#scrabbling and clawing at the walls

[m00ngbin]

Chapter 10 😧

Are you ready? Are you prepared? No? Me neither

[politemenacephd]

Stress Relief (18+)

Miguel O'Hara X GN!Reader Content: Heavy Daddy Kink, Mild degradation, Workplace sex, Spanking, PinV sex, Size Kink, Mild Breeding kink, Creampie

Notes: (No gendered terms are used for reader and there's no mention of characteristics, but vaginal terminology is used so be aware!!) forgive me I'm just a little feral rn lol

‘Mm- f-fuck, Mig—’

‘Shh, shh.’

Miguel’s sharp rebuttal made you pout, but the feeling of his fat cock stretching you out quickly humbled you once more. You bit your lip as he continued to rail your body into his desk.

‘Come on, one more.'

‘F-Fuck—daddy.’

You felt your face burning as you offered up that sweet gratification, and he rewarded you with a sharp smack to your bare ass. You felt him grunt with pleasure as it bounced against his calloused hand.

‘Así así, mm- tu pucha está mojadita' he murmured, more to himself than to you.'

You were bent over his work desk which he had hovering in the air, offering just the barest semblance of privacy for your little fuckfest. You’d only come in to give him some paperwork from Jess. Now he was balls deep inside you with your waist in his grip, his fingers barely an inch away from squeezing your little ribs to dust.

You knew he must be stressed, because he hadn’t even bothered to fully undress either you or himself. He’d phased away the part of his suit covering his cock the moment he had you over his knee, and while he'd remained patient enough to slip your clothes aside he'd then immediately riped a hole in your panties to get what he wanted.

You could still feel them there, sopping wet and tight around your ass and lips, utterly spoiled by the copious slick he was pumping out of you with each thrust.

‘You like that, huh?’

‘Mm- so, so good—’

‘You like daddy’s cock?’

You involuntarily squirted as he angled his shaft deep, your translucent slick left hanging in strings between your pussy and his pelvis. The clap of his skin on your rear was now resoundingly wet, the debaucherous sounds echoing in his giant office.

‘Fuck- I’m gonna have to clean my suit’ Miguel grunted. You whimpered, thinking at first that you’d somehow displeased him, but then a low groan vibrated through his chest. His clawed hand came down hard on your right ass cheek, his palm leaving a large and distinct red mark. The sting made you squirm.

‘So fuckin’ dirty, huh?’ he panted. You could hear the gratification in his voice, so husky and deep.

‘Someone’s—MM—Someone’s gonna hear that’ you whimpered. If Miguel heard you, he didn’t indicate it, as he refused to slow down.

He was pussy drunk beyond reason. He didn’t care if he got caught.

‘Say it again’ he barked. A fresh slap to your ass caused it to jiggle, and before you could even finish moaning he’d used both hands to spread your cheeks wide. Your feet scrabbled at the floor with each toe-curling insertion, each sopping wet thop of his cock as it filled you.

‘F-FF—Daddy, fuck—’

‘Mm. Again.’

He was being merciless today. You could barely get the words out as he thrust you against the cold metal desk.

‘D—mm- da—dadd—daddy—’

‘Again.’

You felt him throb and you clenched him right back. You felt every inch of his shaft as it pulsed, every vein and every contour now imprinted on the velvety walls of your cunt. You knew he’d already painted your cervix with his pre-cum, like a fingerprint pressed onto your insides.

‘Please, daddy, more’ you begged.

You squeaked as he suddenly lifted your thigh up and onto the desk. The metal was cold on your bare skin. He bent your back and arched inside as deep as he could, filling you with a virile mixture of pleasure and pain in your core. He was thrusting right up to the navel.

‘F-FUCK—’

You had to bite your hand to muffle your wet little moans, but Miguel was merciless. He reached around and gripped your neck as he pulled you taut, his pace quickening as he started to pump you to completion.

‘That’s it, mm- fuck, that’s it, so god damn tight, so—’

‘Hey! Miguel!’

Your eyes widened in horror as a voice echoed up from the floor of his office. They widened even further when Miguel refused to stop.

‘I’M BUSY!’ he snapped back, his voice rising to mask how breathless he was.

Miguel’s hand went smoothly from your neck to your mouth, helping to muffle your pathetic mewling from being heard. Thank god he had because he chose that moment to slide back against your g-spot, right as his balls started smacking your clit. You squirted in silence for a third time.

On this occasion, you felt Miguel take notice. He slid his hand down to where your skin met and covered his claws in your slick, letting it drip between his digits as he held them up.

You heard something wet, and as you tilted your head you realized he was licking it off his fingers.

‘Oh, uh- sorry! Just—we need your help with something!’ the voice called for a second time. You heard Miguel’s fangs clack.

‘I SAID IM BUSY!’ he snapped back down, his voice carrying a certain gruff bark to it this time around.

You could feel the sweat on his thighs as they clapped your bare legs. His thighs were huge, sculpted and hard just like the rest of him. You knew he could break your back if he wanted. Good thing right now he just wanted your pussy.

‘Oh, uh- okay! Sorry, I’ll- catch you up later!’

You heaved a silent sigh of relief, but it was short lived. The moment the intruders footsteps had echoed into nothing Miguel let out a vicious grunt, and soon your body was being pounded into the desk once more.

‘Alright, come on, time to let daddy finish’ Miguel groaned. You could feel him humping to completion, his cock fucking you raw. You barely stopped yourself from screaming.

‘Say it’ he ordered.

‘Daddy!’

‘More.’

‘Daddy, fuck—’

Your soft moans filled the room with the clap of his thrusts. Your whole body was bouncing now.

‘Come on, that’s it. You wanna make me a daddy for real?’ he breathlessly teased.

In a flood of dumb pleasure your cunt clenched him tight, so tight that his knees almost gave out.

‘MM—Fuck, please, yes daddy, please!’ you cried.

That was enough for him. His claws sprang out and dug into your waist as he emptied himself out, his cock pulsing load after load of thick, white seed into your pussy. It was almost scary how much he managed to fill you with. You could feel it squishing, oozing, thick and heavy inside you, warm and wet as it dribbled down your thigh before he even pulled out.

The moment he was spent he pulled out and immediately phased his suit back on. He tried to help you by pulling your panties back over, but they were ruined. They’d been ripped by the friction and served just to hang there all pretty over your creamy little hole. You could sense him admiring the view.

‘Good, well done’ he praised in his usual stilted way. He put a hand on your head and gently scratched at your scalp with his claws. You barely even noticed; you were trying not to collapse as your legs shook.

‘You did good. Now uh- go clean up for me baby, okay?'

[hellenhighwater]

In all these years, I've never learned how to tag someone, so I have to come to you directly, to show you the tears on my cheeks because he's sitting so quietly, curled up, watching a world he'll never know through a tiny crack in the wall.

Thank you!

You know, it's a little odd. All of the pieces in this series are about isolation and escape--Icarus, Orpheus and Eurydice, Prometheus, and certainly the Minotaur. But A Crack in the Labyrinth came first, and more than any of the rest, it's about resignation. About having fought and scrabbled and clawed desperately and still...not having made it. Still being trapped inside, alone.

And when I made it, I hadn't really intended to say anything more than that one piece, but I just couldn't leave it there. I had to give him the whole story--an innocent beginning, same as anyone. I couldn't leave the ending as it was written; I'd initially just intended to have the conclusion the myth gives him, slain by Theseus, but...if I'm going to say, "I'm the minotaur, monstrous and alone and told by the world that that is right and deserving," then I am also saying "you, who feels deeply for this, for whom this resonates, you are also the minotaur and we are monsters who deserve the ending that is written for us." And I...just can't bear to. There has to be hope.

So there is, very literally, light at the end of the labyrinth, one way or another.

Anyways, I used this song for that photoset on the clock app, but I think you would also enjoy it. Cow Boy, take us away.

[too-much-tma-stuff]

Don't Stop (18+)

Requested by @jinjeriffic: Dead on main, adrenaline fuelled, post battle hookup?

------

This had been a hard won fight, both Danny and Jason were left breathing hard. They could hear fighting still going on outside, and probably they should have gone to help but they had cleared their section and judging by the chatter on radio the other heroes had it under control. Jason was breathing heavily to the point the inside of his helmet was fogging up and he Needed to breath fresh air.

He scrabbled to get his helmet off, glad that he always wore a Domino mask underneath. He fumbled it and growled before managing to rip it off and take a gasping breath of blood soaked air.

When he looked over he was greeted by a pair of wide Lazarus green eyes staring at him. Those eyes still unsettled him, drew him in and repulsed him. Right now they sent a shiver down his spine as he tensed, still hopped up on adrenaline with his own gaze tinged green he was ready for a fight.

"What!?" He snapped.

"You're really hot," Danny blurted and Jason's mind ground to a halt. They both stood there, staring at each other for a moment before Jason moved.

He lunged forward, but not to fight, He grabbed Danny by the front of his black jacket and dragged him down from where he was floating. Danny made a sound of shock as Jason kissed him hard. As soon as Danny processed what was happening he kissed back and it was all tongue and teeth. Jason tasted copper and he wasn't sure if it was their blood or someone else's.

Danny dropped down, wrapping his legs around Jason's waist and trusting him with his weight. It wasn't hard, even when he wasn't floating Danny was lighter then a human his size would be. Jason didn't think twice before slamming Danny against the nearest wall, he knew the other man could take it.

He was validated by a muffled groan and sharp claws digging in to his shoulders. Danny didn't need to break the kiss to breath but Jason still did so after a few more heated moments he broke the kiss with a gasp. Danny cackled, looking like he had won something before he started to scrabble at the buckles on Jason's suit.

It was Jason's turn to laugh as he watched Danny get frustrated with trying to get the thing off! He was about to offer to help when Danny snarled and simply pulled the jacket and shirt off. Jason blinked, he hadn't heard any tearing and when Danny dropped it looking smug it was still all in one piece.

"You can just phase someone's clothes off?" Jason asked curiously.

"Well ya," Danny said like it was obvious as he quickly located a hidden zipper on the front of his own suit and undid it, shrugging it off so it hung around his waist. Jason was immediately distracted from talking in favour of running his hands over the cool, impossibly smooth and soft skin of Danny's chest. He felt like freshly fallen snow looked.

Danny purred and relaxed back against the wall, his legs still wrapped firmly around Jason's waist. The change in angle caused his ass to rub against Jason's hard cock making him moan and Danny purr even louder. He ground against Jason again making him snarl and push back in, kissing the ghost again deeply.

It was Danny's turn to explore, clawed fingers lightly tracing over his pectoral muscles and abs, admiring his physique without looking at it. Jason broke the kiss and bit Danny's throat hard, starting to suck the delicate skin as he moaned and let his head fall back against the wall, turning to the side to give Jason more room.

Trusting Danny to hold himself up Jason reached down and started to rub his dick through his pants making Danny moan. Well, at least he was as hard and eager as Jason was right now.

"Get the rest of it Off!" Jason demanded breathlessly, still nuzzling against Danny's neck, breathing deeply his scent of ozone and fallen leaves.

"So impatient~" Danny teased even as he did what he was asked and turned them both intangible so the rest of their clothes simply fell off.

Jason grabbed Danny's ass before hesitating, he hadn't exactly been planning to fuck tonight so he didn't have any lube or condoms on him. "Do you need-"

"No!" Danny snarled pulling Jason close to him again. "I will be Fine, don't you dare stop!" He insisted so vehemently it made Jason smile even as his cock throbbed.

"If you say so," He agreed and pushed one finger into Danny making him moan. He was cool, and soft, and tight inside and he yielded to Jason's touch with practiced ease. Soon Jason was able to ass a second finger, scissoring Danny open as he whined and moaned. "Fuck, you really do take it so well," Jason gasped, if he was thinking straight he might have been embarrassed by his own eagerness.

"You're damn right!" He gasped rocking his hips down against Jason's hand, shifting and wiggling till Jason's fingers nudged something inside him that made him gasp. "Now give it to me!"

"So demanding," Jason teased and laughed breathlessly when Danny snarled at him. "I didn't say I wouldn't," He purred as he pulled out his fingers, grabbing Danny's hips hard to still his eager wiggling.

Danny moaned openly, his head falling back to bare his throat again as Jason slowly pushed inside. He gasped and shivered at the feeling of Danny's chill against his heated skin but his muscles squeezed and rippled Jason's cock absolutely perfectly. Danny's chest was heaving with shallow necessary breaths, his eyes unfocused as he whined through gritted teeth.

Jason couldn't help put lean in to lick at Danny's fangs. Danny opens his mouth and their make out is as clumsy as it is eager until Jason's dick was fully buried in Danny's body and he was forced to break the kiss to breath.

It seemed Danny wasn't willing to wait for Jason to move though and took matters into his own hands, gripping Jason's shoulders tightly as he pushed himself up and sunk back down with a moan. Jason gasped at the unexpected pleasure and snarled as he took control again, re-firming his grip on Danny's hips and thrusting up into him.

"Fuck! Yes!" Danny moaned, egging Jason in to fuck him harder faster. It was brutal, if Danny had been human this would have been far to rough, far to fast but Danny could handle it. His claws dug in to Jason's back, scrabbling at his shoulders making Jason growl at the pain only adding to his passion and the smell of blood in the air.

"Jason! Jason, Fuck I'm gonna-" Danny cut off with a breathless moan, his back arching as he came, his ass clamping down around Jason's dick like a vise sending him quickly over the edge as well.

"Shit!" He gasped as his hips bucked back into Danny almost too quickly as he shuddered, overstimulated and overjoyed as he came inside Danny.

Their orgasms left them both panting and clinging to each other, adrenaline all used up. Danny rested his head on Jason's shoulder as they held each other for a long moment, broken when Jason started to shiver. His sweat chilled by Danny's cold.

Danny chuckled breathlessly and phased out of Jason's arms. "Let's get dressed before anyone comes to check on us."

[publicenemy212]

Filthy (Lute x fem!sub!reader)

Warnings: smut, dubcon, descriptions of violence, fingering, gagging, choking, knifeplay, degradation, sadomasochism dynamics

crossposted from AO3 under public_enemy_212. requests open for any hellaverse wlw pairings or f!reader

word count: 1280

NSFW under the cut

“You disgust me.”

The angel’s voice hissed, mere inches away from my ear. I groaned in response, my lips sticky and wet with my own blood. Her gloved hand grasped my hair with enough force to make me feel like my scalp was ripping off. Perhaps, at that point, that was the only thing keeping my eyes open. Without warning, she threw my face towards the pebbled alleyway ground.

My skull cracked on impact. The world faded to nothing, but only for a moment. Curse my new body and its resilience.

Sharp pain exploded in my chest as the exorcist sent a flying kick directly at my chest. I whimpered in agony and helplessness.

“Aww, does that hurt?” she purred mockingly. “The little sinner’s regretting her choices now?”

With effort, I painstakingly lifted my head off the filth-stained dirt to face the angel. All I could see was a blur of white and gray against the dark red background of Pentagram City. Extermination Day was almost over. I just had to survive until then.

I opened my mouth to speak and immediately fell into a coughing fit. Fresh blood splattered out, painting the concrete crimson. Hacking and spluttering for another minute, I forced out my words.

“Y-yes, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please—”

I heaved again. Fuck. The angel clicked her tongue impatiently as she stood with arms crossed, watching me vomit up more internal bleeding.

So much pain. So much pain. Hurts. Everything hurts.

I fell over onto my side again, groaning and panting for air.

“Are you done?”

“Ma’am, with all due respect, you’re wasting your time with me…” I rasp weakly. 

If pleading for my life wouldn’t work, I might as well try sucking up to her ego.

I prayed to God, Satan, whoever would listen; if only the exterminator would just move on to find other victims and leave me alone.

To my dismay, she only began to laugh.

Despair washed over my broken body. Was there no end to this torture?

“Wasting my time? No, no. I’ve already killed my fair share of your filthy kind. Now, it’s my turn to have a bit more fun by making you suffer slowly before I eventually kill you too.”

A sob bubbled out of my bloodied throat. I crumbled to the ground once more.

“Lute. Remember this name. It’s the last thing you’ll hear before you die.”

Something flipped inside me as all the pain and terror suddenly turned into indignancy and rage. Gritting my teeth, I summoned all my willpower to drag myself up. Glaring, I snarled, “You call yourself an angel? After making thousands of souls suffer and die a second death, as if dying once wasn’t enough?”

“It’s what you sinners deserve.” Lute brandished her sword, as if challenging me to take another step forward.

I was walking into a certain death, that I was sure of. But she was going to kill me regardless; why not try to fight back?

Claws out, I lunged forward unsteadily. In response, the angel flew forward at an inhuman speed and chokeslammed me directly into a wall. I scrabbled helplessly at her grip.

Lute roared with sadistic laughter.

Leaning closer, she whispered, “Can’t speak? Devil got your tongue?”

Fighting my survival instincts, I let go of her fingers around my neck…

…and sent my fist flying towards her face.

The blow landed squarely, shattering the glass of the exorcist mask.

“FUCK!” Lute screamed in shock. The surprise loosened her grip, allowing me to breathe only slightly more easily for a second. She ripped off the broken helmet with one hand and tossed it aside, using the same hand to punch me in the jaw.

I grinned at her distress. So it was possible to get under these exorcist angels’ skin. I decided, for my own cynical entertainment, to take it a step further.

“There is no way you don’t get off to this,” I croaked.

Lute growled in frustration. “Shut your fucking mouth.”

Her eyes flicked to the entryway of the dingy alley. No one was watching. The only sounds were the occasional distant screaming and the sound of my pained moaning and wheezing.

Her golden eyes slid back to the demon under her control, narrowing as she gritted her teeth.

She leaned in and kissed me with a fervor reminiscent of a starved animal. Her hand slackened again, her body pressing against mine. My blood smeared on her soldier’s uniform, mixing with the various splatters of her other, unluckier victims from earlier in the day. When we finally broke, gasping for air, Lute let go of my neck and stepped back. She drew her saber once more and pressed it against my bruised throat.

I whimpered and pressed my legs together, desperate to relieve the growing need between my thighs.

Lute was absolutely taken aback and scowled in disgust at my reaction.

“ Filthy. ”

Yet, against her own venom-laced words, her other hand slid down my body. 

“ Worthless .”

Two fingers pressed against my cunt.

My eyes screwed shut. I didn’t even know what I was feeling anymore. Pain from my injuries mixed with lust and pleasure at the angel’s ghosting touch. Oh, agony. Pure, sweet agony.

“...Are you serious? Does beat within an inch of your life turn you on that much?”

With that, she shoved her fingers into my mouth. I gagged at the sudden intrusion while she continued to finger-fuck my mouth with no breaks, generously coating her hand with my saliva and blood. Once she was satisfied, she drew her hand out and slapped me so hard my eyeballs shook in my skull. I moaned loudly and Lute immediately smacked her palm back over my mouth.

“Shut the fuck up before somebody finds us.” She hissed dangerously.

Once she was sure no other angels were coming, she sighed and returned her attention to me. Lute ripped off a chunk of my tattered clothes and shoved it in my mouth as a makeshift gag. 

Her hand then returned to my pants, sliding beneath the fabric and between my slick folds. She wasted no time in dipping right into my hole, using three fingers immediately without giving me any time to adjust. I yelped in pain, but the gag muffled any words I had. Lute grinned and leaned directly next to my ear.

“What’s the problem? It hurts? This is your punishment for going against Heaven, so you better fucking take it.”

Drool and tears collected at my chin, mixing together before dripping to the ground. My body threatened to lose consciousness with each brutal thrust. My head fell forward and landed on Lute’s armored shoulder as I continued to babble incoherently, the exorcist pushing me for orgasm after orgasm with no mercy. Only after I finally passed out from the sheer exhaustion of hours of getting fucked up and being straight up fucked did she pull out and toss my limp body aside.

Much to my disappointment, I woke up again to Lute kicking me repeatedly.

“Hey. Get up.”

Her boot pushed my head face-up to check if I was conscious. I stared at her, bleary-eyed. “You’re still alive? Huh. That works for me. I want you to watch me kill you.”

A flash of light. Warm liquid started gushing out of my chest. I looked down slowly to see the divine metal sunken halfway through my chest. Lute then yanked her blade out effortlessly and walked away without a word, leaving me to bleed out in a pool of my blood and cum.

The siren signaling the end of this year’s Extermination Day was the last thing I heard before eternal darkness swallowed me whole.

[luveline]

hi Jade! I had a Miguel request but I apologize that it’s rather vague. Could you do Miguel comforting/dealing w how to comfort r when she’s genuinely afraid of something? I figure he’d be a little lost until he snaps into how much he cares! <3 love u

hope this is okay, thank u for requesting!! ♥

cw drug mention

Miguel watches you from the corner of his eye, uneasy. Arms stretched out in front of you to avoid walking into walls in the dim lighting, you follow the beam of his flashlight through the dark laboratory you'd wanted to investigate one precarious step at a time. The air smells of water-logged wood, rotting and stagnant. 

You're not his protege, but Miguel decided to take you under his wing (his claw? his web?) because you have good ideas, and he needs all the help he can get if he's going to save everyone, everywhere. He's also fucking tired and he's agitated with you for bringing him to some derelict building in a dimension that doesn't have spiders, let alone Spider People. 

"Why did you need this thing?" he asks. 

"Already told you." 

"Tell me again." 

If Miguel thinks he's a man of little words, you talk even less. "Spider adjacent creatures create a chemical similar to what you're injecting now, but less volatile." 

He doesn't remember you telling him that before. He doesn't stutter, the only evidence of his surprise a waver of the light beam. 

"And you'll, what? Synthesise for me?" he asks. 

"It could be gentler. Maybe give you a sense of normalcy."

Normalcy. He hasn't felt normal in a long time. 

He snaps into the quiet, "This is a waste of time, I don't need something gentler, what I need is to be back at the lab fixing your communicator." 

"It'll be like methadone," you say, stepping over a puddle of water with no apparent source. It must be seeping upward. 

He's lucky he didn't just get 'methadone' and nothing else thrown at him. Miguel fixes the flashlight up the oncoming stairs as you start to ascend, lightly chastened. Methadone is a drug intended to assist in heroin dependency. It has its own cons, but in lots of cases, it can help the user stop using the original drug. He assumes you're suggesting that whatever drug he synthesises from the 'spider adjacent creature' will help him wean off of the injections (unlikely), or maybe repair some damaged DNA (complicated but not favourable right now).

"It'll be safer," you say, walking into the room toward an upturned lab bench. "You can make something with it. I know you can." 

"I have to do it?" he asks, stopped in the doorway. 

"You're the geneticist. It's really quiet." 

The lack of changing cadence to your voice doesn't catch up with him until you're turning back toward him, your nervous expression lit by the torch. One second you're looking at him for reassurance, and the next you're falling through the floor, wood splintering up in a wave as the boards crack.

You scream. As loud of a sound as Miguel has ever heard from you, your arms slam forward to catch onto the edge of the hole your feet created. Miguel doesn't immediately move, aware that his weight over the weakened floor will damage the integrity further, but you beg him, shrill, "Miguel," you say, your voice strangled, "help me!"  

Your arms scrabble for purchase, you're pleading through sobs, "I don't want to fall–" 

He snaps his torch to his shoulder and flips forward. He grabs your arms, rolling across the shattered flooring to the opposite end of the room, releasing you as the weight of your bodies lands. You oof and roll out of his arms. 

He's quick to get on his feet. Miguel hardly felt it. You flinch away from him and hold out your arms, a sleuce of maroon blood spilling down your side from under your arm. "Don't! Miguel, don't concentrate our weight!" 

"You're crying," he says. 

"Stop moving!" you yell. 

"Alright!" he yells back, moving back toward a load-bearing pillar. "Calm down, estúpida! I'm not going to let you fall." 

"You can't come over here, the floor's gonna break again." 

"It won't break." 

"It's going to break!" 

You breathe harshly, staring at the hole you'd made. He understands why you were scared. The fall was sudden, and if you'd managed to slide through the hole you would have snapped your legs, perhaps your spine. Super healing doesn't negate pain. 

"Lyla?" he asks. 

She appears from his watch, in pyjamas with her hair held back by a white bunny-eared headband. "I was taking my fake nap. What do you want?" 

"I want a filter that accounts for a building's structural integrity," he says. 

"That's impossible without blueprints and– Hey, woah, what happened to Y/N?" she asks, keying in on your frantic panting. 

"Tell me how to get from here to there without breaking through the floor," he says, snaps, incensed by your panicked breathing. 

Lyla thankfully doesn't argue, nor does she make him beg. His heart pounds at the sight of you where you're shaking, certain you're a moment from falling again, your hands clamped uselessly to an outlet fixture on the wall. 

A blue path lights up Miguel's UI. It directs him with blinking arrows on how to reach you. Miguel follows along, and, wanting to carry you or at the very least wipe your wet cheeks, he lifts you onto your feet and walks you back to the door, directing you over stress points, hand held taut in his. The floor groans and sags dangerously underfoot, but it doesn't collapse again. 

You should've been wearing your suit, he thinks. You're an idiot. You came out here wanting to find something for him when you should've been directing your efforts to the cause of the strike force and the whole Society, but you wasted time, and now you're injured. You should've been wearing your fucking web shooters–

You try uselessly to bury your hands in his suit, your face dropped to his chest. You sob quietly, your shoulders shaking. "I'm sorry," you say, borderline hysterical. 

Miguel brings his hand to your shoulder awkwardly. You might have made a mistake, but you're kind. You're more than a brilliant mind, you're a person, with fear and want intertwined. You clearly hadn't liked the dark but you'd braved it for him knowing the chemical here in the labs could improve his quality of life. He shouldn't think about you so meanly. You couldn't have known about the floor. 

"What are you sorry for?" he asks with a sigh. 

His awkwardness comes across as reluctance. You stiffen under his hand. 

"I thought I was gonna fall," you say weakly, sniffling against his chest. 

Miguel starts to rub a slow shape into your back. It feels wrong to hear and see you cry, his quiet cariño, who haunts his laboratory offering little in the way of words but always a smile if you have it to give. "It's okay," he says, ducking his head to talk into your hair. He remembers how to do this. "Don't cry. I would've caught you." 

Miguel would've followed you down and wrapped you up to take the brunt of it without thinking, he knows that.

Your arms wrap around his sides. "When you didn't come get me I thought you were gonna let me fall," you confess, with a wet laugh as if to say, How silly am I?

Insanely silly. 

Miguel pats your back in a steadying thump, thump, thump. "Are you kidding? You think something like that would happen on my watch?" 

You shudder and give a little cough. He's surprised you didn't throw up, you'd wound yourself that tightly. Miguel pushes you away to make sure you aren't about to yak on him, and to check your face over for injury. He moves down to your neck, your bloodied side. 

"We need to go home," he says, holding your arm up away from the wound in as tender a grasp as he's capable of. 

"I didn't find the adendiam."

"Forget about it," he says. "We're going home. You're hurt." 

Miguel would pull you through the portal kicking and screaming if he had to, but luckily, you don't make a fuss. 

—

It's admittedly a blow to your ego to have cried in Miguel's arms. You don't know what to say or how to look at him now, miserable as he wipes down your skin with an iodine solution. His touch lingers: his hand on your shoulder, his reassuring hug less than an hour before like a cobweb on your skin. 

He passes you a change of clothes, a simple white shirt for moments like this. There's no need or want for a hospital gown. 

You pull it on, wincing at the soreness despite your quick healing and the nanotechnology that stitched your mean cut. You've deep bruises everywhere, especially under your arms where you caught yourself. 

You haven't managed to stop shaking, curled forward with a disposable bedpan in your hands. The smell of iodine makes you nauseous. 

Miguel audibly huffs. You can't face his disappointed glare. 

"Sorry, Miguel," you say. "I… wanted to do something to help you." 

"That was your first mistake. I don't need help." 

You wince and go rigid, clinging to your bedpan for dear life and cursing yourself for being an idiot as he'd lamented, when a weight shifts on the examination table. A blue bedecked thigh spread out next to your own. 

"Second mistake, thinking I'd leave you to fall. Third, thinking you owe me an apology." 

"Any more?" you ask weakly. 

Your waist grows hot under the touch of a hand. Miguel wraps his arm around you gently. "No. Nothing else." 

Miguel pulls you in for a half hug.

You lean in to his side. He's solid beside you, and he starts to talk. He tells you about Rapture, the first time, and the mistakes he made after it. How scared he was in few words but an honest admission, his arm never moving from where it curls around you, holding you close. "We all have things that scare us," he says. "But you can't let them stop you from moving forward."

"How do you stop the fear?" you ask. 

"No, you can't. You need to keep going. I wasn't going to let you fall, and I won't, but you need to be able to pull yourself up. I can't… lose you to fear." 

You look up at the side of his face. He's looking down at the floor, not bashful or nervous but determined. His brow is set, and when he turns his gaze to you, it doesn't soften. 

"I can't lose you," he says. "I won't." 

You stare as he wraps you in a hug, your wide eyes looking over his shoulder in shock, your hands moving weakly behind his back to reciprocate. He drops his face into your neck. 

After a moment, you close your eyes and lean in. 

[moonlight-prose]

✧ THRILLS ✧

a/n: day one of kinktober!! i am extremely excited about this year, simply because i am intent on actually finishing this list. honestly i'm a little nervous for it to begin since i'm still speed writing week two. but we're here! and what a better way to kick everything off than with this man? i hope y'all enjoy this month! it'll be fun.

day one - hair pulling + choking | kinktober 2023

summary: "he sought you out in the darkness of your shared home and found what he knew would keep him from dipping beneath the surface again. and you let him."

word count: 0.9k+

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI, rough sex, hair pulling, choking, p in v sex, a tiny bit of praise.

He wanted to drown in you. Suffocate beneath the warmth of your love, but he couldn’t find his own way out of his head. As if the pain in his mind kept him trapped in a cage he had no way to unlock. It taunted him. Whispered his worst fears in his ear, claiming they would happen eventually.

So when the door creaked shut, silence enveloping the both of you, he clawed his way to the surface. He sought you out in the darkness of your shared home and found what he knew would keep him from dipping beneath the surface again. And you let him. You welcomed him with open arms, crooning words of love to combat the darkness.

You became his anchor amidst the ravaging ocean in his head.

“My pretty girl,” he gasped, his fingers digging into your hip to leverage the strength of his thrusts.

“Oh—fuck,” you choked out, mouth open and spit drooling into the pillow beneath your head.

“Look at you.”

He grinned, teeth digging into his bottom lip at the sight of you. On all fours, face pressed into the bed, as he brought you over the edge again and again. If he had his way, you’d be like this all night. Unable to discern what time of day it was simply because he’d fucked every thought out of your head.

“My pretty fucking girl,” he murmured, leaning over to kiss up your spine, his hips slamming into you roughly. Taking what you offered with a smile on his face and love in his eyes.

He wanted to consume you. Except Joel knew the truth. You were consuming him. Dragging him beneath the depths of pleasure with each garbled moan and cry of his name—sweetly suffocating him in your warmth. And he relished in it. Needed more, because you were the only thing keeping him breathing at this point. The only reason he survived this fucking world when everything else wanted to kill him.

Grunting, reached forward and gathered your hair in his hand, yanking it back until you back bowed—head falling back. A hoarse shout of his name echoed off the walls, your pussy clamping around his cock and drawing out a growl from him. A sound that shot through you.

“You like that?” he whispered in your ear, shifting his angle slightly until he struck gold. Ripping a high moan from your throat as the head of his cock rammed repeatedly into your g-spot. “Yeah you like that.”

“J-Joel!” you gasped, hands scrabbling along the sheets to hold yourself up, trying to meet his thrusts. But his hold on you kept you in place, allowing him complete control over your entire being.

“C’mon darlin’,” he grunted, watching as your mouth parted even further, spit trailing down your chin. “Cum on my cock. I know you need it.”

You nodded frantically, feeling his hand tighten around your hair as he sped up. Nearly shoving you up the bed with each thrust. Something was missing though. That added pressure that would send you flying off the edge, and before you could beg him for it. He had already given it to you. Wrapping his other hand around your throat, he pulled you up until your back slammed to his chest—your airways quickly being cut off as he held you to him.

Something pulled tight and sharp in your body. Joel’s touch caused you to quickly respond how he wanted—how he knew you would. He understood you so well sometimes it scared you. Made you wonder what happened in your life to where you wound up with him. A man who said less than he needed to, but spoke loudly through his actions. Just as he did now.

Grunting against your throat, he felt you gush around him—your slick practically dripping down your inner thighs and making a mess between the both of you. One he would happily clean up after this—allowing his tongue to explore parts of you he had yet to touch tonight. But for now he was intent on driving you towards that final push.

Digging your nails into his arm, you felt your walls flutter around him. The building sensation finally coming to a heady break as he allowed a tiny bit of air to break through to your lungs. He scraped his teeth against your shoulder, his fingers falling to swirl rapidly over your clit.

“I-I’m gonna—” Your words cut off as you felt the pressure snap in two, a blinding sensation flooding your body. A shout of his name bounced off the walls of your house, his muttered praise pressed into your skin.

Joel continued his ministrations, shoving you even higher until your body bowed into his, your eyes fluttering shut and chest heaving. He palmed your breast, holding it tenderly in his hand as you grabbed hold of his wrist, slowing his movements and eventually stopping them altogether. Your mind was hazy. As if you’d had your fill of the man behind you—a drunkenness overtaking the sense of clarity that no longer seemed to exist.

It wasn’t until he gently thrust back into you did you realize…he hadn’t finished.

“Again?” he murmured, fingers sliding down into your slick. A smile spread across his lips when you shuddered against his body—the overstimulation nearly too much for you to take.

But that didn’t stop you from nodding against his shoulder, your hand releasing his wrist. Giving into his reverent touch with ease.

[shotmrmiller]

I BEG you to make a collab fic one day for OF!reader and OF!ghost

Ghost wouldn’t really care for the views or tips (which would be so much, let’s be honest)

He would have his mask slightly up while making sure to finally get that taste he didn’t know he needed until he heard your whines <3

And he’d be so fucking hard when he’s able to replace that silicone dildo with himself, bouncing you on him with a tight grip on your hips and waist

JSJSJSBBDJDHEHBSHDB IM CLAWING AT THE WALLS

course! gotta write the smut for ghost, as always. while he'll love watching ya bounce on him, he's gotta take the reins on this as he usually does. something about having a cute person bent in half underneath him, pinning them down with his weight makes his head spin.

they're forced to (but not really) take him for all he's worth, hands scrabbling around for purchase, legs hooked over his broad shoulders with no. where. to. go.

love that.

[coffeeghoulie]

for the kiss ask, 7 with dewphantom? :333

I do call them Aeon in this, I hope that's alright!

Prompt from this list

#7: to shut them up

"Dew?"

Dew blinks awake, back pressed against the wall of his bunk. The bus is swaying gently, and he can feel the vibrations of the engine even back here, in the darkness behind his privacy curtain. His sleep was restless anyways. The bunk has been too empty, too cold, even though the fire in his chest hasn't burned any lower.

"Voidling?" he mumbles. He paws the curtain open, revealing Aeon, blanket in hand, worrying at the skin around their claws, hands held up by their chest. They startle, even though they had called for him.

"Did I wake you?" they whisper, tail lashing behind them, the spade scraping against the rough carpet lining the aisle floor.

Dew shrugs, patting the space beside him. "You want in?"

They don't answer, crawling into Dew's bunk, dragging their blanket in with them. Dew's hit with the ozone scent of barely in-control quintessence, the tartness of blackberries underneath, and he's quick to reach out, hand just above their bicep.

"How'd you feel about touch, voidling?"

They nod, and Dew doesn't hesitate, pulling the younger ghoul into his arms, his narrow chest pressed against their back. "So," he hums, nosing at the soft black hair at the base of their skull. "Can't sleep?"

"Brain won't shut up," Aeon whispers, clutching the soft, violet fabric to their face, muffling their words.

Dew hums, a rusty purr kicking up in his chest. This has never been his strong suit, but Belial, Aeon came to him, and he'd be damned back to the Pit before he didn't at least try to help them. "You want to talk about it?"

Aeon tenses in his arms, and Dew purrs a little louder, hand rubbing up and down their bicep. "It's okay if you don't wa-"

"Do you think any of them really like me?" Aeon blurts out, turning in Dew's arms so they're facing him. Dew tenses, brow furrowing as he pulls them closer, chest to chest.

"What do you mean, voidling?" An icy feeling fills Dew's chest as Aeon begins to ramble.

"I don't think any of the fans like me, I keep making mistakes and I can feel Papa looking at me and I'm here instead of him and I'm not doing a good enough job taking his pl-"

He's had enough. He takes their face in his hands, spindly fingers, weaving into their hair as he kisses them softly.

"Voidling, sweet thing, listen to me, okay?"

Aeon nods, their violet eye crossed as they look at him, practically nose to nose. They're shaking, and Dew wishes he were better at this. But they came to him.

"They love you, voidling," he says, leaning closer to kiss between their eyes. "I promise you. You're doing just fine. And we all make mistakes, and we've been doing this a lot longer than you have."

"Thanks, Dew," they whisper, leaning into his hands.

"I know I've shown you that one time Swiss ate shit during Year Zero and fucked up his back," Dew says, scrabbling for his phone. "I don't think anyone's showed you this yet, voidling, but I fucked up Ritual one time so bad, I mimed shooting myself on stage, I was so embarrassed."

They laugh, a little chuckle, and Dew can feel it from where they're pressed together. He pulls back just a little to search for the clip. Dew feels Aeon relaxing against him, and counts it as a win.

[robinette-green]

Late Night Day Dreams Chapter 11:

The Day After

You’re a Parts and Service Technician who’s been out for a week due to illness. An early morning phone call has you coming in at 6 am on your first day back instead of 10 pm like you had been planning on.

You just want to clock in, get set up and then seen your robot boys in the daycare but things don’t go as planned.

2,941 words

Princess Quest ending

Sun and Moon are 100% your boyfriends and it’s a secret but everyone knows

Punching my code into the keypad, I yawned, covering my mouth and squinting as my eyes watered.

6am was much, MUCH too early to be awake.

A phone call had startled me from sleep about 15 minutes ago. It was one of management’s automated voice messages, pre-recorded and riddled with breaks from a robotic AI voice.

“Hello, Faz Bear employee, NUMBER 13357. We are calling to inform you that you are needed to work MORNING SHIFT PARTS AND SERVICE TECHNICIAN. We apologize for any inconvenience and appreciate your cooperation. Please arrive on time for your SIX AM shift. Thank you and have a good day.”

I’d been out sick for a week and today was my first day back. It was just starting much, MUCH earlier than I thought it would.

Jeff must have called out. He was the normal morning tech. It was odd though because usually he’d shoot me a text to give me a heads up if he knew he wouldn’t be able to come in.

Well if he was sick he’d probably be sleeping in so I’d text him later to make sure he was alright.

The keypad beeped, light glowing green for a moment before the large metal door that split the parking garage from the lobby started to lift.

Adjusting my bag on my shoulder, I took a long sip of coffee while I waited for the door to rise enough to walk under.

Neon lights reflected off the polished floors of the lobby, large LED screens played ads of the band on the pillars and walls, and staff bots mopped the floors and did security rounds. Everything as normal at Freddy Fazbear’s Mega Pizza Plex.

Well until I made it to the turn styles and noticed that the gates for the lower gift shop and the customer service counter were both raised.

…

They should have been lowered last night and the night guard wouldn’t have needed to raise them.

…

Okay, well, whatever.

Maybe one of the animatronics opened them and forgot to close them again.

Ducking into one of the ticket booths, I booted up one of the computers and clocked in for my shift. The computer played a little fan fair with children cheering in the background as the punch went through and I rolled my eyes. I don’t know who programmed it to do that but I wanted to have a conversation with them. We were just going to talk.

Taking another sip of coffee, I adjusted my bag again and started through the lobby and up the stairs to the elevators.

The plan was to go down to parts and service first and get set up then I’d check on the main four before going to the daycare to see Sun and Moon. I needed to at least pretend to do my job before I could see my favorite boys and once we’d gotten through the hugs and catching up I’m sure they’d enjoy coming with me on my rounds of the -

…

The elevator doors had opened and I was distracted by the upper half of Monty clawing his way across the atrium floor. Not even sparing me a glance.

“… the fuck???”

It took another long moment before I could pull myself out of my surprise and shock.

“MONTY!” I shouted, trotting to catch up to the torso crawling across the floor.

“Dude! What the fuck?”

He didn’t respond, continuing on his merry way, a growl periodically coming from his voice box.

I dropped to a knee and set my coffee aside so I could rummage through my bag. Luckily, my Faz wrench, a large, orange, two-pronged tool, was near the top.

Faz wrench in hand, I ran to Monty and practically tackled him, placing a knee in his back to press him to the floor. As the bot growled and scrabbled at the floor, ripping up carpet and scooting us jerkily forward, I forced the service hatch on the upper part of his back open and slammed the prongs of the Faz wrench into the slot I’d uncovered. With a twist of the wrench, Monty slumped to the floor as he rebooted.

What the hell happened last night???

As Monty started to boot back on, I moved to sit next to him on the floor, closing his service hatch as I did.

Monty blinked a few times then groaned, clutching at his head with what was left of his hands. Now that I was really looking at him I could see that the shells of his hands were also gone.

Did someone break him for his upgrade?

Were the others okay??

“Wha?” Monty shifted to look down at himself and then at me.

“What, in the swampy bottom Faz fuck happened to my legs!?” He demanded in his gruff cajun accent.

“Language. If I knew, I’d tell you. I just got here. Walked through the doors and found you crawling your way through the plex. I was hoping you could tell me.”

“ Hypocrite. You spend too much time in that daycare” Monty grumbled.

“Is everyone else alright?”

“Again, just got here,” I repeated, ignoring his jab at my own use of cuss words, before getting to my knees and grabbing the gator under his arms.

“Come here you overgrown backpack. Let’s get moving and find out.”

With Monty’s help and a good bit of struggle, I managed to get Monty into my back and stood. Turns out that he was still extremely heavy when only part of an upper body.

“You’ll grumble but we’re going to the daycare first.”

Monty did grumble a little bit, tightening his grip on my shoulders.

“Na, I get it. Need to check on your boys.”

Lugging the large gator along, I went back to the elevator to go back to the lobby. This route would be faster than going through Kids Cove and I wouldn’t have to walk as far with a heavy passenger on my back.

“Hey kid, put me down. I’ll crawl” Monty could tell I was already flagging.

“No. This is faster and I can have Sun and Moon carry you once we find them.”

The music in the elevator cut out and the announcer told us a Faz fact that was very clearly untrue.

Bears aren't extinct yet and most certainly don't eat pizza in the wild.

Monty and I waited silently for it to finish and now that we weren’t talking I could really feel his weight pulling me down, compressing my body.

“…Though if I change my mind you’ll be the first to know.”

Monty chuckled and the elevator doors opened and we were able to continue on.

We made it to the daycare check-in before I had to set Monty down but we were close enough that it didn’t matter.

I practically fell down, getting Monty to the floor without dropping him and my body felt oddly light and floaty as I stumbled to the 'side into fun' slide that went down into the daycare proper.

“SUN!” I called down the colorful plastic tube.

I’d been out for a week, they should be anxious wrecks to see me again.

The sudden crashing of an animatronic scrambling up the slide startled me and when Sun shot out, his arms wrapping around me I fell over, his weight crushing me.

“OH DEWDROP! I’m so glad, glad, GLAD! You’re back! So many things have gone WRONG! They made us get an upgrade WITHOUT YOU! It was HORRIBLE! And, and now Moon won’t talk to me! And he’s HURT an EMPLOYEE!! And we’ve had complaints! I’m not allowed to turn the light OFF anymore!! and, and, and OH MY GOD WHAT’S HAPPENED TO MONTY!!!” Holding me tight to his chest, Sun scrambled away from the torso of the gator that was crawling towards us.

“Woah! Easy!” I took Sun’s face into my hands, trying to calm him some.

“It’s alright.”

The large sunny animatronic melted into my touch, curling further around me.

Next time I get sick I’m going to let Sun and Moon squirrel me away in their room and let them care for me like they wanted because clearly I couldn’t leave for a moment without things falling apart… literally.

Monty sighed, resting his head on his hands as he looked at us over his sunglasses.

“We don’t know what happened to 'em,” Monty grumbled.

“I woke up like this. Your little human says they found me crawling through the atrium like this and gave me a reboot.”

It took a little longer to calm Sun down and after some coaxing and more hugs, I finally got him to let me go.

We decided that the first thing we would do was get Monty down to parts and service. I didn’t know what condition the others would be in and I might need Sun and Moon to carry them. That would be easier if they weren’t also carrying the gator.

I also wanted to check on Moon. From what Sun had said I had a feeling that something had gone wrong with whatever upgrade they’d gotten and I needed to make sure Moon was okay.

Sun scooped Monty up and carried him with one arm then snagged my hand, squeezing for reassurance.

Giving him a smile, I squeezed back.

I was going to fix this.

It didn’t take long to get down to parts and service. We placed Monty on one of the work tables and let him go into rest mode then I gently talked Sun into the repair tube. He was nervously pulling at a ray, the rest pulled into his face plate with worry.

“A-are you sure this is a good idea? Y-you haven’t seen the state of our room. H-he’s been destroying staff bots! I don’t want you to get hurt! What if something’s really REALLY wrong and he- and he-!”

“It’ll be okay, Sunny bunny,” I murmured, patting Sun’s hand as he sat in the large dentist-looking chair.

“You and I both know that Moon would never do anything to hurt me. We’re going to find out what they did wrong during your upgrade and I’m going to fix it. Promise. It’ll be okay.”

The door closed, sealing us in as I sat on my rolling stool and hooked up my laptop to the port in the back of Sun’s head.

“I’ll do a check on you first, then we’ll turn out the lights,” I said, already distracted by code as I dug through Sun’s files, Sun giving me a nervous affirmative.

They’d given Sun and Moon a battery that could outlast any of the other animatronic’s batteries but when they’d done this they’d turned off Sun and Moon’s ability to enter rest mode.

I grumbled something unsavory to myself as I turned it back on. Not being able to rest for a week was probably part of the reason Sun was so high-strung right now. Not resting on top of everything else going on.

Luckily everything else seemed to be in order…

“We’re going to take a long nap once we get everything sorted. Looks like you both need a snuggle and some rest.”

Sun took one of my hands in his, tilting his head slightly so he could look up at me with his white eyes.

“Please?” He asked, his voice so small.

I leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“Absolutely.”

Now it was time to check on Moon.

Giving Sun’s hand a squeeze, I reached over and placed a finger on the light controls.

“Ready?” I asked softly and after a moment of hesitation, Sun nodded.

The lights in the repair tube went out and dimmed in the rest of Parts and Service. Sun’s body convulsed and he made a pained sound that had me lurching forward.

“SUN?!?” I called out but as soon as it had started, it stopped, Moon’s red eyes glowing in the dark.

“Are you alright!? That sounded like it hurt!” I ran my fingers along the edge of Moon’s face plate where Sun’s rays had retracted, looking to see if something was impeding the change there.

A hand grabbed my wrist and squeezed. Hard.

“Ahh,” I hissed, free hand instinctively going to Moon’s fingers to try and relieve some of the pressure as my eyes flew to Moon’s.

“Sssss-starlight?” Moon growled, voice glitching.

Suddenly, Moon jerked forward, gripping his face plate with a hand and crying out, his eyes flickering purple for a moment.

“Moon. Talk to me, buddy. What’s wrong?” I scrambled for my laptop, clicking away with my free hand through Moon’s coding, wincing as I tried to ignore the way my other wrist was being crushed.

“S-sommmmme-thing’ssss. Ii-t’sss in-n-n-n-n my head. Connn-t-trolling-” Moon managed to get out, doing his best to fight whatever was trying to rear its ugly head.

“Hold on honey, I got you,” I murmured, typing as fast as I could with one hand.

There was something in his code, probably the same thing that had been affecting Monty when I’d first found him. Moon needed a reboot, that should clear out the virus like it had with Monty.

Moon growled, the metal of his face plate creaking as his grip tightened down, the grip on my wrist just as tight.

“J-Just a little longer. Hold out for me if you can.” I managed to say through gritted teeth, trying to ignore the way my bones were creaking.

Grabbing my Faz wrench, I was just barely able to get the prongs into the slot on the back of Moon’s face plate. With a grunt, I turned the wrench and Moon suddenly went limp, eyes going dark.

I pulled my arm free from his grasp and cradled it to my chest. By some miracle, it was bruised but not broken.

Leaning closer, I tried to see what Moon’s optics were doing.

“Moon? How are you feeling sweetheart?”

Red eyes flickering back on, I had to sit back as their head did a spin and Sun’s rays joined Moon’s hat.

“Happy Birthday!” Eclipse gushed and I sighed, smiling down at the grinning robot.

If Eclipse was fronting then everything must be working smoothly. This part of the daycare attendant could only surface when Sun and Moon were working in harmony.

“Not my birthday, Eclipse. Did the reboot wipe the virus from your system?”

“Sure did! We’re in tip-top shape! And we’re able to communicate again just fine as you can see!” Eclipse gushed as he sat up, reaching out to pull me into a hug.

“Thank you, Star Shine!” He whispered into my hair. Then in a much smaller voice, he asked

“Is it… time for that cuddle?” He sounded so anxious and sad, I wanted to immediately agree but we still had work to do.

But then I would cuddle my poor boys for days and we’d have a week-long sleepover. They deserved it after what they’d been through.

After checking on Monty one more time, Sun, Moon, and I set out to find Roxy, Chica, and Freddy and check on DJ Music Man.

We found Roxy in her salon, sobbing uncontrollably as she tried to hide her face. Her eyes had been ripped from her head, wires hanging loose from the empty sockets. Her hair had been thoroughly messed up and it looked like her snout had been bent giving her a permanent snarl.

The shock from losing her eyes had forced an auto reboot, purging the virus but it had left Roxy a wreck, sobbing and raging about the boy that had taken her eyes from her.

Sun and I promised over and over that she was still the most beautiful and that I would easily be able to fix her. I even told her that we could add whatever she wanted to her shell. New hairstyle, new colors, different earrings, whatever she wanted. We’d make a spa day of it.

This seemed to calm her down some and Sun and I were able to get her to parts and service, letting her sit in a chair near Monty’s table as she whimpered softly.

So this Gregory had taken Monty’s hands and Roxy’s eyes. I had a feeling I knew what would be missing when we found Chica.

And I was right but it was worse than I’d thought.

She’d been smashed by the trash compactor but was somehow still mindlessly wandering around and shoving food into what was left of her mouth. Someone had pulled her voice box out and taken her beak with it leaving Chica with a large hole in her face. Her shell was cracked in serval places and she reeked of trash.

I ended up having to have Moon hold Chica down so I could open the service panel in her back and force a reboot with my Faz wrench.

Even once she was rebooted, Chica seemed dazed and confused. Moon was able to converse with her via sign language but, just like Monty, she had no memory of what had happened.

DJ Music Man seemed alright, all things considered. He seemed to have the robot equivalent of a headache, holding his head, lying sprawled out on his stage. DJ had a vague memory of a boy running about the arcade but couldn’t tell us more.

No matter how hard we looked, we couldn’t find any sign of Freddy. He appeared to have vanished along with the boy that had caused all this destruction.

If this is what happens when I leave for a week then I guess I can’t leave ever again.

Not that Sun or Moon would let me.

[astarions-bride]

Hey! I hope your doing great and you're having the most wonderful time possible

I've read the work you did on Charlie (which was honestly amazing (at least for my own taste) I do truly am quite fond of the way you formulate and articulate your writings (btw i'm still sorry for my English , I'm still not the best at it, sadly enough)

, I would have liked to know if I could ask you to write something with the the kink list some CNC for Charlie please 👉🏻👈🏻👉🏻👈🏻 (I'm a sucker for red flags)

No matters of the anwser I hope you will have a nice and great day full of love and good things.

With all my respect (And appreciation for your work )

Nonnie 🥺

You are just an absolute sweetheart 😭 seriously thank you so much. Also I am a sucker for red flags, too 🥴

TW: CNC; Name calling; Smut

You didn't even see the man in the alley. You were walking alone at night, just finishing your shift and beyond exhausted, when you passed an alleyway that was seeped in shadows. You didn't even realize you were grabbed until you were stuffed inside a blacked out car that was hidden perfectly in the dark. You were shoved on your stomach as the door clipped shut and a heavy weight landed on you.

"You really should be careful of your surroundings," a low accented voice murmured in your ear, tone amused and almost excited, and terror seized you as realization dawned on you.

You knew that voice anywhere.

"Charlie," you whimpered, trying your best to turn over to look at his face, but a strong hand pinned you down by the nape of your neck to keep you still.

His other hand came around to jerk your hips up in the air.

"Didn't think I would find you, huh? Think you can just leave in the middle of the night and I wouldn't come after what belongs to me?" he asked with a sneer clear in his voice and your entire body was frozen in terror at his words.

Your pants were unceremoniously yanked down your thighs, your undergarments quickly following, and you came to your senses when you heard the unmistakable sound of a belt being undone.

"Charlie...wait. We can fix this," you all but shrieked, trying your best to wiggle free from his strong grip, but was quickly silenced when he landed a harsh slap to your backside.

"Don't do this, please. I'm sorry," you repeated with a small sob, fingers scrabbling against the smooth leather seat, and the only response you got was warm calloused fingers spreading you open.

You had the horrifying realization that you were soaked. His sudden cruel laugh told you that he definitely noticed.

"Looks like I was missed. Either that or you were waiting for someone to come and play with this pretty pussy," he cooed and you felt heat of humiliation flood you as well as the beginnings of desire pooling low in your gut at his touch.

You began to shake your head before feeling something blunt and overly warm brush against your thigh before it slowly pushed into you. You whined high in your throat as you were stretched open, eyes rolling back into your skull at the full feeling, and Charlie let out a low groan as he bottomed out inside you. He didn't even bother giving you time to adjust before he start a brutal pace and you clawed weakly at the hand holding your hip. The slap of skin-on-skin echoed in the cramped space and the sounds of grunting and whimpers filled your ears. Rough fingers moved to circle harshly against your clit and you cried out at the sudden stimulation.

"You're going to come for me, my darling. Come on my cock like the lovely little whore I know you are," Charlie panted, hips slapping against you and his cock dragging against the sensitive spongy wall inside you had you nearly squealing, and you swore you started to drool as harsh pleasure started to override any discomfort and the humiliation you were feeling.

Your sudden orgasm was devastating.

Your voice was nothing but a hoarse scream as you shouted his name. Your body seized up and Charlie let out a breathless laugh as he drew out your orgasm, his hips stilling flush against you to feel your body squeezing him while his fingers continued to torture your overstimulated clit, and your body fell limp as he eventually moved his hand back to your hip once you were spent to hold you in place.

"That's my good little whore," he grunted out, his thrusts resumed but at a more slow and deep pace, and you could only sob at the humiliation flooding you at what just happened.

He only lasted a few more minutes before he stilled as deep as he could inside you. Warmth filled you and you felt a smaller orgasm wash over you at the sensation and you let your eyes slip close in defeat at the sound of his pleasurable moan. Your face was damp with drool and tears, your body aching from the cramped position and the thorough fucking it just received, and you let out a weak moan when you felt him pull out.

After a few moments of silence where you both fought to catch your breath, you felt Charlie pull up your panties and pants back into their normal position, and he shifted around until he pulled you onto his lap. Your body was limp with exhaustion and you felt soft kisses being peppered to the top of your head. The soft touches were a sharp contrast to what you just went through and it made you shiver.

"I take it you enjoyed yourself?" he asked quietly, one hand rubbing soothing circles on your back while the other gently massaged your thigh, and you just buried your face against his throat with a small grumble.

Your heart was still pounding in your chest, your body twitching with aftershocks, and your mind was sluggish. You both sat in the backseat for a bit longer, the fogged windows offering a safe place to hide as they recovered, and the silence helped you drag your thoughts into focus.

"You were concerningly good at that," you muttered and received a laugh from your lover.

[unlikely-gravestones]

I wonder if Hob's ever been buried alive.

I don't know how his immortality works- do his wounds miraculously heal within minutes? Hours? Has he sometimes had to pretend to be injured, because no one heals from a stab wound to the gut over night?

Or does it take him just as long as any other person? Does he spend weeks bed-bound while recovering, slowly but surely knitting himself together? And if that's the case...has he been buried?

Has Hob woken up, weeks after being 'laid to rest', starving and in pain because fuck does his head and chest hurt and- why can't he move. Why is it so silent. Has Hob ever trailed his fingers, shaking from the effort, across wood grain 5 inches from his face? Has he, head pounding with pain and confusion, frantically mapped the limited space of his chamber because why are the walls so close to him why is he lying down why does-

Has Hob ever realised he was buried six feet underground.

Has he ever clawed at what he realises now is his coffin, hands scrabbling and nails catching? Pounded at the lid of it and screamed? Has Hob ever had to climb his way out of the ground

Anyway :)

[aurevell]

Returning the Favor Sterek | 5k | T

Stiles pays a nighttime visit to his boyfriend in secret, or so he thinks. Unfortunately, the Hale family has keener ears than he realizes.

It’s late when Derek hears the noise at the side of the house. A creak of siding that cuts through the backdrop of cricket song. Just one lone sound, but there’s something cautious about it. Probing.

He lowers the book he’s reading, but no other sounds follow. Derek has been lying sprawled across his bed, drowsy and warm and comfortable, sweatpant-clad legs resting against the wall—but now that he’s conscious of the sound, his focus sharpening, he thinks he’s been hearing quiet noises grow nearer for some time without quite comprehending them. A wild animal outside, maybe, creeping slowly around the foundation of the house. Something large enough that the mulch in the flower bed crunches beneath its weight.

It’s not often that a solitary animal grows bold enough to venture this close to a werewolf pack—the scent always scares them off first. They don’t even get raccoons out here, especially not with the cold this time of year. It could always be their cousin Warren, who’s always thought it funny to startle his relatives with unexpected visits in the dead of night. Or any one of the nasty things in Uncle Peter’s wild stories, supernatural things that creep into the house come dark.

Derek glances at the window, book still resting on his chest, but the house is still.

Maybe it’s gone. That’s just as well: he’s too comfortable to drag himself over to the window to look.

And then another sound comes, an unmistakable creak. Heavy weight settling into place.

Downstairs, his mother sighs. “What was that?” she demands, her voice faint with distance. She and his dad are likely out on the porch swing at this time of evening, even though it’s nearly winter, lunatics that they are. “If Laura and Cora are at it again—”

“I’m sure they aren’t, Tal,” Derek’s father replies, sounding amused. “You put the fear of god in them.”

Mom scoffs. “If we have to repair another door, it’s coming out of their pockets.”

“Not everything is my fault, Mom,” Cora mutters pointedly from down the hall. There’s heavy metal coming from the vicinity of Laura’s bedroom, just low enough to be blasting from her headphones, and she doesn’t pipe up to defend herself.

The thing hasn’t gone away. Metal squeaks a moment later, and then the scrabbling returns, punctuated by a thump and a muffled grunt.

Annoyed, Derek tosses the book aside and clambers to his feet, crossing over to the window. When he hoists up the sash, letting the night chill waft in, he peers down into the dark and finds that the source is worse than anything he could have imagined.

It’s his boyfriend, scaling the side of the house like some deranged cat burglar.

Stiles is hanging onto the drainpipe, having managed to hoist himself several feet off the ground. He’s leaning against the metal awning over the kitchen window, one foot atop the shutter and the other scrabbling for purchase against the siding. At the clatter of Derek’s opening window, he looks up, startled, and nearly loses his balance.

“What are you doing here?” Derek hisses.

“Just returning the favor.” With a moment to catch himself against the awning, Stiles gets his bearing and grins. “What? Don’t make that face. C’mon, you can show up at all hours of the night, but turnabout isn’t fair play?”

With that, he sticks his tongue between his teeth, which he sometimes does unconsciously when something demands his full attention. And the perilous task of climbing should get his full attention, given how often he stumbles when both of his feet are on the ground. God, Derek is about to witness his idiot boyfriend fall to his death or something.

Stiles heaves himself mostly onto the awning, clawing for purchase with a grunt. When he reaches for the window, he loses his grip, nearly sliding backward onto the grass; in a flash of panic, Derek grabs him by his shirt and yanks him forward.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” he demands, aware of their volume and even more aware of their audience.

The awning rattles as Stiles draws up his long legs to slip inside the window feet first, ducking under the sash. He’s panting a little as he pulls himself upright, though he bats his eyes sweetly in the face of Derek’s scowl. “Oh, please. I knew you’d catch me. ‘My hero,’ and all that.”

“Should have let you fall and die,” Derek retorts, shutting the window.

“Probably. Oh man, that was so athletic. Sometimes, I amaze myself.”

Derek doesn’t have anything smart to say to that. He’s only half paying attention, too busy bracing for the discussion sure to follow.

He and Stiles may as well have stomped up and down the stairs blowing air horns as far as the rest of the house goes. Everyone will have heard. Derek is absolutely sure because you can hear a pin drop, like no one’s even moving, like everyone’s waiting with bated breath—either gleeful or judgmental or both—to hear what comes next. Even Laura’s deafening headphones have gone silent. Fuck.

Worst of all…Stiles doesn’t know any of this. He doesn’t yet know about the secret the Hale family hides, or how keenly they can hear, or that every word he says will be seized up and cheerfully dissected and gossiped about in real time.

Read the rest on AO3

[starsologyy]

𐙚˙✧˖° 𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐘 𝐍 𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐘. ༘ ⋆｡ ˚ AN ONESHOT ft. MIYA OSAMU.

synopsis ─ during your struggle in solving a math problem, you're stressed enough to contact miya osamu for some help. when he comes over, you find out he just might have bought over some curry.

clever as one may possibly be amidst land that itself has seen varieties of intelligences and theories that date back to a singular chance in space, it’s rare to be true that you surpass the greatest of those who have or currently lived on it. on this planet where they were able to formulate their outlandish belief because a simple explosion of a vermillion star amongst the million alike has kept expanding through within this impossibly finite universe and gave them what they required. it would be extremely arrogant to say you shine brighter than their legacies.

but you’re not saying that, no. of course not. because even with the hand drilled (done horrendously by your parents) onyx frames laminated papers glued to the painted walls and other declarations of academic merit, you find yourself stuck on a math problem that photomath can’t even seem to recognize. albert einstein could do this in his sleep. apparently he was studying it at twelve, and you at eighteen can’t even get past the first lesson with the help of every resource printed on the internet. 

for hours on end, the scrabble of your 0.7 lead in your clear plastic muji pencil (that’s supposed to inspire your supposed intelligence) is already leaving dents into a paper that not even a white block eraser could possibly get rid of.  your vein randomly strengthens and appears out of your forehead through the thin skin of the overly priced honeydew facial mask, while your calloused fingertips have to feel the dent of the heavy pencil at this point of the silent night where you thought you would have been resting by now. a meal and a thirty minute nap hasn’t helped you solve it somehow, and it doesn’t help you have five exams the next day.

the very bags that drag beneath your eye are ingrained in the flushed flesh you possess, for how they so delicately hang on your face’s incomparably stable bone structure like these bags have used their claws beforehand to claim some rightful place. you know they aren’t going to magically disappear with concealer tomorrow unfortunately. their appearance has caused you to venture and wind into a rather dark path under this dim moonlight, which continues to cradle the anguished clicks of your very tongue with a soothing quietness.

and it’s all because you’re so desperate you glance at your phone to check the people on the classroom app possibly there. before you’re about to press this one person’s tiny little message icon, your  sharp fingertips pinch the fat of your thigh to see if you now have a nightmare. you don’t wake up. unfortunately. 

you sigh to yourself. it’s miya osamu, a name which lingers to be typed on the digital keyboard and at the tip of your tongue similar to a mint you have failed to savor out of human impulsivity. 

you don’t exactly admire how the corners of his blushed lips turn into a shit eating grin when you ask him for help in nutri sci. it’s not even great help, honestly.  maybe because you focused on his hands glide over to yours and grab your pencil so easily to always find an error in your procedure of a delicious pastry up for the teacher’s approval more than actually listening to what he says. when he’s done, he just gives you a knowing look before sliding it back and heading back to whatever he was doing at the moment. you always had hoped he didn’t notice you spacing out at the sight of his forearms. especially now. 

you find yourself hopeless for even texting this man, and expecting a response. but he’s also in your math class, and maybe because how good he is at somewhat approximating measurements without a look at the cup, it could mean he’s also useful in calculus. it takes your absolute strength to type, and you pray he doesn’t question who you are. you had to ask for his number for a group project once, and you worry perhaps he has forgotten your number entirely by now. 

“r u awake?”

simple text, nothing should go wrong. 

but a minute goes, and you’re about to call it quits for the night. he’s already sleeping probably. your eyes shut in a mere exhaustion, one familiar to nights where you prolong the fruit of relaxation in exchange for a stupid 100 or check mark on an assignment. 

“yeah. what’s up?” 

you sit up, racing for your phone before staring at the message. you’re grinning, and you don’t know why this is, but it’s oddly getting you quite ecstatic. it’s the idea of being able to get sleep finally that’s driving you so insane.  

but you’ll play it cool. you’re always cool right?

“i need help. on problem 21, can you tell me what you did? o_o” you text. the emoji looks cute you must say.

three minutes go by. you worry he’s suddenly asleep now. 

“nah. it’s not fair for me to just send you the answer.” he responds. “i kinda worked hard…”

you almost bite the thickness of your pale nails off like a beaver to use those jagged ends in slightly peeling your mask for some sort of relief at this anxious mess. 

“but, how about if i come over and help?” osamu texts a moment later. “keke ;)”

you forget he’s the twin of a guy who does the same exact thing over texting. 

“and i know it’s late, but my ma made some good curry and i can bring it over. unless your parents would be mad or sum idk” he adds, and your heart almost rips from the restraint of the very veins in your body from the adrenaline that makes it race at the words he so charmingly types. 

“sounds good?”

“ofc.” 

your feet plant themselves at the last step of the creaking staircase currently. the clamminess somehow is able to hold your phone tight though, and you suspect it’s out of fear that you would have to pay for a new one that would cost about a grand if you crack it. 

a) your parents would behead you.

b) miya osamu would get the weird pleasure to brag that he had a girl so “wet”, she broke an expensive phone over him. 

with either one undesirable to say the very least, you now decide to sit on that same step. in this uncomfortable silence, you now feel a bead of sweat make a slow plop on your complexion. to make yourself presentable, you first wipe that one drop of sweat, but then you overly shake at the thought he may judge you in this moment.

and if miya osamu judges you, how will you continue to exist? should you even continue to exist? (as dramatic that may sound to many). 

but it too brings the fruition of a series of questions well warranted from which friends will message when you eventually gush to them about the miya osamu being oh so angelic to have blessed your house with his very presence. perhaps it would call the notion of concern in the heavens if you mention it’s ten pm and you had been inspired to hide him from the eyes of your parents. it creates perceptions that you’re hiding him as an illicit lover, and not a woman who struggles in math class. 

for your sake of comfort though, he’s not one to be sociable, so you don’t really notice him out of classes you share much, nor do you judge him for that. assumptions of impermissible love may (relaxingly) rest in a coffin if he’s samu to everybody else but simply miya to you in that gym class you also share. 

but he’s also the nicest to you when he gives you the ball to try something out in a volleyball game in your rather boring gym class. maybe you’re not the best, but you don’t hear a single groan of complaint from him. you call out miya so airily when your spike just tips before hitting over the net, and you often notice him just stifling a laugh before helping you. he usually ditches some water break to do so. perhaps he just gets tired and feels bad that you often don’t have a ball to play with.

one day you guys can play a game at the gym, if he gets along with you tonight. 

plus, no matter how you twist this unconventional recipe for disaster, he’s not the worst guy. and he’s not the worst eye candy either. 

you should know the best out of everybody how attractive osamu is since you stare at him too often when your nutri sci teacher is about to talk you into hearing a lullaby with a burning hot stove in front of you. his eyes have a lack of hue which match the metal bowls in your shared cooking class. you stare at them often when he doesn’t realize, and you doodle his “horribly” structured face in your assigned recipe book. sometimes you draw the pupils in swirls from how the milky way reflects in them in real life instead of actually also listening to how much sugar you add in those cookies may give someone diabetes. bad habit of course. 

now that you think about it, now you want a milky way chocolate bar. oops.

his muscles are great too. especially the forearms, when you watch the stretch randomly or use it to carry things out of the oven that may break down at any moment. 

you’re about to go on another worry rampage but you hear the door knock. you falsify reality where you were simply upstairs doing work while waiting because to admit you were waiting like a fool at the stairs would cause you to faint if he ever found out, and you “calmly” open the door.

“hey.” he grins, and you have a small smile already. there’s a huge aluminum party tray in his hands, steaming.  

“hi.”

you almost stare for too long, a stupid smile on your face as you slightly sway back and forth accidentally. 

“earth to [y/n]? going to let me in? please? the curry is burning my hands.” he chuckles after a moment, and you quickly nod, “oh shit yeah—” you blurt as you let him follow up to your (now) clean room to set the curry down on your dresser next to your haphazardly piled makeup bag. “sorry!!” you add. 

“you can sit anywhere.” you chuckle nervously, in which he nods in response, sitting on your bed which is beside the desk where the homework is. “thanks for the curry by the way.”  you murmur, finding him another pencil after you knew you couldn’t stare at him stretching at the moment unless you wanted him to catch you for being some weirdo. 

“no problem.” osamu hummed, looking over the problem since it was easy to reach. “this one was weird, but i can explain it. we should eat though. you can’t think on an empty stomach,” he starts, his stomach rumbling to interrupt him. it makes you laugh admittedly. “and I can’t explain on an empty stomach.” he groans, “i got home from practice too late to eat.”

“i can get us plates and some spoons—” “forget plates, i ain’t going to want to clean it anyways. spoons will do good.” you chuckle in response, and you run back down to get the spoons mentioned. 

when you’re back, he opens the aluminum foil his mom tightly wrapped like she’s holding the secrets of her grandma’s recipe, and then gladfully takes the metal spoon from you. your eyes glance to find a seat, or to wonder if you must run back down to drag some chair up here, but he solves your issues by patting the open spot next to him on the bed. a part of your neck tilts in confusion. 

me?

sitting next to you? 

“it’s not that serious.” he answers as if he just read your mind. “just sit next to me.” he shrugs, offering you a soda he seems to have remembered at the moment after he had just rummaged through his bag for it. you almost malfunction, but you listen and enjoy the bubbling fizz on your delicate tongue. 

osamu takes a bite of the thick and silky brown curry accompanied with the soft white bed of rice, making sure to get a golden potato or two in his bite. you’re a little hesitant to reach over, but he moves over on the bed as he makes sure you’re able to also get a bite.

“is it good?” you take a big bite of the curry carrot, and he n nods. “obviously. my ma makes the best curry. i wouldn’t embarrass myself by giving a pretty girl some shit food.  I gotta take the recipe from her one day if you like it.” he grins, and your face feels like he had roasted it instead of the curry powder in the roux. 

was that a slip up? or is he that charismatic behind the closed doors and the ball which often blocks a majority of his face when he spikes?  

“she really does make the best curry,” you muffle with another five bites in your mouth, and he laughs as he does so with another six bites. you figure to let yourself go, so in this cramped vicinity of the warmth of which your bodies are only a inch apart,  you’re starting to not feel as nervous anymore to where you forget that he can see every imperfection on your face, or how you’re gobbling this curry like it’s no tomorrow. he doesn’t seem to complain that his hand accidentally touches yours when he tries to relax while he chews.

soon you’re both finished with a rim of curry around your lips, you both stifle laughter at the sloppiness of it all  as you grab a paper napkin to clean it off. a comfortable silence occurs for a minute or so as you guys steal glances at each other

you never thought his laugh would be so loud, nor do he think yours would just be so bright. 

“sooo, you going to help?” you whistle as you look away, and he nods. he looks at your paper again, glancing over at you. “your equation didn’t work in the first place because you said 10 + 11 = 22.” he laughs, and you almost screech as you grab the paper back. no fucking way you made that mistake!

“but since i’m here, i guess i can also try to explain why ten plus eleven doesn’t equal twenty two. you know, since i’m so amazing or whatever.” osamu hums, planting his head on your cherry printed pillows, that stormy cloud hue of his head full of messy hair, a rather pretty one to accompany the vibrancy of the crimson of the fruit on your sheets. you can’t help but hold your face away from his cocky and rather lazy grin, instead staring at how your feet shift back and forth to stimulate a dash away from this moment. “shut up miya. you’re so so annoying.” you huff.

“really? like i’m the one who contacts random classmates for math help at nine pm. alright, whatever you say. you got that.” he chuckles and you instinctively turn to swat his chest, accidentally brushing your fingertips along the ridges of his abs. you instantly retract your hands back, but he’s laughing now at how flustered you seem to be. “and i ain’t the one either to be all up on my random, poor classmates.”

“then just leave.” you whine, getting up from your bed as you plan to go into the bathroom to screech. “but it isn’t that deep.” he says casually. “we can hang out. just call me samu though.” osamu hums. 

you raise a brow. “i thought you would want me to call you miya, since i don’t really know you all that well.”

“well, i don’t wanna be confused with my annoying twin brother. so you’re good. plus, i like it when you say it.” you scrunch your face at that sly little flirt of his, and he laughs once more. 

“did i not tell you  miss chang won’t be here tomorrow?” he adds, and your head tilts one more. “maybe we can just not worry about your homework and just plan to do something tomorrow—”

“…no? you didn’t tell me anything.”

“oh. oops. guess i didn’t tell you.”

“I’m really debating on going out with you then. you didn’t think it was smart to tell me i had an extra day to worry about this homework before you came over?” you grunt, close to swatting his head and dragging him by the foot since he plasters a nervous smile.

“please?” he mockingly pouts.

“fine.” you roll your eyes. 

he grins. “so, you wanna go to a curry shop tomorrow?”

[idontknowreallywhy]

Resurface 11 - Revise

Previous bits here

Um, sorry John…

<insert swirly back in time sound effect here>

🧡💙🧡💙🧡💙🧡💙🧡💙🧡💙🧡💙🧡💙

John growled and swiped his organic chemistry notes off his desk. The file sailed over the bed, slammed into the wall and, inevitably, the pages popped out of the binder and fluttered all over the room.

It was useless anyway, he couldn’t focus. None of it was making sense. Chemistry made no sense. His lack of ability to THINK made no sense. Probably because his entire life, right now, made no sense. His scattered notes had more chance of putting themselves back together than his family did. But he couldn’t let himself start thinking about that.

Not now. Not yet.

John had managed to get nearly back on track over the last couple of months, after that first four weeks of agony. He’d have respected the determination, the sheer bloody-mindedness that only John ever came close to taking his title for.

John just had to get through the next 3 weeks then he could… fall apart or whatever.

He clawed at his scalp in an attempt to release the constant tension that was making his eyes hurt and to distract himself from the suspicion he already had fallen apart or whatever.

Everything was… too much. He had so much to do. And 418 hours 47 minutes in which to do it all. So much still to get in his head. Which was way too full of all of the other thoughts he couldn’t compartmentalise properly because apparently he was weak minded and about to throw everything away. And on top of all that, with Dad doing whatever he was doing with the GDF big wigs, John was expected to cook for everyone and look after the kids and generally pick up the slack Virgil had just abandoned for a five day binge of complaining of a headache and creeping around the house muttering nonsense to himself.

John was actually a little worried about that. More than a little. But he forced himself to shut it away. It would be fine… Virgil would be fine. He had to be fine. Just like John did. Was. Fine was the Tracy way. Scott was always…

No. Stop.

Later.

He dug his fingernails into his thighs, bending one of them slightly back on the thick seam of the chinos he’d been wearing for 19.7 days. Nobody had noticed. All the other pants he owned were annoying. So. Whatever.

Scott would have noticed and quietly ordered him a second pair…

His fingertip throbbed angrily.

Argh, this had to stop. None of these thoughts were a good use of time. All of it was irrelevant, except the work.

A tiny voice asked how he could possibly betray his brother’s memory by adding him to that list… he quashed it with a mental fist of steel. He’d want him to do well. He’d always been proud, cheered him on… been sat in the front row between Dad and Virgil and clapping excessively loudly as John reluctantly shuffled red-faced on to the stage at high school prize-giving...

Breathe, John.

He picked up a well thumbed tome on astrophysics… it may be a waste of time - this was easy and didn’t need revision, but he needed to stop these unproductive trains of thought. This was easier to get absorbed in.

Approximately 8.25 minutes later his focus was broken yet again by a scratching noise above him. Aaaaah. Not bats again! Please no, they gave him the creeps but it was illegal to shift the things once they took up residence. He’d have to swap rooms with Virgil. He couldn’t sleep up here if there were…

Hell, they were massive sounding bats…

John flung open the window to peer up into the eaves… Dad had blocked the hole last year so how had they got in there to…

Some sixth sense made him suspicious of the volume of the scrabbling noise overhead and he ducked his head back inside, very narrowly avoiding having his face smashed in by a falling roof tile. Closely followed by… a shoe. A big shoe.

What? It hit the ground with a thud and John squinted down at it. A boot? One of Virgil’s he was sure of it but why on earth…?

A thud overhead, a clatter, a muffled curse in a very familiar baritone and two more tiles slid past his horrified face in quick succession.

Everything in his head went grey and screechy. He rushed from through the house yelling for Dad. Screeching for Dad. It was him screeching. He had no control over his vocal cords anymore, they had short circuited with his amygdala and were bypassing all coherent thought.

There was only panic.

🧡💙🧡💙🧡💙🧡💙🧡💙🧡💙🧡💙🧡💙

Thank you to @astranite for helping me voice this one better - I’ve not got inside John’s head much before, at least without EOS for him to bounce off…

[factorialsotherfandoms]

TW: panic attack, non-graphic self harm, reckless behaviour, fear of drowning

This is like... a bit 5K of Pac and Philza actually bonding for once...

Fear claws into Pac's heart just as easily as his fingernails dig into his palms. There's nothing wrong, objectively there's nothing wrong, but he's been alone all day. It's not at all like working with Mike; he's been trying to decorate the Favela, but his breath keeps catching and his thoughts keep stopping.

He can hear the fountain beneath the warpstone, and he wants it to /stop/.

He knows anxiety now, he knows it, he knows this is what it is, and when Fit found the blood in Chume Labs and the empty graves he made him promise to call him if it happened again. It's happening now, Pac can feel it building, but there's nobody awake. He checks it again, and still it's only him.

So he does the thing he does next best. He holds his breath and he thinks of nothing and he builds. More trees, more ponds, more fountains - anything and everything he can think of. Give the Redeemer a sombrero, then think better of it half way through and take it down. Start returfing the football field, only to decide to put it back because making the goals muddy is just ugly. Hang up more banners, pull them down, add a bit to the fences, swap them for iron, then concrete.

Breathe in, breathe out, there's nothing wrong it's just anxiety.

(But it is wrong, everything is wrong, the back of his brain where Mike sits is empty, not just asleep but empty, torn away and - )

Mike's in the Order hospital, Pac reminds himself, and begins to walk that way.

( - and there are eyes at his back, ready to take him again and - )

Pac forgets to breathe. He drops to his knees in the middle of the street, and scrabbled his hands in the dirt.

Pac checks the communicator again. There's a few more people awake, but... No Fit, no Tubbo, no Mike, no Bagi or Forever... Of the handful of people, the one he knows best if Philza - and while he's happily looked after the man's children, and he's been quite happy to chat or fight together in the past... Philza Minecraft is a legend, and he's never really spoken much without Fit there as a buffer.

But the other option is staying here alone, and he promised Fit that if he started feeling like this again he'd ask someone for company.

He takes a deep breath, and sends a message.

You whisper to Ph1LzA: Can I visit?

As soon as he hits send, Pac slams it shut. He pushes it against his head, shuddering while curled up in a ball. He clings to the communicator, his link to the outside, so hard it leaves indents in his skin.

"It's okay," he whispers to himself. "It's okay, you're okay, there's nobody here to watch you."

It doesn't help; he tries it anyway.

The seconds drag on into minutes, and Pac's fears overwhelm even his attempts to comfort himself.

"You're okay, you're okay, you're safe," he promises himself, even as he claws at his knees, at his face, at his hair and at the floor - anything he can reach to force himself to remember his place.

He hums songs he loves, shuts his eyes and tries to dance along.

He slams hands over his mouth and freezes when he tries.

Too loud, too loud, they'll find you - quiet, quiet, quiet as a mouse and quieter still. Hide amongst the rats, and hope nobody spots you curled up there...

The communicator pings.

In a scramble Pac pulls the lid open, shaking fingers quickly clicking him through to the correct screen.

Ph1LzA whispers to you: sorry m8, missed the message

Ph1LzA whispers to you: still need something or you get it sorted?

What does Pac say? The loneliness is getting to him and the walls are caving in and he can feel something watching from inside his spine? That Mike is gone and he's remembering a /before/ he wants to forget, He can't say that, he really can't.

But what sounds like a normal response which might get him a conversation...

With shaking hands he types whatever comes to mind.

You whisper to Ph1LzA: I am just missing Fit

... Not that. That absolutely does not sound like a request for company.

This time Philza's reply does not take nearly as long, though still longer than anyone else Pac ever messages.

Ph1LzA whispers to you: yeah?

Ph1LzA whispers to you: you want some company? I can put down a sharestone

Pac's heart settles back into place - maybe slightly too high still, but far closer. He didn't mess it up too badly - maybe English is just like that - he didn't even have to ask again.

You whisper to Ph1LzA: please.

It's another minute or two for Pac's anxiety to build and him to cling to the communicator before he recieves a reply.

Ph1LzA whispers to you: red sharestone, name should be obvious

You whisper to Ph1LzA: obrigado

Ph1LzA whispers to you: you're good

There's definitely some emotion to reading those words; Pac pushes it aside, and grabs his warpstone. Moving to the main warpstone for the warehouse seems like too much, so he simply sends himself to spawn.

Only there does he pick himself up, activating the red sharestone. It takes a few scrolls to find the new option, but once he does it earns a small laugh. He selects it, and lets his body be pulled through space.

Where he arrives is cold, deep snow all around, and an icy ocean before him. Pac tugs his sleeves down over his hands, and looks around.

Whereever Philza is, he isn't immediately obvious.

"Philza?" he calls. "Felipe?"

There's a splash as Philza trident-jumps out of the ocean, his paraglider flipping open at the zenith and allowing him to drift safely down to the ice. Pac watches him drift down, the water dripping off him freezing as it falls.

"Hey," Philza calls, once back in voice range, arm moving as though to wave before suddenly remembering he needs to hold the paraglider. "Sorry about that; spotted another jelly and had to get it before it ran off."

Pac waves him off, "it's okay, it's okay, do you need any help?"

Philza squints at Pac a moment, and Pac squirms beneath it. After a moment, though, he just shrugs, "just hunting for rainbow jelly."

"Rainbow jelly?"

"Like the French use to make themselves all rainbow," Philza grins a bit. "You can use it to make glass like that, too. Chayanne wanted some, so..."

Pac thinks of the children, hurting and asleep and under the Federation's "care", the only guarantees of their safety the ability to visit, and the knowledge the Federation knows what is coming if harm comes for their children.

"For Chayanne?" He asks. "I'll help."

"Feel free to hang onto it - if you don't use it, he'll appreciate the gift when he wakes up."

When, not if, even if Pac can see Philza hesitates too.

With that confidence and the thought of their children, Pac doesn't even consider before throwing himself into the water. Behind him he hears the somewhat distorted sound of Philza laughing, and the man throwing himself in after.

Pac spots a couple of the comb jellies, and kicks off towards them. Philza seems to see another group, as he takes another route.

Hunting animals for their innards is one of the few times that sweeping edge is worth it on this island, and so Pac takes out his sword. It only takes a hit to take out the jellies, small as they are, and then Pac just has to scoop up their remains. From there he spots another - deeper - and swims after it. And another, and another - Pac loses himself to the chore, simply collecting jelly for the happiness of a child.

He thinks he's finally calmed down, when he spots another in a cave. Pac doesn't even think about it as he dives in after - but very quickly, it gets very dark.

Too dark.

He tries to ignore it, to push through and find the jelly even as memories start to loom and the dark closes in.

Breathe in, breathe out, remind yourself your helmet is in place and with that much Aqua Affinity you're fine.

It's not the underwater prison again, it's not, it's not.

Just find the jelly and get out...

On instinct he reaches out for Mike, and finds nothing.

Nothing.

Mike? What happened to Mike?

The most frustrating thing is always that he knows, he remembers, but in the dark and the wet and the unnatural silence it doesn't matter. His breathing picks up, and he twists and he turns, looking - screaming - for Mike.

Rationally, he knows he's lightheaded because hes hyperventilating. But in his heart, in his fear, it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter, it doesn't change anything because he's alone in the wet and the dark and he /can't do this anyone/.

He wants Mike, he wants Mike, he wants Fit and he wants Mike.

Where is Mike, why can't he reach him, where is he where is he why can't he feel him in his mind?!

He's screaming for them, he thinks, even as tears stream down his face and he twists in the water. By now he's helplessly lost, not even able to find the exit he cane in by. Whatever light there was is gone, and he doesn't even quite remember why he's here.

He twists and he fights, trying to fend off hands that aren't there - only to get his leg twisted up in the seaweed and somehow everything is even worse and worse and worse. He tugs and tugs, but the seaweed grasps tighter - he sees dark prison walls overlaying dark, broken caves, and he sobs as he realises he is going to die here.

He screams again and wonders how he still has air; something responds this time, and he begs it for bitter, screaming help.

A small light he cannot focus on, and hands find their way to his leg. In a panic he twists, kicks, fights - nothing, nothing, nothing can touch him - it's worse than the seaweed, to be grabbed by a hand.

"Shit, Pac," a familiar voice calls, an odd quality to it. "Fuck, I'm just cutting you out, Jesus mate no need to break my nose."

The words don't make sense, not entirely, but seconds later Pac finds his leg free - still entangled, but the seaweed cut from the floor, and he does his best to swim away.

Right from the seaweed and slamming into the cave wall.

Hands grab him again, and say something, and he fights them all the same. Seconds later he's being dragged and pulled and - oh, god, this is how he's going to die.

He goes to fight before remembering, actually, dieing might not be so bad actually... At worst he'll respawns, at best he'll be with Mike again.

It's just as that thought crosses his mind that his head breaks the surface of the ocean. Pac gasps for air and, by the time he's processed that, he's being hoisted and yanked up onto the ice.

He's frozen, he's freezing, but he shakes off the worst of the water and shudders as sunlight presses into his skin.

He's crying - sobbing even - on his hands and his knees, blind terror all about him as he struggles to breathe.

"Aw, mate, you could have said no if it was gonna fuck you up."

There's someone else here; Pac's eyes glance around, only to find Philza there. He can't tell if the man is a friend or a foe or just an acquaintance to be embarrassed around, but the man shrugs off his bag and opens his arms in a familiar gesture.

Pac falls into them, and hides. A hand finds his hair, and another his back, and something very dark curls around to protect him from icy wind. He does not cling back, just cries to the sound of slightly awkward comfort, sucking it in.

"You're okay," the words sound so much more believable coming from someone else. "You got out, I've got you, you're safe, you're okay."

The words are whispered into his skin, and they're not quite a balm but they are a promise and a kindness none the less; he is promised safety, and he knows the man around him can provide.

He just... Did not expect that provision to include himself, only friends of friends as they are.

Pac breathes, and it comes easier now - the air is cold, but between the darkness and Philza's chest he is safe. Slowly, slowly, as he remembers what limbs are Pac reaches out a shaking hand to the void.

It finds feathers; the darkness tenses, and then relaxes to his touch.

Pac, in turn, relaxes with it.

"You good?" Philza eventually asks from above.

"Sim," Pac replies, gathering himself a little more, hiding himself in a laugh. "Sorry, sorry, that was embarrassing."

"We've all been there mate," Fit's friend says.

The wings peel away, and Pac can see them properly - tattered edges and all. Sees how they droop, and the strain in Philza's shoulders as he uses his hands to fold them, and his backpack to keep them in pace.

"Shall we get somewhere warmer?" he asks, before Pac can comment. "I've got a treasure map to somewhere near that mesa you and Fit showed me, if you've still got the warp?"

"Are you sure?" Pac's hands shake as he checks his things.

"Eh, I'm pretty sure it's an iron dungeon," Philza replies, pulling out a map and squinting at it. "I was saving it to troll Etoiles with, but I could actually do with more iron. And someone to deal with mobs while I mine it. You, me, and some skellies - sound good?"

Pac isn't sure; he doesn't want to think, though, he does know that. Dungeons are supposed to be his and Fit's /thing/, one half the time someone intrudes on. The offer almost feels insulting, but...

But when Philza felt bad, they offered him a dungeon - he so clearly means to offer the same. Like for like, not pity but a trade.

"I want the tracks and redstone," Pac tries to sound steady, and knows he fails. "I'll save it for Mike when he returns."

"Sure, I don't even know where to start with that shit," Philza takes Pac's hand, and leads him along a safe route over the ice. "If we go back to that haunted rock area, then glide back towards the mesa? I should be able to find us on the map from there."

Pac nods, placing his hand on the warpstone in advance. Philza's joins it, and together they warp away.

---

Thankfully it is dawn, and any monsters are gone this time - there's just the beautiful sunrise over the haunted sea. The sun is rising, not setting, but Pac waves to it anyway and hopes that, somewhere, Bobby can see.

Philza makes half a laugh as he finds his glider. Pac searches for his own, and tries not to remember the night on the cliff - him and Fit, him and Fit, but also Philza, laughing about cannons and resting in one another's arms, only for Philza to pull away first and let him and Fit be.

Pac instead thinks about friendship, and how Fit would abandon everything for Philza just as Pac would give it up for Mike, and how it seems that isn't limited to just them. Because Philza didn't send him home, just as Fit also kept close to an oddly behaving Mike. How it doesn't really matter, because in the end they both agree with where the other stands.

Pac instead thinks of nothing, and throws himself off a cliff after Philza.

For one glorious second he lets himself fall, before pulling out his own paraglider and following Philza down.

He lands on Philza's boat, and they drive it back to the mesa. It's filled with the sort of talk that means nothing, and with Philza humming tunes to the air. For a man who claims to be musically dead, he manages it well.

It's also noise, white noise to blur the absence in his mind.

"Here we are," Philza gets out first, and offers Pac a hand out. "We should be pretty close. These things are a bit of a nightmare to find, being underground, but I'm sure we'll manage."

To his surprise, Pac is passed the map while Philza puts away the boat. He has to turn it around to orientate himself, but once he has Philza gestures for him to lead the way. Philza puts himself on Pac's left - the side he holds the map, whilst his other has his scythe, shield turned out against the wild.

Pac tries to think of something to say, and what comes out is, "so did you go looking for a big cannon, or did you just stumble into it?"

The comment draws startled laughter from his companion as they walk, having to stop a moment to let him gather himself. "We knew we were going to see one, but we're exactly looking. You find them all over the coast in the UK, and I think some along the Thames too? A lot have been removed, but we like our old crap, so a couple of the old forts are still open."

"So you're saying you come from a land of many large cannons."

"Yes, Pac," Philza laughs again. "Yes, I do; don't you?"

"We have other large things instead," Pac tries to smile, but he knows it looks off. "Like diamonds."

"Diamonds?"

Pac can see Philza looking for the sex joke, and suddenly realises he doesn't actually want to explain what he meant. So instead he says, "quality over size. Even a big diamond is small."

That draws more laughter, "yeah okay mate; Fit's a lucky boy then."

That almost has Pac dropping the map he's holding as he chokes. Philza grabs him, holds him steady, gives him something to cling to with Mike and Fit and Richarlyson and Walter Bob all gone. Something there, some support, something to stop him choking on himself.

"Too much?" Philza's voice is gentler this time.

Pac nods, hiding his blush in his hands even as he leans on Philza.

"Alright," Philza says, handing him a bottle. "Drink some water, king, and we'll get this dungeon cleared. And no more dick jokes until Fit's also here to suffer. Maybe we could even come up with some new ones, just to tease him next time we all meet up."

Pac takes the bottle, hiding in his hood as he does as he's told. Philza takes the map and they continue to walk as he sips at it, hiding himself and his face in the bottle. Philza makes sure to stay in sight, keeping idle commentry going.

At this point, Pac is reasonably sure Philza knows something continues to be wrong - but then so did Fit and Pac when Philza had that strange... Maybe hallucination? Fit says it probably wasn't, and Pac trusts Fit, but whatever it was it was unsettling and strange.

Philza seems fine now, though; maybe one day Pac will be fine too.

It is about ten or fifteen minutes walk to the dungeon. There's nothing on the surface to mark it, just Philza squinting at the map, and passing it to Pac to check.

Once they agree, they dig; Philza calls 'race you!' and begins a staircase.

Pac lives for adrenaline; he starts digging straight down.

Somehow he doesn't hit lava.

He does end up falling from the top of the dungeon into a crevasse, fails to find either a water bucket or his paraglider, and breaks his leg. It's terrifying, and he's alone as he sees his death message flash up in chat but - maybe - it's okay. There's Aypierre laughing and Baghera offering help, and Philza on his black paraglider swooping in from the ceiling to assist.

"You good?" Philza asks as he pours a potion out over the wounds, his eyes almost glowing in the low light as Pac's bones knit together.

Pac leans forwards to check his prosthetic while his body heals, twitching only a little with the pain. The fall knocked a few screws loose and bent some of the metal out of shape, but it's an easy enough fix with a hammer and screwdriver. He'll check it over properly later, or maybe swap it for his spare until he has energy for it, but it'll hold for the day.

"All good," Pac confirms, as he pulls his jeans back down.

He can see Philza side-eyeing the prosthetic, and shifts; the man says nothing, however, just helps Pac up and types out an 'all good we're just dungeoning' to calm the global chat.

And then he looks at his map.

"You've got us near a corner," Philza turns his communicator to show Pac. "If we just start here and work around to the left, we shouldn't miss anything."

Pac nods, and pulls out his grapple. Together they pull themselves up and onto the ledge, and the dungeon begins.

It starts simple - Philza takes out a spawner, while Pac works on the skeletons, then they swap so Pac can loot the minetracks. Trading the mobs on and off, Pac cannot help but notice how Philza even when on mob duty prioritises looting, catching the attention of a swamp of skeletons and sending them on a chase over barrels as he smashes them open and grabs the contents. Only when he can carry no more does he start fighting, laughing as he does.

It's a nice laugh, that one.

He laughs too when Pac fights, hacking away at the iron blocks he claims to want. With every other hit there is a call of "good hit!" "nice one!" "you're doing good, Pac!", and Pac can feel himself starting to grin as well.

Together they dance in a dungeon much easier than the one Phil joined Pac and Fit for, able to let loose without worrying for the giant magma cube around the corner. They keep an eye on each other, and watch their backs, and Fit's deep voice is so clearly missing between them without feeling like a void.

By the time it is finished, they are both laughing, bone-dust covering their clothes and their tools and the world in their hands. Philza gives Pac some of the iron, and they take his staircase - not Pac's hole - out.

They don't talk about what comes next, but neither of them reach for their warpstones. Instead Pac picks a direction and walks. Philza follows.

They find a hill a little way out, surrounded by flower fields but empty of them itself. Philza lights it up with his slingshot, despite it still being around midday, and Pac makes hot chocolate for them both. Pulls out chairs, too - blue and green - and places a coffee table between them.

He sits on the blue and Philza looks at the green and says, "are you sure I'm okay to sit there? I don't wanna intrude."

Pac looks at the chair - it was just habit, just what he carries - and curls up his toes. "It's fine," he can hear the sadness in his own voice. "Mike isn't here, he wouldn't mind."

"Do you mind?"

"I got it out for you."

"Alright, king," Philza finally takes the seat and the hot chocolate, leaning back into the cushions. After a bit he adds, "these are good chairs. Maybe I should invest in something better than mine."

"They're not expensive," Pac replies. "And they're comfy! I have one instead of a bed."

He wonders if he should have admitted that - he knows people worry - but in the crash of the panic attack and the fighting it's hard to keep his mouth shut.

Philza just laughs though, "yeah? I've been using one of those wooden ones. You know? Basic ones, just in a fancy wood."

"How do you not have splinters?!"

"I'm good with my hands - what else can I say?"

They both laugh at that one, a joke which actually lands. There's something comfortable and comforting about it. The laughter drifts into giggles, drifts into sips of hot chocolate - quiet and together. Pac makes a point of not watching as Philza gets himself comfortable, untangling his wings and stretching them... Not to full width, but wide.

It's only when one brushes his arm that Pac dares to ask "what happened?"

"Hm?" Philza looks up.

"To your wings?"

"Feds fucked them up when I arrived," Philza says it like its nothing, but there's bitter pain in his words. "By purgatory they'd healed up just enough to fly, but then carrying Tubbo through meteor strikes and radiation... I can't regret it, I /won't/ regret it, but they're fucked again. I can hold them up so it seems better, but they hurt worse than before."

Pac wants to say he's sorry, but he doesn't think it would be appreciated. Instead he says "thank you for saving Tubbo."

"I couldn't just leave him," Philza says. "He's my friend too, you know?"

"I know," Pac fiddles with his cup. "You're a good man, Felipe Minecraft. I'm not sure I'd do it."

"I think you would," Philza says, with more faith in Pac than he's ever had in himself. "If it came to it. You're also a good man, Pac - if you weren't, I wouldn't let you have Fit."

It's an admission neither of them acknowledge. Instead Pac flops, exhausted, against his chair. "I'd do it for Mike. I miss him."

"I can't imagine," Philza's wings stretch a little further, stroking against Pac's cheek. "But, I'm sure he'll heal. And once he does hold him close, okay? Because you never know when you'll loose him."

It's obvious, of course Pac will try to, but there's pain in Philza's voice, and Pac thinks of a memorial on a wall and a child living in the footsteps of a ghost, and maybe Philza can imagine better than he thinks he can.

Or maybe Philza means he can't imagine, because he knows.

"Did you love him?" Pac asks instead.

"He was my best friend."

Philza's voice breaks on the word, and Pac knows both that he has to stop, and that Philza knows just what it is Pac fears. Even if he calls it different, even if they didn't share one mind... Pac should not have asked.

"I'm sorry."

"You did nothing wrong; it hurts, but in hurting I remember him, you know?"

There's a long silence, in which Pac tries to know what to say, and Philza stares absently at soft clouds on the horizon. Even in Portuguese he would struggle, and Philza is certainly not looking to his translator.

Maybe Philza and Fit are not as Pac and Mike; Philza has already lost his Mike. Or, perhaps, both are true, and even if Pac looses his best friend, someone will be there to keep him whole.

It's a nice fantasy; he knows Philza's wound bleeds open even now.

"I have never been without Mike before this island," Pac eventually admits. "At least... I was seven when we met, he was five. I've heard his thoughts since I was ten, and the first time he ever fell silent was when I was put in that water prison."

"Shit," Philza closes his eyes as he swears, leaning back. "Earlier, with the water... You should have said something, Pac, I wouldn't have judged you. Fuck knows there's shit I can't do anymore."

"I didn't know it'd be that bad," Pac hesitates after those words. "It hasn't been before. Today is just... bad? I already felt bad."

"And you came to me for company, and I made it worse," Philza says. "I am so, so sorry mate - I didn't mean to, I just- It was for Chayanne."

"It was still better than being alone," Pac replies. "The second time our connection broke was when he was taken - I haven't heard him since. Even asleep, even unconscious, even when I was in a coma... We could still feel each other. Not now. It's lonely no, and it's been so long..."

"Pac..." Philza's voice catches. "You shouldn't have to make those choices... You shouldn't have to put up with my whims just not to be alone, mate, you should have just said; we could have gone to the dungeon, or the favela, worked on the train tracks... You didn't have to swim."

"Fit is gone, Mike is gone, Richas is gone," Pac twists his hands. "You were helping me. I wanted to help you - I wanted to do something for Chayanne too! He is a good egg."

"He is," Philza smiles softly, taking the distraction for what it is. "The best. But, king, are you going to be okay?"

"When am I not?" Pac asks, as he thinks of happy pills and his own blood trailing the floors of Chume Labs.

Philza gives him a distinctly unimpressed expression and, yeah, fair, "I'm serious, Pac; I don't have plans today if you just wanna chill somewhere. Here, my place, your place, the Favela... if the karaoke's working, we could steal a room? Hell, we can just keep heading outwards and find some more dungeons if you fancy violence instead."

"... Are you sure?"

"We're friends, aren't we?" Philza asks. "We don't get to hang out as often as we should - if you'd rather get some rest, I won't stop you. Just thought I'd offer."

"Karaoke then?" Pac suggests, if only for some structure to keep the anxiety from seeping back in.

"Sure. No promises I won't fall asleep on the couch, though."

Pac laughs. It is weaker, but it is more real. "No promises, no promises here either."

In time they do, of course, fall asleep on the couch - and that is where Fit will find them in the morning.