#now if you excuse me I have to go dissociate and morn as if he was someone I knew

[downfall0fman]

Completed the Dark Brotherhood questline and UM… GUYS? WHAT?? Its been three days and I have been repeatedly breaking into hysterical sobbing fits. I had to take a pause from playing the game today because I just couldn’t keep going

I spent hours trying to find the notes because I dropped them when I became over encumbered and I just could not not have them. I am already thinking about making a new character and just not completeing the quests

I was so genuinely shocked, I literally never saw that coming. Absolutely expected us to take down whoever was setting him up, was so incredibly sure thats where it was going. But I walked in, then I saw him and then I broke. I knew it wouldn’t let me press escape but I tried anyway, I just had to sit there listening to her talk as I cried into my hands

[slowdrawl]

Shear Luck | joel miller x f!reader | {18+ minors DNI} [masterlist]

{TLOU AU, modern-ish, no outbreak, Sarah lives!} |part 4| Wildflowers and Wine | 2.3k words|

Joel Miller, a single dad, came into your salon for a haircut, but he never expected to leave with a crush. Sarah's alive, tension's are high, the jokes are bad and the chemistry is crazy!

Fluff ?✔️ Slow burn? ✔️ Age gap? ✔️ Puns? ✔️

sprinkle in a little bit of smut 🔥 and dbf!joel energy and BOOM. You got this sweet-feel good fic.

“You bite back a laugh, heat flooding your face. You stand by the front for a minute, feeling a little dumb for moping around all morning thinking he didn’t really give a shit. You should’ve given him more credit—what a softie." |A/N Part 4 of these cuties. I'm thinking we might only see one more chapter for a while after this... unless I get some protest about it. not that I'm planning on wrapping them up forever, but I do want them to live hea and I have a few other fic ideas on the go. xox

Warnings: Mild language, alcohol use, flirting, fluff, puns, age gap (Joel's 38, reader's 23). eventual smut, alcohol use, YEARNING.

An alarm blares on your phone, and you groan yourself awake. You tap the screen and hit snooze. It’s been two days since the party, and the hangover is still lingering, fogging your head. You’re dehydrated, out of it, exhausted. You just lie there with your eyes clamped shut, willing yourself back to sleep. It’s no use. You spend the next fifteen minutes staring up at the ceiling fan, telling yourself you need to wait. You’ve spent the last 48 hours of your life checking your phone every fifteen minutes for something, anything, but—

bzz.

Your heart jumps, and you rip the phone out from under your pillow, tapping in your passcode with frantic fingers.

(8:07 PM) Kim: idk abt cam, hes cool but also lowkey clingy. hows old dude?

Disappointment floods into your chest, hollowing you out. You sigh, and it comes out half-strangled, throat tight with something—anger? Embarrassment? Shame, maybe? You roll yourself out of bed, bare feet hitting the hardwood, dragging yourself to the shower. You crank the handle to the left, letting the water rain over you, practically scalding. It soothes your muscles, but it doesn’t calm the ache.

//

The salon is humming with the sound of your hairdryer, clippers, and quiet conversation. The afternoon sun is shining through the blinds, hitting just low enough in the sky now that it’s blinding your left eye—sending a pang of pain through your skull, still recovering from the long weekend. You’re standing behind your client, Erin, applying her root color. She’s droning on about her daughter’s wrestling match out of town and her overnight shift in the ER clashing. She’s a single mom, three teenage daughters, working doubles just to make ends meet. You’re barely paying attention to what she’s saying, your mind entirely elsewhere, total dissociation. You hum and work, throwing out a “That’s crazy!” every once in a while for good measure.

The front door chimes open, and you hear heavy footsteps come in. You don’t turn, almost afraid to look. You stare forward and slow your hands, waiting for a natural break in conversation, trying not to be rude. The person at the front desk clears their throat. “Excuse me, Miss. I got a delivery for—” Your head whips toward the desk. You don’t remember ordering anything—probably a mistake, wrong address. There’s a man standing at the desk in a brown button-down shirt, “Freytag Floral” embroidered on the chest. He’s holding a bouquet wrapped up in brown kraft paper, a dark green ribbon tied around the stems.

“Uh, for who?” you call out, voice high enough to carry over David’s blowdryer, but it cracks. You slap what’s left of the color on your tint brush to Erin’s head and pause, placing the brush down in the bowl. “One minute, darlin’. Be right back.”

You walk over to the desk, watching the guy fumble with the flowers. He pulls out a little green card and squints as he reads it. “Looks like—you, if I had to guess. You’re the hairdresser?” He looks around the room like he’s deciding if it’s a safe bet to assume or not. He’s right. It’s just you and David today—unless his husband sent them. “Card says ‘Trouble.’ You Trouble?” He raises his eyebrows at you from behind the cardstock. David shuts his dryer off and shoots a smirk your way before going back to styling.

Yup, that would be me.

Nobody has ever sent you flowers before. You’re stuck standing there, wide-eyed and nervous, picking at the skin around your thumbnail and chewing your lower lip. “Oh—okay, do I have to pay—or sign? Anything?” you mumble to him, eyes on your feet.

The delivery guy just smiles and shakes his head at you, placing them down gently on the desk. “Nope, have a good day, Miss. Here ya go.” He turns and leaves the shop—thank God, because that was really fuckin’ awkward.

Erin’s already swung her chair to face you, grinning. “Who’s the admirer—secret or what? Go on, kid, read it!”

You slip off the dye-covered nitrile gloves you’re wearing, throwing them in the trash under the desk, before picking up the arrangement. It’s stunning—wildflowers, daisies, sunflowers, and lavender filling the spaces between. A single red rose sits in the middle; it’s messy and perfect and absolutely you. You stop for a second and wonder if it was Kim who sent them—she knows you well enough to pick out your dream bouquet like that. Maybe an apology for the “use protection” jab or something? You grab the card, fingers brushing against the rough paper, opening it, your heart hammering in your chest.

The envelope does indeed say “Trouble,” handwritten in sloppy, boyish cursive. The inside of the card says, “dinner, my place, tonight, 7. No complainin’, bring the bratty attitude with you.”

Yup—Joel for sure. What a dick. Two days of radio silence and then this stunt?

You bite back a laugh, heat flooding your face. You stand by the front for a minute, feeling a little dumb for moping around all morning thinking he didn’t really give a shit. You should’ve given him more credit—what a softie.

You slot the card back into the flowers and shove them under the desk. You take a deep breath, trying to play it cool, but Erin’s craning her neck, staring like she could read through the envelope with X-ray vision or something. You smile at her and walk back over.

“So, who was it? Spill it.” You can’t hide the smirk curling at your lips. “Just a friend, no big deal.”

She scoffs. “You’re so full of shit! He cute at least?”

Disgustingly, and so is his daughter.

“He’s alright, little rough ’round the edges.” You pick up the color brush and finish applying, glancing at the clock. It’s already 4:30—Erin’s gonna have to sit for half an hour, then another to rinse and finish. You’ll be out by 5:45 after cleanup. You look in the mirror and cringe—it wasn’t hair-wash day, and you’re wearing fucking cargo pants.

You text Kim and pace in the back room while Erin processes.

(3:42 PM) You: Joel sent flowers, dinner tonight at his place. I look like i crawled out of a dumpster. 👍

(3:45 PM) Kim: oh shit, you shave today? or is it like… the amazon rn. 😂

You did not.

You map out your plan of attack as you rush to finish Erin’s hair. You convince her to skip her haircut today, knocking off a good fifteen minutes or so. She heads out the door, but not before giving you a cheeky smirk, saying, “Have fun, be safe!”

You decide to do your hair at work, curling it into soft waves, nearly burning your forehead when your hands start shaking. You grab your purse and a plastic shower cap, practically running out of the shop to your car, flowers tucked under your arm. You’re nervously sweating the entire ride home, checking the clock every few seconds like time’s going to bend and disappear on you.

You rush into the shower, listening to the water hit the plastic on your head,distracting you. You move onto taming the beast, shaving every inch of your body until it’s slick like a hairless cat or something. When you get out, you lather yourself up in a lotion you bought a few weeks ago from the farmers market—it smells like patchouli and rosemary, real hippie shit. You bet yourself five bucks Joel will make some stupid comment about you smelling like a Portland bookstore or someone fresh from Burning Man.

You throw on some mascara and a bit of lip gloss and head to your closet, picking out something comfortable but cute, a black sundress that sits low across your shoulders and hugs you in all the right places. You’re about three minutes from leaving the house when it hits you—fuck, you don’t even know where this guy lives.

(6:45 PM) You: Hey, i tried texting the other guy, he said it wasn’t him who sent the flowers so ur my last guess.

(6:46 PM)  Joel: ha ha ha, very funny. Brat.

(6:46 PM) You: I dont have ur address, cuz im not a stalker like u are. plz send it.

He turns on his location and sends it to you.

Okay—domestic! Weird, but I like it.

(6:48 PM) Joel: there, now cool it with the attitude before i do something ’bout it. Don’t be late.

(6:50 PM) You: shaking in my boots rn. See you in 10 🤠

You do not see him in ten—it’s more like twenty, no surprise at all.

You pull up to his house, parking in the driveway next to his truck. It’s a cute craftsman rancher with a rocking chair on the front porch—very Joel. It’s only a few blocks from your house, the yard overgrown with shrubs. You laugh to yourself, thinking contractor, not a landscaper. You do one more mirror check, then stare down at the flowers in the passenger seat, picking them up as you push open the door. You give yourself a mental pep talk, psyching yourself up to walk to the house. You’ve got fuckin’ butterflies in your stomach like you’re a teenager again.

You knock twice, and he swings the door open like he was standing there already. He’s wearing dark-wash jeans low on his hips, a plain black t-shirt stretched across his chest with a—say it with me—flannel over the top, sleeves rolled up tonight to show off his forearms. The sight alone makes you salivate. His hair’s still damp from the shower, slicked back and off to the side just like you’d do it for him. He smells good too—cologne, no cedar today. He’s smiling at you, dimple flashing like he knows you’re already a goner.

What a slut.

“Well, well, well, look who showed up,” he drawls, leaning against the frame. “Thought you might’ve changed your mind—or chickened out, at least.”

“Me? Chicken out?” You scoff. “You’re the one who ghosted me for two days, remember that?” You grin, shoving the flowers into his chest. “Now you pull this corny bullshit? What’s wrong with you, Miller? What’s your game?”

He takes the bouquet from you, smirking as he steps aside to let you in. “No game. Figured you’d be less of a brat with some food in you, though. C’mon, dinner’s gettin’ cold.”

His house is decorated exactly how you’d imagined it—with mismatched furniture and paintings of woodland creatures here and there. Sarah’s drawings are Scotch-taped to the walls; it’s a little cluttered but in a homey way. You follow him toward the kitchen. It smells like rosemary and something roasted, vegetables, chicken maybe? Joel’s kitchen is airier than the living room, with big windows facing the backyard and an open layout. He grabs a mason jar and uses it as a makeshift vase for the flowers, setting them on the dining table. It’s set already, real proper-like—how fancy.

“Sit. You’re gettin’ the full Miller treatment tonight.”

You plop down, eyeing the spread in front of you—roast chicken, mashed potatoes, a salad, all simple, but it looks pretty damn good.

“This your apology for kissin’ me then actin’ like you fell off the side of the earth?” you ask, grabbing a fork.

“Maybe… drink?” He sits across from you, cracking open a bottle of white wine you can’t pronounce the name of—you’d bet money he can’t either. You don’t respond, but he pours you a glass anyway before going on. “Figured maybe you were busy with that other poor son of a bitch.” He’s trying to keep a straight face but failing. “Or maybe I just wanted to keep you on your toes.”

“You’re an asshole, know that?” you mutter, taking a sip of the wine. It’s cold, cutting through the end of your three-day hangover fog. Dinner is quiet at first—he’s got the radio on low in the kitchen; it’s all forks clinking and birds chirping outside. Then he starts talking, dumb stuff: Sarah’s school projects, work ordeals, a leaky pipe he fixed—and you’re trading jabs, laughing over nothing and everything. It’s domestic, easy…too easy, and you feel that ache from this morning start to fade away.

When your bellies are full and the dishes are cleared, Joel sits back down, folding his arms. “So, still thinkin’ about that other guy?”

You snort, shaking your head at him. “Nah, he didn’t even send me flowers. Think I’ll kick him to the curb.”

“Okay, good. Now c’mon, I got one more thing for ya—surprise.” He stands, grabbing your hand and the bottle of wine, leading you toward the back door. The yard is small and more manicured than the front, with a swing set, patio furniture, a big glass-top table, and green chairs—you know the type. There’s a propane firepit going already, crackling low.

“S’mores round two?” you tease, sitting down in one of the chairs next to the fire.

“Not quite…somethin’ better, I think.” He pulls his guitar out from beside the table, slinging it over his knee, grinning. “You wanted to hear Wonderwall, right?” He starts plucking the strings.

You laugh, real and loud. “Oh my God, no—please tell me you didn’t.”

He’s strumming a few chords now, laughing with you. “Nah, ain’t gonna subject you to that. But I figured you’d like somethin’ anyway.” He starts playing something you don’t recognize, soft and dreamy. His voice rumbles in, gravelly and warm. You lean forward, just watching, smiling like an idiot, hypnotized. You wish you could bottle up this feeling, film this memory, and watch it over and over again. That feeling from the other night comes back into your chest, but it’s lighter now, less “fucked,” less terrified.

He keeps playing for a while, the crickets coming out in full force as darkness settles in. The sky is open wide, the stars so bright, moon so close—like you could pluck her out if you reached up.

I could get used to this.

[nostalgiclittlespace]

May we see some CG!Blitzø and Little!Stolas please?

This takes place during Sinsmas, and Stolas has regressed super young at Blitzø's apartment after Octavia got angry with him and disowned him (this also takes place before the Sinsmas party).

Boop! Here you go, friend! I had to rewatch the episodes before writing this, but they gave me so many thoughts of hurt/comfort for the two of them. Enjoy! (And yes, Christmasy Sinmasy title despite it being March)

SFW AGE REGRESSION FIC. DNI IF NSFW, KINK, PROSHIP, OR SIMILAR. DO NOT REPOST TO OTHER SITES

Title: Have yourself a merry little Sinmas

Pairing: CG!Blitzø & Little!Stolas

Wordcount: 1205

Description: After confronting Andrealphus and getting disowned by Octavia, Stolas is stressed and regressed—a terrible combination already, but even worse on a holiday! Blitzø does his best to cheer him up with lots of kindness and love (Hurt/comfort)

TW: Mention of being disowned, alcohol is implied once, depression, dissociation

Have Yourself a Merry Little Sinmas

Stolas was obviously depressed.  Not only that, but also very Little.

And who could blame him?  How else were you supposed to react after such traumatizing experiences?  When your own daughter disowned you?

As he wandered around his small kitchen preparing a snack of cereal for the prince, Blitzø couldn’t help but feel guilty for all that had happened.  Especially considering the role he played in Octavia’s decision to boot her father out of her life…I didn’t deserve such a sacrifice in the first place, let alone one that cost him his daughter, he thought miserably, recalling the fateful day when Stolas came to his rescue, stripped of his status, and consequently ruined his life (well, at least for the next 100 years of it)

  Blitzø sighed, shaking the despondent thoughts away.  Guilt could wait and it wouldn’t change anything. He would make things right, eventually at least, but for now all he could do was take care of his boyfriend.  

The prince’s eyes were glazed over, a blank stare overtaking his usually sharp and observant features.  He hadn’t moved from the couch since they returned to the apartment that afternoon.  Furthermore, he did not seem willing to discuss or process his feelings; the tears had dried up on the way home, since replaced by an eerie silence and that empty stare.  Lack of communication and movement combined most likely meant he was in one of his youngest headspaces.

Blitzø stared at him worriedly, pondering the best course of action.  The Sinmas party was only hours away; and while the guests themselves were the least of his worries, leaving Stolas so overwhelmed and surrounded by strangers was concerning.

Should he cancel the party altogether?  Technically it had Stolas’s best interests in mind, but the prince would undoubtedly feel guilty and Loona disappointed, so was it really worth it?  

He could tell Loona to keep the gathering small, limit it to her closest friends, Millie, and Moxie though.  Usually he enjoyed throwing ragers for the holidays, no matter how much he regretted it the next morning thanks to headaches and a trashed apartment, but this seemed like the perfect excuse to tone down the festivities. 

With that resolve, Blitzø sent his daughter a quick text, requesting only a small group of friends to be invited.  That’s done, he thought as Loona replied with a thumbs up.  But what can I do to actually help him feel better?

That answer came a little faster; he had a Sinsmas present already wrapped and hidden in his bedroom.  While Stolas had said he didn’t celebrate the holiday, it didn’t stop Blitzø from wanting to share the festivities and traditions with him, and that included having an excuse to give him a gift.

He sent a quick glance towards Stolas’s still frame, where he still sat unmoving on the couch.  Creeping quietly to not disturb or distress him, Blitzø tiptoed into his bedroom.  He had hidden the little gift box on top of his closet, it’s cheerful paper and sparkling bow promising smiles and happiness to its awaiting recipient.

Blitzø carried it reverently as he returned to the main room of the apartment.  Stolas still had not moved, so he took up the bowl of cereal in his other hand and returned to Stolas’ side.  

“Hey, handsome, got you a snack,” the imp smiled crookedly, holding out the bowl and setting the present on the floor, out of immediate sight.  “You didn’t eat lunch, you must be real hungry by now.”

Stolas didn’t reply; his eyes briefly flickered to Blitzø when he began speaking, but his gaze had since returned to the wall.  Not a great sign, but the caregiver was not deterred.  He took one of Stolas’s feathered hands into his own, giving it a light squeeze.

“Want to play?  Watch some TV?” Blitzø suggested.

Stolas blinked again, slowly processing the options given.  A look of overwhelm crossed his already worn, stressed features, before shrugging, lost.

“How about we put on a movie and have some snuggles?” Blitzø offered, seeing that his Little had no interest in making decisions at the moment.  

TV and close contact was their go to on bad days; when both could relax without the pressure of talking or straining their energy on crawling around the floor to play. 

Agreeing, Stolas nodded.  A bit of the tension in his limbs eased, as Blitzø smiled at him encouragingly.  With a yawn, he curled up and laid his head on his caregiver’s lap.  There he completely deflated, muscles slack and eyelids drooping.  Blitzø himself relaxed, glad his Little was cooperating with his attempted comforts.  

“Alright, buddy,” he grinned softly, running a hand through his already mussed feathers.  

Ordinarily, he might attempt to indoctrinate the Goethals into Spirit or My Little Pony (the magnum opus of the Sinner’s race), but he knew better than introducing something new at such a stressful time.  Stolas had his own favorites and comfort shows; the perfect picking for a day marred by turbulent emotions.

So, the imp reached forward to snatch the remote from the coffee table, careful not to jostle Stolas in the process.  It only took a minute to scroll through his streaming services and find The Owl House.  Unironically, his prince loved it; he would watch it for hours on end, sometimes even choosing it over playtime.  

Blitzø selected the episode that left off the last time they binged the series.  Stolas cooed softly, already seeming calmed by the familiar scene and characters that unfolded on the TV screen.  

“Oh yeah, I’ve got a surprise for you,” Blitzø grinned, picking up the present box from the floor.  “Merry Sinsmas.”

Stolas’s eyes widened, a faint glisten returning to them as he took in the sight of his gift.  He fingers flexed as he reached up for it, grabby hands.  Blitzø breathed a silent sigh of relief as he handed it over; it was another good sign that Stolas was reacting despite his sadness.

With fumbling movements, the prince tore away the wrapping paper and ribbons.  A little light returned to his eyes, which brightened further after he pulled the box open and revealed its contents.  Eagerly, he reached in and pulled out an elaborate paci, decorated with gold glitter and a red heart charm on its center.  Fittingly, the words “My Heart” were beaded onto the handle.

Stolas cooed, an almost smile on his face as he immediately pushed the pacifier into his mouth.  Looking up at Blitzø, seeming so sweet and innocent and cute, the imp couldn’t help smile adoringly down at him.

Stolas didn’t say anything, not that Blitzø expected him to, but his nuzzle against the imp’s stomach, pure enthusiasm, and soft coos showed his gratitude well enough.

“You’re welcome, love,” his caregiver laughed lightly.

Considering everything that had transpired that day, their position was far from perfect.  Already it has been a rough month, and Blitzø was expecting the next one to be even harder.  But for now, he counted his blessings.  He and Stolas were safe and secure, sheltered by each other’s company.  They couldn’t predict the future, but they could make the present as comfortable as possible and enjoy a merry little Sinsmas together.

[grassyhorizon45]

Help. - Pt 2

part 1 || part 2 || part 3

uhh my bad... looks like it really is gonna be longer than I thought. It'll be worth it I promise! I fought through writers block for this forgive me

Marauders × DiD!Reader who's slowly but surely developing it and starts experiencing symptoms :l

Warnings: A bit more yelling? and a bit of angst.

Words: 1115

James's quidditch match the next day had the whole school in high spirits. Rumour from Hufflepuff was that a new quidditch captain had been instated; and knowing James, he was definitely gonna have a pre-match panic attack in the changing room while the rest of Gryffindor prepared for the after-party.

Y/n and Remus made their way to the Gryffindor changing room about an hour or two before the match. 

Sirius and James were there already, sitting side-by-side as the latter vented. Sirius put a hand around James, offering support. 

“And then Murphy decided to sprain his ankle yesterday! Now we’re one frickin’ beater short…”

James caught sight of the two that just entered, going quiet.

Y/n’s expression softened, “Can’t Siri replace him?”

His tone was quieter now. “Even then, we don’t know what Hufflepuff has up their sleeves with that new captain of theirs… New captain means new plays and- and—”

Remus went to sit next to Sirius while Y/n sat next to James, leaning on him.

“You’ll be fine, love.” Y/n sighed, “Stop panicking.”

They spent the last few moments of ‘quiet’ together there on that bench. Y/n and Remus leaving only after the Gryffindor team had filled the once-private space.

The three knew their support pre and post match meant the world to James. He was the kind that needed attention, love and affection to grip onto mental stability. Somehow, it was just one of the things that made James…well, James, and Y/n loved him for showing that level of vulnerability. 

“Do you think James and Siri will win today?” she asked Remus as they walked to the stands.

“They’ll be fine with whatever the outcome is. Don’t worry,” Remus smiled.

Y/n nodded, “A happy James is better than a swear-y one though…”

Remus gave her a pat on the head, agreeing.

The rest of the Morning was a blur after that. Y/n hardly remembered the outcome of the quidditch match. It was all a fog, hazy in her brain. So much so that she convinced herself the morning events were all really just a dream……

There was a sharp ringing in her ear when she ‘woke up’.

Accept, Y/n wasn’t lying down… Nor was she in either her or the boys’ room.

“Bunny, what’s wrong?”

Y/n came to the realisation that someone’s hand was supporting her waist. She shifted a little, making Sirius’ hand fall to the side.

“A-Aren’t you and Jamie playing in the quidditch match today?” She mumbled, observing her surroundings as she did. “Wh-Why are we in the common room eating the food for the after-party?”

Sirius froze, catching James (who was chatting with someone across from where Y/n and Sirius stood)’s attention. He excused himself and walked towards them.

“Pads?”

The taller boy ran a hand through the other’s black curls.

“Sh-She thinks the match hasn’t started…”

“Huh?” This sparked James’ intrigue too. “We won the match, love… You and Moony came to see us before it started, remember?”

Y/n nodded slowly, “I th-think so. I thought it was a dream…”

The boys exchanged worried glances.

“You don’t remember the match at all?” Sirius asked.

Did she?

“M-Maybe I just f-forgot,” Y/n lied.

“Capt- Can I borrow you for a second?” someone interrupted.

“I-” James hesitated. “Okay… Pads, Moon will wanna hear about this.”

Sirius nodded at James before he left. 

“I-It’s not a big deal,” Y/n mumbled, faking a collected smile. “You can just… tell me about the match instead.”

“It’s not about the match, bunny,” Sirius put an arm around her, giving her a slight squeeze. “This kind of memory loss isn’t normal…”

Which brought her back to their earlier discovery. What if Remus’ previous assumptions were right? What if she did have Dissociative Identity Disorder?

Y/n excused herself from Sirius’ company, making her way to the library once again in hopes she’d find something useful. There was this sinking feeling in her heart that if she properly had this ‘multiple-personality disorder’, things would change.

Y/n got tired of the big terms after a while. Her brain felt like shutting off and she couldn’t think straight. Sleeping in the library wasn’t soooooooo bad was it?

~

“You can’t just d-drop that on me l-like that–!”

“How d-did I get here……” 

Y/n was obviously not in the library, instead she was in the boys’ room facing a near-to-tears James. 

“Jamie… You okay?”

James flinched away at her touch, storming out of the room as he tried to get a grip on his emotions.

“Wh-What the—”

The door opened again with urgency, making Y/n jump.

“I want to know why,” Sirius demanded as he stood by the open door comforting a now crying James.

“Wh-Why?” She was so confused.

Sirius’ eyes narrowed. 

“You really want me to spell it out for you?”

The bitterness in his voice was clear as day, giving Y/n the chills. 

She nodded to his ‘question’, genuinely stating, “I d-don’t know what you’re talking about…”

Sirius seemed pissed… Pissed that Y/n was ‘faking innocence’, pissed that Y/n of all people had made James cry—

“I want to know why you want to break up!”

Wait—

“I do?”

The two boys looked at her with quizzical looks.

“I-I didn’t say that…” Y/n’s heart was pounding, so loud that she could hear it in her ears.

“B-But you d-did,” James mumbled from behind Sirius.

“I only r-remember f-falling asleep in the library… A-And then waking up here.”

Sirius gulped, “We need to get you checked love; you’re scaring us.”

Y/n tensed up, “I don’t wanna see a doctor…”

James was still shaken to the core, scared of the possible end of their relationship. She noticed this…

“Oh Jamie,” Y/n went over to give him a hug. Seeing James in such a shaken state was rare. 

According to the books she’d read, Y/n suspected she wasn’t in control of her own body when…well—

As she comforted James and whispered sweet things in his ear, Sirius stood hovering by the door, deep in thought with a frown on his face.

Y/n felt guilty. Sure she wasn’t conscious when it happened but it was still her that hurt James, their Y/n that told him they should break up.

Remus came back from his prefects’ rounds to find Y/n and James cuddled up cosily, fast asleep together on James’ bed. Sirius was admiring the sight, smiling thoughtfully.

“Come here Moony…” He patted the spot next to him.

Remus smiled too, “Did I miss anything?”

“Quite a bit actually… I’ll fill you in.”

[thorntopieces]

Your osdd!goro au is so very interesting I'd be happy to see more *kisses you on the forehead*

I'm so glad to hear that! It's been my baby for almost a year now. Actually, have a 1.5k post-canon one-shot (below the cut) for you. Do note that it has not been edited beyond cursory checking for spelling errors.

Content warnings: talks of mental health, spoilers all way to the true ending of persona 5, talks of violence. The subject matter does not get darker than the darkest points of Persona 5

**

Due to the nature of Goro’s condition, it’s not very common that they see much of the other facets, with the exception of the Detective Prince, who is almost always present when in public. They still don’t have an official name for the condition, at least not on paper, but after intense research on the subject it’s more or less agreed upon that it’s an identity-altering, dissociative disorder, since that also matches up with what Maruki had told them.

They’d actually sat down with him following the reality altering, after he’d been defeated to get the answers out of him and also to get some closure.

“There’s something about you,” Maruki had said to Goro. “I noticed the same in Akira, actually. You seem to experience high levels of dissociation. Pardon me for asking, but you didn’t happen to have a Palace prior to the collapse of the Metaverse, did you?”

Goro had stared at him, hard and still.

“You tell me, doctor,” he had said so flat it would almost sound polite if you didn’t see the expression on his face. “You saw it fit to tamper with my brain and you saw how much it fucked me up. I had to go through a sixth Awakening thanks to the stress you put me under. So why don’t you say what’s actually on your mind and show me the research you did to attempt to make me fit into your disgusting ‘perfect reality’. Really, doctor, I think it’s the least you could do. Even if you feel no remorse for what you did to me, don’t you think it’s particularly cruel that you re-traumatised Sakura-san, Okumura-san and Nijima-san after they had finished processing the death of their parents? I think it was.”

Maruki shifts uncomfortably on his couch. “Of course, Akechi-kun. You’re of course right. Excuse me a moment.”

And with that, Maruki vanishes down the hallway of the apartment, presumably to a home office of some sort.

Goro turns to Akira with a frown. “I want to get my hands on the only copies of whatever papers he has on me and then get out of here. My head hurts like a bitch.”

Akira agrees easily. To be entirely honestly, he doesn’t want to be here either, he’s been feeling hazy all morning, possibly a side effect of the new medication. But school starts again next week and they want this chapter of their life closed off before returning to classes.

They’ll be out of here in a bit.

Maruki comes back a few minutes later, two folders in hand. “These are all the papers I have on the two of you. You’re free to look over them here and ask any questions you may have. The language is quite dense and full of codes, I’m afraid.”

To no one’s surprise, Akira’s file is noticeably thicker than Akechi, containing summaries of all of their meetings, emails sent between him and Tae (understandable, as Maruki had actually been his therapist), notes on potential diagnoses and treatment plans should he ever need more acute or intensive care.

One section stands out to him. F48.1:V.

“What does this mean?” he asks Maruki. Maruki peers at it for a moment but shakes his head.

“Sorry, I don’t recall off the top of my head. One moment, I’ll retrieve the book and you can read it for yourself.”

Half a minute later the small header stares up at him. F48.1 Depersonalisation-derealisation syndrome. Well, that’s what about Tae had told him with an added disclaimer that she wasn’t a mental health specialist.

“It’s a stress disorder,” Maruki explains. “The ‘V’ next to it means that it’s suspected. I never diagnosed either of you, or any of the others formally. It’s not something I should or could do without your and a guardian’s consent. It’s not in any of your official paperwork.”

“And the disorder?” Akira ask. “I really appreciate that you never formally filed it, doctor, but I really would appreciate it if you’d get to the point so we can look through Goro’s file and leave.”

“Oh — yes, of course,” Maruki says hurriedly. “The short of it is that you have main symptoms. Depersonalisation is when you don’t feel real in relation to your surroundings and derealisation is when your surroundings feel real in relation to you. Reduced ability to feel your emotions, dulled sensory input or feeling like you’re acting out a role in a series as opposed to acting as your own person are ways this can present as. It may also be accompanied with forgetfulness and memory loss, but it’s not required.”

Akira shrugs. “Sure.”

Goro makes a sound next o him. “When did you work on this file of me, exactly?”

Maruki looks away. “I think I started it after the school summer break. Akira mentioned you in a few meetings. No personal information, just that you were acquainted.”

“I wanted to know if there was anything I could do to lessen the guilt of hanging out with you despite knowing that my friends didn’t like you,” Akira says quietly. It sounds stupid now, in retrospect. “There are no secrets between us, doctor. You can tell him about anything I discussed during our meetings.”

“It mentions some of my televised appearances,” Goro says with only a minute expression of distaste on his face. “Some notes from your meetings, Akira. And that random meeting on Christmas Day.”

Goro looks up at him. “And with only this information did you see it fit to stitch my brain back together with zero regard for how that might affect me. Tell me, doctor, aren’t you wholly unequipped to deal with people like me? Did it not worry you in the least when I broke down? Did you not wonder for a moment why my brain works the way it does? That it might just be a very essential protective mechanism?”

Maruki looks stricken. “I must admit that I didn’t realise at first. Genuinely, I thought you had let the façade play on too long and then the source of your pain was due to the inability to consolidate the real you with the ideal you. I knew the moment I attempted to change your cognition that I’d messed up and I was about to undo it when you broke out of it entirely on your own.”

Goro snarls, freezes for a few seconds before something truly terrifying takes over his face. Akira had expected it, but Maruki clearly hadn’t, based on his brief look of concern.

“He broke out of it ‘all on his own’ by Awakening for the sixth fucking time, okay,” Loki spits. “He was around for the other five. You only did it once. Can you imagine doing it multiple times? He still has nightmares bout it. What you did almost killed him, doctor.”

“I understand,” Maruki says, doing a remarkably good job at appearing entirely unaffected by the outburst. “I realised. It was what lead me to question if my pursuit was as just and noble as I originally thought.”

“And yet we still had to fight you,” Akira says. He’s so tired. “Why?”

“It was a hunch that that was how it was supposed to go. As you may imagine the power and energy I held within me, Azathoth and Adam Kadmon, was immense. It was almost trapped within me. I literally could not let go of it on my own. When you defeated me … I don’t know where it went. Hopefully not to any one individual. No one should have that much power.”

“I know I have some,” Akira confesses. “Goro, some. Maybe other Wildcards. I donated as much of it as I could to Igor, leaving it in his hands for the next world-ending apocalypse.”

Goro’s breathing heavily next to him and when Akira hazards a look at him his expression is pinched. The headache, then.

“And what’s your verdict, doctor?” Goro bites out. “Now that you feel you have all of the facts.”

“Dissociative Disorder,” Maruki says. “Unspecified type. You appear to struggle with sensory intrusions, whether that be feelings, voices, touch or feeling like you’re being possessed. Does that sound about right?”

Goro shrugs, but doesn’t look all too surprised. “Don’t you ever attempt to stitch me back together and certainly not without my explicit permission. It is this way for a reason.”

Maruki nods (they’ve really been doing a lot of nodding today, haven’t they?). He truly does look apologetic though, Akira has to give him that. “I know,” Maruki says quietly. “I really, really understand. If you ever wish to talk to someone to help with symptom management, I’d be more than happy to recommend someone.”

They leave pretty quickly after that.

“Ah — Akira,” Maruki stops him with a hand on his shoulder. “One last thing. I’ll come by Leblanc sometime next week to drop off the files on your friends. They’re the only copies of the files that exist. I will work through Yoshizawa-san’s file with her and her father directly so they can be transferred to her next therapist. She may express an interest in having you there to mediate in regards to Metaverse matters, but that decision is yours. Please be well, Akira, Akechi-kun.”

[somany-fandoms-solittle-time]

“What’s so Special About the Moon?”

Jamil Viper x MC(insert character Mac)

Ch. 1 – (Ch. 2) – Ch. 3 – Ch. 4 – Next – Previous

Holy FUCK seasonal depression has been hitting early this year and it’s been taking foreverrrrr to finish this chapter, type it up, and edit it!!! I’ve more or less got a good idea of where the last two chapters are headed, but all I’ve written are the first and last paragraphs if I’m being completely honest. ON THE OTHER HANDDDDD, my therapist recommended a nonfiction book about writing that I’ve put on hold at the library mom mom works at (le *gasp* Author Lore). But n e way… It was a bit of a challenge trying to write a tad more into Jamil’s perspective without completely saying the quiet part out loud. He’s constantly contradicting himself because of his childhood trauma so I added my own trauma onto my oc as a lil ~Treat~ to myself. I experimented a little bit with the separate aspecs of Jamil, but I’m not entirely sure how well I pulled it off. Feel free to leave a comment or any advice over what you thought or how I can improve! Except anything to do with Mac. Mac is basically just me if I was seeped in more trauma and I had developed my skills more…

NOTE: IF YOU GET TRIGGERED OVER DESCRIPTIONS OR DEPICTIONS OF DISSOCIATION, MILD SELF HARM, DEPRESSIVE SPIRALS OR ANYTHING OF THE LIKE SKIP THIS CHAPTER/STORY AND GO CUDDLE UP WITH SOMETHING A LITTLE LIGHTER (no shame y’all. We all have those days where all we can handle is Fluff and/or Smut without all the extra heavy feelings.)

True to word, Mac had practically dragged Adeuce and Jack, along with a ragtag group of other NRC students, apparently “following orders” to finish the cleaning process. Kalim had also insisted that they could still use the laundry room even though Jamil was taking the rest of the day off—which meant all he could do was stew in his room while going over his prior conversations and figure out the best way to ignore how much it affected him.

But just because he was (stubbornly) ignoring running into the Perfect again doesn’t mean he wouldn’t listen in. Jamil knew the dorm’s infrastructure before it was even built! Every keyhole and secret passage way was at his disposal.

On quiet feet, and motivated by a raging headache, the dark-skinned Vice Warden slipped through the halls and walkways of Scarabia. He made sure to have a pair of wireless headphones resting around his neck (to slip on for a believable excuse). They were currently off, so he could keep his ears open to any disturbances, but his right hand hovered nearby just in case.

Mentally, Jamil took note of the heat rising with the desert sun. MC was smart enough (and willing) to start early in the morning. Even with how drowsy xey were, barely dressed and pathetically trying to make the numerous piles of laundry look presentable. They were an idiot. And apparently an observant, suffocatingly kind, filter-less, crass, overbearing Auntie of an idiot as well. So much like Kalim… Uncomfortably close to Kalim’s personality but more matured. Understanding (as much as he hated to admit it).

“So stupid,” Jamil whispered under his breath with a frown. Even still, the long track combined with swirling heat only fueled his practiced, calculating mind. This would be the least opportune moment to evaluate his observations over all the nonsense that Mac had been saying over the course he’d ‘known’ them… He was FAR too worked up in his room to think properly, but now his brain foolishly circled back to early that morning in-time with his silent steps.

. . . . . . .

Before the magicless (legal adult) freshman made their stiff exit, back when Jamil was analyzing each and every twitching muscle in xeir clenched jaw, Jamil was attempting to fire back with a quip. There would be no way for the two to be able to continue working in such tense atmosphere MC had created. He was about to tell them off or make up an excuse, when his more childish monologue betrayed his consciousness.

Everything they said was so unfair. So blisteringly close to the truth, but blunt and lacking the usual grace, empathy or even a teasing lilt. Mac’s usual tired, dragged out fond sarcasm, like an older sibling trying to teach the youngsters without sounding too parental, was long gone. In it’s place was the same forceful, pinprick power int their eyes he’d seen through the cloud of Blot. Somehow, between hallway conversations and Jamil threatening their life, the Ramshackle Perfect had found a crack in his wall and stared him down.

Dishonest. He’d called Jamil out for being dishonest as if it wasn’t just the ingrained second-nature of a resentful servant, born and breed to stalk any threats to the boy that owned his life. His falsehoods had only ever hurt fools and ruffians who vied for Kalim’s life. No one else minded his shifting tongue or blank and burned-out eyes. No one bothered. This was what he was made for.

“Just because you’re not hiding your bitter, knee-jerk reaction from an unfair world doesn’t mean you aren’t still hiding away and lying about your more vulnerable emotions.”

They had no right—no FUCKING RIGHT—to say any of that to him. What could they know about being someone’s shadow? About being stuck shadowing the overbearing rays of the sun? Bound by the pull, the gravity of the two boys birth, Jamil would forever be orbiting just outside of what he can never have. Denied the attention, the affection, the true praise for all the great accomplishes he had to forefeet to a spoiled, airhead brat! Everything he’d been denied since he was just a child…

And yet, there was some part of himself that couldn’t lie about how they were right. How xey might know, at least to some extent, what he had been through. The tiredness, the pitiful, the soulless look deep in his eyes that would fade in and out of reality hinted to just how cruel of a life Mac must’ve had (or at least what they remembered of it) lived. Did he know what it was like to be used? To be looked past? Could their life had led to perpetual people pleasing or hiding xemself for survival or constantly worrying about what would happen if xey ever upset anyone… ever made a mistake?

Could they be so similar? Even with how happy and carefree and Kalim-like they were during the day?

They were infuriating… Oh, Great Merciful Seven, he had never felt so invigorated. It was frightening. It was exciting.It couldn’t go any farther than this moment or else all that he’s worked for would simply disappear.

An eight year old Jamil, shoved deep down in the vipers den, was screaming and flailing his arms to be noticed. To be recognized by such ad honest and trusting and supportive figure like--

Jamil’s mind had already been jumping through extra hoops than his regular mental gymnastics in order to process and combat the Perfect’s comments. It was making him feel far too vulnerable. Like a mothering hen, Mac couldn’t keep out of anyone's business. Even when they were so clearly already run ragged and probably on the verge of snapping.

It was almost ironic, how overly worried and caring and just… persistent they were when it came to the students of NRC. Especially towards the ones that had gone out of their way to hurt xem. How could it be possible that this nosy stranger, that came out of nowhere, could simultaneously be so cautious and caring towards someone they obviously… didn’t deserve their kindness. Jamil had received constant reassurance from the paradoxical force of nature that is the Ramshackle Perfect.

It was so unfair. How Jamil was this dark & twisted, manipulative asshole who’s had to pretend to be the perfect, caring servant. AND MAC! That moron got to be the enamored exasperated force that everyone flocked towards without having any real skill? Xey had even less to their name than Ruggie and yet the charisma and favor that only Kalim could harness. Was that how the two became friends? Some secret power those two perfected at their bullshit “Music Club” in order to blind the rest of us peasants to bend to their will!!! (Of course not Jamil, neither are smart or cruel enough to pull something like that).

Even on days like this, when the Perfect was snappy and apathetic, they were 100x more genuinely thoughtful and kind. What gave him the right to be so bitchy and always know better? MC couldn’t possibly be that much older…

. . . . . . .

Just as Jamil was getting frustrated with trying to rearrange his thoughts, he heard Mac directing the small herd of students.

“Okay, Sebek and Jack! You two can carry the most—”

“What about the Great Grim Hench human! Myah!”

“—and have pretty decent control over that floaty spell—”

“Human! I have already informed you—”

“Can it, you unfriendly Green Giant! Once more, the two linebacker fuckers (seriously how are y’all 16 and NOT on steroids) and Grim, I guess, will grab the thick curtains and the runner rugs. Ruggie could run—heh—run down to Sam’s to grab whatever fancy thread and whatnot to fix the throws. That pile of blankets aaaaaaaaand that miscellaneous crap also needs so mending, right Rugs?”

“Shye shee shee, sure thing Boss! An’ who’s tab will our order be account’d for?”

“Ughh, if Sam won’t let you put it directly on Crowley’s personal account then tell him it’s for the school…. It’s technically not a lie so~”

“Gotcha!” There was already a sound of shuffling and light small talk, but the easy banter and direction between the two made Jamil restless. When had MC and Leona’s hyena lackey become so close? When did they start working together so seamlessly?

“OK… Silver. You up for a quick fetch quest?” Silver’s soft yet serious reply also shocked the Vice Warden. Why were the Diasomnia students even HERE? Jamil had thought Silver was visiting Kalim?!

“Of course. Fa—Lila had instructed Sebek and I to assist you in any way we can. You’re a valuable friend of his after all.”

“Kid, chill. Lils and I gossip and rock out in club together. We don’t have a Blood Oath or something,” Mac huffed out a small, tired laugh, “But thanks for the help anyhow! All I need you to do is run over to Heartslybul and check if Riddle would be willing to check over the china and silverware in Ramshackle. The main dinning room is just left of the Kitchen, down the hall a ways. The door should be unlocked (not that that would stop any of you crazy ass wizards) but if not, just let the Ghosts know you’re helping out. I let them know we’ll be busy for the next coupla months.”

“And how are you planning to get our tea-sized tyrant to do all that?” the red-headed Freshman asshole asked his friend with a snarky tone.

“Ace…!”

“Knock it off Ace!”

“You’re not funny man.”

A cacophony of voices followed in argument before the someone let out a snort, “… It’s a little funny.”

“Guys, just ignore him. Anyway, Silver, on the long table has all the bit and bobs of dish sets I was able to scavenge so far. There’s also a few boxes of stuff crammed in the hallway closet, but I haven’t had time to check if they’re in good shape or not.”

“Trey-Senpai said something about convincing House Warden Riddle to lend you an extra tea set. Who knows how many we’ve got stored away in the dorm, I mean, we’ve used a different set with every Birthday and Unbirthday!” Mac’s Freshman blue guard supplied with earnest.

“Oh la la~ Deuce, could you go with Silver and track Trey and Cay down as well? Cater already promised to help touch up the ballroom in exchange for some behind-the-scene selfies, but if y’all remind them I’ll be taking care of Heartslybul Resident Troublemakers for a while I could talk Trey into updating the kitchen a little!”

“And I guess that means it’s just the two of us~” One half of the Trouble Makers teased.

“Ace… You get to help Rugs! And I think we could use some extra soap and—look at that! It’s practically lunch! Everyone, let’s meet back at Rams in 30 so Ace-kun can treat us to some lunch.”

“What’re you planning to do, Perfect!” He snapped back in retaliation.

“I still need to collect what’s out on the clothes line, fold ‘em and wait for this last load to finish drying. After lunch, a few of us can finish mending what can be salvaged and iron or steam whatever needs it. If this takes longer than an hour, just start putting shit away and I can fix it later.”

“Grrrmph… This’ll take all day!” Grim whined at nearly a decibel only dogs could hear.

“Relax Grim, you already got to nap half the day. Think about it this way… by this time Monday the dorm will be halfway livable!” Mac sarcastically cheered in response.

After a moment of two of grumbling from the first years, and a few goodbyes, Jamil could hear the mages-in-training all leave Scarabia’s laundry room and make their way through the commons. Instead of heading back to start lunch (it is TECHNICALLY his day off), he continued to listen to the shuffling of cloths being handled. Which was quietly drowned out by the sound of Mac humming to xemself.

Really, he should have left by now. Why would he want to risk the chance of being dragged into more cleaning that wasn’t even his priority. (Why did he still feel the need to manage and control other’s work?! It’s just adding more stress to his already full plate by sticking his hand in--)

Starling Jamil out of his thoughts, Mac started to sing lightly under their breath. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the Sophomore remembered Kalim excitedly prattling on about how Xe’d become an “unofficial member” of the Pop Music Club. The quartets sporadic sleepovers (for gossiping, exchanging new music, watching movies, light partying) had recently become a bi-monthly event.

“You are so much more than your father’s son/ You are so much more than what I’ve become/ Long before you were born there was light/ Hidden deep in these young, unfamiliar eyes/ A million choices, though little on their own/ Become the heirloom of the heaviness you’ve known.”

Mac knew they were close to dissociating. It was why they made sure to kick everyone out before someone commented on it. Xe’s pretty sure either Ace or Jack were on the verge of probing them when it took them a full ten seconds for xem to laugh at Ruggie’s joke (something about Grim getting his fur all over the white sheets while napping).

After finally having a private space to breath, the pent up guilt and anguish came back to bite them like a vengeful bitch. Hot pressure, like a balloon expanding in his chest, ready to burst even from the tiniest prick, closed their throat back into a steady hum. Hot pressure. Hot machines. Even the humid air made Mac feel like zey were floating and melting at the same time. Xeir hands continued the practiced motions while screeching words resonated deep in their head. Xe kept humming even as a play-by-play echoed back all of his worst apprehensive and aggressive and obnoxious comments. By now the room must’ve been bubbling, threatening to boil over and pop the picturesque serenity; sunlight stabbed through the windows enough to blind the rooms image and even making it impossible for Mac to simply see the cloth in zeir hand.

Gasping for breath, they finished singing: “… When you inherited/ A fight that you were born to lose/ It’s not your fault/ No, it’s not your fault/ I put this heavy heart in you/ I put this heavy heart in you.”

At some point, Mac dropped whatever aged silky item they were mindlessly folding to scratch at xeir arm. It was a practiced movement; a purposeful, forceful movement that left harsh, heavy, thick red lines up and down his rough, patchy forearm… just barely grazing a faded tat in the center of their wrist. Up and down. Up and down. Up and Down. Jamil decided to take his chance now, before their blood could dye the freshly cleaned laundry.

“It’s getting late, isn’t it?” He tried to stay cordial and neutral to not startle them too bad, but Xe still practically jumped while turning around. How troublesome. “Why don’t you go meet up with the others? I’ll just take care of what’s left here.”

“Shit! J-Jamil, you sneaky sonuvabitch… One of these days I’mma put a bell on you!” The startled Perfect rambled a little breathlessly. They were still trying to come back into their own body that zey hardly realized what Jamil even said. After a few moments they finally processed the emotionless order that was given. “Dude, I already made you get up early on a Saturday morning. Don’t worry about it, okay?”

Jamil huffed at the verbal side-step. “MC, you’re about ten minutes from heatstroke,” He gave zem an annoyed, unimpressed frown when they tried to retort. “I was about to make some lunch and brew a little iced chai. You might as well have some before you finish up for the day.”

“Not a Chai person,” they replied in a rush.

“Scarabia is fully stocked with all of Kalim’s guest’s favorite drinks. At least drink a glass or two of water before the desert sun dries you up.” The banter Jamil returned sounded stiff, but encouraging; So inviting, even after Mac picked him a part like an entitled, wannabe Psych Major. It didn’t feel right to already be in his company again. Then again, xey were already pretty dizzy—dissociation, a mild panic attack, and dehydration paired with a casual case of overheating was a pretty gross cocktail for their body to handle.

The stress was really starting to affect xem lately. More nightmares, more… memories and fitful sleep led to a lower tolerance to the usual Hell that is NRC. On top of all that, it seems he might further fuck up the already unstable ‘friendship’ the two hardworking students had.

“Seriously, Viper you don’t have to feel like you need to smooth things over or take control to handle everything. What I said was none of my business, and all of this mess,” Mac stumbled towards the unfolded bundle they had been working on before feeling so woozy, “is my mess to deal with. I can grab a snack or something a little later.” They tried to put up a bigger front, but it was clear that their all-persistent (stubborn) resilience was breaking down with each degree raised in the room. It was an act coming to a close… And the only way for them to give in willingly was to force his hand.

“Mac. As the Vice Warden of Scarabia I can’t have you passing out.” Jamil blankly stated.

Fuck. The quiet tension edged with anxiety was not aided by their usual jokes. Both students were stubborn, but the magicless Perfect was tired and, as much as they did want to admit it, about to tip over any second. Better get it over with….

“Just for a minute.” Xey gave in.

(and as always, shoot out to @twst-beam and @krenenbaker for rehabilitating my love for writing and giving me feedback lol! I love reading your comments and tags so KEEP'EM COMING LOL!!!!)

[phoebeyates-archive]

○ location: phoebe's apartment ○ date: monday 8th january 2024 (with flashbacks to 2002, 2008 and 2023) [tw: toxic parent-child relationships, manipulation, abandonment, money issues, implied mental health issues including dissociation]

Whatever was in the box was heavy, and it was a struggle for Phoebe to get it through the doors up the building, up the stairs to her floor, and through her front door. Not sure what else to do with it, she dumped it on the coffee table, heaving for breath that she wasn’t entirely sure was from the physical exertion or the unease of anxiety she felt since getting that phone call early this morning, tucked up beside Foster in his (admittedly, now quite comfortable) bed, having to sneak into his bathroom and figure out what was going on through hushed tones, leaving without saying goodbye so she didn’t have to wake him.

It had been a painful experience, from being ushered into the Director’s office whilst scrambling to put her phone on Do Not Disturb, watching Aslihan fight for her over the fact that of course Phoebe wouldn’t willingly order anything to the museum address. That whatever it was clearly wasn’t a security risk, and that they were just looking for an excuse to get her in trouble. Phoebe had studied the large package, a big square box in non-descript wrapping, giving away no indication if it was a late birthday or Christmas gift, or something else altogether. The return address sent a shiver down her spine as she recognized it from that drive to Boulder, awkwardly admitting it was from her mom, avoiding Aslihan’s thunderous look at the box, as the assistant awkwardly took it and promised the Director that this would never happen again.

Staring back at the box, Phoebe debated whether to open it or contact her mom, though she couldn’t find where the hell she put her phone in during the journey of hauling it up the stairs. In the end, she vied for neither, deciding that running a bath would clear her head, and melt away the sudden crawling feeling on her skin, trying to fight off the memories of the past.

December, 2002

“Oh my God! I love it!” Phoebe squealed as she ripped off the wrapping paper of the box her dad handed her, revealing the Barbie Rapunzel she had eyed at for months. Sat on the sofa, glass of eggnog clutched in her hand, Lisa snorted.

“Damn, he gets a promotion at the big fancy firm and can suddenly afford…one branded doll?” She asked with an eye roll.

Michael’s smile tightened, the previous light in his eyes of watching his daughter unwrap her Christmas gifts faded. “Lisa, can we not right now?” He kept his voice light, as if Phoebe were a dog who couldn’t understand words but rather tone instead, turning back to his daughter who was tracing the patterns of the box with her finger. “You know, sweetie, you can open her. She’s for playing after all.” 

Phoebe turned the box over, scratching at the tape securing the packaging together when Lisa cleared her throat. “Not until you open my gift, Pheebs.” And she nudged her head to the very big box in the corner. The box Phoebe wasn’t allowed to touch until the ‘right moment’. Almost greedily, Phoebe shuffled over to the box, ripping open the intricate wrapping. 

“Oh my god!” She yelled at the same time Michael exclaimed “Jesus, Lisa, really?!” as the PlayStation 2 logo was revealed, with the game SingStar and its microphones with it.

“What? I can’t spoil my daughter at Christmas?” She argued. At this, Michael stood up, grabbing his ex-wife by her arm, and dragging her  into the direction of the kitchen. 

“Is that what you called me up sobbing about when you lost your job earlier this month?” Michael had hissed, thinking Phoebe couldn’t hear, as her two parents launched into an argument in the other room, as if the thin walls of the house could cover up their hurtful words. Phoebe at that point decided she didn’t want to play with either of her gifts anymore, choosing to delicately place them to the side.

Within six months, she donated them. Her mom was pissed about the PlayStation, even though they both knew she only did it to upstage Michael after all.

October, 2008

“He didn’t show.” Phoebe hated to state the obvious, but she figured it was going to be the question that left her mom’s mouth as she joined her daughter on the creaky porch, watching the golden leaves softly drop from the trees and onto the floor. She had just turned thirteen, and had been dreading it for a number of reasons. The fact that the fair-weathered friends of her mom had been making sly remarks about her being a ‘woman’ in a way that made her skin crawl, down to the big party she was being strong-armed into throwing, knowing full well no one would come.

“What excuse did he use this time?” Lisa asked. Last year, when she had turned twelve, he texted her to say something happened at work and he’d call later. He never did. At Christmas, said he had a business trip and wouldn’t be back in time. They had seen him at the mall on Boxing Day, when Lisa was returning the gifts from her boyfriend of the time, but chose to pretend he didn’t exist either.

“He didn’t,” Phoebe replied truthfully. In all fairness, he didn’t actually get in touch to say he’d show up for his daughter’s thirteenth birthday, but Phoebe was under the assumption he would, at least. 

“I figured,” Lisa sighed, before going inside for a minute, returning with a small box. “I was going to give you this at your party, but well, I think you deserve it now.” 

Hesitantly, Phoebe took the lid of the box, letting out a small gasp at the shiny iPod Touch that looked up at her. “Oh my god…Mom, this is amazing!” 

“Micah helped me put some songs on it. And he said, anything you wanna add, he’ll help you too.” Lisa promised, smiling as she spoke of her newest boyfriend, reaching over and stroking her hair. “My best girl, thank you.”

Phoebe leaned into her touch. It would be a while before she learned the bigger the present meant that Lisa was trying to get something, or do something. Ruin Phoebe’s image of her father, break the news she lost another job, or failed another relationship. Try and seem like she was the best, put together parent ever.

But in that moment, the thirteen year old, who’s upcoming November would be overtaken with Taylor Swift and Twilight, both on her iPod before Micah bailed in December, just took her mom at face value. Because why wouldn’t she believe otherwise?

February, 2023

Phoebe stood at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the wall and arms crossed. Lisa stood at the top, confused frown on her face.

“There’s a suitcase with your name on the luggage tag in the living room.” Phoebe explained, slowly, like trying to describe something otherwise obvious to a toddler.

“Great deduction skills, Sherlock.” Lisa drawled, heading down, an ominous creak on every other step, as if the years of neglect and damage were threatening to collapse the rotted wood. 

“Where are you going?” She hated it, how small she felt asking the question. She was twenty-seven now, and she and her mom didn’t have to explain things to each other such as their whereabouts. But there was a sinking feeling in the bottom of her stomach that she couldn’t ignore. Phoebe noticed the way Lisa thought she was slyly hiding the envelopes on the kitchen table, the big red letters of ‘FINAL NOTICE’ plain and clear to the naked eye. Her mom’s new boyfriend, Carl, had been extremely jumpy too. Like they were planning something Phoebe wasn’t allowed to know about.

And she was tired of being handled with kid gloves.

“I have something for you...” Lisa sing-songed, completely avoiding the question. Phoebe’s stomach twisted in on itself further, especially as she watched her go to the coat-rack, the turquoise gift bag making her gasp.

“No.” Phoebe declared as her mom handed her the Tiffany gift bag. “Mom, you can’t -,”

“Well, it’s from Carl, moreso. I just helped choose. The architect money you know. Go on, Pheebs, open it.” She urged.

She stood frozen in shock for a minute, thinking about whatever was in the box and how much it would cost. Money that they didn’t have. Clearly annoyed at her daughter’s slowness, Lisa snatched the bag back, pulling out a box in the same color as the bag and opening it. Phoebe could see her reflection in the large diamond earrings staring back at her.

“He just was so grateful you made him feel so welcome in our home,” Lisa continued, apparently uncaring about her daughter’s shell-shocked reaction, snapping the box shut and firmly placing it in Phoebe’s hand. “Especially since you’ll be solely responsible for it for the next few months.”

Now that got a reaction from the brunette. “Wait, what?”

“The trip.” Lisa stated, matter-of-factly, smiling like a schoolgirl with a crush. “Carl is taking me across Europe, babe. He wanted to take you, really, but what with your vacation hours and the fact you don’t own a passport and are scared of planes and all that -,”

Phoebe didn’t know what else to say, just nodding numbly. “And Carl, he’s paying for all of this?” It didn’t really sound like the man, who was more sleazy than charming with a questionable combover and thought tweed was fashionable. She remembered the first time she met him, out for dinner with him and Lisa, and he heavily hinted that Phoebe should be picking up the bill, as a gift to the lovebirds finding their happiness.

Her suspicions only rose when Lisa’s face fell for just a second, and all she wanted to do was shake her mother. How she got the money for the trip, she didn’t even want to know right now. But this was extremely irresponsible, even for her. “Look, my darling girl,” She stammered, cupping Phoebe’s face in her hand. “I think this will be good for me, I can explore my passions, and when I come home, can work on starting that business I always dreamed about! And you can quit working at the hotel and be my partner. This is just…experience. Plus, I’ve always wanted to go to Italy. You know how much I love pasta!” 

The rest of the day went by in a blur, with somehow Phoebe being coerced into driving Lisa and Carl to the airport. The earrings stayed in their beautiful blue box, until Phoebe had time to return them, finding out that they weren’t a gift from Carl at all, but from her mom’s credit card. 

If Lisa ever noticed the return, or how Phoebe never wore them in their sporadic video calls, she never commented on it. The younger woman doubted her mom even remembered the buttering up gift after all. Because that’s all it was, some sort of bribe, to stay pliant.

January 2024

She didn’t know how long she had been in the tub, but long enough that the water had turned cold, her body beginning to shiver as she slowly came back into it. Something had disrupted her from her trip down memory lane, itching at the back of her mind, when she heard it again. Her door buzzer. Erratic, furious,as if whoever was downstairs was looking for a fight. Phoebe quickly stumbled out of the bath, drying herself haphazardly as she found some sweats and a hoodie to throw on, to the accompaniment of the mechanical drawl of her buzzer.

Then, taking a deep breath, she slowly approached it and answered.

[marlonblognotes]

4/29/25

11:36 AM

Cranston, RI

Ugh. I heard evidence of somebody still hanging out in the basement this morning. First of all, I'm obviously going to doubt everything 'til these creepy yanks and crackers simply fess up and speak to me like adults OR they go away and somebody else explains it to me. I wonder what it was like growing up rich in California and England. Did they have swarthy maids? Maybe that's why these folk just ignore us sometimes without thinking lmao. The disgusting freaks are literally descended from vikings. They're descended from the British. Their culture IS r*pe culture. I can see more of it now. They don't think about the others affected at all. After months of this I just have NO sympathy for most of them.

Of course the fact that I don't know for sure that it's been Lily Collins sometimes "living" in my house might just let her dissociate and pretend this isn't happening. Is that why things have gone this way? She's literally still officially married to somebody else. No, what did she expect? Are these people REALLY that selfish? It's just bizarre! Was it really her I heard through the walls that one time saying "I'll **** you but I want you to stop seeing Grace Marston." Lmao, excuse me? You're married!

Now here's me imagining that she's simply an intelligent person in an unusual circumstance: Maybe she wanted to get to know me first, hang out, solidify the relationship before divorcing Charlie McDowell. Lmao, ew! I mean, it keeps getting implied that that means having sex first. I mean, like I've written before, I get that the n4zi, american culture she comes from loves when folk "steal wives" and they love the word "cuck." Gross! These people need to be stopped, including her if necessary! Lmao, what the fuck, get away! Whatever the case... no! Haha, ew, what the fuck!? But I kinda digress from the original premise of this paragraph. Whatever the case, for some reason "married woman" is just not a turn on, in any way. I hope those keeping track of the situation remember that when she began showing up more and more in real life I tried publicly getting in touch with Charlie, as well as his father Malcolm McDowell, to try to figure out what was going on.

I might've gotten some intel that a divorce between the two doesn't seem possible 'cause Charlie is perhaps dead and it might seem too disrespectful. To what, the family of Malcolm McDowell, the guy who played that "very cool, edgy x 10" rapist that gets rewarded with eternal sex at the end? That dude clearly loved being remembered for that "badass" role sometimes, and it seemed to be the only one he was known for. Hmmm, okay, sounds stupid and typical. Lily was a writer for Teen Vogue communism, eh? She's an internet activist? Sounds typical too lmao, she's still a wealthy white woman at the end of the day, eh? Gross.

I don't know. Maybe the fact that I keep giving her the benefit of the doubt is enabling her, and encouraging her in delaying communicating with me more directly. Maybe she wants to keep trying to deceive. However, it IS true that I don't know the details of the situation so part of me is remaining open-minded and even ready to apologize to her publicly if some kinda truth comes to light. I mean it's been proven time and time again that sometimes I've just been hearing rumours of impersonators. Oh well.

FUN FACT:

DID YOU KNOW THAT it's rumoured that A Clockwork Orange was actually based on stories about Southeast Asian gangsters! They stuck the r4pe in there afterwards, of course, since they clearly admired these gangsters and wanted to admire them even more. Makes sense! They may have been Filipino or Vietnamese!

Heheh "these gangsters seem to speak English and then make up their own nonsense words! They have sex!"

Yeah it's called speaking "Taglish" and not being pathetic.

[oceansarepink]

Alternative ending - Loona and Blitz

Based on the animatic where Loona finds Blitzø on the couch dissociating, but this time she doesn’t project herself onto stolas. She doesn’t use guilt to tell her dad to go win back his abusers affection by acting as if it’s the same as adopting her.

Blitzø: I had a really shitty night. Followed Stolas to that anti Blitzø party, he called me a motherfucker in front of everybody, I tried to talk to him. But he just left and macked on some dude right in front of me. It’s all my fault. I fucked up. Maybe Verosika is right, maybe I should let go and stay far away from him forever, let him be happy. But why…why don’t I want to..maybe..I should..I don’t..

Loona: Yes and No.

Blitzø: What?

Loona: Yes, please for the love of fuck let this “relationship” end, but no, this isn’t about you being awful and making him all unhappy. All you ever care about is satisfying him. Blitzø, he’s the one who needs to stay away from YOU forever!

Blitzø: I know…Cause I fuck up everything and all I do is destroy—

Loona: No! Because look at yourself! Look how he’s made you feel! Again! You were doing so well before, going on missions, having fun with Millie, you and that prissy bow tie jerk are getting along better than ever. You’ve even got an old friend back. You’ve built this life for all of us, on the condition that you keep that nepo baby happy. I’m sick of this cycle, you get on a high-

Blitzø: No but—

Loona: —Then this clingy rich asshole makes you feel bad-ugh. You got up the other morning all loud, hyping yourself up, but you were so anxious, you left the office the other day sweating, he shouldnt make you feel that way-and okay maybe that was partially cause of what I said about him being bored of you. But—

Blitzø: No, no none of this is—

Loona: Thats only cause idiots like him have a short attention span. And now after doing better for so many months, the second you see him, you’re back on this damn couch again, you’re drunk, sad and miserable. This is JUST like your last “date” with the guy! Remember that, after Bees party? You said it was a shitty day then too. Now you’re doing it again?

Blitzø: Im sorry Loonie. I don’t want you to see me like this…

Loona: I don’t want to see you like this either. But it’s not all on you. Shit I’m tired of making excuses for this guy, he’s always hurting you, he’s always hurting Via, and then just sits back with people kissing his ass, telling him nothing is his fault and he’s a victim of everyone else. Well he’s really not! He’s the clingy obsessed one who calls you all the time!! Asking for ‘a special request’ or booty calls. You can’t see that? He’s trained you to expect it and act the same. I just…I’m scared…

Blitzø: Scared? You? Don’t be silly Loonie. I know he can…get a bit of a temper sometimes but—

Loona: Yeah. I know. I’ve seen it. He screams in your face, yanks on your cheek and calls us all “little critters” not to mention the time he blew up the office cause we didn’t babysit his brat for him.

Blitzø: I know..and I’m sorry about that Loonie, I’m sorry you had to run around to find Via. It was my fault.

Loona: No—I mean—thank you but-no it was actually my fault. I was a mega bitch that day. I haven’t gotten so angry in years I just-I’m sorry, I was seeing red and you were only trying to parent. You always stand by me. I let Via walk on by and didn’t even try to stop her. But the worst part is you took the fall for me and didn’t even realise you were doing it. That violent lunatic could’ve killed one of you if he felt like it. I’m scared because, I know what it’s like to have someone break your willpower into obeying them and being loyal to their orders. To…always depend on bringing them joy just so they keep you around.

Blitzø: Look he was just mad, he’s been through so much. He’s not the type to-he’d never-I provoked him with that phone call.

Loona: You didn’t though! This is what I mean! He has to be responsible for his own feelings and responses. You fixed HIS problem, he expected it of you, of us. It wasn’t octavias, or mine, or your fault, it was him, it was His actions. Yet everyone ELSE is apologising?? THIS, this right here is what scares me. He treats you like shit, bosses you around, all of us actually, and one second you seem to recognise that, and the next, you’re beating yourself up, and blaming yourself. He gets in your head, messes with you, then cries one single time and you fold. You gotta stop being such a people pleaser.

Blitzø: I deserve it.

Loona: Enough already. You don’t. Please, don’t answer his calls anymore. I’ll block his number. If he wants to play silent treatment and kiss your exes to get back at you for not kissing his ass, fine. Let him. This crystal here. It’s a blessing in disguise. I know deep down, he knows he’s bad for you, and he knows this is toxic, but he’s such a little bitch he’d rather blame you and let you blame yourself. People like him aren’t used to accountability or saying thank you. Especially after hurting imps or demanding services from them.

Blitzø: He really doesn’t like it when I talk about me being an imp…

Loona: Shows how much he does not care about what you go through. Speaking of thank you, he never did thank me for going out of my way for his kid like that, or thank the guys for saving his ass so many times, did he? Only Via and you thanked me.

Blitzø: he probably just forgot, he’s naive, sheltered! Maybe yknow-maybe he just doesn’t have very good self awareness at times? Or he-

Loona: Hes not that innocent. You can only be an asshole by accident so many times. I heard about how he treated Millie at that theme park. I bet he let that cowboy assassin steal him, he didn’t even sound that alarmed over the phone. “I think you should come save me” that’s what he said right? You and me take care of his kid, and the one time you told him you had to take care of yours, he needs you to run over? He was probably more pissed that you weren’t specifically the “knight in shining armour” than being kidnapped right? That’s what all of this is about? You not following his romcom shit on stage and being an actual person instead?

Blitzo: ……

Loona: Bingo. And this is the guy you’re crying over? Dad, you may be kinda sleazy—

Blitzø: Hey! Dont call me—

Loona: Really sleazy. But even you deserve better than this. Now shut up no more crying and we’ll watch your dumb pony show.

[heavensgxte]

Besieged part II

part one

tw - noncon, forced marriage, pregnancy mentions, breeding kink, blowjobs, naoya being naoya and being an asshole. naoyas shitty excuse of foreplay. not beta read

wc- 2.1k

by clicking read more you are agreeing to consume and read dark content.

a/n- hey…how y’all doin. don’t hate me for posting this over two years later lolol i honestly didn’t think i’d ever get back to this but. i have had been on a writing kick lately. i hope my skills haven’t completely disappeared. thank you for all the love for part one.

You wake up the next morning, covered in dry cum. You feel its presence still very much so stuffed into your cunt. You also feel a warm body draped over yours, looking over at the table you do see a glass of water. You also feel a flaccid cock you must have been warming all night long.

Did he really fuck you until he passed out? You reason he probably did. You look towards the window to find the sun just beginning to rise, not being able to stop the few tears that escape your eyes, a true moment to yourself, sort of. For the last week, the weight of your situation settles, is this really how you’re going to spend the rest of your life?

Eventually, you reckon you had silently cried yourself back to sleep. It was the fact that when you had come to again, your now husband wasn't sprawled out on top of you. But a maid with a worried look on her face gently tapping you awake. Telling you it was time to change the bedding, her skittish voice starting to pull away the curtains of grogginess out of your system.

You make sure to give her a warm smile, nodding and giving a soft thank you. Making a mental note to treat the staff nicely, showing them you are nothing like that vile man you have been legally bound to.

The maid turns away to give you privacy as you move your sore body to plant your feet on the cold floor. Seeing a note laying on your bedside table, picking it up you read it over. “I will be attending my own duties until mid-day, don’t bother me, I shall come find you when I deem it is time. Don’t miss me too much <3” You scoff crumpling the note and tossing it where you found it.

Shivering you pull on the robe nearby, letting the soft fabric hug your frame, giving another smile to the maid, you make your way to the washroom and out of her way. You spot the shower and take a better look at the elegant room. The ofuro and shower separated, traditional yet modern touches adjourning the room. Both bathing options are definitely big enough for two, you mentally note that he had done that on purpose. Looking between the two options, a soak in the ofuro seemed more tempting, something to soothe your aching body from the rough treatment you had taken last night.

Taking a good look in the mirror as you begin to fill up the bath, your eyes widen at the state of your body. Darkened marks adorn your neck and chest, accompanied by bite and scratch marks decorating your thighs and waist. Is he even human? You surely don’t remember the sex being this animalistic, but your fucked out brain probably drifted off after your second or third orgasm you presume.

Hopefully he isn’t this insatiable every night. The thought sends shivers down your spine, keeping yourself distracted by adding salts and herbs you had found sitting out into the steaming water.

Carefully stepping in and letting the warmth consume you, you close your eyes and lean your head back, letting daydreams run through your weary head as you lean it against the edge of the appliance. Near dissociation when.

The brash opening of the door rips you out of your thoughts, you hear his footsteps before you see him round the corner quickly. Ripping you out of your dream-like state, sending your nervous system into fight or flight mode, a shrill gasp emitting from you.

“Ah ha there you are. I was wondering if you were going to wake up or not before the sun went down.” Naoya says as if it was a matter of fact. Cat like eyes trying to peer beneath. “I was looking all over for my little wife.” The man poses with a faux stretch. “I got done with my duties early, and I can’t wait to spend the rest of the evening playing with my new toy.” He begins to shed his daily attire.

Sighing, but not quite in defeat you close your eyes and begin to mutter “well excuse me for trying to take even a bath by my-”

Before you could even finish the sentence, you heard it before you felt it. A smack resounding in the room before your hand flies to your face to soothe the stinging pain. Shocked with wide eyes you avert your profile to him.

You are met with a stern look to his amber eyes, face unreadable. “I will tolerate little from you. I knew choosing you there would be some pushback, a stubborn woman such as yourself. However,  you are smart enough to know and follow expectations regarding being my wife. I do not tolerate back talk. The rumors surrounding my clan are indeed true. We expect traditional wives. You will be absolutely no different.”

Flabbergasted you cannot control your rising emotions as they burst through the seams. “Expectations?! Guidelines?! I didn’t even want this!” No, you will not cry. Not in front of him.

A strong hand grips your face, a force even pulling you from the ofuro. “This. Isn’t. About. You.” Venom laced in his words as he shook your head back and forth. “I don’t care what you want. Surprise wife! You are here for me and me alone. That is your purpose in your pathetic life. Serve me. Warm my bed. Be my personal fuckhole. And bare me an heir. Speaking of fuckholes….” Naoya mumbles. Fumbling around with the cloth on his body. Slipping all of it off, the light illuminating off of his body, accentuated by the steam.

You’d be lying to yourself as to say he did not have a nice body. He did, and a nice cock, 7 and a half inches or so with decent girth and a perfect curve. You would know, the entire night the damn thing was inside of you, you are now very much so used to it.

To add on to his earlier statement, you are being gripped by the nape of the neck, Naoya standing on the stool you use to step into the tub, but he’s not stepping on.

“Open that whore mouth my dear beloved.” How can someone’s words be so venomous yet patronizing?

Taking a moment to process you don’t even see his hand come down to pinch your left nipple, the gasp parting your lips is all he needs to shove it in between your parted lips. Going slow and taking your time is not your dear husband's forte, obviously. As he is instantly gripping the sides of your slippery cheeks and moving his hips to fuck his cock farther and farther down your throat. Your gags, and spluttering echo to and fro through the bathroom, along with the sound of his balls, slapping your chin, pulsing with the need for release.

Though the man above you is groaning, face scrunched up in concentration and pleasure. He protests a moment. “No, no no, fuck, no, need your cunt. Gimme…” Naoya begins to mumble, pulling you up by your arm from the ofuro. “Bend over the edge, yeah, yeah just like that.”

You know it’s futile to argue, and you can’t deny, that he does feel good, is that why your body is betraying you when you arch yourself over the edge of the bathroom appliance? Why you don’t kick and scream when you feel him spread your cheeks to get an adequate view of your cunt glistening with bath water, slightly covered in suds from your attempt of relaxation? Is it that deep down you know that submitting to him is your best option right now? Can you really do this for the rest of your life? In such a compromising position, your thoughts run wild.

All thoughts stop racing through your mind when you feel the head of his cock push in through your tight hole. Shaky trembling hands gripping your hips tightly. Naoya’s head is also whirring in pleasure, just like yours.

“Fuck fuck it’s just as tight as last night.” A sigh emits his mouth. As if his cock in your pussy could melt all his stresses and worries away. Fuck. Is all that he can formulate. Using his hands to bring you back and forth on his erection. A moan threatens to emit from your mouth before you cover it with your hand, no you cannot give him that satisfaction. Biting down on your hand for some semblance of control.

A semi cold hand finds its way to your warm slick breast, a hardy squeeze as he brings up his tempo. “Y-yeah” he groans. “Take it, like you’re meant to. All you’ll ever be good for anyways.” Naoya growls, speeding up his thrusts. Biting down on your shoulder. Angling his hips to hit deep inside your cunt over and over your G-spot. You swear you can feel him in your chest at this point.

Your hand falls to the edge of the tub squeezing the edge in an attempt to ground yourself from the new found angle. You do not want to give him the satisfaction of his use of your body as his own personal fuck-hole, that he could make you cum from the treatment as well.

“Fu- shit. You’re milking me you bitch!” His teeth detach from your shoulder, his hand gathering at the crown of your head to hold onto your hair and bring his body towards him. “Look at me.” The blond demands. Pace never falters. “A fucking mess from a little fucking.” He hisses. “Who owns you?”

As if he can talk, he’s practically panting and drooling like an animal in heat. The latter question sparks a flood of defiance in you, moving your head side to side.

“Tell me who you belong to if you wanna cum. Otherwise, you can just suck me off and I'll finish all over that pretty face. I don’t fucking care.”

You jolt in surprise as you feel his hand on your clit, lithe fingers swirling the bud. Teasingly coming and going each time you tighten around him. The itch that needs to be scratched is becoming a far bigger problem. Your inhibitions going out the window.

I mean, it's four words, it can't hurt right? Just this once you reason.

“I belong to…” You muster the reward of Naoya’s fingers rubbing your bundle slightly faster. The sounds of your moans and his hips slapping yours echoing in the bathroom.

“G-go on I can’t hold out much longer, stupid cunt feels too good.”

“I-I Belong to y-you! Na-Naoya!” You finally snap at the same time your husband increases the pace of both his fingers and thrusts. Your cunt squeezing him so tight he can barely pull out to go back in, your release exiting out of your spent pussy, splashing on Naoya’s pelvis.

“Too tight, too tight SHIT!” The man curses, pushing himself practically against your womb as you hear him growl, squeezing your body to him so tightly not even paper could come between.

You feel the final twitch as you come down from your high. Warm spurts of cum filling you to the brim.

Naoya pulls out slightly wincing as his spent cock falls out. Mesmerized seeing his pearly cum in your thoroughly abused pussy. Two fingers wasting no time to push it deeper. “I-it has to take. You need to be knocked up.” He pants, as you turn your head worried eyes widening. “Need to make sure you can’t leave. Even if you tried.” The latter part of the sentence comes out more dark as the former.

As you sit and lament over what just happened. Naoya steps beside you to drain the tub, leaving half the water before he fills it again with warm water. You look at him quizzically, he pays no mind, checking the water. Adding some salt and soap to the bath.  Before lifting you up and setting you in without a word. “I have one more errand to attend to.” He exclaims redressing himself. “I will be eating dinner with you. Your husband says before leaving the bathroom. Not waiting for a response from you.

Shock leaves your system. Did he just… Do something nice for you? You won’t say it’s the best aftercare, but honestly you thought he was just going to leave you on the cold tiled floor. Warmth creeps up to your heart at the gesture. You shake your head, scolding yourself. You cannot fall for crumbs. Never for him, anyone but him.

You can figure something out, you reason. Find a way to leave and keep your family safe at the same time. Change your names, move out of the country, something! You cannot stay here, if you don’t leave now. You will be stuck under his heel forever.

[cozycompositions]

@febuwhump Day 3: Muzzled (with a side of Alt: Natural Disaster)

After five years in the fandom, I’ve finally given into the obligatory storm chapter. TW// depictions of a panic attack and dissociation

Alexander always found himself with quickened breath and wide eyes during thunderstorms. They were unavoidable, he knew, a simple fact of nature that allowed the climate to run its course. Even with this knowledge, Hamilton couldn’t help but feel as though every crack of thunder and flash of lightning was a personal attack on him from a God he did not believe in.

On the occasion that a storm happened upon the colonies, Alexander would find some excuse to leave the room and make his way to the aides’ chambers where he could be alone. More often than not he would end up in Laurens’s arms, trying to calm his breathing.

Tonight was no exception, and John had run to Alexander’s room at the first crash of thunder , rapping his knuckles lightly on the door. It was the middle of the night, no need to risk waking another aide, or worse, the general.

“Lex?” John whisper shouted through the door, “Are you awake?”

When he received no response, he opened the door quietly and peeked his head in.

“Alex…?”

The room appeared empty, but that couldn’t have been right. Laurens had seen Hamilton to bed himself, he should’ve been asleep. Perhaps Hamilton had been roused by the storm and was hiding somewhere.

John moved to enter the room, pushed the door all the way open and stepped over the threshold.

“Alex,” he called again, a bit loud this time. Then he heard it, a small whimper. It was so soft and so quick that Laurens wondered if he had even truly heard it.

Furrowing his brow, John rounded the desk. There, huddled between the desk and the wall, was Hamilton.

He looked a mess. His curls were flying from their cue every which way, tears were pouring down his cheeks with no sign of stopping soon. Alexander’s knees were drawn up tight to his chest as sobs wracked his body, his hands clasped over his mouth far too tight.

“Oh, Alexander,” John sighed as he kneeled in front of his friend, “Why didn’t you come and get me?”

Hamilton looked up at John, his eyes were blown wide and his chest was heaving.

“Come now,” John soothed, “Come on, give me your hands, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

John reached to take Alexander’s hands from his face, but Hamilton held firm.

“Lex, come on,” John said firmly.

Alexander shoot his head. He drew back from Laurens and hid his face behind his knees.

This was a common occurrence when they found themselves in this situation. On the occasions that Hamilton failed to retrieve Laurens before the panic attack got too severe, he found himself shutting down completely. He would hide away and end up harming himself in the process.

“Give me your hands, Alex, let me help,” John said, showing Hamilton his hands before slowly prying his own away from his face. John pulled Alexander’s hands against his chest and held tight.

“It’s okay, you’re safe. You’re not there anymore, come back now.”

Alexander slowly uncurled himself and shifted towards John. He crawled into John’s lap and curled his hand into the fabric of his shirt.

“There we go, breathe with me now. Just breathe. You’re okay.”

Thunder clapped just outside and Hamilton buried his head into John’s soldier.

“Shhh, shhh, it’s okay. It’s only a storm. I promise, you’re safe with me.”

It took another two hours for Alexander to calm himself into sleep. They sat that way the entire time, Hamilton nestled safely in John’s arms, John rocking him softly with whispered comforts.

That was how Lafayette would find the pair in the morning. He should’ve woken them, there was much work to be done. But they looked so content and safe together, a rare sight that brought a smile to Lafayette’s face.

So, if he simply covered them in a small sheet and left without a word, well that was no one’s business.

[sacredsorceress]

Secrets (Three) || Bucky Barnes

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

summary: bucky, natasha and sam find out where you’ve been taken and attempt to find you and bring you back. meanwhile you find yourself in an icy situation.

a/n: reblogs and replies are super appreciated!

word count: 3.1k

warnings: full angst, mentions of kidnapping and blood, someone attempts to kill reader as vengeance, violence

Prologue, One, Two

masterlist || request || taglist

When Sam’s eyes met Natasha’s as he and Bucky burst in through the doors of the lab at the Avengers Compound, he immediately grabbed hold of her arm and pulled her to the side, leaving Bucky to speak to Banner.

“What’s going-”

Before Natasha could even finish her sentence however, Sam cut her off in a hushed voice.

“Bucky didn’t tell his wife anything.” Sam explained, glancing over his shoulder to make sure the super soldier wasn’t listening. “Nothing about being a 100 year-old man. Nothing about being a super soldier-”

“Barnes didn’t tell her anything?” She asked.

“Nothing.” Sam confirmed. “He’s been lying to her this whole time.”

Glancing over at the other man in the room, Natasha shook her head.

“Shit.” She swore. “You think you know somebody... why didn’t Barnes tell her?”

“He figured she would leave-”

“So what?” Natasha said. “How can you start a family with someone and you don’t even tell them the truth? Hell, Barton told Laura everything a month into their relationship. That’s not an excuse.”

Thinking of her friend who had died for her back on Vormir so she could bring the soul stone back home, she could feel the anger running through her veins, but as quickly as it had washed over her, it had faded away as she looked at the man in front of her and the distress he was in.

“It just... it makes me sick, you know?” Sam said. “I should of... I should of noticed this... I should have known. Maybe she wouldn’t be in this mess right now if-”

Shaking her head, understanding the path Sam was heading down, Natasha laid her hand gently on Sam’s shoulder.

“This isn’t your fault, Sam.” She reassured him. “It’s not your job to take care of him. He should’ve known better.”

Sam knew that she was right. Bucky was a grown man, older than him who should have known better than to lie to those he cared about, but Sam couldn't help but feel guilty, knowing there was a woman out there who was kidnapped because of his friend’s mistakes.

Noticing the slump in Sam’s shoulder’s, she squeezed his shoulder once more before pulling away.

“We’re going to handle this, Wilson. It’s okay.” Natasha reassured him one last time. “I’m used to cleaning up after you boys- this isn’t any different.”

Leaving Sam in his spot, Natasha made her way to the center of the lab besides where Bucky was standing on the other side of a counter facing Bruce.

“Well,” Burce said holding Bucky’s phone in his hands. “It looks like you don’t even need my help. Her phone’s location is still on.”

Drumming his fingers on the table and tapping his foot against the linoleum floor, Bucky began to feel his heart race in his chest.

“And?” He asked, raising his voice. “That’s it? You can’t give us more than her phone location-”

Glancing between Bruce and Bucky, Natasha turned her attention to the man beside her, laying her hand his metal one, halting his fingers from tapping against the countertop.

“Woah Barnes.” She eased. “Calm down-”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” He shouted once again, pulling his hand away from Natasha’s. “This is my wife.” He said, turning back to Bruce. “You can’t do better than a phone location? What makes you think she’s even there and she didn’t just drop it-”

“I don’t know your wife, but I’m guessing people don’t just lose their phones at old S.H.I.E.L.D bases.” Bruce said, cutting him off.

Sliding the device back across the table, Bucky caught the phone in his hands, glancing between your phone’s location on his screen and the other Avengers in the room.

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Sam said, making his way over from the other side of the room. “Why wouldn’t they get rid of her phone?”

Although the others in the room continued to discuss why you would be there and where there course of action would go from there, Bucky had tuned them out, staring at a wall on the far side of the room.

He understood why they didn’t turn your location off or throw your phone away. Better yet, he knew the S.H.I.E.L.D base you were at... he had been there himself. They had held him there, cryogenically freezing him during his time as the Winter Soldier.

Thinking about you in the base and the implications of what that meant, Bucky’s hands began to shake. As his phone fell from his hands, the sound of the glass shattering notified the other members in the room, halting their conversation. They turned their attention towards Bucky.

“Barnes?” Natasha asked.

“Buck-“

“They want us to go there and get her.” Bucky said, his mouth going dry. “They want me... I... I know this place.”

Glancing at each other and then the sullen man, Natasha was the first speak up.

“How do you know the place, Barnes?”

Beginning to feel his heart quicken in his chest, he attempted to find the words to explain the situation to those in front of him.

“They used to hold me there.” Bucky said. “That’s where they... that’s where they kept me frozen when they didn’t need me.”

At his confession, Natasha was the first one to move from her spot. Making her way over to Bucky, she picked his phone up off the floor and shoved it into his chest.

“If that’s true, we have to move now.” Natasha said, patting Sam’s back, making her way towards the door. “Suit up, boys!”

-

You swore if you had eaten within the past 16 hours you would have thrown up by now. The videos didn’t stop with the first one. The man forced you to watch more and more across all decades with so many different victims. It was sickening. After sitting there for so long your eyes began to burn and your stomach began to churn you squeezed your eyes shut, throwing your head back.

“Why are you showing me all of this?” You asked the man beside you. “I didn't... I didn’t know. If I had... I don’t... why are you coming after him? What did he do to you?”

Pulling the tablet away from your face, placing it on the table besides him, the man made his way over to the front of where you were seated, kneeling on the floor front of you.

“I’m glad you have finally asked, Mrs. Barnes-”

“Y/n.” You cut him off. “My name is Y/n.”

Not missing the fact that you had so quickly dissociated yourself from the man you had once called your husband earlier that day, the man continued.

“Y/n,” He said, testing the name before continuing. “You want to know why I want the Winter Soldier?” 

You nodded.

“I want the winter soldier because he killed my wife.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, bitterness lacing every syllable, your eyes widened and you began to feel the pace of your heart quicken in your chest.

“I’m so sorr-“

“I went to your home this morning with the intention of finding your husband and killing him for what he did to my wife.” The still unnamed man said, pushing himself up from where he was kneeling in front of you, pacing around your chair. “They said she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time... she was innocent. She didn’t do anything.”

Although the man had kidnapped you, you felt your heart shatter in your chest for him. He had lost his wife. A woman who had no place losing her life, but did by the hands of a brainwashed assassin... your husband.

The same man who had told you nothing about the past. The same man who had lied to your face all these years.

The reason you were now sitting tied up in a seat in an abandoned operations base.

“So, imagine my surprise when I find he has a wife of his own.” The man said, stopping in front of you.

As he leaned forward, his face inching closer to yours, you leaned back in your seat desperate to get away from him.

Seeing the anger and despair in his eyes that were inches away from yours, you began to feel your own tears prickle in your eyes as you struggled in the seat, realizing now that you would be his mode of revenge.

“I didn’t... I didn’t do anything.” You pleaded. “I didn’t even know!”

Stepping away from you, you watched as the two other men descended the staircase, standing behind the man in charge.

“I understand, Y/n.” He said. “You were just a woman who got caught in another man’s mess. I feel sorry for you... I do... you were in the wrong place for far too long a time and you didn’t even know it. It saddens me to do this, Y/n, but your husband has to pay.”

Watching as the two men walked past their boss to your chair, turning it around to face the wall behind you, you were suddenly met with the holding tube you had seen photos of Bucky in during his time in cryo standing against the wall.

“What- wait!” You shouted, struggling in your seat. “There has to be something I can do-“

Despite your struggling you felt as the two men undid the ties on the ropes that had been wrapped around your wrists and ankles, each taking one of your arms in their’s.

“No wait!” You shouted at the man in charge. “Please! I didn’t do anything! I didn’t know!”

Rather than reply you watched as the man pinched the bridge of his nose, turning his back towards you.

Kicking at the ground below you, they dragged you towards the container, your heels scratched against the cold floor as you shouted, tears running down your face as you begged them to let you go.

In the end it was futile as they threw you into the container, slamming the door shut before you even had time to scramble to your feet. Hearing the door click in the lock you slammed the palms of your hands against the glass, beginning to hear the rush of air out of the vents and the cold bite of frost against your skin.

-

As soon as Sam threw the car into park, Bucky swung the door open and rushed out of the vehicle, Natasha quick on his heal.

“I know Y/n is in there, Barnes,” She said. “But we need to be careful in there. We don’t know who we’re dealing with.”

Glaring at Natasha, he shook his head, clicking the safety off on his gun.

“We’re dealing with someone who took my wife.” He said seriously, kicking in the door of the base. “That’s all I need to know.”

Entering first into the building, memories began to rush into Bucky’s mind- chopped up pieces of a life lived by someone else.

When his mind had been freed he had hoped that he would never have to see the inside of one of these facilities again but he should’ve known he wouldn’t be so lucky. Something was always going to come back to get him- he had just hoped it was him- now he wished it wasn’t you.

Making his way down a familiar staircase, leading down to the open area of the base where he used to be kept, he listened for any sign of where you were. You had to be there. When he shoved open the doors to the balcony that overlooked the large room he leaned over the railing, watching as two men slammed the door to the container shut, a loud ring sounding throughout the room.

Making his way towards the stairs leading down from the balcony, he heard pounding against the glass of the container coming from the inside.

“Y/n!” Bucky shouted, for once being glad he had been given the serum with the rate he was rushing down the stairs.

As soon as your name left his lips, the three other men in the room snapped their heads towards the super soldier.

“Mr. Barnes.” The man in charge greeted him, still standing straight in his spot. “I had hoped you would have gotten here sooner.”

Glancing over the man’s shoulder, Bucky’s gun raised and pointed at the man, he heard the sound of your palms pounding against the walls of the container, the sound of your wedding ring scratching against the glass with each blow.

Dropping the gun from his hands, the sound of its impact ringing throughout the room, he ran over to the container. Searching for a way to unlatch the handle, Bucky watched as the temperature in the container began to drop dramatically. His palms slamming against the glass, his eyes met yours on the other side, but before he was sure you even had time to register his presence, he watched as your eyelids fell shut, your body going slump against the walls of the container.

The ice beginning to freeze over the glass, Bucky pulled at the handle of the container, his nail beds growing bloody as he tried his hardest to pull it open and free you once and for all.

“Fuck!” He shouted.

“Mr. Barnes-”

Before the asshole in charge could speak once more, Bucky heard as the man grunted. Glancing over his shoulder as he continued to pull the handle, groaning from the strain that it did not seem to be giving at all, he watched as Natasha kicked the man in the stomach.

Just as the man fell to the ground, however, the two other men in the room came after Bucky. Feeling one of their hands land on his arm, Bucky released the handle form his grasp, grabbing the collar of one of the men’s shirts and shoved him back against the container, knocking him unconscious.

The other man with a knife in his hand came hurling at Bucky directly after. Dodging the blade, Bucky swiftly punched the man’s stomach, a grunt emitting from his mouth, swinging at Bucky once again. This time he caught the arm of the man, attempting to twist the knife out of his grasp. Just as the blade was about to fall, the man fell into Bucky’s arms and when he looked up his eyes met Sam’s.

“I could have handled that.” Bucky told him, turning his attention back to the container.

“I’m sure.” Sam lied.

Watching as the dial on the thermometer continued to drop far below where even he had been frozen at, Bucky’s heart began to once again race in his chest.

“Shit!” He shouted.

“It’s futile, Mr. Barnes.” He heard the only conscious man- the one in charge say. “She’s going below temperatures no man has ever come back from.”

Feeling the tears beginning to flood in his eyes as he watched the glass frost over, he felt Sam’s hand on his shoulder.

“Buck?” He said. “Don’t listen to him. We’re going to get this open.”

Although he heard his friend, his mind was elsewhere, thinking of how this was all his fault. You were innocent. You didn't deserve to die for his sins- especially those you didn’t even know about. Staring at the glass, he had begun to lose hope until he saw one tiny crack beginning to form in the glass in the place he had just thrown the first man who came after him. Beginning to form an idea, Bucky shrugged Sam’s hand off of his shoulder.

Throwing his vibranium fist against the glass, he heard as the crack grew. Punching his fist against the glass once again, he watched as the line stretched across the glass.

Having all the confirmation he needed, he began throwing both of his fists against the glass- vibranium and flesh. He ignored the sound of Sam’s voice, for sure advising him against damaging his bloodied, flesh hand against the glass, continuing to try his hardest to get to you.

He had to get to you.

He had to.

Glancing at the dial once again, the temperature had dropped so far it had gone past where even the thermometer could recognize.

Even though he knew better, he had to convince himself that you were going to be okay because you had to.

He couldn’t do this without you.

He didn’t want to.

Throwing one last punch with his flesh hand, the glass shattered, falling at his feet and scratching up his already torn, bloodied hand.

Sticking his vibranium arm inside the container, ice immediately frosted over it, freezing his arm in the spot. Still, he reached out for you, his unmoving fingers hooking into your frozen t-shirt, pulling you out of the container.

As soon as your body met the floor outside of the container, the ground around you began to turn to ice, matching the substance that coated your entire form.

“What the-” Sam said, stepping out of the range of the ice.

Kneeling beside your body, his knees freezing on the ice, he looked for any sign that you were still inside the icicle surrounding you. When your eyes didn’t open, he stuck his flesh hand above your face. When he saw and felt the frost begin to coat the palm of his hand, he sighed in relief.

You were breathing.

By some miracle, you were alive.

“She’s alive.” Bucky mumbled to himself, barely believing it. “She’s alive!”

Making a fist, the ice cracked off of his hands and he looked up to meet Natasha and Sam’s wide eyes.

“Is that... coming from her?” Sam asked, looking at the ice surrounding the ground in front of him.

“We have to get her out of here.” Natasha said, slipping her jacket off of her own shoulders, slowly stepping on the ice and wrapping it around your unconscious figure. “We should take her back to the Compound.”

Nodding and still in shock, Bucky made his way towards you, picking you up and off the ground, careful to only hold you where your body was covered in Natasha’s jacket, your body still covered in ice.

“What about the other guys?” Sam asked, gesturing to the three other unconscious men in the room.

“I called someone to handle it.” She said.

Staring at the ice surrounding the ground, your body coated in frost and the ice spreading down the back of Bucky’s shirt as he carried you, Natasha glanced between the two men.

“Something tells me we have something more important to worry about.”

[keilemlucent]

pretty eyes & starshine: i

(NSFW)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

part i   ||   part ii   ||   part iii

beta’ed: @shadowworks & @keiqos​ (thank you!! 💞)

word count: ~9.4k

Keigo surrenders to losing himself in the blank-walled, temporary home he inhabits. He finds familiarity in the routine of aches, pains and pills. 

You’re his only solace. 

warnings: bodily trauma, medical trauma, PTSD, dissociation, suicidal ideation, alcohol as a coping mechanism and graphic description of sustained injury

a/n: oh wow so here it is, big sad fic :’^) part one!! it’s canon divergent from manga chapter 296 onwards.

this one has been a long time coming. please mind the warnings!! this fic deals a lot with trauma and mental illness in tandem. the warnings are going to change with the coming parts, so please be mindful. i don’t wanna get too sappy, but this piece has been my Baby for the past few months, and i’m excited to finally share. that being said, enjoy loves 💞

Everyone is fucked up after the War.

There is no kindness in an aftermath like this one, not so soon, and certainly not with dried blood of old comrades and mud still caking under its metaphorical fingernails. The world was in shambles, and every hero is along with it.

There is something horrifying about being at the center of it all, Hawks, no, Keigo thinks solemnly, all too often. 

He’s used to the attention he’s getting, touches and poking and prodding by near strangers. Except, he was used to exclamations of how great and powerful and remarkable he was. Now, all the attention he receives is followed by little sighs and sad, broken eyes.

He’s sure he looks equally as sad; Keigo had been nothing but an empty shell since the War had ended and he’d been carted off to his hospital room. Numb despite all of his burns. 

It’s the shock, he tells himself, he’ll snap out of it any day.

Any day.

...

And it is any day.

He wakes up to screaming from the next room over, agonized wails that pierce the air as his morning nurse enters. She’s over-worked and haggard while checking his vitals with a forced smile. They don’t make conversation with him much anymore, and Keigo doesn’t have the energy to try and force it. There isn’t enough in him to pretend that he’s okay enough to banter with folks. 

If he still had his wings, he would’ve wrapped himself up tight in the plumage and let himself rot away in some corner. He’d let the dissociated numbness fade, however long it took, and then succumb to whatever psychological wounds revealed themselves. 

Waste away, all alone.

But he doesn't have that luxury. He is in an overcrowded hospital with swarms of civilians and heroes, all stuffed in one place because the world doesn’t have the time to differentiate between the wounded, nor the space or resources to give different resources. Though, Keigo is a special case, hence why he’s had healers coming to him for the past three weeks since the War trying to coax his body into genesizing a new pair of wings. 

The Commission’s hospital has all the bells-and-whistles that a medical professional could need, but Keigo, and so many others, are facing problems that don’t have good and easy roads to healing. 

That’s assuming healing was even possible.

Keigo is convinced, has been convinced, that there is no way to come back from the War, nor the absence on his back, nor the shouts and cries of pain that echo around the hospital like a new genre of music that Keigo so desperately wants to scrub from his brain.

Things change, it’s inevitable. Everyone falls eventually, and he was just used to flying.

It’s a harder descent. 

...

Keigo doesn’t meet you on any day, he meets you on a lonely night.

The evenings and early mornings were the most peaceful at the hospital. Most folks, three weeks after the end of it all, had serious enough injuries that they had to be somewhat sedated to sleep, either for physical or mental pain keeping them from sleep.

It’s morose, Keigo thinks, quietly and privately, but he craves those hours. All he hears then is the hum of air vents and beeps of his own medical machinery. None of the audible agony of the folks he was sworn to protect.

He’s slept most of the day, not lucid enough to do much else, and the nurses haven’t been giving him sedatives unless he asked (though he always did.) Without forced quiet, he’s antsy, fingers twitching and flaring the new (and growing) pains rooted in his (empty, isn’t that horrifying—) back.

He rouses himself, adjusting his scratching hospital garb (thin sweats and a cheap crew neck with the back almost entirely cut away). With his IV pole at his side, he resolves to take a few laps and quiet himself, hopefully.

(Keigo would need sedatives, he always did, but it was nice to play pretend that he didn’t. It made things easier for a precious hour or two.)

His laps are usually quick, despite how much his body aches when he walks. So much new, burnt tissue that needed to learn how to move, how to live again, kept him throbbing and gritting his teeth.

Masochism be damned, he keeps at it during his sleepless nights. Physical therapy wasn’t an option when the world was caving in with him at the epicenter.

There’s a common room at the end of the foyer of identical (filled) hospital rooms, just a collection of stuffy, uncomfortable couches that face an aged TV and a wide bay of windows. It’s rarely used, just a formality for when the space of the hospital had regularly hurt victims and heroes. When it wasn’t bearing so much weight. 

Sometimes, he would stop to idly regard the mostly barren world around the hospital. Far from the cities, a little hideaway for heroes and their loved ones to heal in privacy. Other than sheer distance, there is a thick, organic shield around the complex.  It’s a towering forest, man-planted with identical types of trees in perfect rows. 

It’s grim in its predictability. 

(When did he get so fucking pensive?)

(Oh yeah, too much time locked in his goddamn skull.)

He hadn’t been planning to have any inner musings that night.

But, that night, he notes that he is not alone. 

On one of the hard couches, you sit, with your own IV-pole companion and injuries, an arm carried in a monochromatic sling and set in a hard cast.

You turn to him, blinking wide eyes at him.

There’s a single lamp on, and the light dances in your eyes with its own unexpected rhythm.

Something compels Keigo to smile, cocky, like he used to, and greet you with a little wave, and a finger to his lips.

Your expressions melts, a hand going over your mouth to stifle a giggle.

It’s like you’re pulling him after that, he finds himself resting across from you.

You must look like a pair, he realizes. You’re greasy, he’s greasy. He’s got a fine layer of built-up stubble that shouldn’t be called anything other than impressive peach fuzz (not that Keigo’s seen it, he’s felt it. The idea of looking in a mirror makes him sick to his stomach. Though you don’t have any pseudo-beard, you’ve got your own unkempt look and feel that makes you two kindred without sharing a word.

It feels comfortable, warm.

“Hi,” you speak first, voice soft and gentle. “Can’t sleep?”

“Nah, who can?” Keigo replies, shaking his head. “But what about you? Midnight oil doesn’t burn without a cause, you know.” 

Your expression is also painful in the way it’s so open, yet worn (most everyone had locked up by now, the ones in the hospital and Keigo imagined the ones outside of it too.) 

“I like the sky— the stars are pretty.” You sigh, wistful. “I watch for shooting stars.”

The thought, the significance of that obvious wanting, makes something pang deep in his chest. Childlike hope in a place like this, foolish as well as frail.

“Trying to get a wish?” Keigo clicked his tongue. “Smart.”

“No, no— wishing doesn’t... suit me, right now.” You snorted, shaking your head, the light in your eyes dancing, “I just think they’re pretty.”

Keigo blinks, unable to stop the way his eyes widen.

Your posture reads nothing but earnestness and vulnerability, so freely given (so undeserved) without a hint of pullback.

“What do you want to be called?”

“... Excuse me?” Keigo is not used to his thoughts being interrupted in the blanket of dark that he feels most comfortable in. Your words shock him enough with their meaning, let alone the way you’re so brazen. 

“I, uh,” You stumble on your words. “I know who you are, but I also saw that whole broadcast, which I’m going to easily assume you don’t want to talk about. But, I don’t know how much you want to be called ‘Hawks’ at this point either.”

His mouth is dry.

“So, I ask instead,” You lean forward, your IV line pulling the slightest bit and you wince. His discomfort must be very fucking apparent, because you backtrack in moments. “... Or, neither. I can call you something else, too.”

“... A nickname, for someone you don’t even know?” Keigo, Hawks, whoever he is now struggles with words. There’s too many, and they’re all too fast, and he doesn’t have his wings to catch up to them or outrun them— 

“Yeah, why not?” You shrug with a lazy smile. “I’ll call you... pretty eyes. How about that?”

Keigo does have pretty eyes. They’re gold, light and glittering amber in the lowlight. Before he, ya’ know, lost them, and when things were good, but awful, but normal, he darkened the organic marks around his canthi with liquid eyeliner. He liked makeup, prettied himself up and accentuated all the good he had. Preening.

None of that is left, just what organically was on his skin, and he hasn’t seen it in its raw state in years, and like fuck if he was going to look in a mirror just to figure out if his natural eyeliner was half as good as that by his own hand. 

“Sure, that works,” He relaxes, mirroring your expression like the practiced... pro he is. “What do I call you, starshine?”

You roll your eyes, but nothing about you fades as you tell him your name, something that calms and fills him, “But, you can call me starshine if you want. Sounds nice.”

It’s sweet.

So, Keigo greets you.

“Nice to meet you, starshine.”

...

That’s the first time you kept each other’s company. Most of it is quiet, you truly do just want to watch the stars. Keigo did with you, tracing the shadows of clouds and moonlight with his eyes.

(Occasionally, his gaze shifts to you, regarding your figure with the same care for only a moment before returning to the sky you both miss.)

Eventually, the quiet heat of it puts him half to sleep, and he bids you goodnight.

You wave goodbye, rising as he away.

The light isn’t in your eyes anymore, and your warmth feels a little too far away.

...

The next days are long.

He slips into that shell-state again, where he’s a husk that stares emptily at the ceiling as the Commission tries to piece him together to a fraction of what he once was. 

They fail, each time, because no healer they’ve brought can regenerate quirk-formed appendages, but he commends their efforts all the same. It’s out of desperation, sure, but he’s heard whispers of the new generation. In recalling his own sidekicks, he isn’t as scared for the future. 

(Everyone else’s future. He’s so terrified of his own that he turns extra numb if he thinks about it.) 

Selfishly, he just wants his wings for himself. They’d keep him plenty company. If he ever did get them back, he’d fly somewhere, faraway and alone to live out his days under his feathers and feel as empty as he wanted. 

They fuss over him all day, not knowing those desires. They are private, and he only puts on his old, self-confident bravado so they don’t lock him up somewhere to have his brain picked and to fill the new holes with pill-shaped gauze. 

As established, Keigo was content to rot.

(He can’t fully parse all of his feelings and they consume him.)

The healers for the week all failed, doing nothing but making his back bow and burn. It’s painful. Obviously, trying to stitch a body back together, or rather making a body make when it was so tired of creating—

(Feather after feather after feather, for how long?)

He’s glad his sessions are in a different room, a spare, horrifyingly metallic exam room across the hospital. It reeks like iron and isopropyl alcohol, but Keigo doesn’t mind. The filmy paper that rolls from the exam table gets soaked with his sweat as opposed to his familiar bed dressings. 

Not to mention, it’s nice, not having to hear his neighbor’s screams and pleadings to God, any god, for reprieve. Calming. 

(He feels less guilty. Less like it was his own hand that scarred up their bodies. If he can’t hear them, he only thinks of his own agony under ‘helping’ hands.)

His body is exhausted at the end of each day, and even his restlessness fades with the necessities of his body.

He doesn’t see you, and practically forgets about you.

It’s a week or so later when he takes one of his strolls, and finds you tucked away into your nook, dimly lit and with a blanket over your lap.

Keigo feels it as he nears you, that comfort that your expression bleeds into his very soul. Even as he watches your healthy hand nervously toy with the thin knit in your lap, it doesn’t dim you.

The lamplight dances in your eyes as you nod to him, “Fancy seeing you here, pretty eyes.” 

“You’d never know it, but I live just down the hallway— me,” He touches his chest proudly, surprised by his own jest. 

You gave a fake gasp, mirroring him easily, “Never knew I had such a well-known soul in my neighborhood. Forgive my transgression.”

Bending at the waist, as much as you can with your right leg extended, straight, you choke on laughter.

Keigo follows you in it, giggling, genuinely giggling, high and light and girlish like he’d never heard from himself before.

He snapped his mouth shut, thickly swallowing and shaking his head.

“No need to be shy,” You assured him with an affectionate turn of the head. “You have a lovely laugh.”

“Now you’re just flirting with me, cute.”

Your head tilted farther, confused, “I’m simply being kind to you.”

Why didn’t he have the snark to reply to that? Probably because he was half-dead and on painkillers for nearly a month. He’d beat himself up about it later, maybe.

There wasn’t an ounce of malice in your tone, just earnestness that tugged at his own insecurities.

You backpedaled. “How was your day?”

Keigo takes a few moments to respond, shaking his head without mind to the way his too-long hair flops in his face. 

The banter isn’t forced, but it’s not welcomed yet.

As comfortable as you feel to him, Keigo isn’t comfortable.

“Same old, same old,” Living hell. “Boring, mostly. Painful, but dull. It’s crazy how much hell smells like cheap disinfectant, huh?” 

You agree, quietly, “I’m pretty sure there’s many hells in this place.”

Keigo doesn’t know how to respond, so he doesn’t. 

You both regard the stars again with growing reverence. Specks of light dance back in your eyes as you both settle into the hard cushions like they were made of goose down and Sherpa. 

...

Your conversations are... disjointed, to say the least. 

There’s an inability for words and phrases to flow between you. There’s starts and stops, stalls like an engine that putters on tarry oil without ever truly firing. There are good feelings, still, safety in silence before words as you stargaze together through the comfort of a window.

It should feel disarming, to be so far from the sky yet have no way to reach it. And it is, but Keigo can swallow the reality these days. It’s easier when there’s someone on the mend close by, sharing in the discomfort of a rawed mind and the comfort of a yellow-toned fluorescent bulb.

It’s unspoken kinship. Keigo never had time for it in the past, but now it was all he had. There had to be some cruel irony in it (as if there wasn’t enough in his life), but he couldn’t make himself mind. 

Everything he’d once excelled at, everything he had was gone. He was barren and stripped (don’t think about it—), exposed to the elements in all the worst ways. At least the hospital was clean and safe, relatively. 

It feels safest with you near.

Sure, your conversations were clearly that of two horribly broken people, but that wasn’t new or surprising. It simply was.

“Do you know constellations?” You ask one night, a colder one, where you’ve got two blankets over your lap. 

Keigo thought for a moment, “A handful, but I never took to stargazing, you know?”

You don’t relate, just chew your lip, the light of the dim lamp dancing across your irises.

“Can I show you some?” 

“...Constellations?”

“What else?” You crack a smile. “Come on, pretty eyes.”

Whatever you’d like, he’d do. 

He can’t refuse, he’s already getting weak for you. 

Shifting, Keigo joins you on your typical couch for the first time. Your IV poles, thrumming and humming their own rhymes harmonize, quietly and mostly imperceptible. 

You regard him even more warmly, so close, a little smile playing on your lips.

“What’s your sign?”

Keigo deadpans, “What?”

“Like... astrology. What’s your sign?”

You wiggle your eyebrows, knowing the double-meaning of your words. 

Flirting again.

Since when had he been so bad at it?

“Capricorn,” He huffs back. He keeps his back off the stone-like cushions of the couch— his scarring had been itchy the whole day prior— so itchy— 

You tap the plastic-y fabric gap between the two of you, grabbing his attention, “Hey, pretty eyes. Stick with me, let me show you where that one is.”

So, you do.

Your light-filled eyes trace the sky’s nighttime freckles, searching until you find what you’re looking for.

“There,” Your finger raises, tracing the patterns in the air. “That’s Capricorn, can you see?”

Not really, the stars are just a meaningless smatter. If there’s some sort of pattern he’s supposed to find, he comes up with none. 

“Not in the slightest,” Keigo rolls his eyes. “Show me again?”

You don’t reply, but rather scoot a bit closer, mirror his hunch and pose with precision and tiny adjustments. 

He doesn’t dare to breathe as you carefully grab his arm, extending it. You lay your cheek over his bicep, watching from the closest view to his own that you could. 

“Do you see now?” 

The only starlight he sees is right in front of him, soft cheek pressed against atrophying muscles. Sharing your heat so graciously as you would so easily come to, you chatter about the stories that are written in the stars, by all cultures, for so long.

Keigo hears, but he’s far more focused on how he wishes you were even closer.

...

After that night, you always share the same couch. 

You face forward, right leg always extended and stiff-looking. Keigo doesn’t mind, hardly notices. He faces you, fragile back bandaged and kept away from the unforgiving grit of the uncomfortable couch. It looks a bit uncomfortable, the posing of it all, but with the words flowing easier, neither of you mind.

You keep showing him stars, the constellations you can remember and see in the night sky. 

Keigo makes fun and crafts his own, connecting new dots and winding stories about them.

“See those three there?” He guides your hand, close enough to share your breath. “That’s the comb of the chicken. Star comb, if you will.”

You snort, rolling your eyes and pulling your hand from his grip, “There’s no cock in the stars, pretty eyes. Chickens can’t fly anyways.”

You both freeze.

Keigo’s mouth goes dry—

Chicken can’t fly.

As much as you’re both learning to be human again, there isn’t talk of your injuries. Maybe, there’s mutual curiosity (you’ve been here two months. just for a broken arm, why?), but like fuck Keigo wants to broach the subject.

“S-sorry,” you stumble over your words, physically retreating. “Shouldn’t have said that.”

It is a fact, chickens can’t fly, but Keigo isn’t a chicken. He’s a debauched, defamed hero whose home is the same set of a milky white, hospital ward walls. Once, a real hero, before the war, before selling his morals just for a chance at rest, before blue flame— burning— 

“Pretty eyes,” Your voice trembles, shaking and lonesome. “Come back here, now. Come on.”

You’re holding his cheeks, unkempt nails pressing (blessedly) a bit too hard into his cheeks. The heat of you is so close, almost scalding him, but he wants more of it, more of the heat that doesn’t burn—

“You’re okay, pretty eyes, s-see?” You hold yourself together, jerking your head to the wide window and glittering stars. “We’re just stargazing.” 

Keigo’s has tears leaking down his face, but neither of you acknowledge them. You release him, quietly spinning another tale about a hero hung in the cosmos. He thanks you for it silently by tugging you into his side. 

(It was the first night you really touched him.)

(The light in your eyes was so close, he wanted it all for himself.)

...

They’re running out of healers to try.

From the weakest to the strongest quirk, no one could revive his dead wings. There was no root to push from the scar tissue, nor resolve left in Keigo to try and make new pins and feathers sprout.

His back isn’t fertile. It’s just as poisoned as the rest of him.

...

He wonders where you disappear to during the day. He takes his strolls then, too. Waves to nurses these days, not charming, just friendly, trying to make a little brightness. 

There’s one day where he asks one of the nurses he knows best for a pair of scissors.

She looks at him, worried, “Don’t tell me we need to put you on psych watch.”

“What? No,” Keigo shakes his head, shaggy hair quivering around the frame of his face. “I just need a bit of a haircut.” 

“... We can ask the Commission to bring someone in—”

“I can do it myself.”

She doesn’t argue with the firmness of his voice, rather, she hands him a pair of safety scissors with bright purple handles. They’re for a child, but Keigo’s fine with that. They’d do. 

When he was younger, and in a pinch (and so poor he tried to eat grass and lick scraps from metallic packaging of discarded junk food wrappers) he’d cut his hair with his own feathers.

Safety scissors would be even easier.

It did mean that he had to confront his own visage, which he had gotten too good at avoiding.

The bathroom in his room is small, it would’ve been claustrophobic if he was still carrying a twenty-five-foot wingspan. 

But, he isn’t. It was just him and the scars on his back that he definitely wasn’t ready to see. 

He’s caught glimpses of himself over the past weeks, but nothing substantial. No view that would’ve given himself time to scrutinize over his imperfection. 

The dull hospital mirror reveals too much about him. It feels too vulnerable, makes his chest tighten, as he stares himself in his ‘pretty eyes’.

Purple stamps below his eyes, probably not from sleeplessness itself, just the sheer exhaustion of living. The one under his left is an odd maroon color, mixing with the scar that is burned into that half of his face.

The skin was once soft, plump cheeks always tended too and well taken care of by expensive skincare products. Now, it’s charred and gaunt. Healing, but still obviously scarred heavy and deep.  The weak beard he’s been growing (accidently) is patchy around the thickened tissue. 

It bothers him— 

It doesn’t look like him in the mirror. 

It helps to take care of himself for the first time in a long while. 

He shaves with the cheap foam and single blade razor they’d given him in the toiletries pack the first days he was there, while he was still numbed out and half-dead. The metal glides over his skin, stripping away the numbness just a little. The stubble and cream slide down the drain and away.

His hair is different. The waves had for so long been pushed back and held that way with the winds of his flights. The longer, feathery patches now hang around his face, dangling down and mingling with the too-long sections that curl over his ears and down his neck.

Wetting his hair, he cuts away what he can. 

It’s blunt, messy, and not elegant. 

All the same, the trim feels good. 

Though, his mood goes sour when the screaming starts for the day.

The far wall of the bathroom was shared by him and his shrieking neighbor, and he took great care to never shower when they were singing their awful chorus. It grates on his ears; he should’ve been a bit empathetic to their suffering, but he didn’t care that much. It was so regular, that the screaming that might’ve once sent each one of his feathers (don’t think about, don’t fucking think about it) sharp as the razor in his hand, didn’t bother him in the slightest.

Just a poke at his temple, a jab and a drop of water that irks him more than anything else.

It is a... somewhat pleasant distraction. He can focus more on his fellow patient than his own haggard appearance, the scar, the lack of red at his back— 

It’s all okay, ‘okay’, until the patient starts babbling.

“M-make it stop!” 

Keigo stills.

A scream tears through the drywall. Even without his wings, it makes him thrum, far-too sensitive.

“Help!” The voice yelps. “HELP!” 

There’s a thud and thump from the other room.

“Please, please!”

Keigo’s heart stutters in his chest, and the razor falls from his hand, clattering into the sink.

“MAKE IT STOP!”

It’s you.

It’s your screaming and shrieking that’s burrowed in his ears. It’s your voice that’s trembling in desperation that has him running out of his room, nearly pulling out his IVs as the pole teeters and follows behind him. 

Why are you screaming?

Why have you always been screaming?

A nurse is trying to stop him, urging him to settle but he can’t. There's an urgency in his chest he hasn’t felt since back before and he has to heed it. He needs to.

He pulls his forearm from the nurse’s grasp, hissing in his own pain, muscles pulling and aching with disuse but he doesn’t care.

The nurses drag him back from your door, and they almost have him, almost have him on the ground.

And then he smells burning—

Cloth.

Flesh.

And something in him snaps.

He clocks the nearest nurse with a tight fist, ignoring his atrophied muscles and kicking with everything he could muster.

They release him, probably out of shock. (He’d been such a model patient, so complacent and quiet until then.) 

Then, he stumbles into your room, and sees you, and wants to die.

...

There’s plenty of times in his life where Keigo felt like an animal. When the Commission first got their hands on him, they took to studying and picking his quirk about to figure out the most efficient way to rebuild it to their needs and uses. Now then, he felt very much like an experiment, only half-human. He was too young to really ‘get’ it, but the feeling persisted.

Sometimes, he felt similarly when he played celebrity. The talk shows, the modeling and media felt hoops he had to jump through just to get a decent night’s sleep. It was an additional job aside from heroics, one he excelled at and entertained him. But that didn’t mean each flash of a camera didn’t suck him dry of a bit of his dignity. 

He was sure you had to be feeling similarly.

You’re writhing and arching in your bed, curls of smoke rising from your papery hospital gown. Every machine in your room is screaming with you, bloody and loud and angry—

And scared. Keigo recognized well, and it drove pins into his heart to realize it was you.

It’s even worse when he realizes some part of you is burning. 

At your bedside, he freezes.

Nylon straps wrap around your wrist, around your cast, and keep you held tight to the bed. You’re tied down, held to the plastic bed frame as you wretch and scream.

You don’t even notice him.

The smoke rises from your burning hospital gown. He rips it away, tears the burning section away with his shaking hand. It’s crass, and Keigo sees a bit too much.  The gauze wrapping your leg below is burning as well, in little veins of char that burns black and smoldering. 

Keigo tears it all away, he tears and tears—

And then he sees the wound.

He was trained, once, to see this type of horror and not bat an eye. That training was gone, and all that remained was his starshine with a writhing, molten wound.

Keigo is numb as the nurses drag him back to his room, trying to decide if he prefers the apathy and numbness to injury that his old heroism gave him, or the blinding pain of empathy when someone you... care about is hurt.

He can’t decide which he’d rather suffer with. 

...

You appear in the common room a few nights later.

Keigo still takes his walks in the late evening, even if you aren’t there. If anything, he needs them more. He’s restless, always listening for the screams or howls from the next room over. His annoyance towards them was gone, and all that remained was a concern that knotted in the pit of his stomach. 

There’s a sigh of relief on his lips when he finds you, nestled into a pile of blankets with your IV pole, watching the stars with sad eyes.

He joins you on your couch, cracking a decent joke that you don’t respond to.

Then, there’s silence.

It’s as loud as the stars are bright. The expanse of sound is filled by the hum of the cold air and distant beeping.

“I’m sorry,” Your voice shakes. “You shouldn’t have seen me like that. It’s not... Easy to look at. Or, I imagine it’s not.”

Keigo wants to rip the apology from your tongue and burn it.

“No, please, it’s alright,” He’s begging too much. “I get it.”

As much as he can, anyways.

You’re quiet again, biting your lip so hard it must be close to breaking skin.

“Can we... talk about things?” You ask, softer. “I can’t keep pretending.”

“...’Pretending’?” Keigo knows, but he selfishly wants to hear you say it.

“Well, you didn’t think I’ve been here for two months for my bum arm, right?” You laugh weakly. “And I’m well-aware that you don’t have wings.”

We just don’t talk about it. 

“It’s nicer to look at the stars and pretend everything’s fine,” Keigo lays the statement down and regrets it.

Your fist tightens, jaw clenching.

And there’s more silence.

It’s deafening to Keigo, he wants to speak, scream, but you’re quiet next to him. He can fill voids with his voice so, so easily, yet he turns in on himself.

“I know, it’s all hard,” Tears drip down from your words, though your cheeks remain dry. “I know, but there was a War two months ago, and we’re still holed up in a place like this, and we never talk about why.”

You turn to him, light dancing slowly in your eyes. Your lips part to speak, but no sound comes out.

“... I didn’t want to ask.” Keigo speaks, gaze shifting down to your leg. He questioned why a broken arm would keep you here, but you can’t just ask that. “It’s bad form to ask a stranger about their injuries unnecessarily when they’re traumatized.”

“But we’re not strangers, not anymore.”

Keigo can’t disagree. 

...

You had been in a conbini when Gigantomakia tore through your little suburb. It was a few miles away, but the ground shook as if the goliath was just outside the automatic doors.

Your demon was near, though.

It was a man from the PLF who tore into you so badly. Just some random, emboldened civilian who ascribed to Destro’s ideology hard enough to think about taking out his frustrations on ‘weaker-quirked’ individuals.

That meant the young couple getting slushies in the corner, the old man behind the cash register, and you.

(You’d told your roommate you’d be home quick to help her study—)

(Your roommate is dead, under several tons of rubble.)

“The old man died before the heroes even started trying to rescue anyone. The couple was begging each other to hold on, but only one of them lasted. He died within a few weeks of being taken here.”

There was just you.

You’d hardly been touched by the man, the fucking villain, who’d set his mark on you. But it was more than enough to leave a writhing scar.

Keigo asks to see it, and quietly, you oblige him.

You’re in a gown, you always have been. The hem of it is pulled up by your visibility shaking fingers, and slowly reveals the scar in the lowlight of the ever-present lamp. He’d seen it once, but that didn’t change how startling it was. 

It’s molten.

The skin is gnarled, twisting and scarred worse than anything Keigo’s ever seen. It was like the gore of a torn flesh was frozen over your right side, from your calf, to your thighs to your pretty hips—

“It goes higher, but that’s not exactly couth to show you,” you joke, but neither of you laugh. 

“... It’s not moving anymore?”

“Oh, yeah. It calms down, when it’s dark. Nighttime and all. It stops being so ornery.” 

Keigo has a laundry list of questions, but with the expression on your face that just bleeds exhaustion into the air, and the fresh burns from the restraints on your wrists, he keeps quiet. 

Maybe, three months ago, he’d jabber on about the injury, try to gode some information out on the villain, profile him, track him and beat the tar out of him for touching you—

But this is the present, and Keigo is a wingless soul. All he has is a prescription for painkillers on a rigid schedule, and the awareness that you both appreciate each other.

Keigo scoots to your uninjured side, lifting his arm up and around your shoulder. It hurts, it fucking hurts, but he doesn’t mind.

You tense for a moment, turning to him with wide eyes, scared like he’s never seen.

Then, you melt into him.

...

Keigo’s busy with healers the week, though none speak his language, literally. They’re international, foreign aid that’s been flown in to try to pick up the disaster of a society that’s been left in the wake of the War and the dissolution of Tartarus.

None of them make progress. 

As much as it burns (haha) him to his core, he’s accepting the reality, slowly but surely. 

...

Endeavor visits him.

It’s the morning after a particularly sweet night with you. You still sit together in the starlight, though you’ve run out of constellations to show him. It’s less quiet than it used to be, just little banter that flows between the two of you. It feels more genuine than his old bluntness, welcome after so much odd tension when you first started enjoying the heat of each other’s presence and the far-off stars.

You’d taken to spending time together during the day as well... As much as you could. Strapping you to your bed was for your own safety. Your broken arm had snapped the first few days at the hospital because of the severity of your spasms and flares. The nurses keep you wrapped up, but Keigo drags a chair close to your bed and talks to you as much as he can.

It helps you relax.

Though the days fill with tension as you try to negate the inevitability of your molten scar coming to life, nights remain calm.

And so, so sweet.

You’ve taken to tucking into his side, telling him little treasured facts about the cosmos. It’s easier to guide his eyes like that, as your cheek rests over his collarbone. 

It lingers with him, the feeling of your casual touch, so tentatively offered and so graciously received.

He traces his own constellations over your gown, mindful of the flesh beneath that heats beneath his palm when he gets too close.

After one of those wonderful, early nights, Enji Todoroki enters his room with all of the gusto one would expect. Which is not very much, but the sheer presence of him is enough to make Keigo quake.

 Just like the little boy from Kyushu, Keigo regards him with stars in his eyes. 

The hero, not a speck of flame on him (thank god) pulls up a chair near his bed. Keigo sits cross-legged and cocks his head to the side.

“What brings you to my neck of the woods, number one?” Keigo smiles.

“Number fifteen.”

“... What?”

“Since my injuries, I’m mostly on bedrest,” Enji replied, folding his hands on his chin. “I’m number fifteen now, and that number will more than likely just drop. I’m not much of a hero with only one lung. I’m planning to officially retire at the end of the month.”

Keigo’s chest goes tight and it feels like he’s joking. He tosses on a tight smile. 

“This is hardly time for a pillar—“

“I’m no pillar. I never was,” Enji sighs, running a hand over his scarred cheek. “The kids can handle this.”

Keigo breaks so easily these days.

“That’s not fair—” He had been tossed into this all too early and god it fucked him up— 

“Hawks,” Enji sighed. “There’s hardly anyone left to fight. They’re either dead, missing part of themselves, or gone.”

“So, you’re giving up?”

“If I didn’t, I’d die.”

Coward.

No, just honest and smart. 

“Since when are you this selfish?” Keigo’s own words surprise him, but he doesn’t back down. “And this wordy, number one? You’ve changed.”

He spits the last phrase like an insult. He hates himself for it and would hate himself even more for it later. 

Enji’s face remains solid and unwavering. The twitch in his brow is the only indication that Keigo’s words were even heard. 

“Since we lost, Keigo. Things have changed.”

Keigo knew, of course, but it didn’t stop the anger from rolling his belly.

“Oh, like I don’t fucking know,” If Keigo still had his wings, they would’ve been extended and fluffed, angry as the pinched skin of his forehead. 

This was his hero, he couldn’t be giving up too— 

“Rest, Hawks,” Enji stand up, “You deserve it.”

Seems Endeavor really died. Enji’s face is worn, his expression neutral and jaw slack. He looks hollowed out and empty, not an ounce or morsel of fight left in him, even for a flightless bird in need of some encouragement. 

There’s more to be said, but Keigo’s too angry to listen and Enji doesn’t have the energy to try. 

Whatever news the old hero had come to bring was left undelivered. 

...

You settle together the next few nights, both so damn tired, even though you’ve done nothing other than lay around a hospital for so-many weeks. 

The air always vibrates between the two of you, that comfortable warmth shared between mingling breath and senses. Light dances in your eyes, twisting and bouncing like something otherworldly.

(Maybe it is.)

Your fingers lace together, held in Keigo’s lap. You trace the others hand in relaxing little lines and shapes, trying to soothe each other’s wounds, always.

“One of the doctors said the scar might start shrinking,” You break the tender silence, nosing into his jaw in the same way an affectionate cat would. “They’re not entirely sure, but it’s been stable for a few days.”

Keigo’s feathery (don’t think about it) eyebrows shot up, “That’s amazing, and there’s only a few spasms this week, too.”

(He kept good tabs on you, he had to.)

You hummed in agreement, a sad smile playing on your lips as it so often did.

With a quick blink, the light bouncing in your eyes faded, and the world felt a bit colder.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do when I get out of here,” You pressed closer to him. “There’s shelters, and some cities are taking refugees, but I don’t—”

Your jaw clicks shut, brow furrowed and mood soured.

(Keigo, mind you, is still focusing on the lack of light in your eyes and the chill of the air in the room.) 

Something stirs, deep in his gut, but he doesn’t say anything. How Keigo used to have such a mouth, he didn’t know. These days, all he can is act, like somehow the loss of his wings came with the loss of his tongue.

Tugging you by the waist, mindful of the tender scar, he pulls you close, internally resolving.

...

She, the main Suit, visits him.

(It’s his last visitor at the hospital.)

There are no trumpeters, guards, or the like. It’s just the haggard president, matching Keigo with his dark circles and creased with new wrinkles and far-more grey sections in her slicked back hair.

The air stands still as she pulls up a chair, burying her head in her hands.

She, the Main Suit, has never been one to inquire as to how he is. Many of the others at the Commission were sweet, kind to him in youth, but she was all business. 

Some things never change.

She breaks the silence of the room, “... do you want to be done, Hawks?”

The cords in his chest tighten, gaze going sharper.

He doesn’t answer.

They meet each other’s gazes; twenty years of fucked-up emotion being shared between the pair of them.

“We’ve done everything. Every healer, every quirk, every treatment, conventional or otherwise,” she’s too soft. “There’s nothing left to try.”

He knew that, he had to know that, right?

His throat feels sticky as he swallows down bile, the scars on his back burning anew. It’s somatic, it has to be, but his flesh crawls and writhes just like yours. His starshine. He hates the way his mind is racing, just as fast as it always has, but his body lacks the ability to keep up.

He grounds himself in the thought of you, his starshine. Your body. Your heat. 

His narrow pupils refocus on the light tremble in her shoulders. 

“I’m being honest, so I’ll ask again,” She meets his gaze, grey eyes as soulless and full as ever. “Do you want to be done?”

“Well, obviously I can't fight—” 

“I mean it. All of it, Hawks. Maybe a few media appearances, but all this... shit. You’ve done enough.”

You’ve done enough. 

The words bounce around in his skull.

“Do you want to be done?”

Done with being a hero.

That’s all he’d ever been, right? That is him, he is Hawks, for fuck’s sake, no one other than Dabi (may he rot and die and immolate in hell) even called him his actual name in years.

Keigo is Hawks.

His mouth is dry, and he tries to ignore the tears pricking his eyes. He’s not sure why he’s beginning to cry, and definitely not sure why tension is draining from his shoulders as he sighs out an answer.

“I’ll be done.”

You’ve done enough.

...

Hospital beds are a hot commodity, and now that Keigo had thrown in the towel (along with everyone else) to stop trying with his wings, he was to be discharged within a few days.

(“Just a few more days to adjust your body to your new medications—”)

He’d stopped listening after that.

...

Your last night together is so bittersweet, you taste it on each other’s tongues.

You have an episode early in the day. Your screaming wakes the floor, the burning smell of flesh cementing that it was you.

Keigo’s only half-lucid when he shoves into your room, holding your hands while nurses desperately try to administer pain medication.

It’s too much for you, the crawling edges of the scar once again consuming you in the molten, glowing amber veins of heat that tore through you so terribly.

You sleep the day away. Keigo stays with you for much of it, stroking the bones in the back of your hands. 

...

He fucks you for the first time, that night. 

His own IVs have been removed, he’s to be discharged first thing in the morning—

And he wants one more night of stargazing, please, please—

(Why’s he clutching at you so dearly?) 

But you’re not in the common room. 

Rather, you’re under a few thin blankets, eyes tired and lightless. Your arm is out of its cast, laying over the bed clothes. It scares him shitless at first as he tentatively enters. It’s you though, and the moment you see him, it’s like a flame, a good one, heats the room full and wide. A few specks of light dance in between your irises as your skin crinkles in a gentle smile.

You both know he’s leaving tomorrow.

The knowledge settles in the room like a weight that neither of you can move. So, Keigo takes to it and does what he can.

As opposed to his normal perch next to his bed, he sits beside you, removing the restraints on your wrists and helping you to sit up.

Keigo fishes around in his pocket, pulling out a folded square of paper and placing it at your bedside. It’s his phone number, an odd detail. Relationships usually shared far-earlier.

But there is nothing linear or normal about the two of you, or the situation you both sit and stewed in.

You both are making peace with it at your own pace.

The bed creaks as you move to sit beside him, legs dangling from the bed. There’s gooseflesh beneath your gown, the boring pattern obscured by the darkness of the room, but the molten lines of the scar ever-visible.

“I’m glad you’re getting out of here.”

But I wish that you weren’t leaving.

His hand finds your waist, careful like he always is, but so giving in the same breath. 

“I am too. It’ll be nice to be.”

But I’m going to miss you.

It’s inherent, and has been forever. Since the moment you both stargazed in the common room and watched the worlds high above twist and shine without regard to your own hells, you’ve been ensnared in the other and neither of you have a want or need to let go.

Even with the inevitably of progress.

Keigo drowns in these thoughts, and has been since Endeavor visited and he was reminded of the harsh reality just outside of their tree-ringed prison. The reality he has to return to—

He presses his lips to yours, more desperate and needy than he had before.

Keigo had taken his share of you before, little pecks and the rub of the bridge of his nose over your jaw and cheeks. He had been a bit greedier with his hands, uncaring of the eyes of the night nurses when he’d touched you in the common room.

But he’s insatiable that last night.

The sheets of the plastic bed are too scratchy, they’re too harsh for you, and it burns Keigo to his core as he lowers you down. He cradles what he can, as your fingers latch onto his clothes (real clothes) and tug him as close as you can get.

The machines in your room cry, but they’re forgotten. 

You nip at his bottom lip, dragging yours across his clean-shaven jaw before laying into his neck with kiss after kiss. His muscles shake, holding him over you, both of you atrophied but uncaring.

You suck a deep, throbbing bruise on the fragile skin of his neck. It’s something dark that won’t fade for a week. The thought stirs something in his chest, a white-hot feeling that wants to crack his ribs and consume him. He doesn’t give in, he can’t—

“Stay with me, pretty eyes,” you whisper, so sweet and gentle as you push floppy strands of hair from his face. “Stay here, just for a little while longer.”

The reminder jolts him back, back to you, and the way your body (so tired, but unwavering) jumps and rolls under his touch. He’s a glutton for attention, always has been, but your particular brand and sounds keep pulse hot and hard. 

Shaky fingers pull his shirt over his head, sweaty palms push the gown over your hips. By the starlight, you’re both seeing too much of each other, but this is a goodbye, there’s no time to dwell on the discomfort.

Keigo tries to be careful as he adjusts your legs, tries to be mindful of the raw skin and flesh that makes you whine and half-writhe. You clutch at him, still trying to pull him closer despite the proximity and heat, like you need him as opposed to just wanting him. 

There’s no fanfare in it, just more rushed kisses and the swirling of fingertips over covered clit. You catch each other’s gasps in the mingling of breaths you share. It’s choking, suffocating, yet entirely not enough. You beg, quietly, for more. Your fingers latch onto his wrist and urge him to help pull your panties off and away.

More, more, more. 

By the time he slides into you, you're still tense, but so is he, and in a pile of tension and fear and wishful-thinking, you both come undone, and undone, and undone— 

...

Keigo leaves the next morning. 

The press is there, flash bulbs blinding him after so long with just fluorescents and starlight. He manages an easy wave or two, no autographs or gleaming smiles, just business and numbness that he needed to hold onto, so he didn’t fucking break.

He slips into the Commission’s car and leaves behind the hospital, you, and its wall of man-laid greenery and prays to forget it all quickly. He has enough to mourn. 

...

Keigo wants to off himself when he arrives back at his penthouse. 

How can he not?

His ‘home’ (if he couldn’t even call it that) is a dusty, time capsule of everything before. Before he got fucked up with the League, before the PLF, before the war, before Jin—

Every untouched bit of his life from when it was a few, precious fractions better stands unturned. A discarded jacket, wing slits visible and frayed. Scattered dead feathers that make his skin crawl. Memorabilia too, old merchandise that he never cared much about, but he definitely didn’t need to be seeing it now that ‘Hawks’ had burned up and died. 

All disgusting reminders. 

Something burning fills the base of his skull when his gaze fixates on one of the old plumes. He reaches out to touch the spine of it, instinctually expecting a little jolt of feeling from it, like he always had. 

But there’s nothing. It’s dead, decaying, and so is he. 

The reality of it breaks him, quick, hard and hot. He burns alive a second time. 

He clears the liquor cabinet while blaring music from his over-priced stereo system loud enough to make his ears ache and throb. The music isn’t drowning anything out, but it’s better to pretend.

He finds a bottle of old pills and downs them with a few swigs of expensive whiskey and lets go.

...

When he comes to, he’s staring into a smashed mirror, with his own nails crusted in blood from thin welts in the skin of the scar on his face.

Much to his chagrin, he hasn’t forgotten anything. The memories of blue flames, red feathers, and the smell of your skin mixed with isopropyl alcohol feel brighter than ever. He grounds on them as he sobers up, latching onto the pain of his scar tissue and the solace you gave. 

And won’t ever give him again.

Something in him wilts as he defeatedly goes to his phone, arranging any number of things to get him the fuck out.

...

The penthouse is sold, his more important belongings gathered in bland boxes. 

And he leaves. There’s no sentiment holding him there, not anymore.  

Fukuoka is gone and some distant memory as he drives (yes, he forgot that he had that skill) him and his things to his new home.

His penthouse had been immaculate. Crisp interior design, new shapes and colors that were on trend. He was hardly home to appreciate the modern beauty of it, but he’d received enough compliments from random hookups to know that it landed aesthetically.

But honestly?

Who the fuck cared?

His penthouse had been sold to the highest bidder and far behind as he arrives at his new, high home in the sleekness of his far-too fancy, disused car.

...

...

He gets a call from an unknown number, another one, on some snowy day, deep in winter. 

Keigo debates answering it. He almost lets it slip to voicemail. The only calls worth answering are the handful from the Commission that he has to heed, or the odd one from Rumi, Fuyumi, and on occasion, Endeavor.

Not random numbers, he has no patience for it. 

Yet, he answers it lazily.

“Washed up hero, how can I help you?”

“P-Pretty eyes?”

His heart stutters in his chest, he swears— 

“Starshine?” He sounds breathless, the air leached from his chest as he white-knuckles his thighs.

He’d given up on you contacting him, yet there you were, or at least your voice, mechanical and high bouncing around preciously in the walls of the cabin

There’s a moment of silence, nearly, just your light breathing that receiver picks up.

Your voice trembles when you break it, “Y-yeah, it’s me, I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to call—”

You don’t need to be sorry; he would wait for you forever, and then some. 

“I d-don’t actually have a phone? Mine got trashed, uh, back then. I’m on the hospital’s line.”

Keigo hadn’t really considered that, he’s slipped the paper with his number on your bedside without a thought. 

How much had you lost?

“No worries, chickadee,” Keigo is sure his smile is audible. “Why call now? Miss me too much?”

He had no idea.

You laugh, though it soured as you spoke, “I get discharged tomorrow.”

Keigo’s heart seizes again and he’s sure he’s going to go into cardiac arrest.

“The guy who gave me the scar and all? He fucked up a few other people, word eventually got here. Once the scar stops... glowing, it rests. If you make it until then, you’re good.”

And alive.

“The whole injury is stable, has been for a week now,” Surprisingly, there’s no relief in your voice. “They need my bed, so they’re releasing me.”

No, no, no.

Where will you go?

Keigo doesn’t say it, but the question hangs in the air and is quickly answered.

“They got me a spot in one of the shelters close by... It’s only a couple hours by train!” You try to sound happy, but it’s so hollow and unnatural; it makes Keigo physically sit up.

No, no, no.

That won’t do.

“... What won’t do?” 

Keigo hadn’t realized he’d said it out loud.

Something is buried in his chest, something warm and molten, like the old veins of your scar, just kinder and better. It’s full of urges, so seldom used, selectively as needed throughout his career as a hero.

The need to keep something precious safe. 

The thing hasn’t thrashed in months.

Yet now? It’s practically screaming.

“Pretty eyes?” You sound scared through the phone. “A-Are you alright? I can call back—”

“No, don’t, do not.” Keigo lets the flame fill his chest, welcoming it. “You’re not going to that shelter.”

He has something to protect.

“I don’t have another choice—”

Someone.

“You do.” Keigo keeps his voice even, the muscles in his back writhing. If he still had his wings, they’d be puffed out and large. Impassioned with feeling he finally let breath between his ribs. “I’ll come get you, tomorrow.”

“... P-Pardon?”

He doesn’t hesitate, and for a moment, he starts to feel like his old self. 

“Come home with me, starshine.”

++++++

thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed!! 💗

look out for parts 2 and 3!!!💞

ko-fi

[in-tua-deep]

idk if you still do au ideas but what if delores was a real person in the apocalypse? how it woul dbe done i have no idea but i love all your aus and thought it would be cool

okay okay I don't tend to go for real!Dolores aus admittedly because I find her much more compelling as what she is: a reflection of five himself and a symptom of his crushing loneliness

but i started thinking about it and you know what?? i think five deserves a little socialization, as a treat

so say like, 0.5% of the population is resistant to abilities. Allison would really struggle to rumor them, Five wouldn't be able to jump with them, and, most importantly, whatever the fuck Vanya's ability does has like, reduced damage or something

and the og apocalypse isn't the moon apocalypse, so let's say that it was pure waves of Vanya's powers that fucked over the earth

so 0.5% of the population survives the apocalypse. though, let's be honestly, the real number is a lot smaller than that. People who might have survived Vanya's initial power wave (miraculously) did not survive buildings crushing them or survive the car/plane/bus/train/other transportation crashes or survive being left alone when they are too young to reliably look after themselves, or the variety of other problems that come with 99.5% of the population dying at once

So, Five arrives in the apocalypse and is met with ruin and fire and a whole lot of dead people. He finds his siblings, but it doesn't matter. They're dead. He doesn't even recognize them at first, these strange grown-ups who he identifies not by their faces but by the umbrellas on their wrists that match his own

As he realizes the full impact of his situation, he hears a voice that says, very succinctly, "holy shit!"

It's a girl a few years older than Five himself, maybe 15 or 16, and she is very excited to see another survivor.

And here's where I u-turn this au around bc i'm not all that interested in real!Dolores, but I would be down to talk about Five meeting survivors in the apocalypse, because if Dolores is real I don't buy no one else survived.

So Dolores shows up and see a Literal Child crying over the corpses of his family and assumes that Five is a fellow survivor, and she immediately grabs him up. Five is incoherent with grief at this point anyway, so he doesn't even protest when she basically hauls him away from the bodies. She's babbling at him, but he doesn't really hear anything she's saying

And then she takes him to her dad

(Why not, let's have the 1% potentially be a heritable thing)

and her dad, let's call him just some dad name. like Rick. it has been a fucking WEEK for him, okay. he had his daughter with him, his ex-wife is on the other coast for her work, and by some miracle he survived the apocalypse and so did his child, and he's been wracking his brains trying to figure out what the fuck to do next

and then his daughter shows up with a traumatized thirteen-year-old in tow

now rick is a good dude. he's a dad. they get out of five that his name is five ("what the fuck" dolores mouths to him over five's shoulder and rick can't help but agree) and the bodies he found were his siblings ("Dad and Ben and Vanya weren't there though," this child cries desperately and rick feels his own heart clench in response, "They might still be alive!")

"We can look for them." Rick assures his new adopted child, because he is an adult in a fresh apocalypse and this kid has presumably lost everything he's ever known (more than rick even knows at the time)

and they do. They each get wagons and they go out and find supplies and look for other survivors. Five is... surprisingly helpful and also surprisingly docile as he is able to rely on Someone Else to give orders while he attempts to (dissociate) process what the fuck has happened

and here's the thing: Five prides himself on being independent, sort of. He's independent for a child soldier, but he's used to taking orders from a male authority figure and Rick happens to be just that

The first time that Five does something dangerous and Rick yells is a revelation

(Rick isn't sure if he hopes that Five's dad is alive or not, because if they find that man alive then Rick might just kill the jackass himself. Also like, Five is bizarrely knowledgeable out survival skills, like way too knowledgeable about it, which is helpful for them but also very concerning)

they find a newspaper and Five finds the article that mentions his father's recent death ("Huh. Heart attack." Five says, and there is no emotion in his voice)

(Years later, years later, Five and Rick talk. "I don't think I wanted to find him, either." Five admits, softly because Dolores is asleep, "I think I was more scared of finding him alive than I was of finding his body. He would've been so mad at me, I think.")

this newspaper is how Rick and Dolores find out about Five being Number Five, Umbrella Academy Missing Person

"Dude, what the fuck." Dolores says, wide eyes, "You're like, thirty?"

"I'm thirteen." Five says, and then checks the date on the newspaper again, "Also I think I would technically be 29 if I lived through all of it, 'cause it's April and my birthday is in October."

"You... time travelled?" Rick asks, which is honestly the more relevant question, "Can you go back?"

And Five just,,, crumples on himself. Because he tried, he tried really hard. It didn't work. "I'm gonna figure it out. I'm gonna go back, I'm going to save them."

That, Rick thinks, is a lot of weight to put on one person's shoulders, but especially the shoulders of a child.

"Alright." Rick says, because what else can he say after finding out his new child has superpowers and is from like, 2004? "What do you need?"

("Oh my god I have so many memes to teach you." Dolores says later, reverently. Five blinks in confusion and Rick mentally prepares himself for the recitation of so many vines)

And it's easier, somehow. Five sometimes feels like it's a betrayal, but he settles into apocalypse life with an ease that surprises him.

He lets Rick fuss over him and help tie his scarf securely around his head every morning before he sets off on supply runs with Dolores. And they're kids! Five has never had a friend before, and Dolores is funny and smart and she's struggling just as much as he is.

"I don't know if my mom's alive." She says to him, in solidarity when he checks the face of every corpse to see if they're Vanya.

Five is practical in the way only a child soldier can be. He's economical with the room in their wagons, carefully examining what might and what might not be useful.

Dolores, on the other hand, constantly takes up space with what Five sees as useless shit.

"Excuse you," Dolores says, shoving a game of monopoly, the entire discworld series, and a pack of glitter gel pens into her wagon, "These are absolutely vital apocalypse supplies."

She challenges him, plays with him in a way no one ever has. "I bet you I can find more batteries today than you can," She grins at him, "Winner gets to pick dinner first?"

"You're on." Five says, directly before Dolores pulls two packs of 24 AA batteries from behind her back, like a cheat.

Dolores makes him take a ten minute break when they find a playground that has been mostly not-destroyed. They rummage around kids backpacks and mother's handbags for some good loot, too numb to corpses to even be bothered all that badly about the corpses they belong to.

"I'm getting on the swings." Dolores says when Five starts making noises about moving on, "I haven't been on a swingset in ages."

"What's the point?" Five grumps.

"Don't be sour because you can't swing as high as I can!" Dolores laughs, getting higher and higher as the swings creak ominously.

Five grumpily gets into the other swing and grudgingly kicks himself back and forth until Dolores takes pity on him and teaches him how to properly move his legs and body to get higher and higher.

Dolores jumps from the swing seat and lands with a flourish and smile. Five jumps out of his seat and then jumps, warping right in front of Dolores and making her yell and hit at him in outrage. Five smiles the widest he has all week.

This is how Five grows up in the apocalypse, with Dolores teasing him into taking breaks and leaning over his shoulder to look at his math and scandalizing him by stating that she'd only just started on matrices in her own high school math class.

Every night they huddle around Rick while he picks up whatever book Dolores picked out that day because it is a travesty that Five has never read hunger games or whatever, and then they read together because it would be a genuine blood bath if they all took turns. The first time Five accidentally mentioned a spoiler and Dolores genuinely considered murder was the birthday of this tradition

Some days the air is too smoky or there are dust storms or it's just plain too dangerous to go out, and they all stay in. Dolores regales Five with stories about public school, and Five tells them about his siblings.

Then they all cry

"I shouldn't be crying." Five sobs.

"Shut the fuck up," Dolores sobs back, "You literally watched me lose my shit over remembering my shitty eighth grade dance and listened to me sob-sing toxic for like four hours."

"In fairness I also wished you would shut up then."

"Let me hug you or I will start singing songs that I only remember the chorus for again you absolute fucker."

"I could always sing some -"

"No, Rick/Dad."

And Five grows up. Rick shows him how to shave very carefully in front of cracked mirrors. Dolores teases him every time his voice cracks. Rick tells Five in no uncertain terms that he loves and cares for him, and that Reginald was a little bitch. There are a lot of heartfelt conversations around that, honestly. Rick telling Five that he and the siblings deserved better, that they were children and deserved to have a childhood.

And that he has faith in Five. Rick and Dolores both do, they bring him back paper and pens and pencils and chalk and anything Five can use to write equations. They poke around any libraries for books on theoretical mathematics and quantum physics. Rick and Dolores go out scouting for food while Five stays home and can work longer.

They also make him take breaks, make sure that he's looking after himself.

They're a little better off than OG!Five when it comes to food, because some animals survive. Enough that Rick figures out how to hunt. Five is the first one to each bugs, and even though Dolores makes faces they all start eating bugs as well.

"Pretty sure there's loads of cultures that eat bugs." Rick says grudgingly, wondering if he should try stirfry the cockroaches and if that would improve the taste. "There's even, uh, cricket flour or whatever, right?"

"Plus you eat like, five spiders a year when you're asleep." Dolores says cheerfully, just to watch her dad's face scrunch up in displeasure.

"That doesn't sound true, but I don't know enough about spiders to dispute it." Five mutters, and Dolores gives him such a proud look that it makes him roll his eyes.

They're in their thirties when Rick dies. He's out foraging and hunting, and the rubble he's standing on gives way and he ends up with a gash in his leg. He manages to stop the bleeding, but the world is filthy and they don't have any antibiotics.

He gets an infection.

"It's okay." He tells both of his kids, "It's okay. I'm just so glad that you guys have each other, y'hear? I'm so glad."

"It's not okay." Five says, voice thick and choked, "It's not."

"Yeah, well, you're going to figure out how to go back, right? Go back in time and save everyone. Then I'll have never died, right?" Rick smiles, "And even if you don't, I'll be waiting for you on the other side and we'll see each other again anyway."

"I'm going to fix it."

"I know. I have faith in you, Five." Ricks says honestly, and that's more than Reginald ever said.

They sit quietly together while Dolores is out scavenging. They've been taking turns sitting with Rick.

"I won't remember you, in the past, will I?" Rick says rhetorically, but Five answers anyway.

"I don't think so."

Rick hums, "Well, doesn't matter. If you need help in the past, you come to me, y'hear?"

"You won't remember me."

"Doesn't matter. You come find me, and you tell me your crazy story until I believe you, and then I'll help you." Rick says firmly, "You're family. You're my son. Timelines? Don't matter. If you need help, with anything, even if it's just with - with filling out a bowling team or something -"

"I have never been bowling in my life and you know it." Five interrupts, but it makes him laugh just a little bit which was clearly Rick's intention.

"Well who knows what you'll get up to in the past! You'll be able to go bowling, you know. Get to wear those uncomfortable shoes. Hey, you go far enough back maybe you can go to Dolores's tenth birthday party and put me out of my misery."

"Was she bad at bowling?"

"Oh, she was wiping the floor with me. No contest."

"Honestly, that sounds absolutely accurate."

"Shut up, bowling just wasn't my sport. Regardless, the point was that I'm giving you a free pass to come and get me. Because I know you, I know how you think." Rick brings up his hand to tap his finger against Five's forehead, "You get it into your head that you need to go it alone, take it all on your shoulders. I'm telling you that if you do that I'll somehow manifest my memories and come smack you over the head for being stupid, you hear?"

"I'm not dragging you into anything." Five says firmly, "I'll have my siblings."

"Who were also children." Rick points out. "And dragging? Dragging is such a strong word for a volunteer."

"A volunteer who won't remember volunteering." Five shoots back.

Rick just shrugs, and then winces when the movement jolts his bad leg. "Five, I'm going to be honest with you here. And sappy. Can you handle a bit of sappiness for a minute?"

"No."

"Well too bad. Can't leave a dying man, you'd feel too bad. So you're stuck with me. But you listen good, okay? Because you aren't dragging me into anything. Whatever life you have, I want to have a part of that. Because you're my son. Wherever you are, whatever you do, I want to help because you're family. What you'd be doing by leaving me out of it is depriving me of someone I love, depriving me of knowing one of the best kids I've ever known."

"Shut up." Five says, choked.

"Nope, it's sappy time." Rick states, "Maybe asking you to come find me is selfish, but I don't care. No matter what version of me exists, I want to be in your life."

"My life is a walking joke, why would you want any part of that?"

"It has been my privilege to watch you grow up. To help you. To be here for you. Of course I'd want to be there to watch you grow up the rest of the way."

"But -"

"Shut up, just let me tell you that I am so proud of you. You never give up, and your heart is so big. You love so much and so loudly, and it's been the highest honor of my life to be included in your family."

Five pauses for a moment to collect himself before simply saying - "You're the best dad I've ever had."

Rick snorts, "Considering my competition, I'd sure hope so. That bar was so low old Reggie was practically limbo dancing with the devil. Now get over here and give an old man a hug."

They don't bury Rick, when he dies. They don't have time and the ground is too hard and they don't have the heart to move him. Instead the pack everything up and seal him in the shelter they'd lived in.

Dolores pulls out a bottle of ancient nail polish and painstakingly writes Rick's name on the wall with his birth year and an approximate current year. They aren't 100% sure though, since time blends together out in the apocalypse, but it's something.

They continue by themselves. They get older.

Dolores jokingly calls him her husband because the way his face scrunches up makes her cackle. They see other people very occasionally, usually passing through. Usually groups. Dolores and Five get to flex their hosting skills, though more than one group declines their cockroach stirfry.

("It's a family recipe." Five says with amusement in his eyes that usually manages to drown out old grief.)

"Jeeze, that kid couldn't have been older'n twenty-three." Dolores complains, "Makes me feels positively ancient."

"They wouldn't have known any world 'cept for the apocalypse." Five muses, pouring some boiled water into wine glasses because they might be living in the apocalypse but they can be fancy.

"Do you ever think about that?" Dolores asks, turning to him with no judgement, just curiosity. "When you go back, you'll be like, erasing them from existence."

Five shrugs, "Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe this place will just split off into an alternate timeline."

"Maybe none of this is real." Dolores says, amusement coloring her voice. "Maybe you aren't talking to a real person at all. Maybe this is just a symbol of your insanity and cracked mind."

"Dolores, I literally have a scar where you stabbed me. Did I somehow manage to stab myself in the back?"

"Scraped you, I scraped you. By accident."

"So you maintain." Five says haughtily, swirling his water in his wine glass like a pretentious prick.

"I could totally be fake. You don't know my life."

"I know way too much about you, Dolores. Like, way way too much." Five scoffs, because Dolores and him have literally no secrets from one another at this point. Five even knows the truth behind what happened at Janet Scranton's thirteenth birthday party. Like, he said, way too much.

"Maybe you made it up. Maybe that's why you know so much."

"Dolores, I'm going to be honest with you right now." Five presses the tips of his fingers to his chin, "If you were a figment of my imagination, you would be so much better at math."

"Hey!" Dolores squawks indignantly, "I didn't even get to finish high school you pretentious prick!"

"Neither did I!"

"You didn't even go to high school, you brat."

"I'm fifty-two I think I've outgrown 'brat.'"

"Tell that to your attitude." Dolores says haughtily, "You're still younger than me."

"Won't be when I go back in time." Five says cheerfully, completely ignoring Dolores's venomous look.

"That's cheating."

"Sucks to suck." Five says loftily, taking another sip of his water.

Sometimes they talk about The Plan, with capital letters. What Five is going to do when he goes back in time, depending on when he pops out. Is he going to adopt his siblings? What about Reginald?

"You don't think I could kill Reginald?" Five says, holding a hand to his chest in mock offense.

"I think you should let me do it. I'll even give you control of tonight's music if you do."

"What are you doing to do? Bite his ankles? What if you're like, seven or something?"

"All the better to get away with it since I'll be too young to convict or whatever."

"Pretty sure that's not how the law works."

"How would you know? Just for that I'm playing Istanbul on repeat again."

"I don't know why you think that's a threat. That song slaps."

It takes a few more years before Five is close enough that the Commission comes to interfere. Because that's what I think happened - Five was getting too close and they stepped in because they might as well distract the man as much as they can with missions, right?

So the Handler shows up. And she offers Five a job, telling him that they have the ability to travel through time. And Five - hesitates.

"Give me some time?" Five asks, and the Handler graciously gives him 24 hours.

And he and Dolores talk it over, because now that his goal is more in sight than it has ever been and Five is scared.

"What are you waiting for? You have the chance to see your siblings again." Dolores says patiently.

"Yeah," Five says, and what he doesn't say is clear. But I won't see you.

"Five." Dolores says, and she cradles his face between her palms like he is something precious, "I have had so much time with you already. More than I would have ever. We have been so lucky, to have this time. How can I demand more than what we have already been given?"

"When have you ever not demanded the world, Dolores?" Five asks, his own hand coming up to cover Dolores's own.

"We've had decades together, Five. We're getting old. I was always going to lose you, one way or another. Nothing lasts forever."

"I don't want to lose you."

"I know. But if I had to choose a way, if I could decide where our story ends, this would be it. Letting you go, because this way you get to live. You get to see your family again. You get to save the world. I could ask for nothing more than for you to get your happy ending."

Five removes Dolores's hand from his cheek so that he can cradle it between them, "I'm happy here with you. I've never been happier. Isn't that silly? That I was happier in the apocalypse?"

"I bet killing Reggie would make you happy." Dolores laughs rustily.

"One day you're going to see the mysterious disappearance of a famous billionaire in the paper and feel a twinge of satisfaction and now have a clue why." Five laughs as well, shaking his head.

Dolores pats Five's hands, "Five, look at me. We've had our time. And you're going to give me even more of it. More time with my father. More time with my mother. I'll never know it, but you'll have saved me."

"What if this is - what if this is an alternate reality? What if I leave you here alone?"

"Then you'll be saving a 15-year-old girl from the same fate as me. Because as much as I love you, as much as I have loved this time we have had together, this is still an apocalypse. This should never have happened, and if you have a chance to go back and prevent it, then I want you to take that chance with both hands."

"Even if it means leaving you alone?"

Dolores smiles at him, "I'm not going to be alone. Far too many creepy crawlies in the apocalypse for that."

"Shut up, I'm being serious."

"Hmm." Dolores hums consideringly, "Maybe I'll head North, to that new settlement that last group said they'd heard word of. Sure they'd find some use for an old woman who's survived this long in the wilderness."

"You can have my half of the record collection." Five says, pulling her against him into a hug that she easily returns.

"As if I wouldn't have stolen them as soon as you left." She scoffs, but it's a little wet, and Five pretends his own eyes aren't leaking tears.

When The Handler comes back, Dolores gives him another hug. She also slips something into his pocket - some photos. They'd taken it a year into the apocalypse, when Dolores had found an ancient looking polaroid camera and towed it home despite Five's protests about practicality. The photos are worn and faded at the edges, but the smiles on Five's little apocalypse family's faces are undeniable.

"You'll have to see if they magically fade when you change the timeline." Dolores whispers to him with a grin, "Like in the movies."

"Okay." Five whispers back.

"You have the list of movies to watch, right?" Dolores says. Five rolls his eyes and nods because he wrote the list last night into his Vanya-book while Dolores hovered over his shoulder and critiqued his handwriting.

"And you promise to try a proper non-expired twinkie at some point?"

"That I do not promise. I think even looking at one would make me lose my lunch. I have twinkie-trauma."

"Shut up and get going." Dolores says, because the Handler is starting to tap her foot impatiently.

And off Five goes to become an assassin. Though - he's much more gentle this time. He's careful, he doesn't kill children and he usually takes jobs that don't require killing at all. He distracts and manipulates events as much as he can without killing.

He's actually much more well socialized, thanks to Rick and Dolores. Less feral child and more determined man on a mission.

Which is why he's so frustrated when he finally, finally manages to get the equations to work and falls through and falls - directly back into his stupid thirteen-year-old body.

"Shit." Five says, loudly, and revels in the surprised look on his siblings faces.

He strides into the kitchen, and they all follow him like ducklings. They look exactly the way they did when they died.

"Wow this is actually way harder than I thought it would be." Five muses, looking at their dead faces. But as Dolores would say, life is hard but you have to keep on trucking sometimes. "Whatever, what's the date?"

"Five, where have you been?" Diego demands, looking irritated. It makes Five snort in amusement.

"The future. The past. If you want like, an exact list of dates you'll have to hold your horses. I spent like, two weeks in Peru once. No souvenirs though, unfortunately."

They look taken aback, like they didn't expect Five to have quite this much sass. Oops. That is definitely Dolores's influence. Or maybe he was always a little asshole. In fairness, what teenagers aren't tiny assholes? He has an excuse.

"What the fuck does that mean?" Diego's eyebrows are furrowed in anger. It kind of takes Five aback for a second, because he remembers a Diego who stutters when he argued.

"When did you learn the fuck-word?" Five asks, raising an eyebrow before her can help it, "Grace ought to wash your mouth out with soap."

Diego immediately goes red, "Shut up!"

"Wow you're so easy to rile up. Aren't you like, twenty-something? Actually, I could figure out for myself how old you are if you gave me the date."

"I'm twenty-nine." Diego growls, like that was the point.

"Haunting!" Five says cheerfully, because that means there is way less time than he would like, narrowing his time down to a six month window.

It's extremely funny how his cheer makes all of them make faces.

It's Klaus who leans forward, "Why do you need to know?"

Klaus's face is open and curious and - (looks exactly like he did when Five found him all those years ago) - and Five can't help but answer him. "The world end on April 1st, 2019. No it isn't an April Fools joke, yes I have heard that joke like a million different times. I just want to know how close I landed so I can, you know, start working on how to fix that."

"Woah woah woah, roll it back." Allison says, holding a hand up, "What?"

"The apocalypse occurs on April 1st, 2019." Five says, slowly. "I have traveled from afar to prevent this from happening, because like, everyone dies."

"Everyone?" Vanya says weakly from the side.

She's clearly expecting to be ignored, so Five turns his head to address her directly by wiggling his hand back and forth a little. "Sort of. Like, not too many people survive at all. A handful of the human population, you know."

"But you survived?" Diego recovers admirably, if bitingly.

"Well, no." Five says rolling his eyes, "Wouldn't you just know it, Klaus here has managed to figure out a new ability!"

Everyone turns to look at Klaus, who immediately holds up his hands like he's being arrested or something, "I did not!"

"Wonderful! Now that we've established that I'm alive -"

"Why should we trust a word you say?" Luther says for the first time, looking pensive.

Five blinks, genuinely taken aback. "Because... I'm your brother? Because I can clearly and obviously time travel? Like, yeah, it would have been more convenient if I'd arrived in like, my old-body for proof-purposes, but like. I mean. Thirteen is still a pretty convincing age to be to prove time travel considering if I hadn't, I would be like, almost thirty."

"Roll it back again." Allison says firmly, "What do you mean by 'old body'?"

"Great question!" Five says pointing at Allison and smiling. Everyone looks at him weird again, and Five takes a moment to wonder if they've ever experienced positive reinforcement. Knowing Reginald, probably not. "Wait! Is Reggie alive? Wait, no, answer that in a second. Uh. When I time traveled I fucked up my body I guess, I was like, old. White hair and wrinkles-type old from spending decades in the apocalypse. But I fucked up the calculations and got booted back to my thirteen-year-old body, I guess. How, I have no idea."

"What?" Vanya says, still equally weakly.

"You have no idea how fucked up time travel is." Five whispers conspiratorially to Vanya, loud enough for the whole table to hear, "There are so many ways to die. Or permanently tear a hold in space time. But like, with life as we know if ending soon-ish, I figured I couldn't possibly fuck it up worse than it already was, y'know? Speaking of, anyone have the date again?"

"Wait, what was that about dad?" Luther asks, very focused.

"Oh, you still call him dad? Big oof." Five says automatically, because apparently his verbal filter is shot to hell after living with Dolores. It does make Klaus bark out a too-loud laugh.

"What does that mean?" Luther asks aggressively.

"It means Reginald sucks and doesn't deserve the title of 'dad,' what did you think I meant?" Five asks, and now both Diego and Vanya and both cracking smiles, though Vanya is covering hers with a hand.

"Have some respect for the dead." Luther growls, standing up and looking very large and threatening.

Five sways back, craning his head up, "Woah there big buy, sit down before I injure my poor growing spine looking up at you. Jeeze, did Reggie force feed you steroids or something? I wouldn't put it past him but like, I just want to know he at least went over the side effects of the drug with you. Also like, thanks for narrowing it down. Also terrifying! Seriously though, exact date please because if I have less than 24 hours I am going to break down crying and that is a threat."

"I love this Five." Klaus says reverently.

"March 21st." Vanya offers, finally.

"Wow! Terrifying!" Five says, clapping his hands together, "Hate that. Ten days, huh? Well, who wants to get on board the save-the-world express?"

Klaus immediately flings his hand in the air, Five points at his brother appreciatively. "Yes, excellent! I'll take the volunteer in the lovely skirt as my first team member. Any other volunteers?"

"Danke!" Klaus simpers, grinning widely like this is the vest entertainment he's had in weeks.

"I'm not just going to stand here and listen to you badmouth dad and boss us around." Luther slams his hands on the table.

"Well not with that attitude." Five snarks.

Diego raises his hand, "I would like to join team fuck dad as well."

"We can certainly debate team names later." Five says, nodding wisely as Luther gives some sort of scandalized gasp.

"Honestly, I just want to see where this is going." Klaus confesses.

Five shrugs, because he doesn't really care about the reason. "Don't you want to prove me wrong them? Prove what a well-adjusted young man Reginald Hargreeves raised?"

"Shut up." Luther grinds out, looking a moment away from throwing a punch.

"If this is all true, I have to get home." Allison cuts in, looking concerned, "I have - I have a daughter."

"I mean, if you want to give Claire a world to live in then I'd stick around, but that's just me." Five shrugs.

"You know her name?" Allison asks, obviously taken aback.

Five is almost offended, "Uh, yeah. I have her photo as well. Y'all get on like, a bizarre number of gossip magazine covers did you know that?"

Allison manages to outdo herself in terms of being taken aback once more.

There's a beat of silence, and then Five turns, "Vanya? You in?"

"Me?" Vanya blinks, looking shocked. "What can I do?"

"Yeah, what can she do?" Diego asks, crossing his arms and suddenly looking grumpy.

It baffles Five, who scrunches his nose, "Uh, like, a lot? I assume? I mean. I'm going to be honest here, just looking at y'all right now is a lot. In more ways than one! Hashtag trauma and all that, but like, name a single one of you that wouldn't be the most obvious person in the room as soon as you walked into it. Except Vanya, who somehow manages to look like a well adjusted adult, by some miracle."

"Did you just verbally say the word hashtag?" Allison asks, looking so deeply confused.

"More concerned about the trauma he tacked onto there, but y'know, to each their own." Klaus immediately cuts in.

"You think I'm well-adjusted?" Vanya asks, looking oddly touched.

"I would like to direct your attention to Diego's leather pants-scowl combo and Luther's general aura of daddy-issues." Five says pointedly, "I can practically smell the tragic comic book backstory in this room. If I'd jumped back a decade earlier this would have been Batman's wet dream of orphan selection."

"Alright! Game plan!" Five says, waving Diego's knife in his hand.

Diego's hands immediately go to his weird harness looking thing, "Hey!"

"Give me just one moment to get the tracker out." Five rolls his eyes, "Then I'll give it back, I promise. Also if someone could ask Grace for like, some antibiotics that would be good."

"What?" Allison asks, directly before Five stabs himself and there is suddenly panic at the table.

"Relax!" Five says, allowing Diego to remove the knife from his hands. He doesn't need it anyway and his hand immediately drops down to root in the wound.

"Five what the fuck!" Diego yells, but Five just pulls up bloody fingers and waves the tracker into Diego's stupefied face.

"What the fuck is that, Five?" Allison demands, looking very shaken.

"I literally just said it was a tracker." Five points out, "Now, I think our first team activity should be voting on whether we destroy it or take it out to bumfuck nowhere and ditch it to confuse the Commission."

"What the fuck is the Commission?" Diego barks.

"Man. Maybe I should just hit up Rick." Five muses, "This is going to take so much explaining."

"Who is Rick."

"So much explaining."

[amor-immortalem]

Everything Undesired

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

Warnings: dead dove: do not eat, heavily implied rape, gross misuse of a pact, dissociation victim blaming

Summary: not all pact masters use their pacts judiciously or in a positive way. What happens when a pact is misused in one of the worst ways possible?

A/N: so a while back I did a comic by the name of ‘Meet Me Under the Azaleas’ I’m no longer happy with the writing I put into it originally so I wanted to rewrite it using the same plot line and adding some extra scenes that weren’t in the original comic which I’ll be taking down tonight. It should work better as a fic anyway.

Chapter 1

“You are ours. We own you.”

Those words rang in his head over and over as he stumbled his way into his room, overstimulated, exhausted- a mess. He knew it was a mistake to answer the call of those witches tonight. The thoughts of what they did, how their hands ran over his body, what they had taken away. It made his stomach churn and tie itself in knots with guilt and shame. It burned just the same as the rope marks on his wrists and ankles- wounds that would heal within the hour.

“You won’t breathe a word of this to anyone- this we command of you, Avatar of Greed.”

Those women -no, they were monsters- abused the innate trust that comes with a demon who enters a pact with a human, multiple in this case. They had violated the boundaries he’d put in place the day he started dating his human. Oh God, what would she think if word ever got out? He had no way of speaking out- to scream the truth until his voice was raw.

He needed to shower, to get the stench of sex and sweat off of him. He had to get their scent off of him. As he entered the bathroom, Mammon tore off his clothes as he started the water. The lights remained off as he couldn’t bare to look at himself after what happened. Not after how he just let them use him like that.

He stepped under the boiling water and just let it run against him. The falling water did nothing to drown out the deafening voices running rampant in his mind.

“Disgusting!” They roared, “Useless! Pathetic! Weak! Whore! ….. Scum!”

He falls to the floor of his shower, hands gripping at his hair as he let out a whimper that eventually turned into quiet sobs. The steamy air making it harder to breathe. Why didn’t he fight against them harder- against their orders. No, he just laid there and took it.

He grabbed the soap and a wash rag and scrubbed his body until every bit of him was raw and even then he wouldn’t stop. It was only when he saw the blood swirling around the drain that Mammon realized what he was doing to himself- how bad the water burned the exposed skin. It felt like hellfire raining down upon him.

He felt horrible as he reached up and switched the water off. He could still hear it in his head as he reached for a towel- all the crying, screaming, begging for them to stop.

He was a pathetic, sorry excuse of a demon, he thinks as he wraps the towel around his waist and travels down the his stairs quietly. It’s early morning now. There was only a few hours left before he would have wake up for school. He contemplated just skipping the entire day. There would be know way he’d be able to function. He could always say he feels sick- its not that far from the truth. He would decide in a few hours, he thought as he crawled into bed. It didn’t take long for her to move closer to him. His naturally warmer body temperature was what drew her to him. His body involuntarily tensing as she nuzzled into his chest, arms slipping around his body. He would only tuck her head under his chin and drape and arm over her side as he let the scent of her shampoo relax him enough to fall into a light sleep.

After a short while, someone's alarm blared among the sheets- whether it his or Arella's, he couldn't be sure. Mammon patted around for the offending phone, just wanting to get five more minutes of shut eye. He eventually succeeded but not without waking his partner.

"Morning, Love," Arella sighed, her voice still laced with the grogginess of sleep.

"Mornin', Treasure," The demon yawns as he curls back up, pulling her closer to his chest. "Sleep well?"

"I did. What time you get back last night?" Arella's voice is soft as her hand slides under his shirt, rubbing gently along his side.

"5 this mornin'." He says as he tries to hide the way his body recoils from her touch, a pang of guilt strikes his heart as she notices. "Sorry... 'm not really feelin' all that great right now..."

"No, that's alright." She removes her hand from his side, choosing instead to rest it against his cheek as she readjusts herself so she's eye-level with him on the pillow. "How selfish of those witches to keep you out so late on a school night..." Its at this point she notices the puffiness and how red his eyes are. "You look like you've been crying... Is everything alright?"

He just shakes his head. Mammon wants so badly to tell her what happened to him the night before- the real reason he got home so late, but unsurprisingly, no words come out. He just closes his eyes, letting himself relax under her gentle touch. "I'm jus' really tired s'all."

"I believe it. You only got a hour and a half's worth of sleep. Would you like to just stay home all day, just the two of us?" Arella moves him so he's resting with his head on her chest.

"That's sounds.... nice," he hums quietly, so close to falling back into the clutches of sleep.

"Alright then. Go on and go back to sleep," She kisses the top of his head, carding her fingers through the soft, fluffy locks the other hand rubbing small circles in the center of his back. "I've got you."

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

This carried on for months. The witches would summon him and as long as he complied with their wishes, they would hold his secret. By the third time, he would check out- let his mind escape to anywhere but the present until it was over. It became a vicious cycle. They would call, he would go to them, and then he would crawl into his bed for maybe an hour or two before forcing himself to get up for classes that he often fell asleep in. After the tenth, once they had finished with him, he asked why they were doing this and they told him.

“We desire something to bind you to us for the rest of our lives.”

“A child.”

The demon’s eyes widened at that. Never in his life had he been so opposed to the idea of having children. In fact, just before all of this happened he had been daydreaming about what his children with Arella would look like if they were ever so fortunate to have any but a child with one of the witches? It made him sick. A half-demon born from a demon of his status had a high probability of killing its mother- one who he would then have to raise. How could he explain that to his brothers- to Arella? The very thought filled him with dread. How could he ever bring himself to care for a child conceived from a crime? A child that would always be nothing but a constant reminder of the worst nights of his life. They didn’t deserve a life like that.

And so Mammon did the only thing he could think to do: he fled. He ran back to the Devildom, back to House of Lamentation as fast a his legs would carry him. He crashed through the doors of the house. Never had he been so greatful to be the first one home. As he climbed the steps up to his room he vowed to himself never again. He wouldn’t give them what they wanted, consequences be damned.

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

It had been six months since his last encounter with the witches. There was nothing on their end- absolute radio silence. Part of Mammon wondered if they'd gotten what they wanted from him after all. Everyday was filled with the anxiety of not knowing. His nightmares had gotten worse. Most of them were based around those nights he'd spent with them, others involved everyone finding out a one-sided version of what had happened, all spun in the favor of the witches. He dreamed of Arella leaving him, heart-broken from the implication that he would stray from her and running into the arms of one of his brothers. The worst ones- the ones he would wake up from covered in a cold sweat in the dead of night- consisted of him standing in the witches' home, the sounds of screaming, the smell of blood, the piercing first cries somewhere between the call of a demon and the screams of a human baby infecting his senses. It all felt too real. It felt like a crushing weight on his chest.

Over this time, Mammon had grown distant from both his brothers and Arella, hardly spending anytime with them. He fell apart. The grades he worked so hard to pull up had taken a nose dive, he was hardly eating- choosing only to consume just barely enough to sustain himself. He no longer slept for fear of the nightmares and he instead threw himself into side jobs that would keep him out of the house well passed curfew as well as earn him plentiful amounts of grimm. He couldn't go on like this much longer.

Everyone was worried for him. None of them had ever seen the Avatar of Greed in this manner and the gradual change in his demeanor alarmed them. Despite everyone’s best attempts, Mammon hardly smiled anymore. He just simply didn't seem to enjoy all of the things he once did. They all knew something was wrong but when asked the white haired demon would shrug it off, say he was fine when he very obviously was not. Everything came to a head the night Mammon collapsed, finally falling victim to exhaustion and hunger.

It was after this that Lucifer called the family to a meeting while Arella sat with Mammon in his room as he slept fitfully.

"What do we do, Lucifer?" Asmo seemed distraught with fear. "Our brother is suffering from something and we don't even know where to start in trying to help him."

"We have to get him to talk somehow," Satan quipped, "Perhaps Arella can-"

"If this were any other situation, I would suggest it but right now, I don't think that's a very wise move. If she forces him to talk it could very well damage the bond they share." For the first time in thousands of years, Lucifer didn't know what to do. Whatever was causing this shift in personality was eating away at Mammon. "We'll try to think of a way to fix this- to find out what happened to our dear brother. So let's start at the beginning of all of this. What do we know about what he was doing before this happened?"

"Well, Levi started, "He was getting called up by those witch sisters with more and more frequently. I heard him come home super late- like early morning hours late..."

"And after that is when he practically stopped eating." Beel chimed in.

"And he was having nightmares almost nightly, afterwards." Belphie nodded. "I did my best with my powers to look into them but there were so many mental blocks that he subconsciously put up, I couldn't see or hear anything very well and what I could see didn't make a whole lot of sense. They weren't very clear, but they had something to do with the witches... and I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt associated with them."

"Then obviously something happened while he was with them," Satan said, brow furrowed. "But what that may be, we won't know until he talks."

"Asmo, I see the look on your face." Lucifer called out to the Avatar of Lust. "Is there something, you'd like share with the group?"

Everyone's eyes were locked onto Asmodeus as the demon sat with a contemplative look on his face. He was very slowly starting to piece together what had been going on.

"Not yet, but I may have a hunch." He finally said. "Mammon has a pact with these women, correct?"

Next

Masterlist 2

[jincherie]

four’s company | rapline [m]

✘ — pairing: boxer!rapline x male!reader ✘ — genre: smut!, boxer au, poly au ✘ — wc: 6.4k ✘ — rating: 18+ ✘ — warnings: minor injuries (occupational hazard kind), smut: mxm, light (accidental) voyeurism, light hand kink, baby boy reader, sub/bottom reader, dom/top members, foursome, anal sex, protected sex (don’t forget to wrap ‘em, lads and ladies!), fellatio ✘ — notes: part of a fic exchange within the ghostie network, i’m sorry it’s late!!!!! please accept my humblest apologies!!! @bangtanloverboys​ here you go!! i hope it’s not too shitty!!!

If accidentally walking in on your three crushes in a heated moment, not once, not twice, but thrice isn’t enough to capture their attention, then you don’t know what is. You’re about to find out that you’ve had their attention for a while, though.

— posted; 02.01.2021 || masterlist

For what is far from the first time tonight, you feel the weight of a certain gaze.

Well, to be more specific, it hasn’t just been one gaze you’ve felt on you tonight. More like… three. 

You know who they belong to, unfortunately. It’s the same three people that you found in an… interesting situation earlier. On that was, no doubt, not meant for outside eyes. 

Well, you say that, but you feel like that’s just because you, yourself, are mortified. To be honest, the three boxers you found locking lips and making out in the locker room didn’t seem to be all that ashamed about it.

In fact, when they caught you in the motion of fleeing, they’d had the audacity to grin about it! 

Utterly humiliating. You haven’t been able to bring your gaze anywhere near them all day. To make matters worse, you couldn’t even flee to the safety of your home or anywhere similar, because there is a match tonight and you’re needed as a qualified first aid officer. 

Which brings you to the current predicament; sitting ringside and attempting to avoid the gazes of the three boxers seated on the side adjacent. Try as you might, it’s actually a struggle to keep your eyes on the current match. It’s a rookie night, and you feel extra bad since one of the people in the ring is actually a close friend. 

Though, perhaps you should demote Jungkook from ‘close friend’ status considering he is the reason you started working here and subsequently, had the opportunity to stumble upon a certain scenario this morning. Were it not for him and his stupid, pleading puppy eyes, you wouldn’t have a particular embarrassing image burned into the back of your eyelids.

You know that despite his rookie status, Jungkook is quite a naturally talented boxer. Perhaps that is part of the reason that your brain thinks it’s okay to let your eyes stray from the match instead of watching attentively as you’re expected to. The subconscious certainty that Jungkook can handle himself seems to be your undoing, because in a moment of inattentiveness your eyes manage to reach the area you’d been trying so hard for them to avoid. 

As you’d both feared and expected, they are in fact already looking at you. Well, one of the three. It is the piercing gaze of the club's current lightweight champion, Min Yoongi, that bores a hole into you right now. The two accomplices to his side aren't joining him in drilling their eyes into you across the room for now, instead leaning into each other as though they're whispering amongst themselves. 

There's something about Yoongi's eyes, dark and piercing, that seem to always root you in place no matter where you are. His expression, as it usually tends to be, is unreadable. It's a certain kind of neutrality that graces his features, thin enough that you can tell there is something behind it but too opaque for you to be able to discern exactly what. 

You don't even realise you're trapped in his gaze until the sounding of the bell snaps you out of the spell that seemed to be cast over you. Your head whips back around and you see the referee signalling the end of the bout, and just beyond him Jungkook is standing slightly bent over as he offers a hand to his opponent on the canvas. To your alarm, it is only now that you notice the blood dribbling down the man’s face. The reasonable crowd that has gathered is still cheering (Jungkook was quick to rise as one of the fan favourites) and it’s a wonder you can hear the referee’s call above the ruckus.

“Medic!”

That’s your cue. 

x – x – x 

 “You look kind of on edge, man. Are you alright?”

You’re almost too busy staring into your coffee in a borderline dissociative state to hear Jungkook as he calls for your attention. It has to be about the thirteenth time in the past half hour, but you can’t find the energy to be ashamed about it. Mostly because all of your shame and embarrassment are focused on other areas right now.

It had happened again. 

Is it just your luck? You don’t know whether to dub it as rotten luck, because you feel it would be a bit of an insult to the boxers you’d once more found in a suggestive situation.  But considering it good luck feels kind of sleazy, because although you’re embarrassed as hell, all things considered what you walked in on wasn’t a bad view—

No, that thought is stopping there. Any further and you’ll only incriminate yourself and you’ll have to dose yourself with another fresh shot of shame. 

Realising that you still haven’t answered the concerned-looking boy sprawled in the chair to your side, you offer him a non-committal grunt. It’s the best you can do while you take another moment to form actual coherent thought. 

“I’ve never been better,” you say, and immediately Jungkook lets loose an abrupt snort.

“You look like shit, so don’t bother trying to lie. Are you having trouble sleeping again or something?”

You survey him for a moment, touched that he remembers the insomnia that had ailed you for a few months a while back. “Actually, I’ve been sleeping pretty good the past few months.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes, making you squint at him in question. “Oh, I’ll bet you have, considering the things you were saying in your sleep last time I stayed over.”

You simply look at him, wondering whether he’s going to be an ass and continue.  You don’t have to wait long for an answer.

“You were all like, ‘nngh, Namjoon,’ and ‘oh, Yoongi’, and then you said something about Hoseok too but I can’t quite remember, probably because it was so x-rated that my poor baby brain banished it from my memory—”

“Jungkook,” you cut him off, gripping the plastic spoon that came with your drink painfully tight. “Shut up.”

This is most definitely not the conversation to be having in the café barely a block away from the boxing gym where the two of you frequent, but Jungkook doesn’t seem to get the hint. Actually, you’re pretty sure he got the hint and he just doesn’t care enough to heed it.

“You really ought to do something about that crush of yours, bro. There’s three of them, so there’s three times the misery if you sit on your ass instead of—”

“Jungkook,” you attempt to warn him again, glaring slightly this time. You’ve scooped some of the whipped cream off of his plate of pancakes and hold the tip of the spoon back, threatening to fling it at him should he keep talking. 

“—doing something, you know? I’ve seen them practically undress you with their eyes enough times by now that I could fill out a diary with all the incidents I’ve witnessed. Plus, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed how often they ‘hurt’ themselves as an excuse to see you? I really don’t think you have much to lose, especially with an ass like yours—well, it’s nothing like the cake I’m serving, but still, it deserves some praise—ACK!”

Ah, so he has chosen death.

You discard the now-empty spoon onto a napkin, taking a long sip of your drink. It seems Jungkook has engaged his ape brain more today than usual as instead of wiping the cream off his face like any normal human would, he’s attempting to reach it with his tongue. His chances aren’t good, to be honest; though you reckon your mutual friend Jimin would be able to get it from that distance. Dude has a tongue like a lizard. 

“You have Seven Days,” you tell him, struggling not to let a smile through as the amateur boxer whines, unable to reach the cream.

“You have seven days,” he grumbles sulkily, reaching with a begrudging hand for a napkin. “Do something or I’ll expose your ass.”

You roll your eyes, ninety-nine percent sure that he’s kidding.

… 

That other one percent worries you a bit though.

x – x – x 

You take back what you decided earlier— something is definitely wrong with your luck.

“And how did you hurt your knee again?”

“I tripped on the stairs.”

Jung Hoseok, the club’s current star welterweight boxer, sits before you in your little medical office. There aren’t any matches on today, but you’re on shift because the club members are doing some of the more rigorous training; there is an important few matches coming up for a few members, and they all want to be as prepared as possible. As tends to be the occupational hazard, training can often lead to injuries that need to be immediately attended to. 

You can’t say, though, that this is the type you were expecting when you rocked up today.

Hoseok is beaming at you, all sincerity and sparkles. There’s a slight bit of dark regrowth in his hair that catches your eye as you survey him, the crimson ends sticking to his forehead lightly from sweat. He looks every bit earnest and honest as he sits in front of you, but you can’t help but suspect him just slightly.

Because you’re not sure any of the club members have ever made their way to your office for a graze that wouldn’t even phase a kindergartener.

“Well,” you say, trying to ignore what Jungkook had said barely a day or two ago that floats back into your head now. “The good news is, it’s not fatal.”

Hoseok lets out a great, dramatic huff in relief. “Oh, thank god. I was so scared this might have been the end.”

‘Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed how often they ‘hurt’ themselves as an excuse to see you?’

Is that what this is? An excuse to see you? A look spared for the man before you leads you to conclude: probably not. He’s a little too radiant to be seeking out lil’ ol’ you.

“Not this time,” you say, rummaging through your small box of mismatched bandages. Finding what you’re looking for, you turn back around and begin preparing it to place it on Hoseok’s knee. “You live to see another day.”

Hoseok shifts like he’s about to say something in response, but cuts himself off with a surprised laugh when he sees the band-aid you put on him. “Wh—you have Minions band-aids?!”

“I reserve them for special patients,” you say before you can stop yourself, promptly clamping your mouth shut a little too late. Your cheeks… you just hope the heat gathering there isn’t obvious.

Something shifts in Hoseok’s gaze as he surveys you for a moment, before hopping from the bed, testing his knee out like he’d sprained it instead of scratching it. The look is gone before you can fully decipher it and he’s back to grinning brightly once more. 

“Well, if that’s the case, I’ll have to come back often. Wouldn’t want them to go to waste.” Hoseok’s smile adopts a slightly cheeky edge as he makes his way to the door, lifting two fingers to his temple in a lazy salute. “See you later, doc!”

Then he’s gone before you can return the farewell, door closing definitively behind him and leaving the room in silence. 

Are you going crazy, or did Hoseok— one of the three boxers you’ve happened to walk in on twice now—just return your light flirting?

… God, you hope it wasn’t because of the minion band-aid.

x – x – x 

You wish that visit had been an isolated incident, but you had a repeat of it at least twice a week. Each time Hoseok would rock up grinning at your door with some other minor injury, all but demanding a minion band-aid for his troubles. You gave it to him, of course, but you still hope he doesn’t remember you as the minion band-aids guy. 

Surprisingly enough, it isn’t only Hoseok that has been cropping up more often in your day-to-day. You’ve had a few surprise encounters with Yoongi, who lately has taken to giving you a sly, unreadable look before turning away, leaving you in your own confusion. Sometimes you’ll get carried away watching him or one of the other boxers practice, and before you know it he has caught you staring red-handed and you’re forced to flee the room to escape the smug, intrigued look that slips into his eyes. 

It’s after such an occasion that you find yourself in the main locker room, attempting to multitask by looking for a box of first aid supplies hidden in the top shelves and giving your face a chance to cool down. It’s taken you so long to even find the damn box that your embarrassment has all but evaporated by now. By the time your eyes lock onto the scuffed white box peeking over the edge of the highest shelf in the corner of the room, you’re more than ready to snatch it down and escape back to the comfort of your dingy little office. 

Of course, it couldn’t ever be so easy for you. Not given your recent string of poor luck. 

You don’t consider your height to be remarkably anything, and normally you don’t have that much trouble reaching the cookie jar on the top shelf in your apartment but for some reason the shelves in this building are built to cater to giants, and try as you might you simply cannot reach. You’re literally about to abandon the last of your dignity and attempt jumping for it, when there is a light scuff on the floor from behind you and then a firm warmth pressing into your back. 

In all honesty, your brain short-circuits. For a second you think you might have even blacked out, because it takes at least three seconds for you to realise what is happening, and by that time the figure has already retreated back from your form. 

Somewhat dazed, you turn around to see one Kim Namjoon, the clubs leading middleweight champion and the third and final member of those racy scenarios you happened to walk in on oh-so long ago. In his hands is the box you’d been struggling so much to reach, and on his face is a look that somehow blends sheepishness and amusement into one attractive cocktail on his features. 

“Here you go,” he says, and for a shamefully long moment all you can do is stand and soak in the lovely timbre of his voice. By the time you snap out of it, a small smile has begun to curl on his lips. You pointedly avoid looking at the dimples that are beginning to show as a result. 

“Oh, uh, thanks,” you say, trying to make it as natural as possible as you reach and take the box from his hold. “Whoever put it up there seems to have a vendetta against me.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he says, and there’s suddenly something a little secretive about the way he’s smiling. It makes you suspicious, and once more the words Jungkook prattled into your ear a week or so ago come rattling back into your brain. 

Is this something similar to what Hoseok had done? Did Namjoon put the box on a higher shelf?

“Are you calling me short?” For some reason, that’s what comes out of your mouth. There is a slight disconnect from what you said and what Namjoon had said previously, but he seems to make the connection. He tilts his head back and a rich laugh tumbles forth. It sounds nicer than you wish to admit to yourself. 

“Never,” he finally answers, grinning. “Though, feel free to come get me next time you lose against a shelf.”

Your mouth drops open in affront, but he makes a departure too quick for you to respond. His laughter echoes down the halls and you’re left reeling in your spot.

This isn’t what you expected to happen after walking in on a few intimate situations. In fact, this is quite the opposite.

What is happening?

x – x – x 

As the weeks go by, there are several big nights and several big matches. Hoseok and Yoongi, among a few others from the gym, emerge victorious. At this point you’re not too ashamed to say that you spent the entirety of their matches watching the way their muscles rippled as they dodged, swung and wove around the ring. If the last shred of dignity still clinging to you had disappeared, then you probably would have drooled like a dog. 

 The nights tend to go by weight classes, and the next upcoming night is to showcase the middleweight boxers. While Jungkook classifies for the class, as one of the newer recruits he isn’t the first choice for the match—much to his dismay.

It is approximately a week before this big match, in which Namjoon, one of the three men who live in your head rent-free these days, is participating, that you’re woken from your sleep and called into the gym.

It’s your night off, actually, so for you to be called in there must have been a pretty serious injury. You’re proven right when you enter the building and walk into the main room.

Before you can even assess the scene, Yoongi spots you and darts on over. He has a look on his face that you don’t think he’s ever sported before, and it fills you with a feeling of dread. It seems an appropriate feeling, considering what you see when you advance further into the room, towed by the frantic blonde who’d fetched you.

“Holy shit, what the hell happened?!” You dart forward, Yoongi’s grip slipping from your wrist as you move out of his reach. 

Namjoon is seated on the floor in a squat, cradling his left hand to his chest. A grimace twists his features, eyes glistening but face clear of tears. 

To your complete and utter surprise, the familiar tenor of Jungkook’s voice reaches your ears. You didn’t know he had stayed behind to practice tonight.

“We were leaving after practicing a bit later than normal, and some assholes drove past and picked a fight. I think—I think they were members from one of the rival clubs on the other side of the city but it was kind of dark and I didn’t get a good look.”

Your brows shoot up—that’s risky behaviour on their part, if it was actually members of a rival club that did this. Judges of this particular tournament don’t look kindly on foul play.

It would make sense if it’s true, though; a lot of local clubs tend to have boxers in the middleweight range, and Namjoon has emerged from enough matches victorious that he’s actually quite a threat. 

“Let me see,” you say, holding your hands out to Namjoon for him to rest his injured one in your hold. “Jungkook, go get the big tin box with the red cross from my office. Make sure it’s the one with antiseptic and bandages.”

You don’t even need to check he’s listened, because you can hear the frantic, obedient pattering of his feet fading away in the distance as you unwrap the blood-drenched towel from the hand in your hold. Namjoon’s busted up limb takes all of your attention the second you lay eyes on it properly, your stomach filling with an unpleasant, nameless cocktail of sensations. 

“Holy shit,” you say, unable to contain your wince.  “Tell me you didn’t get this from fighting them bare-knuckle.”

Namjoon has enough capacity for humour right now that he lets out a little huff. Yoongi fills you in before Namjoon has a chance. 

“No, though I almost did.” His expression is dark, the heat of his anger reaching you even when it’s not directed your way. “They were probably drinking before coming here, since they had a few bottles they threw into the mix.”

That explains the gashes you’re seeing on Namjoon’s palm— it seems he caught one of the bottles, though you’re not sure whether it was already broken or whether it broke on impact. Thankfully, from what you can see, the gashes and lacerations aren’t too deep and shouldn’t cause lasting damage, but they’ll definitely take a while to heal, and one or two of them look like they will need stitches. 

“Alright,” you begin, sighing softly. “I’ll do what I can to fix this up for now, but you’re going to have to go to the ER, because some of these will need stitches…”

You look up, reading the expressions of everyone in attendance and knowing that they have all reached the same conclusion regarding Namjoon’s immediate fate as a boxer.

“Sorry, Namjoon,” you start, watching his features crumble ever so slightly into a look of resignation. “This isn’t going to heal in time for next week, and you definitely won’t be able to train for a while.”

It’s just as you announce that, that Jungkook returns with your box of first-aid goodies. Hoseok, who has remained surprisingly silent the whole time this conversation has gone on, takes the box from his hold and delivers it next to you. Surprising all of you, Namjoon is quick to look up and pin Jungkook with a grin.

“Well, since I can’t participate—how do you feel about making your Big Boy Boxing Debut, Jungkookie?”

Your friend is rooted to the spot in shock for a solid few moments, before he snaps out of it and an excited if slightly nervous expression filters onto his face. 

“I will defend your honour, Namjoon!” he declares, saluting stupidly. “Count on me!”

Cheesy of him, but you can’t help the smile that tugs your lips. You just hope it’s not too late-notice for him, and that Namjoon’s injuries really aren’t that serious, as you surmise.

x – x – x 

 The week passes quicker than you anticipate, and before you know it, it’s the night of the big match—Jungkook’s first big match, that is. Namjoon had done his best over the days to coach Jungkook on the particular fighting styles of the opponents he normally faces, and to everyone’s pleasant surprise, Jungkook has picked it all up with ease. 

You’re more surprised to say that you’re not even that nervous, as you sit waiting for the match to begin. Jungkook stands in one corner, his opponent from one of the more renowned rival gyms in the other. You prepare to be on standby in case either boxer is injured enough to need aid, but cross your fingers that if anything at least Jungkook will be alright. 

In the blink of an eye, the match begins and the first bout kicks off. Jungkook’s opponent is slightly stockier, likely pushing the upper limits of the weight class, and is the first to make an offensive move. The familiar sound of cushioned gloves making impact rings in the air and you find yourself tensing in your seat as you watch the two interchange blows. 

It’s pretty much neck-and-neck for a majority of the bouts. Some of them go quick, and others seem to consist of the longest three minutes of your life. Still, the match goes on, and the night is filled with the siren song of the crowd and the ring of the bell.

After a night of close-call bouts and baited breath, Jungkook finally emerges victorious. 

Ever the fan favourite, the crowd that has amassed erupt into cheers as the referee declares the end of the final bout and Jungkook is held up as the victor. With the match decided, the club members that had been watching ringside burst up and swarm around the young boxer who brought pride to the gym on his very first big match. The three boxers that usually occupy your thoughts wriggle their way up there too, and it’s Hoseok’s bright tone that pierces the ruckus of the crowd.

“Drinks at ours to celebrate our victor, Jungkookie!” he caws, rubbing Jungkook on the back in something akin to pride. “Members of King Hit Gym, we better see you all there!”

You mightn’t be a technical member, but the way you suddenly feel three sets of eyes on you tells you that you’re still more than invited. 

x – x – x

It’s three hours since the end of the match, and you’re more than a little tipsy.

You can safely say that you haven’t ever been to the house where Namjoon, Hoseok and Yoongi live, but you’re nothing short of impressed. It’s a three-storey townhouse, with three rooms— presumably one for each of them, though from what you’d glimpsed on the way to the bathroom earlier only one of them appears regularly lived in.

It didn’t take you long to ponder exactly why, considering the things you’ve accidentally witnessed in the past month.

Most of your time tonight was spent celebrating with Jungkook as he made the rounds and received congratulations from the rest of the club members. Music thrums through the building, bass vibrating pleasantly through your chest every time you pass the expensive speakers in the living room.

You’ve paced yourself well, all things considered. All you had to do to avoid an early night ending in blackout drunkenness was steer clear of Jungkook whenever he made his way by the kitchen to refill— he’d learnt his mixing skills from Jimin, a verified alcoholic back in the day who spent his time in university trying to throw together his own signature cocktail with the same alcohol percentage as absinthe.

So you’re relatively proud of yourself to only be a little over tipsy at this point in the night. You can’t really say the same for the rest of the club members, though— even Jungkook has reached a point where he is stumbling and giggling. Which, of course, led to the event that splattered drink all over your shirt. 

You’re wandering up the stairs now, mind occupied with everything but what you’re doing as you absentmindedly seek the bathroom to clean your shirt. You haven’t seen any of the homeowners in a while, actually, which is kind of disappointing because you’re really longing for some eye candy right about now. They disappeared about ten minutes ago, and you figured it was just to socialise or maybe grab more snacks but you haven’t paid it much thought since then, and now you’re realising they hadn’t returned to the party yet. 

Reaching the top of the stairs, you pause for a moment to try and recall which room is the bathroom. There’s two of them, you remember being told, one ensuite and a main bathroom. There was also a third one on the first floor, but that was too far for you to attempt reaching it. Unable to remember which door is which, you simply decide to wing it and march on forward towards the first door to enter your line of sight. You’re pretty stable, but your head is kind of fuzzy, so your hand hovers by the wall as you walk just in case you stumble. 

Upon reaching the door in question, it takes you about a second and a half to realise the room you have reached is not the one you want, and another second for the shock to reach you.

Because, for the third time in a month, you have walked in on something you shouldn’t have. 

Except this time, you can’t seem to pull yourself away as fast as you should. 

It’s Hoseok and Namjoon tangled before you this time, in a position much more intimate than the last you’d seen. Their lips are locked, Hoseok straddling one of Namjoon’s thighs with one hand tangled in inky locks and the other rubbing over his crotch, where a prominent bulge makes itself known even to your eyes. Just when you remember that you should really be on your way, their lips break apart and Namjoon’s head tilts back, a sinful, velvet moan climbing from his throat as Hoseok leans to pepper it with kisses. It’s mesmerising, and you forget you’re even there as you watch the red-haired man’s hand climb up Namjoon’s stomach and then slip beneath the waistband of his jeans. 

You come back to yourself when you feel a familiar tightness in your own pants and a throb between your legs— of course, you’re hard. You’re too hazy-brained to even be ashamed of it right now. It does pierce through the fog, though, that you’re intruding on something you’re not meant to see. Like you’re trying to move limbs filled with lead, you start to drag your feet and turn around. 

You barely get a step in before you’re face to face with someone strikingly familiar, and your heart drops in your chest before kicking back into motion at double speed. 

“You always seem to enjoy watching, don’t you?” Yoongi’s question catches you off guard and puts you on the spot— before you can panic, though, his lips curl in a kittenish smile. “It’s alright, we already know you do, baby boy.”

Your heart stutters in your chest, stomach flipping giddily. Your eyes track it with surprising clarity as Yoongi’s hand— strong and sculpted and deliciously vascular, as you’d admired many times before— rises to caress your cheek, and he leans forward until his lips brush the sensitive skin of your earlobe.

“Why don’t you join us, this time?”

You find yourself nodding before you even realise it, but it’s definitely a decision you would make again any other day. 

You feel Yoongi smile against your ear, and then he is pressing a soft kiss to your cheek and pulling back. That same strong hand winds around your wrist and you’re tugged into the room, the door shutting behind you. The two on the bed barely bat an eye at the arrival of their third lover and an extra figure, merely smiling dazedly at the two of you. 

“Baby boy is finally gonna join us?” Hoseok asks, eyes lidded and dark to match the tousled look of his hair and clothes. His words are slightly slurred but the keenness to his gaze tells you he is still very much aware of everything he does. 

Yoongi hums in confirmation, coming up behind you to wind his arms lazily around your waist and rest his chin on your shoulder. “Mhmm. Don’t stop on our account— why don’t you give him a bit of a show to start, hm?”

Hoseok needs no further prompting, a grin all you glimpse before he is diving back to crash his lips into Namjoon’s, hand moving inside his pants and eliciting a deep, throaty groan. It makes your own cock throb in need, and almost as though he reads your mind, Yoongi's voice sounds in your ear once more. 

“You already hard, baby boy? Like what you see?”

Something about the husky quality of the boxer’s voice makes a shudder roll down your spine, a light whine slipping from your throat. Yoongi presses soft kisses to the skin of your neck as you watch the two on the bed undress each other between heated kisses. 

“Want me to touch you, baby boy?”

As though possessed, your head begins nodding before you even think to act on the urge. Yoongi requires no further prompting; he begins to kiss and suckle along the column of your neck while his hands move— one creeps up beneath your shirt to flick a thumb over your nipple, and the other slips down, down, down beneath the waistband of your pants and boxers, until that hand you admire so much is slipping around your cock and squeezing just enough to make you gasp out a moan. 

Pleasure and desire wind together to mix with the tipsy haze in your mind, and you’re more than happy to surrender yourself to the current situation. Slowly, you’re urged over to the bed, eyes still locked on the pair occupied there as Yoongi’s hand works magic on your length. You don’t even bother attempting to stem the gasps and moans tumbling forth because you know at this point it would probably be futile. 

Hoseok has now stripped Namjoon entirely and is making his way down his body with his mouth, pressing a kiss against every inch of golden skin he can reach. Namjoon is quite generously endowed, and you can’t tear your eyes away as Hoseok finally reaches the apex of his thighs and begins to lavish attention to Namjoon’s flushed cock. 

You can feel Yoongi grinding lightly against you as he strokes your own aching member, the two of you observing the show before you with rapt attention. At some point you’re rid of your shirt and the air feels cool against your flushed skin, your upper body leaning back against Yoongi contentedly. The noises spilling from Namjoon’s throat are downright sinful as Hoseok’s mouth sinks down on him with practiced ease.

It’s almost too much for you, really. Almost sensory overload. You’re urged ever so slowly to the bed, and as you sit on the plush mattress you happily oblige as Yoongi begins to undo and remove the jeans that are now uncomfortably tight. Your boxers follow soon after and then you’re joining the other two in their nudity. As though sensing the change in plans, Hoseok pulls off of Namjoon’s cock with a ‘pop’, licking his lips and ignoring the whine in protest that Namjoon lets out. “In a minute, bubs.”

Yoongi leans over to the bedside table to retrieve lube and something else you soon realise to be condoms as he tosses them on the bed between him and Hoseok. 

“Are you alright with this?”

You turn at the sound of Yoongi’s voice, eyes meeting his own— though heady and full of desire, they’re also determined. You don’t doubt that if you say no, he will stop things here.

“Yes,” you confirm, and you watch as a smile pulls over Yoongi’s face.

“Excellent. Now, lean forward, baby boy. This might be a little cold.”

Without question, you allow him to shift and bend your body as needed, knees digging into the plush bedding. Tilting your head up, you manage to meet the eyes of Namjoon, who is in a similar position to yourself, just in time for you to gasp at the sudden cold sensation at your ass. 

You’d think by now you would be used to the feeling of lube— you’re immediately distracted from that though at the sensation of Yoongi’s finger beginning to toy around your asshole. You allow yourself to relax as much as possible, turning your attention to Namjoon and Hoseok and simply enjoying the sensations Yoongi is eliciting. 

Namjoon’s hand raises, cupping your cheek and dragging down ever so gently. Hoseok catches the movement and lets out a coo, eyes boring into your own. 

“Wanna kiss him, baby boy? Go ahead, he’s good at it.”

You don’t need to be told twice, and neither does Namjoon. You find Hoseok definitely isn’t wrong as Namjoon’s lips meet your own, the kiss quickly turning heated as his mouth moves against your own. He swallows down your moans as Yoongi’s fingers begin to stretch you slowly, one by one.

You lose so much time in the hypnotic motion of bodies against your own that before you know it there is a gentle yet firm hand against your shoulder pulling you back from the man before you. 

“Ready, baby?”

You nod, and soon after hear the familiar tear of foil before the head of Yoongi’s cock is pressing against your hole. You take a deep breath in, allowing your eyes to flutter closed as he begins to press himself in and stretch you open bit by bit. The burn isn’t particularly painful tonight, and to be honest sometimes you’re partial to the sensation. 

By the time Yoongi is fully seated within you, you’re almost panting, soft moans escaping unwittingly. Through the fog of pleasure currently addling your brain, you hear similar noises in front of you and realise Namjoon must be in a similar state. Unconsciously, your hand stretches out, seeking contact, and manages to entwine with the large, warm one you identify as Namjoon’s good hand. 

As soon as Yoongi receives the green light from you, he begins to move. The sensations of him dragging against your walls are enough to almost drive you mad, especially at the slow pace he’s set. It isn’t long before he picks up though, and soon rough the slap of his hips against your ass is one of the many sinful noises echoing in the room, muffled by the loud music still booming beyond the bedroom walls. 

“O-oh, fuck,” you moan, barely coherent enough to respond to Namjoon’s seeking lips. Absently, you hear Yoongi’s soft groans and low murmured praises, and it makes your heart skip a beat. 

“Good boy,” he all but purrs, hand caressing down your spine before finding purchase at your hips. 

Time blurs and you’re wound so tight that it isn’t long before you feel yourself approaching that edge, your hand lowering to begin stroking your own cock again in an effort to reach your high faster. It’s one deep stroke that hits you in all the right places that is your undoing, and with a cry you’re cumming hard, spots appearing behind your eyes. 

The sudden tightness around his cock has Yoongi stilling, a low, drawn out groan sounding from his throat as he joins you in your high, throbbing inside you. Your arms are a little too weak to continue holding you, but he seems to be in tune enough that he notices and his own slip around you, easing you into his embrace as he adjusts on the mattress and hums into your skin. 

Namjoon and Hoseok aren’t far behind you, the two of them reaching their own end not long after. Namjoon flops against the bed, spent and Hoseok hops up to retrieve a bin and some wipes to clean up a bit before he too flops across the mattress, smacking Namjoon’s ass as he does and eliciting a brief whine in protest. 

“Well fuck,” you hum, staring absently at the ceiling. Yoongi snorts, pulling you closer, and like they all share a hive mind you’re very suddenly in the middle of a cuddle pile as the other two join in. 

“Beats just watching, doesn’t it?” One of them queries, probably Hoseok— you’re too tired to really discern it. 

“Mhm,” you respond, basking in content. “Four’s company, I suppose.”

There are a few hums of agreement, and then comfortable silence falls over the room. You find yourself smiling as you sink into the most content sleep you’ve had in a while, in the arms of the three boxers who have nestled their way into your heart one by one