this one, Logan feels as if his consciousness floats away from him, leaving behind only a wave of white-hot, searing anger that drains out of him just as quickly as it comes. There’s sleet running through his veins, and his brain has frostbite, and his fingertips are numb in the face of the ringing resonance after his outburst. The pain comes next, a simmering heat blistering below his fist until it’s coated and red and the beginnings of a bruise are starting to form. He can’t help but stare helplessly in front of himself, eyes burning and filling and blazing with how much they beg to close.

He doesn’t want to look up, to face the suffocating silence that’s fallen over the room. He doesn’t want to see their faces, their disappointment, their anger, their contempt. He wants to yell. He wants to sleep.

Logan sinks out.

Warnings (could potentially be small spoilers, nothing too big, but if you don’t have any triggers I’d suggest you skip reading this!):

There are no u!sides in this, nor does anyone have malicious intent, but the other main three (Virgil, Patton, Roman) and Thomas, to a lesser extent, treat Logan unkindly (not on purpose) and don’t realize their errors. This will be resolved! Just… not yet OwO

Being ignored/talked over

Mental/emotional breakdown

An unidentified illness with symptoms including: [extreme persistent nausea (lots of mentions), vomiting (once), bile, weakness/weariness, shaking, lightheadedness, double vision (once), headache, body aches/pains, breathing difficulties]

General negativity including: [self-doubt, self-deprecation/depreciation, feeling worthless or unloveable, self-hatred]

Anger management/temperament issues

Unintentional self-harm (not anything like c-tting, Logan gets a bruise as a result of an angry outburst)

Separate small, vague allusion to self-harm, but it’s not outright and not detailed in the slightest. Could be read as not even talking about self-harm

Potentially triggering descriptive imagery (metaphors and similes to describe how a character feels or percieves a situation, not anything that actually happens) including but not limited to: [glass, sharp things, blood, injection, live wires, loud noises, screaming, general mentions of pain, masochism, sound torture, knives/blades, wounds, drowning/suffocating, pressure]

Temporarily unresolved tension between Logan/Deceit/Remus and the other sides/Thomas (there will be a happy ending in the next fic, though, don’t worry!)

A few vulgar threats of violence (somewhat explicit, be careful) to the other sides from Remus (out of protectiveness; Remus means well but he does Not express it in a healthy way) that is not carried out or even humoured

Remus’ morning star and descriptions of its destructive capabilites

Loceit as a romantic pairing (for now…. UwU)

Sympathetic “dark” sides

That should be it for warnings! Let me know if I need to add anything!

A/N: So! This is finally done :D !! I’ve been working on it on and off for the past week or so, and although I know it could be way better, I think this is where I’ll keep it! This is technically a sequel to my other fic Tea at Twilight and it takes place in the same universe, and although you don’t need to read that before this to understand the story, I strongly suggest reading that first to get more of a feel for the dynamic!

This is inspired by @illogicallyinclined and her absolutely amazing Disaster Trio™ headcanons/au, and was prompted by this post so I just started writing! I meant for it to be a bit shorter, but of course my brain would Not let it go, even despite my ADHD, executive dysfunction, and massive amounts of writer’s block.

This is also unfinished! It is the second of three main works, all happening chronologically in the same universe. The first one is Tea at Twilight as stated previously, then this one, and there will be a third and final installment added to finish off this short little trilogy! I’ll be adding this to the series on AO3, so when the final fic is up, it’ll all be together for an easy reading experience. It is also possible that there will be other small fics in this universe (UA, as has been recently coined) that operate outside of the timeline of the main story, so be sure to watch out for that!

Thanks to Jay once again for creating these lovely headcanons that haunt my dreams every night, and for inspiring me to get back into my writing groove despite a writer’s block that’s lasted for over three years! Hope this isn’t too terrible, Jay! ilyy <333</p>

Also, a huge thank you to @illogical-anxieties for being such a good cheerleader/enabler! You really do help to keep me motivated and on track (and keep my ADHD in check), which is probably why this was even able to become a full-fledged story rather than a WIP to be buried where unfinished fics go to die T~T Love you tons <3</p>

(If I’m being honest with myself, this is just an excuse for me to live up to my IRL title of “Living Thesaurus”, coined by a friend many years ago and has since spread around to other friends and family. My title is thriving, and I suppose that means I should actually have proof of it, so there’s that.)

(Cross-posted to AO3)

(Read Part 1 here)

He can feel it building.

There’s far too much left to be desired when it comes to frustration. The natural helplessness that makes way for anger when you try so hard to do something or be something for someone and you’re pushed down by anything and everything between ignorance and antipathy. The fear that nothing you can do or say will ever be good enough. The buzzing, ticking, pinpricks upon pinpricks of heat injected into you until your blood and heart have been replaced with glass, fragile as a crumbling stone wall. It’s not as if he hasn’t had his outbursts before, spurred on by the familiar sharp pulse of rage that courses through him in a split-second whirlwind. It builds inside him, and he can feel the pressure in his limbs expand until it feels like his muscles are being squeezed out of existence and then he snaps like a rubber band that’s been pulled too taut. He’s not in denial of the fact that his impulsive, blinding reaction when met with frustration is not okay, and only detrimental to the demeanour he’s trying to retain. He knows it’s childish. He knows it’s immature, and pathetic, and wholly invigorating, at least until the adrenaline has worn off and he’s in the aftermath of his knee-jerk reaction to the tension coiled in his arms and legs and head.

It doesn’t mean that Logan is particularly in control of it though, despite his self-awareness being far above the level that most people with anger management issues are at. Maybe there’s a certain quality to it that allows for growth; it’s not as if Logan stays angry, or that he wants to hurt people. He loves the others, painfully so (as much as he loathes to admit it), to the point where he’s so desperate for their approval that he tampers down his passion, that spark that used to drive him to learn and speak and be happy just to avoid being cast out and abandoned, alone in the way he never wants to be. He wants to find a way to temper the fall into those dark, consuming waters, a way to mute the buzzing and ticking. He wants to seal those exposed live wires and release the tension to the point where he never lashes out ever again. He wants to, and he doesn’t know how to, and that fact infuriates him in an ironic, endless cycle of self-imposed and self-directed enmity.

Logan still thinks on this often, even now, wracking his brain for solutions to problems that realistically won’t be solved as easily as he wishes they would. Excerpts and quotes and data and statistics from many different studies about anger and temper management and irritability and everything in between seem to figuratively run amok through his brain, a screaming crowd of witnesses to the chaos and failure found in his ability to filter through the nonsense and come to a satisfying conclusion, any conclusion at all. He notices how his fingers tremble as they slip into the handle of his coffee mug, endures the dull ache in his mid-to-lower back from falling asleep at his desk for the majority of the day under the guise of work so important he holed himself up in his room to complete it. He ignores the way his head pounds, how he feels so dizzy that he might fall over and pass out any second from lightheadedness. He suffers through the loud conversations between the other three that are typical to the dinner routine that Logan cannot deal with today, not with this headache poking at him like figurative needles in his head.

When he senses the summons from Thomas stirring up the familiar but nonetheless odd ticklish sensation on the back of his neck, Logan can feel the tension knot up his muscles, and the combination of the two just makes him want to growl in irritation. The others, having also felt the summoning, seem to get impossibly louder, ringing and stinging and singing in his head. He still persists, despite the fact that he knows he shouldn’t be out doing anything today that’s likely to exacerbate his sickness, because Thomas is important, more so than Logan himself. No matter how much he wants to hole himself up in his room and sleep the day away, his host needs him, so Logan simply forces his mask of indifference to melt into steel. He refuses to budge, not for the first or last time, and he rises up in the real world standing straight and rigid and as put together as he’s always expected to be.

When he’s finally settled into his usual spot, as still as he can possibly be to not exacerbate the roiling nausea disquieting his stomach, he’s able to take in the other four arranged in their usual positions in Thomas’ living room, already having begun a conversation that Logan has missed the premise of entirely through his all-eclipsing, obfuscating malady. His vision doubles, like broken fractals of glass reflecting onto themselves, and then it pulls back together, merging back into something visible, something manageable.

“Well, I’m sure Danny likes you, too! You just gotta ask him, kiddo!” Patton exclaims, high voice pushing through the heavy, suffocating cotton in Logan’s ears, and the words snap the bespectacled side to attention. He needs context, needs to know what they’re talking about, needs to be able to help for once. Maybe he has to endure the bad to be able to put out the good, and this is where the climax is, the top of the rollercoaster at such a high altitude that oxygen is thin and dispersed before he shoots down the tracks in a rush of fresh air, relieving and calm and sanguine as he’s finally able to ground himself. A shiver runs through Logan’s body, between his shoulder blades and down his hip and through his leg, and his eyes flutter under the weight of consciousness. It recedes, the flow is ebbed, and his head clears to a more sustainable level.

“Oh, that’s so boring, Padre! Thomas should hire a band to play! And we can rig up streamers and confetti and there can be a cake and dancing and a party to celebrate!” Roman crows, throwing his arms and hands up into his signature pose to match his full, booming tone. Patton squeals, clutching his cardigan in his hands to pull excitedly at the sleeves as he bounces giddily on his feet. At the suggestion, as the polar opposite to Patton’s reaction, Virgil grimaces, hunching over even further in his jacket as he protests with every way he can think of that the situation could go wrong. Unsurprisingly, Roman takes personal offense to it and refutes Virgil’s points with the same intensity and fervour that’s been present in himself and his interactions with the anxious side since day one. Logan sort of understands, can infer that they’re discussing how to ask out Danny, a new friend of Thomas’ who has very quickly turned into a crush. In that case…

“If I may interrupt? While I don’t share all of Virgil’s worries, I do agree with his position in regards to the fact that there isn’t a need for such extravagance. It might embarrass Danny, for one, and for two, there are many ways such an excessive venture could backfire, such as technical difficulties or general human error. The idea is, while exciting, frankly outrageous,” Logan says, his role as the voice of reason renewed once more. It’s his job to sift through the conversations they have and get to the important parts, and he likes his job. He’s good at micromanaging, mediating the chaos, good at storing information to sort and consider and veto and bolster. It’s how he operates, how he copes. “We can think of something else to–”

“Oh, shut it, Pocket Protector. We all know you don’t care about romance, but this is important! Thomas wishes to find love with the second most handsome prince in the world! After me, of course,” Roman exclaims, in that boisterous, self-aggrandizing way of his, the way that hides his real insecurities he buries so deeply in himself he doesn’t know how to find them again. Oddly enough, it’s not Roman’s defense mechanism that throws Logan off, it’s the way that Logan stopped talking almost reflexively to allow the other side to finish his statement, as if the prince’s words were more important than his own, and it speaks as testament to how much Logan’s been conditioned (or maybe he’s conditioned himself all on his own) into putting everyone else before himself, even when it hurts him or Thomas. Logan is ignored in the face of his implicit trust, and he hates that even as it pours salt in the open wound, he finds himself taking a depraved, spiteful comfort in the familiarity of it all.

“That’s not what I–”

“Awe, c'mon, Logan! Thomas deserves to have a happy relationship and someone he can live out the rest of his life with! Doesn’t that sound nice, to grow old together with someone you love? Isn’t that romantic? Oh, it just makes me so warm and fuzzy thinking about it!” Patton interrupts, hands clutching each other over his heart as he swoons. Logan knows Patton doesn’t mean to be rude, but he still can’t help but be a little hurt by it, especially since he’s now been ignored twice consecutively. He’s just trying to help, and if that means reigning in Roman’s exorbitant ideas that border on egregious at times, then Logan knows it must be done. Although he encourages Thomas to seek a relationship to improve his mental health and provide more financial stability, there is a limit to how much he can disregard himself and others in doing so, and that doesn’t mean that Logan is the bad guy for pointing that out. He knows that. He knows that, so why does the dismissal still feel so sharp in his chest?

“Yeah, romance is cool and all, but what if it doesn’t work? What if Danny actually hates us? What if we ask and he laughs at us or says no and then we’ll be standing there like an idiot and then he’ll never wanna talk to us again because he thinks we’re pathetic and stupid and–”

“Hey, now, don’t be such a Debby Downer, kiddo! I’m sure it’ll go just fine! We’ll just ask him. The worst thing that can happen is he’ll say no, right? Shouldn’t we give it a shot?” Patton consoles before Virgil can go into a spiral. Although his well-meaning reassurances are meant to be comforting, his voice just grates on Logan’s ears, tinny and hollow and misdirected.

“That’s what I’m afraid of!”

Logan wants to keep listening, he really does, but the noise is rising to levels where it’s too much to handle. He’s already sensitive from his illness, but the discussion that is very quickly turning into an argument falls in pulses through his head, sound torture to the broken, hopeless masochist. He’s barely holding onto himself at this point, consciousness like a dangling thread that swirls and dances and twirls with even the tiniest breeze, a hint of movement sending it shivering and quivering as it spins. It wouldn’t take much for the thread to fray from the weight pulling it down, or to saw through it in a clean slice that leaves it floating feather-light upon air currents, petals spiraling to the ground.

Petals. Flowers. Thomas could bring Danny flowers! It’s perfect! Danny is especially predisposed to gardening, and he frequently talks about different flowers and what they mean based on the type and colour. His interest in botany could make this a sweet gift, to show that Thomas pays attention to what Danny enjoys, and can be the perfect segue into asking him on a romantic outing. Yes, this could work! It would appease Roman’s inclination to classic romanticism while still being practical and not unreasonably expensive, give Patton his ideal relationship fantasy (and a “warm and fuzzy feeling”, apparently), and allow Virgil a little more breathing room, so-to-speak. This is something they all should be agreeable towards, and that confidence is enough to supply Logan with enough energy to push past his lightheadedness and offer a solution. He’s proud of himself for taking the others’ feelings into account, something he knows he’s not always been the most proficient at, and for coming up with a compromise that will likely satisfy everyone’s wants and needs.

“What about bringing him flowers?” Logan asks, pleased and antsy as he feels hope well up in his chest. He doesn’t push it down this time, and he thinks maybe, just maybe they’ll finally listen to him, that they’ll tell him that he did well, that he’s being considerate and maybe even say thank you–

“How would you even know, Roman? It’s not like we just go out and hire mariachi bands every Saturday!” Virgil says with furrowed brows, and Roman huffs in indignation, and Patton sighs as he looks between the two of them, and Logan’s words fall on deaf ears. They didn’t even hear. They didn’t listen. They didn’t care they didn’t care–

“Uh, hey, Virgil, what if–” Logan tries once more to speak, nausea rolling angrily in his gut, head spinning dizzy round and round and round and round and Virgil flinches.

He flinches. Because of Logan.

Virgil hasn’t been afraid of any of them for a long time. Sure, in the beginning, when they fought one another on nearly a day-to-day basis, there would be a moment before he could pull on his figurative mask that a flash of fear would go through Virgil’s eyes, and the sadness kept within wouldn’t subside even when he growled and snapped and blustered whichever side had the misfortune of picking a fight with him during a time where his first instinct was to keep away the pain and longing and loneliness the only way he knew how. Over time, that flash of fear dulled, morphed into something more manageable, more trusting. The sadness never really went away, but it was met with warmth, a soft contentedness that danced in his eyes when he realized he had a family to turn to. He hasn’t been afraid for a long time. And yet, he flinches away from Logan, just from him speaking.

Is he really that bad?

Does even simply the sound of his voice have such a negative association for Virgil that it prompts genuine fear and discomfort? Has he really scared Virgil that much? What did he do? How can he fix this?

Maybe he shouldn’t.

Logan’s felt disconnected from the others for quite a while now. He loves them, of course he does, but he doesn’t feel like he fits. He’s the metaphorical jagged puzzle piece, the one that should snap into the final vacant space but is so broken beyond repair that it doesn’t fit quite right. He wants to belong, to feel at home whenever he’s with them, but he doesn’t. He yearns for the acceptance that Virgil earned, the support that Roman is held up by, the respect and adoration Patton seems to acquire so casually and naturally that it’s like he doesn’t even have to try. Logan wants to be like them. He wants to be loved, but… that isn’t really his place, is it?

Love is not an inherent thing. It’s something that’s earned, by doing good things and being important enough to someone that they give it freely. It’s something Logan doesn’t understand, but despite that, still desperately, painfully yearns for. He wants to be loved, the way he loves the others. He wants to be a part of their famILY, to have that implicit trust in each other that only comes from acute, profound, deep-seated love. He wants that fondness directed towards himself, that devotion borne from hapless, radiating appreciation. The humbled esteem, the maudlin, theatrical longing, the passion and yearning and helpless, acquiescent love that bursts from the seams in a manner that will never diminish or fade. He wants that. Badly. And he’s finally ready to accept that he will never have it. He’s okay. He’s okay. He just needs a moment. He just needs to breathe.

The others must have continued with their arguments long ago, seemingly unaware of anything outside of themselves. Logan supposes he shouldn’t really berate them for that since he often falls victim to getting lost in debate as well, but something is wrong with Thomas, going by his expression and demeanour and the logical side can’t ignore it anymore. It’s highly unlikely that the other three will come away from themselves for long enough to notice, and it doesn’t sound like they’re anywhere close to coming to a conclusion amongst themselves, so Logan is perfectly fine with bearing that responsibility upon himself to check up on his host and make sure he’s okay. He’s the most important one here, after all, and it’s Logan’s job to help him, guide him in his life and decisions.

“Thomas? Is there something wrong?” Although the words come out clear and precise as usual, Logan’s throat burns, and he can barely breathe. He wants to sleep, he wants to sleep, but Thomas needs him, and that doesn’t happen often nowadays, so Logan does nothing but wait impassively. His host bites the inside of his cheek, then sighs as he stares off at the wall, lost in thought. Since he says nothing, the logical side assumes he will continue to say nothing for a few more moments, and decides to give him a once-over to gather more information and any possible context. Thomas’ eyebrows are furrowed, and his posture far from adequate. His expression is troubled, and his arms are crossed loosely, a pointer finger scratching at his elbow unconsciously. There is no obvious cause for his confusion and/or upset in himself or anywhere in the room, apart from the current dilemma, but he was fine before, so something must have changed to distress him now. Logan cannot ascertain what Thomas needs simply from observing him, so he concludes that the best thing for him to do is wait.

So he does. And he does so for a minute, two, five. Every second that ticks by feels like a needle is being shoved into his eyes, his brain, his legs, his everything and it takes more effort to stand than he’s used to. Breathing is difficult, but that isn’t exactly a new development, so at least he knows how to ignore it. Eventually, ten minutes pass with only the sound of the other three arguing in the background, and it doesn’t seem like Thomas is really all there. Although the action makes him want to throw up, Logan shifts forward, moving out of his usual spot and into Thomas’ own. He still doesn’t acknowledge any kind of input outside himself, so Logan lays a hand on his host’s arm gently, which snaps him out of his trance in a slow, unhurried kind of way. Thomas gives him a glance when his logical side sighs, tampering down any audible signs of his nausea in a manner that is unbeknownst to the host, but returns to staring at the wall without a second regard.

“Thomas?” Logan murmurs, bile rising in his throat and shoving his hidden suffering even closer to the forefront of his mind, as though it hasn’t been there all along. It’s hard to think, through all of the white noise and weary irritation and the tiniest sliver of hope that he crushes immediately, but thinking is his job, and he needs to help. “Are you alright? You can talk to me.”

And then Thomas is shrugging him off, turning away as he tells him he should “just stop” with piercing words, that he “can’t do anything to help”, and the rejection feels like a metaphorical knife has been shoved into his gut. Logan can feel the pain and the heartbreak and the insecurity materialize into a cold blade, twisting and twisting just to make him hurt more. Logan is ignored for the fourth time today, by the person it hurts to come from the most, and he can feel the sun whipping and screaming in his chest. His breath is stuck, sucked down into his throat, a sharp pain localizing in his neck, and he can’t help but bring his hand up to rub at the spot with trembling fingertips as he unsteadily lurches back to his regular spot. The others don’t notice, of course, or if they did, they don’t care. Then the nausea he’s been fighting against surges like a violent wave at full force, drowning him and the hurt is forcing its way into his mouth, his throat, his lungs, and he can’t breathe–

His fist flashes down from his neck to the banister, punching the railing so hard it echoes in the reverberation created from his vicious, angry snarl.

It’s scary, in a way, how in moments like this one, Logan feels as if his consciousness floats away from him, leaving behind only a wave of white-hot, searing anger that drains out of him just as quickly as it comes. There’s sleet running through his veins, and his brain has frostbite, and his fingertips are numb in the face of the ringing resonance after his outburst. The pain comes next, a simmering heat blistering below his fist until it’s coated and red and the beginnings of a bruise are starting to form. He can’t help but stare helplessly in front of himself, eyes burning and filling and blazing with how much they beg to close.

Logan sinks out.

There’s a very short window of time where the logical side rushes into the en-suite bathroom after rising up in his bedroom, trembling legs aching with exhaustion. Barely a second passes between him falling to the floor and emptying the meager contents of his stomach into the toilet, the bile burning in his tender throat as a reminder of his failure. The floor is cold and hard beneath him, ridges of tiles pressing unrelenting into his knees through his wrinkled jeans. His head spins, unbalanced as it whirls through itself, words and thoughts and ideas that mean nothing and everything simultaneously existing hollowly in a falling echo. There is pain, and aching, and soreness, and exhaustion, and Logan wants to sleep.

It’s hard to rise to his feet, head throbbing and knees shaking as he wipes the spit from his mouth on a folded square of toilet paper. The pain nags at him, persistent and irritating in its attempts to shut Logan out, almost clear in a way that belies the foggy haze blanketing his nearly incoherent thought process. Marking a clear vantage, a faultline to anchor onto is no easy task, and all Logan wants as he stumbles over to his bed is a landmark to pinpoint and find his way back to. He careens toward the mattress once he’s close enough, finally letting his legs give out underneath him when he’s as near as he can bear. It’s so difficult to stay upright in stiff misery, pangs and twinges of sharp pain coursing through his limbs and his back as his muscles are forced together under pressure.

In another familiar, frustrating bout of anger that seizes his breath before it can escape his lungs, Logan shoves his fingers in the knot of his tie, yanking it forcefully even as the motion jerks his own head forward uncomfortably along with it. His fingers run down the length of the fabric, and it falls apart at the end of its cycle, much like Logan has, and he snaps his arm back to chuck the dark blue, silky length to the ground in a motion that does little to relieve the rage built up inside him.

He can feel it building. The buzzing, the pressure, the glass in his veins running on shards. He feels the pinpricks upon pinpricks, the fire burning in his lungs, and the stone crumbles, and tumbles down, and he’s like a rubber band pulled taut.

He cracks, shrill pressure in his knuckles and head and torso, and nothing happens.

Then Logan hears the telltale squeak of his door swiveling on mildly rusty hinges, and a familiar voice echoes right through his bubble, shatters the stone wall like a bulldozer running at full speed, and then the wetness spills over his lashes and over his stony, impassive face.

“Oh, Lo,” Deceit murmurs, sad and tender as the breath rushes out of him and Logan can’t do this. He wants to throw out his fist in a wide arc and pummel the wall next to him until his knuckles are raw and bloodied and bruised beyond repair. He wants to scream until his throat is torn and his voice is gone, lost in the uncaring, empty void that coldly swallowed up his passion. Happiness has never seemed further away, and he knows he deserves it. But then he remembers all of the times where the pressure in his limbs and the buzzing in his brain forced him to lash out, to hurt others, and he thinks that maybe it’s okay for him to hurt right now to even the score. With the last of the metaphorical wall around him in tiny pieces, fragments of a life he never wanted to live but he desperately fought to keep, he lets his guard down for the first time in years.

Logan’s face crumples under the weight he’s burdened his being with, body immediately drooping under the heaviness that he’s forced himself to fight through. He finally submits, and the tears come in an endless stream over his cheekbones, itchy and hot and terribly, mindlessly relieving. It feels so good to finally let the negative emotion he’s pent up inside him out, to fall out of his cage he’s lived in high above a swirling ocean of release and fear and freedom. And he’s so, so lucky because he has someone to save him from the fall.

Deceit’s kneeled down in front of him, wiping away the tears as they fall with uncharacteristically degloved thumbs, and Logan can feel the smoothness of the scales twisting and trailing down his fingers. Every so often, Deceit’s pointed thumbnails catch lightly on the skin of Logan’s cheek, and it just causes him to cry harder. The vulnerability in the room is palpable, a wispy breath of worry and insecurity and trust trailing over their skin, blanketing the room in a warmth that runs even warmer when Logan reaches up to gently lay his hand over Deceit’s own. He shows his appreciation through tactility when the words he so desperately wishes to say are lost in his throat, blocked by the barrier that separates his newfound submission and the part of him that’s still clinging to the feeble grasp at acceptance he craves so dearly.

Logan can barely tell what’s in front of him through the kaleidoscope in his vision, but he doesn’t really need to see to throw himself forward off the bed and bury himself in Deceit’s chest, of whom lets out a surprised noise but doesn’t hesitate a single second in wrapping his arms tightly around the other side. He strokes Logan’s back comfortingly and offers him whispered reassurances through the heart-wrenching sobs and broken, croaky whines that disappear into his cloak, hand coming up to cradle his head in the overwhelming reflexive instinct to keep the logical side safe and happy. It feels like a dagger has gone through Deceit’s chest at the knowledge that Logan has been suffering for so long and hasn’t been able to let it out or just simply be held, the self-preservation that is at the core of his function as a side going off like alarm bells with every sniffle. Logan curls into the first person who’s ever offered him physical affection and emotional safety, and his fists clench the fabric at the snake-like side’s shoulders as tightly as he would if he were to never, ever let go.

Logan is out of breath even as his heart begins to calm, beating and beating in his ribcage and in his lungs. The lump in his throat prevents him from speaking, but he figures it’s okay to not be heard audibly, just this once, and speak with his actions. Although he doesn’t know what he’s saying when he pulls back and wraps his arms around Deceit’s neck, laying his face in the crook of other side’s neck like a small child would, not really, he hopes that his intent still comes across in some sort of intelligible, hopeful way. Deceit seems to take this as a request, a promise, and slides his grip to a point where he can hoist the smaller side up in his hold, carrying him just like a parent carrying their kid to their bed after they fell asleep during a visit to a friend’s house. This situation is much more loaded, stained with impurities and unsure withering, but it’s just as raw, just as real, and Logan finds himself feeling safer than he ever has before.

At some point, they end up on the bed, Logan having been manhandled into a more comfortable position for both of them, which is laying across Deceit’s lap without ever having let go of his neck. The logical side feels small and vulnerable, something that he would normally hate, squash down, bury so deep within himself that he doesn’t even have to acknowledge it. But honestly, right here, right now, he’s so goddamn exhausted, and forcing himself back into the state of repression he’s been in for so much of his life would take too much of a toll, more than he already has on himself. The wetness rolls down his cheeks, bold, blue precipitation falling in droplets onto his skin and the fabric of Deceit’s cape, sinking and spreading and thinning out into airy nothingness. And the nothingness enraptures him, pulls him in even as he breaks and whimpers and spills wisps of forgotten feelings into empty space, at least until his bedroom door opens once more with a loud click, because nothing Remus ever does is truly quiet.

“Hey, are you guys having a sexy party without me? How c–… are you… crying?” Remus asks, suggestive tone split and watered down into something confused, and surprised, and angry. The younger twin kicks the door shut behind him with his foot, more out of muscle memory than conscious forethought, something that stands with nearly every action Remus executes. Logan turns his head wearily, not lifting it from where it rests on Deceit’s collarbone. The latter of the two takes that chance to clear away some of the tears that didn’t get absorbed into his clothing, hoping that since the stream is slowly dispersing, his cheeks will stay dry this time. Remus slowly approaches, body tense and eyes piercing as Logan’s face is wiped off for the nth time, offering no other sounds or words as he crouches down to examine how the bespectacled side’s skin is rubbed red and sensitive.

Logan just whines softly, stare falling to the bedsheets, observing nothing in particular as he tries to figure out why words are failing him. Something that’s such an intricate part of himself, the communication of thoughts and ideas and knowledge that defines so much of who he is and how he exists, it’s dwindled and diminished into nothing. Deceit seems to understand, he always does, and reads him so perfectly it’s a wonder the two didn’t become closer in the beginning, with how much they truly are alike. A scaled hand makes it’s way up to Logan’s head and cards through the soft, disheveled hair there, scratching lightly at his scalp in a motion that seems to draw the aching tension caused by his distress out of his body, leaving his muscles to relax and melt into the chest that holds him upright.

“Something happened before I came in here. I assume it has to do with the others,” Deceit murmurs into thick, heavy air, stale with shame and tired hopelessness. Remus’ eyes flick to Logan’s own, actively searching for some sort of confirmation or denial. There’s a beat of silence, and Logan’s eyes flutter in a fatigued attempt to stay awake, and the nausea creeps its way into his stomach once again like a predator stalking its prey. Deceit repositions himself quietly, pulling the smaller side impossibly closer, as if he knows that he’ll need the added comfort. With his body squished into a protective embrace, and his tie laying flat on the floor below, forgotten and scorned for what it represents, Logan swallows hard around the sharp block in his neck and nods through his nonverbal affliction.

At the minimal admission, something in Remus’ eyes darkens, bathing the bright craze that typically resides there in something hateful, and vicious, and dripping with chemical absolution. He shifts away, rolls onto his haunches in a way that doesn’t read as entirely intentional, as though he’s been physically forced back with the weight of the confession. There’s so much there, in the way his breath comes out shallow and gravelly and low like a beast biting and snapping at the bars that contain it, fighting against the cage it’s locked inside. Nostrils flare, and jaw sets, and fists clench white as bone, and Remus straightens up to his full height, intimidating and looming and dangerous.

“Who?” he spits, venom coursing through the single word in molten streams. It’s a protective fire, serious in a way Remus rarely is, and the storm in his eyes and aura only becomes more turbulent and intense and solid as he reaches behind himself to slowly seize his morning star from where he keeps it at the ready. Pulling it to the front of him is an unexpectedly slow event, yet still ferocious in its quiet, cold fervour. The silver weapon swings in a steady arc around the side of Remus’ body, catching the dim light in a threatening glint, the gleam alluding to its deadliness in a way that’s almost unexplainable. The spiked mace finally comes to its resting point, hovering in the air just beside the fierce side’s leg, unassuming and ready to drive its way into an unlucky antagonist’s skull.

“I’ll cut their fucking throats. I’ll rip off every single limb from their bodies until they’re nothing but a pile of flesh and blood. They’re gonna pay for this,” Remus snarls, each threat bathed in acrimony and malice and choked by fury ripping through the tempest. Logan stares through misty eyes, half-lidded and concerned but too out of it to muster much of a coherent thought. Thankfully, Deceit is still there, soft and warm and well-equipped to deal with Remus and his behaviour. The snake-like side sighs, reaching out to just barely snatch up a frilly black sleeve, tugging him closer and meeting surprisingly little resistance despite the rigidity of the tallest side’s posture. Each breath from Remus comes out like a bullet, brisk and arduous and punctuated by a pang of impermeable guilt.

Even as Deceit motions Remus to lower himself onto the bed in front of them, the latter of the two is still apprehensive, terse movements and restless eyes that flit between anything and everything they can to avoid stagnation. It’s almost fearful, in a way, primal in its aptitude to think, and cultivate, and vindicate a wrongdoing that was never his fault or responsibility in the first place. Logan hates that they need to save him, hates that he doesn’t truly believe they actually care. There’s a level of certainty with himself and with others that the logical side hasn’t reached yet, and it feels too close and yet too far, kept obscure and secluded and almost clandestine in the way it’s ostensibly unreachable.

With the help of Deceit’s hand to guide his way, Remus slowly lets go of his morning star, tossing it to the side with a pensive, trembling swallow. It clatters to the ground, metallic clang resounding in vibrations, tilde-shaped waves that bounce off the façade and yell out to one another. Muted shrieks upon perfect, flat, neutral paint, sepulchral oscillations attacking the drywall.

“You can’t hurt them. I know you’re angry. I am too. But hurting them won’t solve anything, Rem, you know that more than anyone,” Deceit says meaningfully, smiling in a way that’s sad and distant but caring and compelling and relaxing for the tension wrapped so tightly around the three of them. The snake-like side lifts the hand that’s not in Logan’s hair and reaches out to grab Remus’ own, firmly but gently as he squeezes his fingers in a way that reassures, and consoles, and reprimands, not unkindly. He admonishes, and breaks that anger and frustration, and builds up positivity and alleviation and reprieve from everything that allows that buzzing, ticking, those pinpricks upon pinpricks. His care and concern washes over you, paternal in a different way than Patton operates, and it’s why Deceit is so comforting to be around. He manages a respite from vexation, a refuge in sanctuary, discreet freedom for the flawed, defeated dreamer.

“I’m mad. I’m mad that they hurt you, Lo-Lo. I want them to feel the pain you’re feeling,” Remus mutters, frigid and defeated, head bowed and gaze distant in that transparent manner of his that easily broadcasts all of his thoughts and feelings and wishes. Logan feels the pride welling up in his chest without even realizing it, quietly delighted at the progress Remus has made in being clear and forthcoming with his emotions and impulsivity. A weary grin makes its way onto his face, predictably aggravating the soreness in his cheeks, yet he finds himself indifferent to it, unperturbed by the plight that’s ravaged his body for the day, and probably longer without his notice. He wants to reassure the younger twin, to smile and laugh and brush all of it off, but his eyelids droop, and a pathetic mewl is the only thing able to escape his lungs. Of course, since there’s something Logan wants to say, Deceit somehow knows how to communicate it, just as prompt and courteous and perceptive as always.

“We can talk about this later after Logan has slept. Don’t worry too much, Rem, and don’t do anything stupid. If you get angry again, please go to your paints instead of your legs,” Deceit instructs, more of a suggestion than a demand, but he hopes Remus will listen and be mindful anyway. The latter of the two bounces his leg anxiously, grumbling unintelligibly under his breath as he stands up in one swift, fluid motion. As Remus makes his way over to exit the room, Logan nudges Deceit’s hand with his head gently, trying to bring his attention back to the massaging motion that ceased sometime during the conversation. The snake-like side’s eyes flick downward to meet the smaller side’s own half-lidded, teetering gaze, and he huffs a laugh after a moment of searching. Logan doesn’t know what he finds, but he realizes that he doesn’t really care that much about worrying over every little interaction anymore.

Remus finally turns and glances back as he swings the door open, brows still furrowed and shoulders still hunched, but simply shakes his head and leaves. The door closes much softer than before, thankfully, so as not to be too harsh on Logan’s migraine, an unusually conscientious thought from someone that rarely shows consideration to the needs of others that the logical side appreciates that much more. As the sound of Remus’ footsteps slowly fade with his retreat down the hallway, the two of them left are bathed in silence, one that is marginally less heavy and thick than before.

A small while passes afterward, only punctuated by soft breathing and light scratching noises from nails trailing through messy hair. Logan feels like he might pass out any minute, what with the comfortable, quiet understanding the two have come to rest at, but some part of him says to wait, to push through the mind-numbing exhaustion for just a little while longer. That part of him is probably just being considerate toward Deceit, who Logan can’t imagine would be very comfortable with another side falling asleep on him and laying on him for an extended period of time, but he figures that it’s a good of a reason as any. It’s not about him feeling like a burden. It’s not.

Eventually, Deceit must start to get tired as well, or maybe he’s sore from Logan’s weight on his legs, so he sits forward, apologizing quietly for disturbing the peace, and he moves them into a more comfortable position. The new arrangement is far more snug and cozy than the previous one, Logan thinks drowsily, as his head hits the pillow across from Deceit. They lay there on top of the blankets but make no move to pull them up, just content to stare lazily at one another in the dim, ambient light cast by the desk lamp in the opposite corner of the room.

“Why?” Logan finally asks, and although he loathes disrupting the silence, he needs to ask. The words are scratchy in his tender throat, a charcoal whisper on a steel canvas that scratches and sketches away with nothing viable left to keep through the wind that blows the dark dust off the surface. “Why are you helping me? Why do you care?”

Deceit just hums, sending Logan a weak, distracted smile. He mulls over the words, tossing about the meaning and possibilities in his head and on his silver tongue, rushing in an uncertain river through valleys of golden sand.

“I am self-preservation at its core. I exist to keep Thomas safe and healthy and thriving, and that also means you and the other sides by extension. But… it’s not just that. Even though I feel physical pain whenever one of you or Thomas is hurt, I specifically want to help you because… I care about you, Logan. I love you, and want to see you healthy and happy. I haven’t really been doing a good job of that lately,” Deceit mutters, gaze somewhere on their shared pillow, and there’s a quality to his tone that’s bitter beyond the line of frustration. Although Deceit doesn’t expand on it, doesn’t offer up a single clarification despite the heavy air and his resigned demeanour, Logan gets it. He understands, and he wants to prove him wrong.

So he does.

And that comes in the form of surging forward, fighting against the current, the pinpricks in his stomach and shoulders and abdomen, disregarding the exhaustion for just a little while longer so that he can let Deceit’s lips meet his own. Logan’s so close he can feel the shocked rush of air leave Deceit’s nose, feel the vibrations through the air as his body trembles in fear and anticipation and relief. The other side eases in, sinks closer, closer, and finally moves his lips in a careful, emotional dance that leaves Logan dizzy and breathless, for entirely different reasons that have plagued him for the past day.

“Lo,” Deceit breathes, low, wanting, and he pulls back to give Logan a chance to catch up. A scaled hand comes up to caress the logical side’s cheek, a soothing, cool balm for the raw skin beginning to heal there. “I didn’t… I didn’t think…”

“I love you,” Logan breathes, the words he’s refused to say, to acknowledge, to confront welling up through his throat and for the first time, he lets them spill out. The dam has broken, debris left to descend and submerge in the depths of the sentiment crashing through in a roaring, passionate rapid at the narrowest point yet. The words come, and they don’t stop, and Logan almost can’t believe how right they feel on his tongue. “I love you, I love you, I–I love you so much, Dee.”

Logan is like a rubber band, pulled taut and still and trembling under the pressure. And maybe he’ll split, shoot apart, torn in two pieces that will never fit back together again. But maybe he won’t. Maybe instead of snapping in half, he’ll snap back, and that thought alone gives him a quiet comfort that he’s not used to allowing himself. He’s waiting, hoping, and he’s okay enough for now.

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