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savnofilter · 4 months

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Talk to Me | k. bakugo

Fantasy AU!Katsuki Bakugo x [GN]Reader

WARNING(S): suggestive content, angst, lack of communication, abandonment issues if you squint, name calling, toxic dynamic (they're actually a fucking hot mess), making out, shifty hands, sex innuendos, established relationship.

COUNT: 3.4K words [10 mins.]

READ MORE: masterpost [students + bakugo masterlists]

A/N: bro a good bit of this was written in like 2019 n i had to come up with something. originally, this was requested by someone ion fw no mo but i wanted to finish it lol. 😭 i didnt want it to end up in smut (like it was requested) so now you have this like… angsty-vague thing! idk lol. this will be followed by a hc part two that is more ehhhhh mature. ALSO if youre relationship is like this, do not let it be, amen. 🙏🏽🙏🏽 thank for reading. 👵🏽

“Where the fuck is she, dunce face?!” Bakugo demanded, shaking the frightened dark-haired blonde who had his signature lighten bolt streak in it. The startled warlock tries to pry himself out of the explosive man's strong grip in irritation.

“I-I don’t know! She came around here like a week ago! How am I supposed to know?!” Kaminari exclaims, tears now beading in his eyes, whining desperately wanting to get away from his angry friend. Bakugo glares deeply into Kaminari’s eyes before letting him go, not passing up the opportunity to judge the space and ignores Kaminari rambling about his potions.

“There goes this week's rent portion…” He pouts cleaning up the bottles and trying to seperate them to put off to the side as he tries to fix the mess Bakugo made.

‘If you aren’t here now, then where the hell would you be?’ Bakugo huffs in thought as he leaves the small shop and looks around the area. The man’s anger quickly continued to scale up as he tried to think of something quick. As of now, he had recently been to every place you frequented, this shop being the last resort on his hunt for you. Suddenly he has an ingenious idea, the burst of thought sending him storming back into his friend’s store once again. Kaminari jumps as the door slams open and whimpers in protest pointing an angry finger at Bakugo.

“No get out! You already cause enough damage-”

“Does it look like I give a damn?! Use your stupid orb!” Bakugo growls, marching up to the frightened warlock with his fists balled.

“It’s not an orb, I've told you that!” A pout is seen on his lips, the warlock holding a stern look as a warning. He carefully scoops up the aforementioned tool and glares at Bakugo to protect it from his wrath. Kaminari scrambles in fear when Bakugo bucks at him, not wanting to provoke the haughty man any further. “Fine, fine! But it's not going to be free, nor will I let you smash my crystal ball.”

Bakugo mutters a few curses under his breath before digging into one of his pouches. It takes a few moments before he grabs a considerable amount and slams down a shit ton of money onto the merchant's counter. Kaminari purses his lips and hesitantly leans in to look at the lump sum, raising his brow a bit at how “little” the amount is. A few more curse words and snide remarks are set against him before he happily smiles at the new total.

“Who would you like to see, kind sir?” Kaminari beams.

“Whatever, that bitch who thought she could best me.”

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes and tries to visualize what's happening in the distant moment. His brows raise a bit as he sees the familiar scenery, opening his eyes and a few sparks run through him as he looks around almost as if he was in the moment himself.

“I wh… Um it looks like they’re-”

““They’re?” Who are they with-”

“Yeah! This is the place I found them, he could hook you up with--Bakugo?” Kirishima asks, pausing as he stares at the disastrous scene before him. His left brow quirks as he could already tell Kaminari was using his orb. He grins with a chuckle, crossing his arms. “Who are you stalking now-”

“That bitch!” Bakugo fumes, pupils turning into slits as they land upon you. You cross your arms and step back each time he stomps towards you until he has you cornered up against a wall. Kirishima is quick to pull him off, Bakugo shoving him off as he glares sharply at you. “I thought thieves aren't allowed in this part of town.” Bakugo growls without paying any attention to his friends, his boiling rage making you scoff out a laugh.

“Is that how you talk to people, fuck face?” You cross your arms and tilt your chin up at him.

Bakugo immediately goes in to lunge at you, the other men in the room moving to get between you two. “You know you took my fucking money, bitch!”

His exclamation seemingly offends the other two although it wasn't directed at them, a round of dramatic gasps sounding from them. The red haired dragon who brought you in presses his hand against Bakugo's chest to hold him back, while the warlock behind the raging barbarian takes his place in holding his arms back.

“Bakugo! What's gotten into you?!” Kirishima asks before giving you a questionable look that undeniably had a look of sympathy behind it as well.

“They took my money at the bar and never paid me back,” Bakugo bucks at you with each word, a smug grin breaking out into your lips as you suddenly remember what had happened prior to his drastic outburst. “30,000¥!”

“You make a ton of money, you've probably made it back already.” You roll your eyes in correspondence.

Recently, Bakugo has once again felt trifled by you. You and Katsuki had known each other for quite some time now, and have a long wrap sheet with each other. Truth be told, Katsuki sure as hell made up the money you had taken in no time—but that isn't the principle of what you had done. Most importantly that he let himself get played so easily, especially from you.

About two weeks ago, on the night the notorious barbarian had come back from one of his tours, he had only one thing on his mind: unwind. Of course doing that was hard with his status and all, especially from all the promoting he had been doing for months. If there was one thing he could complain about, it would be about how tedious touring is, but that's not what we're focusing on here.

We're focusing on the fact you swindled him out of his fucking money.

That night at the bar was a bittersweet one—Katsuki’s only plan was to get in and get out.

He didn't want to talk to anyone (ever) or fake entertaining conversations and all that bullshit. Hell, if it was possible he'd have to commission Kaminari to make a device of some sort to handle that shit for him in his non-communicative moods. Thankfully, when he was like this , the stingy aura that came from him usually shooed people away from him. Everyone but you.

One moment Katsuki was inhaling the sharp and tangy scent of whisky in his glass as he downed that bad boy in one gulp. When he placed his glass down and motioned for the bartender to fill another, a familiar scent that wasnt the alcoholic beverage overtook his senses. Soon enough, the pressure of someone's body was against his muscled arm and similar limbs wrapped around his forearm.

“Katsu,” You whispered in his ear, smiling deviously as he didn't even try to hide the shiver that you elicited from him. “I missed you, why didn't you tell me you were in town?” You pouted and took a seat next to him.

“I just got back, how the fuck am I supposed to tell you that, exactly?” He grumbled, taking another sip from his glass to ease his stress.

“You could've lettered me.” You take his glass and have a helping for yourself, a hiss following after as you finish your serving. “I don't know how you drink these things -”

“What do you want, Y/N?” He finally faces you and snatches the glass out your hand and slams it down on the surface for another helping. A sharp look pointed at the attendant makes them quickly go to make another glass for him.

“Come with me tonight, haven't seen you in forever.”

The suggestion easily made his cock stir. It didn't help that your newly placed hand now sat at the top of his thigh, mischievous hands softly squeezing around the area but not reaching the place he needed you most.

You always had such an easy effect on him, something he hated. Which is why you two were on some fucked up on and off relationship that had no real direction.

You two would care for each other like devoted lovers, but then the next moment you two were arguing like there was no tomorrow. You would have amazing sex, and then jealousy would ensue. Various moments on where you two would find solace in one other was always drowned out by the toxic compatibility you two had going on. Just two individuals who had a lot to give but no clue how to healthily do so.

Irredeemably so, he liked what he had with you. It was toxic for sure and everyone was sick of it except for the two of you. He wasn't even sure how it even developed into this. Unorthodoxly Katsuki was always willing to do anything for you, as you would for him. Except he has resources you didn't, especially money.

That night when he let you come over to his place without second thought is the night where the longest beef you guys had in your “relationship” started. Your original idea was to bring him back to your place but seeing how fucked up he was before you had even got to the bar made you almost feel sorry for him. You begrudgingly dealt with his slobbering and drunk self as you tended to him, periodically swatting away his shifty hands and sloppy kisses.

“Mmnnn thought you’re gonna suck it..?” Katsuki tugged at your waist and pulled you into his lap, his boner proudly pressing into your hip.

“I'm not fucking you in this condition, Katsuki.” You roll your eyes and lay him back down on his bed and somehow manage to untangle yourself from his grasp. When you stand up again you press his shoulders back and point your finger at him as if he were a disobedient child. “I'm being fucking serious! Go to bed or I'll tie you up.”

“You're not my fucking mom!” Katsuki looked you up and down with angered sass, crossing his arms and defiantly looking away with a huff.

“Good, cuz you certainly wouldn't be acting like this!”

“Don't talk shit about my mom!”

“You brought her up first you dumbass!”

With Bakugo’s stubborn nature, he ended up arguing with you until he passed out. All your other attempts beforehand were as domestic as they could be, but of course this is the way you could get him to fall asleep.

You took a few moments to watch him sleep peacefully, his face as beautiful as an angel. His eyebrows that always furrowed in tension were eased and relaxed, the small wrinkles in his forehead smoothing as he fell into slumber. His eyelashes were a luscious and gorgeous batch although being short. His mouth was slightly agape as he started to snore, his body now completely in slumber from his extenuating busy job. You carefully leaned over to close his mouth to avoid the snoring and place a chaste kiss to his forehead before pulling back. It really was lost on you why you two couldn't just function normally but that was something to figure out on another time.

You quietly but hastily put together the things that could help him for when he wakes up in the morning, even cooking him up something that could be reheated without losing its quality. You carefully set everything up on his nightstand and left a little note for him to read when he wakes up. Getting ready to leave, you realize something sticking out of the pocket he was once wearing that night. You glance at him one last time before tip toeing your way to his pants pocket and light upon your discovery.

30,000¥

The way your pupils dilated in circumference gave you expert vision in being able to examine the money, and wasted no time whatsoever counting the dollars over. Shamelessly, you made your decision fast. In record timing you were stuffing the wad of cash into your shirt and happily trotting out of his place into the young night.

The two males who devotedly choose to stay neutral in the matter moved a little, their wary expression now falling on you for your rebuttal.

You look away with a bit of shame, pouting as you do so. “I needed it for something.”

“So you wait till I'm sleeping?! What'd you even use it for!”

“That's none of your business!”

“Hell yes it is, it's my fucking money!”

Kaminari swears under his breath and pinches the bridge of his nose as you two start your yelling match, looking over at the other unlucky bystander that so happened to be there. Kirishima deeply sighs and nods as he steps back from them, his friend doing the same.

“You know what? Why don't you two go settle this in the backroom,” Kaminari yells over you both and waves an arm between you two to gather your attention. He gives a forced smile and dramatically swings his arms to motion your attention towards the hall of the shop. “I'd rather you two be a nuisance where my products and eardrums aren't in jeopardy.” Although his words are framed as a suggestion, it's imposed as a command; he respectively grabs both of you and tugs you to his ‘meditation room' (he uses it for when he sleeps on the clock) and shoves you two in there.

A pregnant silence follows you two when your fate in the enclosed place is sealed by the sound of his friend’s footsteps walking away. There's no doubt you two are locked in here, Kaminari has done that several times as you guys more than often ended up having bickering sessions in his shop. You hesitantly look up at him as you two are a few meters away from each other. You, closer to the bed as he was close to the door. When your eyes meet with his, Bakugo charges at you with conviction.

With quick steps he's right in front of you and gripping your jaw in one hand, red eyes burning into yours. Without any prior notice he leans in to press a kiss to your lips with force, his plump lips softening the blow. You groan against his mouth and immediately wrap your arms around his neck, both of you in a fight for a dominance that neither of you want to give up. Angrily fighting against each other for different reasons.

His hands greedily grip at your hips and forces you to sit down on the bed, his handling breaking the rough kiss. Heated contact between you two doesn't halt yet, but neither of you move to remove any clothes, just simply trying to get close to one another. You chase his lips as he takes pride in starving you of the pressure of his lips, his actions prompting you to grab the back of his neck and cement him on you again.

As of now his body is completely pressed against yours as you two occupy the bed, tensions rising in the warm room. This time when pulls away for air you don't protest, allowing yourself to catch up with him.

“Tell me why you're angry, hm?” Bakugo asks in a low voice, lips brushing against yours tauntingly. His hands although so used to gripping your hips so roughly held your body so tenderly, his gaze stuck on your lips and his body pressed against yours. Your silence does bring a concern to his thoughts, eye flickering up to meet yours.

Your bottom lip quivers as you can’t find yourself to speak like how you usually do, not even a toxic or sassy remark to mask how overwhelmed you felt. There's only a short moment where you wordlessly try to come up with something, maybe some pathetic excuse to mask your worries but nothing comes up. Instead, you breakdown in a sob, heart clenching in humiliation as you ca longer hide your anxiety behind toxicity and anger. Bakugo coos at your burst in emotions, enveloping you in a hug as he knew better than to press for more information. Against your will, your body succumbs to his familiar heat, face nuzzled into the comfort of his neck.

“I really would've appreciated it if you were here with me when I had my diagnosis, Katsuki.” You start off not wanting to continue, already knowing that he wouldn't like what you wanted to tell him. “I know you told me not to go alone, but… months? You didn't even tell me when you were going to be back.”

You feel your lover’s body tense up as he pulls away, his face stern as he tilts his head to meet your eyes. “You know I told you not to go alone—”

“I know but I couldn't wait anymore. It was killing me,” You solemnly look up at him for comfort.

His eyes soften immediately as you look at him and he pulls you in for a chaste kiss on your forehead, letting you rest against him as he settles for holding you tight. Bakugo wasn't good at these things, saying stuff that could make you feel better. But one thing was for sure, he liked holding you and he knew that's something you needed right now. After a few moments of collecting his thoughts he speaks to you.

“I just don't want you going through this by yourself. I'm not mad at you, okay?” Bakugo reassured you softly, large and warm hand rubbing your back as you completely leaned on him. “I know we go through some shit but I know it was selfish of me to leave so soon.” You merely nod, giving him a squeeze as you can't find any words to formulate. “I guess I was also scared to find out, but I should've been here with you instead…” Katsuki takes a few moments to gather himself, nervously biting his lip as he mutters against your hair, “I’m sorry.”

A silence falls between you two, a comfortable one albeit the circumstances and atmosphere. There were many things that needed to be talked about but a silent mutual agreement settled between you two as you calmed your chaotic energies. You couldn't even remember the last time you and Bakugo did this—just basking in each other without the verbal fights between you two. You both had to admit that it was a weird but welcoming experience. Bakugo shifts as he attempts to readjust himself, clearing his throat as he does so.

“When's the next appointment?” Bakugo breaks the silence.

“Um,” You pull yourself up from his embrace, rubbing your eyes as you gather yourself up. “Tomorrow at three o’clock.”

Bakugo seems to think for a moment as he glances at the clock on the wall, eyes later searching for a calendar. He definitely had some stuff to do tomorrow but he was willing to clear some space for you.

“... Do you want me to come?” Your boyfriend looks down at you, features softer than ever. His expression was similar to his sleeping one, his calm and delicate features being highlighted. Your pupils dilate upon being asked and you quickly nod your head, not being able to hide the flustered smile sprouting into your lips.

“O-Of course!” You hold his hand. The blonde haired male looks away flustered at how endearing you look, rolling his eyes as he hesitantly lets you hold his hand affectionately.

“Oi, quit acting like that.”

“Like what?! Don't ruin the moment!”

“Acting all soft n’ shit, it's weird!”

“Don't fricken start with me, Mr. “I Don't Want You to Go Through This Alone!””

On the other side of the door, two nosy friends have their ears pressed against the door, a questionable glance being met as they slowly retreat from the door. Kaminari does a motion with his hand to silently unlock the door, a small sigh coming from Kirishima as he crosses his arms.

“You think they're good?” He whispers, not risking being heard from the couple in the room.

Kaminari snorts and leads the way back to his shop with a shrug, “They'll be just fine.”

#bnha x reader #mha x reader #bnha bakugo katsuki x reader #bnha bakugo x reader #mha bakugo x reader #fantasy au!bakugo #bnha scenarios #mha scenarios #bnha imagines #mha imagines #sav's sfwing

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flowersandbigteeth · 1 year

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Can we have more about Hugo?! I think that was one of my favorites!

Yes! I am a bear girl and I am willing to write a lot of Hugo <3

Werebear (Hugo) x female reader

Word Count: 2k

🌶️ NSFW MASTERPOST 🌶️

W: attempted sa, xenophobia themes between fairyfolk and humans, implied violence, vaginal and oral sex, anal play, nsfw were bear smut, dubcon

"I'm sorry, Hugo, but Rod is making me go to this birthday thing,” you groaned into the phone as you pulled up to the bar where your boss was holding his non-optional birthday celebration after work.

At the very least, everyone who attended got a free beer, so you’d pulled a clean sweater out of your locker after work and fluffed your hair. Now you were slapping on some lip gloss so you didn’t look like you’d literally just come off the factory line even though you had.

“Come home, you worked two shifts. You are exhausted,” he growled, “you shouldn’t even be driving. I told you I would come pick you up!”

“I can’t!” you snapped back, “I have to go and I’m perfectly fine to drive.”

“You are tired and going to drink!” he hissed back, “I’m coming to get you.”

“Do not come get me!” you said.

“Where is it?” he growled.

You glanced at the giant red plastic sign of a dancing crab out of your front window.

“Timmy’s Crab Bucket,” you read the name of the joint off of the screen, “but don’t bother coming down here. I’m not staying long. I’m just going to get a beer, tell Rod happy birthday, and come home. I’m beat,” you sighed, “I probably won’t even drink it.”

He snorted and the line went dead.

You rolled your eyes at your grumpy mate, but were too tired to call him back. You just wanted to get this over with so you clutched your purse to your side and headed into the restaurant.

Greeted by a few of your also exhausted coworkers, you made your way to the bar to grab a beer and pretend to settle before you could make your excuses to leave.

“You smell nice, (Y/N),” Rod said, standing a little too close as he eased a bottle in front of you, “I’m thrilled you made it!”

You gave him a wan smile holding back the retort that it wasn’t optional.

“Happy Birthday!” you said instead, holding up your beer.

Rod was your average middle aged, middle management bloke. He wore tapered jeans with a brown belt and grey New Balances. His flat, brown hair was thinning and his blue polo had a stain on it, but he wasn’t a bad looking guy. If you hadn’t met him at work, he was the sort of person you’d run into at the hardware store giving women unsolicited advice on products.

His eyes drifted all over you. You noted the moment they landed on the bite on your shoulder, your oversized sweater revealed and narrowed. It was only for a second and they quickly moved on to your chest.

“Lemme get a kiss for my birthday!” he said, pulling you in for a hug and forcing your face to his cheek.

You instinctively stumbled back out of his arms after smashing the corner of your mouth awkwardly against his.

“S-so got anything planned for the next year in your life?” you asked, trying to slide away from him.

He caged you in against the bar, with his arms. Rod wasn’t massive or built, but he was bigger than you. Taking a step in he leaned down to you, so you could smell the hard liquor on his breath.

“Maybe start a new relationship,” he said, “there’s a pretty girl I’ve had my eye on.”

Your eyebrows went up.

“Need another drink, sweetheart?” the wolf bartender asked you, to your relief, glaring at Rod and seeming really eager to take the beer in your hand away from you.

You took the opportunity to manoeuvre out from under him and took a few steps down the bar to talk to the bartender.

“I think I’ll just have a glass of water,” you said, passing the beer to him. You suddenly felt too uncomfortable to drink. He gave you a worried look and took it, returning with a glass of water.

You wandered away to try and talk to a few coworkers, feeling someone’s eyes on you. Warily you glanced up as Rod threw a few shots back at the bar with some of his buddies. They were gesturing and looking at you, seeming to be getting more and more upset about something. Feeling weird about the whole thing, you decided it was time to go and said your goodbyes to your coworkers. Abandoning the cup of water at the bar, you quickly made your way to your car through the empty parking lot.

“Where you running off to doll?” Rod’s voice behind you made you freeze, just as you got to your car. You turned slowly, squeezing your eyes shut and wincing before schooling your features.

“Just tired,” you said, your eyes darting to the two other guys standing by him, “figured I’d head home early. I work first shift tomorrow.”

“You weren’t even gonna say goodbye to me?” he pouted and they all took a few steps towards you, backing you up against your car. A finger drifted over the bite on your neck.

“You animal fucking whores are so stuck up,” he slurred with a growl, “what’s wrong with human men? Sick girls like you only wanna fuck pigs and dogs. There’s got to be something wrong with your brain. Daddy touch your princess parts when you were a little girl or something? That why you’re so fucked up?”

You took a step back only to run into your car.

“What?! Rod? What the fuck are you talking about?” you hissed. Rod had mentioned his anti-Fairyfolk sentiments in passing, but never like this. You’d just ignored it and kept your silence because he was your boss and you didn’t want to piss him off, but this was way over the line. You turned around and fumbled with your keys.

“Look, you’re drunk and I’ve got to go home,” you said, trying to get your door open, “fuck off!”

“Ahh!” you cried as he grabbed you roughly by your hair and pushed you against the car.

“Let’s give ‘er some human cock,” one of his friends chuckled, jerking your wrist painfully and pressing your hand to his crotch, “That’ll fix er.”

“Get off!” you howled, but no one heard that.

What they all heard very clearly was the roar that rose up behind them. A roar you recognized.

“Hugo!” you gasped, collapsing against your car as the pressure on your scalp released.

You didn’t know where the men went or what Hugo did with their bodies, not bothering to turn around. Covering your ears you tried to block out the screams until there was silence. Flipping back around Hugo was stomping across the parking lot, blood splashed on his chest, his eyes flaring.

You took a step back into your car, your heart fluttered. He looked utterly feral, his muzzle wrinkled and his teeth bared. His claws were out and his arms raised as all eight feet of him thundered towards you.

“I told you to come home after work,” he growled, looming over you.

“I- I- had-Rod…” the words died on your lips, your eyes were wide and you were shaking.

The reason you had to show up to this thing was probably dead, your excuse was meaningless.

“Then, I told you I would come and pick you up,” he hissed, “you didn’t listen to me either time because you are an insufferable stubborn ox.”

He pulled you up to face him sniffling your cheek.

“His scent is all over your lips,” he snarled, “did you kiss him?!”

Tears leaked down your cheeks.

“I didn’t want to, he grabbed me!” you stammered.

A deep rumble rose in his chest and he pushed your head down. With a quick flick of his wrist, his cock popped out of the sweatpants he was wearing and he shoved it past your lips without another word, his hand buried in your hair. He as so tall he didn't even need to push you onto your knees, just shove you against the car so you were hunched a bit.

Instinctively, your eyes rolled to the back of your head and your mouth watered at your mate’s familiar scent and taste. Groaning you sucked him to the back of your throat.

Clutching the back of your head he fucked your face, his balls slapping wetly on your chin as you drooled on the massive cock you could barely fit in your mouth. He jerked you off of him, leaving a trail of spit and precum leaking down your chin. Flipping you around, he threw you over the hood of your car.

You screeched as his claws shredded your leggings, leaving your ass bare to the blessedly empty parking lot.

“I’m gonna fuck the sense into you, woman,” he snarled, slapping your ass with his massive hand.

“No! Hugo! Stop! Not here!” you howled, but he was already shoving his tongue into your pussy to get you ready for him.

“I’m not putting you in my truck smelling like that bastard,” he growled into your pussy, his voice ragged and hoarse, “his scent is all over you. Did you let him touch you anywhere else?”

“No! No!” you whimpered.

He wasn’t listening, his tongue roughly lapping at your clit, pushing the hood out of the way so that the pebbled flesh was torturing your tender nub. Your pussy leaked at the rough treatment and you cried into the cool metal of your car.

His hot breath made clouds of steam around your cunt as he devoured it until you were soaked, aware of the hot wet streaks making their way down your thighs. When you came a rush of hot fluid poured out of your pussy drenching the scraps of your leggings.

Standing, he grabbed you by the back of your head with his thick hand and shoved you into the hood, mounting you. You screamed his name as his cock stretched you, mercilessly.

“That’s it, honey cake,” he groaned, bottoming out inside of you, “I want them to hear you screaming my name inside.”

He slammed his hips into you, more confident now that he’d taken you a few times. He knew how hard he could push you and how roughly he could batter your tight little cunt. It never got old to him. He could fuck you slowly, quickly, sleepily, it didn’t matter. Each time his cock got painfully hard and his balls heavy with the urge to pump his cum into you.

He was manic with blood lust and needed to seed you, shoving your much smaller body over and over into the hood of your car as he used your pussy. You gasped as his thick finger found your asshole, something he’d never done before. He’d been waiting to explore this, but suddenly he needed to punish you a bit for disobeying him. The large digit speared you, making tears come to your eyes and you spat out incomprehensible curses.

It didn’t feel bad, it was just an unexpected invasion and there was a slight pinch of pain at first. Soon he was pumping his one finger, then two inside of you at the same pace as his cock fucking your pussy and you could only drool and whine.

His heavy body came down over you, not squishing you, but pressing you firmly into the hood. Your clit ground against what was left of your panties, driving conscious thoughts from your mind.

“You’re my woman, (Y/N). I own every part of you. You’re gonna listen to me when I tell you to come home,” he snarled in your ear, “say yes, sir.”

You bit your lip, trying to resist his little power play, but he thrust into you extra hard, scissoring his fingers in your asshole and the words tumbled from your lips.

“Y-yesssiiiiii….ahhh,” you groaned, your ass and pussy clamping down on him as you came in a breathless rush.

He roared, emptying his hot load into you as he pulled you up to his soft chest. You went limp in his arms and he held you for a few minutes catching his breath.

“Uh excuse me?” a familiar voice chimed in with a cough.

Hugo pulled you to his chest, cradling your slack body for your dignity. You glanced up to see the wolf bartender standing there.

“You two should probably get out of here so I can call the police about the bodies in the ditch over there,” he said, “I saw a wild brown bear attack them. It’s not safe to hang out around here with those sorts of animals creeping around in the dark.”

He shot you and your werebear mate a smile before heading back inside. Hugo snuggled you to his chest and stroked your hair, carrying you to his truck.

“And you’re not going back to that factory,” he grumbled as he arranged you in his lap and started it up.

“Then what am I going to do,” you bickered softly, “sit around and eat bon bons all day? I’m not quitting the factory.”

“Yes you are,” he grumbled, kissing your head, “you’re going to follow me around all day and look cute while I work.”

You rolled your eyes even as you closed them, too tired to fight anymore.

“Okay, Hugo,” you murmured, finally drifting off to sleep on his chest.

#werebear #werebear x human #werebear x reader #x reader #monster boyfriend #monster fucker #monster smut #yandere smut #yandere male #yandere x reader #soft yandere #monster x reader #size difference

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bloodyknucklesforme · 2 months

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Drag My Teeth Across Your Beating Heart | Carnal XV

Carnal (adjective) : relating to or given to crude bodily pleasures and appetites

Simon was born with what his father called 'The Curse'. A wanton craving for taboo meat. Since meeting the similarly cursed Johnny, the two had formed a bond. They didn't just fight together, they ate together, slept together, and shared everything.

When a favor to Price reveals another cursed person, Simon worries she could destroy everything.

Masterpost

CW: cannibalism, smut, voyeurism

This is very much a horror fic mostly based around the films Raw (2017) and Bones and All (2022), if you sit through those you should be good here. This is my first horror fic.

Chapter Title Credit: Howl - Florence + The Machine

Body disposal isn't hard, not for Simon. It was a ritual. One passed down from his father.

Disfigure

Dismember

Dispose

As easy as any prayer. On his knees, a rag over his mouth and nose, a saw in hand. A ritual like any other. This time it felt like mass without the sacrament. Nothing to slip into his mouth, no savior, no priest.

He’d never been one for church. His mum had dragged him and Tommy a couple times mostly for Christmas and Easter Sunday. The only days that mattered. They’d been baptized Catholic because that’s what his father was raised as but never did any of the following sacraments. They’d stopped going by the time he was ten and he stopped believing in any possibility of a God after that first meal with his father.

He had a new religion. Led by his father. He supposed all fathers are god in a sense. That’s what it felt like the first time they ate together. Divine Salvation.

The stable smelled like rot. It was cold enough that the body hadn’t started to turn to sludge but the smell was acrid. He stripped his clothes and left them folded on a table in the tack room. Skin is easier to clean than cloth.

As many pieces as possible. Start with the joints and a brick, smash until the bones break then cut through the flesh. Humans are fragile. His father had taught him that at a young age. Even the smooth leather of a belt could cut skin if struck hard enough. Soft skin made him feel vulnerable. Calluses were armor.

He liked soft on others. Spilling between his fingers. Made him feel powerful. A show of strength to hold something fragile and not break it apart.

Nina looked soft, like the flesh of her neck would mold into his hands. His arm had wrapped around her waist so fittingly.

Johnny still had soft parts. Thighs, neck, arse. His favorite position was Johnny on his back, thighs wrapped around his waist. Simon would grip his arse like it held him to earth. Simon’s teeth would drag against Johnny’s throat. He’d cum inside him and Johnny’s spend would slick between them.

When Johnny asked Simon to bite him last Summer, it twisted something nasty in his stomach. The monster he’d always fought down reared its head. The same monster that controlled his father. The one that took control in Mexico all those years ago.

He hacked and hacked at the body. The smaller the parts the better. The harder to reconstruct, the easier to scatter. He’d seen crows nearby. He could feed them over the winter with this. Simon never liked waste.

He took a hammer to the teeth, porcelain pieces. Tips of the fingers cut off. No tattoos to skin off this time. Man to meat.

It took several hours. The floor of the stall was covered in blood. He was covered in blood. There was a hose, still working. He gathered the meat into a cooler and sprayed down the stall and then himself. He paced the stable, keeping his blood warm while he dried off.

There was something sweet in the air. Straw and glass, brown with Nina’s blood from the other day. Johnny’s scent was mixed in there too. She’d been wearing his clothes at the time. His cock twitched. He smacked the side of his face to snap himself back.

Gathered his clothes and walked back to the house. He heard them as he stepped inside. Johnny’s hurried babbling and Nina’s moans. He quietly took his boots off and crept towards the sound. It was wrong, yes. Hearing Johnny again made his blood hot.

There was a mirror on the wall opposite them. From his angle in the hall, he could watch unseen. They were mostly clothed, only a small disappointment. His cock strained against his jeans.

They looked good together. Like something meant to be. Even with Johnny’s lack of experience he could work her up well. Simon watched the muscles in her back stretch, sweat glide down her back. He wanted to walk in, lick it off. Slip his hand between her legs. Tell Johnny what to do, how to touch her. He wanted to show her where to nip and where to kiss. Johnny fell apart whenever Simon’s teeth grazed where his jaw met his ear.

She was crying Johnny’s name. Johnny stared up at her with glazed eyes, the same eyes that used to look at him. Those eyes flicked to the mirror and Simon took a step back. He crept back down the hall and outside. He walked back to the stable.

He found himself by the pile of bloodied straw and glass. He grabbed a handful of straw and held it near his face, breathing in. He fumbled with his zipper and button, haphazardly pulling his cock out.

His fantasies were a crowded mess of bodies, sweat and cum. Nina and Johnny’s smell mixing with his, herby and sweet. All the positions they could arrange themselves in. Take turns riding and fucking. He wanted Nina to sit on his face while Johnny rode him. Fuck Johnny while he buried his face into Nina’s cunt.

Simon groaned, cum mixing with the mess on the floor in front of him. He sighed, shaking his hand off. He’d have to wash the floor again.

He stood, looking at the floor, the smell making his eyes roll back. He wanted the three of them to be together. He would make it happen. He tried being the lone wolf. Separate himself from Johnny but look at what had happened. They both needed him. Johnny can’t hunt on his own and Nina seemed incapable of it entirely. He’d have to teach them both. Keep them alive.

They’d have this house, some place to stay. No more shitty hotels and hostels or car back seats. He could outfit the cellar to better butcher meat.He never told Johnny but he didn’t even have a flat himself. Any leave had him traveling around, hunting and camping. They’d never go hungry. It could be good. Something stable.

He thought about his family. The ones he failed. He could still smell them, his stomach twisting while his mouth watered. He made a vow that night. He was the only one allowed to eat his loved ones. It was only right. His right. He’d failed them. He wouldn’t fail Johnny or Nina.

He made dinner that night. Steak cooked with garlic, butter and thyme. The smell dragged both Johnny and Nina out of their bedrooms and to him. Nina’s hair was still damp from her shower. Made the whole house smell like vanilla.

“Nina,” he said after they’d all sat down. She looked up from her plate. Her chair was touching Johnny’s. Simon laid a hand on Johnny’s thigh, earning a side glance. “I want to teach you how to hunt.”

“When?” She asked through a mouthful of food.

“This weekend.”

“Si-” Johnny attempted to interrupt.

“Do you want to learn?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” he smiled.

Tag list: @gogh-with-the-flow @queen-ilmaree @cathnoneofyourbusiness @pssytrux

#Carnal #simon ghost riley x oc #simon ghost riley x john soap mactavish #ghostsoap #modern warfare II #modern warfare #call of duty fanfic #call of duty #john soap mactavish #John soap mactavish x oc #soapghost #simon ghost riley #ghost x soap #dark fic #ghoap

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watchmegetobsessed · 2 years

Text

THE SUN WILL RISE (part 6)

A/N: here we are, last part of this little series! i hope you guys enjoyed it, i did, and now im excited to work on the next story!

PAIRING: College!Long-hair!Harry X Reader

WORD COUNT: 5.8k

SERIES MASTERPOST | SUPPORT ME!

It’s been only a few weeks since the last time you saw Harry, but it feels like a decade has passed since you said goodbye at the airport. Now you’re on your way to pick him up and you can’t wait to see him again, to feel his arms around you, kiss his lips… You never thought you could miss someone this much, but here you are.

The arriving terminal is full of people when you arrive and check the board to see that Harry’s plane just landed, so he could be here any moment. You lean against a pillar and stare at the exit, your heart jumping in your chest every time someone walks out who resembles him even the slightest.

And then it’s finally him.

He looks just like when you parted ways in December, his hair is let down, he’s wearing a black hoodie and a pair of black jeans, carrying a sports bag on one shoulder as he stops in his tracks, his gaze roaming through the crowd until they find you.

You move towards each other at the same time, pushing past waiting relatives and loved ones before finally meeting halfway. You throw your arms around his neck and practically smash against him, he catches you just in time, his bag sliding off of his shoulder and landing on the floor with a thump as he holds you in his embrace.

“Hi baby,” he murmurs, kissing the side of your head.

“Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to live together just when we started dating,” you mumble against his neck, making him laugh.

“I’m guessing you missed me.”

You just nod and hold him a little longer before leaning back just enough so he can kiss you. He takes his time savoring your lips, his hands holding your face as if he had some kind of treasure in his palms. You used to frown at couples who made out at public places but now you’ve gladly become one of them.

The ride to the resort is over an hour, but it’s just some extra time you can spend alone with Harry. You try to hold him a briefing about the key characters of the family, who he should be watching out for (basically everyone) and who are the safe people (maybe your aunt Cecilia on her better days). He listens carefully and nods along, keeps telling you there’s nothing to worry about, but you know better than that.

“You haven’t met my family, Harry,” you groan, when he repeats the same thing.

“I met your sister,” he cheekily replies.

“But she… she could be fine. And she was alone, she’s different when the whole family is around.”

“Y/N, it’s gonna be fine. I can handle it.”

“I’m serious, Harry. My dad can… he can easily say the most hurtful thing and not even realize it.”

“Okay, I’m a big boy, I can handle that,” he chuckles and reaching over he gives your thigh a squeeze.

“Alright,” you sigh and then add with a chuckle: “Big boy.”

Even though you told Harry in advance that the whole thing is gonna be unreasonably over the top, his eyes widen when he sees the luxury resort that was rented out just for the wedding. Of course, everything is paid by your father, because his favorite daughter deserves only the best.

Grabbing his bag from the trunk of the car you head inside, hands clasped together and you’re silently praying you don’t run into anyone before you could reach your room, but it seems like the gods have turned their back on you. Just as you walk into the lounge, you’re met with your father and one of his partners that obviously needed to be invited to the wedding to keep up the good partnership and make it look like they are friends, when in real life, they would both push each other to the sharks if they had the chance.

“Fuck,” you breathe out when your father notices you right away and seemingly excuses himself from the conversation. “Brace yourself,” you hiss to Harry.

He gives your hand a squeeze before your dad walks up to the two of you, not even trying to hide the way he is examining the man standing beside you.

“Hey dad, this is Harry, my boyfriend,” you speak up, not as confidently as you wanted to, but it’s too late now. “Harry, this is my father, James.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” Harry holds his hand out. Your dad glimpses down at it before finally taking it and giving it a shake.

“Harry, I finally get to see Y/N’s mysterious plus one, huh!”

His words alone would be normal, but there is just something in the way he said them that makes you shiver. The cold gaze he is shooting Harry before letting go of his head, you just know he is already taking the poor boy apart in his head.

“Not so mysterious anymore,” Harry smiles at him politely.

“No, definitely not,” your dad agrees.

“We’ll see you later at dinner, dad. Harry must be tired from all the traveling.”

“Sure. Please dress properly for dinner,” he adds, clearly referring to his simple outfit. You just take Harry’s hand and pull him towards the elevators, feeling your dad’s burning gaze on the back of your head until the elevator doors close finally.

“He is…” Harry starts, looking for the right words. “He is surely something,” he ends up saying and the two of you just laugh at his wording.

“You’re right about that, yeah.”

You have just a few short hours before dinner that you spend making up for the time you spent apart and then taking a walk to look around the luxurious resort that truly looks like a winter wonderland. The staff is already dressing up the place for the big day tomorrow, fairy lights and white and silver decoration hanging from every corner with a hint of light blue.

Harry doesn’t comment on it, but you know what he is thinking: that this is all just so over the top, way too much for a wedding. You agree. Even if you weren’t the blacksheep of your family and you got treated the same way as your sister, you wouldn’t want your wedding to be like this.

More like an intimate little event somewhere hidden, but special, only with your loved ones. No business partners or work related people. You never understood how your dad can mix work and his private life so much.

There’s a massive sunroom in the back of the building, watching over the snowy mountains in the distance, that’s where you settle for a bit before heading back to the room to get ready for dinner.

“I told my mum about you,” Harry speaks up, breaking the momentary comfortable silence.

“You did?” you ask with genuine surprise. You’ve been officially dating for just about a month and you spent weeks apart from that, you weren’t expecting him to tell his family about you.

“Of course. She knows me too well, she would have noticed that something happened, so I went ahead and told her about us,” he grins at you.

“And… what did you say?”

“In case you want to know if I shared our past and the deal we made, I didn’t. She knew I moved in with a friend when I had to leave the dorm and I told her that probably living together brought us together. Which is not entirely a lie,” he chuckles.

“Right,” you let out a small chuckle as well.

You’re tempted to ask him about what his mother had to say about you or the relationship, but you don’t want to look too eager or anxious. However, Harry knows you well enough to figure out what’s on your mind.

“She is thrilled to meet you as soon as possible,” he tells you softly.

“Really?” You breathe out.

“Of course. She wants to meet the girl who makes her son so happy.”

Your nervous thoughts turn into heat in your chest that spreads up on your neck to your ears and cheeks. He seemingly never fails to make you feel so cared for like never before.

Leaning closer you press your lips against his, kissing him as your response when words fail to come to your tongue.

“Wow, look at these young lovers!”

Your sister’s voice snaps you out of the moment and when you pull back you see her approaching the two of you with Gabriel by her side. You and Harry stand up to greet them, Harry kisses Alice on the cheeks and then shakes hands with Gabriel.

“Nice to see you again,” Harry smiles at your sister politely, one arm coming to curl around your waist effortlessly, but you see that Alice notices the movement right away, a small smile playing on her lips.

“I’m glad you’re here too. Y/N has been moping around without you all winter break.”

“Hey!” you protest, though she is right.

“What? I saw you checking your phone every ten minutes to see if Harry has texted you,” she outs you without hesitation. “Y/N, I want to discuss something with you about the ceremony, can I steal you for a moment?”

“Oh, sure.”

“Gabe, why don’t you show Harry the sports center downstairs?” Alice suggests, clearly wanting to get some alone time with you.

“Sure,” he nods. “Do you play anything?...” he asks as the two of them walk away.

“What’s up with the ceremony?” you ask, worried that something might have come up.

“Nothing, just wanted to ask you something without the guys around. Tell me, when did you and Harry get together?”

You freeze at her question, but then manage to recover and act like nothing happened.

“What do you mean? I told you we started dating–”

“No, I don’t want the little story you made up. I know it was all fake when I visited you, but now it’s genuine. When did the change happen?”

You open your mouth a few times just to close it, unsure what to say or how to react.

“How… how did you know?” you ask at last

“Please, the two of you were so awkward when I visited, clearly not a real couple. But I could tell you both had feelings for each other, so I decided to wait till you figure it out yourself. That kiss at brunch though…” she chuckles, fanning herself with her hands. “That was hot.”

“Yeah, it’s a shame we barely talked for weeks after that,” you mumble under your breath.

“But it seems like it all played out well in the end,” she smiles at you. “You look good together. That guy is wrapped around your finger.”

“You think so?”

“Absolutely,” she smirks. “I can see it in the way he looks at you. I’m glad you finally found each other.”

“Me too,” you nod with a soft smile.

Harry is your rock during dinner that evening. He is such a natural, meeting all these new people and charming them with his confidence. You’re in awe how he can easily chat with basically anyone.

The only person who seems skeptical about him is your dad. You catch him staring at your boyfriend several times during dinner and the look on his face is just not too pleasant. It’s kind of the same you usually get from him, you’re just not sure how Harry earned it when he’s been amazing all evening.

“So, Harry, what do you study?” your dad asks at one point.

“Graphics design, sir,” he answers and you swear you see the disappointment in your dad’s eyes at his response.

“And what do you plan to do with such a degree?”

“Well, I think I have plenty of options. I’m really interested in doing digital illustrations though, I’ve actually designed a few book covers, maybe I might continue doing that.”

“So, no solid plan after graduation?”

“Dad,” you plead quietly. He is obviously trying to shame Harry and his studies and plans or the lack of them in this case, when it’s completely fine that he doesn’t have his future planned entirely.

He gives you a piercing look as if it was a warning for you not to get involved. Harry’s hand finds your knee under the table and gives it a gentle squeeze to let you know he’s got it.

“I have plenty of plans, sir. But I don’t want to restrict myself to just one while I’m still not done with my studies.”

You’re amazed how he can stay so calm and collected, there’s not one ounce of irritation in his tone.

Your dad doesn’t say a word, just lifts his nose up and then turns to talk to someone else, a clear sign that he felt like he couldn’t control the conversation the way he wanted. Pride fills your chest, knowing that Harry could stand his ground against him and he didn’t let your father intimidate him.

Leaning closer you press a tiny kiss to his cheek, which earns you a smile as he glances at you.

“What was that for?” he quietly asks.

“For being so amazing,” you murmur back, his smile stretching even wider.

Dinner seems to never end, but when it’s finally time to retreat and get some rest before the big day tomorrow, you’re aching to finally be alone with Harry. When you get into the elevator you’re already eyeing him with lust, but not just in a sexual sense. The way he dealt with your family, especially your dad tonight, how he didn’t let anything or anyone get a rise of him, he remained calm and patient, even in moments when you could feel the hair standing up on your back.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks with a chuckle and you swear you see him blushing. “Is there something on my face?” he jokes.

“Yeah,” you nod and moving closer you place a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, his hand coming to rest on your lower back out of instinct. “This was on your face,” you giggle.

“Mm, put it back,” he teases you, making you laugh, but you obey and move to kiss him again, this time on his lips.

You walk to your room, hand in hand, feeling like a giddy teenager, a tired sigh slipping through your lips when you finally walk inside and the door locks behind you. You’ve been dreading this moment of the evening, especially because you’re wearing a matching underwear set you bought just for tonight. You knew it’s gonna be a challenging evening, so you thought you’d end it on a better note.

“Would you mind unzipping my dress?” you bashfully ask, turning your back to him.

“Sure,” he mumbles and you don’t miss the way the corners of his mouth curl up.

You lift your hair up to give him access to the zipper, which he pulls down slowly before brushing the straps off your shoulders, letting the dress bunch around your waist before you push it further down so it pools at your feet. His hands find your waist and move to your stomach as he pulls you into his embrace from behind, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

“You had this on all evening?” he murmurs, before kissing the soft spot underneath your ear. You tilt your head to the side to give him more access and he eagerly peppers the curve of your neck with soft kisses.

“Wanted to surprise you,” you hum with your eyes closed, giving yourself over to the sensation. “Though you might need something extra after tonight.”

“I might need this extra every night,” he chuckles against your heated skin before his hands get a hold of your hips and he turns you around so he can finally kiss you.

Soon enough, his dress shirt and pants come undone and thrown to the floor as you fall to the neatly made bed, limbs tangled together while your kisses never stop. Feeling confident, you push him so he lies on his back on the mattress and you get on top of him, the sight of his exposed chest in front of you burns into your mind forever. Leaning down you capture his lips in a sweet kiss.

“Thank you,” you whisper against his pink lips.

“For what?”

“For… everything. I couldn’t do this without you.”

He exhales through his nose, one hand coming to cup your jaw as he runs his thumb over your cheek, looking deep into your eyes.

“You definitely could. Don’t belittle yourself, Y/N. You’re capable of so many amazing things. But I’m glad I could be here to support you.”

Turning your head you kiss into the palm of his hand, every time Harry does or says something that’s proof of how much he cares about you, part of you doesn't even know how to process it, because you haven’t experienced anything like this before.

His hand moves to the back of your neck and pulls you down so your lips touch, but he doesn’t kiss you just yet, holding your gaze. You can feel his chest rising and falling underneath you and you’re pressed against him so tight that you feel his heart hammering in his chest. You’re just about to ask him if everything is alright when he speaks up at last.

“I love you.”

The words sink right into your chest, wrap around your heart and burn into it while they also echo in your mind, on repeat. You move back, just enough so you can look him in the eyes easily, his pupil is dilated as he stares back at you, lips parted.

“Do you mean it?” you ask in a whisper.

“Of course,” he breathes out, brushing your hair out of your face before taking your face in his hands. “You’re an easy person to love, Y/N. I hope I can make you believe that soon.”

With wobbling lips you lean down and kiss him with everything you can’t say out loud. You know you feel the same way about him, but you need more time to be able to say it, so you tell him without words this time.

And he gets the message. Loud and clear and the way he kisses you back reassures you about it.

“Okay, are you ready?” you call out from the bathroom, nervously smoothing your hand over the soft fabric of your dress.

“Have been for like… twenty minutes!” Harry teases you from outside with a chuckle. You wanted a big reveal for your bridesmaid dress, because it’s the only aspect of the wedding you’ve been looking forward to. Alice has excellent taste and she made sure the dresses are flattering to everyone, so it fits you perfectly, emphasizing your best features.

“Alright, alright. I’m coming!” you announce before taking a deep breath and opening the door.

You walk out, Harry is sitting on the edge of the double bed, already dressed in his black suit pants paired with a blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up to flaunt his tattooed arms, his hair in a neat bun at the back of his head. He looks insanely hot and you’re already having a hard time not throwing yourself at him.

Harry looks up as you step out of the bathroom, holding the long skirt of the dress with one hand before letting go of it as you stop in front of him, nervously showing your outfit to him. His eyes scan over your body, several times, with his lips parted and the look on his face mirrors an expression of someone who just found the biggest treasure in the world.

“Woah,” he breathes out at last, standing from the bed holding his hands out as if he was afraid to touch you. Pride fills your chest and you give him a twirl to show him the whole look and he is drinking up every drop of it.

“Do you like it?” you ask, biting into your bottom lip.

“I fucking love it,” he groans before his hands finally grip your hips to pull you against him. “You look beautiful, baby,” he murmurs before kissing you.

Since last night, you’ve been in a bubble of joy, the wedding, your family and everything that’s been weighing down on your shoulders stopped existing inside the walls of your room. Harry’s confession and the passionate night you spent together after has brought you blinding bliss, ignoring anything that’s beyond him.

“You look amazing too,” you smile at him, running your hands over his arms, up to his broad shoulders. “Let’s get this over with,” you sigh before stealing one last kiss.

Luckily, your sister doesn’t turn into a bridezilla, she is actually taking it so well, making it easier for everyone else around her. You keep going back and forth between her and Harry before the ceremony, even though Harry reassures you every time that he is fine on his own, you shouldn’t worry about him. Honestly, you just don’t want him to run into your dad and have to deal with him on his own, though he is pretty busy himself, pretending like the wedding is just as much about him as it is about Alice.

The ceremony is beautiful, the back of the room where the altar is has floor to ceiling windows that look out on the mountains. It truly is a winter wonderland. However all you can look at is Harry, who keeps staring back at you, as if you were in the center of the attention. As your sister and Gabe exchange their vows, you share a secret, intimate moment with Harry too with just smiles and looks, but it says more than words can.

When the ceremony is over you’re quick to make your way to Harry, planning to stay by his side for the rest of the evening.

“You were supposed to look at the bride and groom, did you forget?” you tease him, as you lace your fingers together and head to the ballroom where the reception is going to be held.

“I found someone else I liked better,” he smirks cheekily, before pressing a kiss to the side of your head and your stomach is somersaulting from his words.

Everything is going as planned, you’re even having a good time and what you enjoy the most is when you get to introduce Harry to people. Finally, you’re not the sad little single sister, you’re glowing with Harry by your side.

You eat and drink, dance and have a blast finally. You do more of the dancing, the DJ is playing amazing songs, Harry is always eager to have you in his arms whether it’s an upbeat or slow song. He is a great dancer as you learn it and you gladly stay on the dancefloor with him until your feet start hurting from the high heels.

“Let’s have a break,” you giggle, dragging him back to your table.

“Want another drink?”

“Yeah, that sounds great,” you smile at him, plopping down to your chair. He leans down and kisses you shortly before heading over to the open bar.

Your sixth sense kicks in before you even see your dad sitting down beside you. The hair on your arms stands up and your blissful mood is gone in an instant.

“Stop this parade, this is not a nightclub.”

“W-what?” you ask, turning to face him, but he is not even looking at you.

“This Harry guy… He is not the right fit for the family.”

“Why would you say that?” His words are like punches in your stomach and you feel your confidence crumbling.

“He’s got very little plans and even those are bullshit. You’re gonna be a lawyer, you can’t choose just anyone, we have a reputation to keep up.”

“Dad…” you breathe out, so many things are crowding your mind as you try to process what’s happening.

“I don’t want to see him after the wedding. You’re better off without him, he would just keep you back.”

You’re seeing red. Like never before.

It’s one thing for him to destroy you and make you believe you’re worth nothing. You’re used to that and you can deal with it. But for him to talk like this about Harry? That does not sit right with you. He doesn’t know him, he just judges him based on some ridiculous assumptions he made after having one short conversation with him.

“Don’t talk about him like that,” you speak up, your voice coming out stronger and more confident than you expected, but you guess that’s what rage is doing to you. Seemingly you surprise your dad with your reply, he looks at you with an expression you’ve never seen before, a mixture of disbelief, anger and confusion.

“What did you just say?” he grits his teeth, shooting you a death glare.

“I said, don’t talk about him like that! You don’t even know him! But still, he is an amazing person and I’m lucky someone like him wants to be with me. Harry is caring and inspiring and he treats his loved ones with so much respect. But what do you know about that, am I right?” you snap and you just know this is the moment when the dam has broken and you won’t stop until you unload everything that’s piled up throughout the years.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he growls, clearly irritated by your behavior. From the corner of your eyes you can see Harry approaching the two of you with the drinks in hands, but he is quick to realize something is happening.

“It means that you never treated me like you love me. Like a father should treat his daughter. You put me through hell, trying to turn me into my own sister and nothing I did was enough for you, but I swallowed it all, just wanted to please you. Because that’s what children do, they want to see their parents be proud of them, though you never showed an ounce of that to me. It’s fine, I will eventually get over that. But I will not let you talk like this about him. He showed me that I’m more than just a burden, which I am to you. I know I always have been.”

Harry places the drinks on the table as you stand up from the table, already knowing you’ll have to leave as soon as possible after you’re done talking.

“You know what? You always said I should do things that take me ahead and make me succeed. I finally figured out what would help me do that,” you chuckle bitterly. “I just need to get myself away from you and live my own life. Thanks for nothing, dad.”

When you turn around to storm away you see that Alice was standing close enough to hear what you just said. She is staring back at you with guilt and when she opens her mouth to say something you just shake your head and march out with Harry following you right behind.

The farther you get from the ballroom the more the adrenaline wears out of your system and reality sets back in, your actions finally sinking into your consciousness.

All the things you just told your father. All the pent up feelings and hurt that just snapped right out of you. It comes down crashing on you and in a blink of an eye, you can barely breathe.

Harry notices as panic takes over you and when you take a turn towards your room he grabs you by your shoulders and pulls you to the side.

“Hey, hey! Y/N, look at me,” he tells you, slouching enough so his gaze is in line with yours that is now filled with tears. “Baby, look at me. Why are you crying?”

“I-I don’t… Harry, what did I do?” you wheeze, your chest heaving crazily as you lean against the wall.

“You stood up for me and yourself! You did amazing, okay? Nothing to panic about.”

“B-But my d-dad… The things I-I said… He will never talk to me again.”

“If that’s what happens, it’s not your fault. He treated you horribly all your life, made you feel like nothing. You did what should have been done a long time ago, Y/N. No one deserves to be treated like this, especially not by a parent.”

He takes your face in his hands and wipes your cheeks with his thumbs, urging you to look him in the eyes.

“The guilt you’re feeling is because of all the mistreating you had to go through growing up. You were conditioned to want to please your parents at all cost, even if it takes your own happiness. I’m proud of you for standing up for yourself, Y/N.”

You can only nod, gulping your tears back as you try to calm yourself down. Harry stays with you the whole time, pulling you into his embrace and giving you the support you always needed.

“Harry?” you breathe out, looking up at him again.

“Yeah?”

“What’s gonna happen now?” you ask in a weak voice. “What if… What if I never see my family again? If they never speak to me again? What will happen after this?” you voice your fears and questions.

“I’ll tell you what will happen, alright?” he speaks to you softly. “The sun will rise. Tomorrow and the day after and so on. Life will go on and you’ll learn to live your own life without wanting to please the people who are not worthy of your time. And I will be there with you the whole time, okay? We will figure it all out.”

His words slowly sink in and you nod. All you care about is to have Harry with you on this new journey you’re going on, wherever it takes you.

“Okay,” you whisper. Harry leans down and brushes a soft kiss to your lips. When you pull back you look him in the eyes and say the words that've been forming on the tip of your tongue. “I love you.”

Harry stares back at you in awe, the corners of his mouth curling up as he holds your face in his palms like you’re made of glass.

“I love you too, Y/N,” he kisses you softly. “Now, I think it’s time to leave, alright? Let’s pack our bags and find a flight back home.”

“Home?” you ask, looking up at him.

“Yeah,” he nods, smiling. “Home, where we live together and where you truly belong.”

You change from your fancy clothes and start packing up the room, while you’re looking for the earliest flight you can take. Luckily, there is one in two hours so you’re planning to make it to catch that.

Then there’s a knock on the door. You look at Harry with panic.

“Do you think it’s him?” you ask in a whisper.

“I don’t know.”

“Y/N? It’s me, Alice,” you sister calls out from the other side of the door. At first you feel relief, but then you realize that you literally just walked out of her wedding reception.

Rushing to the door you open it and find her standing there in her white dress, a concerned look on her face.

“Alice…” you breathe out, not sure what to say. Luckily, she knows.

“It’s okay. I understand. I’m not mad that you’re leaving,” she reassures you with a sad smile. “I just… I wanted to apologize.”

“Apologize?” you ask and then realize that she is still out in the hallway, so you step aside and let her walk in.

“I heard what you told dad and… I feel so bad, Y/N.”

“You didn’t do it.”

“I know, but I witnessed it and never said anything. I never stood up for you. I was a horrible sister, I should have taken your side, but I didn’t do anything.”

“You always had your fair share of pressure on you, Alice. I don’t blame you,” you softly tell her.

“But I do blame myself. So I’m sorry and… I hope you don’t want to cut me out too.”

“Of course not,” you breathe out, hugging her to reassure her you’re fine. “Is dad mad?” you ask, rubbing your face with your hand when you move back.

“Oh, he is vivid!” she chuckles, wiping off the tears that escaped her eyes. “He is fuming about how disrespectful you are, but I told him to just drink a shot and relax,” she snorts.

“He is famous for knowing how to relax,” you laugh.

“Do you think he won’t want to see me? Like, ever?”

“I don’t know. He is so unpredictable…” she sighs looking around. “You’re leaving now?”

“Yes, we found a flight back home. I’m sorry I’m leaving in the middle of your wedding, but I just… I can’t stay here any longer.”

“It’s okay, I get it,” she shakes her head. “Just promise you won’t shut me out.”

“I promise.”

You hug one more time before Alice moves over to Harry who’s been quietly packing up. She stands in front of him and he looks at her patiently.

“Take good care of her, Harry,” she pleads and he nods right away.

“Of course.”

“Thank you.”

Alice stays for a few more minutes, but then she needs to go back, after all, it’s her wedding that’s happening. She is the only one who comes to your room until you leave. It’s bittersweet, knowing that your dad didn’t realize the weight of your words and now he is letting you leave, just like that. But you also feel free in a way. You most likely need time to process it, but you know you’re heading into the right direction.

The flight is delayed, so it’s the middle of the night by the time you get to board. Every time you feel your anxiety growing, Harry just simply takes your hand and squeezes it to let you know you’re not alone. Sitting by the window you smile when you realize that Harry has fallen asleep, his head on your shoulder, one hand on your knee. You press a soft kiss to the crown of his head, careful not to wake him up before turning towards the window.

As the plane is flying above the fluffy clouds, the sky is starting to light up, the sun rising as a new day is starting. You can’t help but smile, thinking at what Harry told you, because, of course, he was right.

And today is the first day of your new life that you’ll share with him, leaving your past behind.

Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!

#harry #styles #harry styles #harry styles au #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles series #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x reader #harry styles oneshot #harry styles oneshots #harry styles fluff #the sun will rise

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fortisfilia · 2 months

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Promised Part 6 - Tom Riddle x reader

Info: This is a rewrite of a story I've posted on my old account years ago. If it sounds familiar, that might be why :)

Summary: In this story, Tom didn't grow up as an orphan, but with his grandfather and uncle. Reader's sister got very sick and the Gaunts offer their help. But not without asking for something in return.

Warnings: Arranged marriage

Word count: 2k

Masterpost | Masterlist | Part 5 | Part 7

Part 6 - Of Vows and Wrangles

Winter came suddenly this year, and so did Christmas. With all the schoolwork you had been doing for the upcoming N.E.W.T.s in June, the weeks had passed by as quickly as a snitch on the Quidditch field. The holidays were a much-needed break and to see your family again was an even bigger delight.

Elsie did great. She looked like nothing had ever happened to her. No curse, no apparent illness that had almost taken her life, apart from some occasional coughs here and there. She ran around the house like the years before, excited for Christmas to finally come. The house elves seemed glad to have her and all her shenanigans back as well, much to your parent’s dismay, but they let most of it slide. They were thankful their daughter was healthy enough to fool around again.

Christmas day was as cosy and joyful as ever. You spent the whole day with Elsie and your parents, exchanging gifts and playing together. Elsie got her first broom and started her first attempt at flying, which resulted in a knocked-over vase, that split into a million pieces, and a crash landing into the fireplace. Some tears were shed and dried again, and a “no flying inside” rule was established, which resulted in another crying fit. Oh, how you had missed it all.

Mother had waited until the late evening to tell you that the Gaunts would come to visit for lunch the next day. She must have known that you would pepper her with questions again. It was necessary and polite, she said, to invite the future family and show them your interest.

There was certainly no interest to be given to Tom’s grandfather and uncle, but now that you thought of Tom, you had to admit that you missed him. How he had held your hand, how surprisingly cautious and gentle he had been. This memory was embedded in your brain. You would have expected anything but this from him. Anything but that soft and coy demeanour. And still, it made you nervous thinking about meeting him along with his family again. They were the ones that must have made him so cold. So you fell asleep, anticipation and tension crawling through your every vein.

The Gaunts arrived in a rush and brought in a whiff of cold air that couldn’t even be drowned out by the fire in the chimney. Tom acknowledged you this time though. Not like months before when they had come to your house. You could have sworn that there was even a hint of a smile on his lips when he laid his eyes upon you. A smile that you reciprocated, rather faintly as well.

Lunch was alright. A lot of forced formalities and small talk, some tired attempts to get to know the future family. Tom was quiet, as usual, only talked when someone asked him something directly, while Morfin and Marvolo ate so voraciously, the house elves had trouble filling up their plates in time.

The Christmas spirit was spoiled when presents were brought up. Marvolo asked about Elsie’s new broom and why on Merlin’s green earth your parents would gift such a thing to a girl. He held back his laughter and shook his head when Elsie explained so excitedly that she couldn’t wait to learn how to fly in Hogwarts. Bastard.

Marvolo noticed the look you gave him and seemed to take it as a challenge, so he stared back at you, his filthy grin still in place. His head leant sideways as he waited for you to say something, his eyes squinted as if to tell you to go on and tell him what bothered you.

How you would have loved to smash his face against the table or curse him into oblivion. Your teeth hurt from how hard you clenched your jaw. You couldn’t. You wanted to tell him so badly what an awful, disgusting, obsolete excuse for a man he was. But you mustn’t. He still had Elsie’s life in his hands. So you stayed silent when he whispered, “That’s what I thought.”

“Anyway,” Father said in an attempt to ease the tension. “What are your plans for the remaining holidays?”

“There’s not a lot to do these days, is there?” Marvolo answered. “But now that you bring it up, we had something special planned for today.”

Morfin grinned as he shoved the last spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth.

“And what is that?” Father asked.

“Well now that your little one is doing much better, which I assume you’re very thankful for,” he paused to wait for your parents to agree. “We decided to accept your invitation for today to bring our mutual pact to the next stage.”

Mother quickly told the elves to take Elsie upstairs, while you looked over at Tom in question. He only shook his head, letting you know he didn’t know what was going on either.

“The next stage?” Father asked. “What do you mean by that?”

“Since we’ve done our part of the agreement already, exceedingly fast and precise might I add, and the wedding is still months away, we want to make sure we will get what we asked for. You see, I respect you and your family of course, but one can never be sure enough. We don’t want to be tricked or exploited. So we’re asking for an unbreakable vow. Between Tom and your daughter.”

“A vow?” Mother was appalled. “What for?”

“For the marriage of course,” Marvolo said. “A promise that the marriage will be solemnised, that cannot be withdrawn from either side.”

A breath got stuck in your throat. First the marriage and now this? If you agreed, the Gaunts would have both Elsie and you under their control. Infringing an unbreakable vow resulted in death and they would never stop asking for things if you agreed to this.

“Marvolo,” Father sighed. “Don’t you think it’s enough? That we agreed to do this for the sake of my youngest child? You haven’t broken her curse entirely so you can use her as leverage. And now you expect me to bring my eldest daughter in mortal danger as well?”

“There’s no danger if the plan proceeds as we agreed,” Marvolo answered. “The vow can’t harm her if she plays by the rules.”

“She played by the rules,” Mother said. “She still does. Everyone’s been playing by your rules, so why do you want to add the vow?”

“As I said, I don’t want to be tricked. It’s merely a way to protect my family. And with all due respect, your reaction makes it seem like you’re up to no good already. Who knows? Perhaps you’ve changed your minds.”

Protect his family… He would sell both Tom and Morfin for a galleon and a half if he could. He was paranoid. Tom watched you in silence, his face void of emotion as your eyes met. What could you possibly reply to such an insane proposal? Every word that could leave your mouth right now would be filthy and full of anger, and Marlovo was already waiting for you to burst.

He turned to you. “What do you say, child? Don’t you want to prove your loyalty?”

You sucked in a breath and were about to answer when Tom suddenly stood up.

“Enough! I want a word.”

“You want a word?” Marvolo laughed disparagingly.

“Now,” Tom turned to your parents. “Is there a room we can go to?”

“The reading room, right across the corridor,” Mother said and showed them the way.

You followed the three men and watched them enter the reading room before Mother turned towards you. “Don’t eavesdrop, darling,” she said. “Give them some privacy.”

“Do you really think Marvolo deserves privacy?”

“No. He’s an awful man.”

“He is,” Father said as he joined you.

“We’re not going to let him do this to you,” Mother promised. “You’ve already done enough. Marvolo is out of his mind.”

“He’s greedy,” Father added. “Unreasonable.”

You leant your head against the door to the reading room and pressed your ear onto it, trying to hear what they were talking about. Mother motioned for you to stop, but didn’t prevent you from listening.

First, you heard nothing. Silence, then footsteps tipping across the room. Mumbled words that were so washed out you could barely understand what they meant.

Tom’s voice echoed from the walls. “You can’t be serious. Why would you ask for more? And why didn’t you tell me?”

Marvolo answered quietly. You could only guess what he was saying. Something like “Why would I?”

Mother appeared next to you, visibly displeased with herself as she flicked her wand and cast a spell that diminished the sound barrier, so you could hear every word that was spoken inside the room. Privacy has to be earned in this house.

“I’m not going to let you go through with this,” Tom said.

Marvolo snickered. “And you think I care what you’re allowing me to do?”

“I know you don’t,” Tom answered. “But I won’t comply. You can’t force anyone to make an unbreakable vow. Not even with the Imperius curse. And you know that.”

“What are you doing this for?” Morfin suddenly participated. “For the girl? You know things will only get worse if you refuse.”

A moment of silence occurred.

“Oh would you look at that,” Morfin chuckled. “You do like her, don’t you? Well, at least Father’s letter wasn’t in vain then.”

Tom didn’t answer.

“And her? How will you make her fall for you?” Morfin asked. “If you need a little love potion, I can provide that.”

“How dare you bring that up?” Tom spat. “You're very brave today, uncle. Comparing me to her.”

“Well, Father,” Morfin went on. “Looks like Tom thinks he can do it all on his own.”

“Now listen to me, son,” Marvolo said. “If you think you can disobey me like that, without any consequences, you must take me for a fool. To say that I’m disappointed is an understatement. Just know that there will be more to it.”

They scurried around. Marvolo and Morfin seemed to leave through the Floo Network. You assumed Tom would follow them but could hear him roaming around the room for another minute until his steps wandered towards the door.

Both you and your mother stepped away quickly. Mother fixed her hair and you had suddenly found a deep interest in your nail beds, studying them as if your life depended on it.

Tom stood in the door frame, chest heaving slightly, with the doorknob in his hand.

“Grandfather and uncle left through the fireplace,” he said. “I’ll go too, I just need a minute, if you’ll allow.”

Mother looked at him like she looked at Elsie when she grazed her knee or hit her head. Her eyes weren’t as stern as you expected them to be, but soft and full of pity.

“Why don’t you stay for a bit, Tom?” she asked. “We still have so much food left from lunch, we could need a bit of help before it goes to waste.”

Tom looked at her and nodded slowly. He must have known that she didn’t invite him to prevent wasting food. But apparently, he didn’t care what her reasons were. He just accepted it and that was fair.

“Would you show him around, darling?” Mother asked you. “While I tell the elves to prepare the guest room.”

Masterpost | Masterlist | Part 7

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preciouslandmermaid · 10 months

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quiet fury in your head [vi]

Dream of the Endless x F!Reader!Goddess / Sandman Fanfiction

Note: Dream is a bit of a voyeur in this one!! The Goddess discovers the fate of the betrayer & Dream is in denial about his feelings, tbh. No use of Y/N. See part 1 for all the tags tbh.

Warnings: accidental voyeurism (kinda?), solo masturbation

Rating: 18+

(Read on AO3) || (masterpost for other chapters)

As a rule born from pure pettiness – you reject any “gifts” the Dream King offers during your years of servitude. You avoid the castle. You avoid the room he gave you and its extensive wardrobe. You do not sleep within the marble walls. You barely speak to the Dreaming’s citizens. They know you—of course they do—and they still whisper your old name “Queen of Nightmares.” But even as they whisper your title: they build no effigies in your honor, they sing no songs, or slaughter animals.

Ultimately, they aren’t your worshipers, they aren’t your friends, and they are a poor substitute for the family you lost.

And yet...you find yourself strolling through the impressive, towering shelves of the library. The air is filled with dead tress and your eyes prickle with heat. Oral traditions had been the norm during your time as a Goddess. What use did cutting down trees and smashing them to pulp have? You pull a book from the shelf and leaf through the pages. The scribbles are nonsense to you.

“Lady,” A scholarly black woman greets you with a respectful nod of her bald head, “I wondered if you might pass through here.”

You snap the book shut and slide it back into the shelf.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” You admit abrupt and honest. What was I seeking? Answers? Hope that my sister’s names are written somewhere in this library? How would that serve me? How could it serve me when I can make no sense of these drawings on the page?

Lucienne adjusts her round glasses, “Does there need to be a reason?” She smiles softly. “You can come here anytime you like. It’s quiet here—which I like—and there’s so much…” Her neck cranes upward while she admires the imposing shelves.

“Perhaps you might be interested in…” Lucienne’s voice trails off. You are gone. She had not even heard you leave.

*********

Another day, a different one, when the skies are as pink as a newborn chick. The cold breeze tickles your exposed skin as you walk through fluffy, blush-hued clouds. You look up and the world flips, as simple as that, and you find yourself standing before a hut made of thunderclouds.

“Don’t get visitors up this way.” A voice says from within before they materialize through the gray, bulbous clouds and stand in front of you. Her thin body is cerulean and her veins flash in brief, sharp bursts of lightening. Her short, white dress moves with the wind.

You purse your lips, “Have I intruded?”

“Not at all, My Queen.” She bows her head respectfully and places one hand over her heart. You are painfully reminded of a similar pose you once gave to your sister, Badb, when you bravely and foolishly proclaimed that you would fight Fate and save your people.

“I appreciate the visit. You may call me Dima.” She says.

“I am not your queen.” You reply stiffly.

Dima shrugs. Her movements echo with rumbling thunder. “I knew you… and have known you for many years...” She waves her arm and the clouds shift, responding to her call, and form two chairs. Dima sits and gestures for you to do the same.

You narrow your eyes. The war of curiosity and caution battles within. No harm has come to me within the Dreaming. You sit in the soft chair Dima has provided.

“I brought the storm that day.” Dima explains softly, her pure-white eyes flash with the energy of a hundred storms. You don’t need her to clarify. You feel the mud beneath your knees. You feel Lugh’s spear. You hear Badb’s ravens—crying out. The rain, the thunder, the rage. You remember all of it.

You harden your heart and tear your eyes away from Dima.

“I am sorry for what became of them.”

“Are you?” You snap, your heart sore.

“I am.” Her voice is gentle and reminds you of the soft patter-patter of rainfall against a thatch roof. “I would bring you a thousand storms, my queen, if I believed it would help.”

You laugh dryly, meeting her electric eyes, “Would you drown the world if I asked it?” You pour all your heartache and rage into that single question. Let the world drown, let the new Gods sink and the Old Gods be reborn. Curse these mortals for forgetting you. Curse them all.

Dima doesn’t flinch. “I would.”

You recline and fold your arms across your chest. “Why are you offering such loyalty to me?” You trusted Lugh and he betrayed you. You trusted your worshipers, yet they stopped calling your name, and let you and your sisters turn to dust. They were overtaken by another faith, but you could not scrub that feeling of betrayal from your skin. You would not make the same mistake twice.

Dima smiles, her teeth as white as the dress she wears, “Because I can feel the storm brewing inside you...for like calls to like. Storm to rage, rage to storm.”

Despite your best efforts, your lips twitch upward. Dima’s forthright and confident attitude is something you appreciate. And it has been centuries since you could call upon someone (Morpheus does not count. He is your keeper and is intent on letting you serve your sentence for however he sees fit. You doubt he would come if you called).

Dima isn’t your friend, but she is not wholly a stranger either. The air thickens with the scent of the ozone and an impending storm. The clouds around you darken into a thick, heavy gray like ash and smoke. You lightly touch the center of your chest—the place where your own storm lives—and a boom of thunder carries out across the field.

*********

A whisper carries through the Dreaming: Morpheus left for an Odyssey. No one can say for how long he will be gone. Or when he will return. You take the opportunity to enter the castle for the second time in years. There is no risk of Dream seeing you, though one of his ravens will likely tattle. You slip through the corridors barefoot on quick, silent feet. You open the door to the room. Your room. Your jail cell. Your tomb—if Dream hadn’t saved you from Lugh’s poison.

Starlight drips from the ceiling and illuminates the room. Your bed is large, lavish, with purple silk pillow cases and black sheets. It is bare of any decorations or trinkets. You inhale deeply. The scents of jasmine and lavender fill your nostrils. Your heart flutters and heat prickles across the nape of your neck. The moonlit forest. The feather-light touch of Dream’s lips on yours. You push the thought from your mind and ignore the tightening of your abdomen.

You pull open the doors to the closet. The dresses and cloaks drape from their hangers. They are pristine. Elegant. Fit for a queen, you think with a sardonic twist of your mouth. The closet deepens. The clothes vary in style and material and color. You find a plain looking black traveling cloak. This will do for the next time I visit Dima. You drape the cloak over your shoulders and fasten the silver, raven’s head clasp. The interior lining of the cloak is buttery soft and smooth where it touches your skin. A small shiver of delight courses through you followed by a lick of hot, burning shame. I told myself I would never accept anything Dream offered to me and yet, I have made myself a liar.

You catch your reflection in the mirror hanging from the closet door. You do not recognize the woman standing in front of you. There is no triumph in her gaze, no glorious smile, and Macha and Badb do not stand beside her as they always have. You trail your fingertips through the empty air. Their absence aches through you like an old wound. A broken bone that has set incorrectly. A black tumor that won’t kill you as it presses into your organs.

You lean your forehead into the glass and close your eyes.

*********

Lucienne looks up at you, her glasses perched on her nose, and her face softens with her smile.

“I was afraid you might not return.”

“Your fears were not misplaced. I almost changed my mind a dozen times before entering.” You slide your hands into the pockets of your cloak, “I have need of your assistance, Lucienne.”

She carefully closes the book she was repairing, “Of course. What do you need, my lady?”

*********

Lucienne sits across from you at a small, wooden table within the library. Although you haven’t kept track of time—there’s no point within the Dreaming when time is fluid and meaningless—but you suspect that it’s been several hours since Lucienne began teaching you how to read and write.

“This,” she tapped her finger against the page, “is the letter phi.”

You trace the letter. Your fingertips are stained with ink. You don’t know why your powers don’t extend into omnipotent literacy. But, if you want to learn what became of Lugh and the others, then you need to be able to read and understand the scribbles on the pages. Your pride will not allow you to ask Lucienne to find the appropriate book and read it to you. And besides, working with Lucienne helps to fill the time. She makes for tender, quiet company. It is a nice contrast to your visits with Dima, the bold and loud Storm-Weaver.

Lucienne says, “I have a question if I may.”

“Hm?” You struggle to trace the next letter, “I’m listening.”

“Will you return to the library?”

Your brow furrows. A curious question. You glance up from your work. The orange candlelight flickers across Lucienne’s smooth, dark skin and reflects in the circular lenses of her glasses. You set your brush down and straighten your shoulders.

“Clarify.”

“Dream will return eventually.” She says, “And I’ve noticed that you tend to avoid the castle.” Lucienne tilts her head to the side. “And now you’ve come when he’s away on odyssey.”

“Generally, the Dream Lord and I avoid each other.”

“Unless he needs you.” Lucienne guesses.

“It’s a big castle,” You pick up the thin paintbrush again, “I will return, Lucienne.”

“Oh,” She replies softly and her tone is pleased, “Good.”

*********

You tuck yourself into one of the cozier corners of the library with your cloak wrapped around your frame and a book open in your lap. You trace your fingers across the green and gold cover. It took some seeking but Lucienne assured you this was the right one. The Dolmens of Ireland by William Borlase, 1897. This is where your answers would be found. A record of Lugh’s fate. The God who betrayed you and accepted sainthood.

Your pulse thumps through your fingertips and inside the hollow dip of your jaw. You flip through the pages until you come upon grave of Saint Molaga.

“Although this stone is known from the Christian era as the cover slab of the grave of St. Molaga, it probably predates the saint by many centuries.” You scan through the rest of the page, “Mo is a prefix and Logha relates to the name of the Pagan divinity Lugh. Therefore, this site is the ‘Bed of the holy Lugh,'”

Your throat tightens. Lugh was given a new life after all. He became a saint. They changed his name and built new places in his honor. There are legends to his name. They gave him a grave.

He lived while you and your sisters were forgotten. The painful prickle crawls up your throat and hot tears glide down your cheeks. You close the book and clench your fingers around it until your knuckles go white. You stare, unseeing, at the shelf in front of you as grief wrecks through your body in painful, sharp stabs.

Part of me...believed that Lugh did not survive the battle. That he did not get his Sainthood. That those heretics, those interlopers, betrayed him as he betrayed us. But no. The truth feels like glass between your teeth. Lugh was victorious. No vengeful Goddess came and struck him down. He lived.

You cover your face with your trembling hands and taste salt.

*********

Dream stops short at the sight of you in the library. His hands twitch at his sides. The joy he feels upon seeing you wearing his cloak is short-lived. Your shoulders shake and a brief, pained whimper reaches his ears. Your sadness penetrates through the space of the Dreaming like a serrated blade. His chest aches. He wishes he could approach you, offer some comfort or solace, but he does not move. He remains in the shadows and shrinks further back and watches you through the slats of the bookshelves.

She belongs to Desire until her time here is done. He reminds himself. This could be one of Desire’s tricks. Their manipulations to make me...feel something...for her. Dream clenches his jaw. You inhale shakily and the book in your lap clatters to the floor.

“Bastard!” You curse, kicking its spine, before you get to your feet. Your sadness sharpens into anger. He tastes it like copper on his tongue. Your cloak swishes around you as you spin on your heel and storm from the library. He watches you leave and the ache in his chest grows.

His affections for you are poison, like a corrosive acid that gnaws at him. He cannot permit himself the luxury of caring for you. He cannot. He has his responsibilities as Lord of the Dreaming and he cannot trust you. You belong to Desire. You were their creation. He can’t trust his feelings as they war inside his chest. What would I say if I went to her? My own siblings are Endless. We lost Destruction, but that was...different.

Your grief-struck face burns into his mind. He touches the ring holding your power. It feels cold. Jessamy caws and flies down onto his shoulder. He gently scratches beneath Jessamy’s beak. He knows he could release you from his service at any time. But, the looming agony of your absence prevents him from finally letting you go. He’d rather you have you, even at pained awful distance, than lose you forever. You move through his Dreaming like a beacon of beautiful, radiant light and shadow. When he returned from his Odyssey, his heart had leapt at the knowledge that you were within the castle.

He walks to where you sat prior and picks the book up. He skims his fingers over the embossed title. She knows the truth. She knows Lugh was granted his Sainthood. Immortalized. Remembered. He sighs. The first few raindrops land softly against the windows of the library.

The words ‘I’m sorry’ are paltry and chalky on his tongue. Does his apology return your sisters? No. Does it soothe your grief? No. A dozen times he’s considered creating dreams in the image of Badb and Macha for your company. But he resists the urge. A dream, no matter how magnificent, could not replace the bond you shared with the two Gods.

And he thinks you might scorn him if he tried to give you a dream-version of your sisters. He would rather witness your sadness than endure your scorn. Dream returns the book to its place within the shelves.

“It’s good to have you back, my lord.” Lucienne says from behind him.

Dream gives her a noncommittal nod. Lucienne’s presence reminds him that there is work to be done. His odyssey took longer than he expected and it was time to refocus. He cannot think of you any longer—otherwise it would be a distraction.

*********

“I think you should come, it’ll be fun!” Dima proclaims. She kicks her blue feet through the water. The sunlight pours through the sky and glistens and shines off the flowing river. You peel your tattered dress over your head. The sting of Lugh’s survival bites at your heart. You are learning to live with the pain of it—though you refuse to shed anymore tears.

“I haven’t been to a revelry in a long, long time.”

Dima snorts, “They call them parties, Mor.”

You shrug and dip your toes into the cold, rushing water. Although Dream returned from his Odyssey some time ago, he has not called you. Nowadays, you spend time with Dima and learn with Lucienne (Lucienne started teaching you a language known as ‘Mandarin’).

While Morpheus is absent from your life. You wish his absence would make your heart yearn less, but it seems the opposite is true. You’ve found yourself glancing around the library during your lessons, seeking him, and instead feeling frustration and disappointment.

You wade through until the pebbled stones beneath your feet dip and the water is deep enough for you to swim. The current is cold and refreshing. A school of tiny silver fish dart past your legs. Dima continues talking about the upcoming party. She is a deluge of dialogue. Her words fast and leave no room for argument or dissent. She reminds you of a younger version of yourself; bold, straightforward, quick and witty.

You cut through the water like a trout. The chill has enveloped you, prickling goosebumps across your flesh, puckering your nipples to hard, pebbled nubs. A flock of blackbirds land on a tree nearby and you float on your back, watching them, and wonder if Dream will attend this ‘party’ as well. Likely not. He does not seem the partying type.

*********

He uses the many eyes of the Dreaming to follow you. He watches you study with Lucienne, your brow furrowed, your teeth toying with your sweet lower lip. He watches you with Dima, the Storm-Weaver, and notices how her company has soothed some of your pain, some of your grief. You still do not smile or laugh, but your expressions are softer. You regard Dima with a...fondness...in your eyes. He clenches his jaw. It doesn’t matter if she takes Dima for a lover. She can do as she wishes. He could forbid it, of course. He could make it part of your punishment—that you cannot court or find release with any residents of the Dreaming. But, Dream resists the urge. Because there is a chance that...if you do take Dima for a lover...then you will return to the Dreaming after completing your final task for Desire. And I see her again within my own Realm.

One of his ravens has taken comfort among a family of smaller magpies. They squawk and flutter among the thin, wavering branches of a beautiful and lush tree. Dream freezes in the coordinator. His awareness is on his raven, seeing through her eyes, and he notices your naked, perfect body move through the river with Dima alongside you walking along the bank.

Dream swiftly teleports into his bedroom. His body trembles with desire as tight as a wire wrapping around his throat. He cannot bring his sight away. Selfishly, he connects himself to the water you’re swimming through. The sensation is like an electric jolt to his spine.

The heat spreads across the nape of his neck as his hand palms the front of his tight trousers. He feels you move through the water. Your thighs, your legs, your arms, and breasts. It feels as if you’re pressing your naked body against him. Every curve, every muscle, it glides against him like liquid desire. He shudders and presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

He unzips his trousers and pulls free his hard cock. I shouldn’t...but the thought quickly vanishes as he sees and feels you twirl through the water, the serpentine curve of your spine and swell of your ass visible to him.

He imagines your mouth on him—first your tongue—because he suspects that you appreciate the tease.

He hisses through his teeth and holds the base of his cock and slowly begins to pump his hand over it. He imagines your pebbled nipples brush against his lips. He imagines what sweet noises you might make for him when he suckles on your breast and nibbles your collarbone. His thumb swipes against the beading pre-cum at his tip and Dream catches the groan in his throat. His hand is a poor substitute for the warm, wet heat of your perfect mouth—but it’ll have to do.

He cannot have you, so he will settle for the fantasy. He imagines your tongue swiping over his tip before you draw him into your mouth, your cheeks hollowing, your starry eyes peering up at him through your thick lashes. He cups the back of your neck. You moan around him. Dream hisses, bucking his hips into his hand, his balls tightening. Your tongue flicks along the underside of his cock, massaging it, as you work your mouth over his hard length. He moans. He is no better than a moral man throwing himself at the feet of his beloved.

Your eyelashes flutter. His hand pumps faster—squeezing faintly. He switches the fantasy. He imagines bending you over his writing desk, your perky ass in the air, your went cunt on display. He wants to lick, to taste, but he denies himself the pleasure (even here, even within his own fantasy).

He spreads your legs and enters you ever-so-slowly, feeling you stretch and envelope him, before his hands are on your hips and his bedroom is filled with the sounds of your low, raspy moans. Dream bites his lip. His pulse pounds through his veins. The pace of his hand quickens and his eyes screw closed. Your cunt squeezes him. It’s perfect. A perfect fit. Your slick coats him, the lubrication deepening every stroke, and oh—yes—he goes deep. He holds your hips and drives into you in long, meticulous strokes. You cry out his name. Again and again. Morpheus. Morpheus. Dream’s cock twitches in his hand.

He feels each droplet of water as it glistens down your skin. He watches the sparkly droplets cling to your eyelashes and your delicate earlobe. In his fantasy, Dream bends over and nibbles your earlobe while his hand comes to find your clit between your legs. He squeezes his cock. He imagines you cumming around his cock, cunt tight, voice raw with screaming, rocking your hips back into him with every thrust. The Banshee Queen would be loud in love-making. Dream arches his pale neck, his jaw tight, his breath stuttering as his orgasm hits him.

His chest heaves with labored, his fingers are sticky and glistening, and he quickly returns his awareness to his raven—to watch you again—and you are climbing out onto the river bed. Dima hands you your flimsy dress. He watches it stick in places to your wet skin. He vanishes the mess he’s made, though the knowledge of what he did lingers. What’s done is done. She will no longer be a distraction for me. She is free from my mind. This will not happen again.

*********

You attend the revelry with Dima. It takes place within a crumbling stone and moss colossus. The bones of a giant is what Dima named it. The familiar sight of a bonfire and tables laden with food bring a small, bright comfort to your heart. These events have not changed in thousands of years. The drums reverberate through your bones. The honey wine melts on your tongue. Dima spins you, her skin flickers with lightening and briefly illuminating the space in sharp, blue-white flashes. Her smile white and brilliant. The world blurs into a kaleidoscope of colors, warm and cold, as fire smoke prickles your eyes.

Someone is standing in the shadows. Someone tall and lean with wild dark hair and fathomless eyes. Dream? Dima spins you again. You return your eyes to the place you saw him. He is gone. Perhaps he was never there to begin with.

*********

Additional Note: I resisted the urge to add Dima/Reader smooch at the end, but mostly because their relationship is like...platonic but borders on worship?? with Dima as the worshipper. So obviously the power dynamics there would be a little skewed. I might end up writing it for fun as a bonus chapter or something. the world can be healed with yuri love

#dream the endless x the morrigan #dream x reader #the sandman x reader #the sandman fanfic #dream of the endless fic #dream of the endless x you #dream of the endless x reader #dream x you #dream x fem!reader #sandman x reader #morpheus x reader #morpheus smut #morpheus x you

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echo-goes-mmm · 4 months

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Ambrose and Elliot Extra #2

Masterpost

Ambrose + The Five Stages of Grief

Denial

Ambrose woke up to find the bed cold. It wasn’t unusual to find his husband gone in the morning, but Janus always told him when he had work to do.

He yawned and stretched. Jay probably just forgot.

Sunlight filtered through the high windows, the chimes on the balcony gently singing. It was a beautiful morning.

He watered the plants and made himself a cup of tea in the kitchen. It was quiet for now; soon the streets would be full of people. Maybe he’d go to the markets today. He could definitely go for some street food.

Ambrose began to worry when evening came without a word from his husband. He lit the lanterns and cracked open a book to wait for him, but he couldn’t get into it.

Are you coming home tonight? He asked out into the night, but Janus didn’t answer.

He bit his lip.

Jay would be home at some point, he decided. It was probably an emergency. He had godly duties to perform, after all. Ambrose would simply be patient.

He blew out the lantern and went to bed.

___________________

Bargaining

Months went by with no sign of him. Ambrose couldn’t understand it. He’d never been gone so long.

Did he do something wrong? He played the memories of the last night he saw Janus over and over in his mind.

They had dinner together, went on a walk, enjoyed some soft sex. Completely normal.

He began to pray daily.

Where are you? Are you coming back?

Please come back. I love you.

I made that dish you like today. Thinking of you.

He even made an altar, bought some incense in Janus’s favored scent. Don’t forget about me. Please.

Ambrose made sure the house was spotless. He cleaned all the clothes Janus had left, stocked the kitchen with his favorite treats.

Janus loved him. Janus loved him.

Maybe he hadn’t loved him back enough.

If, no when, Jay came back, he’d be the best husband anyone could want.

___________________

Anger

The silence wore on him.

He distracted himself, a bit spitefully, with tickets to plays Janus liked. If he wasn’t going to enjoy them, Ambrose would go by himself.

He got a kitten, who he named CATherine, a pun that Janus would roll his eyes at fondly. They talked about getting a cat, and served the bastard right to miss the adorable kitten phase.

Frustration began to mount, bleeding into everything. He let Jay’s rose bush die, and then immediately felt guilty. He avoided even seeing the temple in the distance, shuttering windows that faced the tall towers.

He didn’t pray at all anymore.

One day, it all became too much. In a fit of rage he kicked over the new altar and smashed Janus’s flower vase against the wall, tears blurring his vision.

He would have left the mess, but Catherine could hurt herself.

He tossed the shards of the vase in the trash, and didn’t bother buying a replacement. He only picked up the remains of the altar because Catherine mewed at him, disappointed in his tantrum.

Janus better have a damn good explanation for a year of absence.

___________________

Depression

It was when Catherine got sick and passed away that he realized maybe he was the issue.

Janus was a god, powerful and handsome, and Ambrose couldn’t keep his cat alive.

Jay had probably met his match and decided Ambrose wasn’t worth it anymore. What could he possibly bring to the table that Janus couldn’t get elsewhere?

He stared at the wedding ring in his palm.

Forever was engraved into the gold.

Yeah, right. Forever.

It had been twelve years, and not a word. Nothing.

He didn’t go out anymore. Kept the windows closed. He hadn’t showered in days, and most of the time he couldn't get out of bed. Couldn’t bring himself to face the world.

It was his birthday tomorrow. He’d be a hundred, and still didn’t look a day over twenty-five.

He couldn’t bring himself to care.

___________________

Acceptance

Janus wasn’t coming back. Maybe he wasn’t coming back, ever.

Ambrose still loved him, but he couldn’t stay in their home. Too many painful memories. Nearly seventy years of marriage was tied up in it, not counting the years since his disappearance.

He had bought a plot of land in a small village across the country, and commissioned a building. A change of pace would be good, and a quaint inn in the countryside was the exact opposite of his luxurious house in the capital.

He sold the house for a small fortune as soon as the inn was finished, packed the few items he hadn’t gotten rid off, and headed east.

___________________

Ambrose was sweeping the front step when the woman approached him. He hadn’t yet met anyone in town, but his presence had caused a bit of a stir.

“Good afternoon,” he greeted her as she came up to him. She was an older woman, with wisps of gray in her hair. A little girl followed behind her.

“Good to know you city boys got some manners.” He was caught off guard for a moment, but her easy smile told him she was teasing.

“I’m Dora, and this is my granddaughter, Judy. Say hello, Judy.” Judy hid behind her grandmother, and Ambrose couldn’t help but smile.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Judy. I’m Ambrose. Would you like to come in for some tea?”

Judy mumbled something behind Dora’s skirt.

“Speak up, hun,” encouraged Dora.

“My granny says you should come to lunch cause you’re a stranger. And she says strangers make good friends.” Ambrose snorted.

“Well I can’t say no to such a lovely invitation, now can I?”

___________________

“So, Ambrose, what brings you to our sleepy little town? It can’t be the good business; an inn won’t make much here.”

Ambrose fidgeted with the napkin. The money wasn't an issue. His bank account grew without him these days, faster than he could spend it.

“Just needed a change. My husband left, and the empty house wasn’t kind to me.”

Dora nodded in sympathy. “My Charles, gods rest his soul, passed years ago.” She took his hand in his. “It’ll get better.” He needed the advice, even if it was a decade late.

“Thank you, Ms. Dora.”

“None of that, hun, just Dora.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He had a good feeling about this.

taglist: @cupcakes-and-pain @secretwhumplair @paintedpigeon1 @whump-blog @whump-em @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @starfields08000 @littlespacecastle @mylovelyme @whump-cravings @zeewbee @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @keepingwhumpwiththekardashians @fanastyfinder @roblingoblin285 @whumpzone @snakebites-and-ink @astrokea @magdalena-writes @latenightcupsofcoffee @tobiaslut @whumpsoda

#Judy grows up to run a store and sell a teapot to a young man named Elliot #and yeah basically the whole town knows Ambrose is immortal #they just don't talk about it. it aint polite y'hear?#ambrose and elliot #my writing #whump

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susartwork · 2 months

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Don't question the first one. Crack ships are fun

Masterpost (pinning this post)

#scheduled post #announcement #susartwork event #susartwork 1K followers!#1K followers event #OC doodle requests are fun but I can't say no even if they're too many for me to handle °sob°

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theclaravoyant · 7 months

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AN ~ For @fictober-event’s Fictober 2023 prompt: “Give me that, before anything happens.” Set during S2, written after airing of ep.3. SPOILERS FOR EPS 1-3. Masterpost of my Fictober OFMD fics

Also tangentially inspired by @adickaboutspoons beard meta. Lucius shaves his beard. Angst, Hurt/Comfort.

Fandom: Our Flag Means Death Characters/Relationships: Lucius Spriggs, Lucius x Black Pete Tags/Content Warnings: Suicidal Ideation Mention

Help

If there’s one thing he’s grateful for, Lucius thinks, about Stede fucking Bonnet and his stupid fucking ship right now, it’s that the self-important asshole had thought to give the crew a bathroom with a lockable door. It has a sink and a mirror. A sink he grasps onto as tight as he can, until his knuckles clench white around the handle of the razor, and he forces himself to look his own eyes in the mirror.

He hates the way he looks now. The way struggle and starvation like he’d never known have withered and aged him. He’s too… hard. He almost looks like a pirate. Perhaps he was always going to - perhaps this life was going to beat him down and sharpen his edges eventually. He’s not naive enough to think otherwise. He just thought maybe it would happen more gradually. Or that he would die young. Most of them did after all.

Most of all he hates the beard.

It reminds him of the dog. Did you know they’re clipped that way so the rats will bite the hair instead of their faces when they- when they-

Bile rises in his throat and finally his eyes fall away from his accursed reflection to squeeze shut as he throws up in the sink. It’s been months now, but he can still taste it.

There’s a knock at the door.

“You okay, babe?”

“Yeah.” He curses himself. It’s so strangled and wavy it’s easily got to be the least convincing thing he’s ever said.

“D’you want some help?”

Fuck no, he doesn’t want help. Not from Pete who can’t - who shouldn’t - see him like this. He couldn’t do that to him. God, he’s such a mess.

And he still hasn’t answered.

“Babe?”

The knock comes again, though it’s less light-knuckle-rapping and more full-handed-slap. He can sense the bristling worry, mirroring the anxiety in himself, and he tries to say something but no or even yes allude him. Before he knows it, Pete’s smashed his shoulder against the door and is staggering into the room, his big eyes looking all worried and zeroing in on Lucius immediately and suddenly he’s feeling all sorts of something and it gives him the - surprise? strength? - to unclench his white knuckles from the porcelain and turn toward him with trembling hands.

“Babe?” he squeaks, pathetic and panicking. Pete rushes in to embrace him, holding him steady until the world starts to feel more solid around him. He needs it as much as Lucius does, if his hammering heartbeat is anything to go by, but after a minute he gathers himself and pries them apart enough that he can look Lucius in his definitely-not-weeping eyes. (Oh, who’s he kidding).

“Give me that, before anything happens,” he insists gently, prying the razor from Lucius’ hands. He frowns down at it, a dark thought occurring to him belatedly. “What were you doing with it, anyway?”

“Oh, no- babe, I was just going to shave. I swear.”

He’s still wary. There’s been a lot of the other thing going around recently. “I thought you liked the beard?”

“Fuck no.” He swallows down the taste of bile. “It’s just… not me.”

“Oh. Okay then.”

The things they’ve still left unspoken pass between them in a long look. Finally, Pete decides to offer the razor back. It rests between them on his open hand. Lucius tries to convince himself to take it, but his own hand shakes violently and he shoves it down by his side and tries to smother it in -

“I mean it’s something new. I could get used to it. You said you like it, right?”

This time, Pete doesn’t take his word for it.

“Only if you like it, babe. If you want it gone then so do I.”

Oh, fuck yes he wants it gone. He wants to rip it off and burn it. Unfortunately that’s not how facial hair works.

He takes a deep breath, and tries to ignore how strangled and snot-filled it sounds. He feels so weak. He feels so loved.

“Okay then.” Pete takes a deep breath for both of them. He moves away, but only for a second, and only just enough to take the brush dipped in shaving cream from where it rests on the basin. He laves it gently down the side of Lucius’ face, and gets to work.

#fictober23 #lucius spriggs #lucius x black pete #lucius x pete #ofmd #our flag means death #my beloveddddddd #this fictional character is having a hard time #ofmd s2 #ofmd spoilers #clara's fic tag

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spontaneousglitterbees · 1 year

Note

It's been mentioned that Kokichi has some phantom pains and he has clear mobility issues (love that btw as someone who uses a cane), so I was curious how the rest of the class is doing in that regard. Does Kaito ever struggle to breathe or have coughing fits? Do Rantaro and Angie get migraines?

[Talent Acquisition Pilot Program AU Masterpost]

This one. This one got away from me.

tl;dr: Absolutely, Anon, we are on very similar pages! This ask really got me thinking about how the whole TAPP!cast is doing fresh out of the Killing Game. Every student in Class 79 is going through something, about now, be it physical or mental; in fact, it’s usually both.

Also: for sure, I want to try and be relatively true-to-life with their struggles, especially Kokichi’s. I write from personal experience living with chronic pain, but haven’t used a cane before. Apologies if I miss the mark at any point.

Obligatory disclaimer: I am not a healthcare professional of any kind and the AU’s premise is largely sci-fi, so there may be inaccuracies. That said, I am fascinated with biomechanics and always looking to learn, so I’m trying to keep things at least semi-plausible.

Full spoilers for Danganronpa V3 (and some for the end of SDR2) ahead!

Very Long Loredump (~6.2k words) under the cut:

HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN?

Everyone is traumatized. That much is obvious, sure, but the Talent Acquisition Pilot Program (TAPP) is a virtual reality simulator based on the bones of the Neo World Program (NWP). In much the way SDR2’s NWP is purported to replicate death in the simulation in the players’ real bodies, the TAPP simulation is built to alter the brain chemistry of its participants. TAPP builds muscle memory and ‘burns’ new neural pathways to a participant’s Default Mode Network (DMN), a collective term for parts of the brain responsible for letting us “autopilot” common tasks like riding a bike or typing on a keyboard. The V3 cast’s experiences in the simulation impact their real bodies in a very literal sense to ‘speedrun’ them through orientation at Hope’s Peak and mainstream them in the curriculum as quickly as possible so its researchers can start collecting useful data on the merits of HPA for investors.

The problem is, nobody programming TAPP anticipated they would start killing each other.

Class 79 were the first human test subjects for the program with zero peer review or board approval, of course, because HPA is morally dubious and can pass off “dude, trust me” as genuine credentials to several world governments. Even if this massive oversight was not noticed until after the fact, V1 of TAPP did at least include one quasi-safety feature: if any player became “significantly injured”, that player would be ejected from the simulation. Everyone else would be locked in the simulation (in case one of them was involved and tried to evade consequences) until an administrator could come and manually assess the situation. In theory, the physically-unharmed student could rejoin the simulation once the conflict was resolved.

But TAPP was built to write data to the brain. It was not built to identify what data it’s actually writing, and cannot differentiate between playing the piano and getting smashed in a hydraulic press. Data is data.

It does not help that Team Danganronpa (the group of Reserve Course kids, including Tsumugi) are foolish teenagers entirely unaware of this, assuming that “none of it is real, so none of it will actually matter! we’re just scaring them!” While skimming through the code and thoroughly Knowing Not What They Do, they manage to remove any defined cap for what constitutes ‘significant injury’ before player ejection. The only flag that can set it off is a lack of any other player flags. Virtual death.

This is where Rantaro earns the title of “Ultimate Survivor”. The shotput ball put him down too quickly for the damage to be fully reflected in his physical body, so he managed to get ejected with post-concussive symptoms, short-term memory issues, and persistent migraines instead of fully dying. Were his method of death much slower, he’d likely have been screwed (and wouldn’t have Komaeda’s luck cycle to save him).

Time scales differently in TAPP than in the physical world; while Rantaro’s been at the virtual Academy for several days, the students have been strapped in their pods for a few hours at most. Between the Responsible Older Sibling Energy seared over the person he may have been before and an extant knack for escape room puzzles, Amami is The Man with the skills and motivation to call in backup.

It’s a good thing he did, too! Their “observer”, having tired of watching a bunch of students play the piano and run around outside, only figures out something has gone horribly wrong the moment Rantaro practically busts down the door. The next tense hour-plus is spent doing damage control and imposing limits on the code of the simulation to prevent TAPP from letting the students actually die. Unfortunately, the TDR kids and their takeover took a sizeable chunk out of the spaghetti code holding the whole thing together in their haste. TDR, with proposed talents like Ultimate Cosplayer on their side, are primarily concerned with artistry and are only competent-enough programmers. As a result, there is no obvious way to manually override the lock completely and just let the students out without significant defragging, even as TDR members are still actively messing with the code, and who knows how long that will take. (About 6-ish chapters)

Instead, for now, they’ll have to settle for putting as many programming-adjacent talents as possible on the case and exploit a loophole that panicking overseer managed to write: if the remaining students are systematically ejected, the program will bypass the lock and let them out. During the rescue operation, the main objective is first to minimize the physical damage TAPP can inflict by lowering the tolerance required to eject the students (which is easier said than done) and by dampening its neural-carving functions, then to get everyone left out of there.

It is a very good thing they sprung into action as quickly as they did, as it doesn’t take long for Kaede to arrive.

KAEDE

The first thing Kaede notices coming out of the simulation is that she can’t hum the notes to get back on-pitch after the worst rendition of Der Flohwalzer she has ever heard. The second thing she notices, because it is far easier to be angry about something trivial than face the slow-dawning realization you are having, is that she can only barely speak. It hurts.

I think Kaede learns to sign early on, but still finds herself trying to speak aloud anyway since she’s so used to having her hands busy already playing piano. Shuichi often reminds her to take it easy, treat it like a vocal rest, and steadily she begins to improve. She is as exuberant as ever, with determination fitting of our protagonist. Kaede is the Class 79 representative, though with his renewed confidence Shuichi often accompanies her. Not only are they best friends (though it is strange, at first, to see her alive after spending so long grieving. Kaede last saw him, like, yesterday.) and Kaede will inevitably tell Shuichi all about the meeting anyway so why not cut out the middle man, but Shuichi initially came specifically to speak at meetings so Kaede wouldn’t strain her voice. She is immensely proud.

RANTARO (PT. 2)

Rantaro doesn’t hold the shotput ball against her; desperate times, and all. It made sense her proactive attitude would make her first to act for the ‘greater good’. She aimed to end the whole thing, not just comply. Even if she swung and missed, he (an older brother with faint recollections of failing to protect the people depending on him and guilt knowing he doesn’t have the stomach to take a victim and thus will be failing people in need of protection again) can’t fault her for swinging. She is confused when he asks her how she launched the ball that hard, though. Odd.

TENKO

Tenko has neck pain issues like Kaede, but hers are more acute. The seesaw effect was heinous but relatively precise; as the magnum opus of TDR’s homebrewed serial killer, they un/fortunately made him pretty good at it when he has a plan. Tenko has some of the least devastating lingering physical injuries of the class. Given the severity of her classmates’ injuries, though, that still leaves her with minor vocal strain, susceptibility to sore throats, and severe neck pain, among other things.

A lot of Tenko’s lingering trauma is mental: she isn’t quite as willing to immediately throw herself into the fray to help her friends, and certainly doesn’t want to leave her back exposed (a tendency she shares with Kokichi, of all people). While it did numbers on her perception of men again for a while, hearing about the trial left her with a lot to reconcile. In a ‘cool-motive-still-murder’ way, she does not forgive Kiyo (nor is she obligated to) but doesn’t hate him as much as she expected, either. Processing the idea that a girl could be horribly abusive, especially to a guy, and catalyze a cycle of violence… gets to her. She’s more wrapped up in the tragedy of the entire situation than the righteous indignation that’d fueled her for so long. Everybody lost that day.

She’s pleasantly surprised to see Himiko trying to lift her spirits now. Those two have a lot to talk about and boundaries to set, yes, but Tenko is still touched Himiko took her words to heart and seems to be benefiting from it.

ANGIE

Angie had bit more complicated situation than Tenko, getting KO’d before the fatal blow. Her migraines come on more often than Rantaro’s with high light, which is a special kind of awful for the SHSL Artist, but they’re generally closer to a dull ache. Once she gets going on a project she sets out to grin and bear it; Tenko and Himiko often check up on her. She does her best to stay just as upbeat as in the simulation, and if anything it seems more genuine now. She can actually relax, rather than mind-game her way to relative (unsteady) peace under duress.

(Angie is really interesting to me for many adjacent reasons to Kokichi, since they’re both willing to get morally gray and manipulative if it’ll keep everyone from killing each other. Angie-Kokichi compare contrast essay when?)

She hasn’t “forgiven” Kiyo either, but isn’t hostile while she evaluates whether or not his conviction in getting help and being better is genuine. She was pretty heavily affected by TDR’s “character rewrites” as well, after all, and empathizes with the feeling you’ve been used as a glorified dress-up doll. To some unknowable extent, she is a different person now, and it is frightening.

She’s trying to step back and re-analyze her sense of spirituality, particularly how it relates to her art. It’s existentially harrowing, having been made to toe the line between faith and fronting to either get people to either listen to her or not see her as a threat. She’s not even positive “Kami-sama” (not going with the localization here, my understanding is the Japanese version was deliberately more generic and at least a bit less disrespectful towards real people and their beliefs) is the same deity she’d believed in before TAPP, but it’s difficult to try and reconnect with your roots when none of you have any information on your previous lives.

They do, at least, have a resident anthropologist that might have a clue how to even start looking.

Hah. They sure do, huh.

I think Angie is the type to nominally forgive and never, ever forget. She holds the kind of grudge that lives beyond logic as all the compartmentalized emotions you don’t want to admit you have. A grudge that co-exists with an active desire to move on and seeps into her art.

KOREKIYO

Kiyo got burned.

Alive.

Also dead, somehow, an extension of the Ultimate Placebo Effect we have going on in the simulation; Kiyo was so certain ghosts were real and he’d be one that, through earnest conviction, the simulation made it so. I think this is how Komaeda’s luck works in SDR2 as well; the original Neo World Program was developed for therapy, and in doing so assesses whether or not it would be completely devastating (do more harm than good) to actively disprove something about the patient’s worldview at that time and adapts the environment accordingly. Hence you get a reality-warping luck cycle and ghosts are Definitely Real. Is either true in the outside world? No idea! Komaru talks to a ghost in UDG, once, but considering it’s unclear if Kiyo’s sister was ever a living person to begin with there are bigger fish to fry.

Or not. He’s pretty damn-well aware much that hurts. Or at least being boiled and seasoned does. Going by that kind of simulator-logic, I think in a technical sense it was the salt that killed him, not the torture. There’s probably something to unpack there I haven’t fully explored yet.

Rumors start going around campus that Kiyo is a vampire. It makes enough sense for watercooler gossip, the mask covering up fangs and an aversion to lingering out in the sun; Class 79 knows it’s actually because sunburn, for him, is a new brand of Unfun. He prefers to hole up in the library or his lab anyway, so it could be worse. He’s honestly kind of into becoming a school cryptid. It helps transition him from “avoiding my classmates and other people because they hate me, i also hate me, and we are all correct to do so. i am an extension of her so it does not matter what i want” towards “i am not my past, i cannot make up for what ive done but i can move forward and be better, i am forging a new self and it is mine this time and it always should have been”.

(Kokichi is particularly proud of having kickstarted the cryptid thing. Of course Shinguji would love to watch the evolution of new local lore in real time! Now he doesn’t mope in the corner half as much. He’s still in the corner, granted, but its probably reading while Rantaro sits next to him on his phone instead of moping!)

Kiyo’s also in therapy now. They all have therapy scheduled into their school weeks, but Kiyo has a session besides. Fabrication or not, everyone’s backstories are functionally now ‘real’ and need to be dealt with. Kiyo, Maki, and Kokichi got hit particularly hard on that front. Those scars run deep, but are starting to heal.

Of the students with whole-body injuries, Kiyo probably has the most manageable physical symptoms at this stage. He has to have long sleeves and generally keep as covered as he can so that he can subdue the part of his mind that expects the skin is still raw and flaking (it isn’t, but phantom sensations suck). Overheating pushes him toward a panic state like the end of his trial, which doesn’t exactly gel with the first point, but he’s working on it. Rantaro and Kokichi, occasionally Shuichi, tend to notice and start to defuse the situation. Part of me wonders if he’d have a black lace parasol on sunny days to lean in to the ‘mystery’ around him, plus for the sheer Aesthetic of it.

KIRUMI

Speaking of full-body injuries: Kirumi. She has similar ‘got-to-keep-covered’ issues to Kiyo, particularly wearing heavier work gloves now just to minimize any potential for cuts (and, in the back of her mind, ropeburn). Breaking several bones on impact was rough, though fast enough that she’s had remarkable improvement in a relatively short period of time. She started out on crutches, which made it difficult for her to keep up with her workaholic inclinations, but unlike some of the other students she has at least an idea of “when to quit” as not to make things worse. She’s still genuinely lost some bone density resulting from her treatment and coping methods, finding that she really does need to lean on her friends on occasion, but she is still resolute she is a care-giver, damn it. On both physical and mental fronts she’s dealing with reclaiming her agency and independence.

Kirumi is one of the few, with Maki, whose talent courses actively discourage the kinds of behavior they need for personal growth and mental health maintenance. Kirumi is still reconciling her “rewrite”, the encoded passivity in her and clash of her “selfless devotion” against her own will to live and thrive, a nightmarish reminder that You Are Not Your Own. The “Ultimate” maid needs to be agreeable, to follow orders, and hasn’t the tampering just improved her proficiency at her craft? Why be so upset? Never mind having to reconstruct her proper ability to tell people “no”, having to re-learn it’s okay to do things for yourself; according to her programmed instinct, her classes, those very things are antithetical to her talent. And everything relies on that talent, doesn’t it?

Kirumi and Kokichi are the two in Class 79 who were discharged with mobility devices that got students in the other classes… more than mildly concerned about what the hell happened to all of these freshmen (well, first year at HPA anyway), but luckily for HPA administration they’re also probably the two people least likely to offer details.

THE RIBS

There are enough students who have chest pain and associated issues that they made a club about it. It started out as Miu, Ryoma, and Kaito all independently concluding there was no way in hell they were making it through a mile run and sitting on the bleachers. Once they’d had an opportunity to gather themselves again, they do as teens are wont to do and started talking to each other. Hypoxia is an oddly effective experience to bond over. They call themselves the RIBs, standing for “Respiratory-Issue Beleaguered” (students), mostly because it made Miu laugh and for as irritating as the sound could be they’d missed it.

Kaede, Tenko, Gonta, and Kokichi also stop by from time-to-time, meaning precisely half of the 14 active Class 79 students revolving-door through this unofficial student group. HPA took notice. Class 79 has its own gym class, now, taking into account the state of everyone. One could argue that should have been the case from the onset. They would be correct.

RYOMA

Ryoma is fairly elusive. He generally keeps to himself and remains a Fairly Chill Guy with a cool temperament everyone wants to emulate (he doesn’t see what they see in him) and some Complicated Feelings now knowing he hasn’t killed anyone in the certified Real World and, by logic, should not have to have the memories of a hardened prisoner. He still does. The persistent rasp in his voice now surprises nobody, but it took a few days for everyone in the class to stop flinching a little hearing it. He frequently hangs out in the animal shed with Gonta, Gundham, and Peko to take care of the cats.

MIU

We’ve seen quite a bit of Miu in the AU so far, but to recap a lot of her deal:

She loathes having to “take it easy” but will do so reluctantly

She tries to talk less to stretch out her working time as much as she can (even if she can’t resist just a little banter when Kokichi swings by)

She’s trying to approach her death with a sense of humor. A choker with a huge heart-shaped buckle replaces her usual necklaces with full awareness of the irony. Ha-ha, a choker. It’s a dare for anybody to bring it up, ‘I’ve said it before anyone else could’. The first thing she did waking up was try and make an autoerotic asphyxiation joke. It did not make her feel better like she thought it would.

Miu spends most of her time in her lab, now. Granted, she did that already, but she’s particularly fixated on re-creating a certain Ultimate Robot, ground-up if she has to. Fortunately, she has a team assembled (re: two upperclassmen and the Ultimate Supreme Shit-for-brains). We’ll see how this pans out soon enough.

When not re-building Kiibo outright, she ““takes a break”” innovating in other areas (re: prototyping potential features for kIIbo, usually testing them on a bored Kokichi. He usually complies because Miu is one of the few who doesn’t look at him with a patronizing amount of pity she’s Not boring. Mm-hmm. All there is to it.)

Miu does not resent Gonta (or Kokichi, for that matter) for killing her. There's a small extent to which she's a little relieved she was stopped from going through with her plan to kill Kokichi, and a much bigger disconnect between her idea of reality and her memory of Chapter 4. Miu died in a VR game within another VR game. Having messed around with the programming and guts of the nested simulation personally, it still seems fake. She didn't really die, no matter how real it felt; they were in a simulation. Logically, she's well aware of how it works and the consequences, but it doesn't feel like it was more than a glorified fever dream on an emotional level. Both Gonta and Kokichi are more outwardly traumatized by her death than Miu as a byproduct of how she's processing it. She's not "better off" or "less impacted" so much as "disassociated from the whole thing and very much wanting to put it behind them before it catches up with her", thus burying herself in work and trying as hard as she can to bring back the one person she wants to comfort her.

Kiibo's absence is not great for her abandonment issues. It is hard to blame him when he never had a physical body to begin with, though.

GONTA

Gonta is also with the RIBs, and reeling from it the most visibly of everyone on account of just how. Much, his death was. An allergic reaction blocking off the air, puncturing at least one lung for certain, and living long enough to feel the shrapnel of the laptop lodge into the wound alongside the scythe, the fire quickly eating away any oxygen, any hope of gasping another breath… yeah no he acts as much the gentleman as ever but he is not okay. As Resident Buff Nature Boy Gonta tanked it better than anyone else in the class could have, but the sheer excess of the thing gets to him. Fond memories of setting a campfire in the woods with his adoptive family are overwritten, vespidae in general… hitting differently. But Gonta is kind, to a fault. More resolute than ever to make himself into a kind of person not perceived as ‘too intimidating’ to be friends with, acknowledging the capacity he has for violence is difficult. Somewhere deep down he knows that everybody does, especially in their circumstances, but still acts as though his case is exceptionally bad (nobody else does. This does not deter him, becoming a little less gullible when its least helpful).

He is also not as disconcerted by the occasional spontaneous sensation that your insides are going to lose structural integrity, even with no stitches to pop, that with only the damaged wake and no piercing sharp pain to focus on and blame for the mess could potentially be perceived as a bizarre, abstracted kind of crawling feeling from the inside-out. Things in motion, displaced from where they are meant to be. He knows it isn’t bugs, isn’t glass and metal and plastic, that it isn’t anything but himself. A teeny-tiny part of him wishes it were. At least being shelter for a hive of some sort would be helpful. Aren’t gentlemen helpful, they improve life for people, make things better and how could anyone even look at you again knowing what you’re capable of, who in their right mind would talk to you, you’re going to end up alone again talking to stray cats in the alley since not even the wolves would stay—

Gonta also has extra therapy. He already had to work out self-worth issues, but the game pushed them to interfere too much in daily life not to actively work on.

KAITO

Kaito has made several background and supporting appearances without much central attention just yet. It's not that I don't like him or anything (I do!) but I guess because it seems like well-worn territory in V3 fic to me? Kaito is endlessly proud of Maki and Shuichi (Himiko too, less personally) for "winning" in the face of the killing game, and the training trio of them meet back up again regularly. Only.

It's different, now.

He's no longer sick and dying, but his lungs 'top out' at a certain level of activity and refuse to take in more air, this burning sensation that leaves him only able to huff and wheeze and brings his training regiment to a dead stop. He treasures those last moments in his failed execution where he got to see the stars, because a lingering anxiety in the back of his mind won't let him forget that he never will again. Not the way he'd dreamed of, the way he'd planned to, the way he'd centered his identity around. There is no way, as things are, that he will pass all the physical exams to become a proper astronaut.

The drawn-out deterioration of his health during the simulation chipped away at his physical lungs at a rate too gradual for the countermeasures the rescue team implemented; TAPP did more overt physical damage to Kaito than anyone else. It could certainly be worse and he is gradually improving, but some degree of it is permanent. It haunts him. He's trying not to think about it.

It does, though, drive a wedge between him and his sidekicks; the survivors are planning their futures, and Kaito is not too far from a slight tailspin without any idea what his might look like for the first time he can recall. Space has been the dream since he was a kid (as has getting there in this specific role) and it almost feels like a rejection. Like he got too cocky, and the cosmos decided it didn't want him.

It starts to make a little more sense, then, that he starts willingly hanging out with Kokichi. They went through the hangar together, of course, but even besides the traumabond (and a need to, after he woke from his coma, make sure the little brat is still alive, damn it, you can't run away anymore it counts now) but. If anyone else gets having such drastically shifted circumstances that life as you'd imagined it no longer makes logistical sense, it's probably the leader without an organization. There's no need to explain the feelings of inadequacy, or the aimlessness, going through the motions of classes and formal education because what the hell else am I going to do, right now? It's familiar.

Kokichi needs someone willing to chase him, no matter how circuitous the route becomes. Kaito needs someone willing to shake him by the shoulders and snap him out of his own head, so sure it's all-or-nothing and that if he can't be the Luminary as he'd dreamed of it whatever happens next is immaterial in comparison. Kaito needs to adapt and roll with the punches, Kokichi needs to double back from his logical leaps from point A to point Q and articulate his thoughts clearly to other people (at least some of the time.) The two of them concoct little daily and weekly rituals, like Kokichi stealing Kaito's notebook and drawing in it, just because the consistency of company reminds them both that they aren't the only one going through this.

None of the other students quite get it, but have come to accept it.

KOKICHI

Then there’s Kokichi.

Ah, Kokichi, whose whole deal in this scenario inspired me to write about this AU at all (and who manages to weasel his way into every comic and a other entries in these notes) . I’m biased, I know, but there are also a few reasons he’s singled out in-universe as well:

A) So a hydraulic press does not slam down quickly. The pause-and-play of the video deliberately makes it look much faster than it was; watching enough of the hydraulic press channel makes it abundantly clear that it was not instant. Kokichi was impaled with two crossbow bolts (the one in the back being bad enough already), poisoned by those bolts, and then pressed. He had to have felt non-zero of the Pressing, which, considering it already had to be agony before bones started breaking… the rest of the class might not have been fond of him, sure, but he’s right there with Gonta on “sheer level of excess.” Not even Maki is at a point of wishing that on him. Not after finding out how drawn out and excruciating it was. Veering into headcanon, I’m going to add “sleep deprivation” on the pile as exacerbating the whole thing, given his conspiracy whiteboard and everything after the concussion, honestly.

Combined with the World’s Worst Placebo Effect, King Horse takes the crown for top “my entire body hurts most of the time” severity. It’s not a desirable one, but when your previous life is all but erased there is exactly one choice available between Big and Home. Let it be said Kokichi Ouma has never half-assed anything he’s set his mind to, ever.

B) Ouma is paranoid and distrusting, which adds the psychological angle of “you literally shot me in the back” to a poison-laced crossbow bolt in his mind. TAPP will very literally never let him forget the bolt burying itself in the muscle of his back, barely kept from severing his spinal cord; he won’t forget the shivering and shaking from the poison, or the bile rising in the back of his throat handing Kaito the antidote. (He still wanted to live. He forfeit the right, he thought, after getting Gonta and Miu killed, but he still wanted to. That was all the more reason to quadruple-down on the press idea and making their three deaths mean something, damn it. Three, because Kaito could live. If the killing game ends there is no execution. It’ll be over. Can’t take back the past, but at least one of the pair of you has to walk out of this forsaken place!)

(… Can you really believe that? Or is it just another lie.

A lie you want, with all the heart they’re so sure you do not have, to blithely believe. There has to be a cure for whatever the hell has gotten into Kaito once the game ends and they can look for it, it might even stop cold the moment the game ends. That dumbass space cadet can go back to his sidekicks and he better appreciate it, the comradery you’ll never have, because he is the designated Hero and Heroes get happy endings. You want-want-want-want to trust in that lie, to trust him with the collected thoughts and notes and pieces of you spilled across reams of paper that have been so pointlessly important for you to keep secret this whole time. For once in your life, you want to believe you will not be betrayed. You want to believe in the closest thing you have left to a friend.

It will, in fact, be the last thing you do.)

C) Ouma is paranoid and distrusting. Again. Only this flavor has more to do with his persistent denial anything is wrong, in turn making things a lot worse for himself. Mental trauma and impressions of physical sensations can have physical effects. Clinging to his persona and trying to keep bouncing around like nothing ever happened turned a very difficult but potentially manageable condition into small amounts of permanent nerve damage within the first day of waking up. It screws with his coordination; just what he needed at a school that prizes talent above all else, when he is a leader with no organization and proficiencies in sleight of hand, forgery, lockpicking, and generally evading anything that might threaten him because he can’t take very many hits.

Whoops.

D) Kokichi was last of the class to wake up from the simulation, even after the survivors. They thought he was actually dead for a bit. Just when they were thinking of giving up on him Kokichi Ouma, SHSL Stubborn Son of a Bitch, refuses to stay down for the count.

HPA already knew Class 79 would need accommodations on account of their negligence, but it became much harder to sweep things under the rug when they thought they’d actually killed a student. Even worse, thirteen witnesses have been actively fraternizing and scaled the flashback-gaslighting required to cover it up to easily exceed what their current technology is capable of.

Half the class was positive Ouma was playing dead specifically to fuck with them and light the fire under them to act. He and Kaito are the only ones to know without a shred of doubt that he was not. He still gladly takes the credit, though.

E) Class 79 as a whole already adapted to Ouma Being Ouma, so when the definition of ‘Being Ouma’ expanded he’s still pretty distinct. He hangs out around the people closest to him often, particularly Miu, Kaito, and Rantaro, but the entire class knows now that he’s pretty much beyond the point of perfidy. Even if he were to lie about being in more pain than he is at a given moment, there’s constantly enough underlying truth in how vulnerable he is that it’s not strategically worth trying to use as a manipulative tactic. It’s too real. Plus, he knows better than to boy-that-cried-wolf his way out of help from his classmates after getting lost on campus once and fainting before he found his way back.

K1-B0

K1-B0, as far as has been established, is being re/built. Miu is spearheading the project. Presumably, he is currently hanging out on at least one computer in the school, somewhere. Per the AU, though, Chapter 6 did go a bit differently than canon, so we’ll catch up with him soon.

TSUMUGI

Nobody is exactly certain what happened to Shirogane. Or, at the very least, nobody in the class knows. Admin is certainly not about to tell them. Wouldn’t it be just like the Ultimate Cosplayer to Theseus her way back into their lives following a single loose thread…

THE SURVIVORS

Shuichi, Maki, and Himiko each emerged from the simulation minimally physically harmed in a lasting sense beyond initial fatigue from being hooked up for so long. Each is still moving forward on their established character arc: Himiko is finding her motivation, Maki is learning to open up, and Shuichi is becoming more sure of himself and his detective abilities.

I think Himiko begins embracing the 'stage' side of her magic, considering that TAPP was blocking my mana, and you know what? I survived a killing game, and I didn't even need it. What else can I do without my mana? As time goes on, she'll likely value her own practical skills more rather than relying on her want of more fantastical powers. Not to say she'd disown them, but more that she could admit to herself it's more for fun than a need to affix something exceptional to her identity. She is enough as she is.

Maki enters HPA and immediately requests transfer out of 'Ultimate Assassin' classes. She hates fighting, per canon, and after going through the simulation she is no longer afraid of any authority figure that may deny her because she has certifiably seen worse. She initially tries to pivot and become the Ultimate Child Caregiver, for Real This Time; she is genuinely pretty good with kids. After a little incident nearly choking Kokichi, though? It confirms what she'd been afraid of all along: her patience is too thin, her instinct to defend too heavy on the trigger. She talks to Peko about it, among other people, Mukuro and Sakura chief among the other classes. She'd made their acquaintances during combat training in the first few days at HPA. She especially confides in Kaede, who carries a more-domestic-less-battlescorn perspective on it she can't help but appreciate. Kaede takes her to not-Claire's, playing with accessories and make-up and generally reclaiming some of the girlhood Maki has effectively never been allowed to have. In the whole process, Maki realizes she wants more than anything to protect the ability to have that kind of frivolity, that freedom: she changes tracks again, to become a SHSL Bodyguard.

Shuichi is a difficult one to place for me, exactly. He's in a state of becoming significantly more confident in the wake of the simulation, but the deviation from canon has turned the main conflict away from ending a destructive cycle and towards fighting the idea of predetermination by an external force. Shirogane was predetermined to stay in the Reserve Course despite her skills and aspirations, and railed against it; Kiibo was predetermined to be an AI helper and not a person, but embraced the role so hard he developed a soul of his own; Maki denies her talent and changes her destiny, Himiko embraces hers.

I suppose Saihara must fall somewhere in the middle, then. An observer steadfastly declaring that yes, there were aspects of life shaped for them beyond their control (entry into the simulation if they wanted a taste of success, the killing game, the "character rewrites" overriding the people they were before...) and yes they cannot control everything. What happened has happened. There are always going to be things you can't control (like how severely you burn in the sun, or whether you get headaches with the lights up too high, or even if your dream life rockets away too fast for you to catch unless you want to lose what you still have) but you can adapt to it. It's tempting to give in, to consider it all a lost cause, to submit to the forces you feel are puppeting you, but see. You keep living anyway, because you have to. The only way forward is through. Even if you were a puppet, you're still an independent you, and that means something. Maybe you can't snap your strings, but you can sure as hell stretch them out and bend them in a way you like better than this one.

Not having total control doesn't mean the control you do have doesn't matter.

So Shuichi is taking up cases as a detective, now. Seeing how he likes it. If not? Well. Skills are transferable.

He'll be okay.

They all will.

----

(The first screenshot I took of this ask to begin drafting vs. the last one:

I'm sorry I am bad at timely responses but I hope they are Good.)

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lilblueprint · 1 year

Text

Midnight Rain

He wanted it comfortable, I wanted that pain

He wanted a bride, I was making my own name

Jason proposes to you. You turn him down.

The Midnights masterpost has been edited. Thank you all for your patience.

Ps. I made the masterpost on google docs at first and they all had really pretty font colors until I realized tumblr has a limited palette

You probably shouldn’t be driving.

Tears clouded your vision and you blinked them away furiously, trying to focus on the road and not the desperate emotions driving you to insanity.

You wanted to open your window and scream into the rain. So you did.

You arrived home with a ticket. It only served to incense you further as you slammed the rickety front door. The stench of abandonment hit your nose as you tried to calm down. You didn’t know why you came to this godforsaken place, it had been almost a year since you left. As silence settled over your anger, familiar sounds began to seep back into recognition.

The incessant squawking of the upstairs lady and the thumps and yells of your drunk neighbor–who had somehow managed to stay with the rising rent–echoed through the paper-thin walls. When a bottle smashed, you flinched.

Too damn close.

Being here was debilitating. But there was nowhere else you could go without someone asking questions. Things that you definitely did not want to answer right now. You opened a window as you passed it, then doubled back to close it when the distinctly skunky smell of weed wafted in.

When you reached your bedroom, everything was dark. You tapped your digital alarm clock, and the face blinked weakly back. Sighing, you left your bag on the floor. Your bed wasn’t something you could trust.

“Marry me?”

“...no.”

Your head tipped back with a groan, your palm was cold over your eyes.

You’d thought you were prepared for anything, after vaulting through your childhood and putting yourself through the seven circles of hell to get where you were now. You’d ignored all the people who had asked you if you had someone, when you were going to settle down, if you wanted children. You weren’t nearly finished living your life, yet society was still treating you as if you were.

And the very last person you had expected a proposal from had just gone and done it.

It wasn’t as if you weren’t aware of how fast you’d been forced to grow up. Not many people knew that some of the most successful Gothamites came from the Bowery. They weren’t old money, no, far from it. But they were the hardest workers, the most driven. Thirsty for change and last in line for better lives when they should be further up. You had been a street rat to the very bone, starving and stealing. Luckily, you were never alone in your endeavors.

And the second you realized that life had dealt you and Jason a losing hand, you’d vowed to turn the tables on fate for the two of you.

Even in the midst of all your swirling emotion, you still knew that to be true.

Alcohol was such a gamble, you mused. It could calm or ignite the warring in your mind, depending on the day. Tonight, it served to numb your thoughts and shove them down your throat.

You didn’t want to swallow.

Instead, you choked on your words as you remembered Jason’s face when it fell to pieces. It was so conflicting, tossing the blame of your situation between him and you. It was getting harder to insist to yourself that you were right when you knew that Jason had seen just as much as you had, if not more. You couldn’t, for the life of you, justify your rejection as Jason going soft for the rich life.

But, you repeated, it had been so easy for Batman to sweep Jason off his feet when you had had to work for years more to brush his shoulders.

“Look at me getting all worked up,” you mumbled to the stale air.

Inebriety, you had learned, was never a good state for debate. Especially when you were pitted against yourself.

Maybe I should just go to sleep, you thought. However, it was a struggle as you laid there in the dark, ancient floors digging into your back through the layered blankets.

You couldn’t help feeling as though this entire situation was a loss.

The next morning, you woke up and immediately wished you were still asleep. Skull-splitting pain lanced through you as you shifted to get up, you could see the wine-stained glass on your bedside stand. Reaching around it, you unplugged your phone and held it away from you as you drew the brightness down to match the still-dark room.

7 missed calls from Jason.

1 voice message.

You tossed the phone away and whimpered into your pillow.

You spent the rest of your morning lounging in the window seat, watching the gray sky weep. The wine glass sat empty and washed on your kitchen counter, and your hair was pinned up as you sipped your water.

You’d caused an uproar at your job by calling in sick, you had never missed a day of work since you’d started with them. But you ignored their hounding calls just as you’d been trying to ignore Jason’s.

Your earring glinted in your reflection and you were reminded of the ring between Jason’s fingers, winking up at you. Blinking slowly, you leaned against the cold window frame. You knew you should give it time. But what good was it to know what you should do if you wanted the opposite just as badly?

As the rain beat a soft, steady rhythm against the window, you glanced at your discarded phone.

“Hey, doll. Don’t know if you got my calls. I know you can take care of yourself, I do, but please call me back when you see this. Please be safe. If you’ll let me worry about you, if you’re ok, please respond. I… I love you.”

You try not to let your heart soften as you type out a brief reply to his voice message.

It’s not too long after you press send that he texts back.

Hey, doll.

Can I ask you a question?

#jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd fic #jason todd #dc #dc comics #angst #two parter

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ambrossart · 11 months

Text

PAPER MEN

— CHAPTER 28

SUMMARY: All Evelyn Tozier wanted to do was make Derry High School a safer place for her kid brother. Well, somewhere between kissing Patrick Hockstetter and telling the principal to go f*** himself, things got a little off track. Now she’s stuck in the middle of a bizarre love triangle with two of Derry’s most troubled teens while her little brother and his friends hunt down a creepy, child-eating circus clown. This year, summer can’t come fast enough. PAIRINGS: Henry Bowers x Tozier!Sister; Patrick Hockstetter x Tozier!Sister WARNINGS: violence, profanity, sexual content, bullying, sexual assault, physical abuse, emotional abuse, all kinds of abuse, trauma, mental illness, implied/referenced self-harm, child death, angst, lots of angst, recreational drug use, underage drinking, underage sex, love triangles, toxic relationships, slow burn, slow build

WORD COUNT: 11,533

MASTERPOST

MASTERLIST

"See? Bitch!"

Christie's words sailed down the hallway and struck Evelyn on the back of the head, making her stop mid-stride. A gasp gathered in her chest as the hallway seemed to close in around her. Student faces blurred together. Sounds became muffled, all but the thunderous beating of her heart. I wasn't being a bitch, Evelyn thought, unaware of the students who gave her curious glances as they passed. I said hi, didn't I? What more do you want from me? Should I have gone up to you and shaken your hand? Said, "Oh my god, congratulations, I'm so thrilled for you two"? Because I am, I really am, I just...

(Bitch!)

Guilt and shame mixed uneasily in Evelyn's stomach. It made her feel nauseous. Made her want to walk back over to them and apologize profusely like an embarrassed little girl at a grown-up's dinner party. Oh please, oh please, don't be mad! I'm sorry if I came off a little rude earlier. I'm just having a bad day, that's all. Please don't take it personally, Christie. Pretty please? Pretty please with sugar on top? I'd really like for us to be friends.

Yes.

Friends.

That's what I do. I make nice. I make friends. I make lemonade from lemons and turn rain clouds into rainbows.��

Well, I'm not in the mood for rainbows, Evelyn thought, and kept walking. Anger simmered inside her stomach now, and she made no effort to cool it down. I have enough lemonade, I have enough friends, and I'm not gonna apologize to Christie Gibson! Why should I? I didn't do anything wrong! She's the one who bombarded me in the hallway, smelling like Vic's bedroom, casually tossing around Mrs. Criss's first name like they're best friends. I've known Mrs. Criss my whole life, and she'd never let me call her 'Tabby'... not that I've ever really asked...

Sarah Tolleson, Evelyn's locker neighbor, said bye to Evelyn as she walked by. Evelyn, distracted as she was, said nothing back.

"Bitch," Sarah muttered under her breath. "Well, fuck you too, then."

Evelyn opened her locker, hung her backpack on the hook, and absentmindedly began gathering her textbooks one by one: English, psychology, world history...

So Christie wants to talk about Vic, huh? What could she possibly have to say to me about Vic? What, does she need gift ideas for Christmas? Buy him a bong or something, I don't know... Evelyn shoved her biology book into her bag and paused for a moment, lost in thought. She returned in a near-daze and, forgetting herself, pulled out the same book and put it back on the shelf. Oh, then she calls out to me in the hallway while she's with him, so I'd have to SEE them together. What the hell was that about, huh? Did she wanna gloat over her victory? Was she trying to get me to admit I'm jealous? Okay, fine, I'm jealous. I'm very, very jealous!

All Evelyn ever got from Victor Criss was cold distance and doors slammed in her face. Secret notes. Broken promises. He'd draw her in and then push her way. Get her hopes up only to smash them to itty bitty pieces. No matter how hard she tried, he refused to let her get close to him. And now, after wasting ten years of her life, she had to accept that this was as close as she was ever going to get: this friendship with a little asterisk next to it. They were friends, sure, but only when no one else was around. It wasn't fair.

Vic was with her—in front of everybody, and he didn't even seem embarrassed by it. How could he do that with her but not with me?

Probably for the same reason Christie Gibson won the student council vote.

Because Christie was cool and Evelyn wasn't. Christie listened to rock music, dyed her hair fun colors, and had a butterfly tattoo on her lower back. Evelyn wore knit sweaters and could hardly name a current song on the radio (she listened to Olivia Newton-John from time to time, but nobody would be very impressed by that). Yeah, Christie Gibson was the fun, laid-back rocker chick. She probably spent her nights going to parties and concerts. Evelyn, meanwhile, spent her nights studying and doing arts and crafts on her bedroom floor... making dozens of paper flowers for a sign that nobody cared about.

You know you're quite the artist.

Isn't that what Patrick Hockstetter had said? Yeah, he had. Last night, he was mesmerized by a tiny white daisy. It was such an insignificant little thing, yet he stared at it like it was something special, like Evelyn had somehow made a realdaisy bloom in the palm of her hand. It seemed strange for her to be thinking of that now.

Stranger still was the smile that came to her face when she did.

But then Evelyn thought of that shapeless violet, purple as the fading bruise on her neck, and her smile instantly vanished. She pushed the thought away and started unloading her backpack again.

Everyone thinks I'm annoying. Just Little Miss Busybody. I'm not cool like Christie Gibson. I'm not sexy like Manda Bosch. I'm just... just—

A long, slender finger poked Evelyn's shoulder twice, jolting her from her thoughts. She jumped away from it, startled. Her stack of books went leaning, leaning... leaning way too far! A dreadful moan sounded in her throat. She tried to correct the lean, failed, and clutched the two bottommost books to her chest while the rest went tumbling to the floor. Her disheartened sigh crashed against a boy's cry of panic:

"Oh, great," Evelyn said.

"Oh, God!" said the boy.

They dropped to their knees at the same time, hands bumping as they reached for Evelyn's psychology book. The boy made a whimpering noise and recoiled from her with a snap of his wrist. Evelyn followed his fleeing hand and saw it bury itself in a small nest of copper-red curls.

"I'm so sorry, Evelyn! I don't know what I was thinking, sneaking up on you like that. My mom always gets mad at me when I creep up on her in the kitchen, but I just can't help it. See, I used to make too much noise when I walked, and she would yell at me to stop dragging my feet, so I overcorrected and now I make too little noise. I didn't think that was possible, but someone how I managed. God, I'm so hopeless."

Evelyn blinked her eyes in disbelief. Soft blue eyes blinked back at her.

"Denny!"

Denny Booker responded with a frog-like croak, as if surprised by his own name. "Oh, uh... hi."

Overjoyed, Evelyn put down her books and wrapped her arms around Denny's scrawny shoulders, hugging him tightly just as she had in his kitchen the Wednesday before. Denny's face flushed with heat. As soon as their bodies made contact, his back went rigid as a plank and his skinny arms flattened against his sides.

"Sorry," Denny said once they parted. "I'm really bad at hugs, especially with, with girls. I just don't... see, I don't really know where to put my hands, if that makes sense. I'm always worried I'm gonna touch something I'm not supposed to."

Like what? Evelyn almost asked, bewildered, but she figured that would've only embarrassed him more.

Instead, she said, "It's fine, Denny. I'm just glad you're back. You are back, right?"

She stood, brushing loose specks of dirt off her stockings. Denny got up, too. He wore his backpack with both straps and kept fidgeting with the loose ends.

"Yeah... well, kinda. I just came today to drop off my homework assignments. Tomorrow's my first real day back. Oh, here, your books."

Denny bent down, picked up Evelyn's scattered books, and handed them to her with a sweet, unaffected smile. Evelyn thanked him sincerely and put them away in her locker.

"So—" Evelyn began.

"Hey, it's the Book Man!"

They spotted Scott Kellerman at the other end of the hallway. He had been strolling through the freshmen locker area, thinking of fun, creative ways to kill a couple minutes. Now he was jogging toward them. Smiling, of course. Scott Kellerman was always smiling. He stopped briefly to give another one of his friends a high five. "Toodles, my good dude," Scott said to him. Then he rushed over to Denny and tackled him with a giant bear hug.

"What's up, buddy?" Grinning, Scott slapped his hands onto Denny's shoulders and gave him a brain-rattling shake that made Evelyn cringe and think, Oh, poor Denny. "Look at you, all rosy-cheeked and gorgeous! How you doin', man?"

"I'm, I'm good," Denny replied. "Hap-happy to be back."

"Shit, dude, you had us all freaked out in homeroom. People thought you were dying or something. As for me, I was getting ready to start sending around the ole donation jar like we did for J-Bird that one time. You remember that? 'Help, my brother needs a new kidney!' Nobody donated, though. Bummer. I guess they don't care about pot-bellied pigs in this town, not even a cute one like J-Bird."

"Oh..." Denny frowned. "Well, I'm sorry for scaring everyone."

Scott just laughed his usual carefree laugh. "Hey, no worries, dude. We're just glad to have you back. Wait, you are back, right?"

Denny nodded. "Tomorrow. I'll be back tomorrow."

"Sweetness!" Scott said, and laughed again. "Well, hey, I gotta go, man. Got a client waiting for me." He backed away from them while humming an upbeat tune he made up on the spot. "Adios, mis amigos. That's Spanish, if you didn't already know. My teacher taught it to me today. That's right, my dudes, I'm one step closer to being bilingual, baby!" He fired off two gunshots with his fingers before disappearing around the corner.

A moment of silence passed. Then Evelyn turned to Denny and said, "Did he just say he's meeting a client?"

"Oh right, yeah... Skelly's got a little side business."

"A side business? Wow!" Imagine that, Scott Kellerman was a fifteen-year-old entrepreneur. Evelyn was very impressed, and a little confused. "So does he, like, make stuff?"

"More like grows it."

To clarify what he meant, Denny pressed his thumb and index finger together and touched them briefly to his lips. Miss Quaver, the home economics teacher, came strutting out of her classroom. Denny panicked and pretended to have an itch on his face.

"Hello, children," Miss Quaver said to them with a smile. "Nice to see you back, Denny."

"Hi, Miss Quaver," Denny said, a faint blush tickling his cheeks.

When she was gone, he and Evelyn collapsed into a fit of giggles that left Evelyn in tears and Denny hacking up phlegm. This made Denny terribly embarrassed. He wiped his mouth with his sweater sleeve and apologized. Evelyn, who had been snorting like a pig, told him not to worry about it.

"Wow," she said afterward, while dabbing her eyes dry, "Skelly's a pot dealer. How did I not figure that out sooner?"

Denny cleared his throat one more time. "You're just wonderfully naive, I guess."

They shared another chuckle over that. Evelyn's shoulders bounced as she laughed. Denny, more careful this time, kept his hand cupped shyly over his mouth.

Then he said, "So, wait, why was Skelly dressed like a surfer?"

"Oh, because it's Groovy Monday," Evelyn told him. "Skelly's a Beach Boy. He had a surfboard, but he accidentally smacked Principal Hellyer with it, so it got taken away."

"Right," Denny said, unsurprised. "Yeah, I guess that explains your outfit, too."

"Yeah..."

Evelyn tucked her chin into her chest and shuffled back a step, wincing as she felt that familiar sting of self-consciousness. Oh, why had Denny returned to school on Decade Day of all days? If he had waited until tomorrow, he would have seen Evelyn dressed in comfy cotton pajamas instead of this hideously short dress that, apparently, made her look like a damn streetwalker. She braced herself for another searing hot stare, but from Denny Booker, all she felt was the most genuine warmth. His blue eyes were clear and kind.

"You look really nice," he said, and that was all. "Oh, I have your biology notes!"

He shrugged out of his backpack's right shoulder strap and pulled Evelyn's notebook out of the main zipper compartment. "You take really good notes," he said before handing it to her.

Evelyn flashed a modest smile. "Well, I do pride myself on my note-taking. Last year, I got these totally awesome gel pens that completely changed the way I..."

(It's a pen, Evelyn)

Her expression darkened. "Never mind," she said under her breath. Last year didn't matter anymore. "Anyway, I'm glad you found them useful."

She put her notebook away. When she turned back, Denny was rubbing the back of his neck and frowning.

"Hey," he went on quietly, "I want to apologize for the way I acted when you came to visit me last week. I'm honestly really embarrassed about the whole thing. You probably thought I was having a total meltdown or something."

Evelyn shook her head. "No, I didn't think that at all. And you don't have to apologize, Denny, not for any of it. You were going through a lot that day."

Denny gave a doubtful but grateful smile. "I found my dog, by the way."

"Really? That's great!"

"Yeah, we got a call from one of our neighbors this morning. He said Mandy Fazio found her sniffing around the junkyard last night and was wondering who she belonged to. I have no idea what she was doing all the way over there, but we took her to the vet, and she's perfectly fine, so... I dunno, I guess it was just one of those strange coincidences, just like you said."

"Yeah," Evelyn said.

A strange coincidence, indeed.

I questioned Patrick about this last night. Now, all of a sudden—

Denny's face paled, and he drew back with fright. "Uhh... I have to go now."

"Huh? Why, Denny? Is everything all right?"

"Yeah, I just, uhh..." Denny dragged his fingers through his curls. His hairline was damp with sweat, Evelyn saw, and now it was trickling down his forehead. "I just remembered that I need to pick up something from the office, and I... I need to head over there before, you know, before they close for the day. See you tomorrow, Evelyn."

He staggered backward, spun around, and sped off down the hallway... in the opposite direction of the office.

Weird, Evelyn thought, her chest tight with worry. I hope he'll be okay to return tomorrow.

She stared down the hallway for a moment longer, wondering what unseen terror had set Denny off this time. Her answer came in the form of slow, plodding footsteps. She turned around and saw Patrick Hockstetter walking up to her with a lazy, swaying stride.

"What's his problem?" he asked, seemingly unaware.

Seemingly.

Evelyn's eyes sharpened into a suspicious glare.

"What?" Patrick said, blinking at her with that same dumb, oblivious expression. Then, slowly, his lips curled into a wide, open-mouthed grin. "Wait, was that...?"

"Oh, stop it already, Patrick. As if you don't know."

He tossed his head to the side. "What was his name again?"

"You know his name, Patrick. I refuse to believe you have no idea who your fellow classmates are."

This was all just an act, and a bad one at that.

She grabbed her biology book, put it in her bag, and left it there this time. That's right, Evelyn finally had her head screwed on properly again. She wasn't floating through space or wading through a deep sea of sad thoughts. She was here, grounded firmly in reality... and keenly aware of how close Patrick had gotten. His warm breath fanned the side of her face.

"Believe what you want," Patrick said, "but as far as I'm concerned, you and I are the only two people in this school."

Evelyn turned to meet his empty, probing stare. When she did, a chill ran up her spine. Looking into Patrick's eyes was kind of like staring into a void. It was like leaning over the side of a ship and gazing into the deep, dark ocean below. Your survival instincts tell you to step back from the edge and walk away, but before you do, a small part of you wonders, What if I jumped?

Evelyn was hearing that voice now, tempting and frightening all at the same time. She pulled away from it, away from him, and said, "No offense, Patrick, but that sounds kinda like a nightmare."

"Really?" he said. "I think it sounds pretty nice."

His eyes told her he wasn't kidding. But he had to be, didn't he?

Another shiver rolled through her. Evelyn put the question behind her and finished packing up her homework.

"So," Patrick went on, leaning against the locker beside her, "did he finally find his dog?"

Evelyn's eyes sharpened again. Strange coincidence, my ass.

"Oh my god!" she said.

"What?" Patrick asked, looking at her with genuine surprise.

No.

Seemingly genuine.

Evelyn jabbed at his chest with an accusing finger. "Oh, you... you are so transparent!"

"What? I'm just making conversation."

"Yeah, sure you are, Patrick."

"I am," he insisted. Then his eyes flattened. "Wait a second, you still think I took that dog, don't you? Listen, Evelyn, before last night I didn't even know who that kid was, okay? I mean, jeez... you torture a few puppies and you're branded a dog killer for the rest of your life. Where's the justice in that?"

"Yes, Patrick, you're the true victim in all of this."

"Whatever," he said. "I'm sick of talking about this. Anyway, what are you doing after school?"

Evelyn gave him a tired look.

"What?" Patrick said. "We're friends, right? Friends hang out after school."

"Don't you have detention?"

"In theory," Patrick answered, "but realistically, it wouldn't be too hard for me to slip away for a few minutes... you know, if you wanted to find an empty classroom and let me fool around under that cute little skirt of yours." He eyed it with a lustful smirk, then started teasing the hem with his fingers. "By the way, have I told you how much I like this outfit? You should dress like this more often."

And with that, down went the judge's gavel.

It's official: I'm dressed like a whore.

"The stockings kinda ruin it, though," Patrick finished, observing them with a frown. Shamelessly, he tried to sneak a peek under her skirt. Evelyn swatted his hand away without looking.

"It was forty degrees out this morning, Patrick."

"Is that cold?" he asked, but he didn't wait for Evelyn's answer. "So you wanna hang out or not?"

"Can't. I'm grading quizzes for Mrs. Lafferty."

It was part of Henry's plea deal. In exchange for Mrs. Lafferty's support, Evelyn agreed to grade her quizzes for the rest of the semester. And how did Henry pay her back? The only way he knew how: with cruelty and malice. No good deed goes unpunished, right?

"Oh?" Patrick said, sounding very intrigued. "And will you be alone while you're grading these quizzes?"

"No, Mrs. Lafferty will be there. She has a student staying late to take a quiz."

"Well, I don't mind an audience... although it might make you a little uncomfortable."

Evelyn heaved a loud, frustrated sigh. "Okay, I'm leaving now," she said, and closed her locker. When she tried to walk away, Patrick gently grabbed her wrist.

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding," he said, chuckling. "What are you doing on Friday night?"

"Friday's the homecoming game, Patrick."

"Okay, that means nothing to me... but I'm assuming you're going?"

"Yes, Patrick, everyone's going."

"Oh, everyone's going, huh?" His grey-green eyes gleamed. "So if I go, I'll probably see you there."

"Probably."

"Cool." Patrick smiled, very pleased. "We can hang out then."

"I don't think that's a good idea, Patrick."

Evelyn pulled her hand out of his grasp. Patrick frowned as he watched it slip away.

"Why?" he asked in a sullen voice. "You ashamed to be seen with me at a school event? Afraid of what your friends in the student council will think? What Jake Newham will think?"

"Of course not," Evelyn said, but she realized that was a lie. She was ashamed to be seen with Patrick, deeply ashamed, and now she felt like a total hypocrite.

Evelyn grunted low in her throat, regretting this decision with every fiber of her being. "Okay, fine, we can hang out at the homecoming game, but—" She raised her finger and spoke in her stern babysitter voice, the one she pulled out when a stubborn child refused to obey her. So far, she had only used it once: when Max Kenton wouldn't stop pulling his sister's hair, that little shit. "Don't ever interrupt my lunch meetings again, Patrick. Okay? I use those meetings to conduct very important business. The last thing I need is you feeling me up under the table."

"I thought that was a bug," Patrick said with a cheeky little smirk. Evelyn put her hand on her hip and raised her eyebrows, another trick from the babysitter's handbook. Patrick threw his head back and let out a disgruntled moan. "Okay, fine, I won't bother you at lunch anymore."

"Thank you." Evelyn smiled, pivoted on her heel, and walked away with a confident strut. Halfway down the hall, she stopped. "Oh, and I'm reenacting the 'No Touch' rule."

Patrick's jaw clenched. "What?"

"We're friends, right?" Evelyn wore a charming yet taunting smile. "Friends don't touch each other like that."

"Well, maybe not your friends," Patrick said, but ultimately he gave in. "All right, Evelyn, you win, but the same clause applies as before. Fair enough?"

Evelyn pressed her lips together tightly, holding in a laugh. "Sure, Patrick. When I beg you to touch me, feel free to go crazy." She released the laugh once her back was turned. It burst out of her in a series of giggles that rang throughout the hallway like the delightful tinkling of bells.

Patrick listened to it, smiling. "I plan to," he said to himself. Then, before she got too far: "Oh, Evelyn, just one more thing."

She turned around, still giggling. "Hm?"

"I love how you said 'when' and not 'if.'"

Evelyn's laughter caught in her throat, almost choked her.

Patrick's smile grew. "See you tomorrow, Evelyn." He backed away, slipped around the corner, and was gone.

Evelyn stood paralyzed, speechless, her face getting redder and hotter by the second. "That's just... semantics!" she declared, her arms flopping helplessly at her sides.

God dammit, she thought. How the hell does he do that?

It's because he's so attractive, that's what it is. Puberty screwed me over real good, but it gave him a massive growth spurt that turned him into a fricken Adonis. How is that fair? I get a flat chest, no hips, and Patrick gets the chiseled bone structure of a male model. Okay, I'm exaggerating. He's not that good-looking... No, actually he is that good-looking, and it's really unfortunate. If he looked like he did in elementary school, I wouldn't be in this predicament. He's vile and repulsive, but then he smiles and acts so weirdly charming. Oh my god, I hate that I just used the word "charming." But he is. He's grotesquely charming, if that's even a thing. Like most of the time I wanna slap him in the face for the shit he says, but other times, I wanna grab him and...

No.

Wait.

Oh my god, he's doing it again!

Last night, he confessed to murdering cute, fluffy puppies—and I love puppies!—but I'm not even thinking about that right now. No, I'm too busy thinking about his hand under my skirt. I swear to God, if he ever tries something like that again, I'm gonna punch him in the face. Right in the middle of the lunch room, too. Who does that? A sexual deviant, for one. That was practically assault! But I have to smile and go along with it. I have to give him what he wants; otherwise, this torture will never end.

Problem is, I have no idea what he wants. It's not sex, that's for sure. No, he's just using that to distract me... but from what?

Her steps slowed in the middle of the hallway. While contemplating Patrick's motives, Evelyn was fiddling with her right pinky: tracing over it with her thumbnail, bending it, squeezing it until the tip turned reddish purple. Down the hall was Mrs. Lafferty's classroom. The door was propped open, waiting for her to go inside. All right, that's enough now, Evie. She snapped out of her daze, picked up the pace and

"Bye, Manda!"

"See you tomorrow!"

froze as a senior brushed past her right shoulder.

"Whoops, sorry," the girl said, and Evelyn got a big whiff of her spicy, exotic Yves Saint Laurent perfume. It was a woman's fragrance, strong and intimidating, and it masked the soft, sweet, candy-like scent of Evelyn's drugstore perfume. The smell overwhelmed her for a second. Made her nose wrinkle in a silly, childish way. She recovered quickly and spun around just in time to catch a glimpse of the girl's long, thick fishtail braid as she went around the corner. Wrapped around the tail end, winking in the light, was a metallic silver scrunchie.

Evelyn's breath hitched. "That's..." and her feet moved on their own.

Inside the senior locker area, Manda Bosch was humming U2's "With or Without You" while she strolled toward her locker with her books cradled in her arms. The heels of her boots thumped against the tile. Her wide, womanly hips swayed sensually inside a pair of high-waisted, loose-fitting jeans. A black long-sleeve shirt, which she wore tucked, hugged her upper body like a second skin, showing off her ample curves.

Evelyn, who had no curves, was sick with envy. She crossed her arms over her small breasts, feeling unsexy and unfeminine, and thought, If I looked like that, then maybe...

No.

She inhaled sharply, her brown eyes glazed with panic and fear.

No, I shouldn't be here. This was a mistake! Why did I think seeing her would make this any easier? I was having a hard enough time accepting that Henry had sex with someone else, and now that "someone else" has a name and a body and... and I don't think I can handle seeing her face right now. If I see her face, then it becomes real and

A single tear rolled down her cheek, her lips, her chin.

I should go, she told herself, and stepped back. Mrs. Lafferty's waiting for me. I promised I'd grade her quizzes and...

She took one step forward, then another.

Manda Bosch was standing in front of her open locker now, still humming, occasionally singing under her breath: "With or without you… With or without you, oh..." The inside of her locker was decorated with pictures of her friends, her family, and her longtime boyfriend, Matt Aikman, a freshman at USM. Manda was pulling books off the shelf and putting them away in her backpack. While she did this, Evelyn couldn't stop staring at her hands. Manda Bosch had these long, red, perfectly pointed fingernails, and they had cut Henry's face.

At first, the sight of them filled Evelyn with intense, overprotective rage. She wanted to storm up to her and say, "How dare you put your hands on him?" But that feeling passed so quickly. It was there one minute, burning her from the inside, and the next it was gone. It had cooled and hardened into a giant lump that sat in the pit of her stomach, and now a cruel voice was whispering,

What else did she do with those hands?

No, Evelyn didn't want to think about that, not now, not ever, but her mind started conjuring up images on its own. Casting them onto a giant silver screen. Manda Bosch running her hands through Henry's dirty blond hair. Brushing the side of his face with her fingertips. Slipping her hands underneath his shirt and touching him lightly, caressing his stomach, his chest, sliding around to feel the strong muscles of his back.

Evelyn watched the whole film from beginning to end, unable to look away. She was trapped in the middle of a crowded auditorium, strapped to a cushioned red velvet chair, unaware of the surprise waiting for her. It was Friday night at the Aladdin, and everyone in the audience was being treated to a special double feature. Two films. One night only. Buy your tickets in advance, folks, because this is one event you don't wanna miss! The first picture was one of the year's most-anticipated blockbusters, and the next one, well... that one was a classic. Yeah, even an out-of-touch workaholic like Evelyn would recognize that title. In fact, was one of her favorite films. She watched it every night.

In her bedroom.

Alone.

While she sadly traced over the wrinkles in her floral quilt.

Excited applause sprang up around her. Then the lights dimmed and the opening credits began to roll. As soon as the first name appeared on screen, Evelyn's stomach churned with dread. No, she couldn't bear to sit through this movie again. Not again. Not ever again. She got up and fought her way to the aisle, trampling women's purses, tripping over outstretched legs. All the moviegoers lashed out angrily: Get down! Get down, you're blocking the screen! I paid good money to see this flick! She ducked as a box of popcorn came flying at her. It went over her shoulder and exploded against the screen like a spray of fireworks, but Evelyn did not look. No, she would not look. She put her head down and kept moving, eyes closed to the intimate scene that was playing in front of everyone, ears shut to the men who whooped and wolf-whistled, the women who voiced quiet murmurs of disgust. Blind and deaf to it all, she stumbled into the aisle and went running for the exit.

Mr. Foxworth smiled as she passed, his eyes glowing eerily in the light. Don't you wanna see the ending? he said. The ending's the best part.

Evelyn turned back to look at him, her expression a mixture of shock and horror, and then she saw...

("Hey, you okay?")

saw the screen flickering, stuck on a single image. It burned away as a hand reached out from the darkness and landed on her shoulder.

("Hey... Hey!")

"Hey, space cadet!"

Evelyn emerged from her thoughts groggily, blinking. It was Manda Bosch, staring at her with dark chocolate brown eyes, the kind of eyes a boy could get lost in... Henry probably had, too.

(What else did she do with those hands?)

Evelyn flinched with sudden awareness. She looked down at her shoulder, saw the girl's hand, and wrenched away from it. Warily, Manda Bosch withdrew her hand and apologized. There was a small wrinkle between her perfectly shaped brows now. Her lips, red and full, had gathered into a concerned pout that somehow made her even more beautiful.

Did he let you kiss him? Evelyn wondered, devastated.

"Do you need something?" Manda asked, tilting her head. Her voice was melodious and sweet despite her confusion, much sweeter than Evelyn expected.

"Uhh... no," Evelyn said. She drew back a step and crossed her arms in front of her. "Sorry..."

Manda smiled awkwardly. Even that was pretty. "Okay, well... take it easy, okay?"

She made a vague gesture with her hand, circled around Evelyn's right, and started humming again as she walked toward the senior exit. Evelyn cupped her elbows with her palms and withdrew into herself, feeling more like a child than ever. She wanted to go home. She wanted to go home, bury herself under the covers, and forget this day ever happened.

But then she heard Manda's voice again

"Hey," she said, leaning away from the door, "cute dress, by the way."

and that was more than she could take.

Smiling to herself, Manda pushed on the door and walked out. While she strolled through the senior parking lot and swung her keys, while she drove home and sang along to her favorite song on the radio, Evelyn collapsed onto the senior couch, dropped her head into her hands, and sobbed.

"Well, that test sucked."

"Yeah, I hate when they sneak in an extra essay question at the end. What kinda sick, sadistic shit is that? Like I'm stressed out enough, thank you very much, and now you expect me to write a perfectly structured, five-paragraph response to your vaguely worded question? Fuck off with that bullshit. In conclusion, you're a crazy Nazi bitch and your class sucks!"

"Whoa, did you seriously write that? 'Cause you would totally be my hero if you did."

"God, I wish I did... I swear, every time I see that woman, I just wanna—Evelyn!"

Evelyn dried her eyes as Elizabeth Mueller entered the senior locker area with Desiree Van Blair and Peter Gordon.

Unlike most of the upperclassmen, Liz and Des had actually dressed up for spirit week. They figured, what the hell, right? It was their senior year and they wanted to have some fun before they graduated. Today, Liz was wearing a Twiggy-inspired green shift dress with an exaggerated collar, black fishnet tights, and a pair of Mary Janes. Des was wearing her Halloween costume from last year. She went as Holly Golightly from the 1961 romantic comedy Breakfast at Tiffany's, and she got really annoyed when the other students didn't understand the reference. "God, this town's a cultural wasteland. It's like living in the Bermuda Triangle or something. Nobody knows how to dress and everyone sucks."

Liz was currently gushing over Evelyn's outfit. She took the girl's hands and pulled her up from the couch to get a better look at her.

"Oh my god, you look absolutely perfect!" she said, squeezing Evelyn's face between her palms. Close as they were, it was obvious that Evelyn had been crying, but Liz was gracious enough to keep this knowledge to herself. She wiped away the last streak of wetness with her thumb and smiled. "You're the most precious thing I've ever seen in my life."

Evelyn smiled back timidly. "You don't think I look slutty?"

Liz gasped, outraged. "Oh, what bitch said that? Was it Jackie? 'Cause that sounds exactly like something Jackie would say."

Desiree spoke up from the couch. She was sitting on the arm and pretending to smoke from her long black cigarette holder. "Oh my god, Liz, did you see what she was wearing today? She thinks she's Jackie O."

Liz rolled her eyes. "More like Jackie O, could you be more fucking obnoxious? Wait, was that mean?"

"A little, but who cares? It was funny."

The girls tittered like wicked stepsisters and, for a moment, appeared every bit as mean as Greta Bowie and Liz's little sister, Sally. Evelyn stood between them, feeling uncomfortable, feeling like maybe it was time to leave. Liz noticed this and her face flushed with shame.

"Oh shit," she said. "Dammit, Des, we can't keep falling back into old habits like this! I don't wanna go to college with any negativity. I may not like Jackie personally, but that's no reason to cut her down for her unfortunate fashion choices... even though she's a fucking bitch and deserves it." Liz took a deep breath and carried on with a smile. "Anyway, come sit for a minute, Evelyn. Let's talk."

Evelyn's eyes drifted toward the hallway. "Oh, but I really should get going."

Mrs. Lafferty was already expecting her, and...

"Just for a minute," Liz said, and led her back to the couch. Evelyn followed the older girl obediently. They sat side by side, knee to knee. Liz laid her hands neatly on her lap and smiled prettily at her. "So, how's the situation?"

"The situation?"

"She means Hockstetter," Des explained bluntly, while Peter Gordon went to his locker and pretended not to listen. Evelyn suspected he was listening, though, because he kept peeking over his shoulder every now and then. This made Evelyn feel a little uneasy. She didn't want to talk about this around so many people. In fact, she didn't want to talk about it at all. Not with Liz. Not with anybody. She didn't think they would understand.

"We saw that stunt he pulled at lunch today," Des was saying now. "That was bold, even for him."

"Yeah," Liz agreed, "and we just wanted to make sure you're okay."

"Oh, I'm fine," Evelyn said, more abruptly than she'd intended. "Yeah, I've got the situation totally under control."

Liz's made-up doe eyes widened in surprise. "Oh..." she began in a chaste whisper, a faint blush warming her face. As her voice trailed off, her gaze fell slowly, softly, and landed gently as a feather upon Evelyn's neck. "Oh..." Liz said again. Her hand went to her mouth and her blush deepened.

By now, the hickey had faded enough that Evelyn could cover it pretty easily with makeup... or so she thought. Concealed or not, a well-trained eye could probably spot it with little effort. Desiree, who had already established herself as an expert on the subject, lowered her oversized sunglasses and peered down at her.

"Wow," she said with an impressed smirk. "Yeah, I'd say she definitely has it under control, Liz. Good girl. You ride that crazy train."

Liz swatted her friend away like a buzzing fly. Evelyn quickly covered up the mark with her hair.

"It's not what it looks like," she said. "Patrick just—"

"Hey, you don't have to explain yourself," Liz said with false sincerity. Evelyn would have thought it was genuine, but the shrewdness in her eyes gave it away. "We're not judging you or anything."

"Really?" Evelyn said. "Because it kinda seems like you are."

Her tone was sharp, and rightfully so.

"I don't know what you all expect me to do. Everyone keeps judging me for what I do or don't do with Patrick, but what nobody seems to understand is that I don't have a choice! Look, I didn't ask for this, okay? I don't know why Patrick's bothering me all of a sudden, but he is, and now there's nothing I can do about it. I mean, it's inevitable, right? That's what Marci seems to think, anyway, and honestly I'm starting to think she's right. So what am I supposed to do now, Liz? Huh? You were nice enough to warn me about him, but... now what?"

Liz Mueller recoiled as if slapped. All the color drained from her face.

"I don't know," she confessed quietly, suddenly afraid for her. "I'm sorry, I have no idea what you're supposed to do."

Silence prevailed for the next thirty seconds. Liz turned forward, dropped her chin into her chest, and stared guiltily at her manicured hands. Next to her, Desiree had removed her sunglasses and was gnawing anxiously on the plastic tip. Peter Gordon glanced over her shoulder and saw her doing this. He made a sickened face and whipped back around. Right now, he wanted to crawl inside his locker and close the door. He couldn't stand tense silences like this. They reminded him a little too much of home.

"Just... be careful, okay?" Liz finally said. "If things start to get weird, or you start to feel unsafe for whatever reason, make sure you tell someone. Tell your mom, your best friend, me, Marci, just... someone, okay? Most of the other girls wish they had. Shit, I know I did." She reached over and gave Evelyn's knee a comforting pat. "You're not alone in this, Evelyn. I know it might seem like you are, but you're not. We all know what you're going through."

Evelyn smiled gently, gratefully, but part of her wondered if any of them truly understood.

Time crawled forward. Evelyn looked up at the clock and saw that it was almost a quarter to four now. Mrs. Lafferty was probably getting angry with her. She was probably tapping her foot, glaring at the clock, and thinking, Well, is that little brat showing up or what? Evelyn felt guilty about that. She knew it wasn't polite to keep people waiting, and yet...

"Hey, do you guys know Manda Bosch?"

"Manda?" Liz and Des exchanged a furtive glance. "Sure. What about her?"

"There's just a rumor going around about her and a boy in my grade."

"Oh, right," Liz said, and for some reason, Des started to laugh. "I keep forgetting you sophomores are new to this. Look, you just have to learn to ignore her, okay? Manda does this kinda shit all the time, and I mean all the time. She parties way too hard, gets way too drunk, and then cheats on her boyfriend with some loser who won't refuse her. Then she sobers up the next morning, feels guilty, and cries rape to cover her own ass. It's really sad and pathetic, honestly, but I guess it works 'cause her boyfriend still hasn't dumped her even though he's way out of her league. I don't understand the appeal, personally. I mean, she must give really good head or something."

Evelyn squirmed at that remark. Behind her, Peter Gordon was coughing as if he'd swallowed something wrong.

"So you're saying she just made it up?" Evelyn asked, hopeful.

"Oh yeah, for sure. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm all for supporting victims and everything, but Manda Bosch is not a victim. She's just a sloppy, sloppy drunk who will spread her legs for anyone. That sounded really mean, I know, but it's just a fact. She even came onto Pete once, practically right in front of me."

"And I ignored that siren's song," Peter interjected passionately. "I said to her, 'No, you foul temptress, you stay away! I have a beautiful girlfriend and I love her with all my heart.'"

Liz gave him a dubious look. "Yeah, like you're going anywhere." Then, to Evelyn: "See, Pete's not the cheating type. He knows he hit the jackpot with me and he's not about to squander his winnings on some dumb, drunk slut. Find yourself a guy like that, Evelyn, and all these rumors just become background noise."

"Okay," Evelyn said uneasily. This conversation had taken a few unexpected turns and she was struggling to keep up. "So it's definitely not true?"

"No..." Liz said, but her voice sounded strangely high-pitched all of a sudden. "Well, I mean, it's probably not true... Why? Who's the rumor about?"

"Umm, Henry Bowers," Evelyn answered anxiously, and flicked her eyes away. "I don't know if you know who that is."

"Yeah, all you sophomores kinda blur together... Oh, wait, he's the really angry one, right? The kid who always looks like he's gonna stab somebody?"

Evelyn gave a reluctant nod. It wasn't the kindest description, but it was probably the most accurate.

"Huh," Liz said. "Well, that changes things a bit."

Evelyn's stomach dropped. "You think it could be true?"

"Well, no, not necessarily. Hold on a sec." Liz craned her head around and called out to her boyfriend: "Hey, Pete, you used to hang out with that Bowers kid, didn't you?"

"Yeah, for a like a summer," Peter Gordon answered shortly. He wore the tight, apprehensive expression of a man who'd just been asked to take the stand and testify as an eyewitness in a murder trial. "That was a long time ago, Liz..."

Peter was fifteen then and feeling rebellious. His parents had recently split up, and he was going through a tough time. He thought it'd be kind of cathartic to shoot stuff, smash a couple windows, and shoplift dirty magazines. Petty crimes. Maybe a misdemeanor or two. He wasn't expecting it to get as intense as it did, and there were times when Henry Bowers honestly frightened him. He'd never seen so much hate in one person.

"Okay," Liz said, "but did he seem like a rapist to you?"

Evelyn winced at that word. How could everyone throw it around so casually?

"Racist? Yeah. Rapist? No, I wouldn't quite go that far... but again, that was a long time ago. Who knows what that kid's capable of now."

"Not that," Evelyn said. "No, Henry didn't rape anybody."

Liz shrugged. "Okay, well... there's your answer. They probably just had sex."

"Sex. Right."

Evelyn gulped down both words, closed her mouth, and nodded stiffly, feeling her blood thumping in her temples. Liz and Des studied her quietly, looked at each other, and quickly put together the rest of the puzzle. When they saw the completed picture, Des cringed and Liz's pretty pink lips parted with an inaudible gasp.

"Oh..." Liz whispered, looking down at Evelyn with a sympathetic frown. "Oh, sweetie, no..."

Then Des said, "I remember when I was going through my bad boy phase. God, was that a mistake."

Evelyn's face flamed with dull anger. "No, that's not—" but a gruff voice cut her off.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Martin Davers had emerged from the hallway with a notebook wedged under his arm and a pencil tucked behind his ear. He opened his locker, tossed everything inside, and slammed the door closed. His biceps bulged under the tight fabric of his shirt. His eyes, a dark, stormy blue, narrowed into a fierce, territorial glare as he squared up to Evelyn like a menacing troll. Martin was six feet tall and heavily muscled. He used to be on the football team, but he got cut during his second year because he couldn't meet the minimum grade requirement. Now Martin was constantly looking for new ways to release all his pent-up aggression. Evelyn Tozier was his favorite target.

Liz rolled her eyes at Martin, unbothered. "Speaking of bad boys... What do you want, Martin?"

"I'm just wondering what a sophomore's doing in the senior locker area."

Evelyn flinched suddenly, forgetting where she was, and as she looked around now, all the furniture had grown shockingly large. She felt like she was sitting inside some silly funhouse where everything was comically oversized. All the lockers towered over her like skyscrapers. The couch seemed big enough to swallow her whole; Evelyn's feet could barely reach the edge. She sat upon the tattered cushion like a doll waiting for some little girl to come along and carry her off to tea time. Oh, yes, tea time. Tea time with March Hare and the Hatter. Evelyn was a child trapped in Wonderland, lost and scared, staring at the Cheshire Cat's mischievous grin.

"Look, she's with us, okay?" Liz Mueller made a dismissive motion with her hand, then turned back to Evelyn, who had shifted her weight forward in an early attempt to stand. The girl's face had gone terribly pale. "Oh, Evelyn, don't let him scare you off. Martin's just an asshole."

"No, it's okay," she said colorlessly. "I have to get going, anyway."

(I'm late for tea...)

Mrs. Lafferty was expecting her, and it would have been rude to keep her waiting any longer... yes, rude, that sounded right. It was Evelyn's good manners that compelled her to leave so quickly. It was good manners that made her press her thighs together and cross her arms over her chest. Good manners that had her staggering to her feet, mumbling goodbye to the floor, and walking away as fast as she could.

It had nothing to do with Martin's stare—that hot, searing stare that seemed to follow her down the hallway.

Evelyn started apologizing before she even entered the classroom.

"Sorry, I'm late, Mrs. Laff—" she began, but the rest of the words had tumbled inward and back down her throat. She stopped in the middle of the doorway, one foot in, one foot out, with her right arm bent at the elbow, beginning an apologetic wave. Evelyn never finished it, though. Much like her words, her hand had retreated into itself, curled into a loose fist, and fallen limp at her side. Her eyes widened with shock and disbelief. Her heart jogged in her chest. She drew in a breath and held it for a moment, forcing herself to calm down.

Before she arrived, the classroom had been quiet and empty apart from the two occupied desks. Mrs. Lafferty sat at hers with a cup of honeyed tea and was idly stirring it while she reviewed tomorrow's lesson plans. She looked up briefly when she heard Evelyn's voice. It was a very distinct voice, loud and clumsy as one might expect from a Tozier, but at least hers wasn't accompanied by crude humor and poorly performed (not to mention grossly offensive) accents. Yes, in that regard, her little brother was truly unique.

Mrs. Lafferty smiled at Evelyn. "Don't worry about it. You're in fine company. This one kept me waiting, too," she said, tipping her head toward the student sitting in the back. "He's lucky I didn't leave and just give him a zero, but I don't think I'll be getting a thank you for that, will I?"

Mrs. Lafferty was answered with silence. For once, Henry Bowers had nothing to say... not to her, anyway.

He had been hunching over his math quiz and glaring at question number four when he heard Evelyn's voice drift through the open door, her words amplified by the hollow silence that had fallen over the school. As soon as the sound hit Henry's ears, his back straightened and his heart started racing. It was an instinctual reaction, kind of like when Henry flinched whenever his dad reached for his belt. That one motion stirred up a decade's worth of painful memories and emotions and drove them straight to the surface like worms wiggling up from the dirt during a rainstorm. His dad didn't even need to beat him anymore (but he did anyway). He simply had to gesture toward his belt and Henry cowered back in submission. Yes, sir. No, sir. Straighten up and get back in line.

Of course, it was only kind of like that. There was no pain associated with the sound of Evelyn Tozier's voice (unless you counted the slight hangover-like headache that sometimes occurred halfway through a conversation with her). No with her voice, Henry felt only the most wonderful, comforting calm, bright with her laughter, warm with her smile, soft as the woven cotton blanket that he often found draped over him when he woke up in the middle of the night. Henry would sit up, look across the room, and see Evelyn passed out at her desk with her head nestled inside the crook of her arm. Usually, he would leave after that, but sometimes he would sit and observe her for a while, listening to her gentle snoring, watching her skin sparkle beneath the soft glow of her desk lamp, feeling his heart slowly thudding in his chest, getting stronger and stronger. Henry could have stayed like that forever.

Happy.

Peaceful.

Safe.

Evelyn Tozier was a sweet escape, and Henry craved her like a junkie needing a fix. It was a desperate, visceral desire that gripped him more firmly with each passing day. Growing. Intensifying. Evolving into a savage, carnal beast that was impossible to control.

When Henry heard her voice that afternoon, every nerve in his body came alive at once. He had to grip the edge of his desk because he didn't trust himself to stay in his chair. How could he when Evelyn was standing on the other side of that door? When that safe, peaceful, happy feeling was finally within reach? All Henry had to do was get up, run out that door and—

Evelyn appeared in the doorway, wearing that sunshine yellow dress with the flouncy little skirt that went whoosh-whoosh every time she moved her hips. The skirt that tempted him. Teased him. Taunted him. The skirt that Patrick Hockstetter's hand had crawled underneath like some filthy, disgusting insect... and she didn't push his hand away.

??WHY DIDN'T SHE PUSH HIS HAND AWAY??

(Because she's a whore, just like your mother)

No. No, she's not, Dad. She's nothing like—

(YOU ARGUING WITH ME NOW, BOY?)

Belt.

Flinch.

No, sir.

Whore, sir.

!!STRAIGHTEN UP AND GET BACK IN LINE!!

When Henry saw Evelyn in that yellow dress, his mind became a battlefield. All his thoughts were clashing against each other in bloody combat, and he didn't know which side was going to kill the others and claim him. He was being pulled in too many directions. Assaulted by too many urges. All the while, Evelyn stood there staring at him with that hopeful, frightened look, like she desperately wished he would speak to her, but she was also terrified of what he might say.

And that's when Henry realized he was frightened of himself, too.

If he ran to her now like he wanted to, he wasn't sure what would happen. In one thought, he was wrapping his arms around her and hugging her. In another, he was pushing her against the wall and smashing his mouth against her warm, soft lips. In another, he was squeezing his fingers around her neck and throttling her until all the light left her eyes.

Slapping her.

Beating her.

Bashing her head against the wall again and again and again.

(Because that's what you do with whores)

The thought rose up from nowhere. It had caught him off guard. Snuck up behind him and tried to seize control. Henry fought it back and it left easily enough, but he knew it wasn't gone for good. Eventually, it would come back even stronger. Maybe next time it would win. Maybe. Maybe—

"Head down, Mr. Bowers," Mrs. Lafferty said as she stood up from her desk. "You're here to take a quiz, not gawk at pretty girls."

"Fuck you, bitch," Henry muttered under his breath, relieved to hear his own voice again. Just his own voice again.

Mrs. Lafferty walked over to Evelyn, who had turned away and was now approaching a small table at the front of the classroom. Honestly, Henry was glad for the distance. The further away the better. For her sake. He put his head down and tried to focus on his quiz.

"You don't have to finish this all today, of course," Mrs. Lafferty was saying to Evelyn, "just the two morning classes should be enough. Whatever you have left, you can just leave in the pile there. I'll take the rest home with me tonight."

Evelyn nodded, pulled out the chair, and sat down. As soon as she did, she felt two eyes drilling through the back of her skull. Her heart bucked wildly. She looked over her shoulder and caught Henry's gaze for half a second, but then Mrs. Lafferty called her attention back and placed two red pens on the table. Upon withdrawing her hand, she said, "Oh, and Evelyn? No doodling on the quizzes, please."

Evelyn smiled back sheepishly. "Right, sorry... sometimes I get a little carried away."

After all, grading quizzes got awfully boring after a while. In that state, it was easy for her to accidentally turn a simple smiley face into a cat or a dog... or a cute, friendly little monkey swinging off the edge of the score. Evelyn was no artist, but she hoped her doodles gave the students a good chuckle when they got their quizzes back. Especially those who failed. For those unlucky few, Evelyn hoped her drawings helped soften the blow, if only just a little.

Mrs. Lafferty returned to her desk and reached for her tea. After taking a few slow sips, she lowered her cup and said with a forced smile, "By the way, Evelyn, I had a lovely little chat with your mother this morning."

"Oh?" Evelyn said, and that was where the conversation ended.

Judging by Mrs. Lafferty's expression, there had been nothing lovely about that chat, nothing at all.

Evelyn put her head down and quietly began her work: comparing each answer against the key, marking the wrong ones with her pen, counting up the marks, tallying up the final score, and printing it at the top of the page. Each score was accompanied by an encouraging message like GREAT JOB! WAY TO GO!! AWESOME EFFORT!!! Then she would place the paper in the completed pile and move on to the next one.

Behind her, Henry Bowers kept his head bent over his quiz the whole time, his expression frustrated and tense. Evelyn didn't look back at him either, not once, not even when the urge was so strong she thought she might go crazy. She couldn't bear to look at him now, conflicted as she was. It brought up too many questions... questions Evelyn wasn't sure she wanted the answers to.

Did you let her kiss you? she wondered as she stared down at the red pen. Because I never...

"Head down, Mr. Bowers. I won't say it again."

Evelyn sucked in a quiet breath, held it, and slowly peeked over her left shoulder. Henry's head was down again, his hand furiously scribbling on the paper. Evelyn continued to hold her breath, continued to stare, until his eyes finally lifted off the page. Henry's writing hand slowed, then stopped. Evelyn's breath left her in a long, drawn-out sigh. Then Mrs. Lafferty got up from her desk, Henry dropped his head, and Evelyn turned back around.

"Evelyn, I need to go to the teacher's lounge for a few minutes," she said, but what she really meant was, I'm stepping outside for a smoke. "Henry, you have five minutes left. Leave your quiz on my desk when you're done."

Mrs. Lafferty's heels clicked delicately as she walked, the sound drifting further and further... further away. Then there was only silence.

Evelyn sat back and stared gloomily at the clock. It was four twenty-two now, but the time never registered in her head. She was too busy thinking, hoping, wishing those hands would unwind and go backward just this once. Take them back to that blissful Before: before Evelyn wore this stupid dress, before Henry had sex with Manda Bosch, before Patrick Hockstetter picked up Evelyn's clipboard, followed her into the hallway, and asked, Where have I seen you?, before the trunk, before the stolen shirts, before the long, lonely, miserable summer... before Evelyn crossed the line and messed everything up.

Can we just go back, please? she begged. Because every day after that has been a total nightmare.

(and she had a terrible feeling it was only going to get worse)

Evelyn gave the clock one last pleading look, and the clock stared back in silent refusal. Its hands ticked, tocked, and crept forward.

(Tick)

(Tock)

(Tick)

(Tock)

Henry finished his quiz, dropped it off on the teacher's desk, and—

Evelyn stood up and said, "Can you please talk to me? Because I really don't understand what I did wrong."

Her plea was weak, desperate. Henry didn't even hear it. He went around her and started walking toward the door.

What the fuck?

"Henry!" she cried softly... in her Before voice.

Henry stopped as soon as he heard it, his whole body stiffening in recognition, and for a moment time seemed to stop.

(Tick—)

Finally, he spoke. "You know, I thought..." His voice emerged from deep in his throat, strangled with grief and despair. "I thought we were..."

"What?" Evelyn said. "What?"

JUST SAY IT!

Henry's jaw clenched tightly, and his lips drew back in a pained smile. "Fuck you, Evelyn," he said and went out.

(Tock)

Evelyn's mouth fell open in a stifled cry of disbelief. Hope left her eyes as defeat washed over her. Her legs went weak, gave out, and she collapsed back into her chair, numb, speechless. Above her, the clock watched with cold indifference. Its hands crawled forward... forward... forward.

(Tick)

(Tock)

(Tick)

(Tock)

Sometime later, while Evelyn was lackadaisically doodling on a student's quiz, she heard the slow, dragging thumps of Mrs. Lafferty's feet coming down the hallway.

"I've already finished the first two stacks," Evelyn reported half-heartedly, "and I'm halfway through the third."

She moved the quiz to the completed pile, turned around, and froze.

Martin Davers was leaning beside the door with his arms folded over his chest.

"That's a really nice dress," he said.

Evelyn rose from her chair slowly, her heart pumping loudly in her chest. "What do you want, Martin?"

"Nothing," he answered, his eyes calm and attentive. "I guess I just wanted to know why you're trying so hard to dress sexy all of a sudden." Martin seemed to ponder this soberly for a moment, his brow furrowed in mock perplexity. "'Cause from where I'm standing, it kinda looks like you're trying to advertise something. Is that right, Tozier? Are you open for business now?"

"Open for business?" Evelyn repeated. The phrase stunned her so completely that she almost laughed. "It's spirit week, Martin. I have to dress up."

"Oh, I see," Martin said, fascinated. "You had to dress in a skimpy skirt today. That was today's theme."

Evelyn's mouth opened and closed wordlessly.

"Wait, that wasn't today's theme?" Martin cocked his head to the side and frowned. "Well, then why are you wearing that dress, Evelyn?"

She stared at him, unable to speak. Why had she chosen this dress? Why this dress over all the others? Mrs. Criss had dozens of modest dresses that would have satisfied today's theme just as well. She had boxes and boxes of them. Evelyn tried them on. They had fit her perfectly, way better than this dress did. Why had she cast them aside?

"I was just following the theme," she said, her eyes vacant, glassy.

"You were just following the theme." He nodded. "Okay, Evelyn, answer me this: what was today's theme?"

Her stomach twisted. "Huh?"

"Go on, tell me. What was today's theme?"

His voice was shrill and full of scorn. Evelyn shut her mouth tightly, her bottom lip quivering, and shook her head as tears flooded her eyes.

"Please stop," she whispered.

"Well?"

"Stop."

"Tell me."

She swallowed hard and answered: "It was Groovy Monday."

"Right," he said, "it was Groovy Monday, not Skimpy Monday, not Slutty Monday. It was Groovy Monday. Thank you for clearing that up for me, Evelyn, because I was so confused for a second." He smiled at her, grateful. "Now, let's go back to my initial question: why are you trying so hard to dress sexy? Because that's an awfully short dress, Evelyn."

"It follows the dress code," she said, but then from the dark, shadowy part of her mind, she heard

(barely)

another voice that made her eyes widen with a horrific realization. This really was a terribly short dress. Yes. Yes, she saw that now. Not short enough to make her parents worry. Not short enough to violate the school's dress code.

(No more than four inches above the knee... Did you measure it, Evelyn?)

But just short enough to—

Martin wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Are you trying to get someone's attention, Evelyn? Show him what he's missing?"

"No," she answered in a shaky voice, but the other, faraway voice spoke the truth.

(Yes)

She had wanted to get someone's attention today, and she got it, oh yes, she got it. When Henry Bowers stormed up to her that morning, when he grabbed her arm and pulled her hard against him, when he glared down at her, stared at her lips with that feral, ferocious hunger, Evelyn felt her heart flutter with such excitement. For a minute, she thought he was actually going to kiss her. She wanted him to.

(If I had been wearing this dress that day, then maybe...)

Evelyn slapped her hand over her mouth, but still the voice persisted:

(Yes)

(and you got what you wanted, didn't you?)

(Yes)

Guilt crept into her heart and devoured her slowly, leaving her hollow and cold. "Look," she said huskily, blinking the wetness from her eyes, "Mrs. Lafferty's gonna be coming back in a minute, so..."

Martin clucked his tongue in dissent. "I think it might take her a little longer than that."

For a moment, Evelyn's gaze was blurry with tears. Then it cleared as strange, dizzying terror stole through her. It was almost like a bad dream. In a slow daze, she saw Martin walking toward the door. Saw him tuck his boot underneath the doorstop and kick it up with one flick of his ankle. The door moaned and swung slowly, so slowly, and closed with a whisper of a click. Evelyn's breath stopped. Her body froze with fear.

"What are you doing?" she asked in a small, trembling voice.

Martin answered her question with one of his own: "What were you doing in the senior locker area, Evelyn?"

"What?" The word came out dry and brittle, and it crumbled as it left her lips. "Nothing, I was just..."

Martin stepped toward her, his blue eyes glinting ominously in the light.

"You were just...?"

Adrenaline shot through her, sending Evelyn's heart into a mad gallop. She glanced at the door and made herself move. Martin closed the distance. She side-stepped, tried to duck around him, and he caught her brutally by the wrist. A scream fetched in her throat. Their eyes locked fiercely, and for one frightening moment, Evelyn saw the same savage hunger that had consumed Henry Bowers. Her heart stopped. Her mind exploded and went flying, crashing, tumbling down into deep blackness like a stone down a well, falling down to a cold, dark place, where a voice—that voice—was giggling.

(You got what you wanted, didn't you?)

Now her fear had collapsed into pure panic. She struggled against him, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, and tried to wrestle her arm free. Martin overpowered her easily, flung her around, and slammed her down hard against the desk. Evelyn's body hit the wood with a dull thud. Her head jerked forward, snapped back, and spun dizzily. Clockwise. Her vision blurred and became ringed with darkness. She was falling, plunging down to that cold, dark, guilty place.

"What's wrong, Tozier?" Martin asked breathlessly. "Isn't this what you wanted?"

"Please stop!" she said, but her voice had slipped away from her and went up, up, up.

"You wanted attention, right? Wanted people to finally see you as a woman?"

"No! No!"

(YES!)

"Well, I see you, Tozier," Martin said. "Yeah, I see you crystal fucking clear."

Evelyn fell deeper and deeper, screaming without a sound, and slammed against something hard and cold. The bottom. She had finally hit the bottom. Her right cheek was pressed against the desk, and Martin's hand was on her head, holding her firmly in place. He didn't have to hold her down, though. Evelyn couldn't have moved even if she wanted to. She was too far gone, trapped in that cold, dark place, and now the guilt was creeping toward her on all fours, its eyes bright and hungry, desperate to feed. Evelyn lay on her stomach, paralyzed, watching it come closer and closer... closer and closer... until—

The knob turned and the door opened.

Henry Bowers stood on the other side, blinking in dazed bewilderment.

Martin threw him a vicious grin. "You want in on this, Bowers?" he asked while he pushed some of Evelyn's hair away from her face. "You can go first if you want."

Evelyn flinched away from Martin's hand and felt Henry's eyes land on her softly, gently, filling her heart with such sweet relief. For a moment, she thought she was weightless, flying, floating far away from that cold, dark guilty place, but then she saw something that turned her heart into stone, and she plummeted right back to the bottom.

Henry's eyes, those bright, beautiful blue eyes, had suddenly darkened into the most terrifying shade of black. Evelyn didn't even recognize them anymore.

Time crawled forward and stopped. The clock on the wall stopped ticking. Its hands screeched to a halt and stood at attention, waiting for their next command.

It came a second later, in a shocking act of betrayal.

"No," Henry said, "she's not worth it."

The door closed and time resumed with a violent lurch, knocking Evelyn backward, backward, backward. The clock on the wall started tocking and ticking, tocking and ticking: backward, backward, backward. Its hands went spinning, whirling, unwinding: backward, backward, backward. Counterclockwise. Taking them back. Taking them all the way back.

And now that voice was speaking to her again, speaking from that cold, dark place.

(You got what you wanted, didn't you?)

Yes, she answered. Yes, I did.

_____________________

PREV // CURRENT // NEXT

taglist: @secrethologramflower @rosepresley

#bowers gang #henry bowers #patrick hockstetter #victor criss #belch huggins #fanfic #fanfiction #henry bowers fanfiction #patrick hockstetter fanfiction #it stephen king #it 2017 #paper men #ambrossart

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flowersandbigteeth · 1 year

Text

Your orc mate talks to the police

Orc (Rork) x female reader

General Plot: You are still being held captive by your orc mate, but the police stop by for a visit

Word Count: 800

💕 SFW MASTERPOST 💕

W: murder, drugging

Another few days had passed with Rork. He’d kept giving you whatever drug, carrying you around as you drifted into a haze. You could slowly go through the motions, brushing your teeth, going to the bathroom, but it felt like you were in a dream where your limbs weighed tons. It was eerie to be out of your mind for so long. You couldn’t think clearly and what thoughts you had were warped.

The only thing that was clear to you was you needed Rork. You needed him to touch your constantly sensitive body and hold you while you hung in limbo. He was your only source of comfort. Your only pillar of stability. He did the complicated things that confounded you like cook. He fed you in his lap, purring about how pretty and sweet you were.

Somewhere far away in your mind you wondered if this would be forever, but your conscious self sought out the safety of his arms. Everything was easy when he was with you. You didn’t have to battle your heavy limbs or try to churn through your muddled thoughts. You could just let him handle everything and it would all be okay. He promised to take care of you and he did.

He was holding you on the couch, stroking your needy skin when there was a knock at the door. You barely registered it at first, but Rork immediately stiffened underneath you. He looked panicked for a second before propping you on the couch cushion and looking down at you.

“Stay very quiet,” he warned, before he crossed the room to the front door.

“Afternoon sir, I’m with the St. Laurent county police department.”

Something in your brain prickled. Police…what were police? Why did that word mean something? You moaned a little bit, trying to remember.

The officer didn’t hear it and continued on.

“We’re going door to door looking for a young lady who has gone missing. (Y/H) tall, (Y/C) hair, about (Y/W) pounds. Have you seen anyone matching that description? Or anything strange? New people moved into the area recently?”

You moaned a little louder and the officer glanced over Rork’s shoulder narrowing his eyes.

He couldn’t see too well into the dim room, his vision still blown out from the bright afternoon. He thought he could make out a form, but he wasn’t sure.

“Do you have someone here with you, sir?” he asked.

Rork cleared his throat as he tried to figure out how to play this.

“Just my wife,” he said, “she’s not feeling too well. She gets these…ah…migraines.”

You tipped forward and flopped to the floor.

Rork’s eyes widened with guilt and the officer put his hand on his weapon.

“Sir, I’m going to need you to step aside,” he barked, pushing past him into the room.

Rork clasped his two massive fists and dropped them down on the back of the officer’s head and he collapsed like a bag of rocks, his head smashed like a fallen fruit. He was for sure dead.

He hurried over to you and arranged you back on the couch.

“I know you didn’t mean to do that, darling,” he assured mostly himself, his mind going into a state of panic, “you didn’t mean to make me kill him, did you? It was just an accident. This was all just an accident.”

He didn’t even notice that he was rubbing blood on your cheek as he brushed it with his thumb.

“Stay here,” he ordered.

He ran to the kitchen, yanking out a bunch of trash bags and some duct tape from under the sink. You could only watch as he wrapped the dead officer up and hauled the both of you into the cop car. The keys were conveniently still in the ignition. He tossed the body in the back and put you in the passenger seat as you stared, your head too hazy to really process what was going on.

Rork had killed someone. A police officer. His dead body was in the back seat. He drove for hours. You dozed in and out of consciousness, realizing he was following a back road that led to the ocean.

Your eyes fluttered open suddenly. You’d fallen asleep. Rork was holding you and looking out over a cliff at the ocean. The choppy water churned below you, but you couldn’t see anything, not that you knew what you were looking for. Your mind was too tangled to remember the events of the night clearly. Something had happened…but what?

It didn’t matter. It was cold and Rork was warm, holding you. You buried yourself into his chest and he looked down at you, his smile a little mad.

“Everything is going to be okay, darling,” he said, stroking your hair, “don’t worry about anything.”

So you didn’t.

#monster romance #monster fluff #yandere headcanons #male yandere #yandere fluff #yandere romance #yandere x reader #monster x reader #monster boyfriend

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mangoisms · 1 year

Text

like the part of the song where it falls ━ miyuki kazuya

━ part two: like a hinge, like a wing, like the part of the song where it falls / read part one

━ wc: 8k

━ warnings: none

━ masterpost

So, naturally, you don’t expect him to come back.

Not at all.

And that’s okay! He did way more than he needed to.

But you find those expectations smashed to pieces the next day.

And the day after that.

Each of those times, he says he is simply ‘checking in.’

Guilt and obligation are his main motivators, you’re certain of it. But you don’t say anything. You like talking to him. You’ve made certain everyone knows they don’t need to hang around while you’re at the hospital and you don’t regret it, knowing they all have other things to do, but you also don’t mind talking to someone. You never do. You love your fellow humans very much and you are always willing to chat with the people around you, provided they are willing, too.

Sure, he may be coming here out of a sense of duty but he is still engaging with you. You appreciate that.

Alongside that, you are slowly but surely recovering. The worst symptoms of your concussion subside, like your spatial misperception and the blurriness in your vision when you try to focus. On your fourth day, you venture outside. You have to wear sunglasses initially but bit by bit, it becomes bearable. You’ll still experience sensitivity for the next several weeks, headaches, too, but it won’t last forever.

Hopefully.

Your good old friend, brain contusion, is getting better, too. Not completely healed yet but not getting worse. They think it’ll be healed by your follow-up appointment. Your bruise still looks bad. It will for the next week, probably, then it’ll start to heal.

Miyuki keeps coming around, even on Saturday, after the parade celebrating the Padres’ win, where they have a massive turnout on Seventh Avenue; something like a million people came out for it.

Your discharge creeps on you. Soon, it’s Tuesday, the first of November, the day before you’re to be released.

You’re in a chair by your window, the blinds pulled all the way up, giving you a view of the greenery around the hospital; immaculately cut grass, neatly trimmed bushes, rows of planted trees. The table in front of you has a half-completed puzzle, a vintage map of New York City. You’ve done this one before but it’s been a while. You don’t mind, anyhow. They often help to pass the time on slow nights during the show.

You don’t lift your head when someone knocks on your door.

“Come in!”

The door opens. Miyuki shuffles inside, dressed in his usual nondescript manner (joggers, a t-shirt, and a ballcap tucked over windswept hair). That’s the nice thing about living in San Diego. Even if November is today, you can often get away with a shirt and shorts most of the year. A shirt and leggings if you want to bundle up a little more.

Except this time, it is not just himself but…

“Is that for me?”

He smirks, shutting the door with his shoulder as his hands are preoccupied with a to-go bag from In-N-Out that you can smell all the way from here, and a cup of something in his other hand, sounding full by the way it sloshes around.

“No, I just came here with your favorite fast food to eat it in front of you.”

You let out a loud laugh. “Wait until the press hears about this!”

“Don’t make me sue you for defamation.”

You keep grinning as he hands you the bag and drink, then pulls the other chair over to where you are.

“What’s the occasion, then?” you ask, sipping your drink tentatively and then immediately finding yourself pleased to taste Coke.

“Discharge is tomorrow,” he says simply.

You open the bag. Your light-well fries sit next to your decently-sized wrapped burger, which is…

“A Double-Double with no onions and no pickles, right?”

You beam. “You remembered!”

“Hard to forget someone who starts a conversation accusing me of forgetting to bring them In-N-Out.”

“But, like, in a good way, right?”

He rolls his eyes. He’s doing that more often. You’re pleased. It shows he’s getting comfortable.

You aren’t under any pretenses about what’s going on here. You two will likely go your separate ways after tomorrow, but you’ve still greatly enjoyed your time together and you want to strive toward making him comfortable around you. Even if your time will soon be cut short.

You hum, superbly pleased, and unwrap the burger. “So, you tried my trick today, then? How was it?”

“Better but they’re still not the greatest fries ever.”

“Fair enough! Anyway, you didn’t have to get me something, too. We’re having lunch tomorrow, aren’t we?” Then you’d go down to BestBuy and get you a new camera.

He waves you off. “I was already there for lunch. I figured I might as well. Besides, tomorrow might turn into a much more public affair if people recognize me.”

“True, true…”

They’d release the statement about your discharge, your current status, and your meeting with Miyuki after the fact. But the chances of him being recognized when the two of you got lunch — his treat — were very, very high. That might strain some things.

While you happily tuck into your meal, he leans forward, peering at the table.

“Puzzles again.”

“Of course.”

“You and your puzzles.”

“They help pass the time!”

“Hmm.” Despite the mock doubtful tone, he slots in a few more pieces while you eat.

Halfway through, Hector makes an appearance. He isn’t your doctor — he is an ER doctor, so that is where he is most of the time; your case was handed over to someone else but he’s been hovering over Dr. Maxwell’s shoulder and micromanaging everything.

“Hey, Tee, I’m heading out —” he stops, head poked into the room. Upon seeing Miyuki, his eyes narrow and he wiggles the rest of his body inside.

Somehow, you’ve managed to avoid having him seen by Hector, your sister, Hector’s family when they came to visit you, and Jerry. Sheer luck, you think, but mostly, you get visited by those guys in either the early morning or later in the evening. Miyuki times his visits in between.

You pop another fry into your mouth, unconcerned. “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes,” he says distractedly to you, frowning at Miyuki. “I wasn’t aware you were visiting today.”

“I was in the area.”

“You were in the area?” His tone leaves much to be desired.

“Hector, don’t be a dick.”

Miyuki coughs. Hector frowns at you now, looking mildly betrayed.

“He’s just being nice,” you explain in a slightly exasperated tone, then holding out your fries. “Now come get some fries and leave us alone.”

He purses his lips, then after a few seconds, strides briskly over to you to take some of your fries, popping them into his mouth and giving a sidelong glance to Miyuki as he turns and walks back to the door.

“Love you,” you call.

“Yeah, yeah, love you, too, kid.”

The door shuts behind him. You sip at your Coke, grinning a little.

“Sorry about him. He’s still kind of mad about the home-run thing.”

“It’s fine. I get it. It was my fault.”

“Not really,” you say lightly, popping the lid on your drink and tossing it into the takeout bag.

Miyuki takes a second to scrutinize the puzzle, pick out a piece, then slot into place.

Then, he asks, “What makes you think that?”

“Occupational hazard of sitting where I was. I heard something on the news while they were talking about me — said I was in a home-run hot zone. That means a lot of the home-runs land in that section of that stands, right?”

A nod.

You shrug. “See? Now, I didn’t know that and admittedly, there weren’t any signs about it, either… but I should’ve been paying more attention to what was going on. The lack of signs, we can blame that on the park, maybe even the team management if it makes you feel better. But that ball going bonk on my head? Can’t blame you for it.”

He purses his lips, still studying the puzzle. You can sense his doubt.

“Seriously! Now if I was sitting, say, somewhere along the foul line…” you pause; he lifts his eyes. Finally, you grin and nudge his leg. “Even then, I wouldn’t have blamed you. I’d blame that one on the park. They should keep those areas netted or something.”

“You Americans do like to play it fast and loose with those parts of the stands.”

You straighten your shoulders, puff out your chest, and put on your most righteous expression, shaking your fist at him as you speak. “It is my god-given constitutional right as an American citizen to be whacked in the face by a foul ball and you can’t do anything about it!”

He laughs. You relax, laughing, too.

“So, then, they do it differently in Japan?”

“There’s always been netting alongside the foul line,” he says, nodding. “And there are always attendants standing near to make sure no one gets hurt by balls that do make it over. They do everything they can to make sure no one gets hurt.”

You whistle. “Very nice! Yeah, no, someone has to, like, sustain extreme brain damage before fans agree to putting up netting.”

You chuckle at your own words but he just nods and clears his throat, slotting in another few pieces to the puzzle.

“Anyway,” he says after a moment, “I just realized I haven’t asked.”

“Ask what?” you ask, tipping your head back as you bring the cup to your mouth; most of the Coke is gone, leaving behind the ice chips. You let a few pieces slide into your mouth, happily crunching down on it.

You make an inquisitive sound at the amused look he shoots you but he just shakes his head and continues his previous statement. “Why do they call you Tee?”

Ahhh. He’s heard the nickname a few times. Hector has sworn you off from any and all types of electronics but thank god for the modern advancements of technology, because you have been able to use your phone sparingly when it comes to texts and calls, usually just by Hey, Siri-ing the hell out of it.

Jerry’d called you a few days ago with a question about a song in the queue and he’d dropped the nickname. Your sister called you yesterday asking if you wanted her to bring you a shake from Señor Mangoes when she came in the evening and she’d used it, too. Then Hector just now as well.

“Oh! You know about Jerry, right? My friend slash sound engineer at the studio? Well… you know Tom and Jerry? That’s kind of where it’s from.”

He snorts. “So, that’s why you called him —?”

“Mouser,” you finish, grinning.

“And you are…”

“Tee. But I don’t mind Tom, either. Or some variation of, like, cat. Or just Cat.”

Miyuki looks faintly amused. “You’re so…”

“What?”

“Weird.”

“Nicknames aren’t weird! Nicknames are fun! And great branding!”

He laughs for a long time at that one.

You are promptly discharged the next day at eleven. Your CT and X-ray scan come out fine; no issues on that front, with everything healing slowly. You’re doing well, all things considered. Really well. Dr. Maxwell is surprised at it but you think your general attitude towards everything helps significantly.

Details about your current well-being still won’t be released until the later part of the day, however, after you have your little outing of Miyuki.

Speaking of…

“Dude. Is it just me or are these letters a little bit blurry?”

“I think that’s the brain trauma.”

“Oh, true!”

Hector said it would be like that for a little while. Most of the major symptoms have subsided but you’ll still feel some measure of them for a while. Occasional misperception, occasional blurriness, occasional headaches, occasional sensitivity to light. You know. The usual.

The harder you try to focus, the worse it gets, so you just shake your head and put the menu down.

The two of you are tucked away in a corner of a local brunch place. Miyuki is as inconspicuous as usual, with the addition of the large menu firmly planted in front of his face, his back to the wall and yours to the rest of the restaurant.

You’re more than a little amused as, when the server comes by, he keeps the menu up, muttering an order for coffee.

“And you?” she asks, smile warming considerably as she looks at you. Her tag reads Naomi. She’s pretty.

“I’ll have a Coke. Thanks.”

“Of course.” She flashes you another sweet smile then walks off.

“You know, I would say you’re being dramatic but I think if she’d gotten a look at your face, she definitely wouldn’t have looked twice at me, so, thanks for that.”

He doesn’t remove the menu from his face. “Are you saying you think I’m handsome, tomcat?”

“Come on, dude, you’re super hot, we all know that. Don’t fish for compliments.”

He snickers.

“Anyway, what looks good on there? Everything looks incomprehensible to me right now.”

“I don’t know. What are you in the mood for?”

“Hmm. Do they have chicken?”

“Chicken and waffles?”

“Oh, solid. Yeah, I’ll do that.”

Naomi returns with your drinks and another warm smile toward you, then takes your order. Miyuki has to relinquish the menu to her after but you’re pleased to find she doesn’t even glance at him.

“You’re far too happy with yourself,” he says.

You wave a dismissive hand at him, head turned to watch her talk to a family; a one-year-old sits in a high-chair at the end of the table and you watch, taken, as she beams at the baby, cooing at him.

“What if she thinks we’re on a date and she’s making moves on you? What does that say about her?”

Eugh. He’s such a devil’s advocate.

“She’s probably thinking that my date is so rude by keeping his face shoved in his menu and neglecting me, so she’s shooting her shot.”

“Oh, please.”

You grin and shrug, sipping your Coke. “Gotta give people benefit of the doubt, man.”

He rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Sure. Anyway, what kind of camera are you going to get?”

“That’s a good question…”

You discuss that until your food arrives. Chicken and waffles for you and an American breakfast for him — over easy eggs, hash-browns, sausage and bacon with a side of fluffy pancakes.

Everything is in order. Perfectly cooked, plates still hot and food equally fresh. A quick surveillance of your surroundings assures you, for the moment, that no one has yet noticed Miyuki. Or they have and the paparazzi are on their way. Either way, in the present moment, everything is fine.

Then you take a bite of your fried chicken.

That’s perfect, too. Crispy on the outside, seasoned well, the chicken itself tender and juicy.

Then your mouth starts tingling.

You set your fork down calmly and reach around for your tote bag hanging off the back of your chair.

“Hey, Miyuki?”

“Hm?”

“Did you see any seafood on the menu?”

“Yeah.” He spears a piece of sausage on his fork, glancing around. “They had salmon and then some fried shrimp bites, I think.”

“I thought so.” Your voice comes out strained, throat tightening as you dig through your bag. You have it, you know you do, you never go anywhere without it. Your mouth is growing itchy and so is the rest of your body.

“Why?”

“I’m, uh, kind of allergic to shellfish and I’m pretty sure they fry their chicken and shrimp in the same fryer.”

His head snaps towards you. At the same time, you free your Epipen from the bag and pop the blue cap.

You meet his eyes.

“Whoops,” is the last thing you say before jabbing the pen into the side of your thigh.

“She’s only been out of the hospital two hours tops and you put her back here again? Are you kidding me?”

You’d normally defend Miyuki but you’re far too itchy to hold onto the thought long enough to say something. You shudder as Hector smooths anti-itch cream over the rash on your neck, arms, and legs with a wooden stick.

There’s also the matter of the stupid oxygen mask on your face. They’d given you albuterol to ease your breathing symptoms and you still have an IV line in your arm giving you antihistamine and cortisone for the inflammation of your airways. You still need the oxygen mask, though. For a few more hours.

Thankfully, however, you don’t need to speak up.

“Hector,” your sister hisses, giving him a look. “It’s not his fault. He didn’t know.”

You grunt in agreement then make a flimsy gesture to yourself.

You should’ve known better. But to be completely honest, you’d forgotten to even ask. You’re usually incredibly vigilant about your shellfish allergy but this time… you don’t know. You can probably blame it on your still-lingering concussion for your lapse in memory.

Hector sighs heavily. “You forgot?”

Another sound of agreement.

“Yes… yes… it’s likely the concussion.” He shoots another glare to Miyuki, who looks quite guilty, sitting at your bedside. “Which is your fault.”

“Hector.”

You jab your foot at him half-heartedly as he smooths cream over your thigh. Don’t make me kick you.

“None of this is your fault, Miyuki,” your sister says soothingly to him. “Really, we have you to thank for getting her back here in a nick of time.”

In yet another ambulance. How dramatic.

He clears his throat. “I’ll, uh, cover the bills for this one as well.”

“Yes, you will,” Hector mutters.

“Oh, for the love of —“

Hector finishes spreading the anti-itch cream over your rashes, then steps outside the curtain with your sister, probably to get a dressing down over his behavior to Miyuki. See, you knew he wasn’t fond of him because of the whole ball-meet-face thing and this, well, it doesn’t look great, either, but logically speaking, it is no one’s fault but your own. Why his dislike persists? You don’t know. You’d have to corner him about it one of these days.

You’re in the emergency room at the medical center, your bed cordoned off with just a thick curtain; your EKG monitor beeps a little unsteadily, the epinephrine still in your system after they’d given you another dose on the ride here, and the oxygen tanks behind the bed hiss quietly with each pull of air delivered to you. Similar sounds from the other areas reach your eyes. Quiet murmurs between doctor and patient, a baby crying somewhere.

Miyuki sighs, pulling off his cap and running his fingers through his hair.

Just like the day you were concussed, your memories of getting here are fuzzy. Mostly after you’d administered your Epipen to yourself. You know the major stuff, of course, like 911 being called, the ambulance, the pretty EMT telling you he was going to give you another dose of epinephrine and you trying to give him a thumbs up but the realization that he was really nice to look at ended up hitting you in that moment, making you slur out something about getting his number. You remember that one a little vividly, probably because he’d hit you with that dose of epinephrine immediately after, and also, it’s really embarrassing in hindsight. (Even more so because Miyuki was there with you. Christ.)

Either way, you definitely made a scene at that restaurant and well…

You feel a little bit bad.

But also…

“Hngh… hey…”

His head lifts. “What? Should I get —?”

“No. I just wanted to say sorry.”

He stares at you. “Sorry about what?”

“All… of this. Not great for laying low.”

“Not great for — Jesus. That’s not —” he shakes his head sharply. “Don’t… worry about that. It’s fine.”

“Did people —?”

“Yeah. Couple pictures.” He rolls his eyes there, not at you but the inconsiderate jerks who think it’s okay to sneak pictures of him during an emergency. “But it’s fine. Wendy’s dealing with everything. They’re releasing the previous stuff about you being discharged and then us getting lunch to celebrate it. And then lunch being derailed because you had an allergic reaction.”

“They’re not blaming you for it, right?”

“Couple jokes. Nothing I can’t handle. Seriously, worry about yourself, tomcat. And if anyone should be apologizing…” he grimaces, mouth tightening at the corners, uncomfortable and something else you can’t quite pinpoint. “I’m sorry. That… wasn’t supposed to go like that.”

You finally smile. “Hell of a story, right?”

If you two stay friends, you think you’ll have a great story to tell your kids one day.

He exhales a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Hell of a story.”

Quiet for a moment other than the beep of the machine and the hiss of the oxygen. You take a deep breath. Easier to do now. Still some lingering tightness, though.

“There’s a great taco truck in front of the radio station,” you eventually say. “We can go there for lunch or dinner or whatever when I’m out of here, and have a redo, ‘kay?”

“You…” he pauses and clears his throat. “You sure?”

“You still owe me a camera, buddy.” But hopefully the warmth in your smile tells you that regardless of that, you are very much sure.

He chuckles quietly, something like a smile curving his lips. It sends a shock through your system. This is your first time seeing it, something something real, genuine. Honest. Mostly, you get amused grins, the occasional sardonic smirk.

Though it’s small, it is still a brilliant thing, radiant in your eyes. His eyes crinkle with it.

Your heart skips a beat and you cough to cover up the monitor mimicking it.

His eyebrows furrow a little but you plow ahead.

“You know what I just realized?”

He humors you. “What?”

You beam at him. “I can finally show you pictures of my pets!”

That smile doesn’t appear again but the set of his mouth is still soft as he says, “You’re right. Show me.”

Miyuki grabs your phone from your tote bag but you don’t want to disrupt yourself.

You’re kind of splayed out on the bed, legs stretched out, arms down at your sides, and you don’t want to move for fear of setting off your rashes.

“Just do it for me,” you urge him, telling him your passcode. You don’t have anything to hide. Your home screen is cluttered with apps that should be organized and your wallpaper is a picture of the sunset on Black’s Beach. You ask him if he’s been and he says no. A travesty, you think. If your friendship survives after he fulfills his duties to buy you a meal and a new camera, you’ll have to take him.

“Go to my gallery.”

He does but he seems…

“What?”

“I’m just trying not to see something I shouldn’t.”

It takes a second for you to understand. Your face heats up.

“Hey! I would never!”

“You asked the EMT for his phone number when he told you he was giving you another dose of epinephrine.”

“He was very attractive! If I’d died there, I’d at least want him to know that.”

His face pinches.

You chuckle nervously. “Too soon?”

“A bit.”

“Right… anyway! I would never keep nudes on my phone… They’d be kept in an external hard drive. That way, if someone steals my phone they can’t get to them and I’m also not relying on some app to store them for me.”

“Oh, of course.”

You laugh, the sound a little scratchy. “Don’t be a jerk. Anyway, chillax. I have a folder for them.”

He turns your phone back to his face. “Which is?”

“It should be obvious — Batman and Robin!”

“How should that be obvious.”

You blink. “Did I not tell you their names?”

“No. You just said you had a Betta fish and a snail. Then you started talking about the cat you see around your apartment complex and how it scared you when it sprinted up the stairs next to you a few weeks ago.”

“He really did scare me, you know. He’s never gone that far out! He usually just hangs around by the laundry room… and I think that’s where the person who takes care of him lives, too…”

“Focus, tomcat.”

“Right! There’s a folder for them.”

“Ah.” He clicks on something, then drags his chair closer to you, angling your phone so you both can see it.

“Ooh, pick that video. It was really cool. Betta fish can recognize their owners, did you know that? He gets all excited whenever he sees me come in. Snails don’t do much but that’s okay. He’s supposed to keep the balance by being chill.”

“Wait, so who is who?”

“Batman is my snail and Robin is the Betta. Yeah, had a hard time deciding, just ‘cause Bettas can be a little aggressive, especially other Betta males, and I’m like, well, Batman is aggressive. Y’know, he’s the dark, Robin is the light. But then, snails are so slow and generally chill. Not that Batman is chill at all but he is old. So, I figured the snail is better for an older figure and the Betta for a younger one. Also, feel free to tell me to stop whenever. I get kind of carried away talking about them.”

He shrugs. “I’ve got nowhere to be.”

“Great! Prepare to unwillingly learn about DC Comics. So, we all know Batman and Robin, right? Batman is Bruce Wayne, of course, but then when you get to Robin, you have to specify who is who, because he’s had, like, six Robins…”

You assault Miyuki with all kinds of information about Bruce Wayne and his hoard of orphans for the next few hours. To his credit, he humors you. For the most part. He also makes fun of you for being a comicbook geek but this is coming from the same guy who, a few days ago, talked about baseball for four straight hours with you. Granted, you asked since you don’t know shit about baseball, other than the obvious stuff like… Hit the ball far. Get back to home plate. Score. That kind of thing. He was happy to drill you on the finer points of the game, though. It was the most he’d ever talked to you but it’s clear to you that that is because he really truly loves baseball.

So, if you’re a comicbook geek, he’s still a baseball nerd.

As the time passes, your rashes go away and most of your breathing issues abate. You still have to stay there until the evening, however, to make sure it doesn’t come back. Miyuki doesn’t leave other than to step out for a phone call — to Wendy, you presume — and to grab In-N-Out at your wish. Hector tries to protest (not for any real reason, just because of his apparent dislike of Miyuki, you think) but your sister overrules him, especially when Miyuki offers to grab stuff for them, too.

She gives him some extra cash to cover the order, even though you insist you have money to pay for your own, at the very least, but you both end up losing as he politely refuses to take the money.

With that also comes something else.

“I know I’ve endangered your life two separate times but if I give you my number, do you promise not to leak it?”

“As long as you make sure the fries are light-well, absolutely.”

He presses a hand to his chest, a mock solemn expression on his face. “I will do my best.”

You grin and exchange numbers so you can text him the orders, then he steps out, the curtain fluttering behind him.

“I like him,” your sister says.

“I don’t,” Hector mutters, glancing over your vitals.

“We know,” you say. “What’s with that, anyway?”

“I don’t think he’s as nice as he’s portraying himself to be.”

“Well, sure.”

Not nice, exactly. Snarky. Snide. Certainly a capacity to be callous. It is too easy for you to envision, with how he’s teased you sometimes, but you just let it roll off your back. If he wanted it to hurt, it would. He’s not rude, though. Not rude to people who don’t deserve that kind of behavior, like strangers. He keeps a lid on it. Likely because he has a public reputation to protect but still. As an adult, a grown ass man, you can’t just be outright cruel to people. It’s not right. You can tell he understands that. Oh, he has his own thoughts, sure, but he holds off. You appreciate that.

Not to say you don’t want him to be real with you but restraint is a hard thing to come by these days.

“But you also have to realize he came and visited me, like, everyday while I was here,” you point out. “He didn’t have to.”

“He feels guilty.”

“Doesn’t cancel out the fact that it was a nice thing to do. Look, I know what you think, Hector. You think I’m naive —”

“I don’t —”

“Yes, you do. It’s okay, though. I’ve said it before and I’ll continue to say it. Being like this is strategic. Necessary. I have to believe in the possibility of goodness. It may not look the same to anyone, but he is good and until he gives me a reason to think we shouldn’t be friends anymore — if we even manage to stay in contact after all of this is over — then I’ll give him the benefit of doubt.”

It might get you hurt. Sure. You know that. But you’d rather try than just cut your losses now. That is no way to live your life.

You’re only on this earth for a short period of time in the grand scale of the universe.

And even life itself only exists for a fraction of that time. The universe is barely an adolescent right now. Barely lived its life, which, for the rest of it, after all lifeforms cease to exist and stars die out, turning the universe into a cosmic boneyard strewn with the remnants of cold stars and black holes, will be cold, dark, and empty.

Even the black holes will die out eventually, some quadrillion years into the future. And the universe will keep expanding, endless. Empty.

But you are here now. And you will take advantage of that.

“We know,” your sister says softly, shooting Hector a displeased look. “We know, Tee. We trust you to take care of yourself.”

“Appreciate that. Now, where is the restroom? I think that single bite of chicken I had is finally exiting the stage.”

“Christ,” Hector mutters. Your sister giggles. You grin.

Miyuki returns fifteen minutes later, with Wendy in tow.

She breaks the news to all of you.

With the recent turn of events (that is, your dramatic moment at the restaurant), she and the rest of the Padres PR team see fit to hold a press conference rather than try and release a statement explaining everything. They have released a preliminary one assuring that you are fine and not actively dying but there are still a lot of rumors and talk swirling in the press and it’s just easier to gather the media in a room and answer the questions they have. Because if not, they’d certainly help themselves to any kind of plausible explanation.

The only thing is… they want you there, too.

“Wen, I know you said to dress normally but is this fine?”

She spares a glance at you. You are in a pair of dark wash mom jeans, the ends rolled up, with a black ribbed high-neck tank, and your usual Docs. Your makeup is done, finished with your sangria red liquid lipstick. Your nails are freshly painted oxblood red since you’d let yourself pick at the black polish you had on previously. You actually have that shade of liquid lipstick but you figured you’d go with something a scant few shades lighter.

She shakes her head. “You look amazing. Don’t worry.”

You relax at that. “Thanks. You, too.”

She flashes you a warm smile in response. In the room adjacent to the hotel ballroom they’re hosting the press conference in, people bustle around. The Padres’ general manager, Leon Boyd, and another manager, Trevor Brown, a handful of the Padres public relations staff, including their bilingual liaison, Miranda Sato, who coordinates between the club and Japanese media. Wendy, of course, as Miyuki’s manager, and you…

“They didn’t send anyone over for you, then?”

“I called my supervisor about it yesterday. He was fairly unconcerned, didn’t think it was necessary.”

It’s not like you were going to go out there and speak on the behalf of Night Owl or the broadcasting company, KCSD. In fact, you were going to make that point specifically. But it would be best to cover your bases anyway (pun totally intended). That meant calling up your supervisor, Dennis, and asking him about it.

But you see, Dennis, a classically white Californian dude who wears board shorts and flip-flops to important meetings with investors and other higher-ups and has a bad habit of taking hits from his wax pen inside the studio and making it stink of weed, well, he doesn’t worry about much at all. He hardly does his job on top of that.

If you run into any problems with equipment or advertisers, you can hardly rely on him to help get anything done. You anticipated that he would be careless about the fact that you’re doing this press conference.

Sooo… you recorded the conversation.

Just for some assurances.

Maybe he is right and the company won’t care. But on the off chance that he is wrong, you don’t want him changing his tune and saying you never talked to him about it.

You’re not usually this suspicious of people — as mentioned before, you do like to give people the benefit of doubt and just generally believe in the goodness of humankind — but this is work. You aren’t about to be double-crossed. No way.

They should be grateful, if anything. Since they aren’t willing to promote the show, you will. This press conference is to clear the air and settle the facts but you being here and your return to the show imminent (like the next day imminent), it’ll work in your favor. There will be some questions strictly for you, like about returning to Night Owl. You cannot miss out on an opportunity to promote it. Even if it is because you got severely concussed then upon being discharged landed back in the ER with a severe allergic reaction.

That’s just how the cards fall and you are going to take every advantage you can.

It’s a little scary, since it won’t just be American media but Japanese media, too. Every word you say will be translated and transcribed to appear in the news afterward, to be viewed by most of the country. But they know that and Wendy promised you wouldn’t just be thrown to the wolves out there, that she and the other PR staff will help you out.

“No matter,” Wendy says, straightening the pink satiny blazer she has on. It’s a matching set. You like it a lot. “You won’t be speaking on their behalf.”

“Definitely not.”

“But I do have to ask… is there anything that might be brought up in there that could derail things?”

“About me or about the show?”

“Both.”

“Me, well, I’ve got a pretty clean record. The occasional drama with listeners if I say something they don’t like but nothing explosive.”

“That’s fine. Anything else?”

“Weeell…the company is thinking about shutting us down.”

She jolts, surprised. “Oh. Oh. Really?”

“It’s not, like, set in stone. But there’s been talk. Plus, they tried to lower my sound engineer’s pay, too.”

Jerry couldn’t afford that, though, not with taking care of his grandma — affectionately referred to as Nana by the both of you — and the prescriptions she had. So, you split some of your check into his. He doesn’t know and he won’t. That’s why you’re trying to promote the show so hard. To get things back on top.

“I see,” she says, frowning. “You think you can handle it if they ask or should I have someone step in?”

You tilt your head thoughtfully. “No. I got it.”

You didn’t care much to talk about any previous drama if they brought it up. Let them take the reins there. But if it came to the company potentially shutting you down… why not?

Wendy nods, a glint of respect in her brown eyes, then she tells you how everything else is going to go. A nearby makeup artist comes over to you to fix a few things, but they’re fairly approving of your appearance.

“We aren’t covering the bruise?” they reaffirm, eyes on your temple.

“Let them see it,” you say easily. Yeah, you hadn’t cared to conceal it. It’s still tender to the touch and probably would’ve taken several layers of concealer to hide but also, yeah, let them see it.

They nod and step away to join the others.

You’re a few minutes from stepping out to begin the conference when Miyuki finally makes his appearance.

“Where have you been?” you chuckle, watching a team of makeup artists attack him. Fixing his hair, blotting out the sweat at his temples, concealing the circles under his eyes. Another set of his hands straightens his t-shirt and someone else takes a lint roller to it. He lets it all happen with the ease of someone incredibly used to it.

“Slept in too late,” he says. “But in general, I make it a rule not to be too early for these sorts of things.”

“Sure. Makes sense.” You eye the rest of his appearance. You haven’t seen him in anything other than joggers and dri-fit workout shirts. Today he’s in a dark blue t-shirt that stretches nicely over his shoulders and medium wash jeans. Nothing fancy and yet, he looks gorgeous as usual.

“One minute!” someone calls out in warning. The makeup team disperses as quickly as they appeared. Everyone lines up by the door, with you on Miyuki’s left and Wendy on your right.

He frowns at you. “Why do you look taller?”

You beam, lifting your foot. “Docs.”

It’s not anything crazy. The platform is only about an inch and a half thick. A minuscule amount, really. You’re surprised he noticed.

He squints. “Of course you wear Doc Martens and dark clothes.”

“Ha!”

The door opens. Your heart climbs to your throat. You’re used to broadcasting your voice to thousands of people but this is different. This is you and your face, not just your voice. The reporters will be getting everything and if you don’t calm yourself, there will be nothing left for you.

“Don’t trip over yourself,” he tells you unhelpfully.

“Don’t make me push you off that stage.”

He snickers. You take a deep breath. From the moment you follow him out, everything blurs. Cameras flash, blinding you. You somehow manage to take your seat at the table. A heavy black cloth is draped over it, so you can squeeze your hands between your thighs underneath and try to anchor yourself. The chair you’re sitting in is plush beneath you, made of a velvety kind of material. The cloth on the table is more scratchy but still heavy over your legs. You plant your feet firmly on the stage. A mounted microphone sits in front of you.

Rows of reporters sit in chairs in front of you. Photographers and videographers stand behind them. It seems perfectly split down the middle, with American reporters on the left and Japanese reporters on the right.

For the sake of the conference and the reporters, you get formally introduced. Then Boyd takes over, explaining the situation to them. He talks about your status on the day of the discharge, that you were cleared to be released but there was still some healing to go as far as the fracture and confusion went. Then he sets the context of your lunch with Miyuki, that he wanted to see how you were and talk to you.

(There is no mention of his prior visits to you in the hospital.)

They talk about the allergic reaction and your impromptu trip back to the medical center. You were discharged again last night with a clean bill of health and by today, you’re mostly fine. Some scratchiness lingering in your throat but nothing to worry about.

As he speaks, Miranda, the bilingual liaison, translates. It makes for a lot of noise at once but you have to get used to it because she’ll be doing the same for you.

Once finished, he asks, “Any questions?”

Every hand in the room shoots up. Some questions are already spilling out of mouths, reporters clambering over each other.

“One at a time, one at a time,” he cautions.

They settle, mostly, and he picks out a raised hand in the left section.

You suppress a full-body jolt as you hear your name. Your name. The first question — and they want to talk to you?

Christ.

Your eyes find a face in the first row. “Hi. Jessica Ramos with the Washington Post. Can I ask what this past week and a half has been like for you? I mean, you’ve kind of been thrown unceremoniously into the spotlight here.”

Every eye in the room is turned on you now. But you focus on Jessica Ramos. In her hands is a notepad. Her nails are painted sage green and the bag at her feet has a felt-print green ostrich embroidered on it.

“To be honest,” you start, relieved to hear your voice is light. “I’m a little convinced that I’m actually in a coma at the hospital and this is a fever dream. Or a concussion dream, to be technically correct.”

Everyone laughs. You relax, smiling faintly.

“No, it’s been very… strange. But I wasn’t allowed to be on anything electronic for the entire week I was in the hospital, which helped mitigate most of those effects. I’m sure if I’d been watching everything unfold in real time — that would’ve been overwhelming.”

Another hand from the right section pops into the air. Boyd nods.

Your name first, in accented English, then a question in Japanese reaches your ears. Miranda is translating in the next second.

“Will you be returning to Night Owl anytime soon?”

“Tomorrow, actually. I’ll be back. Unless another concussion takes me out. Or an allergic reaction.”

“Don’t worry,” Brown says. “We’ll keep you safe.”

More laughter.

A hand from the right side again. Another question translated.

“Are you a fan of the Padres? Is that why you were there?”

You grin. “Not at all. That was the first time I’d set foot in Petco Park and that was the first game I’d ever seen. Of the Padres and honestly, of baseball, too. I’ve never been much of a fan.”

A quick follow-up question in everyone’s mind. Why were you there?

You’d gone to the game to buff up your portfolio and to see if anything you shot could be sold off. To them or to Getty Images. The ticket was from your sister, as she and her flight crew received them from one of the kinder pilots she had but it was only a single ticket and she wasn’t too interested in baseball, either. You saw the opportunity to make a little money on the side and you took it.

You give them the cliff notes version of that. Mostly about getting some pictures for your portfolio. You leave out the money part.

A few people make some jokes about your poor luck — your first ever baseball game and you get severely concussed? — then they continue with the questions.

For you and for Miyuki and then even some for the managers, like about whether they’ll make any changes to the stands. Which they won’t. It’s too far out. You get that. You don’t even think they net those areas in Japan.

Then you and Miyuki get a question together.

“Hi. Haley Martin with the San Diego Union-Tribute. I wanted to ask you guys — will you keep in touch after this?”

Every reporter in the room holds in a breath, leaning forward, pens poised and recorders ready.

Jeez. These guys are desperate.

You can’t help but make your jokes.

“You know,” you start thoughtfully, “I think in the interest of living a very long life… no.”

They laugh, including Miyuki.

“Seriously, guys,” Haley says, smiling faintly, too. “Will you be friends?”

“I’ll only be friends with her if she promises to start supporting the Padres.”

You laugh. Miyuki gives you a grin.

“Only if you pay for my tickets.”

“We’ll give you a lifetime season pass, if you want,” Brown puts in. “Just don’t sue us.”

You snort. The others laugh.

“Well?”

You beam. “We’ll be best friends forever.”

“Now, I didn’t say that —”

“No take-backsies.”

That gets everyone going. He laughs, too, which is really all you care about.

“A few more question, folks, then we’ll wrap this up,” Boyd says.

A familiar hand. Haley again.

She directs this to you.

“Is it true that KCSD plans to shut down Night Owl?”

Murmurs erupt in the room, bodies shuffling. Miranda briefly falters in her translation before completing it.

She’s been holding onto that one. You can tell. There is no malice in it, though.

They’re reporters, journalists, this is their job. To report. To chase every lead. To keep people honest. There are lines, of course, between responsibility and irresponsibility. This question is very much responsible. No one can dispute that. And you are just one person. If the company had sent someone down, they could’ve handled it.

As it is…

“I don’t speak for the KCSD. I’d just like to say that. I’m only speaking for myself, someone who does coincidentally happen to be Night Owl’s host. To set the context of your question, before all of this happened, Night Owl had experienced a drop in traffic. We weren’t getting much interaction but there were still people listening. We knew that. I’m happy to be there regardless. I know some people are listening, most often college kids staying up late and well, some night owls, to be sure.

“But in the world we live in, that’s not enough. So, there was some talk about maybe downsizing the show. But that was a while ago, before this happened. I know we’ve gotten many more hits since and I’m glad for it. But right now at this moment, I don’t know. Things have changed and I couldn’t tell you.”

Haley nods. “Thank you.”

“Sure.”

Feels nice to let it all out, you think, as they start to wrap things up. Though you do feel a headache starting to form. Great.

The rest of the questions are for Miyuki. Something about his contract. You don’t pay too much attention.

You’d been fair to them, you think. More than fair. But it’s not really about that. You need to make them act, to make a decision. Either they shut you down or they don’t. Will the popularity hold? Who knows? But you can hope that it will, that people will realize you’re there, and they’ll hang around. At the very least, you can keep going for a little while longer.

The press conference ends. You all shuffle back into that adjacent room. You end up getting pulled into a conversation with Boyd and Brown about that season pass but you politely decline.

“Well,” he says, “the offer stands. And speaking of offers, if you’d like it, we would love to have you join our photographers.”

Most of the PR team has dispersed, going to handle the outpouring of news that will hit in a few hours. The makeup team is gone, too. It’s just a few security guards, some of the managerial staff, then you guys. Wendy, Miyuki, and Miranda stand a couple feet away, conversing quietly.

You blink. “Is this to make sure I don’t sue you?”

Brown snorts. “You wouldn’t be able to.”

“True.” But he doesn’t need to be so smug about it.

“No,” Boyd says. “We’ve seen your stuff. We think you’d be great with us. We’re always looking for more cameras and we’re willing to raise your pay, too, to beat out whatever you’re making at the station, too.”

“I… appreciate that.”

“You don’t have to give us an answer now. But preferably sometime next year in January, before we start spring training in February.”

“Right. Thanks.”

You don’t know how to react. You’ve never gotten this kind of offer before. Not for photography, anyhow. You do mostly freelance work. Take pictures of weddings, religious events, et cetera.

“Think about it,” he says, smiling, then he and Brown turn to join the others.

What just happened.

A quiet chuckle behind you. You turn, finding Miyuki. His arms are crossed, an amused expression on his face.

“You look disturbed.”

“I feel disturbed. Uh. Anyway. We’re on for dinner tomorrow, right? Five o’clock?”

He nods. “What are you doing today?”

“Spending some quality time with Batman and Robin and turning off my phone for the rest of the day.”

“Probably a good idea. Well… you didn’t choke out there. You were actually very…”

“What?”

“Calculating. With the stuff about them shutting you down. It all worked in your favor, didn’t it?” His tone is knowing.

You smile and shrug. “I’ll do what it takes to keep the show running.”

“It means that much to you?”

“You’d do the same for baseball, wouldn’t you?”

“Touché.” He almost looks impressed.

You try not to relish it too much.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah. See you.”

I wanted the past to go away, I wanted to leave it, like another country; I wanted my life to close, and open like a hinge, like a wing, like the part of the song where it falls down over the rocks: an explosion, a discovery; I wanted to hurry into the work of my life; I wanted to know, whoever I was, I was

alive for a little while.

#daiya no ace #daiya no ace x reader #ace of diamond #ace of diamond x reader #miyuki kazuya x reader #miyuki x reader #moss writes

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