#and didn't feel a sliver of fatigue

[shadow4-1]

Just thinking about the "there's only one bed" trope with Ghost.

Like, you're traveling as an undercover duo and it's raining and you've been hopping borders by car for days without a break. So you stop at some rinky-dink bed n' breakfast. You're both just so goddamn tired that neither one of you cares as you strip and roll into the queen sized bed together.

At first you feel sticky with fatigue and the sweat still drying in your skin from the stuffy car. But after a few minutes you realize Ghost didn't turn the heater on, so both of you get chilly 'neath the duvet. Despite it though, you feel safe. It takes a little bit for you to get warm, your body is stiff but every second you lay there under the blanket you feel your muscles slowly unwinding.

You wake up the next morning clear headed and completely embarrassed to be pressed up against his bare chest. His heartbeat is strong and unrelenting. You try to pretend like you're not hearing it, but he shifts.

A sliver of sunlight peeks in through the tiniest gap in the drapes. You admire the way the light turns Ghost's half lidded eyelashes a bright white. His expression is unreadable, but somehow you know it's nothing but fondness.

[certifiedcodbabygirl]

Simon Riley crying and praying for the first time in years bc you're hospitalized

(self indulgent as fuck, based off of personal medical history bc it'll be more accurate)

You hadn't ate or drank for 5 days, unable to keep anything down. You thought it was the flu at first. Fevers, puking, extreme fatigue. It didn't seem like anything out of the norm. Except for when your fevers started casing full body convulsions that made you look possessed. Chills and cold sweat turned to groaning and crying, muscles all over cramping and clenching, breathing becoming difficult. You figured it was because you hadn't had the flu in years. How wrong you had been.

Once your puke turned green, which was later found out to be bile from your kidneys, Simon rushed you to the hospital. Unable to stand, he pulled a wheelchair from the entrance and pushed you everywhere. Within 2 hours, the nurses had you admitted and on IV meds. Pain meds, IV Tylenol, and bags of fluid were hooked up to you, rehydrating you being high priority. Your body is in shock, resting heartrate being 140. He sat by your side the entire time, holding your puke bag in one hand, and your hair back in the other. The doctors drew blood, running blood cultures, searching for a more accurate answer.

The night you were admitted, they informed you that your kidneys were so infected that one got injured. The bile that was thrown up was caused but how hard you were puking, pulling it up from your kidneys.

He stayed the night, sleeping in the rocking chair, right next to your bed. He woke up when your fevers came back, holding your hand and telling you how good you're doing, calling in a nurse. The morning that followed, he had to go back to the house to make a bag of your immediate needs, clothes, deodorant, hairbrush, and anything else he could think of. When he came back, a doctor and a couple med students came in with important news.

"We ran blood cultures to see if there was possible an infection in your blood due to your symptoms leaning towards that. They came back positive. We are going to give you antibiotics and run cultures every 12 hours to track if the antibiotics are working" The doctor says as gently as possible.

The room begins to feel like it's spinning. Sepsis has a 68% mortality rate, and knowing how deadly it is, it feels like you're already being buried. Simon looks to you with a confused look, not knowing exactly what that it, but knowing it isn't good.

"I have sepsis?" You ask in a quiet voice, throat constricting.

"Yes" The doctor says softly.

"Oh fuck I'm gonna die" you whisper under your breath, tears forming.

Simon looks to you, eyes widening. 'Not again'

"Wait, the hell is Sepsis?" He demands, but not sounding confident, more scared than anything.

The doctor explains it to him, how it when your blood is infected, how the infection can latch onto your other organs and slowly kill you from the inside out. Once it reaches your brain, it's too late. His grip on your hand tightens. The doctor tries to give hope, but she can only do so much without lying. She leaves to give you privacy.

It's silent, neither of you speaking out of shock. The only noise in the room is the quiet hum of the IV machine and Simon's shaky breathing. Your thumb softly glides back and forth over the back of his hands, trying to ground him.

"Si" you softly call.

It takes hour to get him to loosen up a little. It's only when you manage to keep down a popsicle that he feels like he can breath a little easier. Like maybe you'll be part of the 32% that pull through.

That sliver of hope is crushed that night, being woken up by his arm being slapped repeated by you in a panic. His eyes meet yours, concern instantly written on his face. Your hand is on your chest as short, sharp breaths are the only thing you can manage.

"I,, can't,, breath,," you whisper between breaths, unable to say a sentence in one go.

"Baby it's alright, jus' try to breath wit' me, hm?" he tries to demonstrate slow breathing, mistaking it for a panic attack.

"not a,, panic,, attack,, please,, nurse,," you try to tell him.

He nods in a panic, running out to the nurse station and explaining. They rush in and take your pulse-ox just to see your oxygen percentage is at 86% when it should be above 95%. They try to do the deep breathing again before Simon interrupts them.

"It's not a bloody panic attack, she literally can't breath. Get her oxygen or somethin' before she fuckin' suffocates!"

They put you on oxygen until they can get you an X-ray. The nurses try to chalk it up to a panic attack until in the morning they see you still can't breath. They give you an X-ray and when the results come back, they send the doctor in. She informs you that the nurses gave you too much IV fluid and that caused your organs to swell so much that they pushed up on your lungs, collapsing them by 3/4ths. 1/4th of your lungs are still open and they're going to take you off fluid, start you on exercises to open them back up, and keep you on oxygen.

That's the last straw for Simon. Once you fall asleep for a nap, he heads outside to the bench area and punches a wall. His knuckles split but he barely feels it, ringing in his ears drowning out the surrounding noise. With no one around, he sits on a bend, elbows on knees and face in his hands. His breath picks up as his throat tightens and tears threaten to rip out of him.

"Why would ya let this happen to 'er? Aren't you supposed to be lovin'?" He whispers into the wind, looking up at the sky, "That girl in't like me. She's the fuckin' sunshine in human form and she's on death's bloody doorstep."

Tears cloud his vision, unable to keep it in any longer. He blinks them away, falling onto his clenched fists. Years of praying, to a god he later grew to resent, for him to fix his family. A child kneeling at his bed, begging him to get his family out of his father's grasp. Once he got to his teenage years, his desperation became resentment and anger. His jaw began to clench when his drunken father would spew bible verses at him to condemn him. He realized God wouldn't save him, nor would he when Simon's family was ripped from him.

Yet here he was, back to that same god, desperate that maybe, just maybe, he'd have mercy on him this time. He believed himself a rotten man, even if it was subconscious, unworthy of the angel sent to him. His light, reparations for the mistreatment The Father had destined for him.

"You sent 'er to me, it's gotta be for a reason. You've never listened to my prayers before but just this fuckin' once, please don't ignore me." His voice breaks, openly sobbing with no sound, "You sent 'er to me and now I can't live without 'er. She's fuckin' everythin' to me. Don't take back your gift, please" The end of his sentence slips into a whisper.

He wipes his tears on his sleeve and sniffles hard, trying to erase the evidence of his vulnerability. He stands and walks to the door, looking back at the bench before turning back to the door and walking in. 'Amen'

[moonsandmobilityaids]

Muggle Pills

Pairings: Poly!marauders x disabled!reader Summary: The boys learn what your pills do. Warnings: Mentions of seizures, depression and suicidal thoughts Series Masterlist

You sit cross-legged on the plush carpet of your bedroom floor, a small pile of pill boxes scattered around you. Your fingers move with practiced ease as you sort the pills into their respective compartments in a weekly divider—Monday through Sunday, morning, noon, and night.

It's a routine task, one that offers a strange sense of solace amidst the chaos of everything else. Plus, it saves you from the struggle of prying open blister packs every day.

Around you, the Marauders lounge about as if this were any other lazy afternoon. Sirius flips idly through a Quidditch magazine, his brows furrowing at an article about the latest racing broom. James lies sprawled out across your bed, tossing a Quaffle up and down while he debates strategy. Remus sits quietly in a corner, engrossed in a book, a sliver of sunlight illuminating the dust motes dancing around him. Your room has become their second home, just as comfortable and familiar as their dormitory.

They've grown accustomed to these quiet moments together, each occupied with their own thoughts or interests. And yet today, something shifts. A question hangs in the air, unspoken but palpable.

James is the first to break the silence, his voice cutting through the soft hum of activity. "Y/N?" He pauses, catching himself before the words tumble out unchecked. His gaze flickers over to where you sit, still dividing your medication for the week ahead. "Why... why do you take all those? Like, on top of the potions?"

For a moment, time seems to stretch thin, the seconds elongating as you weigh your answer. They've seen you like this before—pills in hand, water glass nearby—but never asked. Not until now. Something about the directness of the question gives you pause, but then you realize: they deserve to know. Especially now, when lines have blurred and friendships have blossomed into something more intimate, more profound.

"Right," you begin, letting out a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding. Your fingers trace the edge of the first pill box—a small, round tablet that's more crucial to your daily life than any potion or spell could ever be. "This one is for my blood pressure."

James, Sirius and Remus lean in closer, their attention rapt despite the seemingly mundane topic. The significance isn't lost on them; every detail about you feels important now, woven into the fabric of their care.

"It's always been too low," you explain, eyes downcast as if you're sharing some great secret. Perhaps it is, in its own way. An admission of frailty, of the battle you wage within your body each day. "If I don't take this, I get dizzy... faint sometimes."

A flicker of understanding passes across James's face, then Sirius's. They've seen you like that before, pale and unsteady in the corridors during your early years at Hogwarts. At the time, they'd chalked it up to nerves or fatigue—anything but a chronic condition. But now...

"Wait," Sirius says, his voice rough with concern. "Are those fainting spells why you had to go back to the hospital wing so often?"

You nod, a hint of relief washing over you. It's easier than you thought it would be, opening up about this part of your life. Maybe because they listen without judgement, accepting each revelation as another piece of the puzzle that is you.

"Yes. That was before I started taking this," you say, tapping the pill box lightly.

Sirius leans back slightly, processing this new information with a furrowed brow. He opens his mouth to speak again, but Remus beats him to it.

"Do you still feel like you might pass out even with the medication?" His tone is gentle yet probing, respectful of your boundaries but curious all the same.

"Sometimes." You shrug, trying to downplay the gravity of what living with such unpredictability means. "But it's better than before."

Remus nods, storing away this tidbit of knowledge like he does with everything else. He understands, perhaps better than anyone, what it means to navigate the world with a body that doesn't quite cooperate. And while your experiences are vastly different, there's a silent kinship in shared struggle—a bond forged through resilience and endurance.

"Next is this one." Your fingers move to a different compartment, closing around another pill. "It's for my heart rate."

Their brows furrow almost in unison, confusion etching lines across their young faces. You suppose it must be strange for them, hearing about the inner workings of your body when all they've ever known are charms and potions, Quidditch injuries and common colds.

"But isn't that connected to your blood pressure?" James asks, his forehead creased as he tries to make sense of it all.

"In a way, yes," you explain, appreciating his attempt to understand. "But while the first medication helps raise my blood pressure, this one keeps my resting heart rate from getting too high."

"That doesn't sound pleasant," Sirius chimes in, leaning back against the couch with a sigh. Although he's always been more comfortable with banter than serious conversations, there's an earnestness in his expression that speaks volumes about how much he cares.

"It's not something I feel most of the time," you admit, setting the second pill aside. "I don't really notice unless I forget to take it or if I'm especially stressed out. But without it, my heart behaves like I'm running even when I'm sitting still."

You let the implication hang in the air, a testament to the silent battles waged beneath your skin. A hush falls over the room, punctuated only by the occasional crackle of the fire. The boys exchange glances, each processing your revelation in their own way. From the corner of your eye, you see James run a hand through his already messy hair, a gesture betraying his unease.

"I remember once," you begin again, your voice barely above a whisper, "I got a concussion in school, no big deal but headed the A&E to be checked out, and I ended up being admitted because my heart rate was over 180 beats per minute and wouldn't come down. They were so alarmed, kept asking me if I felt okay..."

The memory is vivid, etched into your mind with sharp clarity. The steady beep of monitors, the worried faces of doctors—reminders of just how fragile human bodies can be.

"And did you?" Sirius interrupts, his grey eyes reflecting the flickering flames.

"Did I what?"

"Feel okay? Or were you..." He trails off, unable to finish the sentence. It's clear to see why; the notion of such turmoil within you, unbeknownst to them until now, is unsettling to say the least.

"I mean, my head was killing me but otherwise, I felt fine," you state, "but that doesn't mean it's safe to ignore."

There's a pause as they digest your words, the gravity of what you're sharing settling heavy in the silence. Remus shifts slightly beside you, his gaze thoughtful. As ever, he seems to carry an understanding beyond his years—a quiet wisdom born from living in the shadows.

"When we were in the hospital wing together in first and second year—you know, after the full moon and your... episodes," he begins cautiously, mindful of the delicate territory he's treading on. "Was this part of it? Your heart thing?"

You shake your head, offering him a small smile. "While I did have the heart rate as a problem, that's not why I was there."

Remus nods slowly, absorbing this new information. His brow furrows, not in judgement but in concern—a silent question lingering behind his amber eyes. How much more is there to learn?

"Right," you say, moving on to the next pill. It's a small orange capsule and looks innocuous enough, but its role is no less vital than the others. "This one's for my epilepsy."

"Epilepsy?" James blurts out, his eyes widening at the revelation.

The room goes quiet, save for the crackling of the fire in the background. Sirius and James exchange glances, their expressions mirroring the unease that hangs in the air.

You nod, acknowledging his surprise with a wry smile. "It helps prevent seizures. But it's not foolproof. I regularly have atonic seizures still, they only last a few seconds and nothing needs to be done with those. I don't really have big ones anymore, but when I get sick or stressed—or before I got my implant, when I had my period—I can still have them."

"How long have you..." James starts, then clears his throat, struggling to find the right words. "How long have you had epilepsy?"

"Basically my whole life," you answer simply. "But it's mostly managed now. The stress of exams and assignments can trigger the big seizures sometimes, but most people don't notice."

Sirius frowns, running a hand through his hair. "Have you had any since getting with us?"

"I mean, I've had little ones but not any big ones." You reach over to squeeze his hand reassuringly before letting go. "But during last year, I did have several because of the stress of OWLs."

His grip tightens around yours, concern etched into every line of his face. It's strange, seeing Sirius so unguarded, his usual bravado replaced by raw vulnerability. But then again, nothing about this situation is ordinary.

"You never told us," James says quietly, meeting your gaze with an intensity that leaves no room for doubt. He's not accusing, merely stating a fact—one that seems unthinkable given how close you all are.

"I didn't want to worry you, you were just my friends then," you admit, looking down at your hands. "Besides, you three were so focused on your own exams. You wouldn't have noticed even if you tried."

There's truth to your words, but they do little to ease the guilt that flashes across James's features, and Sirius remains silent, his grey eyes clouded with thought. Both boys are processing this new information, trying to reconcile the image of you—a force of nature, unbowed despite everything—with the reality of your condition.

Remus, who has been listening silently, finally speaks up. "I remember... those nights in the hospital wing when we were younger. I'd be in there because of the full moon, you'd be there because of a seizure…"

"Or worse," you say, almost to yourself. "To be honest, I was also there because no one trusted that I wouldn't try to kill myself, and no healer or doctor would give an 11-year-old birth control for their PMDD. I got the implant at 14, and the seizures went away with my period, as did the temptation to kill myself."

James blinks, stunned into silence. "I never knew any of this," he says at last, his voice barely above a whisper.

"By the time we became proper friends, I already had the implant. There was no reason to tell you about something that was no longer a problem." You give him a reassuring smile.

James nods slowly, although the concern has not entirely left his eyes. Sirius, too, seems pensive as he stares into the fireplace, blowing out a slow breath. Only Remus appears unchanged, his expression calm and thoughtful, as if the revelations were expected.

"Right," you say, taking a deep breath as you reach for the final pill box, a small white container that holds a different kind of lifeline. "This one's my antidepressant."

The change in atmosphere is almost palpable as James and Sirius stiffen beside you. Remus, ever the stoic observer, merely watches.

"Is that... because of everything else?" asks Sirius tentatively, his grey eyes searching yours for answers. You can tell he's treading carefully now, aware that this conversation has ventured into territory far more delicate than any duel or prank gone wrong.

"Yeah," you reply, letting out a long exhale. "It helps manage the lows, but it's not foolproof. Nothing really is."

James's thumb brushes over the back of your hand, tracing patterns there as if trying to will away the pain etched between your words. He doesn't speak, but his silence carries its own weight, heavy with understanding.

"You're not always..." James starts, then stops, uncertain how to phrase his question without sounding insensitive.

"Depressed?" you finish for him, offering a wry smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. "Not always, no. But when I am... well, let's just say it's better for everyone involved that I have these."

Your fingers tap against the pill bottle, the sound echoing lightly through the room.

A moment passes before Sirius breaks the silence. "And do they work? The pills, I mean." There's a hopeful note to his voice, laced with a quiet desperation that mirrors the way his eyes never leave your face.

"For the most part," you admit. "But like I said, they're not perfect. They help keep things under control, but they don't make my symptoms go away entirely. And some days are harder than others."

You pause, considering how best to explain what living with depression feels like—the relentless heaviness that often threatens to pull you under despite the medication designed to keep you afloat.

"It's like walking through a storm," you say finally. "Most days, the meds are like a good coat—they keep the worst of the rain off. But sometimes the storm gets too strong, and all the coat can do is stop you from getting completely soaked."

"Merlin," James breathes, running a hand through his hair as he processes your words. "Have you been dealing with all this since..."

"Birth?" you supply, nodding once. "Pretty much, yeah."

"Since you were a baby?" Sirius asks, his voice rough with disbelief. "How long have you been taking all these pills?"

"I was little when I was put on the epilepsy meds," you admit, "but the others were added as new conditions developed."

"And what happens if you forget to take one?" James's tone is gentle, but there's an underlying urgency that betrays his worry. "What's the worst that could happen?"

"Well, missing a dose here and there isn't the end of the world, usually." You shrug, trying to make light of it, though the truth is more complex. "But if I go too long without them... Let's just say it can lead to some serious complications."

Remus watches you, his gaze steady and thoughtful. "It must be exhausting," he says quietly, "keeping track of all this, making sure you're always taking the right thing at the right time. Especially with the potions you use for your pain."

"It's a lot," you agree, not seeing any point in denying it. "But the alternative..." Your voice trails off as you picture yourself without the medication: the pain, the fatigue, the despair. "Let's just say I'm grateful for muggle and wizarding medicine, even if it doesn't fix everything."

The words hang heavy in the air, a quiet echo of your confession ringing in the stillness of the room. The boys sit with straight spines and furrowed brows, each processing what you've just shared in their own way. For a moment, no one speaks, the silence filled only by the crackling fire and the soft patter of rain against the window.

The world of pills and doctors is foreign to them, so far removed from the magical healing they know. They are warriors in their own right, but this is a battle they do not understand, cannot see. It's in the lines that etch deeper into Sirius' forehead, the way his fists clench at his sides—not with anger towards you, but with a burning frustration for an enemy he cannot confront.

"I can't believe we didn't know," James finally breaks the silence, his voice barely above a whisper. It's not an accusation, merely a statement laced with self-reproach. But there's no need for you to respond; the truth of it hangs in the air around you. How could they have known? You've become a master at concealing the extent of your pain, hiding behind masks of normalcy even when your body screamed otherwise.

Sirius shifts slightly, and his voice is quiet when he finally breaks the silence, a note of confusion threading through the words.

"Why didn't you say something before?" It's not an accusation, just a question born from concern and a hint of hurt. Sirius has never liked being left in the dark, especially when it comes to those he cares about.

"I didn't want to worry you," your voice barely rises above a whisper, carrying with it a weight that sinks into the silence of the room. "And knowing doesn't change anything." You glance at them, each face mirroring the gravity of your confession. "It's not like any of you can fix it."

James looks as if he wants to argue, to insist that there must be something they can do. But he remains silent, understanding—for now—the boundaries you've put in place. Relief briefly washes over you, even as you see the frustration flicker in his hazel eyes. James has always been a man of action, someone who leaps forward to shield those he loves from harm. To know there's a wound he can't mend must feel like salt on an open cut.

"I don't need you to fix it," you say gently, guessing his thoughts. "I just need you to understand."

Remus nods, his face softening as he speaks for the first time in a while. "And we do," he says quietly, his voice calm and reassuring. "Or at least, we're starting to."

There's a pause as the four of you absorb this shared understanding, a quiet acknowledgement that hangs in the air like a promise. You can almost feel the shift in the room, tangible and real, a subtle strengthening of the bonds between you. They may not fully comprehend your reality, but they're reaching out, trying to bridge the gap. And for now, at least, it's enough.

The fire dances in the hearth, painting the room with flickering shadows and bathing you all in its comforting glow. For a moment, everything else falls away, leaving only the crackling flames, the soft murmur of conversation, and the sense of peace that seems to settle over the world outside.

You finish sorting your pills into their designated compartments, the rhythm of the task grounding you. The lid of the weekly pill organizer closes with a satisfying click, a small victory against the chaos that often threatens to consume you. It’s a simple act, but in these uncertain times, even the smallest semblance of control is a lifeline.

James, ever the man of action even in stillness, shifts on the bed, leaning closer. His voice is a low rumble, steady and sure. "You know we're here, right?" It's not just a question—it's a tether, a lifeline thrown out to you in the darkness. And it's a promise, one that James Potter has every intention of keeping.

Sirius doesn't let himself be left behind, his own hand reaching out to touch yours lightly. There's something almost reverent in the gesture, as if he's afraid you'll shatter at a heavier touch. "We're not going anywhere." The words hang in the air, solidifying into a pact made of iron will and unyielding loyalty. His grey eyes are hard with resolve, the decision made long before the words had even left his lips: He will stay by your side, through this and whatever comes next.

Remus doesn't say anything more, but the silence that stretches between you is far from empty. His gaze never wavers, each exhale a testament to the quiet vigil he keeps. He understands, perhaps better than anyone, the battles waged in silence, the wars fought within oneself. And though he doesn't speak, his presence is a constant reassurance—there, always there, offering strength when yours threatens to wane.

[sunflowersandsapphires]

A Hint of Lovely Oblivion

pairing: Frank Castle x fem!reader 

summary: After a week of sleeping terribly, Frank makes an effort to help you get the rest you deserve.

warnings: Swearing, fluff, caring Frank, this is not medical advice

a/n: I wrote this for my lovely bestie @madschiavelique who wanted some Frankie comfort. As someone who deals with insomnia pretty regularly, this was very cathartic! I hope you all enjoy. A huge thank you to my other bestie @gracethyomen for beta-ing and helping me plan this fic!

w/c: 4.6k

Inhaling deeply, the frigid air of the room made your nose twitch. Sliding as deep as you could into the blanket pile while maintaining your seated position, you bit your lip, shifting the pad of paper on your lap and craning your neck once again. While your duvet provided an excellent shield to lock in heat, your shoulders inevitably poked out whenever you weren’t fully horizontal, leaving your body to sit in a temperature regulation purgatory; your consciousness rumbled uneasily as the hair on the back of your neck refused to flatten, your brain torn between making you shiver or letting you sweat. The position was far from comfortable—but being awake all night made comfort an unattainable goal for you anyways.

It had been days since you’d slept through the night. You were no stranger to insomnia, you’d been cursed with it your entire life, but lately it had dug its malicious claws into your chest with the violence of a starving feral animal. Your bed, which used to be a haven of rest and relaxation, was now a space that you avoided at all costs—the wonderfully soft pillows and warm blankets mocking you as they sat untouched well into the night, fatigue never overtaking you when you needed it to. For the first few nights of your ongoing battle with sleeplessness, you’d crawl under the covers anyway, praying to any deity listening that the weight and heat of the fabric would force your eyelids to close—but it never did.

Sighing as your pencil tip snapped, you closed your eyes, letting your breath rest in your lungs for a moment before exhaling again; apparently your frustration with your own hormone production created a physical pressure on the lead of your pencil. Picking up a fresh one from your nightstand, you did your best to clean up the smear of graphite from the impact of the broken point.

Turning your attention back to the subject of your sketch, you chewed your lip to stifle a smile. Despite the thick curtains your partner had insisted on, a sliver of moonlight illuminated the massive man slumbering beside you, quietly snoring away—completely oblivious to the inspiration he'd given you. The feather-light moon beams shone through his tousled hair, creeping down over his face, which was adorably mashed against his singular pillow. Considering that he'd turned up a handful of hours ago drenched in other people's blood, it was downright ironic to be calling him “adorable” as he slept—but you couldn't shake the giddy feeling that always bubbled up when you saw his face so lax with sleep. His expression was so uncharacteristically peaceful, it never failed to make you happy.

Sure, not sleeping sucked. You'd be plagued with jaw-cracking yawns and mild memory loss in the morning, just like yesterday and the day before that. Having the opportunity to watch Frank sleep soundly, didn't make up for the fact that you'd accidentally put orange juice in your coffee yesterday, but it made the build up of irritation much easier to bear. Which is why you'd decided to memorialize it in your sketchbook.

Studying the map of shadows on Frank's handsome face, you scratched the pencil over the thick paper, the rasping sound soothing the constant buzzing in your brain. Scrunching your nose as you tried to smooth out the sketch in front of you, you nearly jumped out of your skin when he spoke.

“Why're you up, darlin'?” His voice was rough with exhaustion. Noticing your wide eyes and ragged inhale, a large hand slid up to rest on your thigh. “Sorry, didn't mean to scare ya.”

”It's alright, Frankie. I wasn't paying attention.“ You tried to laugh, but the sound died in your throat.

His hand stroked over your leg as he waited for you to answer his question. Instead, your eyes remained trained on the book across your lap, pencil moving fluidly through the silence. Tracing a thumb over your warm skin, Frank frowned. “Ya didn't answer my question, sweetheart.”

“Hmm?” Your tone was innocent, but the way your eyes remained glued to your work was enough to tell him you had definitely heard the question.

Squeezing your thigh with a yawn, Frank tried not to groan as he dragged himself up to sit next to you. His movement finally captured your attention, your brow furrowing as you set your pencil aside. “What are you doing?”

Giving what he hoped was a nonchalant shrug, Frank slid an arm around your shoulders and pressed a kiss to your temple. ”Sittin' with my girl. That a crime now?“

Smiling despite the guilt flaring in your chest, you shoved at his solid torso feebly. ”Go back to sleep, Frankie. I'm sorry I woke you. I can—“ Shuffling in your seat, you tilted towards the edge of the mattress, fully intending to relocate to a different room so that Frank could go back to bed. Foiling your plan, Frank's arms held fast against your teetering, pulling you flush against his chest.

”Don't you dare.“ He growled, chin resting atop your crown.

”Frank! I didn't even finish my thought,“ You wriggled against his hold, your brain torn between reacting with endearment or annoyance over being imprisoned by his strength. “Let me go, you...you...butthead.” Whining at your own lackluster insult, you buried your face in Frank's neck as he chuckled.

“Fuck, sweetheart. Ain't gotta go for my throat like that.” Frank murmured smugly. You could envision his shit-eating smirk despite it being out of your line of sight.

”Shut up,“ You muttered, a tiny smile gracing your lips against your will. Your body trembled as Frank shook with rumbling laughter. Drawing you into his arms, Frank set your legs over his lap, positioning you towards the windows. The gusting heat from the vent closest to your bed ruffled the fabric covering the panes, the pale glowing rays of moonlight fluttering over your knees as the drapes shifted. It created a mesmerizing dance of light and dark, captivating you.

”Ya gonna tell me how long you've been sittin' here starin' at me or did ya wanna keep pretendin' you were asleep?” In defense of your ruthlessly persistent boyfriend, it has been said that the third time’s the charm. His tone was as delicate as his gruff voice allowed, the muscles of his jaw and throat rippling against your scalp as he spoke.

Eyes falling closed, you focused on the warmth of Frank’s body surrounding you as you willed the tears pricking your eyes to back down. Another unfortunate side effect of sleep deprivation—your emotions started to go haywire over the littlest things.

It wasn’t that you thought Frank would be angry. Well, it wasn’t the biggest anxiety on your mind, at least. It was more the fear of burdening him with your own issues at all hours when you knew a good night’s sleep was practically a miracle for him. The first night at home after a few weeks away always seemed to make it come easier, but other than that Frank rarely rested. The mere thought of forcing him to sit up with you, especially on the one night this week he’d get a full 8 hours, grabbed your guilty conscience by the throat.

Giving a halfhearted shrug, you caved. “Dunno. Slept for a few hours when we went to bed. Then I got up and...” Trailing off, you gestured to the bed in front of you, which was clearly not being used for sleep.

Frank withdrew from the embrace and your pounding heart sank. You set your jaw, waiting for the frustrated scolding…but it never came. Instead, one calloused finger landed underneath your chin, tilting it upwards as he spoke. “You been awake that long?” His eyes shone with concern, boring ferociously into yours.

Nodding miserably, you swallowed the overwhelming shame crawling up your esophagus before speaking. “I’m sorry, Frank. I tried to sleep, but I just couldn’t—“

Cutting you off with a tender kiss, Frank’s hand moved to cup your cheek. “Nothin’ to be sorry about, honey. Ya shoulda woken me up.”

Looking up at him with glossy eyes, you bit your lip, ”You deserve to sleep uninterrupted. I didn't want to be the one to take that away from you.“

Frank chewed the inside of his cheek as he was overrun with waves of adoration and sympathy for you. How he'd managed to end up with such a considerate partner, he'd never know. Especially when he didn't consistently return the gesture.

He'd come home yesterday and practically collapsed into your arms—ignoring how unsteady your balance seemed when you dragged him into the apartment, blaming it on his own weight. You'd patched him up sweetly, as you always did, and Frank hadn't thought twice about the fact that you'd had to leave the room three times to get the gauze, assuming your memory had just been shaken by his battered appearance.

Was he truly so wrapped up in his own bullshit that he hadn't noticed the sunken crescents underneath your eyes? They were so prominent now, stark sepia bruises on your otherwise even skin. It must have been days since you slept properly. Beside himself with worry, his thumb traced the indent under your left eye. ”Shit sweetheart...“

”I'm—“ You started to apologize, but it stuck in your throat when Frank shook his head.

”Hey, none of that. Don't wanna hear it, ok?” You nodded in response to his gentle command, sitting there quietly as he schemed. “Are you tired at all?”

The pitiful shake of your head seemed to make up his mind.

Unwinding from you, he raised his arms above his head in a stretch, moaning as his back popped with the movement. Your face scrunched in disapproval, making him grimace sheepishly. “Sorry, honey. Guess I was stiff from drivin' all day.” Without waiting for your response, he slid out of bed. Your brow furrowed as he strode over to the dresser, pulling a shirt over his rumpled hair.

“Get dressed, darlin'. I have an idea.” He called to you over his shoulder as he rummaged for a clean pair of pants. Sighing, you abandoned the bubble of heat surrounding you in bed and headed for the closet.

Despite your grumbles and evident confusion, the two of you were dressed and on the road before the sun even peeked over the horizon. With one hand settled in yours, Frank kept his gaze trained on the road ahead, trying not to laugh at your exasperated questioning and adorable pout. Dragging you out of the house at this hour might not have been his brightest idea—since he normally tried to remain on your good side—but hey, he’d gotten this far without you chewing his head off.

Frank could hardly be considered a morning person, but you were practically nocturnal. Leaving the house before dawn was probably high up on your list of personal hells, but staying in bed when you couldn’t sleep wasn’t a good idea. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard Curtis’s agitated tone.

“For the last time, Frank: staying in bed will make it worse.”

Way back in the day, during his first trip home after going overseas, he’d bugged Curtis relentlessly about his own sleep issues. Maria was tired enough raising a wandering toddler and an imaginative kindergartener, she didn’t need to worry about a restless marine to boot. He’d tried every suggestion under the sun, but sleep still evaded him. Tour after tour, night after night, he’d lay beside his wife in their bed and stare at the ceiling until his alarm went off. After his family died, well…it didn’t exactly get easier to rest.

Despite scouring the internet, a few libraries, and the expanse of Curt’s brain for any possible cures, his sleeplessness persisted. It was a torture he endured for years, and an anguish he wouldn’t wish on anyone but his worst enemies.

Finding out that you also dealt with insomnia was a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, not having to explain his fickle moods and constant absence from the bedroom was a welcomed relief. On the other, seeing the symptoms of sleep deprivation in someone he cared about was an agony worse than an infected bullet wound.

He knew what you were going through all too well, which meant he was determined to try and help. Getting you out of the house was just the first step of his admittedly too-detailed plan.

His lips twitched with a smile as he spotted the building. Turning into the ragged asphalt lot behind the restaurant, he turned his attention to you.

“We’re here, darlin’.”

Raising an eyebrow at him, you remained unimpressed. “A diner?”

Letting out a bark of laughter at your obvious disdain for the activity, Frank pointed a finger at you in warning. “Hey, don’t knock it til ya try it, sweetheart.” His exaggerated stern expression broke through your apprehension, your lips turning upwards into a fond smile.

“There’s my pretty girl.” Frank pressed a kiss to your temple, heart swelling as you leaned into him. “If ya wanna go home, just say the word.”

Biting your lip, you glanced out the window at the electric blue awning extending from the glass doors. The yellow lamp lights lining the sidewalk reflected in your wide eyes as you stared. “No, we can go. I, just…can I ask you a question first?”

“Course, honey. Anythin’.”

“Why here?” Your question was soft, but genuine; your curiosity was outweighing the contempt you’d previously shown for his choice of destination.

Running a hand through his hair, he gave a one-armed shrug. “Fuck, well... ya know I’m no stranger to the whole…not sleepin’ thing. And, uh, back in the early days, when it was real bad for me, I’d come here. We– er– Maria and I, we took the kids here a couple of times. Dunno, wanted to remember the good times, I guess, and it became a sort of tradition. Thought it might help you too.”

With a stuttering inhale, you reached for his hand, stroking a finger over his knuckles as you looked up at him shyly. “Thank you for sharing it with me. I didn’t mean to be rude about it, I’m sorry.”

Squeezing your fingers, he could feel heat creeping up his face. “It’s nothin’ sweetheart. Ain’t gotta worry about that.”

Glancing back out the window for a moment, Frank could see the gears turning in your head as you turned back to him with a tiny grin.

“Lead the way?” You asked tentatively.

“For you, sweet girl? Always.” He pressed a kiss to your hand, his stubble scratching at the skin of your fingers.

Frank ushered the two of you inside and into a booth in the back of the diner. The restaurant was lacking in customers, as could be expected given the early hour. While the inky black sky was broken up with dim streetlights outside of the building, the inside was flooded with fluorescent lights--so bright that you had to shield your eyes with a limp hand for a few minutes.

Once your vision adjusted, you had to admit that the energy in the diner was quite nice. The chipped linoleum tiles that lined the floor were a gorgeous cobalt blue. Along the ceiling, large chunks of the roof had been replaced with thick panes of glass, allowing you to watch the clouds float by, the darkness of the night contrasting beautifully with the intense lighting. You and Frank were seated on a worn vinyl booth, the strips of fabric alternating between silver and black. Similar booths wrapped around the space, almost twinkling as you looked at them.

“So,” Frank pushed a mug towards you. “Whaddya think?”

“It's nice.” You murmured, pulling the warm cup closer to yourself. Somehow you'd missed him ordering himself coffee and you a tea in your distracted state.

Frank cocked his head at you, lips turned up in a smug smirk. ”’S that so?“

Smiling into your mug as you took a sip, you retorted. ”Shut up.“

The drink was warm and, thankfully, unsweetened. It's crisp flavor relaxed your shoulders as you sipped, settling your anxious stomach.

“Hope mint is a’right.” Frank spoke quietly, a blush creeping up his face as he studied his own drink.

“You remembered.” You breathed out, taking his hand in yours and squeezing it tightly as your eyes prickled with emotion.

“Course I did.” Frank huffed, draining the rest of his black coffee. You shuddered in distaste and he chuckled, rubbing a thumb over the back of your hand. “You hungry at all?”

Shrugging noncommittally, you worried your bottom lip between your teeth. Frank sighed, but didn't push further on the subject, which you were very grateful for. You'd never explicitly spoken to him about the effect your insomnia had on your eating habits, but--being the observant partner he was--he'd clearly picked up on it anyways. Once your day started with little to no sleep, it was like all of your bodily functions forgot how to...function. Hunger and thirst cues were practically impossible to read, your body and brain battling each other ferociously at every turn. Which, of course, just exhausted you further.

Scrubbing at one eye with the heel of your free hand, you grit your teeth to keep from groaning. Dwelling on how miserable you were going to feel today wouldn't solve anything, it would just worsen your mood.

”Head botherin' ya?“ Frank asked, brow folding in concern as he watched you knead at your forehead.

”No more than usual.“ You cracked a small smile, hoping that didn't sound as sad as you thought it did. “Just...frustrated with myself.”

“I feel ya, sweetheart. Not sleepin' ain't any fun. But I have some ideas, so don't you worry your pretty little head about it, ok?” Frank tangled his fingers with yours, his gaze earnest.

“You get ideas?” You scoffed, grinning when Frank rolled his eyes in return.

“Ya know what? Just for that, I ain't gonna tell ya about 'em.”

“Nooo,” You whined, taking Frank's massive hand in both of yours and pouting at him. ”I was just kidding. Please tell me.“

”Hmm, I dunno. First you insulted the diner, then my intelligence. Seems like you don't want my help, sweetheart.“  Frank withdrew from your grasp, pretending to sulk into his coffee.

Giggling at Frank’s pout, you reassured him. ”No, I do! I do!“

With a sad little shrug, Frank glanced forlornly out the window.

“Please Frankie,” Pleading with your gaze, you tried to keep a straight face.  “You're my only hope.”

Dropping his startlingly believable moping act, Frank cackled. “Ya think you're real clever, don't ya?”

Smirking into your tea, you gulped down the last remnants with a shrug. ”Maybe.“

After your countless apologies for insulting his intellect, Frank finally explained why he'd encouraged–forced–you to leave the house before sunrise. Apparently he'd heard that staying in bed while awake could perpetuate the cycle of sleep deprivation. And, though you were loath to admit it, it seemed to help.

The little excursion definitely lifted your spirits, if nothing else. You were able to admire the sunrise and mess around with Frank without your anxiety skyrocketing because of the city crowds.  It was nice, and you told him such–even at the risk of over-inflating his ego.

His next activity, however, was not as pleasant.

“Are you going to have me carry you around the apartment next?” You groused, hefting the bedframe up so that you could adjust your rapidly loosening grip on the cold metal. This much physical labor on an empty stomach and no sleep was not what you’d had in mind for a relaxing day with Frank. He, however, was insistent on moving the furniture in your room immediately upon your return home. 

“You offerin'?” Frank smirked at you, pretending to set the bed frame down. His eyes glinted with a humor you didn’t share over the current situation. 

“Fuck no.” You muttered, glaring at him until he lifted the majority of the weight once more. Frank laughed deeply. 

“Set it right over here, darlin’. We gotta move your dresser and then we’re all done.”

“You know, if you hated the layout of my room so much, you could’ve told me months ago.” Instead of waiting until I was already reaching my limit. You thought to yourself, not vocalizing that particular vulnerability. 

“And have you put me out on my ass for bein’ so forward? I’d never, sweetheart.” Frank chuckled, adjusting your bed as you collapsed against the mattress with a huff. “I’m teasin’, honey. It’s an old trick Curt told me about. All the rearrangin’ is supposed to help your brain remember how to sleep, or some shit.”

Rubbing at your forehead as the ache that had been plaguing you all day made a sudden resurgence, your limbs instinctively curled into fetal position as a small whimper escaped your lips. 

“It’s helping it remember to bother me is what it’s doing.” You grumbled, gritting your teeth as the pain ebbed and flowed. You knew the more you thought about it, the more it would torture you–but the stabbing sensation was all that your fatigued brain could focus on right now. 

Frank snorted, sitting beside you gingerly and caressing your hunched back with an open palm. “‘M sorry, sweet girl. Let me get ya some meds and you can lie here while I finish movin’ shit around.”

Your body felt like it was aimlessly floating, untethered to the Earth and hurrying to escape the pain so viciously attacking it at the moment. You were so tired. Every blink was a reminder of the heaven that had been ripped from your delicate grasp hours ago because your body couldn’t even function in the way it was designed to. Brow scrunching, you burrowed under the covers with a sigh.

“Ya better not be sleepin’ on me, honey.” Frank murmured as he stepped back into the room. 

“Course not,” You mumbled. “Would never…”

“I know you’re tired, darlin’, but ya gotta stay awake until it’s dark. Naps will just make ya feel worse, trust me.” He trailed a finger down your arm, taking your hand and placing some painkillers into it. Waiting patiently until you begrudgingly dragged yourself into a seated position, Frank smiled softly at you as you popped the pills into your mouth. Holding the glass of water out to you, the Marine squeezed your leg as you drank, tucking his chin over your head as you collapsed wearily into his side.

“The big bad Punisher takes naps? Hard to picture, Frankie.” You teased, your voice morphing into a satisfied hum as he threaded his fingers into your hair. 

Frank scoffed, kissing your crown before returning the jest. “Maybe I should take the vest off before closin’ my eyes next time.” 

You giggled, burying your face into his neck. His warm flesh felt wonderful on your pounding head, soothing the pain behind your eyes with each measured breath. “Do you cuddle your guns like teddy bears?” The question was overtly ridiculous, but Frank loved you enough to entertain it anyway. 

“Course. What else would I do with ‘em?” He asked coyly. 

Looking up at him, the corners of your lips lifted as he pressed a line of gentle kisses down your nose until he reached your lips. 

“If I turn on the TV, are ya gonna pass out on top of me?” He murmured, his stubble scratching your face as he spoke. 

“Wouldn't dream of it, love.” You smiled, pressing a kiss to his sturdy jawline before he stood up to grab the remote. 

If someone would’ve told you a year ago that your next boyfriend could make a bad insomnia week feel tolerable, you never would’ve believed them. But here you were—lying on your stomach completely topless as Frank massaged a lightly scented lotion into your back—feeling pretty comfortable with the whole arrangement. 

After you’d failed to stay awake during the movie you’d picked out, Frank had carted you around town on various errands: picking up groceries, going to the bookstore, and even taking a quick walk around the park to feed the ducks, which he knew you loved. Your body still ached, and your mood still waned, but overall, it was a good day. And all the credit belonged to your incredible partner. 

Groaning appreciatively, it felt like you were melting into the mattress as Frank tenderly stretched your taught muscles, unraveling the knots of stress that had been building up all week. 

Chuckling, Frank pressed a tiny kiss to your bare shoulder. “Glad it feels good, sweetheart.” 

“No, it’s awful,” You lied. “You clearly need more practice..” 

Frank snorted, “Noted. How’re ya feelin’?” 

“Tired.” You sighed, rolling over as Frank handed you one of his tees to sleep in. 

“I bet. We’re on the last leg, sweetheart, almost there.” Frank’s large hands eagerly wrapped around you as you nestled into his side. Cupping your face with one palm, the fingers of his other hand threaded into your hair, detangling it carefully and brushing it off of your face. 

Biting your lip in frustration, and to keep from sighing again, you nodded. Attempting an understanding smile, you poked him in the chest. “I know. Thanks for putting up with my cranky self today.”

“Sweetheart, you can be snappy with me as much as ya want if it means you’ll sleep through the night.” Frank smirked, squishing your cheek as your eyes suddenly blurred with tears. 

“I love you.” You whispered, going limp in his hold as he settled against the pillows. 

“I love you too, darlin’. So much.” Resting your foreheads together, he kissed you delicately and your lashes fluttered. 

“Frankie?” You looked up at him with your practiced ‘doe eyes’ expression that he could never resist.

“Yah?” He raised an eyebrow skeptically.

“Can you read to me?” Batting your lashes, you watched with satisfaction as Frank’s expression softened, your eyes taking in the exact moment he caved to your whims. 

Straightening his posture stoically, he reached over to grab your new book from the nightstand with an exasperated huff. “Oh, I see. This was all a scheme of yours to get me to read to ya? ‘S that it?”

“No…” You giggled, nuzzling into him as he cracked the novel open.

“Sure, sure. You’ll be hearin’ from my lawyer, sweetheart. Think ya owe me compensation.” He winked at you, eyes lingering on your face.

“Honey, before ya drift off, jus’...” Sighing, he stroked a thumb over your cheek. “Just know, if all this doesn’t work, cause it ain’t a cure all, ya know–”

Laying your hand over his, you gave him an encouraging look. He inhaled sharply, thinking about how he wanted to phrase the sentiment. 

“I want you to sleep, darlin’, ya know I do. But if it doesn’t happen tonight, we can always try again, ok?”

Startled by the affection in his tone and his beautiful promise, your face went slack as you nodded. Eyes flitting over your gaze, he nodded curtly once he decided you understood. Returning his attention to the book in his hands, he cleared his throat before beginning to read. His rumbling velvet tone soothed you, your eyes falling closed almost immediately. Here, in the safety of Frank’s arms, surrounded by his beautiful voice and reassured by his adorable promise, you finally felt at peace. Though you knew sleep might continue to evade you, the anxiety you’d felt about your insomnia didn’t feel quite as all-consuming tonight. Whatever happened, Frank would be there. And, for now, that was enough.

Thanks for reading!!

[fukashiin]

a whit of hope — housewardens

❥ twinkling stars, luminescent fairy lights, and a stuffed plushie that sits in silence.

In which you weep in agony in the wake of your mind telling you that you may not be able to ever return to your beloved world that you hold so closely to your heart.

Your quivering soul is ever so grateful that you have the housewardens from the respective dorms to kiss your tears away.

cw: gn reader, self-deprecation, hints of depression, very inconsistent writing style + half beta read

wc: 8k (1000-1530 per chara.)

implied book 3 and 6 spoilers for azul's and idia's piece

Your ears take in the pitter-patter of the rain that resounds outside of Ramshackle dorm. You disassociate into the rather sentimental ambience of the room that you've become familiar with in a matter of time. The stars look particularly brighter tonight, you thought. But is that really something to be happy about at this moment?

Your teary eyes directs to your jagged study desk, with jumbled notebooks that sit open as they washed in the moon's accompanying light that would falter in certain moments. It feels utterly cold, your mind wanders. Your knuckle-swollen hands clutches the wrinkled bedsheets as the semi-busted lamp in your room flickers. You feel yourself looking vacantly at the pent-up vest that hung atop the wardrobe's knob.

You've lost count. How many months, years has it been since your existence from your home world faded into nothingness completely? You wanted to reject reality, smash it into fragments, shout out your thoughts that's been a burden weighing on your shoulders until your body gives in a shuts down.

You gave your word to the headmaster in a heartbeat, that you'd promise to take diligent supervision over Grim until he discovers a way back to the place where your entire being stays loyally rooted to. Your subconscious would always surpress the raging urge to click your tongue bitterly once he resorts to tomfoolery when asked if he has made the necessary arrangements to send you back. The swirling feeling of hatred that stills in your stomach makes you oh-so desperate to just double-over and vomit.

Why? Nobody understands. Not even you have a single clue to why that crow was so stubbornly adamant on keeping you here in an alternate world where you didn't even sense a relevant belonging in. Why, why, why? Teeth clenched, you feel the stars looking down before you as they laugh at your devastated state in mockery.

These deadly thoughts tore your mind to shreds. Will anyone even remember me? What if there's no way to actually return and I'll just have to keep surviving? What if they think I'm just dead by now?

You break. Mentally and physically.

Sight going red, your eyes dart around the dim-lit room to look for something suitable for your—supposed disappearance. You were nearly at your limit. But at the very same time, you were still fortunate enough to have even a microscopic sliver of hope floating in your chest. You heaved a sigh, as you look down at the floor beneath you.

With that, not even the tears could hold itself back anymore. You weep, cry, and beg. Wails getting louder as it echoes hauntingly throughout the room. The sound of your prolonged grief, will ever be rivalled to the roaring waves of the sea.

Until you sense another being approaching closer to your state.

Riddle Rosehearts

"I was wondering who could've been up at 1am in the morning to make such noises," You hear Riddle's muffled, fatigued voice outside of the door that leads straight to your room. He surely must've been off-ing heads left and right, with the swift movement of his magical pen.

You—immediately—to not be heard—seize the pillow by your side to shove your face in, in high hopes that your cries wouldn't be overheard by another living being. Especially Heartslabyul's queen, whose job is to enforce his disciplinary onto those unruly residents who makes zero effort to act in accordance upon the tyrannical rules that were upheld.

Riddle takes your suspicious silence to creak the door open, "Prefect," he lets himself in, "Why are you not in bed yet? And—where is that flaming cat of yours? Isn't he supposed to be with you?"

"In addition.." he thought his eyes were playing a prank on him. Could someone ever be this disorderly? That could compete with a certain two in his dorm for the award-winning prize of the most unmanageable student there is in all of Night Raven College? "What happened to your room?! It's in absolute disarray!"

He, at once, halted his comments as his gaze flickered at your hunched-over figure. Hugging the pillow in a deathly grip, you avoid his eyes as much as you possibly could. Oh, how much of a fool you were to believe that he didn't catch the way you guarded your body as your arms squeeze around the item impossibly tighter.

The dejected state you were in, unknowingly shot a hole through Riddle's heart. Cruel, unforgiving.

Silence quickly dominated the room. To put it simply, Riddle was at an unfortunate lost for words. Have you been crying this whole time without telling a single soul? Why were the velvet strings that were tugging at his heart convulse so violently, as if he was acquainted with the fact of how much of an impact you have made on him after the incident that he was longing to forget? He looks at the way an unforeseen tear drops at the corner of your bloodshot eyes, as it streams down to your chapped lips, decorated ugly in fissured cracks.

He didn't know. He couldn't grasp how his anger turned into sympathy in a matter of seconds. Queries raced through his mind alarmingly. Was it Ace and Deuce again? What exactly was so misfortunate for the uptight prefect that it was able to bring them down to their knees? But you were unaware of a heavily harboured feeling in his heart, an unfamiliar sense of protection that strayed within.

"Who..." Riddle is cautious. He takes a few steps towards you, carefully—as if you're made of some sort of pottery that has been precisely sculptured—but not for this world, since he fears you might back away from his fuming presence, "Who is responsible for this?"

This triggers your fight-or-flight response. You cower away from the redhead apprehensively, scooting closer to the headboard of your bed as your eyes fall shut. What is he possibly planning to do? You couldn't fathom what Riddle's thoughts were at the moment. "Look, I know I stayed up past bedtime but!—"

You feel a certain warmth caress your tear-stained cheeks. "No." 

It was..Riddle? But still, you're scared to open your eyes. You're afraid that he might cast out his magic in a millisecond, using the deceitful look of pity on his face as a chance to discipline you correspondingly. "...I don't care about that."

You peaked a glance at Riddle, slowly opening your left eye, stiff as ever. You wanted to continue your depressive episode, but for an entirely different reason now.

Why was his warmth so comforting? Why isn't he saying anything more than his signature line? Why do you find the utmost solace lingering in your heart when he wipes your tears away? The Riddle Rosehearts, doing all of this to Ramshackle's prefect, that has stooped so low behind everyone's absence?

You decided to disassemble the safety guards that's been shielding your heart, and let your feelings fall free.

"I...I apologise for staying awake till now,’ you gasped through your sobs, “And...how you’re seeing this side of me.” Your icy-cold hands take ahold of his that stroked your cheek gently, in an attempt to calm you down from whatever has been troubling you. You’ve never seen him so caring before. It’s like whoever up there, that you were hopelessly praying to above, heard your pleas and sent the perfect angel down your way to mend your heart. 

He didn't want to care about study guides anymore. The sheer will power that reflected in his eyes, only goes to show he isn't afraid to let down the sky-high expectations that were carved into his very being.

“You surely speak of nonsense when your mind is not in the right place.” He awkwardly crouches down to your level, meeting eye-to-eye, as he hesitantly cups his palms around your cheeks. You yourself were aware that this, of all times, was definitely not the moment you should be stifling a laugh. From his tousled hair, his blazing hot cheeks where bloomed a rosy-pink shade and his neat pajamas that look like they’ve just been freshly ironed head to toe.

“I am not the most amiable when it comes to the language of comfort,” he whispers, soft and low, with his lips inches away from yours. “But I know very well that someone who suffers daily with a number of three rowdy raccoons on their tail shouldn’t be suffering alone. ..I guess, I myself am familiar with that feeling, somehow.” He casts his eyes down towards the ground in shame, and back up to your face.

“P..Please, tell me if I do something out of your liking.” stated firmly, his face closed towards yours, palms still resting on both sides of your cheeks, as he gives them butterfly-light kisses that linger for a few seconds. His eyes scan your reactions after pulling away and diving right back in, but you’ve never felt your heart being filled to the brim with overflowing affection in your entire lifetime.

“Now,” you see Riddle, the regular Riddle, stand tall and direct his attention on the door entry. “I’m going to search for that gremlin of yours. It’s immediately off with his head once I find him after abandoning his oh-very precious owner.”

Leona Kingscholar

“Ah, seriously...” You jolt upwards, with your hair standing on end as a husky voice rings through your ears. “I came here to relax cause’ all the guys in Savanaclaw are causing sucha’ ruckus and my ears are sensitive,” gulping mentally, your frame becomes smaller as your rough hands hurriedly wipe the tears off your face, moments away before Leona nudges the door open with his foot,

 “And what do I find but a certain herbivore wailing like a baby in the crib in the middle of the night?”

“Leona...” The everlasting feeling of frustration numbed on your tongue, tears growing hotter at the eyesore of a situation that unfolded in front of your eyes. You punch your pillow, hoping to get a blow out of it. Does he even know how your nightly problems shouldn't concern him in the slightest? Why send Leona—a prince—someone who's been living under the dignified curtains of royalty for generations since the time of his birth to come to your aid? 

You’re angry, frustrated, infuriated—a swirl of emotions numbed in your stomach. You just wanted to go back to your own world.

You would rather drop dead, eyes sore as tears seep under the sparkling moonlight continuously with no end, than to have an actual prince comfort you. You would feel like none less of an undeserved peasant.

But your stubborn front only masks the tears that fall behind. You're uncertain how much longer you could keep up your facade before the black filth that fills your body consumes you whole.

His slothful nature remains as he stays glued to the ground, his eyes boring into yours.

“...This is causing me a headache too, you know that?” Scratching his head, Leona trudges towards your bed, steps heavy from endless exhaustion, as he sits down and lays his head in your lap. A dry gasp emitted from you sore throat as you raise your arms in defence. He lets out his laugh, throaty and chock-full of overwhelming pride as his stare burns into your face from underneath.

“I don’t wanna see you bawling your eyes out like that,” met by a glowing set of emerald eyes-one that is stripped off of its usual arrogance and is replaced by a sheen of gold, shining tenderness. Leona rests his hands above yours and enwraps it in a slight squeeze, hoping that his message of hospitality travels to your deadly cold corpse.

Your body is going to break. Mind smashed by the ruthless hammer of reality, breaths quickened as you process the scene before you.

“Tear your heart out, yell at the top of your lungs, shout at the whole world how much you hate everyone,” he rambles on, lips moving tenderly in each second against the misty air, and you get the gist of what he’s trying to convey.

“But just don’t bottle it all up. You’re doing the exact opposite of what you wanna achieve.” Harsh, unwavering, but filled with warmth. Like a morning sunrise that greets your view at the crack of dawn, one that shines with a fierce blaze above the earth’s horizon which blinds your sight. 

But luckily, you don’t feel the least blinded at all. You feel fulfilled, that you could witness such a sight. A sight that punches you right in the gut and ripped your bodily nerves out, one that showed you that life is not always sunshine and rainbows. 

You clutched his hands in your shivering palms, which you held on to like a salvation on this helpless night.

“A..Are you okay?”

“What..?” This was expected. He was seen dumbfounded in seconds. Wasn’t he the one who’s supposed to support you at this very moment? When you’re sobbing endlessly with no one to turn to?

Emitting a rough groan, his eyes fall shut. And he thought all his efforts were wasted? Silly. Wondering, you tried your best to oppress a laugh that’s been bubbling in your throat.

“I meant, whether you’re okay with coming in here and telling me all these sweet things.” You rub his forehead and smoothed his hair back, attempting to give him some sort of comfortable friction as small payment back for what he did. Like a devoted mother inclining to her own child, as they lie in bed with a temperature higher than average. “You rather wouldn’t do this at all, would you?”

“Ah..how seriously troublesome.” Admittedly, he’s embarrassed. His cheeks are flushed, and you certainly don’t miss the chance to sneak a peak, earning a light flick on your forehead. 

“Whatever, feelin’ better now?” he pinches the thick skin on your waist. Better? Feeling better? 

Your tears have stopped flowing, your mind clears of all foggy implications of possible futuristic ideas of you building up to your breaking point, and your heart squeals in content. You’re grateful, that at least, one beating heart can connect to yours in a split second. That could listen to your worries, your cries for help, and how much you loathe yourself to no end.

“..Sure.” Your response falls flat in an instant. Leona isn’t an easy individual to fool, so his eyes widened out of his sleepy trance. You giggle and look at him with the softest of eyes, filled with all the affection in the world you could muster.

“Hah? I’m not going to come in here every night to pat you on the head and wipe your tears away like a spoiled toddler,” His eyebrows furrowed, “So make sure you treasure this, cause it won’t be for free.”

Twirling his soft tendrils in your ring finger, you mutter. “Like Hell I expected it to be.”

Sharing one last look of passion between both your eyes, Leona leaves feathery kisses on your knuckles, that trails up to your neck, which leaves all types of tingling sensations that spark within. You don’t miss the way he murmurs one last sentence, one that renders you lightheaded.

“I’m proud of you, my one and only herbivore.”

Azul Ashengrotto 

A certain individual’s newly polished footwear clicked and clacked on Ramshackle’s worn surface. Curiosity aroused, you peered up at the entrance of your room sheepishly.

“Now, this is unexpected, dear prefect.” Propping his glasses comfortably just right above the bridge of his nose, he opens his arms wide, as if he contains the most long-lasting benevolence which puts the Sea Witch that rules over the glimmering waters to shame. “Ah, but fear not–we can clearly talk this out! Just give me a scrap of your trust and time, and I’ll make sure that all your misgivings will vanish from this world in an instant. No traces left behind.”

You quirk an eyebrow, not the normal kind of quirk where you’re actually establishing interest in his playful deeds. But the one that leaves you astonished, that makes you question Azul’s course of action as you’re weeping. Infront of him.

A glint of mischief flashes in his diamond eyes, intent crystal-clear as the raindrops that races down the windowpanes that are attached to your room. 

You’re not surprised in the least—no, you’re just plain out bored of all his pitiful attempts at trying to seal a deal with you, even after all the history that took place. His unceasing passion for capitalism dreads you to the core, you avoid the thought of the possible number of inferior patrons he managed to fool with his underlying schemes he’s planned out with two other underlings.

“I don’t need your cherished benevolence,” You felt pathetic under the eyes of a sole founder of a striving lounge that could outlead you in a split second. “Or your cheap deals, or that dangerous look on your face-seriously, what are you doing here?”

Azul lets out a moderate hum, arms crossed over the other in displeasure at your question. “My, what a miserable tone you have there.” In normal circumstances, he anticipates the rate of you using your usual tactic of first, brushing it off with a coy smile, and second, saying the expected “Maybe next time.” to shield your entire sanity before devoting your whole body and soul to be close to, if not a 100%.

But where was Ramshackle’s prefect? The person who managed to dastardly out-villain a massively feared individual, the person who faced and threatened Leona of all people with bravery, and the person who was able clasp Azul’s heart that was thrown around, kicked about, and thrashed under other children’s immaturity to envelop it in their own embrace? 

Where was the person who was able to bring him back to his senses before no one else could?

His eyes squint to the ground. He’s beyond frustrated, over the top and it’s embarrassing. It sets a disgraceful name to the twins, the only people who have known him since elementary and stood by his side that took zero to no interest in bullying the poor octopus. That was until, when you came into the picture. 

“If you’re just going to stand there then...please, leave..” You cough, a lump of ruined pride splattered onto the bedsheets disgustingly. The tears are never-ending, like some forgotten tap that has been running for a full minute. Except it wasn’t just a whole minute for you, but for months. Months, months and months till years where the outrageous thoughts booked a spot in your head and refused to leave until it broke you down to feeble little pieces.

Azul sighs. Weak and defeated. 

How was he going to help you in this condition? His mind trails to other useful possibilities, intent pure, thoughts not-so. But as of now, his only priority, no matter what it costs, is to bring back the prefect that Azul Ashengrotto himself has grown so fond of.

He closes the door behind him and gave you a spiralling look of determination, initially faltering.

“..Well, it’s not that I am in the exact same predicament as you are,” he saunters before you while stripping his coat off in the process, stuffing his gloves in the hip pocket. “But I can’t say that I don’t understand your feelings of wanting to get back at the world for its mistreatment it has put you through.”

You don’t want this. You don’t want to be forced into signing a contract that benefits only the initiator, not again.

You flinch momentarily as he closes in on you. But you don’t fall back. Instead, you lose yourself in the immediate feeling of consolation as it blankets over your body. And what was causing that feeling—

Was his coat.

His large, fabric-sewn coat that hugged you like a fuzzy bear. Protecting you from all the other outside species that dared come to get closer by an inch. Your mind tells you to stay away at all cost, that you don’t need a sadistic money-hogger to hog your emotions away as well. But your heart swells, love overflowing for this one man that treated you so kindly. Gave you his notes, showed you his weaknesses, and even stopped editing his childhood pictures that he just wants to tear to shreds like a wild animal behind your back. All for free and for you, not for anybody else.

Because that’s how much you mean to him. Even if he doesn’t show it.

 You can’t help but let the tears fall once again, but silently, as you look up at the person behind all this.

“Merfolks have it easy under the cold weather, so no need to sweat it.” Masking his flustered state, he shrugs his shoulders and raised his arm in defence. How truly, magnificently silly I am. He thought. “And I am no different as an octopus.”

“But..rest assured, I have grown.” Leaning down to get a closer view at your face, he frowns at your wet cheeks that have been stained by the waterfall of tears, tired eyes that painted a faded crimson red around the edges, and the last spot—your forehead.

Suddenly, you feel dizzy. Dizzy and drunk from everything he’s giving you. You now, more than ever, want to steal his whole wardrobe of apparel and wrap them around your figure that yearns for his touch. The alleviation that transmits to you through his thick clothes, his branded clothing that smelled of pricey, hand-plucked plumerias from a bottled-cologne which Azul usually wears. And his own natural scent. God.

You’re spiralling.

Easy little pecks were left on your forehead. A peck that swelled with everlasting affection, one that overwhelmed with his unfair favouritism towards you, and the other that told you nobody else could ever deliver these passionate feelings to the entirety of your body that twists and turns while he claims you as his own. 

And lastly, a drunken kiss on the lips that leaves you wanting more.

“Though, I’m not entirely sure on how to bring you back to where you came from,” He thinks, and thinks, and thinks. Both of you know it was just seen as repetitive at this point, regardless...

“But you are always welcome to come running to me if you have even the slightest bit of problems. Just tell me the name, and surely, I’ll make sure they’ll never lay a hand on you once again.”  

Kalim Al-asim

Merry. Cheerful, happy, and lively. Feelings that you don’t hold in the palms of your hands at the very moment, paints your ghastly hallways in luxury as it bounces off your cries.

Kalim was too drowned out of his own thoughts, arms holding a basket of flowers that was specially picked out from the own good will of his heart from Scarabia’s highly-treasured plants of botany that originated centuries ago, adorned in red, lustre trinkets that priced at a small value. The same colour of his eyes that hypnotised you every time you steal a glance of warmheartedness. 

“Jasmine, Kudu, Iris-mm, they’re all here!” He could never be more happier. His finger tips graze over the fragile petals, leaving a speck of powdery pollen on one’s smooth skin as he dusts it off. He wishes to see you smile, brighter than the sun will ever be—brighter than him. To let you know that your entire being is worth more than his everything he’s ever received in his life. By his parents, servants, Jamil–that’s why he’s here in the first place.

To not see you cry yourself to sleep.

Before you knew it, the wooden basket that was crafted under one’s professional leisure, all the carefully picked blossoms that held a thousand meanings at your mercy, drops and crashes to the ground.

He thought it was suspicious at first. How you didn’t respond to the repetitive bangs on your door that tarnished in a distasteful, brown-to-grey colour scale that drifts of dust. Anybody could’ve sworn he would break the door down with his mere knocking-considering how weak it has grown over its unused years.

Not only that, he was sure that the fragrance that falls off the flowers was strong enough to grace the entire household of Ramshackle. Given Jamil’s advice, he didn’t want to taint such beauties that he preserved just for you. As his friend, and unknowingly, as his majesty.

“K-kalim!” Plunging off your sunken bed in an instant, burst of hidden energy coming from God knows where—you stood up with jelly-like legs, ready to give out at any moment. His face that told a forgotten story of horror, fingers trembling with the wind across his clothes-features that made you want to grasp on to the last ounce of strength that you mumbled under your breath for the heavens above.

“Why’re you here at this hour..? Are you sure Jamil isn’t yelling at each and every one of the residents in Scarabia to go search for you?” You were beyond concerned. What could happen if he went outside alone again? Disturbed as you were, but admittedly, you didn’t want him to go back. Back to Scarabia, where you would morph back to the lonesome, pitiable self you were.

He laughs as his dimwitted-self would. Everybody grows uneasy at such a positive individual. He brushes off a heavy task of his-even if it potentially causes his life. People around complain and tells him it wasn’t as safe as he thought.

But you treasured such an individual. You wanted to stay with this individual for as long as you could, you wanted to become this individual that portrayed such angelic charms where no one could compete. You didn’t want to stay at Night Raven Collage, the title of the powerless prefect enforced upon you against your own will. You didn’t choose to stay here in the first place.

On the spot, soft sniffling took over your senses.

“No...” You weren’t even given the time to react, before a pair of shaken hands grab on to your shoulders by force. “No...who did this to you?!” 

Wide eyes stared into the endless depths of your soul, an iron grip stronger than the struggling ceiling that looked like it was about to collapse onto your defenseless bodies at any second. You're surely exaggerating, an eery image that was to be recorded inside the textbooks of former, worldwide-phenomenal history, one that automatically forces a stain in your sullied mind, something that you won’t be able to forget so simply.

Kalim’s overbearing emotions, rotton as the flowers that were stepped on as they lay lifelessly on the floor.

Your body froze, heart cracking emphatically for the entire world to hear. You never wanted it to come to this point, because you expected such response. You knew that the great tears of his beloveds will pollute the clarity of his mind, instantly turning to self-blame, which you dread to see. You never wanted anything more than to seal yourself away from this world without anyone ever noticing.

“Please, don’t ever think this was any of your fault.” Caressing his dampened cheek, you cooed as low as the crickets of a mockingbird that reverberates around the neighbourhood at the wee hours of the night. The last thing you ever wanted was to spell trouble for Kalim. Now, two unbroken streams of tears flowed, his still prevailed.

“No. Now that that I’ve seen your tears..” He wipes his eyes, “I want to give you something that significances in value more than my life!” 

Silly, something that doesn’t quite sit corrected with the mood. But you know he’s dead serious, right?

“Jewellery, makeup, fancy clothing, a chandelier—anything! Please, just name the price! I don’t care if Jamil disapproves!”

You wanted to cry yourself to sleep.

“Please...” He pulls you in a hug. A hug that warns you to never let go, a hug that held you like a life support, a hug that gifted you unconditional love that the world failed to send. “Tell me what’s wrong, I’ll send ten-no-a hundred servants on your way! You won’t have to worry about a thing, they’ll take care of you better than I ever wi-”

Immediate silence, desperate cries arrowed by your hushed move to place a kiss on his lips. His heated ramblings that fell off the tip of his tongue that tuned in with your head in a daze, making your heart oh-so ready to jump out of your body and offer the same pleasure back.

Immediately, he cradled your head in his arms. Love radiating from his body, burned hotter than his hometown where he stepped foot in every day. A longing pang of guilt, mixed with the sentiment of an olden song from the Land of Hot Sands that would bring tranquil upon the children of the sun who would squeal in euphoric measures.  A core memory that Kalim enjoys reminiscing every now and then.

He does everything in his power to bring such comfort to your mind.

“S-so don’t worry about the flowers...” He pulls away as he grips the side of your head, “I’ll give you something much more worthy.”

He closes in, peppering sweet, saccharine pecks on the shell of your ears that flavoured of honey and vanilla. Kisses soothing as morning Jasmine tea, topped in luscious sugar cubes that shimmered in the slightest under the soft, hovering sunlight. His kisses are heavenly, to die for, and something that you can never get from anybody else.

“Hey, can we go to bed together?” He rubs your temples shyly, hoping that you agree to his offer. “I want to stay with you till the sun rises. To give you all the cuddles and nose nuzzles you deserve in the entire world.”

To no one’s surprise- you thought for a second, even having your doubts and possible consequences that ran through your head. But you realised-that doesn’t matter. And even never will, if you’re lucky enough. So all you could do was nod.

In the blink of an eye, you both are now scurrying to the middle of your bed with the door shut. Your heart flutters, lead by Kalim’s loving grip.

His feelings now beamed a radiance of dazzling, eye-blinding smiles.

Because he would rather be greeted by the comforting view of your pretty face in the morning. Something different other than a tray full of metal utensils, accompanied by expensive ceramic bowls filled with freshly picked fruits, and a cup of warm tea that waits to be sipped on.

Vil Schoenheit

A faded tune plays out just outside the room of your door, as one’s sensual voice reaches your ears just loud enough for you to hear, amidst the torrential rain.

“Mira, Mira, tell me something.” 

A pause,

“Who, at the moment, is the most beautiful of all?”

You shudder in anticipation. A name that existed in this world, a name that’s been forgotten by the people from your world that was nowhere near in sight, which possibly made multiple headlines and was altered to deceased in the end-

A name that belonged to you. A puny human being. 

“(Y/n) (L/n).”

You audibly scoffed at how stupid it was. You? The fairest? Not even the bloody stars that aligned for you every once in a while could behold such a weak lie right in front of your face. Yes, you’re far from the fairest, far from beautiful, far from presentable—just a body sown by crimson threads interlacing in the most poisonous, velvety of patterns where one saw fit to mingle their courtly love with.

“My, did you hear that? It didn’t say my name for the first time.” Shoving his handphone back into his pocket, he rests his hand on his hip, assuming you’d get the message, a simple trick up his sleeves that he knew it were to be of use one day. You catch a quick glimpse of his hand. It’s still the same as ever-smudged, dry lipstick that matched the colour of Vil. What enticing aura that surrounds him, which you could never hold a candle to in a million years.

“Perhaps, it is I who has kept on believing such hoax? The Magic Mirror never lies.” He places a finger to his lips, “So, calm yourself. It would be a problem if I were to stain my hands from tears like yours.”

Demeanor as harsh as the Evil Queen, but you know from the bottom of his heart that these words weren’t lies. At all.

He swiftly pushes the door back until it closes, as his gaze ricochets among your worn pajamas, unruly hair, and your indented fingernails present of hours from unconscious biting and pricking-a slacked appearance that defeats the whole purpose of being beauty’s shining light. But don’t worry, just add the tiniest budge of makeup, make an appointment for the most world-class salons that makes tenfold the amount of money you make and conceal all those imperfections with the help insincere compliments that sheds of jealousy. Doesn’t sound too bad, does it?

Vil rolls his eyes. Wrong. An absolutely atrocious idea.

Your shoulders drop the way your tears did, your presence a mockery to his. You shift awkwardly under his peering eyes that were no different from a hawk’s as he studies your figure. After a moment, a small smirk dances on his face, fleek eyebrows raising as your tumbled eyes stared at him in contempt. Vil swishes his hair back before he walks towards you and cups your face in the palm of his hands.

“Well, the thought of you being the fairest doesn’t sound...half bad.” Twisting your head slightly, he analyses for it for a few seconds and combes your hair with his elongated fingers, easing the frizz that eats away at your chances of being the utmost beautiful amid all the other unwithering bouquets of roses out there. 

But..you didn’t want to believe that. You obviously can’t be so sure that you are in fact, the most eye-catching anyone has ever seen. You didn’t—couldn’t see how Vil saw you as one of his kind, a lovely rose put on display for the hungry eyes of influencers, model scouters and agencies that actively has their eyes open for new talents. In short, you were less than worthy.

But to Vil, and to him alone, you were the most prettiest rose he has ever layed his eyes upon. A rose that lit up his sad endings, making them ones he would want to live through. As long as you were there, no bad endings would  ever be bad endings with sunken eyes and dried tears. Because you were there to give him his own happy ever after that he's longed for forever.

Whispered coos brushed against your ears as he babbles on about how much of a mess you were at the moment, but he’s aware that we was balancing on a thin line of string that was his own mentality. He wanted nothing more than to take care of you and to tend to you to your uttermost enchanting self that only he could call his. A name suitable for Ramshackle’s prefect, no?

A beauty amongst all the other dorms, uniqueness that piqued countless interests at school, but you chose him? And he still wonders why till this day. Exactly why-he’s set on caressing your body, shushing your worries and unravelling your deepest of vulnerabilities. He wants you to prosper more than ever, to spread your wings that you kept a secret from everyone and soar magnificently through the burdensome storms until you reached the mount of the stars above.

“But, these tears are terribly troublesome.” He pulls your face closer, “Come now, let me wipe them away.” 

You froze up for a bit before shifting away slightly. You don’t know why-but the thought of Vil doing something so out-of-character makes you shudder like a lonesome, stray cat in the windy nights. Not really that far off from your current state, but you digress.

That’s when realisation actually starts to hit you like a truck–It’s way past his bedtime, did he even get to do his routinely touch-ups before coming here? Your sanity is nothing more than past the levels of recurring zeros, but you haven’t completely lost yourself. At least, that’s what you hoped. For both you and your beloved’s sake.

There, he tsks. “What are you, half-asleep?” His eyebrows knit as he looks down at you cross-armed. He isn’t wrong-you were still trying to process his unprecedented courses of actions that kept ambushing your thoughts on by one. 

Not particularly good for the wellbeing of your mind, but you would be lying if you said cupid hasn’t played with your heartstrings like a contrabass if his streaming flow of purple-tipped locks that skimmed right over your eyelashes in the most graceful way possible-didn’t make your heart beat a few milliseconds faster, followed by heated, flushed cheeks. “But, you said-”

“Do you not know how to take a joke?” He tips your chin upwards in the slightest, giving you a better view of his eyes that swirled of his complete endearment towards you. Entranced, is a word you would describe yourself in. Everything about him makes you want to melt into a puddle this instant. His body language, his hair, to his tantalizing scent, flirtatious but soft-hearted touches of gold that sparked a connection only between two hearts and no more.

Your tears fall harder than before, which managed to startle Vil as he pulls his fingers away from your face. Yes, you look pathetic, but you’ve never wanted anything more than just an iota of comfort. From anyone, you even pleaded for the heaven’s wave of hope above, for everyone to hear but no one to appear. You’re desperate and drained, unfilled with life as your soul screams out just as loud as your cries do.

“Goodness.” His gaze softens, as he directs your hands rubbing your eyes to the large of your thighs. Gleaming eyes meet yours as he closes your eyes shut. Once he deems you ready, you were immediately swept away with the fervor feeling of bliss that spreads throughout your entire body.

Tenderly kisses were placed on top each of your eyelids, sending a low hum of pleasure down your throat as Vil captivates you deeper into the tunnels of his own heart that he’s guarded for so long. He wants you to understand him, to fulfill his lovestruck desires that makes all the 7 types of Greek love drastically pale in comparison. A love that no one could ever copy if they wanted to, a love that’s shared between two devoted individuals, as dazzling as the Evil Queen’s tiara that flashes in front of wandering eyes.

He holds the sides of your jaw so passionately, it makes you knees go weak. 

He wants to show his fans—the whole earth—how much of an otherworldly being you can truly be, and that his relationship with you was not all just show.

“I’ll stay with you for the night, that way I can make sure you’re all prim and proper in the morning once you wake up from your daily slumber.” He plants a soft peck on your lips, directing one hand down your waist while massaging it quietly.

You nod, fluttering you eyes open as he grazes his thumb ever so gently on your forehead. You’d succumb to each and every one of his effort to take care of you, no matter how strenuous it may seem. Because you’re all his. A person that he’ll gladly spend all his endings with. Just without the script this time- because true love doesn’t need such artificial shortcuts when it’s between you and him.

Idia Shroud

“U-Uh...” Your eyes spot an imprecise silhouette as it strolls closer to your door, taking unsure steps while visible strands of incandescent hair that sways in place lights up the closed area–that you reluctantly call your home. Incoherent mumbles of defiance slides through the dull width shaping the space between the door and the decaying wall that’s been collecting dust and inducing nasty pests for God knows how long.

Twiddling his thumbs in motioning circles, he stutters to speak the next audible sentence that’s been waiting to roll off the tip of his tongue. Fidgeting eyes stayed ultra-glued to the ground as he presses his lips tight. Summoning the tiniest bit of courage to peep through the crack that has been distancing both him and yourself from ever getting closer, he mutters.

“I...I couldn’t help but hear you.” His fingers come to a stop as his hand latches on to the metallic-painted doorknob, widening his field of vision of you tightening your grip on the poor bedsheets that probably sustained countless hours of unrestrained rage that doesn’t seem to be going away anytime soon. He sighs, before resting his hand once he came to a comfortable position.

“Do you mind if I come in?”

You huffed, one laced with arrogance, and you dully motion his shaking form to come inside with the tip of your finger. He oddly lacks reaction for the first time despite his past inept encounters with you where you could only recall his solid refusal to make direct eye contact, how he tipped his hoodie further down his face so he could hide his eyes finding his oh-gracious savior–either Ortho or the nearest door next by where he could trip over his own loose shoelaces to hide in. 

He shuts the door and stumbles inside to sit at the side of your bed—his shoelaces are still untied. That serves your mind into a disorientation, not knowing whether to chuckle at his childish carelessness that is the same of a child’s or to cringe at how painfully long he took just to reach the remaining half of the bed-and to occupy it.

Though he wouldn’t mind if you did laugh for just a millisecond. Hell, even cracking a delicate smile would’ve been enough to bring silent peace to his heart. Your laugh is an un-sung melody that jazzes with the wind. One that compliments your endearing gaze, unblemished with the tiniest glint of protection in your eyes that pierces right through his, sharp as a honed needle.

He swears he saw flower petals that enriches the school grounds comedically come flowing down behind you, like he was meant to see such an ethereal sight bestowed upon his eyes. Was the sunlight gracing your skin too bright as if an influx of blinding stars were shooting down to hit the earth ground-first, or was it just him?

No matter, once he was comfortable, he shuffles closer–just a little closer, so that his breathy voice could be heard within the thunderous downpour. It’s nothing compared to your endless stream of tears, he feels. And it’s true.

“...Can’t go back to your own world, huh? Must be depressing.” There winds away the momentous sympathy he presented so obviously to the naked eye. But the words that he spits out of his running mouth and his body language are two entirely different things. He’s growing increasingly nervous as the clock ticks by. 

Your seemingly boundless patience is truly a gifted trait, if you could knock out someone’s tooth once or twice right now, you would.

But once he looks into your eyes once more, he feels it—the ruthless pang that scarfs down on his own heart, repulsive, disgusting, unsightly, your disheveled appearance rips open an undiscovered memory of his, one that he wants to forget. The demonic voices in his head that submerges him deep down his past inability to come to the rescue for someone who needed it the most. Tingling nerves creep up his body, as the knots in his throat displays him utterly, deafeningly speechless, unable to scream out.

Will it only get worse from here?

If he won't be able to save the very person who accepted him for the way he was, just because of his own negligence again?

It's terribly cliche but he does it. Like a real mvp would, his mind speaks things he can't say aloud. His hand hovers just right above your own, achingly close, and he slowly caresses your scraped knuckles, before interlacing his raw-boned fingers between yours. His fingers twitch in the slightest, but he calms the disastrous war in his mind and squeezes the flesh that only dares to squeeze back.

"I get it...i-if I'm not some type of fairy tale prince that's all lovey-dovey." His other hand toys with the ends of his hair. away from your curious gaze. His words, how he enunciates them, the way they don't leave your ears with unfilled fondness that's been deeply rooted in your heart for ages-are choppy as usual. And you love him for that.

Could he have found someone else so abruptly unjudgmental of him? Someone who sees right through his loner facade? He wishes this moment could last forever, just you and him, under the glittering moonlight that highlights your facial features, a prepossessing sight that mirrors the exact same times where you sit together in the day, on the same bench, under the same tree.

Whispers filled with room for only two souls.

"B-but, it's only natural for me to take this much courage," He pauses before inhaling a sharp breath, "okay..?"

You could only send out a small laugh before his free hand slips off the fabric that covers your frame-hiding your shoulders. Your eyes widen momentarily before you fall into a bliss of heavenly exchange.

His lips connect with the skin on your shoulder. A soothing texture that subdues the whirl of emotions that rack through your entire body, replaces it with unsaid longing for your mere touch. Forbidden anesthesia to your train of thoughts, the voice which you couldn't seem to find within yourself anymore, to which you decided to roam your tear-stained hands in his flickering hair, mumbling sweet praises of love while he plants his pecks in each and every inch on your shoulder, leaving tiny smacks from his lips once it disconnects.

You could never ask for a better way to showcase your love for Idia. Undying, naive love that even he would find stupid for a lone wolf like him. But his eyes could only stray to your lips. Lonely—was one way to describe it.

Maybe one day he could empty out his own thoughts, his own arrogant feelings that cages his ego, and substitute the loneliness that masks it with his own lips that were none other than lonelier. 

It's a few minutes–maybe longer than that, before his face leaves your body and his thumbs massaging the bare skin while he catches his breath. Rather someone as inexperienced as him was bound to do something silly, but he leaves you in a state of surprise when he pulls it off. Was the side quest really that hard? You chuckled. "I'm happy you came. Really."

His gaze swiftly returns to your eyes. Eyes that sheen on the surface–there it is. Eyes of someone beautiful, the opposite of him.

"Is there any way I can pay you back?" You ask once again. You have a vague idea of what he might demand back as payment.

His mood lightens, and suddenly, his hair seems brighter than usual. 

"...Let's go back to Ignihyde dorm together. Tons'a sweet games we can play on my PC until the sun rises."   

Malleus Draconia 

You've lost your track of time, how long it's been since you've been holding in the disgusting bile that hangs over the tip of your lips. Hideous tears that paints your face, the word 'pathetic' scrawled ruthlessly across your forehead, ridiculing each and every course of action you take out of pure pity. Scrunching your face out of anger? Nails digging into your skin so dangerously deep trickles of crimson blood gushes out of it? A childish emotion you’re taking way too seriously?

Foolish. How dense could that headmage be to let you enroll at such a school as Night Raven College?

You could only hiccup once more before palish flickering lights—ones identical to fireflies—illuminate the room that blinds your line of sight. A gentle gust of wind that whisks upon coming in contact with your figure. A rather soft glow that relishes with the dampened air that surrounds it. You recognise the scenery before you quickly, it’s burned into your the deepest caves of your mind at this point.

The tall figure looms before you, eyes shut, as he regains his consciousness and takes seconds to let his eyes flicker a few times before his gaze settles wholly on you. A shudder slithers through your body.

The Malleus Draconia. A prominent, noble profile from Briar Valley where heads are hung low, torches are lit, gates are unbolted, all in favour and in submission for a singular prince that reigns over the land where residents sing a chorus of praises at his very name. 

You wonder if he’s here to give you a greeting regarding a goodnight’s rest? After all, it’s been around a month’s span since you’ve each had your enchanting encounters with each other in the dead of the night.

“Child of man.” He whispers, beyond your hearing. The rainstorm distinguishes your own ability to hear past his low utter of words, other nights were just fine, but this particular night is where your humanly senses betray you. Your sentimental daydreams you have where your back in your own world, the nostalgic scent of home that brings your disdained body back it’s dignity that you felt was missing your entire time here in this unfamiliar world,

And your homesickness finally going away. The melody that weaves with the endless song of time, harmonizing together, wrapping your heart in a paramount supply of hugs that’s warmer than the frayed blanket that sits atop your shivering frame. The nocturnal air that stabs you all throughout your body gives your bones an unwelcomed smile.

Still, he continues. “Your gift of cries are...horrendously loud. I suppose, abnormal for even the human aural to bear hear to.”

The snot that clogs your nose and sniffles leaves you next words sounding-somewhat decipherable. “I-I’m aware..” 

You’re positive you’ve passed the safe levels of lifeless insanity at the point. An esteemed prince who holds onto the steel ropes of eternal living, face-to-face with a frail, powerless human being who’s lost it’s way in life. The basic need to be grateful for being given such a short lifespan but such a widespread of humanly emotions, gone with the wind.

But Malleus only has so little to show you before you die down into mere dust, no?

“..Would you like me to take my leave?” He questions. It’s simple: Someone’s bawling their eyes out in front of you, it’s only normal to assume that they want to be left alone at most, right?

You didn’t answer. You couldn't answer. No body language, zero eye contact, the unfiltered noise of silence that grows larger as both of your hearts beat in rhythm. You were sure that if anyone from his hometown were to stumble upon this, to see your lack of basic respect towards its beloved kind, you could have never prepare for the cruel fate that dawns upon your very being.

You sit still. The hands that tremble under his gaze, barricading your ears from listening any further, The thunderous rainstorms are particularly loud tonight, was it his doing? His own emotions reflecting in the rain-bearing clouds that only seemed to gather more neighbouring ones to produce more short-lived lightnings of thunder? Or was it yours too?

You await his response. The disturbance that creeps up behind your back is suffocating. 

But the only thing you see in his eyes is sorrow. 

Emerald green, eyes that usually basked in glossed solemnity, faltering before your very eyes. Eyes that go soft, only in the light of your very presence.

How it started? You’re not sure. How he moved after despite your purposeful ignorance? He was too quick that he appeared in front of you, right in the blink of your teary eyes.

The tip of his finger, pointed under your chin as he invites the tiniest scrap of magic to use to make you look up at him. Just what was he planning to do next? Chant out an ancient spell that sends your head hitting the pillow the next instant? But you can’t deny, his face was..a sight to take in. You were probably missing out the past couple of nights chatting with him under the light pole that weakly casts light upon your talking bodies, due to Ramshackle still having yet to be renovated, possibly throwing away a couple of thousands of thaumarks just to fix that age-old building which sends a storm of dust flying your way.

“Child of man,” Your eyes focus solely on him. “do I have your appropriate consent?”

Appropriate consent? Your mind strays off to countless possibilities—what possible measures could he have thought about taking, dubious enough to ask for your very own consent, one that comes out from your own mouth that speaks your heart but doesn’t dare to speak the very depths of your mind?

Malleus remains poised—as usual, regal air that he carries around with him everywhere. On the other hand, you were conflicted. A one-of-a-kind chance! One of his supporters would persuade. You had no idea what he could be hiding behind his front. The blood in your veins run cold, but the scars-the blazing scars you obtained through the numerous overblots. The unpaid labour that you were coerced into, making you scurry from left to right for a certain mage, the restless nights where you had to skim through unfamiliar formulas as it started downing on your brain.

But you choose to trust. For the first time in a while, because your heart knows he isn’t the type of person. 

Nodding, you feel your eyes fall shut.

His steady fingers, tracing the very tip of your jawline, a passion that radiates out of his own intimacy, cracking under the closure of your eyes. You wish you could open them, but you didn’t want to interrupt the loving sensations that brought the utmost peace to your wounded soul. It didn’t feel like thorns pricking at your skin, no, but a bundle of tight roses, presented in the most delicate fashion that soothed the invading noises that thundered in your head, which now felt like a distant memory.

The colour of fiery red, the same colour that splashed his heart, setting it ablaze, only the best for the person who saw beyond his frontal image. The person who saw such rumours about him silly. The person who was able to grasp his heart and bond it with their never-ending kindness.

And you feel him hesitate. But he was still the same as you ever saw him.

The Malleus Draconia, who would stop at nothing to protect your defenseless body from anything that dares to bring harm to you.

Who would take an excruciating sword to the heart for your own sake.

The Malleus Draconia, who would make the sun and the moon collide, just for you.

The tears begin falling, they’re non-stop, and they don’t plan to stop any time soon. The love-filled kisses he leaves on your jawline feels deep. Full of months from craving, since the moment he found out about your existence in this twisted world. He figures how much you abhorred it all around, and all the awful memories that relives itself through your mind each and every night, memories that morphed itself into nightmares.

But he whispers into your ear once again that he’ll bring you into a world full of sweet dreams, that you’ll no longer have to brood over such ugly daydreams that echoes blanky into your head. He continues his nurturing actions, his intoxicating kisses, feeling that his gift of love was far from ending.

Because he only wants to bathe you in all forms of peace, something that he couldn’t sincerely feel until he met you. So he’s simply giving back what he took.

A worthy gift from the heart, healing on this helpless night, no?

[konigs-left-pec]

After like 6 months, I've FINALLY decided to let this heap see the light of day. Colonel!König is still ruining my life (specifically domColonel!König...I'm totally normal about him and 100% on my knees and chewing through my cage.)

mdni: smut, v fingering

Ｍａｓｔｅｒｌｉｓｔ

König had just returned from a month-long stint in the Middle East and was still fully geared up, shedding dust all over the living room rug when you decided to throw off your robe, revealing his favorite strappy black lingerie. His tired blue eyes widened almost comically in surprise, though that feeling was quickly overtaken by burning lust as he drank you in, fatigue pushed to the side just like he was about to do to the dainty translucent cups hugging your breasts like a second skin.

And then his phone rang.

"König..." Your sigh was a warning, a pleading whine to let it go to voicemail just this once.

"I'll be quick, liebling." He promised, kissing your forehead sweetly and pulling the still ringing phone from his pocket, "Go wait for me. I'll be along in a few minutes."

You complied, albeit not without a grumble or two beneath your breath as you stooped to snatch your robe off the floor before heading to the bedroom. You wanted - no - needed his hands, his lips, his cock. Anything that he would give, you would take. You wanted the darkest parts of him to consume you, the parts that offered only pain blighted pleasure. You would thank him for it.

Your claim to the Colonel's time was peripheral, of course, and those optimistically promised few minutes had evolved into a half hour of you squirming unsatisfied in your shared bed, palm crushing the delicate lace of the open gusset framing your pussy, fingers struggling to reach the spot you needed most. Physical touch not nearly enough, you turned to fantasy, trying to conjure the weight of his body above you and the punishing glide of his cock. You didn't even hear the door open nor the click of it closing behind him as he stepped into the room.

"What are you doing, schönes Mädchen?"

Gasping, you floundered, finding yourself unable to articulate under the intense scrutiny he fixed you with nor to stop the futile way your fingers kept moving in and out of your soft cunt, muted squelching noises filling the deafening silence between you. Foggy with pleasure you notice he'd removed his tactical gear, dressed only in his fatigue pants and a gray tee stretched over the broad barrel of his chest.

His left hand was skimming lightly up your leg and by the time he got to your mound, you were trembling like a leaf in the wind.

"You've been bad tonight, liebling..." his fingers gently pried yours free from your messy quim, taking their place in a lazy plunge in and out that had you gripping the sheets, "I told you to wait for me..." He popped two of his sticky fingers into his mouth and your brain fizzled, "How do you think I should handle this, hmm?"

You need to come. He's tapping gently against the intricate lace framing your needy cunt; you grit your teeth and open your eyes (when had you closed them? ), realizing he's expecting an answer. You knew what he wanted to hear.

"I need to be punished, sir."

It comes out breathier than you intended, you can't seem to get enough air with the way he's staring into your eyes; his own pupils dilated, pitch black engulfing his normally bright blue eyes until only a sliver of color remained. He only hums thoughtfully in response, removing himself completely from your person (you swear your cunt actually weeps at the injustice here) and stands beside the bed, arms folded across his chest as he waits for you to join him.

"On your knees then, meine frau."

Your breath skitters in your chest when you notice the way he's straining against the seam of his trousers and you stare pointedly, reaching to press your palm against the heat there. He inhales sharply through his nose, a hairline crack in his indomitable control before he bats your hand away, repositioning them on his hips, wordlessly encouraging you to sink to your knees.

He peers down at you over the swell of his chest, pulse leaping against the strong line of his throat despite the calm and steady breaths he's taking in. You want to be a brat, make him answer for keeping you waiting, but you also want him to rail you into the carpet until your knees bleed; an answering pulse throbs between your thighs and you clench around nothing.

Guess that settles that.

"Show me how obedient you can be for me."

[olivialau]

Shadow's Embrace Ch.3

Sukuna x Reader

Disclaimer:

This is a work of fanfiction based on the universe of "Jujutsu Kaisen," created by Gege Akutami. The original manga, anime, and characters belong to their respective owners and creators.

Notes:

This story unfolds in the Jujutsu world, set in a slightly altered universe where Sukuna inhabits his own vessel distinct from Itadori Yuji's body, making him a separate entity.

Summary:

Ryomen Sukuna, the King of Curses, becomes fascinated with a female sorcerer rich in potential but lacking control. Initially seizing her for his destructive plans, Sukuna aims to bind her abilities through a contract. Yet, as he tries to dominate her, he finds himself intrigued by her strength and determination. Over time, his interest evolves from strategic advantage to a deeper, personal connection.

-----------------------------------------

CHAPTER 3 - Untamed Power

As you plummeted into darkness, memories began to flood your mind. Was this what they meant when they spoke of life flashing before your eyes as death approached?

Images of your parents surfaced—kind-hearted people, always burdened by their meager jobs, struggling to pay the rent. They loved you deeply, no doubt, yet the relentless demands of survival left little room for their daughter.

You had always believed the world to be unfair. Being born into wealth or power seemed to guarantee success, unlike the tireless toil of your parents who returned home each night, their faces etched with the fatigue of endless work, yet still forcing a kind smile.

You harbored no resentment toward them; they didn't choose to be born into such a harsh system. Yet, as a child, the longing for their presence gnawed at your heart, a constant ache that never quite went away.

After school, you would sit on the porch of your house, the hours stretching long as you waited for the familiar sound of your parents' car in the driveway. With a tree branch in hand, you traced intricate shapes and figures in the dry soil, losing yourself in the dusty canvas beneath your feet.

One fateful day, as you were engrossed in one of your drawings, a pair of feet suddenly intruded upon your freshly sketched picture. You looked up to see a girl your age with jet-black hair tied back in a messy ponytail. She deliberately shuffled her feet, further ruining your creation, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Whoopsie, my bad," she chuckled.

You shot her a nasty glare and were about to push her away when she extended her hand, a dazzling smile catching you off guard. "Nice to meet you! I'm Ayumi."

Surprised by her sudden friendly demeanor, you tentatively shook her hand. Her voice was gentle but carried a mocking undertone as she continued, "You always seem so lonely and sad... It's hard to look at, y'know?" She rubbed her chin thoughtfully, then snapped her fingers as if struck by inspiration. "How about we go on an adventure, you and me?" she smirked.

The memory disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by that same darkness that enveloped you upon impact.

Gradually, you became more aware, feeling your heartbeat, hearing a low hum in the background. The dark fog seemed to lighten, and as it did, you blinked your eyes open, slowly adjusting to the light around you.

Your mind grappled with the hazy recollections of your fight with Sukuna's curses. The details were blurred and vague, but the lingering sense of dread and exhaustion was all too real.

Carefully, you moved your hands, feeling the softness of a mattress beneath you. Your brow furrowed in confusion as you took in your surroundings – no longer the twisted, ominous domain of the King of Curses, but a sparse, industrial-looking room with concrete walls and floors.

A small window let in a faint sliver of light, and you felt a momentary sense of relief, until your gaze settled upon a figure to your right, sitting cross-legged on the floor, his eyes shut as if in meditation.

Your heart dropped as you recognized the unmistakable presence of Ryomen Sukuna. Panic began to well up within you, but you forced yourself to remain calm, to assess the situation as best as you could.

Sukuna's eyes remained closed, and you couldn't help but wonder if this was some sort of ploy.

As your gaze drifted downwards, you were surprised to find yourself covered in bandages. The sight of the wrappings sent a jolt of awareness through your body, and suddenly the pain that had been dulled by your unconsciousness came rushing back, throbbing and aching in intensity. You couldn't help but wince at the discomfort.

Your mind raced as you tried to discern Sukuna's intentions. Had he patched you up for a reason? Or was this merely a brief interlude before he resumed his torment?

Your gaze flickered between Sukuna's serene form and the bandages that covered your battered body.

At the slightest movement, the mattress beneath you creaked, the sound cutting through the tense silence. Your eyes immediately snapped towards Sukuna, dread coiling in your stomach.

To your surprise, the King of Curses did not open his eyes, but rather his brows furrowed in an expression of pure annoyance.

"Silence, brat" he spat, his voice sharp and commanding. "Can't you see I'm concentrating?"

Daunted by the uncertainty of the situation and unsure of what to do next, you couldn't help but peer up at Sukuna, and then, your curiosity overriding your better judgment you asked; "Why... why did you bring me here?" your voice barely above a whisper. "And why did you—"

But the moment the words left your lips, Sukuna's eyes snapped open, his crimson gaze fixing on you in a threatening manner.

"Didn't I tell you to be silent?" he growled. Cursed energy seemed to emanate from his words, hitting you with a sharpness so intense that it sliced across your cheek. You felt the sting of the cut, blood trickling down to stain the sheets beneath you.

His eyes burned with a predatory light, as he stared at you. "You would do well to remember your place," he hissed.

Then he rose from his seated position, his white robe rustling as he brushed the creases from the fabric. To your surprise he went on to answer your previous question. "Is your stupid human brain so tiny that you've already forgotten?" he sneered, his voice dripping with condescension.

"Or did you think I brought you here out of the goodness of my heart?" he scoffed.

Sukuna's expression darkened as he reminded you of his twisted plans – to use you as a pawn, to bind you to him through a contract that would force you to obey his every command.

"I have a grand design in motion, little sorcerer," he growled, his eyes narrowing. "And you, will be an integral part of it, whether you like it or not. "

Sukuna's gaze bore into you, as if trying to read your every thought, "And by the looks of it, it seems like I haven't broken that sorry excuse of a spirit yet,"

His lips curled into a sadistic grin, as he warned "So the following days will be, well, more than a little unpleasant for you,"

Sukuna was toying with you. He had no intention of just using you as a pawn – he sought to break you, to shatter your very will until you were nothing more than a docile, obedient tool.

Sukuna's gaze lingered on you for a moment longer. Then, with a dismissive glance, he turned his back to you, his white robes swaying with the movement.

"Oh, and the reason I patched you up?" he purred, his voice coated with malicious intent.

"It's so I can break you all over again."

The implication of his words sent a shiver down your spine, but you refused to let him see you cower. Taking a deep breath, you steadied yourself, willing your body to stop shaking.

Sukuna then walked off, disappearing around a corner. You listened intently, hearing his footsteps ascend a flight of stairs. Followed by the sound of a lock clicking into place.

Glancing around the room, you noted the small window again. It was positioned very high on the wall, so you concluded that you must be in a basement of sorts.

You carefully paced along the cold, concrete walls, your fingers trailing against the rough surface.

Until you were met with the unsettling sensation of an invisible force— Sukuna must have set up an energy barrier, you thought to yourself.

He had essentially trapped you, and it angered you beyond words, igniting a spark of determination within.

Lying down and accepting your fate was not an option, not when you possessed the power to fight back.

You thought hard about all your possibilities. Could you try to break out? No, the barrier's strength was obvious, an impenetrable wall of cursed energy. Setting a trap for Sukuna seemed equally futile. The room was barren, save for a worn-out sofa, a coffee table, and a mattress. Your eyes roamed over these items, seeking any potential use, but they offered no immediate solution.

What did you have available right now? You asked yourself, frustration mounting.

Then it dawned on you—your cursed energy. The one constant, the one weapon always at your disposal. If you could practice and refine your skills, perhaps you could tip the scales in your favor.

Wincing through the pain, you planted your feet firmly on the ground. With focused determination, you channeled the bottled-up emotions—anger, pain, and fear—that surged through you. You tensed every muscle, every fiber of your being, as if trying to squeeze out all the power within you.

Suddenly, a bolt of cursed energy erupted from your palms, blasting towards the barrier that Sukuna had erected.

But the energy was uncontrolled, and the blast ricocheted off the barrier, shooting back towards you. You barely managed to duck in time, the as the stray energy crackled over your head.

"Shit," you muttered under your breath.

Despite your best efforts, your power remained erratic and unruly, refusing to bend to your will.

Time and time again, you tried to channel your energy, only to be met with the same result – blasts that careened out of control, sometimes striking you, other times slamming into the walls and furniture, leaving the room in shambles.

Surveying the chaos, a wave of despair washed over you. Your cursed energy, your sole potential weapon, proved as unruly and capricious as ever.

After what felt like hours of relentless, fruitless attempts, your body was pushed to the brink of exhaustion. Battered and injured, both by Sukuna's previous attacks and your own uncontrolled bursts of cursed energy, you were nearing the edge of your limits.

Yet, summoning the last of your resolve, you forced your body to center itself, pouring every ounce of your remaining strength into one final attempt, setting the door as your target.

A bolt of cursed energy erupted from your palms, spiraling towards its mark in an unexpectedly straight line– and just as you felt a glimmer of hope, the door swung open, revealing the imposing figure of Ryomen Sukuna.

To your dismay, Sukuna effortlessly ducked the attack, his lightning-fast reflexes easily evading your strike. A low, rumbling chuckle escaped his lips as he regarded you with a mixture of amusement and disdain.

"Well, well, you've made quite the mess, little sorcerer," His eyes sweeping over the havoc you had wreaked in the room.

Slowly, deliberately, he approached you, his movements predatory and graceful like a stalking beast. You instinctively took a step back, your body recoiling as he invaded your personal space.

"What's the matter?" Sukuna taunted, his voice a chilling, silky whisper.

His hand shot out, seizing your wrist with a tight grip. You tensed, expecting another cruel assault, but to your surprise, he merely traced his fingers along the lines of your palm, his touch surprisingly gentle.

"Do it again," he commanded, with a certain authority. "Channel your cursed energy through your hands."

Hesitantly, still wary of his intentions, you complied, focusing your concentration and allowing the familiar surge of power to build within you.

As you channeled your power, Sukuna's gaze locked onto yours.

"Stop," he commanded, "See what you're doing? Your whole body is like a coiled spring."

Sukuna's fingers tapped against your forehead, drawing your attention. "You have to stop trying to physically force it out. Instead feel the flow, guide it with calm intent."

His words, surprisingly devoid of their usual malice, made you pause. Sukuna was observing your technique, offering a critique, and you couldn't help but feel a glimmer of intrigue at this unexpected shift in his demeanor.

"Now try it again," he instructed, his voice low and measured. "Relax your entire body and direct all your focus towards the sensation of your cursed energy, gently guiding it towards your hands."

As he spoke, his finger traced a path from your forehead, down the length of your arm, until it came to rest upon your palm. The delicate touch sent a shiver through you, and you found yourself instinctively following his guidance.

Closing your eyes, you took a deep breath, allowing the tension to bleed from your muscles.

Focusing inward, you could feel the hum of your cursed energy, a power that had always felt sloppy and erratic. But this time, instead of trying to force it out, you gently coaxed it, guiding it towards your palm.

A small bolt of cursed energy began to form in your hand. Unlike your previous uncontrolled bursts, this one felt different – powerful, yet tamed.

The energy crackled and pulsed in your hand, contained and harnessed, rather than exploding outwards. A sense of wonder and accomplishment washed over you, a glimmer of hope.

Your gaze flicked up to Sukuna, a silent question in your eyes, as if seeking his approval or acknowledgment of your progress.

But the moment of wonder was fleeting, as Sukuna's expression quickly shifted back to his usual cold, demeanor, as he let out a derisive scoff.

"Pathetic," he spat, "You call yourself a sorcerer, and yet you don't even know the most basic principles of jujutsu?"

Sukuna turned his back on you, striding towards the door. Reaching down, he retrieved a plastic bag that had been set aside, and from it, he pulled out a loaf of bread and a large bottle of water.

With a dismissive flick of his wrist, he tossed the provisions at your feet, ensuring that you would have to bend down and exert yourself to retrieve them.

The gesture was a blatant display of his power and control over you, a subtle reminder of your captive status.

Despite this, a small smile tugged at the edge of your lips. Today, you had grown stronger. And one day, you vowed silently, you would be strong enough to bring him to his knees.

---------------------------------------------------------

Thanks for reading! Next chapter will be up soon

[luvrodite]

take me in, can't you see the shape i'm in? [563]

your bed is too uncomfortable to sleep in, so you go next door. gn!reader, roommate!au, sfw, sleeplessness/insomnia, descriptions of sensory discomfort

It's well past midnight and your eyes burn, weighed down by fatigue but sleep remains out of your reach, dancing close enough like a lure before jerking away cruelly. It's been a week of late nights and when you'd gotten home feeling as though you were two seconds from crashing into the couch, coordination skewed and limbs moving awkwardly, you'd thought, relieved, that it had finally caught up to you and you might get to sleep at a normal hour.

That had been six hours ago, and the darkness converges over your head in a grey-black cover, almost taunting you. Everything feels wrong tonight, your light sensitivity dialled up that even the sliver of light creeping through the crack under your bedroom door bores through your closed lids. The sounds of the city outside seem especially loud tonight, and the mattress under your back is just...wrong.

You clap your hands over your eyes frustratedly, near tears.

The murmur of a voice through your bedroom wall piques your attention, and you pause.

Jason hadn't batted an eyelid when you'd brushed past him upon getting home and gone straight to bed. You'd been thankful at the time, sure you would rip his head off if he'd so much as breathed in your direction.

You push yourself out of bed unthinkingly, water bottle tucked under your arm and make your way out of the room. The hallway light, bright orange and beginning to flicker – you'd get Jason to change it later – floods your vision as you open the door and you wince, reaching for the switch to flick it off.

You tap on Jason's door lightly, and the sounds of his game pause before he answers. He's sitting at the foot of his bed when you open his door, and he raises his brows at you.

"Didn't you go to bed?"

"Can't sleep," you grumble miserably, moving further into the room and shutting the door behind you.

"Was I being too loud? Sorry." You shake your head and he grimaces sympathetically, nose screwing up. "Y'know, I still think it's weird you're such a light sleeper."

"Screw you," you mutter tonelessly, sitting on his bed. "Not all of us can sleep through an earthquake."

"I'm not that bad," he argues, and then to the person on the other end of his mic, "Shut up, man, you're one to talk."

"Who–" you yawn, a big one that brings tears to your eyes. Curling up on his bed, you push his duvet with your foot so you can slip a leg under it. "Who's that?"

"None of your business. Go to sleep," he mutters but you've already begun to doze off, slumping against the pillows, too tired to even lift your bottle from your side. It remains there when your breaths even out, steady even as Jason continues to talk to his friend, even as the light from the television screen reflects onto your face.

When he calls it a night and stands up half an hour later, he smothers a grin at the sight of you asleep in his bed. You're dead to the world, limbs thrown out over his mattress uncaring, and he nudges you gently to make space, plucking your bottle and setting it on the floor before climbing into bed himself.

"Night, dumbass," he murmurs. As if in response, you sigh in your sleep.

writing this with tears in my eyes because i fell asleep at a normal time for the first time in weeks and woke up a few hours later and can't go back to sleep even though i am literally so tired :D anyway dreaming about climbing into roomie jason's bed and sleeping in there. i just think it's so nice and cold in his room and his quilt is so fluffy and his bed is warm even though he would argue that your room is way better (it is but his bed is just so comfortable) like you are conking out the moment you get in there!

[kitorin]

11:56 pm - 11th of November : s.akito

contents. shinonome akito x gn!reader, 2.485k words, fluff, no warnings really, rushed, mizuena mention

happy birthday to my love <3 wish i had time for a full fic but it is what it is

It's the dead of night when Shinonome Akito's night is interrupted.

The sky's pale blue was washed away long ago, by the brooding navy of the night, the sun bid the world farewell and traded places with the moon. Both inside and outside was desolate, with the winter wind's whispers and moths pursuing the weak light of the street lights being exceptions. Not even Ena was awake, for once sleep, due to lassitude's victory.

Typically, Akito refuses to sleep so recklessly, always brushing his teeth before a certain time and avoiding screens half an hour before bed. It was too late for his liking, fatigue rubs at his eyes, urging him to close them and fall into restful slumber.

But today's sort of special.

In twenty minutes (now nineteen) he'll turn seventeen— a mere year away from eighteen. He knows it's a big number, inching closer to graduation and eventually adulthood. He doesn't exactly feel thrilled, nor fearful. There's a sliver of yearning to be a carefree primary schooler again, other than that he felt quite stoic towards the matter.

Yet he still decided on waiting 'til midnight. Just for the sake of it, no rational or particular reason.

Borderline foolish, really. He'll feel a sense of achievement when the clock strikes twelve, then retreat to the blankets of his bed right afterwards.

Two taps sever the silence of the room, abrupt but loud.

Akito immediately looks up from his book to the door, instinctively. But his mother always notifies him with the gentle call of his name (while Ena yells at him instead), and his father simply doesn't bother with knocking. Ena passed out almost instantly when she came home (an hour or two ago), and his parents maintain a healthy sleep schedule.

"Yes?" He says, pushing his chair out of the desk, the wheels quietly rolling against the carpet. When he opens the door, he's met with nobody. A quick scan of the corridor produces no results. There were no footsteps, and no one in his family was immature enough to do knock and run in the dead of night (maybe Ena, but she wouldn't be bothered to sprint away).

Fear approaches him, its cold grip tightening around his chest. Suddenly he regrets watching Youtube videos about gruesome murders and true crime documentaries on Netflix.

With a shaky inhale, Akito prepares himself. He hasn't got the faintest clue from what, but he's ready to throw a front kick if needed.

The knocking happens again, this time a lot louder. Now it's obvious that it's not against wood, and cautiously, he turns to his window.

It's you.

The whole situation makes his heart skip a beat, both because you're perched on the window sill outside, and that he's not alone in his room (well technically, you were still outside).

Concern makes him act quick (especially with the shoulder bag you were wearing whilst precariously hanging onto the window), he opens the window and you're greeted immediately with a scolding when you enter.

"What the hell? Why are you here, this is the second fucking floor— Are you crazy?"

"Happy birthday!"

The ebullience reinforcing your voice catches him off guard, silencing reprimands. You were just saved from a highly likely (and fatal) injury, yet you're smiling as if you're on top of the world.

"Don't ignore me. How are you up here?"

You shrug, unfazed by his worry. "There's a tree."

"I can see that idiot. What you didn't was the things that could've happened. What if you fell down? I could've been asleep and no one would've been able to help you and—" Akito senses himself edging towards a mental breakdown, from the simple thought of something happening to you. Terror strangles him, and his words can't be uttered smoothly.

You seemed to take notice of this panic. "But I didn't fall. I'm okay. I wouldn't've done this if I wasn't confident in my own capabilities."

Unstable, though deep, he breathes in, focusing on how the air enters and exist. There was no need to think about what could've went wrong when the right thing already occurred.

He clears his throat, embarrassed at how emotional he got earlier. "Was a text not enough? Why'd you come here?" You didn't make an attempt to break in at An's house, nor Touya's or Kohane's. Why his specifically?

"Because today's special. It's your birthday." You unzip your bag, but instruct him before taking anything out. "Close your eyes, it's your gift."

He does as he's told, and he listens to your shuffling around the room and your possessions.

Electric guitar floods the room, accompanied by piano in the background. The tune rings a bell in Akito.

An entire stadium of ego, the wintry rationality.

Akito knows this song. Uninterrupted Indigo. Both the lyrics and music were created by Shishishishi (formerly known as Chosauce), there's two original versions of the song, one where the composer himself performed while the other featured Hatsune Miku.

But these vocals weren't the composer's. Nor Miku's

They were Akito's.

Heat permeates his cheeks rapidly, his eyes open without waiting for you to ask him to. He finally grasps input on what you're doing.

His record player is open and placed on his desk. The transparency of the case permitted the moonlight through, its pale complexion revealing the vinyl record slowly rotating in the dark.

Only now he just noticed that it was sort of the record player's birthday too. Precisely a year ago his mother gifted it to him, as his love for music was nurtured the more he spent time performing. Akito had told himself that he'd buy vinyls, but it completely slipped his mind (they were expensive, too). Streaming services were much more tempting anyways, their convenience were unmatched and he could listen to music whenever, wherever.

He only indulges in his own covers to review where he can improve, never for his own enjoyment. What is there to enjoy when it's the very reason why he struggles so much一why he's so unworthy of his dream that no one seems to have faith in.

Akito's about to say something, ready to criticise his vocals.

"I love this song, but I love the way you sing even more. It's my favourite. Anything you create, as well."

Suddenly the harsh things he wanted to say were gone.

He's heard you compliment him before, but each time feels just as magic as the previous.

"Did you know I fall asleep to this? I don't know if that's weird, but it's so comforting, the vocals and lyrics."

His voice, comforting? Being labelled as your favourite was surprising enough, but for his singing it be a source of comfort and joy almost made his jaw drop in disbelief.

Akito's scepticism of your words doesn't go unnoticed by you.

"I know you don't like your singing. And that's fine. But there are plenty of things I didn't like about myself too. Yet I love them now, thanks to you."

He knows what you're referring to, how when you mentioned suffering from self esteem, so he wrote something he found admired about you on a page per day in a notebook, 'til it was full.

"I wanted to do something similar for you too. Though I don't think I'm very good at it, I want you to view yourself the same way I do. Beautiful and perfect, just fine the way you are. Even if people try to accuse you of being any less."

Akito's heart throbs, both with appreciation and desire. Yearning blossoms within him, pining thorns strangle his heart as it frantically races. Teeth dig into his lips, and red pervades his cheeks for a reason other than hearing himself sing.

"If you like it, then it's more than enough for me. It makes me happy beyond words that you enjoy my music." He notices the record's case, a photo of him from when you went camping together, when you spent the night sleeplessly; roasting marshmallows and laughing until you struggled for air.

It's always you. You're the one who does reckless shit for his sake, you climbed up a tree to the second floor just to say happy birthday. You do the things you hate with a passion if it meant the slightest more comfort for him. It's always you who notices when his throat is overworked, or when tears threaten to spill.

It's only you.

The initial grin on your face dissipates, concern growing. "Do you have a fever? You're really red." A hand comes up to his forehead, and he's quite certain it reddened him even more. "You're heating up." Even when you're frowning he can't help but stare.

"And this is why I like you." Akito breathes out. He didn't want to confess, not yet, at least. Yet the words still found their way out, he might as well ensure they're told in the right way. "I can't help but want you more and more with each second. I can't think properly when I think of you, let alone when you're around."

The timing was horrid really, but though he'd much rather look at you in proper lighting, something about the shadowed room and sliver of moonlight highlighting your face is charming. "So then, may I be yours?"

This is what he means when he says he can't think. Look at him, confessing at midnight, on the day of his birthday, too.

"Of course." With a blink of an eye Akito finds himself wrapped in the warmth of your arms. "I like you too, Akito."

The weight on his shoulders which he didn't even noticed was lifted, finally free from his fear of awkward rejection. There's no more fighting his emotions to maintain composure in front of you, no more worrying about you accepting another as yours.

Now, turning seventeen didn't seem so bland.

"Thank you for tonight." He murmurs into your ear. Something inside of him pleads him to kiss you, whether it may be. But the mere thought of planting one on your cheek seemed impossible, let alone meeting his lips with yours. "Thank you for staying safe out there."

"Sorry if I scared you. Sleep now, you must be tired. We have a big day for you planned." And there it is, the cheery grin he'd never get sick of. "There's more to your gift too."

Akito doesn't want to sleep, not when his crush of over a year reciprocates his feelings. Lethargy was nowhere to be seen, right now all he wants is you.

"Mind if I pick up my bag later today? It's a lot easier to climb without it. The rest is just water and snacks I brought just in case, feel free to have 'em." You're already half out the window.

"You can't just like me back then leave."

"What do you suggest then?"

"Stay the night." He'll deal with his father's scolding. He'll answer all his mother's questions and he'll even tolerate Ena's teasing. If it meant you'll stay, that's fine (he doesn't feel alright knowing you're travelling late too). "Your parents are away, I'll deal with mine."

"If you say so then." Akito goes to his closet, where his futon is stored. You pull him away, almost making him fall over.

"We're sharing a bed, please? We did it at An's, why not now?"

But that was as friends, and he barely confessed a few minutes ago. "I'm fine with that." Adores and entertains the idea of it, though he doesn't know what to do. What if he's too cold? Kicks in his sleep? Snores?

You already indulge in his blankets, lifting them up to let him in, he accepts the invitation, and ends up regretting because his face is hot enough already.

You find your arms snaking around his waist. "Is this okay?"

The unfamiliarity of the contact flusters him, but he doesn't hate it. "Yeah, really good." His voice is a breathless whisper, a bit shaky from being so nervous.

"Can I do more?"

He nods.

Your chin is nestled on his shoulder, the sensation of your hair against his neck slightly ticklish. He can smell your breath, the saccharine scent of haichus and the other sweets you adore.

"Good night."

You mumble it back, and for the first time in a while, Akito feels at genuine peace.

"What are you studying in school?"

You list off your subjects with confidence, subtly hinting at success and awards in them, all while wearing a sweet smile.

"Mum, there's no need to interrogate them." Akito finally swallowed the large bite of pancake he was on, the rest of the dish shining in the dining room's light, soaked in maple syrup.

Mrs Shinonome didn't seem to care. "I need to know the kind of people you're hanging out with, you never bring anyone home. I've been worried that you didn't have any friends." Socially, he was doing fine, Weekend Garage was a much more appealing place to hang out, with the live bar and cafe. "They seem like a great influence. Studying difficult subjects and still doing well, they're well educated. I hope you start rubbing off of them."

"Akito, it's fine, really. She's fun to talk to." It was entertaining to watch her talk about Akito as a child, while Ena poked fun at them. She was sweet, complimenting your skin and marveling at your jewelry, while thanking you for being Akito's friend for so long.

He murmurs in response. "That's only because you saw baby photos of me." There was that too.

"To be honest my impression of you wasn't very nice. It scared me to see someone else in Aki's room." A sip of her tea, Akito's mother rests her chin on her palm. "How did you get inside? You didn't find the spare key or anything, did you?"

"Actually, I cl一"

"I let them in. I asked them sort of last minute. Y'know, waiting until midnight together." Ena watches Akito keenly, eating her pancakes as her gaze remains on him as he speaks.

"Awww, that's so cute." Ena comments with a grin. "So, how long have you been dating?"

Akito scoffs. "We're not dating dumbass."

"Then I guess y/n's holding your hand under the table because it's cold?"

"Ena, shut the fuck up, you haven't told Mum about being in love with Akiyama either."

The sudden change in atmosphere makes you purse your lips, the sight of what seems to be a war exclusively between siblings.

"Language!" Their mother scolds them, but too preoccupied to do it as she flips part of the table cloth up to see better. "You really are holding hands- And Ena who is Akiyama?"

You weren't the only one being interrogated that morning, the siblings exchanged heated words throughout their mother's quest to learn more. But amidst this chaos was you, chuckling in your seat at the ordeal.

taglist (send ask to be added) : @yuzurins, @pokkomi, @chigirizzz

© kitorin : do not repost, plagiarize, change, or translate

[trashbag-baby666]

Out of Control-Clegan

Shoreline Redemption au

Summary: Gales hospital stay after the attack. Prequel to this!

WC: 8,400

C/W: Hurt/Comfort, mentions and themes of a shark attack.

mota masterlist! | ao3 link

Everything felt like a perfect dream state, one moment he'd be slightly crouched going through a barreled wave. On the other end he could see John smiling and cheering for him. Another moment it'd change over and he'd have his head in John's lap. Sand in his hair and Meatballs head on his stomach. He'd hear the angelic sounds of, "I love you." and "Gorgeous, gorgeous, boy." as John would pepper his face in kisses. 

The insistent beeping of the heart monitor and the compress of the blood pressure cuff had other plans. He felt John's voice growing more distant and he seemed to move backward in the barreled wave. John grew smaller and smaller till Gale's eyes flicked open, but in reality barely cracked and his eyelids hung low. His breathing pattern changed, alerting John from where he gazed down at Gale's hand in his own. 

He couldn't remember what happened but he knew where he was, he dug deep in his brain for the answers. He remembered being squashed into Curt's truck on the way to the cove, he remembered the surfing, he remembered the locked pressure on his left shoulder...He lazily pulled his hand from Johns and slung it over himself feeling for his other arm and then his shoulder. His eyes now really opened as he looked at the bulky bandages around his chest and over his shoulder where his arm should've been. 

"Gale, don't—" John started, but Gale had already touched the bandages, realizing the reality of his loss.

He closed his eyes again. He let his right hand fall back into his lap feeling the hot tears pinch through and wet his eyelashes. He couldn't form any words or make sense of John's voice as the other took his hand again. Why? Why him? 

He squeezed his eyes shut turning his head away from John and let his tears soak the uncomfortable, stiff pillow. It didn't take long for a nurse to come in and run some more morphine through his IV essentially knocking him back out.

Unfortunately, Gale knew what he was waking up to this time around. The dream wasn't pleasant like the last one, he had been out with John when he was tossed from his board by the roughing waves. When he came up to the surface the sunny day had turned into a dark, gray stormy day. He pulled himself back up onto his board and he looked around. He was now in the open ocean with the shore or John nowhere in sight. His heart began to pound at his chest, only worsening as he saw a bolt of lightning and heard a roll of thunder. 

He looked around for any chance of land and began paddling in what he was sure was back towards shore. But it seemed like he wasn't making any progress and he kept growing more and more fatigued. Through the fog he could begin to make out something floating in the water. As he got within a yard of it his heart dropped and his breath caught in his throat. It was a body...but it was John...he could never mistake those curls and those obnoxious bright yellow banana swim trunks. He stopped next to him and tried to pull him onto his board, complete dead weight. As a wave rolled in it flipped John's body over and he was locked with the sight of his blue, waterlogged skin and the haunting stare of his white, cloudy, and haunting eyes.

He let out a small shriek as he sat forward in the hospital bed, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. The room dark except for the sliver of light from the window on the door. John had fallen asleep sometime earlier in the uncomfortable chair at Gales bedside. His shrieks pulling him from his rest, he was up in an instant gently laying Gale back against the pillows, "Hey, hey, I'm right here, Buck." John sat at the edge of his bed rubbing Gales back till his breathing steadied. 

"Do you want me to get a nurse?" John kept his voice below a whisper, his other hand tangled in Gale's. The blonde shook his head and gently nuzzled himself into John's neck. He kissed the top of Gale's head and held him close. 

—---------

The second day was somehow worse than the last. He was the slightest bit more coherent, the drugs still making him feel a little clouded in the brain. John had still been there in the morning, but he left to go get some shitty hospital coffee once Granddad and their neighbor, who had practically become Gale's mother figure, Nalani, arrived.

"Morning," Gale put on a smile for them as they came into the room, Nalani dawning another bouquet of plumeria. He hadn't been here a full two days and his room was stacked with flowers, cards, and balloons. Pretty much everyone knew the Clevens on the island because of his granddad's surf shop, then Gale's surfing success.

"Aloha kakahiaka, how are you feeling?" Nalani asked softly, placing the bouquet on the windowsill. Her eyes were full of concern, her presence calming and maternal.

"Like I got hit by a truck," Gale tried to joke, but his voice cracked, betraying his pain. "Thanks for coming."

"Of course, sweetheart. We're all here for you," she said, sitting on the chair next to his bed.

Terry stood at the foot of the bed, his expression stoic but his eyes betraying his worry. "You're a tough kid. You'll get through this."

"Thanks, Granddad," Gale said, trying to muster more strength in his voice.

John returned with the coffee, handing a cup to Terry and one to Nalani. He sat back down beside Gale, his presence a constant source of comfort. Gale leaned into him, closing his eyes and taking in the familiar scent of the ocean that clung to John's clothes.

 Nalani patted Gale's thigh gently. "You've got a lot of people who love you, Gale. And we're all here to help."

“I brought the paper, thought you’d wanna see this.” Terry pulled The Honolulu Star-Advertiser from his back pocket handing the folded newspaper to John. Gale leaned into John’s shoulder further to see a picture of him and John from last summer's under 18 surf championships after he had scored a perfect heat 20 and brought home a gold on the front page. In big black, bold letters it read: Local Champion Surfer Saved From Shark By Bestfriend.

The two both skimmed the article, Gale's eyebrows pinching into a furrow.

He didn't know how he felt about his business just being aired out. "Oh," Gale mumbled, leaning his head against John's shoulder, starting to feel a little more out of it again. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking in the steady pace of the heart monitor and the subtle beeping.

John's grip tightened on the paper, his jaw clenched. "'Best friend'? Really? That's what they call me? I saved your life, but they can't even call me your boyfriend. What a fuckin’ joke," he spat out, anger lacing his words.

Gale barely registered the comment, his mind foggy from the pain and medication. "Why do they have to air out my business like this?" he mumbled, more to himself than anyone else.

John sighed, his anger momentarily softened by Gale's evident exhaustion and distress. "Don't worry about it, Buck. They don't know anything," he said, kissing Gale's temple gently. "Just focus on getting better."

Gale nodded weakly, his eyes fluttering shut again, while John fumed silently, wishing the world could see their relationship for what it truly was. 

It didn’t take long before Gale fell back asleep, his body slumped against John’s. 

John had his arm around Gale kissing his head every once in a while to send him good dreams. He sat in silence with the other two, they watched over him together. 

—---------

The thunder rolled from the remnants of the recent storms, thick raindrops pattering against the grand picture window overlooking the bay. The house, tucked away from the rest of the neighborhood, felt like a fortress of solitude. Ken sat with his knees pulled to his chest, chin resting on them, his eyes fixated on the aggressive waves crashing against the cliffs.

Curt entered the open den with a cup of tea, its steam curling in the cool, damp air. Ken unfolded himself slightly, taking the cup and blowing on it. He knew what Curt would say today, just as he had before: You know Buck wants you there. The thought nagged at the back of his mind, refusing to leave.

“How’re ya feelin’, Kenny?” Curt asked, pressing a kiss to the top of Ken's head before sitting next to him.

Ken shrugged, unable to articulate the swirling emotions inside. His mind kept spiraling into dark what-ifs. What if Gale had bled out on the beach? What if he hadn’t made it to the hospital?

“Kenny?” Curt’s hand on his shoulder startled him, nearly sky rocketing him off the plush sofa.

“I’m sorry.” Ken set his tea down and shook his head, burying his face in his hands. A sob escaped, probably the five hundredth since the attack. He stepped away from where Curt now stood, tears streaming down his face.

“Hey, hey, sweet boy. You have nothing to be sorry about.” Curt’s voice was gentle as he rubbed Ken's back. “Talk to me, baby?”

Ken just shrugged, nestling into Curt’s side. “You think he’s mad at me?”

“Who? Gale?” Curt stroked Ken’s curls, pulling them back from his face. Ken nodded silently, the guilt gnawing at him.

“No, I promise you he isn’t mad.” Curt kissed the top of Ken’s head. He had visited Gale just a half-hour earlier; Gale had been barely coherent, unable to distinguish between John and Curt.

“You jus’ sayin’ that?” Ken whimpered into Curt’s hoodie sleeve.

“No, I’m not just sayin’ that, sugar. He wanted me to tell you that you can take as much time as you need.” Curt adjusted himself, pulling Ken into his lap. “He still loves you, no matter what.”

Ken felt the ache in his chest intensify, the guilt mixing with the exhaustion. “Do you still love me?”

Curt met Ken’s glazed-over green eyes and flushed cheeks. “Of course. Nothin’ could ever stop me from lovin’ you, Kenny.”

“Nothing?” Ken repeated, his voice barely a whisper.

“Nothin’.” Curt took one of Ken’s hands and kissed his knuckles. “You’re my heart, Kenny. Always will be.”

Ken nodded, snuggling closer into Curt’s embrace. The storm outside raged on, but inside, wrapped in Curt’s arms, he felt a glimmer of peace. They stayed like that, the sound of the rain and the warmth of each other’s presence offering a brief respite from the chaos within and without.

—---------

Gale's eyes fluttered open, the dim lighting of the hospital room slowly coming into focus. The steady beeping of the heart monitor and the occasional hiss of the IV drip were the only sounds, creating a surreal cocoon around him. He felt a dull, throbbing pain where his arm used to be, the medications making his thoughts hazy and slow.

John sat beside him, eyes dark with worry and exhaustion. He held a crumpled newspaper in his hand, the headline still glaring up at him.

“Hey,” Gale whispered, his voice raspy and weak.

John’s head snapped up, a forced smile spreading across his face. “Hey, babe. How’re you feeling?”

Gale blinked slowly, trying to gather his thoughts. “Everything hurts… but I’m here.” He glanced at the newspaper. “What’s that?”

John’s jaw tightened. “It’s the local paper. They did a story on what happened.”

John showed Gale the article, the blonde nodded as the memories came back from the previous day. The damned drugs we’re clouding his brain and his memory of the past few days were shaky. 

“You shouldn’t let them get under your skin, John. It’s just a stupid article.” Gale hoped his words made sense to John because they didn’t make sense to him as they came out of his mouth. He was beginning to feel his eyelids starting to get heavy again and the mouth full of cotton feeling. 

“I know, but people have been fighting for this for ag–” Gale batted his hand lazily at John.

“Shhhh,” he hushed him trying to bring his finger to John’s lips. John knew they must have given Gale plenty of morphine last time he complained of pain, “Can I tell you something?”

“Sure, what do you gotta tell me, baby?” He sat back in his chair and took Gale’s flimsy hand in his own hand before he poked John's eye out. 

“You know my dad left me, right?”

“Yes, baby.”

“I'm scared everyones gonna leave me too. Terry can’t afford these hospital bills, I can’t even work now. Maybe I could ask Ken about workin’ at the tourist center with him.”

“What’re you getting’ on about, Buck? No one is leaving you, including me and Terry. Frankly, you’ll have to cut off my legs and leave me somewhere if you ever wanted to leave me.” John giggled softly but stopped, “I’m sorry.” He mumbled against Gale's hand. The blonde boy dropped his head to the side a bit and gave him an eyes closed, doppy smirk. The open blinds casted shadows onto his face from the morning sunshine, John wanted to take a picture. He looked so happy. The past three days had been challenging for him and it was just nice to see him with a smile on his face.

“Goodnight John,” he rested his head back against the pillow.

“It’s only nine…” 

“Sh!” John gave into Gales commands and let the boy go back to sleep. It’d probably be better that way, he didn’t need to think about how he was going to pay for the hospital bills. Or how he’s scared everyones gonna leave him.

“I love you.” John mumbled against Gale's hand and gently set their intertwined hands back on the bed. 

Gale smiled up at the sun and fluffy white clouds, lying on his back on the board. He moved his hand back and forth in the water, feeling its pull. John lay next to him, eyes closed, head resting on his hands. Gale glanced back toward the shore, where Curt and Ken were relaxing on the blanket, Ken giggling at something Curt said. The two were still practically inseparable even after two years of living together in Ken’s parents' beach house. 

Gale closed his eyes for a moment feeling the sun sleepies taking over his body. He opened his eyes only moments later and the day had turned to a dark stormy sky, the thick raindrops pelting his body. He looked to his left where John had just been, instead seeing the large dorsal fin swimming towards him. 

He looked to the shore and saw the three leaving, “John!” Gale screamed just as he felt the glistening pressure and pain in his shoulder all over again. 

His eyes snapped open, and he looked around the dim room, disoriented. “Don’t leave. Don’t leave.” he whispered, tears streaming down his face.

John, had dozed off in the chair, woke up instantly. He moved to Gale’s side, taking his hand. “Hey, hey, I’m right here, Buck. I’m not going anywhere.”

Gale looked at him, his eyes filled with fear and pain. “You-you left… I was alone…”

John shook his head, his own eyes wet. “No, baby. I’m right here. I’ll always be here.”

Gale’s breathing was ragged, and he clung to John as if he might disappear. “Promise?”

“I promise,” John said firmly, pulling Gale into a gentle hug. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The tension in Gale’s body slowly eased, but the emotional pain lingered. “Why does everyone leave?” he whispered, more to himself than to John.

John held him tighter, wishing he could take away all the hurt. “I won’t leave you, baby. Not ever.”

Gale nodded, though the fear still lingered in his heart. The physical pain was one thing, but the emotional scars were deeper, harder to heal. He closed his eyes, trying to find some comfort in John’s presence.

As Gale drifted back into a fitful sleep, John stayed by his side, holding his hand.

—---------

The next two days were just like that, Gale slowly being weaned off the pain meds. Growing less and less loopy, he wasn’t sleeping as much as he had been. The other part of that meant that Gale was in discomforting pain and beginning to experience phantom pains. 

It was driving John crazy, he felt helpless and like he couldn’t fix this for Gale. He spent his time thinking over every scenario of how John could’ve prevented this all from happening. 

“Did you hear about the manhunt going on for the shark?” Curt took an armful of Palm leaves and tossed them into the back of the marina truck's bed. 

“The shark that bit Buck?” John furrowed his eyebrows and stopped trimming the areca palms. Truly he had been waiting to hear that…it’d give him a way to at least somewhat fix this…?

“Yeah, Greg was talkin’ about it. Said a bunch of locals came out this morning to take their boats out. To ‘get that son of a bitch shark.’” Curt’s gloved hands did air quotes as he did a somewhat alright impression of their boss.

“Should we join them?” John went back to trimming the palms, he hoped Curt would agree. 

Curt stopped and leaned against the truck taking a long drink from his water bottle. “I don’t know if you’re in it for the right reasons.”

John grunted and rolled his eyes, “Buck would be pissed…”

“Yeah, he would.” John could tell that Curt was leaning towards saying no but he didn’t want to give this up.

“You’re my best bud, Curt.” John rested his gloved hand on Curts shoulder. 

“Yeah, I guess. If you want, you know I’ll always follow your stupid.” Curt shrugged, tossing another heap of palm leaves into the truck bed. 

“My stupid? What about your stupid?” 

“Oh, don’t you mean you are stupid?”

“No, your stupid decisions!” John threw his hands up feeling blind aggression run through his body. Truly, he had no reason to be feeling that way and attacking Curt for making a dumb joke. 

“Bucky,” Curt breathed out looking at the taller man in clear, tiring stress. 

“Just forget it, Curt.” John waved his hand absently and picked up his hedge clippers. The palms get John’s anger and forceful snipping. 

—---------

Gale sat in his bed with his chin resting on his knee as he held the book Nalani's husband, David had brought him. He was about half way through in his day and a half reading progress. He didn’t like the silence when no one was there, he couldn’t stand the beeping of the heart monitor anymore. Soon enough they’d take him off the IV and such but he had a couple more days to go. And another dreaded week at the hospital before he got to go home. Except this week he’d start seeing a psychologist and an occupational therapist. He just silently thanked the weekend for giving him at least two days off along with the occupational therapist’s. He still was getting around the clock care and even though he hated the silence, he hated when the nurses or doctors would come in and ask him how he was doing or how he was feeling. He felt bad earlier for snapping at his Grandpa earlier for asking him the same. 

He was feeling pent up like an animal locked in a cage, just having to watch other people live the freedom you once knew. He wanted to go outside and feel the hot sun on his face and run his fingers through the grass. He wanted to be on the beach and in the water, he wanted the sand under his toes. He knew if he asked his doctor, he’d probably be allowed outside. But he didn’t want people to look at him either, he hadn’t left his hospital room since he got there. He also requested they keep the blinds on the interior window closed when unnecessary. Yet he never closed the blinds to the outside, he could see the palms outside the ground level room he was in. The sun occasionally shined through onto him, if he really tuned out the hospital white noise of beeps and intercoms. He could imagine the sound of the seagulls chirping and the waves crashing, it made him feel like things were okay again for just a little bit.

There was a soft knock on the door, and then it opened slightly. Nalani poked her head in, her dark eyes warm and reassuring. "Hey there, Gale. Mind if we come in?"

Gale managed a small smile. "Of course not."

Nalani pushed the door open wider, revealing Keanu, who was holding a colorful handmade card. The boy’s face lit up with excitement when he saw Gale.

"Hey, Buck!" Keanu chirped, rushing over to the side of the bed. "I made you something!"

Gale's smile widened as he looked at the card Keanu handed him. It was covered in bright drawings of waves, surfboards, and a big sun with a smiley face. "Wow,this is awesome! Thank you."

Keanu beamed, climbing onto the chair beside his bed. "I knew you'd like it! I drew us surfing together. See? That's you, and that's me!"

Gale chuckled softly, the simple joy in Keanu's voice lifting his spirits. "It's perfect, buddy. We’ll have to go surfing together once I’m better."

Keanu nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah! I can’t wait." He then looked at Gale with big, concerned eyes. "Does it hurt a lot?"

Gale hesitated for a moment, not wanting to worry or scare the boy, but he appreciated Keanu’s honesty. "It hurts a bit, but I'm getting better every day."

Keanu leaned in closer, as if sharing a secret. "You know, my mom says you're the strongest surfer ever. Even stronger than those big waves."

Gale's heart warmed at the boy's words. "Your mom is pretty smart. And you know what? She's right. I’m going to be back on my board in no time." At the same time he felt like he was lying to not ruin the boy's spirits. He knew he could probably find some way back to his board but it made his stomach hurt to think about. 

Keanu's eyes sparkled with excitement. "Can I help? Maybe I can bring you something or tell you stories. Mom says stories help when you’re not feeling good."

Gale smiled, feeling a sense of warmth spread through him that had been missing since the attack. "I’d like that, Keanu. I’d like that a lot."

Nalani stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on Gale’s shoulder. "We’re all here for you. Whenever you need us."

He looked up at her, feeling a lump form in his throat. "Thank you, Nalani. You guys being here means a lot to me."

Just then, the door creaked open again, and John stepped in, carrying a bag of snacks. His eyes lit up when he saw Keanu. "Hey, little dude!"

Keanu's face split into a huge grin. "John! You're here!" He jumped off the chair and ran over to John, wrapping his arms around his legs.

John ruffled Keanu's hair, grinning down at him. "Of course I'm here. Had to bring some goodies for Buck. You keeping him company?"

Keanu nodded vigorously. "Yeah! I made him a card and told him some stories."

John knelt down to Keanu's level, giving him a high-five. "That's awesome, man. You're the best."

Keanu's eyes shone with admiration. "You're the coolest, John! Can we go surfing together when Gale gets better?"

John chuckled, glancing over at Gale, who was watching the exchange with a fond smile. "Absolutely. We'll all hit the waves together."

Keanu beamed, bouncing on his toes with excitement. "I can't wait!"

John stood up and walked over to Gale, placing the bag on the bedside table. "How are you feeling, Buck?"

Gale gave a small nod. "Better. Thanks for the snacks."

John sat on the edge of the bed, his hand finding Gale's. "Anything for you."

Keanu climbed back onto the chair, looking at the two older boys with wide eyes. "You guys are like the best team ever."

Gale squeezed John's hand, feeling a surge of warmth and gratitude. "Thanks, Keanu. You’re a big part of our team too."

Nalani smiled, watching the interaction with a gentle expression. "Alright, Keanu, time to let Gale rest. We’ll come back tomorrow."

Keanu hopped off the chair and gave Gale another hug. "Get better soon, Gale. I’ll bring more stories tomorrow!"

Gale hugged him back, feeling a bit more hopeful. "I’ll be waiting, buddy."

As Nalani and Keanu left, John settled into the chair beside Gale’s bed, their hands still entwined.

 Gale kissed John gently, feeling the salty water on his lips and smelling the fresh saltwater air on him. “How was work?”

“Just fine,” John breathed into Gale’s lips and pressed another kiss to him. He sat down on the chair and took Gale's hand back in his own. He didn’t know if he should mention to Gale the discovery he had today…about the shark hunt. 

“What’d you do today?”

“Just trimmed some palms, washed some boats. Lots of people were out today.” 

“Was it as nice as it looks today?” Gale sighed resting his head against the pillow letting it drop slightly to his shoulder. 

“Yeah, but they were out on a hunt.” John looked back down at his lap and scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. 

“For the shark?” Gale shifted his gaze back straight ahead to the turned off tv screen. 

“Yeah,” John breathed out and nodded. 

“Are you going out?”

“Was thinkin’ about it.” He ran his teeth over his bottom lip.

“Why, John? It’s just an animal.” He could see the blonde sink into the mattress, seemingly pressing his back into the mattress. He knew he’d be mad…part of him understood why Gale would be mad.

“Because! I can’t just sit here and stand seeing you like this! I need to fix this now! Or at least try my fuckin’ hardest to, i need to be part of that.” John finally snapped, standing up abruptly from his chair. “I can’t stand being powerless to do anything about it.”

Gale began to feel more groggy from the morphine in the drip. He looked up at John with heavy eyes. “What am I supposed to do, John? Just… magically grow my arm back?”

John’s frustration boiled over. “No, but I can’t just sit here and watch you suffer! I want to do something, anything, to fucking fix this! but I can’t and it’s killing me!”

Gale turned his head away, tears welling up. “I don’t need you to fix this. I just need you to be here.”

John stormed out of the room, unable to face Gale’s pain and his own helplessness. He power walked straight out of the hospital, the automatic sliding doors barely having time to sense him and open. He nearly collided into Curt as he came out of the doors, the shorter one basically catching the both of them. 

“Mother fucker. What did you do?” Curt grabbed John’s shoulders whilst the taller boy tried to shove him off. Curt let go and the two fumed in silence for a moment. Both their blue eyes narrowed at the other, Curt stepping up to John. “The hell you do this time, huh?” Curt whacked him upside the head pulling John’s attention out of the silence. “Huh? What’d you do? You leave him crying in there by himself again?”

“The fuck you want, Curt?” John shoved him back again and shoved his shoulder again. 

“Bucky, knock it off.” Curt snapped his fingers at the boy, he wasn’t sure what John was trying to achieve. He shoved his shoulder again and Curt caught his wrist in his hand.

“Come on, Curt. Have you been here day after day? You weren’t six inches away from him when it fuckin’ happened. My back aches from sleeping in that damn chair and your little puppy can’t even bother to come see him when he knows he needs him.” John barked at him, taking another step forward. Curt had, had enough of his shit and swung on him. His fist colliding right into John's nose, he faltered back grabbing his face. 

“Jesus, fuck.” He grunted folding forward a moment. 

“Don’t fuckin’ talk about him like that.” Curt sneered, knowing John knew exactly who he was talking about, “Come on.”

He began walking towards the doors motioning for John to follow him. He turned back and grabbed him by the collar of his t-shirt and pulled him into the hospital doors. The sickly, sterile smell tinging his  nostrils as they walked into the air conditioned building. 

Curt let go of John and kept his stride down the hall, around the corner, down the hall just a bit more. He creaked the door open slowly and poked his head in, “Hey.” 

Gale smiled weakly through his tears and turned to look at the orange and pink sunset. He continued picking at the blanket not wanting to meet Curt’s gaze, then he would know he had been crying. Gale listened to his footsteps come into the room followed by the familiar, heavy, trudging of John in his work boots. “How you feelin?” Curt rested his hand on Gale's knee giving it a small shake. Gale smiled softly at the small tickle just from his knee being touched.

“Better than yesterday,” Gale shrugged his good shoulder and flicked his eyes to John, who stood at the end of the bed. He sported a forming shiner between his eye and the bride of his nose. Somewhat swelled shut, he flicked his eyes to Curts knuckles. His left knuckles red and close to bruising as well.

He whipped his head to the door as his nurse walked in on her hourly rounds. She sighed seeing John’s black eye and the way Curt gripped his fist in his right hand. 

“John, come with me.” She motioned towards the door and looked at Curt. 

“He deserved it, ma’am.” He flashed her, his most charming, toothy smile.

“Probably,” Gale mumbled under his breath and continued picking at the loose thread on the blanket. 

“What’d that dumb, bastard say?” Curt leaned forward and rested his hands on his knees. He tilted his head slightly, Gale could make out the forming sunburn on Curt’s nose and cheeks. 

“Just about the shark hunt, said he needs to fix this.” Gale flicked up finger quotes and rested his head back on the propped up bed. 

“It’s my fault, ‘told him today at work about it. Tried tellin’ him it would be stupid to join in.”

“Yeah, well.” Gale shrugged his shoulder again and closed his eyes. He loved Curt and knew he meant well but he just wanted to sleep. He knew visitor hours would be done in half an hour, he didn’t know if John planned to spend the night again either. 

“Here,” John basically threw an ice pack at Curt as he came back into the room. An ice pack in his own hand, wrapped in a paper towel pressed to his eye. 

“Thanks.” Curt spoke bluntly and held the ice pack to his knuckles. Gale closed his eyes now, he didn’t want to look at either right now. Maybe they’d get the hint and leave him alone for a bit? But they didn’t and Gale had to put up with an awkward kiss to his cheek from John before nodding back off. 

—---------

He was relishing in his Sunday sun shining through the blinds, he felt better than he had but that positive also came with the weird tension between him and John. He had of course stayed with Gale through the night, he was glad he did though. He didn’t want to be left alone in the hospital room, he knew the pain medication would knock him out but he liked it better when he knew John was there. 

John had left for his shift and Gale remained staring out the window at the pristine conditions he could see out the window. He closed his eyes for a moment and imagined the sound of the waves crashing against the shore and the honk of the seagulls. He laid his hand flat against the bed and if he thought hard enough, he could feel the oceans pull. He flicked his eyes open before the imagination could turn into the day at the cove or the dark stormy sky nightmare. 

The knock against the door grounded him back to reality and he turned his head against the pillow, there he stood, with the golden brown, sunkissed curls. Ken smiled softly and pushed the door open, “Hey.”

“Hi,” Gale hoped whatever John had said to Curt wasn’t about Ken not coming to visit. He hoped that Ken didn’t get forced into coming here if he wasn’t yet ready. 

Ken’s heart did a small lurch when he saw Gale’s empty t-shirt sleeve but he ignored it, not wanting to make this worse than he probably already had. “I’m sorry I haven’t come to visit.”

“It’s okay.”

Ken nodded and rested a hand on the back of the chair next to Gale's bed, “Can I?”

He nodded and Ken slid into the seat, instinctively crossing a leg over the other. He folded his hands and rested them in his lap to give him something to stare at. Gale could probably tell he was uncomfortable but it wasn’t his fault. Hospitals just made him feel weird on top of it being his best friend in the hospital. He had felt so helpless that day on the beach, he couldn’t do anything for gale. Instead he just was on his hands and knees throwing up while Curt and John wrapped a towel around his shoulder and tourniqueted the wound with his surf leash. 

He just watched while his best friend nearly bled out.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Gale reached his hand out and gently squeezed Ken’s knee, “I’m glad you’re here but if you’re not ready…”

“No! No!” Ken sat back looking back up at Gale, “I’m fine.” 

He wasn’t. 

He took Gale's hand in his and blinked away a few tears, effortlessly trying to swallow the lump in his throat. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too, Curt and John have been keeping me company. But you’re not here because of yesterday, right?”

“Yesterday?” Ken’s eyebrows furrowed, his head tilting slightly.

“Oh, Curt punched John, not sure why. Assumed John ran his mouth or somethin’.” Gale shrugged his good shoulder. Ken's face fell into a small frown, he didn’t even notice any swelling or bruising on Curts knuckles. 

“Here?”

“Outside, John stormed out. Ten minutes later the two returned, John’s eye swollen shut. My nurse brought them both ice packs.” Gale let his tension fall off his shoulders in an effort to make Ken smile. 

“Who’s the patient here now?” Ken let the remark pull the two into a small fit of laughter, something both of them needed. 

“With the way John’s been acting, I'm expecting him to go awol soon.” And he accidentally brought the mood back down. John was going awol already. He wasn’t even the one stuck in the hospital bed but Gale could tell the closed in four walls of the room was driving him up the wall. Probably the same amount Gale was feeling too if it wasn’t for all the medications he had been pumped full of the past week. He didn’t know how he felt about being one day out from the one week anniversary of losing his arm. He didn’t want to think about it, “Think the tourist center will hire me? Not sure how much help I’ll be around the surf shop.”

“Yeah, you tell me when and I’ll put in a good word.” 

A moment of silence passed the two of them, “What have you been up to?”

“Nothin’ really. My parents let me take off a couple days from school. Just been sleeping a lot.” Ken stumbled over his words.

“I miss school,” Gale ran a hand down his face, “Can’t believe I’m sayin’ that.”

“Did the doctors say when you could go back?” 

“Four weeks I think? I don’t know?” Gale didn’t know when he would be mentally ready to go back to school. He couldn’t even think about it right now…he was struggling with the grasps of even being discharged in a week's time. The silence fell back over them, their line of sight flipping back to their respective laps. They remained quiet for a handful of minutes when Ken's small sob pierced through the air. 

“I’m sorry,” he quickly apologized and reached for a tissue off the side table. 

“It’s okay,” Gale rubbed his palm over Ken’s knee while he tried to collect himself. 

“I just... I couldn't stop seeing it, you know? Every time I closed my eyes, I saw you lying there, and I felt so helpless.”

Gale reached out with his hand and took Ken's trembling hand in his. "You saved me, Ken. You and Curt got me to the hospital. You did everything you could."

Ken looked down, tears spilling onto his cheeks. "I just... I wish I could have done more."

"You being here now means everything to me," Gale said softly, his thumb tracing over his hand, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

—---------

Gale’s hip pressed into John’s with no intention of moving away from the boy next to him. Well, that was until they were joined by Gale’s all too cheerful occupational therapist. 

“Gale Cleven, right?” The shorter woman with a smoothed over jet black bob held her hand out to shake his. 

“Yeah,” He shook her hand and continued to try and ignore the different antiseptic aroma in this space. Although, he was glad for a change of scenery in the hospital. Today, it was the occupational therapy center on the other side of the building. On a positive note the room had floor to ceiling windows that provided the morning sun a place to peek in and kiss Gale’s skin. 

“I’m doctor Charey, how’re you feeling this morning?” She crossed her legs and stood with her clipboard over her knees, her brown eyes fixated on him. 

He forced a smile on his face and pressed himself impossibly closer to John upon hearing her question. “As good as I can be, I guess?”

She nodded empathetically. "I know this is tough, but we’re going to take it one step at a time. Today, we’re going to focus on some basic tasks—things you used to do without thinking but now might find kinda challenging. Sound good, kiddo?”

Gale’s heart momentarily leapt into his throat, he swallowed hard and his hand began to blindly try to find John’s. “Okay,” his voice meak, weak, showing he didn’t know if he truly did believe in himself? 

She brought over a button down shirt that’d fit over his clothes, handing it to him. “Let’s just start easy, okay? Can you get this on yourself?”

Gale felt a sense of dread as he had to drop John’s hand and actually let him move away from him. He took the floral button down and slid it onto his arm with somewhat no issue. He could see out of the corner of his eye as John wanted to reach out to help him. He sucked in another deep breath trying to avoid every clunky feeling and movement that came as he tried to get the shirt just over his other shoulder. The fabric pulling tight and seeming to resist at every turn and reach, he didn’t even fathom how daunting this would be. John had just been dressing him once he’d been allowed out of the wretched hospital gown. But he knew he couldn’t rely on John to do everything for him forever. 

“Take your time, there's no rush.” Doctor Charey encouraged him gently. 

Finally, he had beat his first mountain and got the shirt over his shoulder and realized the next part. He felt like some freak show on display as some other doctors and nurses filed in for their shifts. Gale clenched his teeth in frustration, his hand shaking as he got the first button through the first hole. He wanted to hate himself so badly right now, he couldn’t even think how John felt right now watching him. 

As soon as all the buttons were fastened Doctor Charey was congratulating him for something as simple as dressing himself. He was leaning back in the chair letting his arm hang at his side. He let out a frustrated groan and wiped his brow; however, getting the shirt off was easier. . He didn’t know it was going to be this daunting. Just when he thought maybe the hardest part was over she then set a jar in front of him. 

He eye’d John from where he sat at the table almost waiting for the lid just to open itself. He reached for the table and took the plastic jar. Gale eyed the jar, feeling the sting of tears at the back of his eyes. He gripped it with his hand and tried to twist the lid off. The jar slipped in his grasp, and the lid refused to budge. His frustration grew, but instead he just moved the jar between his knees to unscrew the lid. Part of him felt witty, but maybe that was a trick and he was supposed to do it a different way? “You’re a natural at this,” Doctor Charey smiled, embracing Gales shoulder in a small assuring squeeze. 

After Gale’s session was over he and John began their walk back to the other side of the hospital. The two remained silent as John swung their hands, but on the inside Gale wanted to scream. He wanted to run from John and out the front of the hospital, he knew he could do it too. Plead insanity when John would come tearing after him yelling something inexplicable. He missed sitting out with Meatball on the beach, watching the husky roll in the sand and damn Gale a bath to give him. He didn’t even want to think about how he’d probably not be able to give Meatball a bath now. He didn’t have a second arm anymore to hold the collar on the dog and rinse him down. 

He scoffed at just the thought of his own incompetence. 

“What’re you thinking about?” John squeezed the blonde's hand, still he tried to reach out his olive branch. 

“Nothin’” Gale’s golden sea of locks fell into his face as his head dropped to stare at the tiled floor below him. 

“Sure don’t look like nothing,” John sucked in through his teeth. 

It wasn’t nothing but it wasn’t the kind of thing Gale wanted to talk about right now. He just spent the last hour laying out just how vulnerable he now is and John expects him to be emotionally vulnerable now too?

“Well I just don’t wanna talk about it, okay?” Gale’s pace quickened and his hand tangled free of John’s. Gale stomped off and away from him, he half wanted to go elsewhere. He wanted to run from the forced proximity of the four walls of the hospital room. 

He just wanted to feel something that wasn’t grief with a side of self pity. 

The day Gale was being discharged came way too fast for his liking. He felt like a wounded animal about to be left vulnerable for the predators. 

His leg bounced against the hospital floor as his grandpa filled out his discharge papers. His whole world was actually about to be ripped down for real now. The hazy white veil protecting his line of vision from the unknown was really ready to fall now. Any moment he’d be walking out the door with Grandpa and John and he’d just have to put on a smile. 

He didn’t want any part of this, really. His story has been heard across the globe now. It picked up media attention and John had told him about the news vans that had swarmed his grandpa's beach front property. 

“Do you think they’re gonna be there?” Gale’s line of vision stayed staring straight ahead at the fussy, cloudy November day on the island. 

“Who?” John furrowed his eyebrows.

“The journalist you told me about.” Gale swallowed and balled up his hand in the bed sheets really conveying the waves of crashing anxiety over him. 

“Well, if they are I’ll tell them to piss right the fuck off…unless you wanna talk to them.”

“No.” Gale dead panned. 

“Alright kiddo.” Grandpa returned in the doorway, “You ready to sleep in your own bed?”

“Yeah,” Gale nodded with a long sigh as he pushed himself up from the bed. 

John grabbed the duffle and the now stuffed full reusable grocery bag of cards and notes people had written him and followed after the two. 

The​​ three stepped out of the hospital and Gale took in a sharp breath seeing the stormy clouds above them that just so closely reflected his own inner feelings. He tries to direct his steps with precise motions but he just feels like a baby giraffe. It suddenly felt like the moment he crossed the threshold of the hospital he just could no longer function.

“Buck?” John stopped his quick paces next to the boy, everyone coming to a halt. 

“No I’m…uh…I’m fine.” Gale stammered out, his breath hitching, but he forced himself to keep moving, not wanting to draw more attention to the uncertainty gnawing at him. As soon as the familiar rusted yellow truck came into view Gale stopped dead in his tracks. Parked just beyond were a few news trucks, journalists out with their cameras and microphones. 

“Hey, come on, let's get in the truck.” John slung his free arm around Gale and protectively pulled him into his side. The two’s pace quickened towards the truck as the small crowd of reporters came closer.  

Gale whimpered into John and he could feel the other tense in anger, “Fuck off! He doesn’t wanna talk to you.” John barked at the crowd, Gale’s grandpa following up his statement. 

“Let the boy be, show him some respect.” 

John had Gale in the truck in an instant, throwing his duffle into the bed and shoving the other bag onto the floor. “You okay, babe?”

Gale just nodded but he felt just even more shaken up, he just wanted to go home. 

—---------

Gale’s shoulder finally began to relax. No news vans, no reporters—just the comforting sight of the ocean in the distance. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to believe that things might be okay. Yet he couldn’t get out fast enough, he needed to see his dog. He barely let John reach over to unbuckle him before he was freeing himself. 

Gale could hear his barks and yips through the door whilst his grandfather fumbled his keys into the door. Meatball barely gave the man time to open it before he nearly toppled over everyone to reach Gale. 

“Hey, boy.” Gale put his hand down to let the dog sniff him and guide him back inside. Meatball yipped in excitement and bounded around Gale. He sat down on his knees in the kitchen and let Meatball completely lick the ever loving shit out of him. After he kept whining and pressing his head into his chest, sensing something off and upset about Gale's demeanor. 

“I know, I know, boy. Thing’s are a little bit different now.” Gale tried redirecting Meatball from where he tried to lick his bandaged stump. 

“Come here, boy.” John held open the back door trying to get Meatball off Gale. The husky jumped up and went bounding out the back door, causing gale to frown.

“John, he was fine!” Gale stood up from the floor walking towards the back now.

“He hasn’t been out all day,” John huffed. 

“Yeah, I was gonna let him out when he was done.” He pulled the back door open and went after Meatball. 

Gale sat on the deck, the sun beginning to peak at the afternoon high, casting a hot glow over the island. Meatball lay beside him, his head resting on Gale’s thigh, the steady rise and fall of his breathing a comforting rhythm. Gale absentmindedly stroked the dog’s fur, his mind drifting to the events of the past week.

He thought about John, about the way he’d tried so hard to be there, to help. But no matter what John did, there was always this undercurrent of tension between them now, a barrier that hadn’t been there before. Gale knew it wasn’t John’s fault, but it didn’t make it any easier.

He replayed their conversations in his mind, the way John’s voice would tighten when he tried to talk about the future, the way Gale would shut down, unable to face the reality of his new life. It wasn’t fair to John—Gale knew that. But it wasn’t fair to him either.

Gale sighed, leaning back against the deck chair. He wasn’t sure how to fix things between them, wasn’t even sure if he could. But as he looked out at the ocean, the waves crashing against the shore, he knew he had to try. He couldn’t keep pushing John away, not when John was the only thing keeping him from drowning in his own fear and despair.

Meatball nuzzled closer, as if sensing Gale’s turmoil. Gale smiled faintly, his hand stilling on the dog’s fur. He didn’t have all the answers, and didn't know how to make things right between him and John. 

[the-flaming-nightmare]

WIP Wednesday

Thank you once again for the tag, @anewkindofme! ❤

Here's a snippet from Day 14 of Regressuary:

Athena peeked her head into Buck's room, where her little boy was currently in bed sleeping. Slivers of the midday sun made their way through the curtains, falling over his frame just enough to showcase the entire left side of his swollen cheek. While an unfortunate familiar sight now, she still couldn't help but feel her heart ache in sympathy and a stab of anger go through her whenever she laid eyes on his poor, sweet face.

For the past four days Buck had been laid up in her and Bobby's home, regressed and sick with the mumps. The mumps, of all things. An illness that could have been prevented if he had been vaccinated in his early childhood like he was supposed to be.

When the doctor deemed that the fatigue, loss of appetite, and the body aches Buck had been experiencing weren't from the flu like they had all originally thought, but instead a case of the mumps. It was a shocking diagnosis to all of them, including the doctor himself. With the vaccine having been around for decades and decades now, it was rare to see mumps in either children or adults these days. Which meant Buck had never been vaccinated for it–which would be confirmed by Maddie over the phone later that same day. Yet another reason that cemented her hate for the Buckley parents.

The doctor said that other than over the counter pain medication, cold or hot compresses, and a lot of rest, there was really nothing else Buck could do until the illness ran its course. Bobby–who had taken Buck to his appointment–had called her to update her on the situation, and they both came to the decision that there was no way they were going to leave Buck in his apartment sick and alone. Buck easily agreed (which just proved to them that they'd made the right decision), and after a stop quick stop at the store to stock up on meds and other supplies they'd need for the next couple of weeks, Bobby brought him home. It was a little over twenty-four hours after that when the swelling set in, and it didn't take very long for the young man to regress.

Fortunately, Athena had managed to get the rest of the week off work, so she was able to stay home with Buck while Bobby went to work. He already put in to have the week off when she would be returning to work, though, in case Buck was still little then. It wouldn't come as a surprise to the couple if he was, given his tendency to regress whenever he came down with something other than a cold. They didn't mind, though. Whether he was sick or not, they would always be there to look after their boy when he needed them.

Athena watched the calm rise and fall of her son's chest. She hated to disturb him when he was finally sleeping soundly after the rough night he had, but she needed to check his temperature before any more time passed. His temperature had been fluctuating over the last day or so, and last night it had reached the highest it's been at, which made it impossible for the poor boy to get any restful sleep until the wee hours of the morning. Fortunately, after some Tylenol and a full body wet down using a washcloth soaked in ice water, Buck's temperature had gone down enough to not be as worrisome.

Tagging (if you wanna): @angelique-of-the-volturi-guard, @snarkythewoecrow, @tomwise and anyone else who wants to join!

[robothipdips]

Probably best to keep scrolling, or alternatively go listen to literally any song from Buckethead's album Colma. It's beautiful. All of it. Heck listen to the whole thing. I'm just here to turn thoughts and feelings to words and maybe practice openness.

Frustrated with how easy my friends make it to figure things out. I would like to be as able to offer the same in return. I feel like I've fallen behind. I want to be a better friend and more of a person.

I want to learn what they know so that my requests for support/guidance feel more substantial, more worthy of their time. I stand by "there's no such thing as a stupid question", and so my guilt points to a sense of emotional self-sabotage with regard to my personal growth. Even now I feel so locked into mental rules I didn't even consciously choose. So were I to be more independently competent as a person, what would I be more independent of? I'd know to ask for help, so it wouldn't be a matter of individualism. It's not about denying myself the right to basic comforts, so it's not about feeling like I deserve less than others, or that nobody should have such comforts. It's not about feeling like a slave to instinct, instinct is valuable and important. I don't have a sense of being watched for errors or sins. It's not even a matter of coping mechanisms, I don't believe I get to employ my coping mechanisms as often or effectively as I would like. It is as though I have decayed, and in doing so ceded ownership of my brain emotional and cognitive sediment, and that sediment has taken on a life of its own. I'm not talking about other identities operating within my brain/mind. It's more like a million tiny remotes from the click movie. Tiny emotions and significances and connections falling to the wayside, throwing errors, failing to get across gaps or accumulate in the recursive cycles that constitute my being. I'm supposed to be starting CBT in a few months. That should have some value here, as should what it encourages me to get done. But aside from that, I don't know. I want to read more. I want to learn more, faster. I want to participate in things whose skills will give me a clearer reflection of my inner workings, the outer world, and the relationship between the two. Meditation, foreign languages, art, singing, programming, math, crochet, physics, animal husbandry, writing. Fervent learning is so core to my identity. I think that's what it is. I've been learning more and more slowly. Even with the medications that felt like breaths of fresh air. And maybe I ought to feel this way, regardless of how engaged I am with learning. Maybe this is what happens when fatigue accumulates. My sleep schedule used to be chaotic, but in a week I used to get a lot more. Now it's 2-4h a night, 6 if I'm lucky, none if I'm unlucky. 8-12 if I'm physically fucked up from exhaustion, and then back to 0-6. My sleep meds increase the quality of my sleep *f I can get it, but the vivid dreams at the cost of needing more emotional self/external care during my waking hours. My adhd meds calm me, and increase my connection to activities if I can start them... focus, stamina, patience, at the cost of needing better sleep and more relaxing downtime. But making the sleep happen? I don't know. I'm becoming less able to take care of myself and participate in my interests and responsibilities, which is increasing my stress levels, which is further impacting my sleep. It's a cycle. My mental health appointments mean missing classes, or having less time to study or relax. I've already dropped half of my interests since starting this semester and cut my social contact in half along with it just to maintain this sliver of a chance of catching up to my peers. I need more rest, a change of pace, and help. The grief of these last few years' losses have been so heavy. I want to be there for my loved ones. As the saying goes, I want to be able to keep people warm without setting myself on fire. Maybe I could catch up at uni if I had a spare two weeks. Maybe I could recover my energy reserves if I had a spare month. Maybe I could be okay if this all wasn't so overwhelming. That's not even getting into my finances. I can't wait those away. I need a real grip on things before this Winter when the Nordic dark months/super short days - I don't want even more cards stacked against my brain chemistry. Some peace shouldn't be too much to ask for.

I'm so tired of the decay. I'm so tired of being tired. I want to feel real again.

[demigoddessqueens]

Been a bit behind on posting for the days, but here’s a compilation of writings from the weekend and today’s recent update as well (hyperlinks available)

Day 8

You had been sitting by the fire, copying the manuscripts for the Brotherhood. Part of your duties as an acolyte, Basim had said affectionately though you weren't too fond of these tasks.

Still, the menial tasks seemed to drag on more than early morning trainings ever did. At least you could be with your thoughts, the mind wandering to that of the fair-haired warrior who you had been infatuated with.

Striking eyes, a dry wit and the occasional gift that they had given to you from the raids. You smiled fondly at the gestures and memories, wishing Eivor hadn't gone away for such a longer expedition than the last.

As you were going through the last of the paper, something awaited you at the end of it all. A portrait of you, each line drawn with careful, intimate precision. Your eyes were wide and there was a gentle smile on your face. The gesture touched you as you traced along the illustration, memorizing the details that you never thought Eivor noticed.

A word written faintly in the lowest corner that felt intimate to you. Beloved

Day 9

He was awoken by the heat of the sun beating down on his face. Your kisses were the next that roused him more. "Good morning, Jacob."

The tone in his voice stirred your heart, a sweet smile laced with the morning fatigue. "Good morning to you, my love." He leaned up to place a lazy kiss on your cheek before pulling you into him.

You giggled as the scruff from his chin brushed against you before being tucked under his chin. Pure bliss and contentedness overtook you both, your head on his chest. The beating of his heart, rise and fall of his breath, lulled you back into a sweet sleep.

You were infatuated with his voice, but you enjoyed it more in the more vulnerable moments. "Such a nice present for the day. Getting to enjoy this morning with you."

Day 10

It had been a miserable day and a half for you after being held up in bed. You took an attack meant for your fellow brethren, but remained with a nasty wound to the side. Not even wanting to think of how you would be compromised for days, weeks, months, you didn't want to give up your control.

You hated this feeling. Being helpless and there was a pang of guilt as you saw where Connor was sitting, nodding off to the side of your bed. It was a pang in your heart to see such a dear--friend?

You knew that whatever you felt for him grew deeper than friendship. For the longest time, it had been you two rebuilding the Order. He didn't have to say it, but given the years, you would have done anything for each other.

As you stumbled forward towards the table that had a pitcher of water, you felt two hands help you keep you steady. Looking behind with a sheepish grin, you noted the small smile from him.

"You know, you could have just asked. I don't mind.

"I know, Connor, but it gets hard--at times. Having to ask for help."

He helped you back to the side of the bed to rest your exertions. "It may be, but you've always had me. It's ok to let go of what you can't control and reach out."

Day 11

Though the clothes have been different in many lifetimes, the weight of before still bears on the wearer.

It's the robes that Altair dawned when he became Master Assassin. When he creates the waves that resonated within the Order and finds a sliver of happiness within the family he's created, only for a little while.

A father's robes that are thrown upon his second son in a villa, though they're too big at first. Ezio doesn't realize it at first, but it's his way of carrying the three of them with him as he makes his strides.

The robes that are dawned by a man turned pirate who seeks redemption and second chances. Though the tragedy is he would never know whether his son would bear the same mantle, nor see the impact that his grandson left behind.

Desmond is affront to such robes at first, disillusioned at the legacy that his family had woven. Yet when he faces the loss of one he called friend, it's the drive that compels him to finish what he started.

Unbeknownst to a young boy in his home, will he too follow in Desmond's footsteps.

[theyoungwclf]

send prompts / @winterreigned: ❛  i'm tired of pretending everything's okay when it's clearly not.  ❜

HE'S TAKEN BACK TO A SIMPLER TIME. When Sansa would try to keep up with himself, Jon and Theon in the Godswood and she'd trip on her skirts. Her sniveling would always send Robb back to help her up and it was a heartwarming memory to recall Sansa holding onto him as she cried over a simple scraped knee and he'd console her like any big brother should. This time though? There was more than just a scraped knee in her wet eyes, there was an unspoken sorrow of loss and pain shared between all the siblings, and yet Sansa had taken it upon herself to try to remedy a fractured family. The cracks were there though, and the unfortunate and ugly truth was that once something was as broken as them, it could never be mended in the exact same way again. Arya had already stormed out of the room, angry at Jon over something, and Jon was as non confrontational as ever, excusing himself not long after and leaving them alone where Sansa's mask finally cracked and the fatigue and grief finally caught up to her.

He didn't feel like that same boy that stopped his adventures with Theon and Robb to help Sansa, but even with his steely and hollow gaze, scars and talent for not speaking he's immediate in crushing Sansa to his chest, chin resting on the top of her head, hoping that even the smallest of hugs could help her relieve the stress and pain she was feeling. " Everything isn't okay, and you're only hurting yourself by pretending otherwise. Arya, Jon and I don't need you to pretend, at least not with us. You can keep up the act for the castle staff, the guards, the people of the North, but when it's just us. You're allowed to crumble, Sansa. I promise we won't let you disappear if you do. " He pauses, teeth clicking as he clamps his jaw shut for a moment, pondering just how he was supposed to begin this next part. " I'm sorry, for making things more difficult, and for leaving all the stresses of this house to you . . . not brotherly, or former lord, or kingly of me. " A hint, maybe even a sliver of the Robb that existed before everything. If he could offer that much to Sansa, then he would, his own grief and anger wouldn't stop him.

He was still here, Robb was still in there. She wasn't alone, and she didn't need to pretend, she can be his little sister again if she needed to. He could be strong for them both for at least one fleeting moment.

[aeithalian]

WIP excerpt #1

hey so remember that post i made with the theory about estelle? And the fic I said I was writing? totally unrelated to this (wink wink)

He sniffed, wondering if it would be excused for something other than honest tears in the biting mix of cold wind and smoke. The funeral pyres crackled lowly, and he vaguely wondered how long he'd been standing there, alone, watching the bodies of children crumble to ash.

The unforgiving shape of the charms on the necklace felt dull against his numb fingers. Beads, one for each of her summers. And another charm, one his fingers didn't recognize. Looking down, he saw a glimmer of metal underneath the black coat of soot. Wiping the grime and clinging ash away with his thumb, he saw it for what it was: a tiny sun, intricately crafted from gold, strung along in between her beads, his own name swirling around the center in Greek.

He looked back up, to where he knew her body burned again. He wished it didn't have to be fire.

His eyes burned with smoke, then with fatigue as the sun disappeared beyond the horizon, and the only light came from a sliver of the moon and the glowing coals.

He heard someone approach, and it was only in the light of the moon he could see who it was, with that precious mortal child clinging to her hip. Her free hand clasped his, the one that wasn't holding the necklace.

"I pray you never feel this," he said, his voice croaky after hours of disuse.

She didn't say anything; probably, she was praying the same. He wondered who she prayed to.

He tore his eyes away from the embers, and, clearing his throat, turned around and followed her up the hill.

"It's sad," he said, "but I think us gods have much more practice burying our children than raising them."

[graphisaac]

angst piece i love angst i am a normal individual

as isaac watched blackheart fall, he instantly snapped. "blackheart!" isaac screamed, running out of the safety of the last place he spoke with blackheart. he tripped, but did not fall. he kept running, and eventually was by his side once more. he held blackheart's face gently, looking at his now empty, fire filled eyes. "don't go cold on me, blackheart!" isaac cried, bursting right into tears. roxxane and johnny only watched, partially shocked, but mostly in hate. how could somebody truely love a demon, to the point of death? well, they couldn't say much. and shouldn't. "come on! wake up!" he cried again, pumping his hands into blackheart's chest, giving him the best cpr he could. he felt blackheart's cold hands on his wrists, though his grip was feeble and weak. he looked at him, slowly stopping the cpr. his eyes filled with tears as his breath quickened. "isaac," he muttered, completely fatigued and defeated. he was slightly quivvering, feeling the last few minutes of life he had shorten. "i'm here. it's okay." "blackheart, please," he cried, clenching his hands tightly. "stay with me! don't go!" "i-- i'm sorry, isaac," he winced, slowly sitting up with isaac's aid. "you were right. he's got a punch." isaac stared him in the eyes, holding his face. "please, please, please…" he whined, his voice weakening and slowly getting louder. blackheart gently clutches him in his arms, leaning his head on isaac's shoulder. he sighs, finally uttering his final goodbye. "thank you… for everything, isaac." and with that, isaac absolutely broke. he started wailing like a poor, destroyed child. he clutched him as tight as he could, never wanting to let go. he wanted to do so much more, but he didn't have a sliver of power. his heart was shattered into trillions.